Travel Journal 12
November 30, 2009

Miss Understood

Living in Italy for three months is a constant reminder of how words, in any language, can establish and enhance a connection — or confuse and complicate an intended message. In the United States I have often been misunderstood in English, by English speakers, as I have often misunderstood fellow English speakers.

Around the palazzo we have discussed how two people can be divided by a common language. Of course, I have experienced frustration and disappointments when I don’t understand what someone is asking of me, as well as when I can’t clearly articulate my intentions.

Since I arrived in Sansepolcro, it has been completely normal that I am completely abnormal. My language, upbringing, culture, body language, fashion, religion, diet, and personal beliefs are not typical of this area. After an adjustment period, I realized it was a relief to be able to attribute any lack of understanding to the difference in language. In fact, I experience very little frustration or disappointment when it is understood that I will not be understood, nor will I be able to understand anyone around me. Now I realize that being, “Miss Understood,” has actually been liberating! I am free from communication expectations! I am exempt from political opinions, philosophical quandaries, social etiquette, and most small-talk.

In Italy, I am learning (and re-learning) several types of communication to connect with the outside world. I am learning vocabulary along with the nuances of Italian through proper usage of body language, cultural references, geographical landmarks, and artistic masterpieces. When my Italian vocabulary is comparable to a toddler, conversations are not scintillating, but they are either very efficient or totally useless.

With most communication, in any language, there is a lot of context that needs to be considered. Who am I talking to? How well do I know this person? What time of day is it? What is our history? These are just some of many of factors that I am continually considering to understand the context of a conversation, while the most important factor could be impossible for me to attain, such as the speakers current state-of-mind. In Italy, there is so much focus on the nouns and verbs, that there is no need to interpret anything but sentence structure. This has shown me what an enormous burden I had been carrying with me at home. The amount of information that is expected to be inferred in a typical conversation in my life at times has become unmanageable as well as ineffective. Communicating while assuming the other person knows absolutely nothing about me, and vice versa, has shown me that the amount of context that is assumed in my daily conversations at home now seems staggering. No wonder there are so many misunderstandings in my life! I certainly expect to be understood whether or not I use enough words. I also expect that I will somehow be able to intuit what my friends/family/clients need and that if I can’t figure it out, that I have somehow let them down.

There is a magical phrase in Italian which may be the best thing I’ve learned here, “che significa?” What does it mean? What is the significance – to you? I think the intention of this phrase could greatly enhance my communication at home. If someone says to me, in English, “call me,” sometimes I miss the unspoken meaning. The speaker of these two tiny words could actually be saying, “call me, (soon, I really need to talk to you about something important),” or “call me, (when you get a chance in the next month).” I have no trouble asking “che significa?” in Italy many times each day, but I rarely do at home. For me to feel as “Miss Understood” as I do in English, it would certainly suggest that adding a few more words into a conversation would increase my chances of effective communication.

After I have received an answer to question of “che significa,” an Italian speaker will ask a one word question, “capito?” This little, yet powerful word, “capito,” means, ‘understood.’ Capito? I love the sound and the intention when the word is used this way! I hear the Italians use it on the phone frequently. I’ll hear several hundred words in a few seconds followed by the quickest of pauses and then a staccato, “capito?” I think this sounds much better than, “’ya know,” or “got it?” It’s a simple concept that I will utilize immediately.

The more I learn about Italian, the more I learn about my relationship with English. I had no idea how much faith I had lost in my own language. Because English speakers have been the main source of my confusion -- until recently -- I’m recognizing how sensitive I am to some phrases. Some words that sounded sincere have been lies. Some promises that have been made have been broken. Because I have been unable to articulate the right words at the right time, I am fearful at times that when it is most important for me to be clear, I won’t be effective. I’m being very careful as I’m building a new and objective relationship with the Italian language, I want to be sure that I use it wisely.

Sometimes when I’m attempting to speak in Italian, I find that I am not understood, even if I’m saying the right words. Part of the problem I’m struggling with is that I cannot say anything (except grazie and per favore) with any confidence, because, in fact, I have none. When I speak, what comes through more than my accent is my insecurity. I don’t believe I’m saying the right words the right way. Perhaps if I had more faith in my ability to communicate in general, it would be easier for me to speak Italian more clearly. If I don’t believe in what I’m saying - in any language, I will continue to be Miss Understood.

Non-verbal communication has always been a component of my perception of others. My analysis isn’t always correct, but sometimes it’s helpful. The general example of when someone says, “I’ll call you,” and I don’t receive a phone call, could indicate that talking to me is not a high priority. But, it might also mean that a person is very busy. I know that I have had a very hard time keeping in touch with people I love at home during my time abroad and it is not indicative of how much I care. I try to find the balance between being aware and jumping to conclusions, but in general, what people do, or don’t do, can be as informative as what they say.

Sometimes there are just not enough words. Sometimes words are desperately needed and none are offered. Sometimes no amount of words will bring about any understanding. I don’t mind agreeing to disagree. I just hate it when a simple misunderstanding creates unnecessary damage.

When I arrived in Italy, I did not believe that I would be able to make as many genuine friendships as I have with so many people in Sansepolcro. Inside of Palazzo Alberti, there is a group of Americani (and a Brit) with whom I share a bond that no one else can ever understand as we do.

Being understood by others and understanding others is not ever going to happen effortlessly, nor will the elusive understanding last indefinitely. Having a genuine moment of connection with someone, whether it is sharing a laugh with my new friend Maria Vincenza in town, or a good talk with an old friend from home, it’s important for me to recognize the importance of these moments. True communication is hard to come by in the world, and it’s even harder to maintain long term. Connection comes in unexpected ways, and at unexpected times. Sometimes a connection is just for a moment, for a day, or for a season, and it disappears as quickly as it arrived. It’s very tempting to believe that a moment means more than it does, but because a moment doesn’t last, does not mean that it wasn’t important.

It has taken a very long time for me to accept that I am Miss Understood. Letting go of the expectation that I will fully understand others and that others will fully understand me has not been easy. “Che significa,” and “capito,” are three words in Italian will probably increase the effectiveness of my communication in English. Expectations and hasty interpretations in Italian, English, and non-verbal communication have created miscommunications and disappointments for me. Ultimately, all three of these forms of communication can only be as effective as I make them. What I have learned in Italy is that comprehension has increased dramatically when I speak from my heart, ask questions, and speak clearly. Sometimes what I would like to be, in any language, is to be understood. Capito?

Journal Entry 10
November 9, 2009

Journal 9
November 2, 2009

Pit Bull in a China Shop

When my mother's cousin Marcelo and his wife Paola heard I would be in Italy for three months, they invited me to spend as much time as I would like at their luxurious bed and breakfast in the small town where my Italian family originated hundreds of years ago.

Marcelo has just picked me up from the bus stop and he is speeding down the local road, passing slower cars, and chastising me, in very limited and staccato English, for not calling him when my bus arrived early. What do I do now? What do I say? How do I say it? I don’t know what to do. I have already made my first social gaffe, only seconds into my visit and I can’t explain in English or Italian that I am sorry, I didn’t mean any offense. I made a judgment call, I did what I thought was polite in the moment, and it seems my decision was wrong. I have always heard stories about Marcelo and the years that my family lived with his family during World War II in Italy, and now I finally meet him, and we are off on the wrong foot. I am wishing I could disappear into the floorboards of the car.

As I get out of the car and walk towards Paola, Marcelo must be telling her in Italian that I arrived an hour early and did not let them know. Paola now begins in her limited English, “Why you no call? We get you? You say 2:30! We come for you!” I am mortified. I only arrived an hour early! I thought it would be rude to call and ask them to come sooner. I walked around the small town, it was a sunny day, and I was fine! But they are aggressively hospitable and will not relent, insisting that they would have been there. I try: “Si, si, va bene, grazie!” Abruptly, they start offering me food, and I think the crisis has passed. Then Paola sees my new uncomfortable Italian boots, which I bought so that I would look more presentable. She laughs and says, “Why you wear these? Not comfortable!” So I am further embarrassed--and also relieved that I will not have to wear these stupid boots any longer.

Visiting with them and learning more about my family is so important to me, and I all I want is to make a good impression, but now I feel that I am failing. Even though all of the words they are saying--in English and Italian--are essentially care-taking, and expressing the wish that they could have made my journey easier, I’m feeling hopelessly confused. I've just met them for the first time, and I don’t know how to interpret their words, in any language.

This is one of those times when trying to figure out the simplest situation can be disorienting in Italy. I have always been an intuitive person, and at home I rely not only on the English language, but on body language, tone, history, geography, context, and any other available social cues in conversing with others. In Italy, all of these things are different. I don’t understand regional dialects, the body language, the extensive hand gestures, or the social classes and their historical significance. Although I understand more of the language every day, I still don’t understand enough of it. I have gone from being nervous, to hovering around a panic attack, and I have only been with them for an hour. Even though our family trees have been connected for 100 years, they are strangers to me, and I am certainly strange to them.

After they show me to my beautiful room, where I will be spending the next three days, I walk back to the reception area. I realize this unusual feeling I have must be similar to a "shelter dog" spending the weekend with a potential adoptive family. Like an over-eager dog, I am grasping at any clue to find out what is expected of me. When I adopted my pit bull mix, Nando, nine years ago, he was so skittish at first that it was hard to tell what his true nature was. With this insight, I let go of my useless human coping strategies, channel the spirit of Nando, and try to use dog skills to master my new environment. I had already had the social equivalent of getting muddy paws on the carpet, but I had not done any irreparable damage. Not only am I embracing my dog-ness, but I decide I am just like Nando, the greatly misunderstood pit bull. Once you get past the (false) stereotyped characteristics, you will find a fiercely loyal, loving, family dog.

Despite my new attitude, I am still a pit bull in a china shop, clumsily saying and doing the wrong things. I offer them the gifts from Sansepolcro, and I think their protests are just general: “Why? You no need to give presents!”and “You didn’t have to do that!” I am only slightly worried, especially since I think Paola really likes them. I show them the one dog trick I have, which is a collection of photos from the past on my computer. Marcelo and Paola are happy and smiling while I show them images of our family from the last century. Small steps are being taken, but the language barrier continues to challenge even the simplest conversation. They ask me questions, but I can’t answer--either because I don’t know the answer or because I can’t tell them in Italian.

Their assistant, Lucia arrives who is not only bi-lingual, but my age, and I enjoy talking to her. I am so excited that I have to stop myself from jumping onto her lap and slobbering all over her with my enthusiasm. Finally, someone will be able to tell Marcelo and Paola that I am not just a neurotic dog! Lucia is like a dog trainer, she can understand the words and behavior that we are all exhibiting, and translate it for the other. Unfortunately, she must leave, and is only available for a few hours over the next few days. In the meantime, I am doing everything I can to please the people who are taking such good care of me.

Meals are served in the beautiful dining room. This home was the summer estate of Marcelo’s mother, who was an actual princess. The plates are monogrammed, the food is prepared by chefs in the kitchen, and the apples are eaten with forks and knives. All of this is very unfamiliar to a dog like me. The food is lovely, but there is so much of it that sometimes I can’t eat any more, but I fear this is rude. Do I ask for a doggy bag for my doggy self? I ask to keep the food, and fortunately this seems to be acceptable.

I follow Marcelo and Paola and when they call for me, “COME!” I run behind them like a dog. I sit in the back seat of the car with my nose pressed against the window. I am in awe of the scenery, the mountains and the history of this town. When they introduce me to older people, there is reverence in their eyes and their jaws drop when they discover my pedigree. I am honored to be with them, and to be introduced to people who knew my grandfather as his granddaughter. At the bed and breakfast, they introduce me to their friend Maria, and when she realizes who my mother is, her eyes fill with tears. She took care of my mother and uncle during World War II. She holds my face and says, in Italian, that I look just like my mother.

After a while I realize that Marcelo and Paola’s speech patterns are harsh to my ear, but it is the same tone they use when they speak with their children over the phone, and when they talk to guests at the bed and breakfast. I had originally heard it as anger, but I am now adjusting my perception. They don’t seem to have the same melody and inflections as most of the Italians I have heard, but my ears perk up when I hear my name or familiar words.

Sometimes they tell me to go run and play, and I go to my room to study or take a short nap. I ask to go the church up the road, but I guess they don’t trust me off leash, and they join me for the trip. They insist on getting me small treats at some shops. To my U.S. ear, their offer to buy me gifts still sounds strange, “What you want? Is that it?” I only choose small things because these are not the gifts I really want--I am just happy to be there.

By the third day, I am feeling more at ease, even though I am sure my manners are not always correct, and that my butchering of the Italian language must be exhausting for them. I realize that I think they are strange too, but I like them more and more. On my last night they take me to the other city where they live during the winter to meet their friends and go out for dinner. They walk me through the town, showing me all of the beautiful shops. Paola takes my arm and guides me, making sure that I am safe.

At their friends’ home, I sit in the corner with my best posture, trying to look engaged, even though I barely understand a word. These people do not know my family name, and they do not care, but they accept me. Some of them know a little bit of English and include me in their conversations. At dinner, I am happy. Paola wants me by her side, and she makes sure I eat well. Paola confides in me towards the end of dinner about some sad moments in her life. I listen, and I understand. Her English is now very clear, maybe because she knows now that I can hear her with my heart, instead of just my ears.

I started the visit as a skittish dog because I was so nervous, but once I remembered all the ways that Nando used to communicate with humans, it was a little bit easier to navigate. I watched, asked, and listened and was always ready to follow wherever they went. Nando died almost two years ago, but his wisdom helped me through my weekend. Thinking of him and asking myself, “What would he do?” I found the answers that I needed.

Marcelo and Paola were impeccable hosts and more than generous with their love and hospitality. I really felt that I made a connection, even with my limited vocabulary. By the end of the visit, I no longer felt like a homeless mutt dropped on their doorstep, but much more like a beloved family pit bull.

Journal 7:

The 23+ Representative of the Immortal Nine

I am a 37-year-old freshman. If my life had gone according to my original plan, I wouldn’t be going to college at this point in my life. But, if my life had gone according to my plan, I wouldn’t be writing this essay from Italy.

I simply did not believe it was possible for me to have a semester abroad with all of my responsibilities and commitments at home. In February 2009, I had just started my first semester at Meredith College and noticed the posters promoting a semester in Sansepolcro. I thought the program just seemed too good to be true, incredible, but I knew I had to ask. If they told me “no,” then I'd be able to stop thinking about it all the time. My life would be so much simpler if I was told that I couldn’t go. But if I didn’t even ask, would I always wonder?

There were so many practical reasons why I didn’t think this could work. I went into the study abroad office and just started asking questions, waiting to find the insurmountable obstacle that would prevent my participation. I asked: Am I too old? Am I too new to school? As a lactose-intolerant-vegetarian, will I be able to eat anything in Italy? I’m really nervous about living with traditional-aged students, as I imagine the younger students don’t want to be living in the same room as someone their mother’s age.

One by one, my questions were answered. Several students younger and older than me had gone abroad and had a great time, meal accommodations are possible (and delicious), and if it was a genuine problem for me to share a room with a traditional-aged student--or if one of them had an issue about living with me arrangements could be made. I filled out the application and continued on to the financial aid office. The most practical question: Would I be eligible for loans to cover the trip? The preliminary answer was “yes.”

I had chosen to wait to discuss this with my family until I thought there was a chance it was even possible. Now that it did seem possible, I had to have serious talks with my family. I trusted that they would give me their honest opinions about whether or not they felt this was a good idea for me. If anyone felt that I should stay home, I would. All the members of my family were thoughtful and honest (I think!) in offering their opinions and, within a few days, I had their full support.

Next on the list of questions: What about my job? I had been working as a massage therapist for almost three years for a great chiropractor and had (have) a wonderful group of regular clients. I happen to be very lucky that my employer is also one of my best friends. As my friend, she completely understood my desire to study in Italy. As her friend, I understood that she had a business to run. We had an honest talk and reached an agreement that she would hire someone temporarily in my place. My intention is to return to work at the end of the semester, but we also realize that things may change. This was a better outcome than I had even hoped for.

Everything started falling into place. I was accepted into the program, was thrilled to discover that I was eligible for a scholarship, the student loan was approved, and I went to several meetings/gatherings to learn about the program and meet the students and faculty involved in the program.

After months of cautious optimism, I was faced with a very scary reality: my friends, family, job, school, and my fragile financial stability were all willing to let me go – and return. Because I never believed it would be possible, I never really contemplated the magnitude of what I would be missing if I did leave. I knew that I had to do this, but it did not mean that it was easy to apply, to decide, to pack, or to leave.

The actual minutiae of things to do prior to my departure were at times overwhelming. Kevin and Amanda at the study-abroad office talked me out of my panic – more than once. It is simply impossible to bring everything needed in one suitcase and one carry-on bag, so decisions need to be made. And I pulled it off, not gracefully, not completely, but I did it. I got on the plane with my new classmates, who at the time were still a nice group of strangers, to enter into the most rigorous experience of my life.

I have just passed the halfway point of the semester, and for the most part, it seems that, being older is almost inconsequential. The dis/advantages of being 23+ are numerous, but the more I know my classmates, the more I think each of us has our own unique set of talents and challenges that ultimately leave all of us on an equal footing.

As an older student, and only in my second semester, I’m still learning how to be a student. Since I didn't develop good study habits in elementary or high school, I’m learning how to learn while assimilating an extraordinary amount of information at the same time. It seems to take me much longer than my classmates to complete the same assignments, but I like going at my own pace. I am much less fashion- conscious than they are, although I’m confident that at times I am more comfortable on long walks and on chilly days. For me, spending time at night or on the weekends doing homework is a luxury, but my classmates firmly believe I am missing out. I am continually flattered that they would even ask me to join them at the “discoteca.” I probably desire and need more time alone than most, which is different from a college lifestyle. I have been able to find the space I need. Sometimes I wish I had someone my own age to talk to, but, I can talk to friends at home. I think we all wish some of our own friends were here to share this with. I don’t know if age is really a factor.

Uniformly, we have all left behind loved ones, cultural familiarity, ease in communication, and support systems. We have all gained a new home, a new culture, new friends and varying amounts of ease of communication in Italy. We all have to figure out how to cope with such tremendous losses and gains. So far, we have been able to turn to each other for support. Even though we are all very recent friends, we have a unique bond. We have everything we need here, the staff/faculty/friends of the program are everywhere with information, support, and answers to every imaginable question.

My initial concerns about being here have been resolved. It is possible to survive in Italy without eating meat or cheese, and without drinking wine or espresso. Most of the time, I have my own bedroom and sometimes I share a bedroom, and each has its advantages. I have been frugal with my money and planned carefully, including a few indulgences (like Pashmina scarves). So far, I have had an endless number of valuable experiences without plenty of money.

Studying abroad is hard. I imagined it would be, but nothing could have prepared me. Every day here has at least one challenge either personally, socially, academically, culturally, or some combination of each element. Somehow, however difficult everything can be, it only makes the experiences more meaningful to me. I am learning more about myself than I am about Italy in World War II-- and that's a considerable amount. I am listening more than I ever have… it’s easier when I can’t speak the language. I am learning slowly to speak Italian, but I feel that my comprehension has skyrocketed over the past few weeks.

Keeping in touch with friends and family at home has been challenging, but not for the expected reasons. My main worry was the expense of the cell phone in Italy, but Skype is an extremely cost-effective and easy way to make calls home. The main problem is having enough time to write and to call. The six-hour time difference means that people in the United States can’t reach me by phone when they are home in the evening, and when I can talk most of friends and family are at work. But I have very understanding friends and family, and we have made communication happen--even though it’s not as much as I would like.

Academically, this is the best experience of my life – and my first semester at Meredith was pretty great. Learning Italian in Italy from native Italians is just a gift. Hearing Italian everywhere I go, reading Italian signs, products, advertisements, and talking with people in the community is enhancing my learning. The class I feared the most was art history. But we were lucky enough to have “the Professors Banker”-- Dr. Maureen Banker, artist and professor of art-- and Dr. James Banker, professor of history, Italian history, and author. Their combined knowledge, patience, and love for their subjects have altered my perception of art and history from "bewildering and overwhelming" to "meaningful and fascinating." After my second class, I was so moved by everything I had learned and seen, I wept because their lesson created a breakthrough for me, and I was able to see and begin to understand a little bit of what I had missed my whole life.

Dr. Webb’s class about Italy during WWII has caused weeping for different reasons. The tragedy of the war, in particular as it affected Italian civilians, is incomprehensible. The books we read are brilliantly written, but filled with pointless and endless tragedies that leave me reaching for Kleenex. Exploring all of these subjects and more--while living in Italy and seeing the art, history, and geography firsthand--enhances my understanding. I am able to see the mountains in Italy where the soldiers and civilians were hiding, and the art--well, it just needs to be seen with your own eyes.

Have you heard? Italy is beautiful. It must be as tedious to read as it is to write, but it can’t be stressed enough. Palazzo Alberti is an incredible place to live, learn, and have lunches five days a week that are equivalent to any top-notch restaurant. We have already gone on more class trips than I can easily recall, with the guidance of our professors sharing their knowledge, and there are still several more excursions to come. The community of Sansepolcro has been so welcoming. Our Inauguration day on October 4th, which I now think of as “The Sansepolcro Stampede,” drew hundreds of people to our home/school to see what Meredith College was all about. Amongst the crowd, all I saw was genuine happiness to have us here as part of their community.

Fortunately, I receive e-mails from many friends even though I don’t write back as much as I should. The people I find myself missing the most are those whom I tended to communicate with less frequently at home-- such as my clients, neighbors, church members, the local shops, and the friendly faces at my monthly game of Drag Bingo. But probably the hardest is being without my dogs and cats. Nothing compares to their blissfully simple (language-neutral) unconditional love and their ability to make me smile every single day. While I do feel loved and missed by my friends, family, and my co-workers/clients, they are all surviving well without me.

I thought being the only 23+ Student would make a bigger difference, but upon reflection, I don’t think I am any different from my classmates. I am part of an extraordinary group of women having an extraordinary experience.

During our trustee/alumnae visit, longstanding supporters of Dr. Webb’s study abroad program, Mr. and Mrs. Langley brought us pizza and validated what I had been feeling, that this experience has been deepened by the connections I have made with my classmates, which I hope will last a lifetime. What bonds all of us together is that no matter how many journals we write, or how many pictures and videos we take, or how many hours we spend on Skype telling our families about our time here, no one will ever understand this experience the same way we do. We are the first; we are “The Immortal Nine.” We are all here on equal ground learning this program together. It is impossible to compress and transmit the full grandeur of this experience to anyone who is not here with us. There is no image that can be e-mailed, spoken, painted, or written, to anyone that captures the aroma of our lunches, the energy of the artwork, the sounds of Sansepolcro, or the experiences of being part of the finest study-abroad program in Italy.

I think the only way someone could fully appreciate this program is to sign up and experience it for herself ….

Entry 8: October 26, 2009
Junior High Flashback

Twenty-three years after completing eighth grade in the United States, I have returned to an Italian eighth-grade classroom as a once-weekly assistant English teacher. On my first day-- Friday, October 16--I stood in front of the class, hoping I was reading the English dialogue from their workbook s-l-o-w-l-y enough, and I had a strong flashback to my own years in junior high. Junior high was the pinnacle of my social awkwardness – until Sansepolcro. As part of their lesson, the students were instructed to ask questions about life in North Carolina. While the students asked questions about how “new” and “big” homes are in the U.S., and were emphasizing our differences, I started noticing similarities. I could not believe how much I had in common with an Italian eighth-grader. I am living in someone else’s home, I can’t drive, I have to go to class five days a week, I have an extraordinary amount of homework, I’m not always sure what anyone expects from me, and sometimes I don’t have the ability or experience to handle a social situation properly. I also assume that some of the students are similar to me and have trouble assessing what is “in style,” and have more social pressures than social skills. Assisting and observing almost 100 students in four very different classrooms was teaching me much more than I was teaching them.

For me, junior high consisted of two very long years in the mid-1980s. I was very unpopular and spent my time trying and failing to find a comfort zone in my hometown. I tried fashion to fit in. My mother would purchase the right clothes, but based on the laughter and whispers in the hallways, I didn’t wear them correctly. I would try to be a good friend, but friendships are fickle and volatile at 14. I tried to understand my school work, but inevitably something would be incomprehensible, and I didn’t know how to get help. My strategy was to try to blend with the herd and become invisible. The only great memory of junior high for me was listening to records in my room by the new-wave artists of the 80s, such as The Cure, New Order, Depeche Mode, and Billy Idol. My love for music would later help me find myself and my place in life, but in junior high I was stuck.

During an orientation session prior to our departure for Italy, Dr. Webb explained to us that no matter what we do, Italians will still recognize us as foreigners. The other students shared their experiences and said that the Italians will look very different to us as well. Dr. Webb explained that the Italians’ sense of fashion will initially seem very different than ours. She said that she couldn’t explain why, but after a few weeks, we would be drawn to the same clothes. Dr. Swab, our science professor chimed in and said, “It’s biology, it’s in the hypothalamus, it’ll happen, don’t fight it.” For the first few weeks, I simply didn’t care what anybody thought of me. After a few more weeks, I started becoming increasingly self-conscious. As Dr. Swab predicted, my hypothalamus started manipulating my impressions of the local culture. After two months of being perplexed by Italian fashion choices, I had also grown weary of the whispers and the stares in the hallways--I mean streets--of Italy as my “foreign-ness” was detected. Ancient social wounds from junior high resurfaced and I made the decision to buy some new clothes that would help me become slightly less noticeable.

What amazes me is the dedication of Italians always to look their best. To me, it looks time-consuming, exhausting and expensive to dress so uncomfortably. I understand that I have minimal fashion sense in the United States. I opt primarily for cost-effective, neutral, comfortable clothes—and, if you know me, yes, they are mostly black. Everything must wash easily and not need any ironing. Dry cleaning simply will not happen. My shoes are the standard of the Chapel Hill, North Carolina: Danskos. My boring black shoes are comfortable, supportive, well-made, and expensive, but worth it. I think my highly functional shoes seem to attract the most obvious looks of “foreigner.” Frumpy just won’t be accepted in Italy. My hypothalamus has received too much consistent data that my lax appearance is an Italian social faux-pas and something needs to change.

The clothes in Italy do seem strikingly different, but I also recognize I generally don’t pay attention to fashion anywhere in the world. Of course, the elegant designer clothes are quite beautiful and easy to appreciate, but none of those clothes will fit my budget or my physique. The only chain I see in this area is Benetton, and the only brand I know is Lee. Many of the casual-wear shops appear to have identical merchandise and--with one exception--helpful salespeople. What I have seen most is a fabric (primarily for shirts) that I think of as “ultra-thin-stretchy-Lycra,” which is incredibly unflattering and useless in the cold. This fabric can be limply draped, uneven, bunched up, gathered, puckered, and some shirts are designed to wrap around at the ribs or waist. Another astonishing trend is half-shirts and half-sweaters which I add to the “useless” category. Next to the ridiculously short sweaters are the absurdly long sweaters that are loose and low-cut on top and have strong gathers around the thighs. I categorize these sweaters as “unflattering.” Extra-long sleeves and extra-long pant legs are also pervasive, and in my mind, rather functional. Leggings, tights, and fancy panty hose are also prevalent, which I like. I missed the memo that said ankle-cut jeans are back and I am supposed to tuck my pants into my boots again. I don’t mind this, but I still thought I was too young to be seeing the questionable fashions of the ’80s returning so soon. I did a double-take when I saw leg warmers on display. Liberally applied to most clothing are some or all of the following: odd pockets (location and/or shape), rhinestones, gold stitching, English writing, Marilyn Monroe, and iridescent/shiny logos creating a fashion statement that I don’t understand. Shoes/boots = heels, heels, heels. High heels are extraordinarily ordinary. The cultural reference that I think of most often is the wardrobe inspired by the 1985 movie, “Desperately Seeking Susan.”

With a hypothalamus-driven shopping objective to find clothes that will blend in with my surroundings, I had to suppress my typical priorities of frugality and comfort. Over the next few days, I shopped in Sansepolcro and learned that I am now clueless on two continents about what to wear that will be socially pleasing. There were harrowing moments in dressing rooms, and many hard financial decisions. Some of the things I tried on just made me laugh, but I made the best of it. After a few months here, I have had a slight weight loss, and it didn’t seem fair when I discovered the number of my Italian “smaller size” is more than triple the number of my old size was in the U.S. By the end of this week, I owned two pairs of uncomfortable boots, a skirt, two pairs of tight jeans with very long legs in a horrifying size, (but technically smaller than I was), several new normal-length sweaters with extra-long sleeves, and two shirts made with the weird “ultra-thin-stretchy-Lycra”--and one of them is a tie-around, half-shirt thing. I hope my hypothalamus is happy, will remain dormant for the rest of my stay, accept the clothes I purchased, and let the shopping cease.

As in junior-high, my general tendency towards being shy in new situations has remained, but even though I feel shy, I have had years to develop conversation skills. Now that I am here, without the ability to make small talk in Italian, my shyness has tripled (along with the “size” of my jeans). Earlier this week, prior to acquiring my new Italian clothes, Dr. “Mrs.” Banker had an art opening for her new exhibition, “Reflections of Piero in Sansepolcro.” It was a surprise to walk into a public place and see so many familiar faces. I didn’t realize how many people I had met throughout the first half of the program. My happy surprise was matched by a wave of anxiety over my still minuscule Italian vocabulary. I did manage some small talk in Italian, and focused on enjoying the evening with the ever- growing circle of friendly people in Sansepolcro. One of many social skills I need to learn is how to greet Italians. I’m never sure if I should shake hands or attempt the European double-cheek-kiss. The only thing I know is that I have not seen much hugging so far.

Unlike junior high, my desire to assimilate with the culture is not self-protective, but because I am so interested in the people, culture, art, and history of this country. I want to know more about the people in Sansepolcro, and about my very own family. Not being able to speak Italian, and my anxiety about it, is what is primarily creating the chasm between me and my goals. But the frustration and confusion I feel when I am trying so hard to learn and to assimilate is eerily similar to the way I felt in junior high.

This past Friday, after a week of frantically trying to fit into my new society, I was stunned when I walked into the eighth grade classroom and read the chalk-board. The students, without prompting by their teacher, had written “WELCOME GIANNA.” Because I don’t recall a moment of being accepted in my own junior high, this was especially meaningful to me. Even though all of our lessons will focus on our differences, I will continue to focus on our similarities.

In 2009, I’m sitting in my room in Italy, listening to the same new-wave artists of the 1980s on the “retro” station of my satellite radio, still not fitting in, still not wearing the “right” clothes correctly, and still not part of the group. And that’s OK, because I was never meant to be part of the herd in any country. In high school, I found my own way, but I had to learn the rules in order to break them – and to understand why I was destined to do so. It’s part of understanding who I am.

The difference now is that I want to learn the rules here, at least for a little while, so at least when I do break them, it’s a choice, not an accident. Even though I’m often more scared than I care to admit, I’m enjoying the process. One advantage I have over the Italian students is that I have enough perspective to see that this is just a short segment of my life. I am experiencing an incredible biological and social experiment that sometimes seems very important, but I can recognize that my hypothalamus is being a total drama queen. After junior high, I learned how to laugh about almost everything, and there is plenty to laugh about here.

October 12, 2009
Journal Entry: 6

Family – Everywhere I Look…..

New Family…

I have a new family. Before October, I didn’t even know their names. After spending a little bit of time with them over the last week, I now feel a genuine connection that I never anticipated. This isn’t my Italian family I’m speaking of; it’s my new Meredith family.

The president, alums, professors, faculty, and friends of Meredith College arrived last week, tumbling out of their bus with tons of luggage and hugs for all of us. Together, we enjoyed many meals, parties, Monte Casale, museums in Firenze, conversations, laughter, exhaustion, and after a few tries, were finally able to have gelato together. In spite of the chaotic schedule, I feel very connected to this group of people who have worked together to create our college and home in Sansepolcro.

Since I began my studies at Meredith in January 2009, I have been continually impressed by the dedication of the college to the students. I have to admit, I have also been slightly hesitant to believe that this many people could be so genuinely interested in teaching and supporting students to reach their full potential. But, any lingering doubts were erased after a few days of getting to know them. Hearing and witnessing their continual connection with the college was inspiring.

To me, family is anywhere you find a group of people that care about each other. After the visit, I think I understand the kindness extended to me by the group. Their deep belief in all of us here and this program has strengthened my determination to visit and support a future study abroad program with the same amount of style, class, and humor that was offered to me this year. I feel as though I have a family here at Meredith College – in Sansepolcro and in Raleigh.

Old Family…

At the end of the visit by the Meredith group that evolved into an extended family, I left on my travel break to visit the family I am connected to by DNA. I had made arrangements to visit with my grandfather’s great-nephew, Piero, his wife Gilda, and their two daughters, Eleonora and Ludovica.

We met at the train station in Pescara, and Eleonora’s excellent English helped communication immensely. It was a thirty-minute drive to the first of the many ancestral family homes I would see over the weekend. At the top of a hill, surrounded by olive trees and farm land, was their home, where Piero was waiting for our arrival. Even though we were faced with a language barrier because of my limited (but increasing) ability to speak Italian, I was able to show him pictures that my mother had prepared for our visit. He smiled and I think he was pleased.

I was shown to the guest room, which was my grandfather’s brother’s bedroom. There is still the same furniture that was there when he lived in the home. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I believe that the room has a similar scent to my grandmother’s house, also filled with antique family furniture. It has been 19 years since I’ve experienced the fragrant combination of clean linen, polished Tieri furniture and nature that existed here. Gilda handed me a poster tube, and inside was a copy of the Tieri family tree starting from 1740. I was deeply touched that she had gone to such great efforts to recreate this family treasure.

Gilda prepared a beautiful lunch with many courses. I’m still not used to how much food can be offered at one time. Towards the end of the meal, their good friend and neighbor, Anna, came by with a homemade cake that had a message in icing, “Alla famiglia Tieri con stima e affetto – Anna” which loosely translates to: “to the Tieri family, with esteem and affection.” Eleonora says that it is good for me to meet Anna, she is a real Abruzzo woman. She is like a super-hero, she is very strong, she can fix the house and bake a cake. Although I am not able to communicate directly with Anna, she has lively conversations with Piero and Gilda. Eleonora tells me that they speak in a dialect that even she can’t understand. The conversation alternates between Italian amongst the nuclear family and in English between me and the daughters.

After lunch I got to meet the family dog, Tèa, a 15-year-old German Shepherd. She is the only member of the family with whom I did not have any problems communicating. We loved each other at first sight/sniff. I sat down on the front lawn and she ran up to me and licked my face. Normally, I don’t like dog kisses, but this was a special situation. Tea reminded us to enjoy the beautiful sunny afternoon. In addition to Tèa, also living on the tranquil property are some feral cats, turkeys, honey bees, and a field of olive trees.

Gilda drove us to the nearby town of Chieti, where I have been told all the Tieri men have been educated for generations. I even have a photograph of my grandfather there in 1898. I was able to see one of the Tieri family homes as well on the beautiful main street. Ludovica and I explored the church, called “Duomo di San Giustino.”

After we returned from our excursion, I took some time to walk around the property and take some pictures of all of the beautiful countryside. When I returned, Gilda had more pictures of the family to show me. She even insisted that I take an original picture in the original frame of my grandfather. Even though my Italian is limited, she speaks very clearly and I find it easier to understand her than I have many people who have spoken to me in Italian.

The day is passing quickly, and Ludovica has to return to her home in a nearby city. The rest of us go for dinner at a mountaintop restaurant. The food is almost as good as Gilda’s. Again, there is course after course of wonderfully prepared food, polenta, spinach, multiple cheeses, bread, and steak (for them). Eleonora facilitates conversations between everyone. Piero uses the least words in English, but he has very expressive eyes, and I find him increasingly endearing. After a long and beautiful day, I was very happy to be able to collapse into the comfortable and personally historic bedroom and sleep.

In the morning Piero, Eleonora and I went to Manoppello to see where my grandfather was born and raised. Here was also one of the homes my grandparents, mother and uncle lived in during World War II. Within moments of entering the walled city, Piero is recognized by a resident and Eleonora tells me that he is sharing his memories of Piero’s father, Mario. Eleonora said that the Tieri family had been very prominent in the town, and several people still living there would remember them. It is surreal to be standing in the piazza in front of the family home I had always heard of, but never thought I would see, alongside my Italian relatives. As we circled through the town, more people came outside to connect with Piero. Eleonora tells me our shared family history as we walk through the town.

We returned to another generous and outstanding lunch prepared by Gilda. The family had offered invitations to spend more time and to visit again before I return to the United States. Gilda had even more gifts for me--a jar of honey from the bees that Piero has contained in a handmade, ceramic jar with several of our family names painted across the front. I couldn’t thank her, or any of the family, enough in any language for their warmth and hospitality.

Eleonora and Gilda drove me to the station, walked me to the train, handed me my luggage once I was on board, and even watched to make sure I found my seat as I started my eight-hour journey on four trains back to Sansepolcro. (Fortunately Eleonora has found a faster way for me to visit in the future – which will be happening soon.)

Upon my return to Palazzo Alberti, I realized that it looked much less like the place where I was staying, and more like the home where I was living. Inside, my classmates and the faculty members looked much more like my friends – and my family.

The view from my great-uncle’s bedroom.

October 5, 2009
Journal 5
List of Lists

Lots of lists:

Since our arrival, there has always been more to do and discuss than there has been time. As a compulsive list-maker (and subsequent list-misplacer,) I need to gather all of my thoughts in one place:

LIST 1: General questions about Italy:
1) How are homeless animals handled here in Sansepolcro, and it Italy in general. I have seen one rescue group, but I was unable to learn anything substantial about the group because of the language barrier.
2) Researching the Alberti Family, I cannot find any significant amount of information on the women. I can’t even find many of their names. I would like to know more about why they are excluded from history.
3)Where is the LGBT community? Anyone? Hello?
4) I would like to learn real-estate lingo for Italian homes. What exactly is a fixer-upper in Italy? I want to know if “rustico” is actually a rustic home, or code for a financial disaster.
5) Body language! Italians use their hand a lot! I need to know more about this.
6) Elaborate and enormous churches…. In the name of Jesus? St. Francis? Sometimes it seems as if the churches failed to read the fresco on the wall.

LIST 2: Class discussions I would love to continue:
1)How different cultures honor their dead. The cemetery in Sansepolcro is beautiful and different from the cemeteries I have seen. It’s common for people here to visit every day. There are usually photographs on the tombstones.
2) Why do we shower? It’s a more interesting question that I ever realized.
3) I want to know more about the Gurkhas who fought in World War II.
4) Immigration in Italy is a very involved subject. I want to hear more about the Italian perspective.
5) Prostitution in Italy is another complex subject without easy answers.
6) How were the soldiers in World War II able to kill? What is the long-term result?
7) Actual memories vs. real memories, how our memories change over time.

LIST 3: Things I would like to do soon:
1) Check out the macrobiotic restaurant around the corner from Palazzo Alberti.
2) Overcome my next fear: the post office.
3) While researching, I found a movie called “Mussolini and I,” with Susan Sarandon and Anthony Hopkins. I may have to watch it.

LIST 4: They do things differently in Italy:
1) When I was sick a few weeks ago, I went to the pharmacy for my mal gohla (sore throat) and congestion. The pharmacist, who spoke English, opened a drawer and handed me a small box of tablets and explained how to take them. Instead of a bag, he wrapped the box in white paper with “farmacia” stamped on it. All of the directions on the box are in Italian – and Braille! Neither of these methods of communication indicated how often I could take my tablet, but the Braille distracted me for a while.
2) When Italian men go somewhere formal, they “pop” their collar.
3) Smoking and littering are both overwhelming here at times.

LIST 5: Random Travel Information and Tips (compiled from Dr. Webb, class-mates and personal experience):
1) Hotels in Italy have a different interpretation of “check-out day.” If I indicate I would like to check-in on Friday and check-out on Sunday, the hotel would expect me to stay until Monday.
2) Always ask for a quiet room. Italian markets can start setting up early and make a tremendous amount of noise.
3) Don’t be afraid to ask for a different room.
4) Always use a taxi from a taxi stand and make sure the meter is on.
5) There is something called “Elderhostel.” The first time I heard this, it sounded dangerous. In reality, it is a group of retired academics (and others) traveling economically on educational trips throughout the world.
6) Restaurants are very different. Bread and water are not free, there is a fee for sitting at a table, and the wait-staff won’t hover. Always check menu prices before ordering. Tipping is usually limited to a few coins, no matter what the price of the meal. But, always make sure to count your change. Over-charging and incorrect change are two unfortunate realities in tourist areas.
7) If you happen to be in a slow moving line for a museum, and someone how knows long the wait is expected to be, and he or she holds up one thumb, that means one hour. One index finger indicates two hours.
8) There is a guidebook for everyone. And everyone’s guidebook can become outdated. It’s best to double check times and prices for museums and activities pre-departure.
9) Have a plan. Prepare to abandon plan.
10) Zip-loc bags are a good thing to have in my purse.
11) There are many gondoliers, always negotiate price and then take many pictures of him.

LIST 7: Things I would like to do before I leave:
1) Go to Venice.
2) Remember to add on to this list.
3) Cross some things off this list.

Firenze – Plans are meant to be broken:

Two weeks ago we traveled as a group to Firenze for the weekend. Of course, there were all of the expected beautiful museums and churches. We were tucked away for two nights in a nice hotel on a quiet-ish street up four flights of stairs.

We had several meetings about all that Firenze has to offer. My plan was to:

Select a few things I would like to do:

• Tour of Ufizzi
• Find the used book-shop in English
• Museo dell’Opera
• Walking tour or bus-tour of the city
o Realize that I may not do any of them
o Focus on getting familiar with the city by walking around on Friday evening and making a note of where I would like to visit the next day.
o Wait 24 hours before making any purchases – everything will be there – and more – and better.
o Stick to my budget.
o Have food with me. (A strategy based on being a fussy eater and being frugal.)

What happened:
• Amanda joined me for a walk through the city. She is an excellent map reader and was able to find the bookstore without a wrong turn. After weeks of seeing books I can’t read in Italian, I thought I would be more excited, but I didn’t find anything I wanted.
• I saw a ridiculous number of souvenir shops. Every single block was packed with postcards, calendars, mugs, bookmarks, and all with David – or just a part of David. David is everywhere in Firenze.
• On Saturday morning at the continental breakfast, every single person spoke English. It was very bizarre to hear after weeks of only hearing Italian.
• I changed my plans and spent most of Saturday walking through the city. I saw many things not listed in the guidebooks that were wonderful.
• I decided to wander and check out all the stores to see where the nicest Florentine paper was. I made a mental note of a nice shop near the Duomo where I picked up some nice things and felt as if I had found what I needed and nothing more.
• I liked all the markets. I was surprised how many things could be made out of leather. There were even leather lipstick cases and barrettes.
• When I thought I couldn’t walk anymore, I had a moment of sheer joy when I realized I was only a block away from the hotel. I took a one hour rest and headed out again. I saw the Bargello and the Museo dell’Opera.

What didn’t happen:
• Who cares? My plans were meant to change. It was a beautiful weekend.

FAMILY

I am off to meet my family on Friday. The logistics of traveling east/west in Italy are much more challenging than north/south. I’ve spent a lot of time online trying to find a way around the question-mark shaped route which may be necessary to get from here to there. But, after traveling this far and waiting so long, it will be worth it.

Entry 4:
Internet

A question has been asked that has hackles raised in all the studentessas. How much access to the internet should we have – if any at all? I believe that the crux of the argument against internet access is about a student not being fully present in the host country. If a student spends all her time chatting with friends on Skype, updating her Facebook status, and e-mailing family, she would be lacking the incentive to cultivate new relationships, speak Italian, and engage in the culture. Why go out and make new friends when all of your current friends are right there on the computer screen? Internet usage should be about enhancing study-abroad, not escaping study-abroad.

Palazzo Alberti’s internet has had some unanticipated lessons. Approximately two weeks ago, we started having problems connecting. All the technical reasons are beyond my comprehension, but the reality of being disconnected was felt by everyone. Reliable access to the internet for homework, research, travel planning, listening to music, communication with friends and family, and even minimal amounts of guilty-pleasure web-surfing were suspended.

• Lesson 1 - Ingenuity: We found a way to borrow a local signal. Unfortunately the signal was very weak, and could only be received by having our lap-tops perilously perched on window sills in the dining room or in a few spots in the kitchen. I acquainted myself with three local alternatives for internet service. Two were too expensive, the third just didn’t work.

• Lesson 2 – Cultural Differences: Customer service in Italy is different. Things happen in Italy when they do. Without Dr. Webb’s determination and persistence, no one would have heard from us again until December. C’est la vie in Italia.

• Lesson 3 – Acceptance: The internet is no longer something taken for granted. When our regular connection goes out again, there is still access to the internet; even if it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable and expensive, we can still get most of the information we need. Staying in touch with friends and family to discuss our time here feels like it is increasing everyone’s enjoyment.

I think the internet is a powerful learning tool, even when it’s not working.

Small Achievement:

I have faced my fear of buying produce at the market. I watched several proficient market shoppers casually select bags or crates filled with fresh vegetables by the helpful salespeople. My goal was to buy enough vegetables to make a salad for the weekend. Disproportionate fear gripped me when it was my turn and I forgot everything I was going to say. Then I remembered the dining room white-board that announces our lunch which frequently includes “insalata,” and opened my mouth. I managed to say, “Scusi, io non parlo l’Italiano bene, insalata per favore?” She smiled and held up different lettuces and vegetables for me to choose from. I was so relieved, that I decided to go on a spending spree and choose a yellow pepper. In North Carolina, yellow peppers always seem ridiculously expensive, almost $3.00 each, so this seemed like a big financial decision. The table was filled with small price tags indicating varying prices from approximately, “€.80/kg to €1.50/kg” near baskets of produce. I’m still very fuzzy on the value of Euros, food prices in general, and totally clueless about how many kilograms a carrot would be. When she announced my total for my lettuce, carrots, tomatoes and pepper as “uno settenta,” I said, “Scusi?”--not because I didn’t understand what she said, but because I did, which was shocking. How could my fresh vegetables only cost €1.70? The same amount of vegetables at Whole Foods would be at least $6.00. She tore off a receipt and pointed at the total. I pulled out a €2 coin and received change. I am now disproportionately happy about my accomplishment.

Beauty Fatigue and Adjective Exhaustion:
The best problem I have ever had is not being able to describe accurately the beauty of Italy without sounding like a swooning travel brochure. When almost everything I see is gorgeous, beautiful, magnificent or incredible, it’s hard to articulate how truly significant this opportunity has been to me. Italy’s vast and complicated history, the staggering quality of every form of art, and the technical genius-- combined with the immeasurable quantity of all of these things--have created moments of sensory overload. I am now thinking of it as “beauty fatigue.” My brain, much like a computer, simply does not have enough memory on my internal hard drive to process all this information at once, and I can shut-down or freeze-up unexpectedly.

On our second weekend in Italy, Dr. Webb and John Rose took us on a local tour of three beautiful cities, Anghiari, Arezzo, and Perugia. The walled city of Anghiari, just a few miles away from Sansepolcro, instantly became my favorite place in the world. After just two hours, we were off to another walled city, Arezzo. Both cities were on steep hills, filled with ancient churches, buildings, and famous artwork. The next morning we were off to Perugia, another ancient city with hills so steep, they even put in escalators. Perugia appeared to be just as fantastic as Anghiari and Arezzo, but I simply didn’t have any more capacity to see gorgeous churches. I took many pictures so I could decide later what I would like to see when I have a chance to visit again, probably for the chocolate festival. I headed downhill for the train station to wait for the train. (Information on Chocolate Festival)

While I was waiting, something unexpected caught my eye. There was a shiny, cherry-red, modern cigarette machine at the train station. I had never seen anything like it. There were elaborate directions in Italian that I didn’t (and still don’t) fully understand, a place to put in identification to prove the purchaser was over 16, and several slots to insert money. Most intriguing was the price. Cigarettes cost €8.00! That’s almost $12.00! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not only was this mysterious nicotine-addict extortion machine not a figment of my imagination, but two people actually purchased cigarettes while I watched. Then I realized that I was more interested in this machine than I had been in anything all day. I felt guilty for not loving the expected things, but it was a long weekend of similar sights and this was the polar opposite of everything I had seen, and it felt refreshing.

Recovery from “beauty-fatigue” is rapid. Full enjoyment of Italy can be resumed after just a few hours of sensory deprivation. After the long weekend, I recognized that I need to pace myself at a slower speed and set my expectations for class travel and personal travel differently. I now know that it is hard for me to appreciate the “micro” of one painting in a church when I am anxious about the “macro” of “where am I, how am I getting to my next destination, am I forgetting anything, do I have enough money, where is the bus station etc….” Upon returning from a trip, I sort through pictures, talk with classmates, friends, and family, research what I have seen on the internet (if possible) and the experience settles in. After anywhere between a few hours and a few days, I have a better comprehension of what I experienced and if there is anything I must revisit before I return home.

Adjective shortage may be highly detrimental when describing the piazzas, museums and churches of a particular city. To overcome this obstacle, I have come up with two ideas. One is to post my favorite pictures and let the beholder judge the beauty, and the other is to focus on the unexpected pleasures I find everywhere I go. OK, fine, it’s usually dogs or cats - real or in art - but not always.

You’ll have to read the next entry for how these strategies were highly successful on my trip to Firenze…..

Family Update:
The good: I am going to meet some of my Italian relatives in a few weeks. My cousin, named after my grandmother Eleanor, has invited me to the family home in Manoppello, Italy. We’ll work through the language barrier and visit for a few days with her family - or is it our family? It all seems so abstract that I am connected to this huge group of lovely people by tiny specks of DNA. My grandfather and her great-grandfather were brothers. My grandfather also had a sister, and I hope to meet with that side of the family as well.

The sad: As I am learning more and more about my family history, and despite being so far away, I had felt more connected than ever before – until just now. My mother’s brother, my uncle Gianni, died this morning. Now I’m just feeling far away.

From my grandmother’s diary, written in Italy when Gianni was 7 years old.

MANOPPELLO - NOVEMBER 27, 1944
Gianni has just come home from the house of his teacher, where he had gone for some explanations about his history lessons. He takes his school work very seriously and is a good student. He has just started real school, but if he continues the way he has started, he should be a great success. We are more than satisfied with him. He’s a sweet fellow anyhow and has great charm—he makes friends with all, young and old. He stole my heart a long time ago, but if he hadn’t, I could lose it anew every day. A few days ago he stepped on my toe and in a split second he was on his knees, kissing the injured toe. Another day he brought me a rose, with the explanation that he had seen it way up high on the wall of his uncle Pierino’s garden and he couldn’t reach it, but he asked the gardener to get a ladder and pick it because he had to bring it home to his mother.
Flora, Eleanor and Gianni
Rome 1945

Entry 3:
Thirty-Eight Things Learned During the First Twenty-Five Days in Sansepolcro:

1. It’s always wise to take a study-break when there is a parade outside your window. I believe this happened six times in one week.

2. Everything I ever knew about travel becomes inaccessible when I am anxious. Note to self: In Italy, train schedule departures are in yellow, and train arrivals are in white. “Festivi,” also means Sunday. Check the bus/train schedule often, because they change throughout the year and paper copies are hard to come by or trust.

3. Hotels in Florence can reside in the same building as apartments or businesses. To get into the hotel, you need to find the doorbell on the directory and be buzzed in. Sometimes the lobby is up three flights of stairs.

4. The city of Florence is Firenze. I just can’t refer to it as Florence again.

5. I just took for granted that the first floor of a building would always be the first floor, but not so. The elevator in our palazzo has three buttons, “zero,” “one”, and “two.” In Italy, our classroom is on the primo piano and we live on the secondo piano. In the U.S., we would be on the second and third floors.

6. I have always considered myself an American, as I think most people from America do. I recently discovered that this is inaccurate and insensitive. It seems that it is more culturally accurate to say, “I am a North American,” or “I am from the United States.” No need to claim the whole continent.

7. Italy’s history is violent. Moments of peace have been few and far between. They have fought other countries, when divided into city/states, they fought each other, the North, the South, the Allies, the Germans, the Fascists, the anti-Fascists. In spite of this, they aren’t as adept at war as they are at artistic pursuits.

8. I was absorbed into the parade vortex of Sansepolcro. Before I knew what was happening, I was in a costume marching with my classmates through town as part of a Renaissance Festival. We were the backdrop for an evening of medieval games in the town piazza.

9. I’m learning how to text-message on Skype with my classmates and their friends. This symbol “^^” allegedly means, “happy face.” I’m not sure I’ll ever fully embrace or understand “emoticons.”

10. My lack of knowledge of geography is inexcusable. I am making an effort each day to learn more.

11. English artist, William Rose, (a friend of -- but not related to-- John Rose) came by for lunch and graced the Palazzo Alberti with several of his paintings.

12. My mother has transcribed my grandmother and grandfather’s journals from their time in Italy during WWII. My grandfather was briefly the mayor of Mannoppello in 1944. German soldiers occupied the family home and, under the circumstances, were very pleasant to live with.

13. Peanut butter appears to be as uncommon at Nutella is common. Nutella is a chocolate and peanut-butter spread that my classmates love. It is consumed throughout the day on bread and fruit, or directly off of a spoon or fingertip.

14. Our classroom, bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchen have been covered in Post-It Notes with Italian nouns to help us learn. On my night stand: “una penna elettronica,” “un botiglia d’acqua,” “una penna,” e “un orologio sveglia.”

15. Window boxes with colorful flowers are carefully arranged outside beautiful palazzos as well as less prestigious addresses.

16. Clotheslines with colorful clothes dangle haphazardly out the windows of beautiful palazzos as well as less prestigious addresses.

17. Gelato is everywhere. The flavors are everything from chocolate to cantaloupe. There are many independently owned stores that serve gelato every in every city I’ve been in so far. They are called “gelaterias.” Gelateria is one of very few Italian words I don’t like. It just doesn’t sound like a good place to eat anything.

18. When Italians answer the phone, they say, “Pronto!”

19. After taking a few thousand pictures, I have slowed down. I have yet to capture the true beauty of any moment I have had here. I’m deferring to postcards for accurate representations of historical places I have seen in Anghiari, Perugia, Assisi, Arezzo, and Firenze.

20. I am wandering around beautiful cities looking up, speaking English, wearing comfortable shoes, taking pictures (less than before), with a backpack over both shoulders and buying souvenirs. Generally, I embarrass easily, but somehow embodying the caricature of a tourist doesn’t bother me one bit.

21. Prices in Italy, look like this: €35,00. Time looks like this: 17,45.

22. Italian radio stations have D.J.s shouting call letters and making lame jokes. I don’t need to understand one word of Italian to know that this is happening. I’ve heard more pop-music with English lyrics in stores and on the bus here than I have in the United States.

23. According to Dr. Webb, there are two primary types of study-abroad programs, “island,” which is similar to ours, a group of English speaking students learning together, or “immersion,” which is a student (or students) only hearing and speaking the foreign language. The popular theory was that students in the immersion programs learned more about the language and culture. Turns out, the “island-programs” learn more. Dr. Webb thinks it’s because we have each other to process the experience with and have some relief from the pressure of learning the language.

24. To get our official Permesso (student visa), the Office of Study Abroad at Meredith has done extensive paperwork so all we have had to do is go to the police department and get finger printed. The police station here was delightfully dingy with bad fluorescent lighting. The receptionist had silly cartoons taped to her wall, piles of files were in lined up against the wall, and the polizia looked almost as weary as police officers in the United States. Bureaucracy is the same here!

25. In Italian, they don’t use “J, K, W, X or Y,” except for foreign words that crept into their language. Pajamas are called pigiamas.

26. “Smart-Cars,” the little two-seater car, is as common in Sansepolcro as the Toyota Prius is in Chapel Hill. The cars are small by necessity. Many of the cars have scratches from other cars passing too closely on the narrow cobblestone roads, or from rubbing up against ancient buildings. It looks almost as if car owners measure their driveways to the nearest millimeter then choose a car that will fit.

27. Walking through Sansepolcro -- not knowing anyone-- was a unique experience. I think this must be what people in the Witness Protection Program feel like. Hearing Sara Andreini (Italy Today teacher) call my name and smile when she saw me was surprisingly heartwarming.

28. My commute to class is 121 steps and takes 41 seconds.

29. “The market” is here Tuesday and Saturday mornings just outside our door. Our street is filled with vendors selling clothes, food, plants, toys, antiques, and kitchenware, amongst other things. The vendors arrive early and have cars and vans that are designed for this purpose. The fruit and vegetables look fantastic, but I’m still too scared to ask for some in Italian. I will do it this week! I keep my head down when I pass the butcher, and love the variety of flowers. We now have a little bit of time on Tuesdays during class to visit the market.

30. Halloween is not a big deal in Italy.

31. My classmate, Amanda and I met with a local resident, Francesco, to help us with Italian and we are (barely) helping him with his English. We went to a café and he asked us what we would like. I requested a tea, and Amanda asked for a Coke. He asked the hostess for our drinks in Italian. She informed him they did not have Coke. Amanda then asked for a hot chocolate. No luck. Sparkling water was available. The hostess brought our drinks and smiled. Francesco informed us, while sipping his pear juice, that our drink requests are very unusual here.

32. I love the bus ride from Sansepolcro to Arezzo. Each time I have my nose (and camera) glued to the window in awe of the beauty, while trying not to get motion sick from the hairpin turns weaving through the mountains. Today, the bus driver was chatting on his cell-phone, listening to an obnoxious D.J. shout about pop-music and honking at the cars recklessly passing us, and I still enjoyed the ride.

33. I have an internet-dependency problem. It has been eight days since the Palazzo Alberti has had a reliable connection. Our nerves are becoming frayed as we hang out the dining room window borrowing the neighbor’s (weak) signal to talk to our friends at home do research for our homework assignments.

34. In Italy, a female massage therapist is called a “massaggiatrice.” According to my Italian teacher, Chiara, massage therapists have to go to school for three years, pass extensive tests and pay licensing fees to practice here. I have to make an appointment soon and learn some new techniques for my massage clients back home.

35. The star system for hotels in Italy adheres to government standards. A two-star hotel can be very nice. Many fine hotels have rooms that share a common hall bathroom.

36. Italian dogs bark just like dogs from the United States.

37. “Ciao” and “Buongiorno” sounded so silly at first, but now these words seem completely ordinary. “Arrivederci” still seems like overkill to say, “bye.”

38. Every day here is filled with hundreds of learning opportunities. I am grateful for all of them.

Entry 2
Everything is Beautiful. Nothing is Easy.

When the power goes out at home, it is a reality-check about how dependent I am on electricity. Even though I know I’m in a power-outage, I still catch myself turning on light switches and being surprised when the light doesn’t appear. Life with electricity, computers, and light is simply ordinary. When the electricity goes away, however temporarily, I am reminded of how much I take it for granted. Leaving the culture I have always known has left me in the dark.

Most of the time I am intrigued and curious about differences between American and Italian culture, but sometimes I just wish I could find something a little bit familiar other than the few things I brought with me. I anticipated (and under-estimated,) some of the major differences, but I didn’t realize all of the little things, such as not being able to touch the fruit at the market, would cause me such anxiety.

The majority of my first two weeks in Italy have been spent with my jaw dropped in awe of Italy’s beauty. During this honeymoon phase of my trip, all of my senses are enchanted by the novelty of it all. The extraordinarily beautiful architecture, the rolling hills (really, there are rolling hills everywhere) and the endless artwork. The food, prepared right here in the palazzo, the fresh fruit, and the almond biscotti all taste incredible. I can follow my nose through the town, inhaling the aroma from the fruit stands, and detect the subtle scents of history emanating from the countless churches. The sounds of Sansepolcro include the melodic, yet machine-gun pace of the language. The tiny cars are practically silent as they navigate the narrow roads compared to the loud engines of the motorbikes. I like the weight of the heavy doors into the palazzo, the cool tiles under my feet and the feel of the 500 year old stones in the stairwell. Sometimes I feel in sync with the rhythm of this town; however, most of the time I do not.

Intellectually I knew that everyone here would speak Italian, and not English, but still, I was caught off guard by the scope of the language barrier. My vocabulary is currently limited to that of a bambina, “mi chiamo, Gianna.” Everything is in Italian! The photocopier, washing machine, food, streets, menus, museums, bus-schedules, traffic signs, advertisements, magazines and books all render me illiterate. I find myself looking at shapes, colors, locations, logos, and English words I know with a vowel stuck on the end (i.e. caloria, medicina ) to get my bearings. I hadn’t realized that I couldn’t shop at a store without a register because I wouldn’t be able to understand how much, “settenovantacinque” would be. I am excluded from all conversation. There is an entire world of communication right in front of me that I am unable to participate in. I focus intently, trying to get the gist from the intonation, situation, or facial expressions. Sometimes I feel like I’m part of the Gary Larson cartoon that depicts a man and his dog. The first image shows a man talking to his dog, the second image shows what the dog hears. Of course, the dog only recognizes her name. I identify with the dog. With all due respect, mostly what I hear is this, “Ciao! Blah, blah, blah, ristorante, blah, blah, arrividerci!” I have made a little progress every day, but unless someone asks me to count to ten, I have a long way to go.

Another surprise is how different the currency is, literally and practically. I have only known money as green. Euros come in an assortment of coins and color paper of different sizes with shiny, iridescent columns down the side. Right now, one Euro is approximately worth $.68 cents, lower than when I arrived two weeks ago. The exchange rate changes a little from day to day, so I have to be careful when I buy something and when I withdraw money from the cash machine.

The value of products and services in Italy is virtually unknown to me. A postcard stamp costs €.85(approx. $1.23), and from what I’ve heard about the Italian postal system, no one will ever see my postcards. Last week I joined my classmates for dinner at the pizzeria in our palazzo. I wasn’t very hungry so I opted to enjoy their company and a soda. I ordered one Sprite (by pointing at the menu) which cost me €2, which is approximately $2.90. In North Carolina, $1.50 will buy an enormous ice-filled glass, with free refills every five minutes. My Sprite came in tall slender can, an empty companion glass and the server did not return with any refills.

Prices in NC are different from store to store and city to city, but I have a general idea about where to shop and the price range of the item. Our street is filled with unique shops, high quality items and (generally) friendly shop-keepers. The prices and products are unfamiliar As the summer season ends, almost every window display has a sign announcing, “Saldi -50%. “ Shoes with a price tag of €62 catch my attention, but after some calculations, it turns out they are $90.00 shoes. Figuring out prices requires math, which I hate. Everything right now seems a little expensive and a little confusing. Perhaps it’s because $1 does not equal $1 anymore.

Shopping for school or office supplies is usually an enjoyable occasion for me. I like picking out black writing pens with a fine line, but not too fine or too thick. I like notebooks with silly pictures of kittens or puppies on the front. I waited to buy supplies until I got here because I thought it would be fun. I always wondered what Microsoft Office meant by “A4 paper,” and now I know that it is European paper. It seems to be little longer and narrower than 8 ½ x 11 paper. But I’m not sure, because the dimensions are not written on my notebooks. My school-supplies have been a disappointment. It was slim-pickings for notebooks. Most of the notebooks have mysteriously lined pages, some are completely graph paper, some have irregularly spaced horizontal lines, and some have pastel colored paper. None of them have margins. I didn’t see any spiral notebooks with cardboard backs or any with more than what appears to be about 100 pages. I picked a few out, but I wasn’t happy. I grabbed some Bic pens, feeling a little more comfortable with a known brand. I thought they would be fine, but I hate my notebooks. I can’t sit in bed and write in the notebooks because they are too floppy. It’s hard to write on both sides of the paper because the pages don’t bend back smoothly. I had thought the Bic pens might be safe, but I have already run out of ink in two of the four pens I’ve used. I miss Staples.

The sanitation system in this area is a mystery to me. I’m still learning the rules about garbage after two weeks. We have several different colored, plastic, garbage bins that take up a lot of space in the kitchen. There are small brown bins, about 1’ square. This is where we put all of our compost and leave it outside on Mondays and Wednesday. There are larger, about knee high, yellow, blue and green bins. In these we sort paper, plastic, cans, bottles and everything else non food-related, and put them outside on their special week-days too. The garbage trucks come six days a week and will only take the proper colored bin. I don’t see a lot of public garbage cans. I see an extraordinary amount of litter. I’ve also heard the street cleaner around 7:00 am almost every morning I’ve been here. While recycling is an excellent idea, with my limited knowledge of the system, it seems inefficient. If the garbage trucks and street cleaners have to work six days a week, it seems like something could be consolidated.

There are many tiny differences. The time, date and weather are written differently here. It is now 29? c. at 17:45 on 8 September 2009. The metric system is used. (I’m sure that intelligent Englishmen would think this makes much more sense.) An adapter is needed to plug in American electronics. The tank of the toilet is near the ceiling. There is a three hour lunch break every day and the entire town shuts down. Our lunch is the main meal of the day and we are served pasta first, then the main course, followed by salad and then some fresh fruit for dessert. Dinner is not a big deal at all here. Smoking here is as common as air-conditioning is rare, sometimes this is an unpleasant combination. The washing machine runs for 90 minutes, and the energy efficient dryer collects water in the bottom in a plastic container, but usually we hang our clothes to dry. All of these differences are just that -differences, it’s up to me how I choose to handle each of them.

I am starting to bond with my temporary home. All of the cobblestone streets, churches and palazzos looked alike when I arrived. When I returned from Perugia on the train this weekend, I was able to recognize the steeples and rooftops as familiar and felt a moment of relief. I feel like I know where I am now. It’s not so bad to do math to figure out how much something costs, what time it is, or what the temperature it. I’ve become accustomed to reaching overhead to flush. The mid-day lunch is a brilliant concept. I may wish for sturdier notebooks with margins, but the ones I have are working. The Italian language is beautiful and I have a great teacher.

It is not easy to leave my home, my family, my friends, my career, my animals, my currency, my stuff, my car, 8 ½ x 11 paper, mild air-conditioning, daily routines, my country and a familiar language. Right now, nothing is easy, but everything is beautiful – and it’s worth it.

Entry 1:

In the last year, I had two very unrealistic dreams:  
1. I wanted to travel to Italy for three months, live in a 16th century Tuscan palazzo,  learn about the language, art, history, and science from brilliant professors, meet my Italian relatives, learn about my grandfather’s life in Italy, make new friends, and travel the country while simultaneously having my family, friends, employer, and clients understand and support my decision.

2. If I was able to take this trip, that I would create a journal recording my time abroad in eloquent sentences with beautiful photographs. Each day I would find a way to let all the people I love know that they are always with me in my heart.

Well, one of these dreams has come true. I am writing this from the Palazzo Alberti in Sansepolcro, Italy.
Early in my first semester as a 23+ student at Meredith College, I noticed the posters publicizing the Study Abroad program. I just never believed that--with all of the responsibilities and financial obligations in my life--I would be here, or that it could be even better than described. Dr. Betty Webb and the Study Abroad Office put together a program at virtually the same cost as a semester in Raleigh. The semester includes classroom and experiential learning. Some of our field trips will be to Florence, Arezzo, Perugia, Assisi, Urbino, and Laverno. We are encouraged, and expected, to travel independently on long weekends. Rome, Venice, Milan, and hundreds of smaller and less-known cities are all within a few hours on a train. 

On Monday, August 24, I joined several of my classmates to begin the trip abroad. One car ride, two planes, two trains, one bus and 26 hours later, we arrived in Sansepolcro. The hardships of the trip were forgotten as the group of 12 walked down the cobblestone street leading to the Palazzo. Dr. Webb and her husband John Rose had a beautiful dinner arranged, and we were even treated to an opera performance by their good friends in the community.

The next few days were blurry. No matter how incredible the circumstances, such drastic changes so quickly were hard to assimilate. Dr. Webb kindly offered to repeat everything for the first few days. We took strolls around the city, had our first few classes, had delicious meals and got to know each other a little bit better. I wandered around taking pictures of everything and trying to absorb as much information as I could.
We are living and studying in the Palazzo Alberti. On Thursday, September 3, the mayor of Sansepolcro, Professor Franco Polcri, came to welcome us to the community and share his knowledge of the history of the Palazzo. It was built in the 16th century by Alberto Alberti, a local artist known for wood carving. He had three sons: Alesssandro, Giovanni and Cherubini (or Cherubino, I have seen both and I am not sure which is correct). All three were talented artists prominent enough to create frescos for the Pope. There is a beautiful fresco (most likely by Cherubini) on the ceiling of the Palazzo in the room called the Sala Della Fama (translates loosely to a room of recognition/fame). The fresco is still vibrant over four hundred years later. All of the Alberti family moved out of their home to other areas of Italy, and the Palazzo became an educational building for artists and poets. The Palazzo remained in the control of the Alberti family until twenty years ago, when the last family member died without an heir. Ownership of The Palazzo was transferred to Associazzone Amici Del Bargello, a museum in Florence that focuses on Renaissance painters. Until now…
(Left) Palazzo Alberti (Right) Cherubino Alberti “Design for a Church Vessel” from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, web-site.

Our core classes are designed to enhance our time here. Monday through Friday, the first two hours of our day are in Italian class. Sara Andreini, a Sansepolcro native, is teaching a course called “Italy Today,” to teach us about the history of this town and the current climate of Italy. Dr. Webb is teaching a class called “Learn to Travel, Travel to Learn,” which is almost self-explanatory, but in greater depth than the title conveys. James Banker, a history professor, and Maureen Banker, an art professor, have joined together to teach an art history class called, “The Nature of Aesthetic Judgment in Renaissance Painting.” Dr. Webb is also teaching an English and History class with a focus on how Italy became involved with and handled World War II. In a few weeks, I will be beginning a science class that I believe will revolve around the environment of the country. It’s a challenging course load, but already each Professor and class has increased my understanding and enjoyment here. 

One of my goals with this time is to connect to my Italian relatives I have never had the opportunity to meet. My grandfather, Giuseppe Tieri, was born and raised in Manoppello, Italy. After graduating from law school and a brief legal career he became a successful travel agent in Rome. In 1932, at age 45, he traveled to America and met my future grandmother, Eleanor. They were married in 1933, bought a home in New York and had a son and daughter (my mother). Days after Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941, the FBI showed up at their home, my grandfather was accused of being a Fascist, arrested and interned on Ellis Island for five months before being deported back to Italy in 1942. The whole family joined him in Italy for the next five years. Over 60 years later, my mother has remained in contact with her Italian family, and I am anxiously awaiting e-mails to determine when I can meet some of them.

The culture shock has, in fact, been shocking. The beauty has yet to be captured in any of the 700 pictures I’ve taken. After about ten days, I believe I am officially in tune with Italian time. Each day I have been able to relax a little bit more as I get more familiar with the town, the classes and the language. The only way I can think of to truly thank all of the people who have made this trip possible, is to live every minute here to the fullest.
Grazie,
Gianna