Entry 12:  November 23, 2010
 
Roma
 
Meredith Cox and I were very excited to go and experience traveling by ourselves in Rome. On previous travel breaks I confess we relied too much on others to help us get from point A to point B. I tend to become a blind follower during travel breaks and enjoy following the group along to different activities. The break was the perfect opportunity to learn to only rely on myself for travel. Unfortunately one often learns by making mistakes, and I can testify I learned a lot.
 
On the bus to Arezzo Friday afternoon, Meredith realized she had forgotten to write down the address and number of our hostel or print off directions. So we were in trouble when we arrived in Rome, with no way to contact the hostel, or any idea of where our hostel was in the largest city in Italy. Getting off the train we started to worry and that only increased as we joined the masses of people in a huge train station. Of course, we couldn’t even find the tourist office for help and wandered around hopelessly for about thirty minutes. A woman soon stopped us and asked if we needed a hostel for the night. I replied no, we had already made reservations at a hostel, but asked where the tourist office was located. She told us and we walked to it, tucked away in an obscure part of the station. There we successfully obtained a map with the location of our hostel the Stargate circled, only after prodding the grumpy assistant. Leaving the train station I was relieved because we had avoided having to call Dr. Webb. However, even with the address it was difficult to find. A man walking by saw us huddled pitifully on the grey busy street, and in English helped us to find our hostel. The hostel actually turned out to be a one star hotel, and we were able to sleep in a clean, private room for only 22 euro a night. Unfortunately, by choosing to take the 12 p.m. train to Rome, we had no time to see anything that day, since all the tourist sites close by five.
 
That night instead, we decided to take the metro down to the famous Spanish steps. Luckily, figuring out how to use the subway system in Rome was the easiest part of our trip in Italy. We had only one minor mishap; our Roma passes had to be scanned at the top part of the entrance to the subway and not put through the slit an annoyed guard informed us. The Spanish steps were beautiful by night. Indeed, Rome is a completely different creature by night, veiled in mystery and glowing in yellow city lights. Starving on the steps, I gobbled up my McDonald’s cheeseburger and French fries that I had purchased from the metro station. That night we also went to the Trevi fountain, a lit masterpiece of tall polished statues and spouting blue water. As the bottom of the fountain was lined with many coins, I threw my coin, a trusty American penny, and prayed that I would one day return to Italy. Next we decided to walk down Rome’s equivalent to Los Angeles’ Rodeo Drive, a street filled with wondrous designer shops whose clothing and products are so expensive I dare not enter the store. However, I was much entertained viewing the beautiful window displays, decorated already for the Christmas season. I ogled the giant diamond rings of Cartier, shiny black Prada handbags, and the sparkly magnificent Jimmy Cho Stilettos. After viewing the shoes we decided to return to Via Palermo, the street of our hotel, to find a restaurant. We ate in a traditional, inexpensive trattoria where I had a Fanta, spaghetti in a bacon tomato sauce, and a yellow cake with whipped cream layers.
 
The following morning we stopped at a local café for a quick breakfast of cappuccinos and croissants. That day we decided to visit the Coliseum and had reservations to see the Vatican. At the coliseum I purchased an audio guide which promptly broke as I tried to use it, then it started pouring down rain and, having no rain jacket, I quickly become soaked. However, thanks to an Indian immigrant I soon became the proud owner of a black umbrella sporting a picture of the Coliseum. It continued to rain as we rushed to our 1 p.m. reservation to the Vatican, and my leather boots had water sloshing in the inside. However, we were soon able to take shelter in the interesting and intricate Vatican museum. Previous Popes had collected a wide variety of ancient Egyptian art, classical Roman sculptures, and Etruscan works. Perhaps most impressive were the wide variety of frescoes by Piero dello Francesco and Rafaela in the previous Popes’ apartments. There was also a colorful hallway of maps of all the regions of Italy during the renaissance, which was very beautiful. I think I preferred this room to the Sistine chapel, which was much smaller than I imagined and crowded with too many people.
 
The most beautiful part of the Vatican overall was the basilica of San Pietro. Somehow the church felt not only breathtaking and grandiose, but also holy and intimate. I love being able to pray, kneeling down in the catholic tradition in smaller churches in Italy, however typically the larger churches such as the duomos in Florence feel like museums. However, a peace came over me in the San Pietro church, perhaps because of the few people there and the late hour, I felt comfortable praying there. Catholic priests regularly conduct masses in the church on Saturday night and Sunday morning. I talked to two catholic priests while I was there and they said that there are many churches in the area that offer masses in English! Although I was unable to attend a mass in the San Pietro basilica, it was my favorite place I visited in Rome, a breath of tranquility in a worldly bustling grey city.
 
Entry 11: November 16, 2010
 
Family Dinners
 
Two dinners, two completely different families. In Italy I have had the pleasure of being adopted by not one, but two families. My fellow adopted ragazza, Emma, and I went to our first dinner Friday night at 7:15. We meet our host mother Louise, a blonde London-born woman with a perfect English accent, at the bus stop outside the city walls, and we walked to her home, a beautiful palazzo built only two hundred years ago. Walking inside the palazzo, we were immediately seated in a modern dining room at the long clothed table connecting to the living room. Louise then introduced us to her husband, a true Sansepolcran who attended the University of Perugia, and their 13 year old son Alex. The long table felt surprisingly empty, as we were served antipasti, but this is becoming the new Italia, a country where the average family only has one child, and a working mother. Louise, however, was very sweet, although I’m sorry to say I wasn’t able to practice much Italian. Alex behaved like a typical young adolescent, he spoke minimally, kept his eyes to the table, and dashed upstairs promptly after dinner, and Louise’s husband was a charming cat lover. While eating delicious ravioli with meat sauce, we discussed the differences between English and Italian culture; Louise said that the one thing she missed about English culture was the greater variety in food. I noticed while getting to know Louise and her husband, that neither one was dominant over the other, they shared a great partnership which I admire. One often pictures in an Italian a typical submissive housewife, and an overbearing father, however, Louise’s husband was quite nurturing and I saw him nuzzle the orange tabby cat ‘tigre’ several times during the night. For second course we enjoyed tender grilled sausages straight off a metal rack on the fireplace and for dessert a delicate cream filled, puffed pastry. Overall I really enjoyed getting to know my host family, and I felt truly at home for the first time in months.
 
By accident my professor, Sarah, scheduled Emma and me for yet another family dinner Tuesday. At first we had many doubts; having grown very close to our first host family, we were skeptical about adopting this ‘other’ family. However, we decided to go to dinner; after all what college student can resist a free meal. Our host mother, Jean, a half American woman, picked us up from the bus stop in a small, dark car. Upon arriving at the house, we walked through the front door, and into a small, warm kitchen, where Jean promptly introduced us to a tiny, pink cheeked Italian nonna. She smiled and nodded her little head at us, and we were led into a spacious living room connected to a dining room. Jean put on Fox news in English, and we sat on a large, soft sofa while waiting for the rest of the family downstairs to finish sorting olives. Apparently, the family makes its own very fresh and delicious blend of olive oil. Surprisingly, the host family was actually very impressed with the Italian we spoke, and we spoke in Italian most of the dinner. The family around the table consisted of Jean, her husband, her very pregnant daughter and her fiancé, and the tiny nonna. Immediately, they corrected me on putting olive oil on my plate; the olive oil is poured generously, directly on the bread, spread with a finger and then a little salt is added to the bread for taste. While eating spinach and ricotta manicotti, we discussed daughter Angela’s fiancé’s hobby as a flag waver in the Balestra. He has visited the United States six times for his flag waving, including the states of Texas, South Carolina, and Nevada. While Angela’s Fiancé talked, Angela kept interrupting him and correcting him in a friendly and flirtatious manner. They are such a happy couple, and their first baby is due in two weeks. They told me excitedly of all the baby furniture they have bought from IKEA, and I can tell the baby is going to be quite spoiled.
 
The family’s last name is Alberti, and they like to joke that they are the same Albertis who own our palazzo, and they have an ancient family shield hanging in the living room. During the meal the father was quite amusing, and he kept serving me Pinto, a sparkling white wine, until after protesting a fourth glass I had to tell him to stop. Of course, this then prompted him to ask me if I cared for limoncello instead, or perhaps something else from his selection, and later on I had to further deter him from putting grappa in my coffee. Meanwhile the grandmother, seated at the end of the table, giggled to herself the entire time. Her laughter was quite infectious; I found myself laughing through most of the meal, or perhaps it was just the effects of the Pinto. After the pasta, we ate roast beef, some fresh mozzarella, carrot sticks, pecorino, and some wild boar in a Tartuffe sauce, which our host mother served us quite proudly. Our host father boasted to us he was a wild boar hunter, and Angela rolled her eyes and said ‘with his bare hands,’ while we all laughed; the father is quite a small statured man. Towards the end of the meal, after the banana bread and gelato, my laughter got a little out of control and I spilled espresso all over the elegent golden table cloth. It was quite embarrassing! Luckily Jean reassured me it could be washed and I realized it was time to go, before I further embarrassed myself. Kissing my host family goodbye, I realized that was the most fun I had had in months; the family was so genuine, funny and informal. They promptly invited us to come back next Tuesday for another dinner, to which I look forward with great anticipation. In the coming weeks, with many papers due, I am glad to have something to look forward to, but it is sad to think my time in Sansepolcro is coming to a close.
 
Entry 10: November 9, 2010
 
Switzerland! Good Friends, Hippie Hostels and Milk Serum

Meredith Cox, Meredith Hyatt and I started our adventures in Switzerland on Thursday afternoon. It took a hectic 12 hours of travel to get to our destination, six trains, two buses, and a gondola. Unfortunately, the trip started out with a bit of bad luck; our first train to Florence was delayed thirty minutes and sadly the next train we were supposed to take to Milan was punctual. We had the pleasure of watching it pass by just as we arrived in Florence. Luckily, we managed to stay calm, and produce the right Italians words to change our Eurostar ticket to a later time, allowing us to arrive in Interlaken by 12:30 a.m. The rest of our travels went smoothly and soon we passed the border into Switzerland. In Brig, the station right before we reached our destination in Interlaken, I experienced the German language for the first time. It was dark and approaching midnight and as we attempted to determine the platform of our train, two girls in garish, dark garb speaking in deep guttural sounds came toward us. I watched them warily, but then soon realized the girls were trying to help us find our train and the guttural sound was German. We thanked the girls and went to wait in the dark, empty, platform for our train. After we had been waiting for some time, we heard yelling in German, and an intoxicated, dirty, disheveled man of questionable sanity walked by us. However, this was not the most intimidating part of the night, for when we finally arrived in Interlaken we had to walk to an ATM at 12:30 am to withdraw Swiss francs and then walk 25 minutes in the cold eerie silence to our hostel. Finally, we reached the safety of Balmer’s, a wooden two story building decorated in red and white Swiss style, and I fell asleep in a blessedly private room to the techno music of the bar below.

In the morning, I opened the window to check the day’s temperature and gasped; the beautiful Swiss Alps hidden in the dark of our arrival were now lit and stunning in the day’s sun. After a breakfast of oat cereal, an apple and some watered down hot chocolate provided by the hostel, we took the local bus to Lauterbrunnen, a small Swiss town featuring several outdoors stores, a café, a COOP grocery and a dazzling waterfall. From there we were able to take the train to Stechelberg and finally an air gondola to our destination Gimmelwald, a small village of about 130 people, and several goat and cow herds. If the view outside the hostel in Interlaken was breathtaking, the view in Gimmelwald was heart stopping, green hillside nestled in dazzling, steep, snow capped mountains uninterrupted by the sounds of cars.

The Mountain Hostel in Gimmelwald was quite an adventure, upon immediately approaching the hostel there were three shirtless Australians running around in the sun by an adult playground complete with a large shiny metal slide. Being a Meredith girl, and highly unfamiliar with liberal coed living, I cautiously approached. Entering the old dark wood hostel, I followed the creaky wooden stairs to a large common room of long wooden tables smelling slightly of unwashed bodies. On the check in desk, a paper sign scribbled in marker read, “Check in is at 6 p.m., don’t pick your own bed, have fun!”  As we were milling about the hostel, trying to determine a temporary location to put our stuff, an unshaven American man came up the stairs and said it was safe to leave our stuff downstairs. However, after seeing our hesitation, I was clutching my book bag in the anxiety of staying such a strange place and sharing coed showers and coed bathrooms; he said we could also leave our things in the girl’s dormitory upstairs. Lugging our bags up the stairs there were three rooms, the first on the left had sign labeled family room, the second on the right read Lovers in bold red paint, the door to the left lead to the all girls room. Needless to say, we put our belongings in the girl’s room, meanwhile exchanging glances of horror. We then proceeded to wave goodbye to our new multi-continental friends, and went to explore Gimmelwald.

We walked in 60 degree weather listening to the chiming of the green hillsides; all of the livestock in Gimmelwald wear bells in the Swiss fashion. The architecture in Switzerland is vastly different from Italy; instead of large terracotta and stucco palazzos, there are small dark wooden houses with green or red shutters, built into the hillside. Beside each house are beautifully organized woodpiles, stacked tightly together, resembling jenga blocks, essential to surviving the cruel mountain winters. Petting the goats, an immense peace came over us, the village was so picturesque and tranquil, and for the first time in weeks we had no agenda. Soon some Asian tourists passed by and asked for a picture, the old Asian men wanted to take a picture together, I suppose as American girls we will always stand out wherever we travel. My height is easily distinguished from the shorter mountain people and Meredith’s bright blonde hair is eye catching. Later on that day, we took the gondola back down to Stechelbarg and hiked around the area, beautiful in fall colors of red and gold and a clear cold stream with polished round white stones. After hiking for an hour we were famished and began to search for a place to eat, an extremely difficult task in such an empty town. Particularly, between tourist seasons, the summer and winter, the few restaurants in Stechelbarg were closed. Finally we managed to find a restaurant that served a mixture of foods: Greek salads, French fries, chicken nuggets, farmer’s bacon sandwich, and local cheese. I decided to have tomato soup, and fries. That night in Gimmelwald, we got to know the other people staying in the hostel: a quirky man named Lauren from Oregon, a drunkard from Melbourne, two recent Melbourne graduates, a backpacker from San Francesco, and another Australian living off his credit card. Never in my life have I met such interesting people, and we soon bonded, despite our differences over card games. Our ordeal began, however, when it was time to take showers; there were three showers, which to our surprise cost one Swiss franc for five minutes, and the hostel did not provide towels. It was extremely awkward showering when men were going in the bathroom and I had to towel off with the cardigan I had worn earlier. I suppose this is the true meaning of ‘roughing it.’ Luckily, my ordeal was forgotten as I fell asleep on the bunk beds.

In the morning we took the gondola to the mountain viewpoint Schilthorn. It was a magnificent panoramic experience with an elevation of more than 9,000 feet or 2970 m. From every direction there was a vast span of icy imposing mountains, some with jagged peaks reaching a painfully bright sky. However, with the zero degree weather and cold wind, we decided to go into the warmth of the rotating restaurant, the Piz Gloria, the set of the James Bond film On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, where I enjoyed yet another bowl of soup and a cup of hot coco, while watching the viewpoints of Schilthorn from 360 degrees. I felt I could stay in Switzerland forever; the mountains are so mesmerizing and so vastly different than anywhere else on earth.

It is amazing how the Schilthorn, a viewpoint with an amazing restaurant, was started, an crazy idea from one man, to be able to see so much from one vantage point: the Titlis, Jungfrau, Mönch, Eiger, the Bernese Alps and the Jura mountains, the Vosges Mountains, the Black Forest and Mont Blanc. In fact, one can see over 200 summits from the Schilthorn! The hike up to Schilthorn to Gimmelwald, is also one of the most dangerous, its five hours long and half is on a trail on a steep incline through ice and snow. We decided not to risk having to be rescued by the locals and instead hiked three and a half hours from Brig to Gimmelwald. The jagged peaks of the Swiss Alps, is forever etched in my mind.

Entry 9:  November 1, 2010
 
Experiential Learning and a Halloween Festa
 
Thirty metal desks in rows, teachers yelling, the cool kids sitting in the back, the teacher’s pet and the nerds in the front; yes, I was back in high school again. Only, this time I wasn’t facing my own nightmarish years in high school as the lanky girl with braces nicknamed ‘Pasty’ by the upperclassmen; luckily, those days were over. Today in class, for the first time in high school history, I got to play the attractive, interesting, foreign teaching assistant. For my Italy Today class we had to leave the comfort of our luxurious, private all girls’ college to complete a service learning project in the dismal world of public school. I volunteered for the scientific high school, and my duties included assisting four English classes with English pronunciation, and teaching American culture. Surprisingly, the experience has been extremely enjoyable and educational; the students are bright and interested in learning.
 
The first Monday I went to the school to volunteer, I immediately noticed the foreign feel of the place; my teacher, in the Italian fashion, arrived late to meet with me, after most of the students had already arrived. In the US, teachers typically arrive 45 minutes before the start of school in order to review lesson plans. The Italian school also started at the blessed hour 8:05, later than my US high school, where for four years I had to be in my class by 7:20 or the teacher would have a heart attack. My teacher also offered me coffee, not a scalding American Styrofoam cup of dark liquid from a coffee pot, but a cappuccino from a vending machine. Doubting the legitimacy of any hot liquid which is made by a machine, I hesitantly assented. The teacher then withdrew from the machine a delicious light coffee with a foamy milk topping. Needless to say, human hands and American coffee are vastly overrated. Next my teacher, Mrs. Cimbolini, and I walked to our classroom, a plain room with a large chalkboard and many metal desks. We then proceeded to wait patiently for the next ten minutes, after the bell had already rung, for the class to arrive. Many of the students were late because they took a train to school from a neighboring town, and, of course, trains run on Italian time. The teacher did not seem agitated or threatening, as the students casually waltzed in late, not creeping in eyes downcast and shamed, but talking and taking their time finding their seats. For Italians this was very normal, everyday behavior.
 
When the whole class arrived, I noticed there was a huge lack in diversity among the school population, my public school at home had Mexican, and African American students, and Caucasian from the dirt poor to the 16 year old new Mercedes drivers. Most of the kids here walked, whereas most of the students from my high school drove their own cars. In fact there is an unsettling amount of uniformity in the Italian school; all the students were Italian middle class, had brown hair and very similar features and wore varying shades of black, carrying shoulder bags. However, in North Carolina there exists a busing system paid for by the government to bring a range of kids from different regions and classes, but no system resembling this exists in Italy. Italian schools also have poor government funding and this school was underfunded, lacking many of the technologies I had in my high school.
 
The teacher then introduced me to her class and told the students I would speak about American Culture. I then proceeded to speak to the class in my most professional and clear voice, talking about my family and showing pictures from my laptop of my hobbies. At first I doubted the students’ comprehension of my English, but I was surprised to learn that even my first year students were extremely fluent. The students asked questions somewhat timidly, but with a beautiful British accent. As for teaching them about American culture, I felt a little bit ashamed because they knew more American bands, movies and TV shows than I did. In my high school years I was only required to take two years of Spanish, which most kids promptly forgot. After talking for three classes about Italian culture, my other teacher Mrs. Selvia led me to the teachers' lounge for an hour break and I munched on a pack of cookies from the heavenly vending machine, and stared into space, and examined the comforting Cross nailed to the wall in the lounge. I had completely forgotten how exhausting teaching can be, standing up on ones feet for hours trying to speak loudly, and maintaining enough animation for kids to be interested, while trying not to slip into a southern drawl. I managed with some success, although I did say y’all several times during my presentation. After my break I taught one more hour long class, and soon after, all of my new pupils were saying “bye bye” to me; school ends at one o’clock in Italy. However, they attend school six days a week. Overall, I think I learned more about the Italian education system, than the Italians learned about America that day.
 
Since that day, I have worked at the school one other time and have learned even more about Italian education, an extremely fascinating subject. For instance, Catholic religious education in Italy is voluntary; meaning parents must bring in a signed form in order to exempt a student from the class. Also the school pays for a set number of substitute teachers and hires them for three weeks at a time, instead of having the teacher pay out of pocket for a substitute. The trouble finding and hiring substitutes creates a problem in school schedules. Oftentimes classes and class times aren’t fixed until more than a month or two after the start of school. Under the school system polices, it is also almost impossible for a teacher to be fired; a teacher may not even be fired for having an affair with a student! However, my experience in the schools has been that many teachers may arrive late to their classes, but they have a real passion for teaching students.
 
This past week, in addition to teaching, we had a Halloween party for children in the palazzo. We accidently invited too many kids, though, and a hundred showed up to the event. We decorated the palazzo lavishly in orange and black for the occasion, strung up black paper bats, and baked sugar cookies for the kids to decorate. It was nice to see so many children have such a wonderful time because I really missed celebrating Halloween in America, and it was hilarious to watch our Italy Today professor’s husband disco dance to Michael Jackson in the middle of our dining room! Italians are wild dancers, and Italian men especially seem to have a form of Peter Panism; they think they are young at any age.

Entry 8: October 25, 2010

Bus Tour across Val D’orcia

Ten girls plus three professors, one Meredith alumna and one bus driving DJ, equals one amazing bus tour across the Tuscan countryside of Val D’orcia. The most scenic excursion to date, Val D’orcia is a multifaceted region of grey-green Mediterranean hillsides, olive trees, and red vineyards, a diamond just recently recovered from the devastation of WWII to sparkle. Our trip started Friday morning, where our first stop was in La Foce, to visit the home of Iris Origo, an English-Italian aristocrat during WWII who rescued and sheltered hundreds of POWs and refugee children on her 7,000 acre farmstead. The expansive, rustic villa was incredibly peaceful as we greeted three exuberant white fluffy dogs, sunny brown-green fertile hills and bountiful gardens bursting with ripe lemons and pomegranates. There was no trace of the war which devastated the land just 60 years ago except for the markers of the family cemetery. We strolled in the warmth of the sun’s rays down the gravel path from the villa to the small tranquil cemetery endowed with yellow flowers and modestly protected by stone walls. Examining the graves, I was deeply touched by the Italian habit of lovingly attaching photographs of the deceased to their tombstones, connecting the living with the dead.

Leaving the cemetery, we loaded back on to the bus and after a loud roll call in Italian from uno to dieci, our overly sheltering professors sighed with relief, and signaled for the amused bus driver to continue on to our next destination, Montepulciano. Something elementary comes over a person on a bus tour; perhaps memories of school fieldtrips caused us to revert back to first grade. On the bus there was show and tell, crying for food, scolding for being late and begging for bathroom breaks. After an hour of squirming in our seats in anticipation, and commands from the higher powers in the front of the bus to buckle up, we finally arrived in Montepulciano, a town known for its hand rolled pici pasta, honey, and wine. In Montepulciano, we predictably stopped in the tourist office for free maps, but atypically the maps were not immediately rejected and shoved to the bottom of our bags; we scrutinized them with care, searching for the exact location of the filming of Twilight: New Moon. Leaving the tourist office, and assuring our professors of our pure, unadulterated academic intent to visit the art museum, we immediately started speed walking toward the center of town to take pictures where Twilight was filmed. Trying not to look like love struck teens, we giggled in elation, at the first sight of a black “Twilight in Montepulciano” t-shirt hanging outside a tourist shop. No longer able to maintain our façade as serious students, we started running up the cobbled streets toward the famous piazza, while the locals gawked and shook their heads at the sight of ten tourists, running uphill, panting with their hair flying. One woman called out to us in a thick Italian accent “Twilight?” probably thinking there goes another group of crazy American girls. The Piazza Grande was only mildly entertaining but consisted of a few beautiful, antique buildings such as the Palazzo Communale, a grand renaissance building complete with a clock tower, and a site filmed in Twilight. For a half hour we rapidly snapped photos of smiles and our feet, standing, of course, in places where the star Robert Pattinson walked. Gradually our enthusiasm dissipated into satisfaction and we then proceed to a gelateria for handsome scoops of chocolate and chestnut ice cream. It is unfortunate to say that we did not make the journey to the art museum that day, but we did visit a homely old church complete with old leather bound hymnal books translated in both Latin and English. It is surprising the great variety in churches in Italy; they range from museum-like duomos with gigantic frescoes and gilded walls to worn buildings bereft of detail except candles. The simplest churches have the most character, and are more often used than grander churches, perhaps because people feel more comfortable praying when they aren’t being stared at by the stern stone faces of canonized popes.

After a total of only two hours in Montepulciano, it was time to leave for our hotel for the night in the Sant’Anna monastery. Arriving in white washed halls of the monastery, the lack of heat was palpable in our minimally furnished rooms, but the beds were thankfully layered in thick wool blankets, and the view from my window overlooked a cheerful green courtyard. Dinner was served at eight and we sat down to a four course meal of fungi pasta, and braised beef. During the meal John Rose convinced our dinner partners, a large Italian family, to have a singing contest with us. I stared down at my plate as we were coerced to sing Doe a Deer from The Sound of Music, to the surprise of the Italian family, who immediately clapped and then crooned an unfamiliar song in Italian. The evening ended with each of us proudly belting our patriotic anthems, and as I curled under my many blankets that night “God Save the Queen” was permanently etched into my brain. Luckily, relief was found in the morning over a warm croissant, cherry jelly and hot chocolate, and a tranquil bus ride with monk chanting music on the way to visit the church of Saint Antino.

Upon first seeing the church of Saint Antino, it appeared to be a looming gray castle straight from the legend of King Arthur. However, with further inspection I noticed a white robed monk entering into the building, and classical music resounding from the church’s interior. The most enjoyable aspect of the church though was its heavenly surroundings nestled in a valley of Italian cypress trees inhabited by chirping songbirds and Tuscan hills turned red and gold under the autumn sun.

The last stop on our Val D’orcia excursion was in the city of Siena, where the famous Palio di Siena takes place, a wild bareback horse race in the center of the city, in the Piazza del Campo. The race began in medieval times when the city used to be divided into seventeen different contrade, battalions that were used to protect the city, competed against each other for a trophy, a banner of the Virgin Mary. Today the race is still extremely dangerous and corrupt, riders race twice a year for 90 seconds on a small makeshift sand track, and bribery is common. The contrade bear interesting Italian names that translate as Eagle, Caterpillar, Unicorn, She-Wolf, Tower and Forest; I purchase an intricate flag listing all their names and symbols. Although I wasn’t able to visit Siena during the races, I hope one day I might see the Palio. Overall, the excursion to Val D’orcia was peaceful and relaxing, the perfect conclusion to a week of endless amounts of homework.

Entry 7: October 17, 2010

Hot Chocolate Ravoli and Cold Weather

Sitting here shivering, wearing multiple layers of t-shirts, a hoodie, a fluffy pink bathrobe and cocooned in a pile of blankets, listening to cold rain hit the terra cotta roof of the palazzo, it’s fair to say autumn has finally arrived in Sansepolcro. My feet now never face the world naked; they travel straight from the bed when I wake up in the morning, into the soft blue slippers, and later into socks and boots. Our shivering condition though, is rarely sympathized with by our palazzo guardians, who assure us that frozen fingers make for character building and that the heat can’t possibly be turned on until late November. These same guardians, or glorified professors, would also have us take cold showers and put on damp clothes from the washer, to save on energy bills, while they nestle in their warm apartment a floor below us.

However, cold weather makes for an excellent excuse to drink Italian hot chocolate, a delicacy completely distinct and unrecognizable from its milky and watered down American counterparts. Italian hot chocolate is a dish unto itself, a thick chocolate pool, reminiscent of the chocolate river in the classic Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Almost a pudding, Italian hot chocolate, is best enjoyed slowly with a small ice cream sample size spoon to avoid the risk of chocolate overload; its potency is equal to that of drinking a melted Hershey’s chocolate bar. Currently, there are thirty-two varieties of Italian hot chocolate offered in Sansepolcro, ranging from liquor favored, to white chocolate fruit of the woods, to mint chocolate and chocolate coconut. However, I prefer the mandorla hot chocolate, a hot chocolate with a heavy amaretto presence, topped with a generous serving of whipped cream. Nevertheless, it is not enough to simply enjoy a cup of hot chocolate here in Sansepolcro; Perugia is the ultimate place for chocolate lovers worldwide. It sponsors the most mouth watering chocolates from around the globe and draws as many as 90,000 people in a day to visit its renowned chocolate festival. Luckily, my fellow ragazze and I were able to make the pilgrimage to the chocolate holy land this Saturday and experience this rare event.

The trip to Perugia started out, accidentally, with chocolate. Having to wake at the dangerous hour of 7 am, I quickly hurried out of the door of the palazzo into the gray cold of the local train station. Arriving with ten minutes to spare, I managed swiftly to grab a bottle of blood orange juice and a croissant. Hopping onto the train, and biting into my croissant, I tasted an unexpected chocolate interior, thus starting my chocolate adventure early. After a two hour train ride, I entered into chocolate heaven, a world of hundreds of chocolate stands from around the world, with hot chocolate stirring in large golden mixers, a large purple Milka Ferris wheel and the scent of coco and fried sausages permeating the air. This delicious dream world much resembled a more sophisticated NC State Fair, a fair teeming with skinny European chain smokers and lacking the presence of gigantic turkeys and grilled corn. However, the dream world was quickly interrupted as we were herded down the streets by Dr. Webb, once again following John Rose’s flamboyant blue giraffe bag, weaving through the crowds, and drooling over the chocolates in the stands as we walked to the tourist office to receive a free map of the city which almost certainly wouldn’t be used. After receiving my free map, my friends and I decided to purchase a choco card for five euro, which would allow us discounts and free samples of hot chocolate, generous sized chocolate bars, and chocolate liquor from specific vendors. Our first stop was to a chocolate kebab place, and for 3 euro we received a delicious warm pancake wrap filled with rich milk chocolate and sweet cream chocolate shavings that left my throat feeling quite dry.

After this experience, something to drink was needed, so we braved the crowds to receive our free hot chocolate from the Ciobar stand. No line exists at the free samples stands, where the choco card is active; something primitive comes over a person in the fight for free samples, and pushing, shoving and even growling is common in the fight to claim the most minuscule truffle, or in our case a cup of hot chocolate. Having braved the crowds for hot coco, I was exhausted from the brawl for free samples, so we decided to buy chocolate gifts to bring home from Italy to friends and family. There is such a diversity of treats to choose from, and if you aren’t decisive by nature, you could spend hours deciding what to buy. In the chocolate stands you can buy chocolate in bulk, for about 4.50 euro per 100 g in a white, dark, milk, or crème chocolate and with or without nuts. For relatives, there are fancy chocolate bars in gold wrappings, topped daintily with freeze dried bananas, coconut shavings, strawberries, or rose petals. For the sports fanatic, you can purchase a large chocolate soccer ball, or for the gardener, a bright pink handled chocolate trowel. If you prefer an assortment of flavors, buy the truffles; they come deliciously filled with liquors, cherries, or crème.

After being overwhelmed by so many choices and wandering from stand to stand for three hours, I finally settled on a bag of chocolate linguini for my grandma and several different flavors of chocolate bars for my friends. Tired from all the chocolate, we had a lunch of fried sausage stuffed with grilled onion and ketchup in a bun, overlooking the beautiful view of the city of Perugia below. Listening to music with chocolate lyrics while watching the festival, it’s hard to believe that chocolate wasn’t born in the chocolate city of Perugia; it began with the Mayans. In the chocolate festival, there was an exhibit of Mexican chocolates and cacao pods, showing how chocolate came about. The Aztecs and Mayans were the first humans to start eating chocolate and used it as a medicine to cure illnesses. They made chocolate by grinding cacao seeds and adding water, chilies, and spices to make a bitter drink. Cacao was also very important in religious rites, and often the Mayans would use cacao seeds as offerings the gods. According to Mayan legends, creation started with a cacao tree, and they would grow many of these trees in cacao plantations, in 600 AD. The Aztecs used cacao as a currency due to their immense value; for instance you could buy a rabbit for thirty cacao beans. Christopher Columbus was the first European to discover the cacao bean, accidentally thought it was a kind of almond, and brought it to Spain. The real discoverer of chocolate, however, was Spanish explorer Hernando Cortez, who after seeing its wide use by Emperor Montezuma in Mexico, decided to present it to the King Charles V of Spain, who then secretly began growing many cacao plantations in Spanish colonies. Sugar and vanillas were then added to chocolate in Spain, and in London, in 1657, the first chocolate house opened, and chocolate was known as an expensive drink for the wealthy. Around 1847, the British company Fry and Sons started selling the first chocolate bar, but the milk chocolate bar was invented by the Swiss man Daniel Peter, who brought his ideas to Nestle, today’s biggest chocolate maker.

Italy does have the lead on one thing though; it hosts one of the largest chocolate festivals in the world. Coming back on the train, having eaten two chocolate bars, chocolate ravioli, hot chocolate and three chocolate truffles, I had experienced one of the most delicious days of my life.

Entry 6: October 12, 2010

PDA, a Discotecca and Saint Francis

The past weeks have been a world wind of exploration, all educational, of course. The trip seems to be passing away so quickly. One friend I skyped this week told me I only had 55 days left in Italy. Fifty-five days really puts into perspective how short the time I have left to experience Italy, and the need to truly savor it. Time really is of the essence here and one thing I have really learned is to spend my time doing things I enjoy. I also feel the pinch of time even more sharply, since the passing of my twentieth birthday. I am the same age as Doctor Banker when she got married, except my destiny is leading me more towards dying alone with 20. However, the Bankers’ story is sweet; they were married when Mrs. Maureen Banker was a sophomore and when Mr. Banker was a senior in college, and they have now been together for 50 years.

It is interesting the difference in the Italian perspective on love and the American one. Italians are much less conservative in their love and enjoy displaying it on the streets, on park benches, and alleyway corners. They may even hold up traffic in the middle of the train station to share a kiss. Americans believe affection is most appropriately given in private. Italian zealous affection is also evident in the way Italians greet each other, with one loud smack starting on the right cheek and also on the left. I have only experienced this kind of greeting once and it is can be quite startling when a 40 year old is unexpectedly leaning in to kiss your cheek. I much prefer the good old American hug, typically followed with a pat on the back. I remember attempting to give my riding instructor a goodbye, I reached out to give her a friendly hug and she leaned to kiss my cheek. Halfway through, we stopped awkwardly, looked at each other in confusion and ended with a rather uncomfortable wave goodbye. Another different cultural difference between Americans and Italians is that Italians tend to describe everything as beautiful. They truly appreciate beauty, and in particular, beautiful women. When an Italian man sees a beautiful woman, without hesitation or doubt, he will let her know. He waltzes up with confidence to her, unlike typical American men who may occasionally ogle a woman, but typically with timidity and embarrassment. The Italian man then says to the object of his affection, “You are very beautiful” and then typically asks, “Are you single?” A conversation may start, an exchange of names may then take place, but then most importantly he uses his Italian charm. A true Italian man skilled in the matters of love smiles at the woman on the good bye and swoops down to kiss her hand. Somehow this small act has survived modern culture, although why it is absent in America, I don’t know. This occurrence has happened to me twice here, and I find it incredibly charming.

One such occurrence happened on my birthday last week, on the opening of the discotecca, the Scorpion, for the second weekend of the Italian school year. The club the Scorpion is very high end split storied club complete with flashing neon lights and two bars. Needless to say, I was very grateful to have borrowed Laurin Meredith’s one shouldered black top, my normal wardrobe in the palazzo consisting of a fluffy pink bathrobe, old t-shirt and slippers. Tickets to the Scorpion are quite expensive, but luckily my fellow ragazze and I were able to get free tickets as a birthday present from our favorite barista Fabrizzio. Fabrizzio, a tall bald guy in his forties, with more charm than an English man and incredible generosity, not only bestowed on us free tickets, but also blasted me with his blow horn and made the entire bar sing “Happy birthday.” Needless to say, we walked to the club from Fabrizzio’s, ears ringing, and smiling. Entering the club, I immediately felt very conscious of my foreignness, and lack of Italian elegance. Italian women on a normal day dress in heels, and nice matching pants and top, but in the club they dressed even more fashionably in runway dresses with matching jewelry. I decided to make the best of my discomfort however, and try out the dance floor; a strobe lit open area blasting with techno music and a wild DJ. If I had originally felt uncomfortable, this quickly changed as I watched the Italians dance; their elegance quickly turned humorous as I watched them move their fists up and down to the beat and wildly wave their arms. Italian dance moves consist of fist bumping and arm waving, a nice break from American club dancing which in the politest terms can only be described as grotesque. While I was dancing in the circle of my fellow ragazze, I caught sight of a very handsome Italian guy dressed in a blue striped shirt and jeans beckoning me. Dancing, he twirled me around a few times, and whispered in my ear, “Come ti chiami?” He then attempted to have a conversation with me; however, my Italian is mediocre even in the most hearing friendly circumstances and so I eventually had to shout over the loud music, “No italiano.” He then smiled, kissed my hand, said I was bella and left. Although we left the club at two o’clock, the club was a unique experience. Overall, I think Italian men are nice, but the language barrier can be a problem. Perhaps I’ll take the advice of Saint Francis instead, take a vow of poverty and become a monk.

Since taking the Banker’s class we have studied the life of Saint Francis, who was born in the 12th century Assisi, a town about an hour and a half from Sansepolcro. Saint Francis’s father was a merchant, and Saint Francis, was a solider scheduled to be a knight. However, Francis decides one day in the town square of Assisi to relinquish his inheritance by stripping his clothes, but the town bishop covers Francis with his cloak, symbolizing the church’s protection over him. Francis then lives the apostolic life of Christ and travels the cities, preaching poverty, and begging for money that he gives to the poor. He eventually starts a monastic order, which continues to follow his teachings of devotion to the Cross and poverty. There are also several legends about Saint Francis, which tell of his preaching the gospel to animals. Interestingly, he also in the Catholic Church is the patron saint of animals. One legend even speaks of his moderating a pact between a wolf and the people of Gubbio. In this story, the wolf agrees to stop eating the town’s children in exchange for the townspeople feeding the wolf. What is most unique about the saint is that during a vision, he received the stigmata of Christ, the five wounds of Christ while praying on mountain of La Verna. Saints are a unique part of the rich catholic culture in Italy and many people in Italy will pray to saints as an intercessor for God. In general, understanding Catholicism is the key to understanding Italian culture; although it doesn’t explain why Italian men are so affectionate!

Entry 5: Venice, Sinking City of Beautiful Rats and Superior Fine Dining

Traveling in an elephant herd has its advantages; there are plenty of other elephants to interact with, and safety in numbers. However larger herds tend to move much slower than solitary animals and cover less ground. Traveling with Meredith’s family was reminiscent of traveling in a giant elephant herd; it was fun socializing and talking with family members, however six people move a lot slower than just two. But despite the constant stops in bathrooms and the running back to the hotel to retrieve lost items, Venice was spectacular.

Distinctly salty and sparkling blue, you can smell the waters of the Grand Canal before you see it. Venice is a city full of unique sights, smells and tastes, a strange blending of cool gray coastal breezes and city life. The first thing I noticed after exiting the train station to Venice was the air. The air in Venice is very complex and is composed of several layers; in the first intake of breath, the nose meets the brisk salty and slightly fishy water of the canal. In a second whiff, cigarette smoke stings the back of the throat, and the stench of alleyway trash mingles with the scents of fresh pizza. The city Venice is as oxymoronic as its air, the double sided the beautiful water can be both a hindrance in transportation and an addition to the beautiful scenery and grand ancient buildings, covered by new fashion bill boards.

I succumbed to Venice’s charms immediately, upon my first water taxi ride down its rippling, blue-gray waters. The water taxi was luxurious, furnished with a smooth dark wood, but the Cox family and I enjoyed the view the most; the six of us elbowed each other snapping blurred pictures without pause of old architecture and gondolas, laughing as saltwater sprayed our faces. Riding at 40 mph, the trip ended all too soon, and we checked into our rooms in the hotel Jolanda, a four star beauty complete with a mini bar, handsome view of the canal and a Jacuzzi. Needless to say, I was very fortunate to experience Venice at the Cox family’s expense and not on a lowly college student budget. Feeling somewhat like an aristocrat, we ate that night, after some light shopping around Saint Marc’s square, in the hotel restaurant, which opens up to the canal. We dined in true Italian style, with rolls, proscutto crudo and cheese appetizers with red wine, followed by a first course of meat lasagna and second course of chicken. Most memorable, however, was a huge banana split topped with creamy chocolate, strawberry and vanilla ice cream with whipped cream and a sparkler. After such a meal, it’s fair to say I was having the time of my life. Later that evening we walked around the square and sipped coffee under the stars, listening to an open air orchestra play Dean Martin and music from the Titanic. The following morning, we rose early to a fantastic hotel breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pound cake to take the free ride to the island of Murano to tour a glass blowing factory.

I have seen blown glass before, however the Italians make North Carolina’s bowls and plates look like an elementary school art class. The glass blowing factory featured intricate horses, complete with mane and tail, pulling a carriage infused with gold dust, a three dimensional nativity scene worthy of the Pope and renditions of Picasso’s works. We watched in wonder as a glass blower made a miniature pink and red speckled horse in less than three minutes, by blowing into a long pole holding molten red glass and using a little tool to form the extremities, ears, and legs. The glass blower informed us he must work quickly and carefully to mold the glass before the temperature drops too low and it hardens. Colored glass pieces are often created first by molding the shape of the glass and then injecting a colored powder such as topaz or emerald, while complex pieces are done in layers with several heatings and coolings. The art of glass blowing is commonly passed down through the generations, and our glass blower learned the trade from his father. Because of the level of skill required to manufacture such intricate pieces, the blown glass in the factory is extremely expensive and elevates in price with size, complexity and the vibrancy of color. One of the more expensive pieces is a horse drawn carriage for 27,000 Euros, and chandeliers for 100,000 euros. The artist also receives a commission on his larger pieces. I could understand the prices, however, considering the talent of the glass blower and the fame of the glass factory, which ships worldwide. I’m certain if I attemped to blow glass the best I could make is an amorphous blob. Luckily, downstairs from the beautiful museum quality pieces are smaller, lesser quality pieces that can be purchased for 10 Euros. Overall, the trip to the glass blowing factory was extremely enjoyable and enlightening.

My second favorite activity on the trip was the gondola ride. For such a small boat, the gondola can hold quite a large number of people, including myself, the Cox family, Matt Cox’s girlfriend Corey, and the gondolier. Loading into the gondola at 7:45 p.m., we saw the dark side of Venice; as the boat maneuvered through dimly lit alley ways we heard a collective squeaking noise which could only be attributed to rats, or as our amusing gondolier man said Mickey Mouse. We soon had the pleasure of witnessing a rat swim just past the left side of our boat, paddling with his little paws, and later we saw yet another rat to our right running alongside a building. It is not surprising that the plague rampaged through Venice, with such a large supply of rats. However, steering out of the alley ways the gondola ride was quite pleasant with stunning views of the 500 year old Rialto Bridge and the smell of fine dining in the air.

To celebrate Meredith’s birthday on our last night in Venice, we ate in a local restaurant Trattoria alla Madonna. Although, the old restaurant had a warm and welcoming atmosphere, we had to wait in line thirty minutes because of its popularity. Waiting in line was bearable, until several Italians cut their way to the front. It was very amusing to see two British people attempt to stop them, as the English are known for maintaining the utmost line manners while the Italians disregard lines together. We, as the Americans, just wanted to wait in line peacefully and we were soon rewarded with a table. On the whole, after a meal of buttered clams and pasta dishes, we had an excellent time along with the rest of the customers’ loudly singing happy birthday to Meredith. She was very embarrassed as she was forced to stand up in front of the whole restaurant when the waiter brought a chocolate cake lit with candles to the table.

It is hard to believe the whole city is built on top of wood pilings that do not rot because of a lack of oxygen when placed directly in water, but Venice has sunk three feet since it was built. However, I will always remember Venice as a relaxing place of delicious foods, extravagance and swimming rats. Someday, I want to return to Venice either with my husband or my cats, to relive the city’s charms.

Entry 4: Second Hand Smoke is Worth the Price of Friendship and A Visit to Urbino

I have been breathing in a lot of second hand smoke lately, but I prefer to think of it as a sign of friendship, as the amount of smoke you breathe in here has a direct correlation with the number of Italians you associate with. Unfortunately, living in Italy for the past month, the language barrier has prevented me from making friends with the locals. Luckily, I have finally discovered the perfect, if rather odd, place to make friends, a horse barn.

Ever since leaving the U.S., I have been missing horses and horseback riding, a large part of my life since childhood. As destiny would have it, my art history professor Dr. Maureen Banker, knew a woman named Chiara Rossi, who owned an endurance racing stable in Sansepolcro and asked if I could volunteer to help out with the horses.

Soon enough, I found myself walking up the narrow path in the afternoon sun to a barn nestled on the hillside for orientation. At the barn I met Chiara Rossi, a pleasant small statured woman with long dark hair kept sternly in a ponytail, who said that particular day she was busy teaching lessons and that Andres would show me the barn. Andres, a friendly tall stable hand, immediately asked if I would help him get horses out, but unfortunately both of us soon realized he spoke almost as little English as I spoke Italian. Luckily, with a little miming and a lot of laughter we were able to communicate enough for me to help curry and tack up the horses. He also introduced me to his fellow stable hands, two women and two men sharply dressed in tucked in polos, breeches, and tall boots. Although intimidated in my oversized grey t-shirt and old tennis shoes, I attempted to communicate in my best Italian and for my efforts received four synchronized non caspico’s. Luckily all the stable hands were very exuberant about meeting an American, and I became familiar with everyone during a beautiful, hour long trail ride up the mountain side. When we got back from the trail, the sun had set and Chiara kindly said it wasn’t safe for me to walk home in the dark and that Andres would drive me home. Although some people enjoy the blue waters of Venice or the arts of Florence, I prefer the view of the world from the back of an Arabian mare and from the wink of a stable boy. Not so pleasant however, is the smoke that plagues the barn constantly. I have no idea how these stable hands stay in such great shape and smoke more than a chimney; I watched in shock as Andres went through six cigarettes in the course of a few hours. But, it is worth the smoke finally to have Italian friends, particularly friends that love horses as much as I do.

Since working at the stable I have also had the pleasure of going on a day excursion to Urbino with our favorite charming professor couple, the Bankers. Once again my fellow ragazze and I found ourselves at 9 a.m. waiting for a bus which would take us up the hilly winding mountainside to Urbino. Unfortunately, the curves of the mountainside were too much for my sensitive stomach to handle, and I felt similar to a cat going to the veterinarian, attempting to not regurgitate onto my seat or hiss at my fellow classmates. Fortunately, two hours later my feet found firm ground and we headed safely, if a bit dizzily, through the stunningly fortified walls of Urbino. After gobbling down a quick lunch of margarita pizza and orange fanta, my fellow ragazze and I toured the famous Ducal Palace. Built over the fifteenth century, for the wealthy noble Fredericko da Montefeltro, the Ducal Palace is one of the most architecturally renowned buildings in Italy. Upon first sight of the building, one is awestruck by the detailed high relief pediment and white Corinthian columns. The courtyard boasts a peristyle and other architectural elements designed in the Florentine manner by Luciano Laurana. Although a very small room in comparison with the rest of the palace, the most interesting part of the building is the study, which features beautiful intarsia work, small flat pieces of different colored wood meticulously put together, akin to a puzzle to make a scene. In this case the scene consisted of shelves with the important books and scientific and musical instruments of the time. The palace also has a gallery of renaissance paintings, a few of which were commissioned by Piero della Francesca, but what caught my attention the most was the sheer size of the building. It is hard to imagine in the fifteenth century this place was not a vacant museum, but a small city that housed 500 people and a famous court. Italians truly have something to be proud of; the ducal palace represents the finest use of architecture in its time.

They also should be proud of the swankiest man bags I have ever seen. Never in my life had I seen a man bag gracing the shoulder of a straight man, until I ventured into the streets of Sansepolcro. Ranging in shades of rich brown to black, and a thin to thick strap, the man bag is typically worn by a particular sub species of male Italians characterized by their high maintenance wardrobe and catwalk stride. Needless, to say they provide a precious few minutes of entertainment daily and I have spent many an afternoon at the café observing this rare species!

Entry 3: Florence, Land of Madonnas and Naked Statues

Rain, Rain, Rain. My first impression of Florence was quite a wet one. My first travel break started on a Friday; after taking an intense Italian exam, I crammed T-shirts into a backpack, hopped on a bus to Arezzo, and then traveled by train to Florence. Finally, I arrived slightly sticky and exhausted with my fellow ragazze in the alien and bustling maze of the Santa Novella train station. However, rest was out of the question and we were quickly herded from the station out onto the street by our omnipresent professor Dr. Webb and her husband John Rose. It was raining, hectic and grey as we speed walked the treacherous 1.5 miles to our monastery, dodging traffic and attempting to follow John Rose’s short shorts through the crowd. Luckily that night after getting a pass for the Uffizi, I fell asleep at 10 p.m. in our monastery-hotel, under the familiar comfort of air conditioning, a crucifix nailed to the wall and mother Mary at my bedside. The following morning, rejuvenated with hot croissants, nutella and coffee I was ready to see the artistic and sunny side of Florence.

The Uffizi was first on the list of sights to see and contains some of the most renowned works of the renaissance including Filippo Lippi, Botticelli, Michelangelo, and Leonardo da Vinci. A couple months ago this museum would have caused me extreme boredom, having little knowledge of art and being a biology major. However, having gained a recent appreciation for analyzing renaissance art from my Topics in Art History class, I found the experience very absorbing. Filippo Lippi’s Madonna and Child, showed a graceful and elegant version of Mary; her face has real earthly beauty and stunning pale green eyes looking into a sweet baby Jesus. Her face is one you could see on the streets of Florence on a young woman today; when Lippi painted the Mary, he used a real muse. This seems unsurprising, but it is a modern idea for the renaissance where apprentices often copied faces from masters’ paintings, not from live models. Another classic, La Primavera, is a prime example of the museum’s scantily clad pagan paintings among the countless devout Christian works. The fairy light costumes worn by the young women of the painting are humorously similar ones worn in the medieval parade in Sansepolcro today. The painting also portrays Botticelli’s vast knowledge of color application in his use of lighter hues to draw the eye to the figures and darker hues in the wooded background. La Primavera also has great fluidity; the figures are drawn using soft, curved angles emphasizing their ethereal nature and movements. Other works I saw in the Uffizi include Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation, Caravaggio’s Medusa, and Doni Tondo by Michael Angelo. Leaving the Uffizi, I was mentally drained having just experienced the most intense concentration of renaissance paintings in the world; I was as they say in the ER, code blue and in need of some major gelato resuscitation.

Almost as interesting as all of the paintings in Florence are the tourists, the majority of whom seem to be Asian. I may have been twice their size, but these pint sized tourists were twice as deadly. They come in huge tour groups from faraway places to see large paintings of large Europeans. Scooting and wiggling their way to the front of the famous works, they crowd out the annoyed taller tourists but are pleasantly quiet. Not so pleasantly quiet, are the next largest species of tourist, the Americans. You can always tell the ignorant American by their large white tennis shoes, and loud inquiring voices hassling confused museum coordinators. One embarrassingly American woman asked in her best southern drawl of a museum personnel, “Are all those Madonnas Mary and Jesus, or are they just mothers and child?” I will give the tourists credit though; many we met were very agreeable and always willing to take a picture of our group.

The next most enlightening place I visited was the Medici Chapels where people of all nations enjoy the notoriously regal Michelangelo sculptures. On the other hand, I was fascinated by the gilded and ornate relics of the saints that ran throughout the first floor of the chapel. My friend Meredith couldn’t figure out why they held my attention, until I illuminated the fact that underneath all the gold embellishments are human remains. A piece of St. Sebastian’s skull and St. Maria’s old grayed finger was particularly intriguing, although hard carefully to examine when wrapped like chocolate eggs in an Easter basket. The scientist in me wanted to free the relics from their gilded cocoons and immediately begin carbon dating and analyzing them under proper light; however, I am sure the chapel caretakers would disapprove. The Medici chapels also have a tomb on the ground floor where important members of the clergy and friends of the Medici’s are buried.

Other places I visited were the Pitti Palace, the Borgello and the Galleria Academia, all of which contained similar and numerous assortments of renaissance works, frescos and naked statues. After visiting so many art museums in such a short amount of time, they begin appearing less and less distinct from the each other. I suppose if North Carolina had as great an art legacy as Florence, I would be more adept in appreciating the individual works in these museums. However, I do have a vivid memory of climbing the Duomo, a vigorous hike up spiraling stone stairs, but unfortunately it was not made for the vertically blessed and I hit my head several times on the short slanted ceiling. My efforts were rewarded with the spectacular view from the top and I took many excellent photos featuring the entire city of Florence and unintentionally, a French guy.

Looking back at the pictures of the Duomo, statues and the bystander, I realized I left Florence with more than an empty wallet, postcards and a leather purse; I had gained a knowledge of public transportation and a taste for renaissance paintings.

Entry 2: September 13, 2010

A Love of Paintings

Three holed, college ruled paper does not fit into a four ring binder. You can force it and rip the paper or you can cut new holes. I am my American paper right now; I don’t quite fit into Italian life yet. My life is still dictated by blue lined paper with a vertical red line, different than the gray lines of Italian paper. But I have begun to run out of my American paper, and soon I will have to assimilate to Italian school supplies.

However, assimilation can be very enjoyable in this mostly sunny, café and pasta filled town. Last Friday my fellow ragazze and I decided to go to an Irish pub, The Compass Rose, a green and cheerful polished wood place that locals go to get a beer or chicken fries. The only pub I know that serves both fries and ravioli, it’s a true melding of Irish-Italian culture and a generally fun place to hang out. That Friday, we gathered around the table and played BS, a card game of deceit. Seeing a large group of attractive and rowdy boys in the pub smiling and watching us, we invited them to play cards. Soon the language barrier became very apparent; they didn’t understand anything as my roommate Meredith attempted in English to explain the game over the commotion. Resembling puppies, the boys attempted to pile into our already crowded table, chuckling, pointing, and jabbering in Italian and disrespecting our American ideals of space. Needless to say, after a while we gave up playing cards, or watching the Italians throw them across the table, and tried to have intelligent conversation. I had a deep intimate exchange with a light brown haired boy, filled with questions such as “Where are you from?” and “What’s your name?” The rest of the conversation consisted of shrugs and smiles and about two hours later my fellow ragazze and I left the pub as town celebrities, trailed with exclamations of our beauty and thank yous.

In addition to meeting Italians in Italy, we have also met people of many nationalities, a very surprising fact for a small town absent on most major maps. Over the past two weeks I have met several Britons and Australians of a variety of ages in the café across from our palazzo. In this environment, it’s easy to start a conversation with English speaking strangers; our shared foreignness and struggles with the language unite us in bonds that could only occur here. One Australian man we met was a world traveler; he was ten months into a year long travel break across Europe. I wonder if it is a strange idea to these small town Italians to take a year off work to travel? The most difficult aspect of world travel for Sansepolcrons would probably be leaving their families, rather than work. The majority of people I have met in Sansepolcro were born here, and often children will live with their families up to age 30 because the cost of housing is so expensive.

Some distance from Sansepolcro there is a larger city and the capital of Tuscany, Arezzo. Arezzo is almost as visually pleasing as Sansepolcro, complete with its own terra cotta and stucco maze of palazzos and ancient churches, but on certain weekends has people in the thousands pouring out of every street corner. Last Sunday, a few classmates and I visited Arezzo for the famous antique fair. A lavish version of the Raleigh flea market, you can find antique fans for 600 euro, paintings of the Virgin Mary, prints of old Italy, gold brooches, dark African carvings and vintage purses. Although most of the goods were costly, prices ranged from 5 euro rings to 1000 euro sculptures and there were several food vendors dispersed amid the expanse of the fair. Wondering around the market with my staple phrases of “Quanta costa?” and “toppo” (too high), I purchased a gold and sterling silver, amber 1930s ring for only 25 euro. Overall, the antique fair in Arezzo showed the bourgeoisie side of Italy I had yet to see.

Currently, the favorite place I have visited in Sansepolcro is the Museo Civco, a church converted into an art museum featuring furniture, locks, ceremonial priest robes and some of the most famous paintings in the world by Piero della Francesca. Renaissance paintings fill the solid stone walls of the museum, trapping painted figures in time, and recounting a history of Roman Catholicism and biblical interpretation. While in the museum, I had the pleasure of seeing the gold drenched wood panel Polyptych of the Misericordia which shows the emphasis on gold in the early Renaissance. Looking at the painting, my eyes were drawn to the large Madonna serenely standing in the center. The lifelike ordinary men and women of the painting crowd under her vast blue cloak, seeking shelter and protection. Seeing the picture, I too wanted to be under the soft cloak of mother Mary and find peace from the stresses of everyday living. During the time the painting was completed, many people suffering from the Black Death prayed for her protection and healing from the wrath of God. The Resurrection by Piero della Francesca is an even more powerful fresco; In it Christ rises victorious from the tomb, gripping the red and white flag of Christianity. When you focus on the left side of the picture, you see Christ the conqueror of death suggested by the dead foliage in the background and the flag. If you view solely the right side of the picture, you will see Christ the judge, seated and richly draped in robes. I prefer the conquering Christ in all his glory; under his gaze I feel secure and empowered. The symbolism of the fresco is astounding and no doubt has inspired devotion and worship by numerous people for centuries. On the whole, for such a small museum, the experience was grand. I hope to visit several more museums when we visit Florence, although I doubt if any painting will be as impressive as the Resurrection.

Entry 1: September 14, 2010

Oh the Sights and Smells of Italy
Listening to the many ‘ciaos’ and ‘Buongiornos’ drifting in through the open windows of the Palazzo Alberti, I can hardly believe that only a week ago, I heard Italian for the first time on the plane ride to Rome. Italy is a unique blend of stereotypes and reality; there is plenty of delicious pizza and pasta to eat, but a keen eye can also find kabobs, peanut butter and French fries.

Life in Sansepolcro is best under the giant umbrellas of the cafés with a cappuccino in hand. In the shade of the café, massive amounts of required reading can seem almost pleasant when punctuated with interesting passersby. I enjoy watching the locals move slowly and nonchalantly down the lively cobbled street, stopping briefly to greet familiar faces with an almost North Carolinian charm. They interact closely in groups throughout the day, smiling, waving hands, cooing at babies, and walking dogs. But when Italians stop to talk to each other their faces are inches apart, resembling a football huddle before a game. Intimate friends will kiss each other on both cheeks; I have witnessed our disgruntled male professor endure two loud smooches on each cheek from an old male friend.

The people I have met in Sansepolcro are very down to earth, warm and hard working, though many of the shop owners seem to be struggling economically. My Italian friend Sara is a very intelligent, blue eyed 23 year old, but the only job she has been able to find is working long hours in the gelateria. The café which I love so much has an equally charming owner who works hard though afternoons and Sundays, trying to make enough money on the inexpensive cappuccinos he serves daily. The closer I grow to the Sansepolcrans, the more I feel a sense of responsibility to buy their goods to support the shops. I wish I could afford to buy everything in the small butchery down the street because the owner and his wife are the most welcoming people I have ever met. I love practicing my Spanish with the owner’s wife, a very sweet Chilean woman. The first time we met, she asked me if I would take a picture of us. Overall, it is surprising how generous the Sansepolcrans are (I once received a free slice of pizza from a pizzeria) considering my meager Italian and the economy.

Not only are the locals charming, but so is the town. Sansepolcro is a beautiful town, a picture of gorgeous pale stucco, terra cotta and tile architecture. Modern supermarkets and stop lights are built next to the sturdy roman town walls built in 1500 and ancient cathedrals, melding present and the past. The Palazzo Alberti itself is an historical landmark dating back to the 16th century, though easily forgotten with the modernized bathrooms.

The main street is always buzzing with sound until about midnight each night, and on weekends. I tolerate the stagnant air of closed palazzo windows, rather than hear yelling and laughter from the bar below at 3 a.m. in the morning. The town is most peaceful between the hours of 1 to 4 p.m., when most shops are closed. I am unsure what Italians do during this time, but I take a siesta. I have been shopping several times in Sansepolcro; however goods here are generally expensive. Most shops seem to sell nice leather boots, capri pants and lingerie. American brands plague the store shelves; colorful Ralph Lauren polos and Tommy Hilfiger cardigans can be purchased for a boggling 80 euros. In general, I prefer to spend most of my money in the many and delicious gelaterias in town.

Even though I’ve only been here a week, Sansepolcro has already become a second home to me. I am so blessed to be here and cannot wait to see more of beautiful Italy.