Sciopero!

As I approached my school this morning, something was different in the air.  There were more people going every direction, more traffic, and overall there seemed to be something more confusing than usual.  No one had backpacks.  Everyone seemed to be converging into a large crown in front of the school, halfway to see what was going on and halfway to stake out a place to make a stand it felt like.  Then, as I got the front of the school, I realized what there was so much energy in the air—it was a strike.

Today, as I found out, was an international day of protest—or so the strikers told me.  Apparently it’s very common for Italian students to go on strike for various reasons.  Most recently this strike was the protest the educational reforms that the Berlusconi government had passed just prior to his resignation.  I still don’t quite understand why those “reforms” were so negative and would cause students to go on strike, but they must have been controversial because even some of my teachers were participating.  My history teacher spotted me, and we had a brief conversation that ended with my homework being researching the history of Italian student protests.  Just my luck, I didn’t even go to school and I managed to get homework.  I’m still trying to figure that one out. 

So research I did and this is what I’ve found out so far.  After speaking to some of my classmates, I discovered that last year students striked for a solid week across Italy.  As for the reasons, it had to do with college tuition being raised.  I’m used to universities protesting—although I’ve never seen it as unified across the country like here.  American Universities seem to be more independent and protest how and when independently for the most part.  Here, there must be some massive communications because, without fail, every school (at least in Carpi) successfully striked. 

But this is the first time a protest over education has affected me, because my high school never protested anything.  The only time students ditched school en masse was for Senior ditch day, and even that in recent years had seen less and less participants because of punishments from my school.

But in Italy, protesting is so common that the schools are for the most part very casual about them.  There’s even a special box you mark the next day to clear your absence; “strike” is right under “sick” and “traffic”

Maybe it’s because I’m the son of two teachers, maybe it’s because I didn’t understand what the Italian word for strike was, or maybe it was because I didn’t want to look dumb being the only person with a backpack on in the crown—but I went to school.  I was one of four students in my class of twenty-two, so the teacher opened the lesson up to discussion about anything rather than following the lesson plan.  I learned from talking that Italy’s government has just changed recently, and my teacher predicts that striking will become much more common and for longer durations.

Maybe next time I’ll remember to bring a camera.

Expressions of a City Artist

You don’t need to go to Rome to see modern Italian art.  You can just look behind the industrial zone by the dumpsters.

Here in Italy, one of the things that fascinates me in the graffiti.  Back in Los Angeles there was plenty of it, virtually everywhere, but most of it was illegible or just ugly.  But here in Italy, even the graffiti is artistic.  Sometimes I think that as a people, Italians are generally more artistic than most and creative enough to use every medium available to them, including street graffiti.  Granted there are dozens of art galleries and museums, but this kind of art fascinated me.  So I’ve taken the time to go around my city and get pictures of my favorite graffiti.

You can find graffiti in all the usual places—abandoned buildings, dumpsters, etc.  But I have never seen graffiti on something historical.  You’d think that a massive, unguarded castle or church would become a sough-after target for graffiti artists aiming to get the most dangerous tag.  In Los Angeles it’s a contest of places, where can you tag rather than what.  But here in Italy, more emphasis is placed on what the message is.  The place doesn’t matter, people would still come to see the Mona Lisa if it was painted behind a dumpster.  And there seems to be an unspoken rule that you do not tag over someone else’s art.  It could be that because these churches and ancient buildings are so beautiful too, it’s taboo to graffiti them.

Graffiti is also found in several strange locations.  For one, it’s prolific inside schools.  Of course, there’s the basic scratching of names into desks—that’s pretty normal wherever you live.  But there are huge works on the walls indoors, and inside classrooms and in the main office.  And some of it looks pretty nice; one of the newer works we found last week was of a man waving a flag with the word “Pace” (peace).  I’ve actually caught teachers stopping to observe or admire the new work once or twice.  At my old school, graffiti was completely unacceptable and resulted in suspension or expulsion immediately; the school made finding the tagger and cleaning the graffiti a primary goal.  Maybe a tag would last for 6 hours, or a day at the max.  But here, I’ve seen no attempt to catch the graffiti artists and no efforts at all have been made to clean up the school.

But “clean up” is a bad word.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a firm believer that graffiti is ugly and I don’t like how it forces people to view it by being tagged on such prominent buildings.  But Italian graffiti is different, it’s a better expression and it’s placed out of the way—hidden, you could say, almost like a treasure.

Carpi isn’t a very large city, so I’m curious to see when I visit the major Italian cities how much of an issue graffiti is, and if it’s any different.

The freedom to speak and think

 

You and I are a single person: you and I create a heart that flies

 

Yours for always

Some Pictures Are Worth More than 1,000 Words: Fall Photography

One of my passions is photography.  As beautiful as music can be, or clever something can be written, I’ve always found that pictures provoke stronger emotions and speak infinitely-more in depth stories.  Because my story is a year long, I couldn’t possibly explain all the adventures I took part in without sitting you down and making you read for a solid year—and even then, my descriptions wouldn’t do justice what I saw and experienced.  That’s why, for this blog entry, I’d like to write about the beauty of an Italian Autumn

–but let my pictures speak for themselves.

Starting to get cold…

I knew that Italy’s 9 hours ahead of LA, but this is ridiculous.  It’s Christmas here.

The thing about being born and raised in Southern California that you have to understand is that we only have two seasons, Summer and whatever you call that thing between September and June.  It just doesn’t get cold here.

But there’s one week out of the year when it gets a little chilly sometimes, and that week is always during Christmas.  And while most normal people would associate snow with Christmas, I only have that slight drop in temperature.

Guess what I found out?  Northern Italy is a little colder than Southern California.  And right now the weather’s hit that perfect point, the “Christmas zone” for me.  So for me, everyday feels like Christmas.  I’ve caught myself humming Christmas songs, and thinking “this would make a good present” when walking by stores. 

And although I do love Christmas, October is my favorite time of the year with the changing colors of the leaves and the rain.  So I’m getting the best of both worlds right now; my favorite season and my favorite holiday.  And when I heard from my friend it might snow next Friday, I freaked out.  I’ve never seen snow in Los Angeles.  As a general rule you need to visit the mountains for snow—or not live in Southern California.  Don’t get me wrong, snow in the mountains is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen—but I want to see a city completely transformed by the wonder of snow.  I want my home, school, parks and roads to look completely different.  For me, snow is a welcome guest that makes everything seen pristine and renewed, as if the whole winter world was frozen in deep sleep under a blanket of snow.

But at the same time, the temperature change is preventing me from my normally active lifestyle.  I cannot go outside and do the activities I used to do without bulky jackets, gloves and scaves.  I’ve found that taking walks at night prove near impossible without doubling my weight in clothing.  And if I plan on “going out” with friends, it usually means “staying in”.  I’ll admit it, I do miss the warm temperatures the sun gave me everyday, but every change has a positive change as well.  Sleeping in has never felt so good in a warm bed, and I’ve never appreciated hot pastas and soups like I have now.  Not to mention this is a chance to drink hot chocolate everyday, could be worse.  But most of all, there’s something very relaxing about walking in the park and seeing my breathe rise from the heat in front of me.  It reminds me I’m still alive, and what an adventurous life I’m living with this program.

Above most things, I’ve learned that there here nothing is ever “worse”—only different.  Weather is the most obvious difference, but the dropping temperatures made me think about the different lives these different people live, and how strange I must seem to them.  When I find some strange thing, I have to remember that I’m the different one, this is normal to most people here.  It’s very humbling and it makes you think…until you get distracted again by a snowflake or the falling leaves, like I am now.

You Can Run Away From Some Problems

My friend Federico and I run long distance together

It’s cold.  I’m seven miles away from home here in Italy, and I don’t recognize anything around me.  I don’t have a phone, or any food.  Believe it or not, this is a happy moment for me—I just hit the half-way point of my week’s running goals; today I wanted to run 14 miles straight.

I’m not much of a runner.  During the year I would run 5 miles a week, if I had the time.  But here in Italy I’ve been running more and more.  Today I just broke my personal record, and next week I’m trying for 17 miles.

Running feels great, I have more energy and I can space out and relax when I run.  And I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful view when I run in the Italian countryside; I’m surrounded by farms and vineyards and I can see the mountains in the distance.  Even the air is sweeter to breathe when I’m out here.  The only word I can use to describe the feeling I get from running here is serenity.  I grew up with ten-story buildings straddling every street corner in Los Angeles; the city tried its very best to hide the horizon with steel and neon lights.

But here, when I run, I feel a sort of comforting isolation—where I am, there aren’t any big cities, no buildings to mask my view of the clouds and the sunset.  I can run forever into the countryside without being stopped.  Running gives me a sense of accomplishment.

That being said, I’m training for a marathon.  The most I’ve ever run is a 5K before, but I’m trying to break boundaries while I’m here in Italy.  There’s a marathon in Firenze, my favorite city in the world.  I can join thousands of Italians run up and down the cobblestone streets of my favorite place in the world, and finish an incredible accomplishment for me in Italy of all places.  For me that would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, one that I would regret for years if I missed.

Oh, did I mention it’s November 27?

Participating in the Maratona di Roma in the spring would be much more realistic.  It would give me plenty of time to train and prepare.  But for the Firenze marathon, being ready to run 26 miles in 45 days is another altogether.  My gut reaction and my mind tell me to skip it, that I won’t be ready.  But I’ll feel awful if I don’t try.  I have until November 16 to register, so I’m going to see how I do between now and then, push my limits and see if this is possible.  I’m getting excited just thinking about it.  But at the same time I’m terrified a little; I read all about runners “hitting the wall” and collapsing from exhaustion, and I worry if I can do this.  Mentally?  I could run a half-dozen marathons if I get to spend the day in Firenze.  But Physically?  These upcoming weeks could be a good indicator on whether I can do this or not.  But it’s getting extremely hard; one thing I did not count on was the weather.  In Los Angeles I could run all year round in shorts, but here it get’s below freezing on a regular basis and I have to work with both fog and snow.  It’ll be difficult to adapt, but not impossible.

It feels so good to create goals I had never even considered.  Italy’s changing me.

My Family

Let me start by saying this entry was very difficult to write about.

I can write about foreign food, or points of interest, or things to do.  But people are difficult to write about because they’re so dynamic.  Simply put, I can’t do my family justice with 1,000 words.  They are so much more than that.  But I’m going to try.

Although some programs have students living on their own or with other students (especially university programs), high school programs differ by having a “host family” adopt you into their home for a year.  Personally I think this system is better because you observe and experience more culture; for me I’m growing up a little as an Italian.  For me staying with an Italian family was an extremely important part of studying abroad, which was why it was so crucial that I went during high school rather than college.

So, the basics: I have a host mom, Patrizia, a host sister Erika, and a host brother, Vince.

My Host mom, she’s very caring

My host mom is incredibly caring.  She constantly checks to make sure I’m feeling alright, and she’s always doing little favors for me like doing my laundry without telling me.  Italian mothers tend to REALLY take care of their children, to the point that I feel guilty about doing my own laundry sometimes.  And it’s not uncommon for Italians to live very close to their family.  Sometimes, you’ll have three generations of Italians living in the same part of town.  In Southern Italy, it’s common for the whole family (grandparents, parents, children, extended family) to all live in the same home.  Especially in the countryside, where Italian houses are much larger than apartments in the city.  She doesn’t speak much English except for a few words she remembers here and there from elementary school, and I taught her “washing machine” and “chicken”.  You know, important words.  But I can honestly say she’s been the biggest influence on my improving Italian because we talk everyday at meals, and conversations force me to think on my feet.  One of my favorite conversations with my host mom?  The entire plot of Inception, since I can barely explain it in English.

My host sister Erika on her recent trip to Paris

On to Erika. This is embarrassing, but I didn’t know I had a host-sister for a week.  Erika works three jobs and goes to a psych university in Parma, so for awhile I didn’t see her at all.  She’s the most hard-working person I’ve ever met, and if stress management was an Olympic sport Erika could be her own country and win 1^st, 2^nd, and 3^rd place.  It was her 22^nd birthday yesterday, so we had the whole family together to celebrate.  She can be a lot of fun to talk to, and she’s going to let me visit her school.  I’m pretty excited because one; it’s an Italian university, and two; it’s psychology which I’m interested in.  In Italy children live with their family for much longer before moving out.

My host brother Vince drinking his Dr. Pepper I got him

Next, Vince.  He’s my best friend for 4,000 miles.  I found him on Facebook at the start of the summer, so we talked together for a good two months before we actually met in person.  Vince stayed in Kansas for 6 months as an exchange student so he knows how I feel when everything isn’t going so great.  And he speaks almost perfect English which is really helpful.  We speak English when we don’t want other people to understand us. I never thought the language I grew up with would be like a secret code - it’s a weird feeling sometimes.  Another big part of this experience was the social aspect for me, and without Vince it would be seriously lacking.  He introduced me to all his friends, and he takes me along whenever he goes out.  The other weekend he took me to an Italian club with his friends, which was an unforgettable experience.  He’s also my go-to guy for information about Carpi or Italy in general.  Vince reminds me a lot like my older brother.

Once a week, Vince, Erika and I all eat lunch with Vince’s dad, and for a week Vince and I stayed at his apartment.  Vince’s dad, Mauro, was born and raised in Southern Italy, and he’s a fantastic cook.  It’s going to be hard to go back to American food because I’ve tasted the best of Italian from him.  I’ve learned a lot of recipes which I’ll post later on.

I’ve never had a cat before

I also have a host-cat named Belina.  Now, the most complicated pet I’ve ever had is a goldfish, so this is new.  Every day I have to get up earlier than the rest of the family to get ready for school, so in the mornings I eat breakfast with Belina.  And maybe it’s because it’s in Italian, but I still don’t understand her meowing.   Still, I understand her more than some Italians.

My family—I feel comfortable saying that, because I feel so welcome here.  From the first day my independence has been respected and I’ve been greeted by nothing but kindness and generosity.

Molto bene! Why my stomach never wants to leave Italy

Three times a day, I have to wonder if I’m alive or if I’m in heaven.  That’s because I can honestly say the best food I’ve had during my life has been here in Italy during this past month.

And the interesting thing is, most of the food I’ve eaten I’ve never even heard of.  But before I get to the lesser-known, hidden gems of Italian cuisine, let me start with the obvious: pizza.

My favorite Italian pizza

I wanted to dedicate an entire post just to pizza (Or an entire blog.  Or an entire book.) but my better judgment said I might lose a reader or two doing that.  Italian pizza is different than what I’m used to stateside.  To start off, it’s in the shape of a rectangle.  And whereas American pizzas tend to pile on the cheese, Italian pizza has more emphasis on the toppings.  Which can be anything.  Restaurants will literally have 10 page menus solely dedicated to their pizzas.  Some day I’m going to bring a dictionary to a café with me, pick out a word and try to order a pizza.  They probably have it.  Tonight I went over to a friend’s house and among other things, we made homemade pizza.  (I got to swirl the dough in the air!  Which I wasn’t supposed to do, apparently.)  The most famous pizza in Italy arguably is the pizza Margherita.  It has tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and basil which make the colors of the Italian flag.  Eating a patriotic symbol?  I think yes.  And Italy actually has laws defining what constitutes a “traditional Italian pizza”.  Chefs are legally obligated to use certain ingredients imported from certain locations and use specific cooking techniques.  And when it tastes this good, I can see why.  My favorite pizza is the quatro formaggi, or four cheeses.  I don’t think I can go back to just one.

My family has an entire cabinet just for pasta

Next, pasta.  Everyday for a near-solid month, I’ve had pasta at least once a day.  I honestly think some Italians have the stuff more frequently than water.  Italians can get very creative with their pasta; there are at least two dozen types of noodles, countless kinds of sauces and limitless possibilities for food added into the pasta.  Today, for example, I had pasta with tuna in it.  Now if you’re uncreative with your cuisine like me, you think the sole reason for tuna’s existence is to be in my sandwich.  So I was a little hesitant to try it with pasta.  But it was incredible!  Definitely in my top three favorite foods.  Now I want to try tuna with everything, I bet it tastes good with every kind of food!  (REVISION: Dear blog, tuna is not good with nutella sandwiches.  From, Craig’s stomach.)

If I had to choose one of these to live with for the rest of my life? I guess I’m going to be thirsty

Speaking of nutella, this must be what ambrosia taste like.  For those of you who haven’t tasted heaven nutella, imagine a sort of chocolate peanut butter, mixed with smiles (I’m 99% positive smiles are in the ingredients label, and if it’s not it should be).  And the best part?  Italians eat it with everything.  Bread’s a little blah this morning?  Add some nutella!  Not really feeling like eating fresh fruit?  BAM!  Nutella that apple! (I have been informed by my editors that “nutella” is not a verb…yet).  When you try this stuff you’ll realize why the inventor became the third richest person in Italy.

Not shown: nutella-banana omelet. It was too delicious to wait

This morning, I thought I’d try cooking up a real American breakfast for my host-brother.  So I cooked up an omelet for him.  But then I had an epiphany; I decided to perform an act of cultural sharing with breakfast.  I added nutella and bananas to the omelet (I’m not really sure if this was a good or bad idea; the angel and devil of my conscience have been replaced by nutella and more nutella, respectively).

These are so good but I forgot what they’re called…year’s goal: find out

For breakfast, Italians typically eat something very small.  One common meal to eat in the morning is cookies and milk, which I am very alright with.  You can have your cereal; pass me the oreos.  And the milk here is much sweeter, like coffee creamer.  Lunch is the most important meal of the day, when Italians come home from work or school for a few hours to eat together.  Each day lunch has lasted for roughly two hours after school, which was unbearable during the first few days because I wanted to be outside doing something, but now it’s become a very comforting routine and a chance to relax and talk about the day’s events with my family.  Food and family are integral parts of Italian culture, and meals are when they overlap.  Drinks at meals are water (both natural and carbonated, which is extremely popular), coca-cola, fanta, and ice tea.  As a side note, the coca-cola here is amazing.  I wasn’t a coke fan in the United States, but here it tastes richer and has a sweeter aftertaste.  Dinner is usually a two-course meal, starting with a pasta and ending with a meat dish.  Wine is very common and coffee is served after the meal.  Gelato and cannolis are common Italian dessert (as a side note, mint-flavored gelato literally tastes just like toothpaste.)

If you go out to eat at a restaurant, like many Italians like to do at the end of the week, expect to start dinner fairly late; going out at 9:00 or 10:00 is common.  And after you finish your meal, waiters won’t bring you your bill for a good 40 minutes after you’ve finished eating.  But Italians read, or relax, or talk during that time.

This is one of the major differences between American and Italian culture; food is a means for social interaction, preservation of tradition, and a time to appreciate friends, family, and one’s own life.

The Italian School System and Why it’s Confusing Craig

So apparently I studied the wrong language.

Does anybody know Craigish?

Let me explain; in Italy there are two official languages, Italian and Craigish (which I apparently studied).  Craigish is only used when people are talking to me individually, but it’s significantly different that what I hear other people speaking.  It’s much, much slower and is simpler in words and grammar.

And in school, they use Italian.  For most of the time, I feel like it’s another language altogether because I barely catch a word here and there.  You see at this point, I know my words and common verbs, but my grammar degrades when I’m put on the spot.  I’m kind of like a five-year old who tried to read the dictionary and lost interest after “B”.  Spoken Italian in school is much faster and more structured, and I’ve noticed that at the end of the day my ears are physically exhausted from trying to translate.

Another thing, Italian teachers can yell and are very loud in the classroom.  And in every class too; I might expect it in maybe religion or government, but in math too!  On one hand, I’m a little terrified by my teacher yelling numbers at the class because it makes me think seven ate nine (Get it?  7-8-9?  Get it?  Trust me that’s quality humor) and he wants me for dessert, but on the other hand it guarantees I’ll never fall asleep in class.

In terms of differences, Italian schools take the prize.  For one thing, you stay in one group of students, or “classe”, every class, every day, all year long.  You sort of just move as a large herd from classroom to classroom.  And everyday your schedule and rooms change.  So I’ll have a two hour physics lesson on Monday morning in room 4, and then on Thursday have it again for an hour in the afternoon in room 36.  The idea that teachers moves from class to class like students do is very strange for me, because it means you’ll see them with backpacks like you and I mistook some younger teachers for students.

Which is a VERY bad thing; let me get to the formality aspect of Italian schools.  Your teacher (they call them “prof”, like Prof Dermody) will be very informal with you.  But you have to use an extremely formal tone with them.  It would be as if every American student said “Good day Professor Smith, thank you for your teaching us today, farewell.”  So pretty different from American high schools.  Also, students will stand up when their teacher walks into class, and won’t sit down until instructed too (which would have been helpful to know beforehand; I thought my class decided to play “the chairs are lava!” without telling me…you know…in hindsight I’m not really sure why anyone would think that, hmm).

An Environmental Science class?

Italian schools themselves are specialized and not general education like the United States has.  My school is technology-focused.  Which is an interesting fit for me, because I’m awful with technology (which explains why I still haven’t fixed the little green tag that says I’m studying in Spain).  My classes include mechanics, advanced electronics, and applied physics, along with a variety of other classes like Italian government, PE, and what I think (?) is environmental science (I don’t understand anything but my teacher brought a polar bear poster to class one day—then again, it could be culinary arts).  Italian schools generally take five years to finish.  I say “generally” because the guy who sits (and sleeps) next to me in class is 23 years old.  If you fail 3 of your 10 classes, you repeat a year (which is very common).  And there isn’t an age restriction so in theory you could be in high school indefinitely.  Italians also have to buy all of their textbooks, every year.  But because I’m an exchange student I don’t have to get books…but I haven’t figured out how to do homework without them yet.

A whale!

So, how did my first week of school go?  Well on the first day, I said “ciao” to my teacher instead of “Boun giorno” and I got a “stern talking to” about formality.  On the second day, the whole class took a field trip to the library, where we listened to a three hour lecture on “Mathematical symmetry in physics” (when I learned that I know Craigish not Italian).  On the third day, I taught my class how to draw a whale.  That was fun.  On Thursday I yawned in class and my math teacher stopped the lesson to point at me and explain that I was now “The lion king” because of it, so now my class called me “Lion King” and “Simba”.  If you’re like me you don’t immediately connect yawning to your favorite childhood movie, so he spent a good 15 minutes of the lesson trying to explain the connections.  So the next time you need to stall in class, bring up the lion king.  On Friday I was really happy and excited, occasionally breaking into Rebecca Black-inspired singing.  Which, sucks for me, was dumb because guess what—Italians have school on Saturday!  Oops, I forgot that.  So, come Saturday, I dragged myself out of bed and biked to school.  Guess what I did instead of sleep in?  I took a test on advanced electricity and conductivity.  In terms of correct answers, I think I got my name right…but let’s not be too hopeful.

I got new nicknames – “Lion King” and “Simba”

Oh!  I’m taking English as a foreign language.  Remember those fill-in-the-blank tests based on a pre-read recording?  Well, the kid next to me copied my paper, which looked like this, “I live in a city.  My favorite animal is a dog.” I’m very tempted next time to fill in every blank with “hippopotamus” and “watermelons”, just to see what he does.

A fill-in-the-blank test

Overall some things never change.  It’s Sunday night, and some social customs break every country line, and I think every Italian is thinking the same thing that I am;

Oh.  Shoot.  There was homework.

Firenze: la città magnifica

I’m not a romantic.  That being said, today I feel in love at first sight.

BAM! Art, straight to the face

The city of Florence is absolutely spectacular, there’s no other way to put it.  When you walk into the city, you’re hit with so much art you’d think Michelangelo’s David itself punched you in the face.  Florence is the home to such prestigious institutions such as the world famous Uffizi, the David in the Galleria dell’Accademia, and a variety of “minor” galleries that would make an art history major explode from excitement.

The Perseus with the Head of Medusa

But the beauty of Florence is that although you have some of the world’s finest galleries, most of the city’s art is outside for the public.  Take the Piazza della Signoria, for example.  There you can find The Fountain of Neptune, a replica of the David that’s a show of skill in itself, along with my personal favorite piece of artwork Perseus with the Head of Medusa.  Did I mention they’re all 400 years old?  Just there; no entrance fees, no lines, no restrictions on photography.  And you can find these kinds of public art clusters literally all over the city.

“The greatest concentration of universally renowned works of art in the world is found in Florence.”-United Nations World Heritage Commission.

Yeah, what they said.

The church contrasts with surrounding modern buildings

This place is so artistic that even some of the graffiti looks like works of beauty.  However, if you’re an architectural junkie like me, then you’ll have to see the Duomo, an unbelievably large church.  The real engineering marvel is the dome attached to the church, hence the name.  Completed in 1436, the designer refused to tell anyone how he planned to make a dome of that size and weight until he got the contract.  He was terrified someone would steal his design, and for good reason.  The Duomo remains an architectural astonishment even today.  And on the inside of the dome, there’s a massive fresco painting.  Did I mention that it’s 360 feet in the air?  That’s a lot of scaffolding; I hope the artist Giorgio Vasari didn’t have a thing about heights.  Or a thing about being crushed, which is what basically everyone in the city thought would happen to the dome in a matter of years.  600 years later, it’s still a magnificent symbol of human achievement.

From every angle, the Duomo looks magnificent

Although the Duomo is certainly the largest attraction to see, it’s by far not the only one.  There’s the Ponte Vecchio, which is the oldest bridge in Florence and was the only one to survive bombing during WWII; the gardens of Boboli at the base of Forte Belvedere, and dozens upon dozens of beautiful churches.

As a side note, sometimes the Uffizi will only let in a limited number of people per hour.  When I visited, it was 25.  But if you bought tickets in advance, or got a “special package” from the museum-hired street venders, you could skip to the front of the line.  Which I recommend; have fun filtering in 1.5 million guests annually into groups of 25.  On certain holidays, the Duomo has special access.  One such a date is September 8, when Roman Catholics celebrate the birth of the Virgin Mary, and admission is free to go up to the terrace which is normally restricted.  And if you’re claustrophobic or don’t like lines, I recommend climbing the Campenille di Santa Maria del Fiore instead.  It’s literally right next to the Duomo, but because it’s smaller than the Duomo it’s never crowded.

Ancient art aside, Florence is definitely an example of the country’s contemporary culture.  This city is Italy.  There are hundreds of small restaurants that serve the best food under the Tuscan sun.  Lunch is Florence was the best food I’d ever eaten, and dinner was somehow better.  If you look in small streets and go off the tourist-beaten path, you can find cultural treasures.  I stepped into a small little shop to find a map and found myself in one of the biggest bookstores I’ve seen.  And next door, there was a local Italian movie theater that I caught a film at.  Did I understand it completely?  Not really.  Did that matter?  No, what did was that I was casually watching a movie like just like the other real Italians in the theater.  Try to get that from a touring program.

In terms of shopping, Florence is the fashion capital of the country.  Sometimes it feels like it has more clothing stores than people.  The Ponte Vecchio is the best place to get Florentine jewelry, and the city is famous for its leather products.  If you have some euros to burn, walk through the city.  You’ll end up with quality souvenirs to last a lifetime.

How would you like to live on The Ponte Vecchio? Not much of a backyard, but an amazing view

What amazes me is that people actually live and work here.  Imagine walking over one of the oldest bridges in Europe and then passing under the Uffizi during your daily commute to work.  Or using the Laundromat down the street from the David. Once when I passed by the Duomo I saw a group of young Italian kids playing tag, and when you touched the Duomo you were “safe”.  Can you imagine growing up in a city like this?

I wish I had a lock with me

What’s interesting about this place is that its people combine tradition, historic art, and contemporary Italian culture.  One good example: the Ponte Vecchio is both beautiful and rich in history.  But did you know it’s also a modern Italian symbol for love?  What the textbooks don’t tell you is that young Italian couples will put a padlock on the bridge and throw the key into the river below.  They’re a little out of sight, but you can find hundreds of locks on the bridge.

Me, at the top of the Duomo. This was what I wanted to do in Italy most of all

The city that’s alive is built on generation upon generations of Italians long gone; the city that’s famous for hundred-year old buildings is the grounds for cutting edge fashion and style; the city of tradition blends with modern culture of the current Italian generation.

What a City.

A Lot Can Happen in 16 Hours: Goodnight California, Good Morning Italy

I crammed a week’s worth of events into my Wednesday.  This entry will be a little choppy because I’m frantically writing between airline transfers and onboard planes.  So here we go;

 

Hi, my name is Craig, and I am a gelatoholic

Los Angeles, California

Local Time: 12:36 PM

Half an hour on my own and I’ve already made a friend.  The woman I sat next to started a conversation with me while we both flew to Houston for different international flights.  She was in LA for some London-based technology company.  To be honest that didn’t really interest me.  But what did was the fact that she gets to travel all over the world because of it.  I told her about what I was doing, studying abroad for my senior year of high school in Italy.  She’s been to Italy four times.

“That sounds wonderful.  But be very, very careful,” she said.  “Once you get hooked on gelato, you’ll never be able to go back to regular ice cream.”

But gelato addictions aside, she told me how much fun I’d have.  I did tell her though that I was hesitant to leave and felt a little homesick.

“Don’t be.  Being immersed in a new, exciting environment is the only way to mature and appreciate things in your life.”

As the plane landed and we headed our separate ways, she finished with “Don’t worry, you’ll have the time of your life.  Enjoy every minute of it.”

Did I say I was hesitant?  What was I thinking?  Not anymore.

 

That’s the last time I’ll see the California sky…I should probably be on that plane right now

Houston, Texas

Local Time: 5:58 PM

Body Clock: 3:58 PM

Landing in the Houston airport felt surreal.  I’ve never had to catch a flight by myself, and my parents took me through the motions at the LAX airport.  I had relatively little trouble finding my new terminal, or the closest Cinnabon.  But just the feeling that I didn’t have anyone to rely on was both exhilarating and terrifying.  Starting with that airline transfer, I really was on my own for an entire year

Also, the strangest thing!  Timezones are going to be tricky.  Time decided not to wait up for me, and while flying on the plane from LA to Houston, it skipped ahead by two hours.  Alright, so it doesn’t sound so unusual or out of the ordinary—but it’s a very disorienting feeling.  And that’s not even the worst one.  My next flight is from Houston to Frankfurt, and has a 9 hour time difference from LA.  So for me, I’m going to be feeling groggy two in the morning while it’s sunny eleven in the afternoon.  This will take some time to get used to.

 

The city that never sleeps

East Coast, on plane

Time flying: 8 hours

Local Time: 11:19 PM

Body Clock: 8:19 PM

Here I am, nearing the midnight hour eastern time.  I’ve been staring out the window for a good half-hour now, savoring every last detail.  I’m not sure what’s more stunning; the stars above me seen closer than ever before, or the stars below me made up of city lights.  Cities are shrunk down to humbling sizes.  The East coast is a patchwork of red and white light by the blue, quiet ocean.

As I look out the window I feel a part of me being left behind.  I see the approaching Atlantic ocean coming at me too fast.  New York looks surreal; it looks like an eternally shining beacon, a lighthouse to guide Americans home on the very edge of the ocean darkness.  And here I am, above all the noise and the life and the motion of the city that never sleeps.

There it goes; now I’m creeping off the corners of the country I call home.  I can see myself slowly but surely leaving, going steadfast into the blackness of the ocean.  I keep looking out my window but the lights are disappearing, one by one.  Goodnight America, you’ll sleep better than I will.

 

Can’t wait to pass Go

Frankfurt, Germany

Local Time: 11:40 AM

Body Clock: 2:40 AM

While waiting for my last plane from Germany to Bologna, I noticed that the couple across from me were Italian.  So I said hello, and started a conversation.  It felt awesome to be speaking Italian, but I could tell I was awful compared to a native speaker.  But the man, who spoke fluent English, was visibly excited that I tried my best to learn his language.  They live very nearby to my city; we’re in the same region of northern Italy.  He told me things about my region like the history of Emiglio-Romagna, the industries, and about the basic differences between Italian and English.  I got to practice with him, and he was very helpful with correcting my Italian.  At the end of the conversation, he gave me his email address and said to contact him if I had any problems.  I haven’t even stepped foot into the country and I’ve already had a conversation with an Italian.

Also, I had to exchange some currency because I wanted to buy a German coke.  Apparently my wallet is much larger than necessary, because it’s made for a US dollar which is much longer.  Euros feel like monopoly money; they look real but the feel isn’t quite right.  It’s going to take some time to get used to it.

My flight was oversold.  But because I volunteered to take the next flight, the Lufthansa airline company gave me 250 Euros to spend on air travel around Europe.  I’m basically being paid 50 Euros an hour to sit in a terminal listening to music.  Not too bad.

 

…Another black suitcase, also not mine

Bologna, Italy

Local Time: 2:05 PM

Body Clock: 5:05 AM

I’m here; I’m in Italy.  No more flight connections, no more staring at the estimated arrival screen, no more “almost there”.  I’m here.

Italy is hot.  I’m used to the heat, being Southern Californian, but it’s humid too.  I’m told this weather won’t last and in December it actually snows, which is a novel concept for me.  I’ve never seen snow in my hometown.  My city flips out at the smallest amount of hail, myself included, so I can only imagine how I’ll be come this winter.  You can expect me to overload the server with snow pictures.

I was dumb, and didn’t mark my suitcase with anything.  Apparently, I’m not the only person in the world with a standard-size, black suitcase, go figure.  So I spent twenty-five minutes looking for my baggage, which is unbearable because after roughly 16 hours of flying the last thing I want to do is wait another minute.  Finally, I grabbed my luggage (by accident, I thought I was grabbing someone else’s luggage to help them) and I bolted out the airport to the train station.  I’m here in Italy for a few days before my actual program starts, so I decided to spend three days in Florence.  I’ve heard some amazing things about the city, which I’ll most definitely write about.

But first, I have to figure out the train schedule.  I may be spending three days at the station instead.