1 August 2008
Bruni, Piedmonte, Italy
Not in the same day, however. That would have been overwhelming. Chronologically the goat came first, but as there's not much to say about the date I can start there. I just wanted to make a few brief comments about Italian men: one, that their accents make them sound a little bit like movie villains when they speak English, adding a curl to our language that recalls mustache twirling and clever hijinks; two, that riding on the back of a Vespa actually is just as fun (and not as scary) as I thought it would be, but not quite as romantic since it's hard to avoid clunking helmets together every couple of blocks; and three, that I continue to laugh at myself for being a 22-year-old American girl. I never considered what it would be like to fit so snugly into that specific category, but I really do feel like a 22-year-old American girl most of the time and especially when sipping pinot grigio across the table from an intelligent European bachelor who was already deep into the depths of adolescence when I was swimming in the womb. (36. Mamma mia.) Christa, if you're reading this... not quite Motorcycle Guy, but... email me! Or skype?
So last weekend the family went to the mountains, and rather than loiter on vacant Turinese streetcorners I packed an overnight bag and took a train to Bruni (or rather, to Bra, where I was continued the journey by car) to see a friend from Colorado College who recently joined this international network called WOOF. Working On Organic Farms, I think? You basically purchase a membership, receive a contact list, and can go from farm to farm in whichever region you choose - she picked Italy - to work in exchange for room and board. Very cool. The nearby town, Murazzano, has a population of about 600 people, and the surrounding hills are breathtaking: rolling foothills of green, green, green split into stripes (vineyard), squares (veggie crops), and orchards, receding into a misty background of more hills, more hills, and then, sky. We drove up a gently winding road, past lines of tall, slender poplars, and a set of 19th century Catholic stations of the cross (frescoed statues placed along the roadside), past an abandoned church and still other trees, and a big tree that had only a week ago housed a huge beehive that Mario had harvested for the farm, and past a mangy-looking yellow lab who barked at us like strangers. I stayed for about 28 hours, from Saturday afternoon when I dropped my backpack in the upstairs hayloft-turned-bedroom to take the animals to pasture, to Sunday evening when I finished my bowl of gelato, shouted a goodbye to the deaf Signora who was also staying at the farm (long story there: overnight I made friends with a 93-year-old Genovan who walks with a cane, reads without glasses, and lived some years in Africa), and took off again for the train station. It had been only a day, but it felt like forever. I think I tapped into my ancestors or something, my universal unconsciousness or whatever that's called, because I left the countryside feeling profoundly moved. Or just profound, in general.
The details of this weekend are innumerable, and make great little stories to tell after dinner or over a leisurely tea. You have details, too, that will never make it to a letter or an email or even a phone call. We will tell these stories, don't worry.
What else? I cut my hair! Not true: a magician named Fabio with a goatee and a hair salon called "Pepe" cut my hair, and Ruggero told me that I looked like a buffalo. Wait, I think I already told you about that in my last entry. Umm... I... met two American au pairs in the park across the street, one of whom will come out with me sometime tomorrow to get a coffee in town and exchange stories. She's from Long Beach, wears a headscarf that made me think of Utah, and lived one year in Florence (!) while she was in college. I have been playing a ton of soccer with Ruggero, and one time a couple of days ago I kicked it with surprising force and hit him square on the forehead, sent him flying into the air! Miraculously he was fine, thank God, with only a scratch on his elbow, and it's only because he wasn't hurt that I now laugh every time I think about it. I'm not supposed to play soccer! Non sono sportiva!
Have to go now, to brave the summer warmth and buy some fish and fruit from the market before it gets too hot. Love, love.
25 July 2008
"You look like a man."
25 July 2008
Torino, Italy
For those of you who also tend to compile Soundtracks For Life (I know my dad is one of those people), nota bene: Marvin's Gaye's "Heard It Through the Grapevine" is the perfect tempo for strutting home along sunny city streets with big sunglasses, a new haircut, slim waistline and empty wallet. I would know. I just did it!
Mood was crushed, however, when the housekeeper Giovanna looked up from her work in the kitchen and gasped, "No! Why (in Italian) have you cut all your hair?" I laughed and said, "Preferisco cosi. I prefer it this way," to which she replied, "Sembra uno uomo. You look like a man." And I laughed again, only slightly and secretly offended. I don't care, I like it, and an elderly woman in Fabio's salon told me that I had the face for it. "Sara belissima cortissimi. It will be beautiful short." Thank you, I told her, thank you a thousand times. She's the only one who said it would be a good cut; everyone I live with has warned me against it. My parents say that the Italian men will have preferred me with long hair. But who's doing it for the Italian men? Not me. All it took was the one little old lady, a stranger, to make me feel good about what I've wanted all along. Pictures are coming soon...
Torino, Italy
For those of you who also tend to compile Soundtracks For Life (I know my dad is one of those people), nota bene: Marvin's Gaye's "Heard It Through the Grapevine" is the perfect tempo for strutting home along sunny city streets with big sunglasses, a new haircut, slim waistline and empty wallet. I would know. I just did it!
Mood was crushed, however, when the housekeeper Giovanna looked up from her work in the kitchen and gasped, "No! Why (in Italian) have you cut all your hair?" I laughed and said, "Preferisco cosi. I prefer it this way," to which she replied, "Sembra uno uomo. You look like a man." And I laughed again, only slightly and secretly offended. I don't care, I like it, and an elderly woman in Fabio's salon told me that I had the face for it. "Sara belissima cortissimi. It will be beautiful short." Thank you, I told her, thank you a thousand times. She's the only one who said it would be a good cut; everyone I live with has warned me against it. My parents say that the Italian men will have preferred me with long hair. But who's doing it for the Italian men? Not me. All it took was the one little old lady, a stranger, to make me feel good about what I've wanted all along. Pictures are coming soon...
22 July 2008
I Found True Love...
Madrid, Spain
...and her name is Christa P Whitney.
I spent a whirlwind 30 hours in Madrid this weekend (visiting my best friend from high school, for those of you who don't know her, in the last week of her junior year abroad), getting in at 8pm Friday night and leaving at 9am Monday morning. But boy, was it worth it! Saw a concert, ate churros for breakfast, danced until 7 in the morning with a silly pair of Spanish firemen, napped next to and swam in her pool, visited two museums, bought a painted fan at Europe's largest open market, split a bottle of rose lambrusco over a three-hour dinner out in the town... and these are just the highlights.
What mattered more were the lowlights, the short and long conversations that strained to fill a year's worth of our lives spent half a world away from each other; the meditative silences - never awkward, although we often are - that shade in the bold outlines of our friendship. Sunday midnight found us sitting cross-legged on a strip of grassy lawn beside the palace to listen to a couple of young musicians accompany a slight, dark-haired male soprano as he sang impressive arias like "Ave Maria" for a smattering of night owls and lovers gathered in a sloppy semicircle, seeming one cohesive audience but existing in completely different worlds. She and I both noticed his rainbow wristband and powder pink fitted t-shirt, and I wished there that Turin had a gay district. I laid my head in her lap while she took a phone call, and as she stroked my hair I marvelled at her ability to express her feelings in another language (something I've yet to achieve, being somewhat limited to simplicities like "happy," "sad," and "bored" because I haven't yet learned the Italian words for "preoccupied," "relieved," or "melancholy"), and felt hot tears well up in my eyes out of love and gratitude for her. She missed my college graduation, next spring I will miss hers, and both of us apologize over and over again for the absent places at these landmark occasions though each of us knows that the other really means it when she says that it doesn't matter, that she understands why she can't be there. "You're in EUROPE! Of course I wouldn't ask you to come back just for that." But I would if you asked me, we both say silently. I would do anything for you.
She leaves Spain on Saturday. It was important for me to see her at the end of her year in Europe and at the beginning of mine, for I saw in her sorrow at saying goodbye how short one year really is, and just how much I might gain from this time in Turin. My two little boys called my cell phone when I got off the bus from the Milan airport, asking me if everything was okay and when they would get to see me. Was I alright? Would I be home when they got back from camp? And later, when I lifted the familiar red and white checkered tablecloth into the air to settle it over their dinner table on the terrace - when I almost broke a lamp in a living room pillowfight with the youngest, laughing the whole time - when I walked home from the Turin bus stop with new eyes that had seen my other self (my anima gemella, my twin soul, my half orange) living her own life in a foreign city, no longer a visitor but a European, I knew that this was my new home.
One year will be easy-peezy!
...and her name is Christa P Whitney.
I spent a whirlwind 30 hours in Madrid this weekend (visiting my best friend from high school, for those of you who don't know her, in the last week of her junior year abroad), getting in at 8pm Friday night and leaving at 9am Monday morning. But boy, was it worth it! Saw a concert, ate churros for breakfast, danced until 7 in the morning with a silly pair of Spanish firemen, napped next to and swam in her pool, visited two museums, bought a painted fan at Europe's largest open market, split a bottle of rose lambrusco over a three-hour dinner out in the town... and these are just the highlights.
What mattered more were the lowlights, the short and long conversations that strained to fill a year's worth of our lives spent half a world away from each other; the meditative silences - never awkward, although we often are - that shade in the bold outlines of our friendship. Sunday midnight found us sitting cross-legged on a strip of grassy lawn beside the palace to listen to a couple of young musicians accompany a slight, dark-haired male soprano as he sang impressive arias like "Ave Maria" for a smattering of night owls and lovers gathered in a sloppy semicircle, seeming one cohesive audience but existing in completely different worlds. She and I both noticed his rainbow wristband and powder pink fitted t-shirt, and I wished there that Turin had a gay district. I laid my head in her lap while she took a phone call, and as she stroked my hair I marvelled at her ability to express her feelings in another language (something I've yet to achieve, being somewhat limited to simplicities like "happy," "sad," and "bored" because I haven't yet learned the Italian words for "preoccupied," "relieved," or "melancholy"), and felt hot tears well up in my eyes out of love and gratitude for her. She missed my college graduation, next spring I will miss hers, and both of us apologize over and over again for the absent places at these landmark occasions though each of us knows that the other really means it when she says that it doesn't matter, that she understands why she can't be there. "You're in EUROPE! Of course I wouldn't ask you to come back just for that." But I would if you asked me, we both say silently. I would do anything for you.
She leaves Spain on Saturday. It was important for me to see her at the end of her year in Europe and at the beginning of mine, for I saw in her sorrow at saying goodbye how short one year really is, and just how much I might gain from this time in Turin. My two little boys called my cell phone when I got off the bus from the Milan airport, asking me if everything was okay and when they would get to see me. Was I alright? Would I be home when they got back from camp? And later, when I lifted the familiar red and white checkered tablecloth into the air to settle it over their dinner table on the terrace - when I almost broke a lamp in a living room pillowfight with the youngest, laughing the whole time - when I walked home from the Turin bus stop with new eyes that had seen my other self (my anima gemella, my twin soul, my half orange) living her own life in a foreign city, no longer a visitor but a European, I knew that this was my new home.
One year will be easy-peezy!
14 July 2008
Paradise Exists Just South of Sicily
Lampedusa, Sicily, Italy
This week was incredible, one of the best vacations I've ever had. Our daily activities consisted mostly of lounging in the shade, going to the beach, reading, sketching, taking outdoor showers to escape the heat and ogling all the hot Sicilian waiters from behind my big sunglasses. One of them reminded me a lot of Matt Houser, tall and lanky and tan, and we exchanged significant looks all week, heehee! The kids thought it was pretty funny to act out every time we went to his cafe for gelato, using too many napkins and asking for extra spoons or cones or whatnot, generally trying to get his attention, and so I spent more of my time blushing and giggling and apologising.
Before I go on, I have to share one anecdote from back home in Turin yesterday, the Sunday after we returned from Lampedusa, a long sunny Sunday of big yawns, naps, of laundry and grocery shopping and a visit to Nonna (Grandma). I hope this makes you laugh as much as it makes me laugh: I went with Patrizia to get groceries from this fancy schmancy place called "Eataly" (clever Italians), sort of like the Italian version of Whole Foods but more like the Gourmet Grotto on Shattuck, if you're from the Bay, where you can get all kinds of local produce, overpriced condiments, gourmet meats and cheese, etc. Anyway, upon entering the beverage section I saw a large aisle display for a smashing new energy drink in a slim white can with silver writing. Very hot. But I gasped aloud when I saw it, and Patrizia must have misinterpreted what I meant as 'oh my god' as 'These look so cool!' because she waved her hand and said, "Oh, I already bought some for the house." I quickly corrected her, told her that the name of this brand was a very rude word in English. She said she had no clue.
I told her, and she laughed, and the photo is four cans of that very beverage sitting in our unassuming little refrigerator! An hour later at lunch I told A, the dad, what had happened, and the 10-year-old understood just enough of our conversation to ask, "Cosa ha succeso? Cosa vuol dire? What happened? What does it mean?," and his mom looked me in the eye and said to him, "It's kind of like caca (Italian for poop)." Not quite, but good enough for him. He then proceeded to prance around the house barking out the two slang words he knew in English: "Awesome pussy, awesome pussy," to my dismay! I couldn't help but just laugh out loud at the hilarity of this situation, because all the while the parents and their niece sat at the table trying to work out the correct pronunciation, "Poozy?" - "No, Alberto, it's more like puh-see. Pussie." - "No zia (auntie), zio (uncle), it's PUSSY!" And I was bright red, practically crying with mirth and embarrassment, and wished someone was laughing with me. Absolutely hilarious.
Okay, on with the update. Each day was a totally different adventure, but here goes a brief overview.
We stayed in a six-bed suite at a beautiful one-story bed and breakfast with outdoor showers, a huge tiled patio and tons of plastic lounge furniture scattered among a maze of low walls and tropical flower bushes separating suites. All week we drove a 40-year-old rental "car" without windows, doors or seatbelts, a sort of Indiana Jones type safari vehicle that braved many a pothole on our daily ventures to and from this or that beach. We ate out nearly every night because no one felt like cooking or doing dishes, the fresh-fresh-freshest seafood I've had!, and drank lots of shaken coffees (better than any frappucino). One morning we passed a couple of hours dolphin-watching from a small motorboat with a very attractive young member of the Italian Coast Guard named Francesco, a little bit short for me (said P afterward) but extremely smart and capable, with unusually well-kept nails and a heart-stopping smile that we only saw at the very end of the trip. Another day we saw the Italian coast guard intercept a boatful of illegal immigrants (clandestini, in Italian) from Africa. Lampedusa is the first port from Tunisia, and I guess they see lots of refugees come in all year. We spent countless hours on the beach, swimming and tanning and reading and napping and sand castling in turns, slathering on SPF 50 and exfoliating with soft stones. On Friday we passed the day on a private boat excursion around the entire island; there's more about this in my photo album, accompanying a picture of our crusty sea captain Pino. It was during this boat trip that I found the sweetest happiness and most profound sense of freedom I've ever experienced, and vowed that sometime during this life I'll live on a boat. I fell in love with the economy of boat living, of being physically unable to bring anything along that you can't strap down or tuck in somewhere, yet having at all times everything you need. Love it.
Every day brought a new set of experiences, and when our flight back to Turin left the ground I felt my throat catch with a longing to stay just a little longer. Not forever, of course, for I know that such a tiny place would get tiresome after more than a few months, but longer. I actually already have considered a possible return next summer, after my year in Turin is up, perhaps doing light work at a bed and breakfast with a friend of P's named Katia, and although this seems very far off I'm already considering whether or not to cancel my plane ticket home instead of trying to predict when I'll be ready to return to the States.
It's strange to be making such clear and unforgettable memories with a family that isn't my own... but I guess that's life, learning to make concrete ideas like "home" and "family" more fluid and portable.
I was relieved to come home to my room in Turin this weekend, even after leaving a significant chunk of my heart in Lampedusa (with Paolo, maybe, or Francesco! just kidding), and was pleased to find a postcard from Christa, a package from Anne Marie, and a letter from dad. Everything I need is here. At the end of one month I find myself healthy, deeply tan, excited about meeting people and finding things to do, and the slightest bit anxious for the schoolyear to start so I can establish a more concrete schedule with the boys. But there's still August, with its week in the mountains, one weeks in Paris, and my one week's travel to... somewhere? I have to look into what to do in August between France and my return to Turin. I'm sure someone from CC is doing something amazing somewhere; I just have to find them!
Keep writing to me, I love updates, either in hard copy or by email. I love you all.
This week was incredible, one of the best vacations I've ever had. Our daily activities consisted mostly of lounging in the shade, going to the beach, reading, sketching, taking outdoor showers to escape the heat and ogling all the hot Sicilian waiters from behind my big sunglasses. One of them reminded me a lot of Matt Houser, tall and lanky and tan, and we exchanged significant looks all week, heehee! The kids thought it was pretty funny to act out every time we went to his cafe for gelato, using too many napkins and asking for extra spoons or cones or whatnot, generally trying to get his attention, and so I spent more of my time blushing and giggling and apologising.
Before I go on, I have to share one anecdote from back home in Turin yesterday, the Sunday after we returned from Lampedusa, a long sunny Sunday of big yawns, naps, of laundry and grocery shopping and a visit to Nonna (Grandma). I hope this makes you laugh as much as it makes me laugh: I went with Patrizia to get groceries from this fancy schmancy place called "Eataly" (clever Italians), sort of like the Italian version of Whole Foods but more like the Gourmet Grotto on Shattuck, if you're from the Bay, where you can get all kinds of local produce, overpriced condiments, gourmet meats and cheese, etc. Anyway, upon entering the beverage section I saw a large aisle display for a smashing new energy drink in a slim white can with silver writing. Very hot. But I gasped aloud when I saw it, and Patrizia must have misinterpreted what I meant as 'oh my god' as 'These look so cool!' because she waved her hand and said, "Oh, I already bought some for the house." I quickly corrected her, told her that the name of this brand was a very rude word in English. She said she had no clue.
I told her, and she laughed, and the photo is four cans of that very beverage sitting in our unassuming little refrigerator! An hour later at lunch I told A, the dad, what had happened, and the 10-year-old understood just enough of our conversation to ask, "Cosa ha succeso? Cosa vuol dire? What happened? What does it mean?," and his mom looked me in the eye and said to him, "It's kind of like caca (Italian for poop)." Not quite, but good enough for him. He then proceeded to prance around the house barking out the two slang words he knew in English: "Awesome pussy, awesome pussy," to my dismay! I couldn't help but just laugh out loud at the hilarity of this situation, because all the while the parents and their niece sat at the table trying to work out the correct pronunciation, "Poozy?" - "No, Alberto, it's more like puh-see. Pussie." - "No zia (auntie), zio (uncle), it's PUSSY!" And I was bright red, practically crying with mirth and embarrassment, and wished someone was laughing with me. Absolutely hilarious.Okay, on with the update. Each day was a totally different adventure, but here goes a brief overview.
We stayed in a six-bed suite at a beautiful one-story bed and breakfast with outdoor showers, a huge tiled patio and tons of plastic lounge furniture scattered among a maze of low walls and tropical flower bushes separating suites. All week we drove a 40-year-old rental "car" without windows, doors or seatbelts, a sort of Indiana Jones type safari vehicle that braved many a pothole on our daily ventures to and from this or that beach. We ate out nearly every night because no one felt like cooking or doing dishes, the fresh-fresh-freshest seafood I've had!, and drank lots of shaken coffees (better than any frappucino). One morning we passed a couple of hours dolphin-watching from a small motorboat with a very attractive young member of the Italian Coast Guard named Francesco, a little bit short for me (said P afterward) but extremely smart and capable, with unusually well-kept nails and a heart-stopping smile that we only saw at the very end of the trip. Another day we saw the Italian coast guard intercept a boatful of illegal immigrants (clandestini, in Italian) from Africa. Lampedusa is the first port from Tunisia, and I guess they see lots of refugees come in all year. We spent countless hours on the beach, swimming and tanning and reading and napping and sand castling in turns, slathering on SPF 50 and exfoliating with soft stones. On Friday we passed the day on a private boat excursion around the entire island; there's more about this in my photo album, accompanying a picture of our crusty sea captain Pino. It was during this boat trip that I found the sweetest happiness and most profound sense of freedom I've ever experienced, and vowed that sometime during this life I'll live on a boat. I fell in love with the economy of boat living, of being physically unable to bring anything along that you can't strap down or tuck in somewhere, yet having at all times everything you need. Love it.
Every day brought a new set of experiences, and when our flight back to Turin left the ground I felt my throat catch with a longing to stay just a little longer. Not forever, of course, for I know that such a tiny place would get tiresome after more than a few months, but longer. I actually already have considered a possible return next summer, after my year in Turin is up, perhaps doing light work at a bed and breakfast with a friend of P's named Katia, and although this seems very far off I'm already considering whether or not to cancel my plane ticket home instead of trying to predict when I'll be ready to return to the States.
It's strange to be making such clear and unforgettable memories with a family that isn't my own... but I guess that's life, learning to make concrete ideas like "home" and "family" more fluid and portable.
I was relieved to come home to my room in Turin this weekend, even after leaving a significant chunk of my heart in Lampedusa (with Paolo, maybe, or Francesco! just kidding), and was pleased to find a postcard from Christa, a package from Anne Marie, and a letter from dad. Everything I need is here. At the end of one month I find myself healthy, deeply tan, excited about meeting people and finding things to do, and the slightest bit anxious for the schoolyear to start so I can establish a more concrete schedule with the boys. But there's still August, with its week in the mountains, one weeks in Paris, and my one week's travel to... somewhere? I have to look into what to do in August between France and my return to Turin. I'm sure someone from CC is doing something amazing somewhere; I just have to find them!Keep writing to me, I love updates, either in hard copy or by email. I love you all.
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