Signs of Cultural Immersion, Part II.

I am beginning to dream in Italian.

As I lay in my bed last night, I was in that limbo between being asleep and being awake, and as the logical thoughts started to subside and the irrational fantasies of dreams began to commence, I swear I heard a woman's voice say "E che cos'e succese?" or, "And then what happened?"  The voice then proceeded to talk much faster than I could comprehend, and I opened my eyes, trying to figure out what was going on and what the woman was saying.  I'm sure it made absolutely no sense at all, but let's ignore the fact that I was hearing voices, which is a slightly disturbing development, but concentrate on the positive aspect, the fact that the words were Italian.  A sign that I'm beginning to learn?  A sign that I'm going insane?  If nothing else, hopefully a sign that I'm becoming immersed.  

It's kind of cool; I've noticed that when I call friends and family at home, I begin to form sentences in Italian in my head as if I'm going to have to answer them in Italian.  (It still takes quite a bit of planning for me to form grammatically correct sentences.)  But then I realize that I can speak in English, and I relax.  As many of you know, I enjoy the art of speech quite a bit, and sometimes I get frustrated when I speak Italian because it's difficult to express exactly what I want to say.  I can get the general point across, but I love being able to say precisely what I mean, and I'm not quite there yet in Italian.  But as the butcher in the market said yesterday when I told him I'm still trying to learn Italian: "Ma hai pazienza.  Piano, piano:"  "But have patience.  It comes slowly, slowly."  I know he's right, but I've never been one to have much pazienza.

I realized in class the other day that we often tend to associate a person's ability to communicate with their intelligence level.  In most cases, a person's ability to speak properly is an absolutely accurate way of measuring intelligence.  For instance, if you hear someone say something along the lines of "All y'all shore do seem like real nice folk," you are most likely justified in assuming that he or she is something of an idiot.  However, I've realized that when foreigners try to speak in other countries, we tend to have the language abilities of five-year-olds, if not worse.  We need to preface everything with, "I'm sorry but my English/Italian/German/Swahili is not very good," and when we don't understand what the person to whom we are speaking has said, the person will usually just begin shouting, as if our comprehension will increase with their number of decibels.  I was ruminating over the challenges that come with language barriers the other day when I was talking to Leonardo, one of my classmates from Japan.  He says Leonardo is easier for people to pronounce than his Japanese name.  Leonardo is a really nice guy, probably in his early 40s, and he's a professor back in Japan.  I never feel inferior in my language abilities when I sit next to Leonardo, for the poor guy can barely string two words together in Italian without whipping out his electronic dictionary.  And yet although he sounds completely ridiculous when he speaks Italian, he's an incredibly intelligent man.  He's a mechanical engineering professor who studies the history and philosophy of technology.  (Not really sure what that even entails; I wonder what Jung or Nietchze would have to say about gigabytes and RAM?)  However, he can't express himself to save his life, and I thought it was interesting that I never would have known how smart he was if I didn't take the time to patiently listen to him try to translate what he does back at home.  

Life's been good; busy as usual since my last post.  Our school had an excursion to Perugia on Sunday, and upon arrival, we felt somewhat gypped to find out what the 16 euro fee was for: our entrance fee to TWO more freakin' archaeological museums!  Man, if I had known what we were in for there's no way I would've set foot on that bus; ALL MORNING of listening to an archeologist lecture us on more bones and old pots in Italian.  Oh well, at least we got to go to a pretty good restaurant for lunch.  I got the minestrone; it was quite tasty.

Speaking of restaurants, you all will be happy to know that my cooking adventures are becoming much more frequent and occur with much less incident than usual!  My specialties include many different varieties of pasta, soup, eggs, and cereale con latte, a very difficult Italian dish that some of you may be familiar with; I can give you the recipe if you want.  Tonight I'm really going out on a limb by making some chicken, most likely with the help of my roommates.  As long as they're around to make sure I don't set anything on fire, I'm usually golden!

So let's see; Monday we had class and afterwards my roommate Sarah and I went to the Pitti Palace to look at this costume exhibit that they had and their jewelry museum.  My favorite piece was probably a golden brooch shaped in the outline of a male torso.  Apparently to make it as accurate as possible, the creator of the piece felt the need to represent the male's genitals as well, and did so with two circular white pears and a long cylindrical white pearl.  The art never ceases to amaze me here.  Other than a few odd pieces though, we had fun looking at all the old clothes and fashions of the time periods.  That night we went out with some friends from my class and went dancing.  As a shoe salesman in one of the markets told Sarah and I: "Tutti le sere puoi ballare qui!"  "Here, you can go dancing every night!"  That may be true, but I learned a very important lesson.  Sure, you can go ballare-ing every night, as long as you don't wear heels.  Limping to class on Tuesday morning, barely able to squeeze the enormous blisters on my feet into sneakers, I chastised myself for my vanity.  Ah well, lesson learned.  Next time I'll wear more comfortable shoes, and then I'll be able to come home singing "I could have daaaaanced all night..."

Tuesday was a really good day; my classmate Alex and I had to give a presentation on Sicilia, Sicily.  It had to be completely in Italian and it was supposed to be at least 15 minutes long.  As Alex and I finished translating all the information we found, we realized that three pages of size 16 font probably wasn't going to cut it.  However, we were masters of improvisation and used our time wisely, pausing to ask if there were any questions and taking time to write information on the blackboard.  Favorite teacher Michela was extremely encouraging, helping us with our pronunciation and making comments here and there.  We all love Michela because she's one of those warm people who automatically make you feel at ease.  With Michela, if you make a mistake, you're never wrong, you're just not...quite right.  Ma va bene, va bene! she'll say if one of us butchers a sentence terribly.  So it was easy to present in front of her.  Our classmates were interested as well and had plenty of questions about the Mafia, especially Julian, who had just watched The Godfather.  (He really liked it, but he did say it was difficult for him to understand what the fat man [Marlon Brando] was saying.  I told him not to feel bad because Americans can't even understand what he's saying.)   So luckily, we ended up going well over fifteen minutes, and Michela even said that our presentation was bellissima!

Tuesday was also the day of the inauguration of our 44th president.  I went over to Syracuse University's student center and watched it with a bunch of other American students.  It was definitely standing room only, and it was really exciting to watch it with other people who felt passionate about Obama.  At one point the sound went off and a riot nearly erupted, but luckily the poor tech guy was able to correct his mistake.  I thought Obama's speech was incredibly eloquent and inspiring.  It was pretty emotional to watch.  I don't care what party you are; I think we can all be excited about the fact that "a man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath."  I'm not going to get on my soapbox and talk too much about it, but walking home last night, I felt proud of my nationality.  Here Americans are not always everyone's favorite population.  At times when I see some of the American students stumble drunkenly outside the clubs (okay, I know we've all been there, but you know the ones I'm talking about), or the ones who expect everyone to speak in English and never even make the attempt to learn the language of the country in which they're staying, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I hail from the United States.  But last night, walking home in the rain after the inauguration, I would have gladly told any Italian who asked me that I hailed from the U.S. of A., and I would have told them proudly.  Not that anyone asked, but you get the idea.

Not an extremely eventful day today; class with un-favorite teacher Giulia, which always leaves us feeling flustered.  But I think our class' common frustration with Giulia's teaching style has helped us form a bond, so if we ever run out of things to talk about, we can always complain about Giulia.  After class it was onto the supermarket where I stocked up on nonperishable items; they're much cheaper at this big supermarket on the outskirts of Florence.  You have to take the bus and it's always slightly difficult to coordinate your purchases, for the amount of food you buy can't exceed the amount you can carry home.  But I somehow managed, looking extremely ridiculous in the process and earning mixed looks of both pity and derision from bystanders who watched me lug my groceries onto the bus and get hit by the bus doors three different times during the ride home.  But the day improved after I got home; I went for a run with some of my classmates along the lovely Arno, which always lifts my spirits. :)  Life is good!

Vi voglio bene e auguri e cent'anni!

Love,

Caity

Sitting here working on this blog, I'm trying to recall everything that's happened since the last time I wrote (yesterday's nearly hysterical-with-happiness entry not included).  I feel as though so much time has passed, but it's really only been a few days since I've written.  I'm still trying to understand how time works here in Florence.  It's surreal that I've been living here for two whole weeks already, and I can't believe the time has gone so fast.  Yet on the other hand, I feel as if each day here is bursting with at least a week's worth of new experiences and adventures, so part of me feels like I've been here for a very long time.  I'm pleasantly surprised by how comfortable I feel already, and I feel very fortunate that I'm adjusting so quickly to the rhythm of this lovely new city I'll be calling home for eight more weeks.

I left off with the promise that I'd be joining some of my international friends for beer pong on Tuesday night.  Excited to show those new to the game how it's done, my roommate Sarah and I teamed up against an American named Mike and either an Australian who now lives in Scotland or a Scotsman who now lives in Australia named Tom (I can't remember).  An epic battle ensued, and we matched our opponents cup-for-cup.  Bystanders were biting their nails; our brows brimmed with sweat.  But alas, with one cup each remaining, our opponents sank their last ball, and Sarah and I failed to sink ours.  Disappointed, yes, but we could still hold our heads high, for we fought valiantly and walked away from the table not as losers, but girls who didn't win.  Trust me, there's a difference.

We had fun on Tuesday night, but the bar we played in, called the Red Garter, simply screamed "American!" It seemed as though everyone there spoke English, and part of me felt as though I was at any old college party back in California rather than halfway around the world in Italy.  The plus side of such a bar is that it's the perfect crowd for the watching two events occurring back in the States that I don't want to miss: Obama's inauguration and the Boss's halftime show performance at the Superbowl.  But other than that, if I wanted to feel like I was at a frat party, I could have saved myself a whole lot of money on that plane ticket.  

At this point, I would like to take a brief moment to thank my lovely Auntie Sharon.  Wednesday afternoon, I received a package of toiletries from her that she sent me so that I wouldn't have to pack them in my suitcase.  Thanks to her, I am now well-stocked with items that I will most definitely need, items that are nice to have, and superfluous items that I laugh at now but will inevitably end up being essential at some point in the trip, at which time I will be extremely grateful for Auntie's foresight.  So thanks, Sharona!

On Wednesday afternoon a trip to the Uffizi gallery was in order, so my roommate Ai and I took advantage of the rainy weather to stay inside and gaze at art.  The medieval and renaissance paintings were gorgeous, but what I was really drawn to (no pun intended) was a collection of sixty drawings they had on display for a special exhibit by an Italian artist I had never heard of called Guercina.  Guercina's drawings depicted everything from rustic scenery to portraits and figure drawings.  The lines seemed to be drawn quickly, giving each piece the effect that it was alive and pulsating.  The delightful aspect of living here for a while is that I don't have to rush through things as a tourist on a 20 day vacation would.  I can go back and look at the drawings again at my leisure.  Another aspect of our art-gazing that Ai and I enjoyed was the creepy baby count.   I don't know how many paintings of the Madonna and the Christ child you personally have seen, but if you flip through an art history book you see a whole lot of depictions of those two figures.  And some of those Christ babies sure are creepy.  I have never in my life seen a baby with a body of a five-year-old, the nose of Dustin Hoffman, the agility of a ballerina, or the face of an adult, but Google some paintings of the Madonna and the Christ child, and you'll see that medieval artists had some weird perceptions of the typical baby.  

Wednesday night we went back to Sam's; the coffeeshop/bar that's right down the street from our house.  I'm actually not quite sure what the actual name of the bar is exactly, but it's easier just to call it Sam's.  We discovered the place on Monday and yet I already feel like a regular there.  On our way home we'll pop in just to say hi to Sam and Alessandro, or stop in for a coffee or a glass of wine before going out, and it's nice to have a little place that feels so homey.  When I think of Sam's, I think of that feeling when  sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name...and they're always glad you came.  You wanna be where you can see our troubles are all the same.  You wanna be where everybody knows your name...you know what I mean, right?  Anyway, Alessandro, Sam, and another girl who works there, Orsina, all wear funky varieties of glasses: Alessandro's are similar to that of Waldo's (main character of the popular series Where's Waldo), Orsina's are oversized Ray-Bans, and Sam's change daily depending on his mood.  I actually haven't seen him in the same pair twice.   Alessandro likes to ask me where I'm from so that I answer "California."  Inevitably follows the question, "Ma perche' non sei bionda?"; "But then how come you're not blonde?"  It hasn't gotten old yet, but he's pushing it.  

Anyways, we went in there Wednesday to watch a band called Musica per i Bambini, who hung a large tarp from the ceiling with holes cut out in the middle of it.  They stood behind the tarp and stuck their head through the holes as they played, so we immediately knew we were in for an interesting show.  After each song, two of the band members would come out and perform little skits in which one of the band members seemed to be playing two roles.  I tried to follow the skit as best I could, and I congratulated myself on how well I was comprehending the story of the little boy who was visiting his grandparents, played by one band member who alternated playing the roles of the kind grandmother and the cranky grandfather.  However, when Sam came over to clarify what was going on, he explained that the character I thought was a little boy was in fact supposed to be an insane person, and the band member who played the two roles was actually depicting an angel and a devil.  The whole concert was about the man's struggle between giving into or resisting sin and temptation.  So much for my excellent comprehension.

Thursday there was a  trip to the archaeological museum near our school.  A group of my schoolmates were going, and I didn't want to miss out on the educational experience.  However, as my eyes glazed over gazing at the endless rooms of ancient pottery, I realized that just because Florence is exciting does not mean that its archaeological museums will be.  Lesson learned.

Thursday night was incredibly monumental for me: for the first time in my life, I cooked myself pasta.  Those of you that are reading this blog know that cooking is not exactly one of my strong points.  Cooking is such a mysterious and foreign art form to me, and it never ceases to amaze me how, when I cook for myself, the food seems to go from raw to cooked to burnt so quickly.  So my trials and tribulations of the cooking of the pasta will not surprise you at all.  With a bit of coaching by my roommates, I found all the necessary pots and pans and began boiling the water.  When it came time to dump in the noodles, I somehow spilled half the box all over the stove and countertop.   I hastily grabbed the dried noodles and stuffed them back in the box and went on stirring my pasta.  We have a gas stove though, and I quickly realized that a few of the dried noodles had found their way under the pot, into the flame, and then proceeded to catch on fire. I managed to turn off the stove and fling the flaming noodles into the sink, thus averting disaster.  The happy ending of the story is that the rest of my pasta-boiling went on without a hitch, and I enjoyed delicious spaghetti for dinner that night and the leftovers the next day at lunch.  The pasta-making incident was followed by a fun evening at a much more local bar with some friends from class and a few of their Italian roommates.  

Friday in class I realized that school is going to be a bit harder than I thought.  Italian can be challenging for me, but in the past Italian classes I've taken, I've usually felt pretty on top of things.  However, our teacher for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Giulia, seems to be on some kind of mission to cram in as much grammar as possible into our heads in the few hours she has with us.  She hands us out worksheet after worksheet and doesn't pause for questions in between.  I much prefer the teaching style of our teacher on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Michaela, whose job it is to focus on conversation and culture and is always encouraging us at our pausa, or break, to fate venti minuti e prendete un buon caffe'!; "take twenty minutes and enjoy a good cup of coffee!"  This is a sharp contrasts to Giulia's five-minute pausa in which she comes downstairs to reign us back in if we've accidentally taken a five-minute-and-thirty-second pausa.  Despite her strictness, Giulia flashes a lot of warm smiles throughout class.  However,  we're not sure if it's because she's unaware of how difficult her class is and thinks she's being nice or if she's purely sadistic.  But with a bit of extra studying, I think I'll be able to keep up with her hectic teaching style.  I don't know if I can say the same for the optional cultural lessons that take place after our language classes, though.  Taught completely in Italian, they're hard to follow because it requires so much concentration on my part to hang on the professor's every word.  However, when my classmate Julian (pronounced HOO-li-an) and I aren't playing tic-tac-toe during the lecture, I can actually comprehend more than I give myself credit for.  So with each lesson, either my comprehension or my tic-tac-toe skills will improve.  I see it as a win-win situation.

Before I talk about Friday afternoon, I'd like to talk about my attitude towards the infamous luggage situation.  I congratulated myself on being able to take such a Zen-like approach to the matter.  Although it was a huge annoyance at first, by the middle of this week I had resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to come.  Thus, I could either moan over my lost wardrobe and make myself miserable, or remind myself that clothes are replaceable and not let one little inconvenience ruin my experience.  Why place so much value on material goods?  I'm in a city I love having an experience of a lifetime; material items like clothing are purely minute details.  I felt good about being able to rise above such superficiality.  

Yeah, right.  When I got the call on Friday afternoon that my luggage had come, I think my excited scream rendered the airport employee on the other line deaf in one ear.  So much for my Zen-like attitude.  I promptly sprinted down the four flights of stairs to meet the employee at the door of my apartment, ecstatic to have my superficial, replaceable, material goods in my hot little hands.

Lost in Translation Moments, Part II.

A classmate baked some torta, or cake, the other day in class.  She offered me a piece, and I complimented her on her cooking.  "Sei una buona cucina!" I proclaimed loudly and enthusiastically, thinking I had just told her she was an excellent cook.  She stared back at me, confused.  It wasn't until I walked away that another classmate kindly informed me that I had just told her she was an excellent kitchen.  Guess I'll need to clarify things for her on Monday.

Don't forget, tutti, tomorrow is the day of birth of two very important men of my life: my brother, Timothy Lynch Doyle, who will be turning 22, and my father, John Anthony Doyle, who will be 52.  I don't want to hear about any of you forgetting to call them! 

It's now Saturday and life is pretty darn good.  I had a fun night out with my roommates and classmates last night, we went to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens followed by lunch with the girls in my group today, and tomorrow our class goes on a trip to Perugia, a little town in the countryside outside of Assisi.  Lots has happened, lots to come.  Like the McDonald's sign down the street from our apartment says, "I'm lovin' it!"

Auguri e cent'anni,

Caity

  

Saluti a tutti!  This blog entry is short yet incredibly sweet; I promise I'll write a longer one sometime this weekend.  I would write it now, but it's just because I'm so busy unpacking my suitcase that I simply don't have time to write a detailed one.  

Oh I'm sorry, I forgot to mention that my luggage arrived!!!!!!! :) :) :) :)

More to come later...Stay tuned!

Love, Caity

Whoops; meant to post my new mailing address.  Here it is!

Caitlin Doyle

c/o Centro di Cultura per Stranieri

Via Francesco Valori 9

50132, Firenze, ITALIA

C'e il sole a Firenze!  Everyone, the sun is shining here in Florence and I couldn't be happier.  Today I was actually able to venture outside without my black winter coat, so that was really exciting.  In honor of the sun gracing us with its presence, on Sunday some of us went outside and walked around.  We walked down the Arno and then went all the way up this hill (Grandma, have you been walking??? I want you to see this when you come!) to a lookout point that overlooks the entire city.  I know I'm an English and Creative Writing major, but I feel like any description I try to write will pale in comparison to the pictures I took.  But rest assured, the view is absolutely breathtaking, possibly because of the uphill hike to get there, but for romantic reasons let's say it's because it was so beautiful.  

When we got to the top, we sat down on the large set of stairs they have that overlooks the city to eat lunch.  While sitting, we were approached by a man with a half-full bottle (not half-empty; it's the optimist in me) of beer in one hand and a cigarette dangling from the other.  He was probably in his mid-fifties, with medium length blonde hair, grayish-blonde stubble, and yellow teeth.  "You ladies sound like you're American," he said.  "I'm an expatriate, been in Florence for four years and I'm returning to the states soon.  What can you tell me about what's going on?"  And of course, he makes himself quite comfortable next to me.  We chatted for awhile about the economy, gas prices, the war, and Obama (which he pronounced O-BAM-a, not O-BAH-ma).  After we had covered the basics, he started talking to me about his life.  I soon realized that this man was a combination of very drunk and slightly insane.  I don't know why eccentric people always seem to approach ME, but for some reason they do.  This expatriate named Peter was one of those people who could talk for hours, and all he needed was a slight nod of the head from me as a cue to talk for another 10 minutes straight.  Yet I was intrigued, so I didn't excuse myself right away.

He talked to me about Florentine history, and as he educated me he would laugh at very inappropriate times.  For instance, he was telling me about a monastery that had been around since the time of "William," he said, "...the Conquerer!"  And then he threw his head back and laughed explosively in a the very phlegm-filled laugh of a heavy smoker.  Except the laugh would last for about two seconds before he would abruptly stop laughing and look back at me, straight-faced.  He talked about his wife, who didn't want him to learn Italian because she didn't want him to run off with another Italian woman.  His wife's family was royalty, he said, and her mother had an inheritance that they were after.  But his wife's sister was preventing his wife from seeing her mother somehow, so his wife had sent Peter out that day to go kill her sister.  

"Peter," I said, "You shouldn't kill her sister."

He paused for a minute, looking out into the distance.  "Nah," he said, "I'm not going to."

He then went on to tell me about how they were moving to the States because he had just made this incredible invention that was going to make him loads and loads of money.  It was an incredible idea, and no one had ever thought of it before.  "What's the invention?"  I asked.  Peter didn't have an answer.  He looked at me for awhile and said, "Concrete.  Concrete that will withstand nuclear attacks."  I felt better knowing that if nuclear war ever broke out, any survivors would be able to use Peter's concrete in future reconstruction.  He also told me about a sculpture he wanted to make before he moved back to the States.  It sounded very strange and very complicated.  "You should make it," I said.  "I tried," Peter replied.  "But my wife destroyed it.  She's jealous, you know.  Jealous of my artistic ability."  He laughed maniacally for two seconds, and then stopped.  

When we were ready to leave, I told him it was nice to meet him, and good luck with everything.  "Sorry to be so depressing," he said.  "It was very nice talking to you.  What's your name?"  

"Caity," I replied, reaching out to shake his extended hand.

"Caity," he repeated.  "My sister's name is Caity.  I hate my sister."  And then he dropped my hand, waved, and looked back out into the distance.  

So there was that interesting encounter.  Monday we had class, and although the class itself isn't easy, I really like all the people in my class.  We all get coffee together during our breaks and are kind of forced to speak to each other in Italian, for it's our common language.  I'm pretty sure we sound like cavemen when we talk to each other, but the point is to practice, right?  "Where you from?"  "You like Florence?"  "Me like Florence.  City is nice.  Am happy be here."

Monday afternoon I went shopping on AirFrance's dime and bought some basics; jeans and sweaters.  I feel a lot better not being completely dependent on my roommates for clothing.  Later that evening, getting a little tired of pasta, salad and bread for dinner, we decided to go out to dinner.  We were going to go to this Greek place we had heard was pretty good, but it was strangely closing early that night, so we decided to go to this Chinese place down the street.  Word to the wise: do not go to Italy to eat Chinese food.  The chicken was slightly questionable, and the seemingly kind owner totally gypped us.  As we ordered, she asked us if we wanted steamed rice with our meals.  "Does it cost extra?"  I asked her.  "No," she replied, "no extra cost!"  So why not?  We got the steamed rice.  Well, when the bill came it turned out they DO charge extra for the steamed rice, and even after much protesting on our part, she would not admit to telling us 30 minutes prior that it was in fact free.  We grudgingly paid (in EXACT change, mind you, not one extra cent for a tip) and walked out, angry yet wiser after our first time being bamboozled.

But after that our night improved greatly.  There's this bar down the street from our house that's always filled with people, and we always want to stop in when we pass by, so last night seemed like the perfect night to do so.  (Keep in mind, "bar" does not necessarily mean "pub" here as it does in the U.S.  You can order a drink there, but they're also for coffee, pastries, etc.  So when I write about all my ducking into various bars, don't think that I'm becoming a raging alcoholic.)  We went inside and ended up having a great time.  The bartenders, Sam and Alessandro, were extremely funny and nice and talked to us in Italian, teaching us new words and correcting our mistakes.  We met some American students and some really nice Italian guys.  They were the first group of Italian guys who didn't creep me out completely.  They actually talked to us like human beings, not pieces of meat, which was incredibly refreshing!  I think we've found a fun new hangout.

Had school again today, which was pretty fun.  Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are grammar lessons and Tuesdays and Thursdays are conversation days.  So Tuesdays and Thursdays are by far superior to M, W, F.  It's hard speaking in Italian for an entire class period, but I think it'll get easier as each day goes by.  I noticed myself actually thinking in Italian today...that was pretty exciting!

As many of you know, I really enjoy running.  I go for runs almost every day at home; it relaxes me and clears my mind.  I packed running shoes in my luggage but obviously they are unobtainable at the moment.  (Of course I had bought a brand new pair two days before the trip, but such is Murphy's law.)  Not having been able to run for almost a week and a half, I've been itching to get out and stretch my legs.  We actually get in a lot of exercise just by walking here, but it's not quite the same.  With the help of my roommates I was able to deck myself out in running gear and shoes, and off I went.  I went all the way down along the Arno on this dirt path that led out of the city.  It was SO peaceful.  It was quiet and calming, and in the distance you could see the Tuscan hills and all the little yellow houses scattered among the mountains.  I was kind of like a mosquito drawn to a light, running towards those hills, but then I snapped back to reality and realized it was probably time to turn around so that I won't have blisters the size of quarters on my feet tomorrow.  Maybe by the end of the trip I'll make it all the way to those hills, climb up the cobblestone pathways to one of the bright yellow houses, knock on the door, and be invited inside by a kind Italian nonna for a steaming plate of gnocchi for dinner.  Maybe :)

Signs of Cultural Immersion, Part I.

1. Upon seeing a Range Rover this morning, my friend Sarah and I commented on the ridiculousness of having such a colossal car.  We looked at each other and realized that about every other car in the States is the size of a Range Rover or bigger.  

OK everyone, I'm all blogged out.  Tonight a very important event is taking place.  On Tuesday nights at a club here called Red Garter, they have beer pong tournaments.  Some of the Brazilian and Japanese kids in my class have never heard of that great American sport,  so some of the American students have taken it upon themselves to introduce them to the game.  Don't worry, I know...everything in moderation!

Vi voglio bene, e io sento i vuoi mancanzi!  (Miss you and love you all!)

Love,

Caity

Saluti a tutti!  Okay everyone, hold your breaths, because I have some news about the status of my luggage!  I am about to tell you the status of said luggage, and my luggage is...

Still not here.

I'm sorry.  That was a cruel trick.  But you should have seen the look on your face!

On a serious note, unfortunately my luggage has not yet arrived.  My heart skips a beat each time my phone rings (the airport said they'd call when it arrived), but alas, I have not yet received that blessed phone call.  The good news is that AirFrance is giving me 100 euro for the first 21 days that I'm here without my luggage so I don't run out of underwear, and if I don't receive it at the end of 21 days they reimburse me for everything.  Yesterday I began to dwell a bit on my unfortunate situation and almost threw myself a pity party.  But eventually I calmed down and reminded myself that everything in that suitcase is replaceable.  Sure, it's a bummer not to have my clothes, but those are replaceable.  I have my computer.  I have my books.  I have my pictures of loved ones.  I have my warm winter jacket, and in the words of Grandma Elise, "most importantly: my health."  The other girls on the trip have been kind enough to lend me their clothes while I get this whole issue sorted out, so what's the big deal?  If it comes, great; if not, it's not the end of the world.  It really doesn't matter if it comes or not.  (Eh, who am I kidding?  Of course it matters if it comes!)

Now, on to the important things in life.  Friday night was fun; we made a big dinner together at the other girls' apartment with Chiara.  Then we met up with some of my American classmates and enjoyed a little night on the town.  We might have enjoyed it a bit too much though, because one wouldn't have heard the rustling of little feet in our apartment until about 1 p.m.  When I finally arose from the grave and opened my shutters, I saw that the sun was shining!  Our first sunny day in Florence!  My roommates and I decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather and walk around.  We went into Florence's equivalent of a farmer's market, which had assorted varieties of fruits, vegetables, meats, and cheeses.  And when I say an assorted variety, I mean an incredibly assorted variety, as in parts of the cow you never would have dreamed of using.  Long folds of hairy, blanket-like cow stomach lay in the display cases, along with kidneys, and, ahem, bull testicles.  I want to experience Italian culture while I'm here, but perhaps not that aspect of it.

We grabbed some pizza for lunch, and, we were told, the best hot chocolate in Florence for dessert.  It was incredibly thick and rich, and as it slid down my throat I felt like I was drinking chocolate syrup.  After about a half a cup I felt like I never wanted to look at another piece of chocolate again.  We walked for awhile after finishing them, which helped clear that sickening headache and stomachache that inevitably follows the consumption of too much sugar.  Was it worth it?  Absolutely.

My roommates and I then ventured out onto a bus to go to the grocery store to stock up on staples so we don't go broke eating out here.  The fun thing about being in a foreign country is that even the most mundane activities, such as grocery shopping, feel like grand adventures.  Perhaps it's the novelty of living in a new city, or the rush of adrenaline you feel when you realize you're not quite sure which bus stop is the one at which you need to get off.  Wherever that feeling comes from, all I know is that it feels incredibly exciting to do the incredibly boring.  Going to school, running errands, getting lost...it's all part of the ride.

Lost in Translation Moments, Part I.  

1. In English, asking someone to take a picture means the same thing as asking someone to take a photograph.  Thus, I asked a kind Italian man if he would please "fa una pittura," or take a picture.  However, to "fa una pittura" in Italian does not mean to take a picture, but  to take a painting, and the poor man looked utterly confounded and kept repeating, "una pittura?  Una pittura?"  Finally, he said, "Una fotografia?"  I stared blankly back at him for a second and realized my mistake.  "Si," I sighed.  "Una fotografia."

2. When purchasing my hot chocolate today, I confidently walked up to the counter and ordered one hot chocolate at the bar without whipped cream, please.  Words I've studied since my freshman year in high school; piece of cake.  The correct way of saying this would have been: "Una cioccolata calda al bar senza panna, per favore."  I said, "Una cioccolata calda al bar senza pane, per favore."  To the untrained American ear, it sounds right.  However, the difference between "panna" and "pane" is huge to an Italian, for instead of ordering a hot chocolate without whipped cream, I ended up ordering a hot chocolate without bread.  Luckily the barista had the good humor to laugh at me and gently correct my mistake.  "Si," I sighed.  "Senza panna."

Can't seem to post pictures online except for on Facebook.  You guys will have to have Kelly show you them until I get back; sorry. Also, if you want to send mail, it now has to be sent to a different address.  I'll find it out tomorrow!

Vi voglio bene e ciao per addesso!

Love, Caity

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