I could keep today in a tiny Italian leather box...not that Italians all have tiny leather boxes, but this particular box holds a memory with a Mediterranean simplicity that I want to cherish. Well, first I had class and we learned "verbi condizionale." I missed yesterday because I was sick so I caught up somewhat. Afterward I went with Sus and Marie (girls from ACM) to a pizza place in a piazza that I pass on the way to school. I've eaten there twice before--it has good prices and the waiter and cook are very nice. It's local which I like too! Are lunch was eaten at a leisurely pace.
And it was good! Mmmmmm simple spaghetti alla carattiera. Tomato, garlic, pepper. Delicious! After lunch Sus and I shopped. She got a leather jacket (the guy at the market started at 350 and went down to 125!) Then she found some boots--we walked everywhere, practically every shoe store because we wanted to know what our options were). I found someting directly in front of her boot store: black leather ankle boots, simple and chic with a wide (but sleek) heel. I love them. I was dancing in them in the street! They're "lavorazione artigiana" which means artisan--hand made! They were a little tight so the shop owner fixed them for me. No additional price. I got them for 59 euro! I'm satisfied.
Then Sus went home and I went to Piazza Santa Croce where there was A CHOCOLATE FAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!! Mmmmmm yup, bought me (and my family) some chocolate. It was mm-mm good too--they love "al fondente" here, which is DARK. I bought 90% dark the other day at the supermarket but I can't eat it because it's too bitter.
Dinner tonight was simple too but in a lovely arduous way. Elisabetta made me homemade minestrone soup with vegetables because I'm sick. And we has cooked spinach and cheese and french fries (they love potatoes here too!) We also ate something like a croqueta.
What I enjoyed most though, was, that after discussing femminism and the differences with the United States and Italia and the similarities between Puerto Rico and Italia--which we usually discuss after dinner while watching tv--we watched the Devil Wears Prada IN ITALIAN: Il Diavolo Veste Prada! It was great because I knw the film well enough to understand. And Chiara, my host sister, invited me to watch Benjamin Button in Italian at the theatre with her! I'm excited even though I may not understand it. I'll watch. I felt part of the family.
And I watched too. Usually, during dinner I've noticed, Piero usually cooks and Elisabetta or Chiara will pick up the dishes from the table (so will I). Today, since Elisabetta cooked I saw Piero get the dishes. And it just flowed--it wasn't forced or discussed. Everybody takes part during dinnertime. They function like a team, taking turns to lead and serve. Dinner is very important here. Chiara's 22 and she usually only misses 2-3 dinners a week.
And I realized, I don't really do that with my family back home. It's not natural to us because it's not habit, but also because I'm young and want to be with friends. But that dynamic, that special meeting place at the table is something I admire and want to take with me in my little leather box. To my family, current and future. It's so refreshing. It's not convenient--table cloths are used and silverware and nice plates. But it's habit so it just fits and flows. Simple.
jueves, 22 de enero de 2009
martes, 20 de enero de 2009
Post Script
P.S. I cried (later thought...alone)... Not because of Obama but because I felt like shit.
Can We?
I have never felt so independentista in my life! As everybody knows, it's inauguration day, and I woke up sick (like literally, I’ve had a chest cold all day). Last night I was excited, even though I couldn't vote and don't know who I'd support if I was a voting residential United States citizen. I don't think I'm meant to vote for the US... because tonight has been an offensively inspirational night.
A whole bunch of ACM girls and I went to Janet's (the Florence coordinator's) house for dinner to watch the speech (we're six hours ahead). I was the only one to bring a computer to watch it in English instead of dubbed Italian, which surprised me because I haven't really been into the whole campaign/politics thing. The girls joked, "Man, she brought a computer and she's not even an American citizen."
"Yes I am. I have a US passport; I just can't vote." "Ohhh..." was the only reply. So we watched together and someone even cried. It was a mindful speech. HOWEVER, what's the point of slogans and patriotic songs if the hearts of voting citizens are cold and accepting of the abusively advantageous way the US has behaved itself toward Puerto Rico.
I spoke to someone tonight, someone extremely intelligent, someone who told me something I needed to hear, that made me question what's so great about being an American???? I've encountered such a prominent attitude of America being the best which can bother me but really, it just falls so naturally into patriotism. Italians think they're the best too--actually they even go further to say Firenze better than Roma, but of course Roma disagrees, and Milan's better, etcetera etcetera. And it made me realize, honestly, deep down inside us, Puerto Ricans don't think they're best. We know what we're proud of: our land--our diverse landscape and out dependable weather, our culture, Viejo San Juan, our women, our power to choose what we are: a hybrid of Spain, Africa, Taino, and American.
I've always identified myself as la gringa boricua... but we need our own identity. Not a mold or stereotype but faith in our own selves, independent from the comfort of the US to know that we're not second class. The girls at the table agreed with me that that's how we're treated. "So explain this to us, Caroline, because sometimes you make it sound like you're super proud to be from Puerto Rico and not the US but when we said you weren't an American citizen you got offended."
I was offended because Americans don't know our history and they've "owned" us for 100 years. They know more about ancient Greece and the Middle East than about their own “property”—an element of their story. "Why should we know?" one girl asked me...
We got in a somewhat heated debate about Puerto Rico and how the US has made it dependent economically and that our situation is very particular because at times we want to identify with the US but we don't have full rights to really show that pride and so we're torn. "So make a revolution. Do something about it. Governments are always going to do what suits them, that's human nature. People don't care. They’re not going to change…" was the basic idea that I saw expressed (don’t mean to paint her unjustly, because she had good points…)
"But what's the point of studying history if we don't learn from our mistakes and change the (imperialist) way we interact with other countries."
Basically, in a more respectful way, she expressed that the US is the most powerful country in the world so why should it have to do anything other than what it feels like doing?
"Since it has the power, it has the ability to use a country or help it."
"But why would it?"
We ended the discussion agreeing to disagree--actually, she ended the discussion by saying "I get what you're saying I just completely disagree. It's a teenager parent situation--you blame us but you want our money."
It's true. It's more convenient to stay with the US. But what's better? I started thinking about her question--why don't you just do something. And I think it's because we don't think we can. We have done this to ourselves and so has the US...we've gotten accustomed to thinking we're not strong enough to be our own country. Part of me doesn't know if we are. But part of me is tired of fighting for the US and accepting its modern form of stewardship, knowing that we're an accessory.
I can't believe today, a day when someone who 60 years ago would not have been able to eat at certain restaurants or shit on certain toilets, Barack Obama became the president. The US thinks it's the shit because a) it is progressive and b) it is wealthy. But it's not humble. That's our problem (and virtue)...PR thinks it's shit...a shitty paradise (excuse my French).
Why can't our educators be better? Why can't our schools prepare students in the hopes that they can build the country up? I have this fear that independently we'd imitate Panama but part of me knows we have to try. Why do we accept being second class? Why shouldn't we have rights to at least vote on important topics and issues? Why isn't there a political compromise of power instead of our total surrender--we sell ourselves short.
I don't know if I want to be a part of a country that votes for a man of hope and still finds old habits of imperialism and self-righteous entitlement acceptable. But I know I don't want to be part of a country who doesn't believe in itself independently at all. We're not our own entity, and that's why I know I can't take this conversation personally--I can't be mad at this person for making me recognize reality. The question is, what will I do about it?
I've always wanted to escape both places and not have to choose a side. That's partially why I'm in Europe, because here, I can just be foreign without it being a complex issue. I'm automatically an outsider, instead of ambiguously a part of the USA. I can confidently stumble in my Italian, instead of ramble in English with my "exotic" Puerto Rican accent, or more importantly struggle in my "native" island's tongue.
I almost think the question isn't CAN WE DO THIS? Can we demand rights or independence--can we respect ourselves, can we prefer ourselves instead of considering the US constantly higher. The question is, will we?
A whole bunch of ACM girls and I went to Janet's (the Florence coordinator's) house for dinner to watch the speech (we're six hours ahead). I was the only one to bring a computer to watch it in English instead of dubbed Italian, which surprised me because I haven't really been into the whole campaign/politics thing. The girls joked, "Man, she brought a computer and she's not even an American citizen."
"Yes I am. I have a US passport; I just can't vote." "Ohhh..." was the only reply. So we watched together and someone even cried. It was a mindful speech. HOWEVER, what's the point of slogans and patriotic songs if the hearts of voting citizens are cold and accepting of the abusively advantageous way the US has behaved itself toward Puerto Rico.
I spoke to someone tonight, someone extremely intelligent, someone who told me something I needed to hear, that made me question what's so great about being an American???? I've encountered such a prominent attitude of America being the best which can bother me but really, it just falls so naturally into patriotism. Italians think they're the best too--actually they even go further to say Firenze better than Roma, but of course Roma disagrees, and Milan's better, etcetera etcetera. And it made me realize, honestly, deep down inside us, Puerto Ricans don't think they're best. We know what we're proud of: our land--our diverse landscape and out dependable weather, our culture, Viejo San Juan, our women, our power to choose what we are: a hybrid of Spain, Africa, Taino, and American.
I've always identified myself as la gringa boricua... but we need our own identity. Not a mold or stereotype but faith in our own selves, independent from the comfort of the US to know that we're not second class. The girls at the table agreed with me that that's how we're treated. "So explain this to us, Caroline, because sometimes you make it sound like you're super proud to be from Puerto Rico and not the US but when we said you weren't an American citizen you got offended."
I was offended because Americans don't know our history and they've "owned" us for 100 years. They know more about ancient Greece and the Middle East than about their own “property”—an element of their story. "Why should we know?" one girl asked me...
We got in a somewhat heated debate about Puerto Rico and how the US has made it dependent economically and that our situation is very particular because at times we want to identify with the US but we don't have full rights to really show that pride and so we're torn. "So make a revolution. Do something about it. Governments are always going to do what suits them, that's human nature. People don't care. They’re not going to change…" was the basic idea that I saw expressed (don’t mean to paint her unjustly, because she had good points…)
"But what's the point of studying history if we don't learn from our mistakes and change the (imperialist) way we interact with other countries."
Basically, in a more respectful way, she expressed that the US is the most powerful country in the world so why should it have to do anything other than what it feels like doing?
"Since it has the power, it has the ability to use a country or help it."
"But why would it?"
We ended the discussion agreeing to disagree--actually, she ended the discussion by saying "I get what you're saying I just completely disagree. It's a teenager parent situation--you blame us but you want our money."
It's true. It's more convenient to stay with the US. But what's better? I started thinking about her question--why don't you just do something. And I think it's because we don't think we can. We have done this to ourselves and so has the US...we've gotten accustomed to thinking we're not strong enough to be our own country. Part of me doesn't know if we are. But part of me is tired of fighting for the US and accepting its modern form of stewardship, knowing that we're an accessory.
I can't believe today, a day when someone who 60 years ago would not have been able to eat at certain restaurants or shit on certain toilets, Barack Obama became the president. The US thinks it's the shit because a) it is progressive and b) it is wealthy. But it's not humble. That's our problem (and virtue)...PR thinks it's shit...a shitty paradise (excuse my French).
Why can't our educators be better? Why can't our schools prepare students in the hopes that they can build the country up? I have this fear that independently we'd imitate Panama but part of me knows we have to try. Why do we accept being second class? Why shouldn't we have rights to at least vote on important topics and issues? Why isn't there a political compromise of power instead of our total surrender--we sell ourselves short.
I don't know if I want to be a part of a country that votes for a man of hope and still finds old habits of imperialism and self-righteous entitlement acceptable. But I know I don't want to be part of a country who doesn't believe in itself independently at all. We're not our own entity, and that's why I know I can't take this conversation personally--I can't be mad at this person for making me recognize reality. The question is, what will I do about it?
I've always wanted to escape both places and not have to choose a side. That's partially why I'm in Europe, because here, I can just be foreign without it being a complex issue. I'm automatically an outsider, instead of ambiguously a part of the USA. I can confidently stumble in my Italian, instead of ramble in English with my "exotic" Puerto Rican accent, or more importantly struggle in my "native" island's tongue.
I almost think the question isn't CAN WE DO THIS? Can we demand rights or independence--can we respect ourselves, can we prefer ourselves instead of considering the US constantly higher. The question is, will we?
viernes, 16 de enero de 2009
Going Every Which-a-way....
Only here would an outlet mall consist of Balenciaga, Alexander McQueen, Stella McCartney, Valentino, La Perla, Gucci, Pucci, Burberry, Armani Jeans, Emporio Armani, Sergio Rosso, Fendi, and Yohji Yamamoto. At first I was ecstatic, practically drooling all over myself--partly because the bus ride over (that went up Tuscan hills that revealed the native Alps and cyprus trees) made me naseous but--mostly because I couldn't believe I was going to touch these clothes. I went from store to store, taking my time to really decide what I wanted. Javi would die. I pictured myself returning home with some McQueens so Javi and I could jump up and down in them (we'd take turns wearing them, of course).
How fabulous I would feel--well, at least I'd know I was wearing something fierce because, actually, although the fabrics are divine the clothes and shoes aren't especially comfortable. I thought I found the pair I wanted (and could afford) at Sergio's. They were black little witch shoes--kind of like ankle boots circa the Salem witch trials... I asked my roommate Laura for advice. "They're aweseome." And the "maseta" (cheapo) inside me confessed, "I've seen something like them in the market though." The market of San Lorenzo has them for 30 euros as opposed to these, that were 145... "Honestly, take the market ones, because these are a fad shoe." My spirit dropped. She had a point though and cheap little me knew it. So...I kept walking around more and more disheartened. What will I tell Javi when I come back empty handed?
I glared at my red H&M pants and my Zara striped sweater and my flat Mephisto boots, and felt plain. Less fabulous than all that surrounded me. But I kept looking around. I went into an outlet boutique and tried on a neon olive Stella McCartney. It was gorgeous--I looked like a hot Renaissance painter with a really expensive silk smock. 88 euros. I couldn't. I knew before I put it on that I wouldn't buy it. I lied to the lady working there and said it was too big. I was sure the only other blouse was the same size--42 (European size). She found me a 40. I tried it on out of guilt. I lied again "Ancora, grande." I left the store and started reasoning with myself. I don't need these things to feel fabulous. Why aren't I just pleased with myself? Why do I want Valentino or Alexander--just to say I own them? The bus wouldn't arrive for another hour. I almost went to the café to write but saw Diesel across the street. I went there, telling myself to turn away immediately, that this was ridiculous, that fashion is uselessly and painfully elitist, and I went in. And I liked it. It was simple-wool sweaters, great sales. Fifty percent off. I found a black smock somewhat like Stella's. It was a sxx but it fit! I had to buy it. And I got one more 100% virgin wool sweater (whatever that means). Textiles in Florence, definitely the thing to get. I asked the cashier lady if the designer of diesel was American because the style looked very AE. She said "Italiano, disegnado qui e fatto in Italia." YAAY! Perfetto! I actually got something Italian. And spent more money than I should've but I think it'll be okay. I might get boots and a hat in the market but then I'm STOPPING. I think. I should. Sales end in February.
How fabulous I would feel--well, at least I'd know I was wearing something fierce because, actually, although the fabrics are divine the clothes and shoes aren't especially comfortable. I thought I found the pair I wanted (and could afford) at Sergio's. They were black little witch shoes--kind of like ankle boots circa the Salem witch trials... I asked my roommate Laura for advice. "They're aweseome." And the "maseta" (cheapo) inside me confessed, "I've seen something like them in the market though." The market of San Lorenzo has them for 30 euros as opposed to these, that were 145... "Honestly, take the market ones, because these are a fad shoe." My spirit dropped. She had a point though and cheap little me knew it. So...I kept walking around more and more disheartened. What will I tell Javi when I come back empty handed?
I glared at my red H&M pants and my Zara striped sweater and my flat Mephisto boots, and felt plain. Less fabulous than all that surrounded me. But I kept looking around. I went into an outlet boutique and tried on a neon olive Stella McCartney. It was gorgeous--I looked like a hot Renaissance painter with a really expensive silk smock. 88 euros. I couldn't. I knew before I put it on that I wouldn't buy it. I lied to the lady working there and said it was too big. I was sure the only other blouse was the same size--42 (European size). She found me a 40. I tried it on out of guilt. I lied again "Ancora, grande." I left the store and started reasoning with myself. I don't need these things to feel fabulous. Why aren't I just pleased with myself? Why do I want Valentino or Alexander--just to say I own them? The bus wouldn't arrive for another hour. I almost went to the café to write but saw Diesel across the street. I went there, telling myself to turn away immediately, that this was ridiculous, that fashion is uselessly and painfully elitist, and I went in. And I liked it. It was simple-wool sweaters, great sales. Fifty percent off. I found a black smock somewhat like Stella's. It was a sxx but it fit! I had to buy it. And I got one more 100% virgin wool sweater (whatever that means). Textiles in Florence, definitely the thing to get. I asked the cashier lady if the designer of diesel was American because the style looked very AE. She said "Italiano, disegnado qui e fatto in Italia." YAAY! Perfetto! I actually got something Italian. And spent more money than I should've but I think it'll be okay. I might get boots and a hat in the market but then I'm STOPPING. I think. I should. Sales end in February.
Missing
Okay, I have some confessions.... I MISS KNOX! Ahhhhh...but I love it here. It's Italy. Everything I've dreamed of. Beautiful sunsets, Ponte Vecchio. Italian class. But I miss my quasi Knox hippies. Just the laid back feeling and stressed out mode of getting things done combined = wonderfulness. But God provides! The other day I wadered with Evan Holmes, a fellow Prairie Fire and ACM student and we just walked and talked about Italy and the Sabbath. Many Italians are choosing to stay home and rest instead of attending church, so I asked Evan what he thought about that, and then we just talked about resting and how good it is to enjoy that extra day to relax, but we also discussed the difference between designated "Christian" things and personal enjoyment of God's glory.
Secular songs, secular art, and just simple things in an ordinary day can be enjoyed spiritually--just as much or even more than a mass-- because through appreciating the ability to create, we can acknowledge our creator. We are made in his image. It just made me enjoy life more. It was refreshing to discuss without an agenda, without worries of getting lost (since we wandering on purpose) and without debate. We just agreed and enjoyed the city. I find that's what I miss most about Knox--understanding through discussion and expression, not altercation and agressive/defensive debate.
I love the way the sun hits the narrow Florentine roads that catch me by surprise as I walk on busy streets. Man-made and nature combined, God's little reminder that he's the inspiration.
Secular songs, secular art, and just simple things in an ordinary day can be enjoyed spiritually--just as much or even more than a mass-- because through appreciating the ability to create, we can acknowledge our creator. We are made in his image. It just made me enjoy life more. It was refreshing to discuss without an agenda, without worries of getting lost (since we wandering on purpose) and without debate. We just agreed and enjoyed the city. I find that's what I miss most about Knox--understanding through discussion and expression, not altercation and agressive/defensive debate.
I love the way the sun hits the narrow Florentine roads that catch me by surprise as I walk on busy streets. Man-made and nature combined, God's little reminder that he's the inspiration.
viernes, 9 de enero de 2009
The Old with the New and Foreign and Blu
I'm home, with my Italian family i Volpi: Elisabetta (la mamma), Piero (the dad), and Chiara (their daughter who's 22 years old)! My roommate, Laura, and I share the top floor of their apartment like a loft. We each have our own room and we share a bathroom. We moved in yesterday and so far dinners have been mmmmmmmmmm, good. The tv is usually on like white noise, but hardly noticeable because we're talking all the time--translating, me asking in Spanish or English for them to teach. We may make plans to go to a play or an operetta; I really think this family suits me because they're actually like my parents. The house is decorated with Victorian and 20s Deco style and the surrounding buildings are very typically European--tall buildings surrounded by trees and stone walls. All of Florence is decorated with Christmas lights, but they'll be going down soon. I have a window that looks out the a straight via (calle/street) where Asian people pass in their vespas and small smart cars drive by. I like it. I tried taking a picture but the reflection of the window's an unavoidable obstacle.
My parents, who've been nearby are leaving tomorrow, and they came to dinner tonight at the Volpi's. My two mammas got along really well as did my two papas who both play golf and enjoy wine. We talked about Puerto Rico and the differences ans similiraties of weather, culture, history, food, taxes, health care; then, I went with Piero to drive my parents back to their hotel. I got out of the car and hugged them; my smile didn't give away the teary eyes I got on the way back. I didn't cry, but I'll miss them. We've been going to the same trattoria everyday. A trattoria is like a family restaurant kind of.... it's cheaper and more local(as in, less tourist-y). I'm glad they came. These past few days have been sooo busy. I honestly don't know how homework can be a priority when it's hardly a possibility--today I had language class from 9-12:30 and after lunch my ACM group had a tour of San Minino. We went to the top of a hill which shows the whole panorama of Florence. Then we went to a Franciscan church and the San Minino church (which I think is Dominican...I should know...) We heard the Dominican monks chant at 5pm. I got home at about 7 and dinner's always at 8 (and lasts till 10:30 or 11 usually; well, at least 2 out of 2 times it has). Experiencing this city with locals, tourists and other students--and even annoying hustlers selling umbrellas on the street--is all I wanted.
I'm in the second level of beginner's Italian, and even though this may sound exaggerated; I find myself thinking in the mind set of Italian--as in, the syntax and cadence, the flow of it, even as I write in English. YAY! Sono piu Italiana--I'm more Italian day by day. Oh, and I've resolved the "stalker" problem, and by this I only mean guys approaching me when I haven't given the slightest permission--I look at the ground when I walk. I love watching people but it's better, for safety's sake, to ignore them. Eye contact with men--especially stranieri (the Volpis call them immigrants in English, but I think extrangeros sounds better) is never a good idea. So yea... I'm safer now. And I need to go do homework. Ciao
My parents, who've been nearby are leaving tomorrow, and they came to dinner tonight at the Volpi's. My two mammas got along really well as did my two papas who both play golf and enjoy wine. We talked about Puerto Rico and the differences ans similiraties of weather, culture, history, food, taxes, health care; then, I went with Piero to drive my parents back to their hotel. I got out of the car and hugged them; my smile didn't give away the teary eyes I got on the way back. I didn't cry, but I'll miss them. We've been going to the same trattoria everyday. A trattoria is like a family restaurant kind of.... it's cheaper and more local(as in, less tourist-y). I'm glad they came. These past few days have been sooo busy. I honestly don't know how homework can be a priority when it's hardly a possibility--today I had language class from 9-12:30 and after lunch my ACM group had a tour of San Minino. We went to the top of a hill which shows the whole panorama of Florence. Then we went to a Franciscan church and the San Minino church (which I think is Dominican...I should know...) We heard the Dominican monks chant at 5pm. I got home at about 7 and dinner's always at 8 (and lasts till 10:30 or 11 usually; well, at least 2 out of 2 times it has). Experiencing this city with locals, tourists and other students--and even annoying hustlers selling umbrellas on the street--is all I wanted.
I'm in the second level of beginner's Italian, and even though this may sound exaggerated; I find myself thinking in the mind set of Italian--as in, the syntax and cadence, the flow of it, even as I write in English. YAY! Sono piu Italiana--I'm more Italian day by day. Oh, and I've resolved the "stalker" problem, and by this I only mean guys approaching me when I haven't given the slightest permission--I look at the ground when I walk. I love watching people but it's better, for safety's sake, to ignore them. Eye contact with men--especially stranieri (the Volpis call them immigrants in English, but I think extrangeros sounds better) is never a good idea. So yea... I'm safer now. And I need to go do homework. Ciao
jueves, 8 de enero de 2009
Muhammed Ali
Alone. At night. Bad idea, but I didn't do it on purpose. I had just arrived to the pensione for dinner and my mother was there waiting for me because my father found some great shoes and I had to see them right away. Of course. We rush to the store that's about to close, see the shoes, decide to wait till the saldi (sales that happen every January in Italy) and leave. Except my parents want to keep shopping--but they were willing to walk me back. "No," I tell them, "keep shopping, I'll be fine. I know where it is." Right. I thought I did, but one wrong turn and pfff.. Lost. But just a little. I kept recognizing certain stores (Roberto Cavalli, Paul & Shark) and some familiar restaurants but I couldn't find the exact via that I needed. Well, this guy starts following me. I thought he was following me and then I thought no he's just in a hurry so he's catching up, then I was like OH crap when he whispered bella in my ear; but, eventually he went another way. Or so I thought because after I went in a different direction--which was the wrong direction because I needed to go the way he went but wanted to avoid him--he was all of a sudden behind me again. I stopped on the sidewalk, let him pass me, and then I turned around and went the way I thought I needed to go.
Then I see this guy walking with his friend. I don't think he's cute. I see their going in another direction. I'm fine. I walk for about four minutes and someone catches up to me, starts walking beside me and asks me things in Italian.
"No, non parlo Italiano."
"Che parli?"
"Spagniolo"
"Oh...Inglese?"
WHY DIDN'T I just LIE AT THIS MOMENT?
"Si." STUPID.
"Where are you from?" he asks.
"Porto Rico."
"Ahh..."
Then he starts telling me his whole life story. He's half-Italian, half-Tunisian. He's a boxer and he's studying in Italy. But he looks kind of old, right? So I ask him (in an attempt to get him off my back), "Quanto anni hai" (How old are you?) To which he replies, "30 anni. E tu?"
"Oh, io ho 20 anni. You're too old for me. Goodbye."
"What? No, no, no. Never say that. "
"Why not? There's 10 years difference, it's too much for me."
"No, in a serious relationship that doesn't matter." So we're in a serious relationship now? NO NO NO!
He then tells me, as if this helps his argument, "My friend (who was way behind us--as to not cock-block I presume, excuse my French) just got married 5 days ago and she's 18, and he's 33." So...why isn't he on his honeymoon??? SHADY
He repeats, "Never say someone's too old. That's stupid. Never, never too old." AAAAAH.
"Plus, my ex-girlfriend was 19," he adds. NOT HELPING, buddy. "It depends on the person," he says.
Yeah, exactly, and this person doesn't want to date you, a 30 year old "boxer." Then he goes on to tell me that I'm big (as in tall) and that I need someone strong: "You like that no? Someone like that. I am a bouncer too and I can get you in to clubs, and in to a gym for a good price." Basically, he's reached the point of bartering with me to go out with him. I tell him I don't need it or want it. He asks me where I'm staying, if I have a cell phone. I say no, even though it's in my pocket.
"I know everyone, I ask the guy in that store over there, I know him well, he'll give me a pen so I can give you my number." I turn to him and say, "Look, this isn't going to happen. I'm not here for a boyfriend, I'm here to study." He says, "Oh that's what you say, but you never know."
I look at him straight in the eye, put my hand out to shake his hand, and say, "I'm not interested. Nice meeting you. Goodbye." He resigns with an "Okay. Sei bellisima."
During our conversation I had been looking around to orient myself and so I did, and then I walked off. I made one more loop around the same similar streets and then finally located the pensione where I ate A DELICIOUS pasta dinner. Mmm.
Oh, and I forgot to say, he told me his name was Muhammed Ali.
A boxer...named Muhammed Ali.
Then I see this guy walking with his friend. I don't think he's cute. I see their going in another direction. I'm fine. I walk for about four minutes and someone catches up to me, starts walking beside me and asks me things in Italian.
"No, non parlo Italiano."
"Che parli?"
"Spagniolo"
"Oh...Inglese?"
WHY DIDN'T I just LIE AT THIS MOMENT?
"Si." STUPID.
"Where are you from?" he asks.
"Porto Rico."
"Ahh..."
Then he starts telling me his whole life story. He's half-Italian, half-Tunisian. He's a boxer and he's studying in Italy. But he looks kind of old, right? So I ask him (in an attempt to get him off my back), "Quanto anni hai" (How old are you?) To which he replies, "30 anni. E tu?"
"Oh, io ho 20 anni. You're too old for me. Goodbye."
"What? No, no, no. Never say that. "
"Why not? There's 10 years difference, it's too much for me."
"No, in a serious relationship that doesn't matter." So we're in a serious relationship now? NO NO NO!
He then tells me, as if this helps his argument, "My friend (who was way behind us--as to not cock-block I presume, excuse my French) just got married 5 days ago and she's 18, and he's 33." So...why isn't he on his honeymoon??? SHADY
He repeats, "Never say someone's too old. That's stupid. Never, never too old." AAAAAH.
"Plus, my ex-girlfriend was 19," he adds. NOT HELPING, buddy. "It depends on the person," he says.
Yeah, exactly, and this person doesn't want to date you, a 30 year old "boxer." Then he goes on to tell me that I'm big (as in tall) and that I need someone strong: "You like that no? Someone like that. I am a bouncer too and I can get you in to clubs, and in to a gym for a good price." Basically, he's reached the point of bartering with me to go out with him. I tell him I don't need it or want it. He asks me where I'm staying, if I have a cell phone. I say no, even though it's in my pocket.
"I know everyone, I ask the guy in that store over there, I know him well, he'll give me a pen so I can give you my number." I turn to him and say, "Look, this isn't going to happen. I'm not here for a boyfriend, I'm here to study." He says, "Oh that's what you say, but you never know."
I look at him straight in the eye, put my hand out to shake his hand, and say, "I'm not interested. Nice meeting you. Goodbye." He resigns with an "Okay. Sei bellisima."
During our conversation I had been looking around to orient myself and so I did, and then I walked off. I made one more loop around the same similar streets and then finally located the pensione where I ate A DELICIOUS pasta dinner. Mmm.
Oh, and I forgot to say, he told me his name was Muhammed Ali.
A boxer...named Muhammed Ali.
sábado, 3 de enero de 2009
jueves, 1 de enero de 2009
Pinched at Midnight
Picture it: Rome, New Year’s Eve 2008. I pulled my mother out of her bed and made her go out with me to the Colosseo. I wore a black dress and plaid stockings that were purple and black with white lining, which didn’t really matter because my huge grey poncho coat covered it, but no matter. It didn’t feel cold as we walked about a mile (maybe more) down to the Coliseum where an artist named Nannini held a free concert. The street was packed but we made our way down, we even got pretty close because my mom hustled through. Everyone was happy (and tipsy) yelling “Auguri, auguri” which is the equivalent of felicidades. We headed out there at about 10 and arrived at about 10:40 and listened to the music we couldn’t really understand or recognize—Italian is not as close to Spanish as I thought, at least not in music. Eventually a DJ played some American tunes and several people started dancing. A group of Norwegian guys in front of us were having a great time, yelling out the few Italian phrases they knew like, “Non parlo molto italiano…auguri, buon anno!” One even mounted a friends shoulders, standing tall to cheer at the crowd like a rockstar—he was drunk but it was harmless.
Others were less undisruptive…These two older black guys were following us. I wouldn’t say they were dangerous, they were just annoying and way too old (one had grey hair). Anyway, one kept pushing my knees with his and I think the other one tried humping my mom a little bit. The crowd was packed, I mean literally sardines, so it’s hard to tell but eventually I bumped one of them away and my mom asked these two Italian gentlemen to protect us, and they did! But, after running away from the first guy, I found myself “safe” in front of a younger one. I would say he was no older than sixteen years old, but my mom thinks he was older because he was way taller than I am. Anyway, so the DJ’s playing music I know. I’m dancing-ONLY SLIGHTLY- thinking, “great this guy behind me is tall, so maybe he’ll block the other guy.” Yeah… So, I’m enjoying the music and he’s getting closer to me, but it’s getting closer to midnight, right, which means more people are coming in, which means everyone’s getting closer. Okay. At one point his face is kind of close to the side of my head, and I’m like, okay, this guy might be checking me out, so I take a look at him. He has these puppy eyes and olive skin, very young, so I figure, whatever, he’ll get that I’m older and not interested. He wasn’t bad looking, he was just young, and honestly, not as good looking as the other guys I’d seen. I sense something very light pinching my butt, but gently, almost so I couldn’t notice. I wait, but just a little, then, slowly it becomes a harder pinch and I’m sure I can catch him. So, I put my hand near my right butt cheek and, what d’you know: HIS HAND IS THERE! I grab it and push it away, non che problema. But it happens again. I move forward, he does too. And, it’s almost embarrassing to write this but I think it was lightly pounding at one moment—as in HUMPING, but not a lot because I couldn’t really tell. All I knew was this had to stop, so I waited till he did the pinching thing again, I grabbed his hand and said “BASTA.” And he smiled and said, “Come ti chiami.” And I said, “No, no; non mi piaci,” and I might be spelling that wrong but it means no me gustas (or I don’t like you). Then he said, “Per che? Sei bella” Which means, “Why? You’re beautiful…” To which I repeated Non mi piaci and “Vai, vai” which means go away! Then I looked at my mom who wanted details; I told her and we kind of laughed. The men protectors smiled a little too but watched out for us. My mom told me later that while she was worrying about me and the tall pervert that the protector guy said that it was happening because I was so beautiful. So apparently, that makes everything permissible, or at least understandable… Well, the peace lasted about five minutes because tall pervs friend came over to pinch my left cheek—but I caught him on the first try and said, “Basta.” He pretended he wasn’t doing anything and then they moved on. But I could see the tall guy and he looked kind of sad…but that’s TOO BAD!
We had a few more run ins with the black guys but as we got closer to midnight, harassment lessened and the hype increased. At the countdown everyone started shaking their bottles of champagne and welcomed the new year by spraying all of it to the sky—and on everyone else. But no one really drank it, but all the bottles that had tessellated the floor already indicated that everyone's thirst for alcohol had been satisfied. It was really festive and fun. Nannini came back on and everyone screamed the lyrics. After about half-an hour, or actually close to 1AM, mom and I were ready to go because well, we didn’t know the songs (even though they were really good) and we were sleepy, still battling jetlag. On the way back people were throwing petardos and floor fireworks, holding sparklers and bottles of wine. There had been a few fireworks at midnight, but the really special element was a pair of candle lanterns that had been released before the fireworks started. It reminded me of the Chinese tradition (if I’m not mistaken) that releases wishes for the New Year.
On our way out, I slipped kind of close to an Italian blonde who was tipsy. At first, he stared at my profile (because I was looking straight ahead) and then he kissed me! On the cheek though, which was within my comfort zone (I’m glad I didn’t turn my head though). I looked at him and said, “Auguri,” and kept going. Then my mother and I got lost because we were looking for Via Cavour, but there’s also a Piazza Cavour in the other direction. But we did get to take pictures of the Monument of the Unknown Soldier, which is even more compelling at night than in the daytime, which we saw later today on our Red Tour bus. We got to the apartment at about 2AM and went to bed shortly after. When we woke up we had breakfast, told my dad about the night’s adventure and went off on the tour to take pictures of most of the popular sites: The Trevi Fountain, Quirinale, Colosseo, Piazza Venezia, the church where La Bocca della Verita is (where Aurdrey Hepburn gets her hand pinched in Roman holiday)—we didn’t go in there yet though, because the line was tremendous—, Piazza Navona, St. Peter’s Basilica, Ara Pacis, Piazza Cavour, and Via Veneto.
The one thing I don’t like about pictures, and I’ve said it before but I was guilty of it through half of the tour, is that I see everything through la pantalla instead of really looking at the actual thing. Plus, any picture I take isn’t going to compare to images on the internet, but whatever—I am still taking pictures; I just need to remember to really savor the real thing in front of me. I don’t want to experience life through technology, especially not a distorted representation…especially this experience; I want to stay in the moment and absorb the essence! And tonight we absorbed the essence in homemade Italian food! The owners of the hotel have owned a restaurant for 40 years and make their own noodles. They went through 100 eggs today for the fettucine and spaghetti. So good. Auguri! Auguri, Italia e tutti!
P.S. I’m uber aware that I keep changing tenses—sorry about that…stream of consciousness.
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