There have been writers throughout the ages who can describe Paris a lot better than I can. Indeed, many of those who I'm thinking of loved the city so much that they were buried there, such is the allure of the place. There's a magic kind of energy in the air that immediately brings to mind the elegance, the grandeur and the creative vibes that have made the city a hot-spot for the great and the stylish since God was a boy. These great and stylish legends whose names will always be linked with the City of Lights could give the city its due much more articulately than I will be able to, but here it goes anyway.
We, meaning Christine, Casey, Michelle and I, went to Paris for the weekend. We needed a break from Rome (shock!) and the schoolwork that being here implies right now, and where better place to take a break than the city that invented joie de vivre? We could think of nowhere.
Christine and I left from Ciampino very early Thursday morning, and man oh man, what a way to start the trip. I was packed and ready the night before, with my clothes laid out fireman-style on the off chance that my traveling neurosis would fall through and I would actually get a wink of sleep. Well... you shouldn't tempt fate. I awoke to my phone ringing at 4.15 am... I was supposed to wake up at 4. Now, 15 minutes might not seem like a big deal, but when you're me, and you have my luck with travel, every second is crucial. So I saw the time on my phone after I accidentally hung up on Christine the first time and shot out of bed with an adrenaline rush that pretty much lasted the rest of the weekend. When she called back I yelled into the phone in a shaky, panicky voice that my alarm hadn't gone off while at the same time trying to hook my bra and pull on my leggings... humans need more hands.
So I probably looked like a crazy person as I flew out of the apartment building, with my coat half on, socks hanging out of the pockets, hair like Albert Einstein on his worst day, my leggings basically around my knees and my eyes still bleary from sleep. I sprinted the two blocks to the bus stop (it was important that I get THE NEXT BUS because they only come about every half an hour until 5.30) waving my arms and screaming as I watched it leaving the stop. And then I did something very stupid. I ran out in front of the bus and stood there to make it stop. This could have ended very badly, as I'm sure you can imagine, in a city renowned for its favorite pass-time of pedestrian bowling. But the driver stopped, opened the door, and thoroughly cussed me out for about half the ride to Termini. I deserved it, but I also didn't care too much. About 15 minutes after I was awakened, therefore, I was at the train station. This has to be some kind of record. Could someone research that? Thanks.
And then, as I sprinted once again off the bus to get the OTHER bus to Ciampino (the last one until after our plane took off), I realized that I had neglected to find Christine. Well, we tried the phone thing, but apparently I don't even speak English that early in the morning, because she didn't seem to be understanding my directions. We ended up playing a rousing game of parking-lot Marco Polo, during which I spent about two minutes screaming CHRISTINE! CHRISTINE! at a very confused woman who was, in fact, not Christine, but just hoping to get her commute over with... but we eventually found each other, and did some more dramatic running to catch the bus. We caught it. We got the plane. All was right with the world. On to Paris!
Beauvais airport is around 70 km from Paris. This is not ideal. But I'll be damned if Ryanair isn't still the best thing in the world, so I was willing to make some sacrifices. We got another shuttle bus and spent the lovely hour and a half ride to Porte Maillot looking out the windows of the bus and discussing the differences we saw. Difference number one: no palm trees. Now, I know this might seem shocking to you North Americans, but palm trees don't only grow in Hawaii. They are a common (though transplanted) part of Italian scenery. Not so northern France. However... I don't think I like anything more than I like the fun balls of mistletoe hanging in the oak trees. So, you trade one novelty for another. Difference number two: not really a difference so much as a Maggie-Freaks-Out moment. We saw a Buffalo Grill on our way into Paris. This doesn't mean a damn thing to most of you, but that was the first meal I ever had in France. It's this horribly kitchy cowboy place where they serve you hamburgers sans buns and really awful fake ketchup while you're sitting on a wooden bench staring at a Charlie Russell print on the wall. Yup. A little taste of what the rest of the world thinks Montana is like. Oh what fun.
But we got to Port Maillot and walked basically the length of Paris, from behind the Arc de Triomphe (by La Defense) to our hostel, which was in the East Latin Quarter (past Ile de la Cite) in Rue Mouffetard. This, my friends, is a trek. And this assessment is coming from me, the girl who doesn't really use public transportation at all, preferring to rely on her feet. But we got to the hostel in the end, but not before I had to ask several people where we were going. You know what rocks? Being able to ask people where you're going. I had forgotten just how amazing it is to communicate in a language you both speak and understand. Thanks, Mom! I basically spent the weekend starting conversations with random, very confused strangers for the simple pleasure of speaking to them. So, the French think I'm insane now. Check.
(Also, since I was speaking with such confidence and more ability than I think they're used to expecting, they couldn't seem to figure me out. I think the French really like to pigeon-hole foreigners, and they just couldn't get me. I think Italy must have changed me more perceptibly than I realize, because they didn't once guess American. I guess I dress and carry myself more like a European now. I said 'ciao' to one guy, and he gave me a funny look and asked me in French where in Italy I was from. I said Rome. He seemed satisfied. Most of the others (and there were quite a few) who asked me where I was from guessed Ireland before I could answer. That was fun. I would like to think that my ethnic heritage is that evident. The Irish people I know are awesome. It was also nice that they couldn't peg me as being from the States right away. I'm proud to be an American, but there's something to be said for being a citizen of the world.)
The hostel was called (please try not to vomit...) Young & Happy. Yeah. Ick. But it looked nice enough for how cheap it was, and Rue Mouffetard is perhaps one of the coolest little streets I've ever seen. THAT is what the Latin Quarter is supposed to look like. Christine and I spent the rest of the day wandering around (Michelle and Casey weren't supposed to be in until late that night) from the Jardins des Plantes to Notre Dame to Place de la Concorde to the Eiffel Tower to watch the light show. Yeah. The Eiffel Tower has developed this charming little habit of turning into the Vegas strip every hour on the hour. It's not classy, but most of the tourists (excluding yours truly) seem to eat it up. By the end of this day we were both about ready to die from the sheer amount of walking I had put us through, and Christine was sort of walking like an old woman due to her hip joints randomly popping in and out. So we took the Metro back to the hostel.
I love the Metro. It's so easy to navigate and it always feels like such an accomplishment when you can successfully figure out a route from where you are to where you want to be... I really enjoy the problem-solvingness of the whole thing. Also, musicians ride up and down the lines with everything from the old standby, the accordion, to the more innovative traveling jazz band, complete with their own amp, which is transported by dolly. And not the kind that little girls are given as a tool of gender conditioning. Although that would probably be more interesting to move an amp with. I digress.
The hostel, despite its initial appearances, was actually kinda sketch. But hell, it was a hostel, not the Ritz Carlton. But there were some particuarly special little quirks that made the three nights we spent there a heck of a time.
1) Never underestimate the awesomeness of clean bathrooms. It's very hard to effectively execute "the hover" while at the same time trying not to touch anything that is not necessary, and never with your bare hands, and trying not to let any of your stuff touch anything lest you contract some strange strain of alcohol-resistant-obnoxiously-loud-venereal disease. I think this is actually a real thing. I can't fathom how else many North American hostel-using kids exist. They must have contracted this. Tell your friends. Spread the awareness. Knowledge is power.
2) Structural integrity makes the world go round. Our bunk beds in the dorm would not have made the cut in a more seismically active area. In fact, if you had particularly bad allergies, one good sneeze would probably have brought the whole thing down on top of you. This was problematic for me, since I tend to roll around alot in my sleep. I think Christine feared for her life down on the bottom bunk. So I spent the three nights lying stiffly on my back, trying not to twitch so as not to cause a gravity tragedy, letting my body touch only my sheet sleeping-bag and the coat I was using for a pillow. The best nights of sleep I've ever had? No. The worst? Probably not that either, but hey, I was in Paris. It couldn't ever be super SUPER horrible.
3) Roomies. Two of the three nights, our fifth room mate was a large, silent, hairy naked guy. He was in bed when we got there each night, shirtless and apparently preparing for a long winter of hibernation, judging from the amount of hair on his chest. We didn't exchange pleasantries either night. Here's the kicker: it was a DIFFERENT large, silent, hairy naked guy each night! It blew my mind! How many of these creatures can their be in Europe? I haven't seen any... but then again, the places I've been have mostly been in Italy and France, where the men come in the more svelt, stylish, possibly gay varietals. It was very jarring to see not one giant hairy dude, but two. The third night, it was a mysterious suitcase whose owner never showed up while we were there. But whoever she was (I say she, since the suitcase was bright pink... gender conditioning again!), she was apparently very concerned about waking up at 5.13 am, since that's when her alarm was set for. And it reminded her to get up every four minutes from then on. So, Michelle finally got up and turned the thing off. I was a proponent of spiking it on the floor and leaving it as a surprise for her when she showed up, but I was overruled.
Enough about the hostel, as lovely as it wasn't. We only slept there, so blah. The city was the real destination. Since this blog is getting obscenely long (no great surprise) I'll just go through and list. Maybe. You know me. It probably won't end up being that. But I'll go in chronological order starting on Friday morning and ending Sunday afternoon. Here it is:
1) Pere Lachaise: Bury me here. For real. I love cemeteries... I'm very creepy that way. We spent literally like, four hours here. I couldn't have been happier. Plus, I got to kiss Oscar Wilde. Life: complete. Request: Come on, baby, light my fire.
2) Sacre Coeur/Montmartre: It was really amazing to come back to this church that I remember as being so very unique, and having the tools to recognize why that is. Very, very gratifying. Also, can you get better than that view? Methinks not. Also, Nutella crepes. They're the thing that proves the existence of a higher power. Yummers.
3) The Louvre: Okay, so really, being me, this deserves it's own post. So this'll be longer. Sorry. Casey had the wonderful idea of going to the Louvre on a Friday night, when it's open from 6-10 and it's a reduced rate. Turns out, that reduced rate is FREE! Can you imagine how cool this was? I'm stingy, but I would pay any amount of money to hang out in the Louvre, and it turns out that I didn't have to pay ANY amount of money! Yay! Anyway, we decided to split up, since we all had different priorities. For me, this visit was a very strong full-circle experience. The Louvre is the reason I'll be living in a box for the rest of my life. So I was wandering around, looking at all the things that once struck me as miraculous and foreign and incomprehensible and greeting them as old friends with familiar stories and completely relateable personalities. What a difference four years can make. If there was ever any experience that made me think that my life and work for the last four years have been worth it, this visit was it. It's fun to know things. It's fun to realize why I love what I love. That's why I can never leave Europe, I guess. Oh well. :) But as wonderful as it was to walk around the incredibly un-crowded museum (example: I stood face to face to the Mona Lisa, making unobstructed eye contact for a full fifteen minutes before leaving of my own volition, instead of being pushed out of the way. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, at best.) there was something better. The Louvre does this program where, three of four Friday evenings, college kids studying in Paris come to the Louvre and present very basic information and research on a work of art. Best volunteer job ever? Yes. But the fun part was that I could have discussions with the presenters. Some of them were American kids, so I talked to them in English and bonded over being abroad and what that means, but most were French, and I could talk to them, too, and discuss what I thought of the art they were presenting. SO COOL! I loved being able to actually say things other than "I would like some pizza with mushrooms, please" and "My name is Maggie. I'm American. Can I please have some gelatto?". The best part was finding other people my age who think that art and the meaning it brings to humanity's history are as important as I do. The Louvre is still a magical, life-changing place. (It was also fun to meet up again with Michelle and Casey, who were both Louvre virgins. I remember that feeling really vividly.)
4) Dinner: I forgot about prix-fixe menus. We basically shut down the Louvre at ten and then returned to Rue Mouffetard, where we found this little restaurant with no discernable name and a menu for 15 euro. Two new culinary adventures and two nostalgic standbys: escargot and duck confit, and creme brulee and cidre. YUM! I heart French food. Like, legit. It's awesome. We shut them down, too, around 12.30, and went to bed with full tummies.
5) The d'Orsay: I love this museum. Always have, always will. I found some new favorites, too. "Eve After the Fall" by Eugene Delaplanche, "The Young St. John the Baptist" by Paul Dubois, and "The Disciples Peter and John Rushing to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection" (a mouthful, it's true) by Eugene Bernand. Look 'em up if you're curious.
6) The Eiffel Tower: We had to take Casey and Michelle. Funniest moment: watching the stampede of vendors running for the grass like so many crazed bison at the sight of a cop.
7) The Christmas Market on the Champs-Elysees: The City of Lights certainly does cash in on the fetishization of Christmas in Paris. Also, Nutella crepes again. Win.
8) L'Opera Garnier: Holy tacky gold embellishment, Batman! It's a beautiful Opera house... I just wouldn't recommend going inside if you're prone to seizures. The tour guide, Martine, tried to tell us that the Phantom is a myth. Ha! That's just what he wants you to think.
We did a ton of other stuff there, too, but these were some of the highlights. I forgot how much I loved Paris the first time I went, but I don't think I'll be likely to forget again. It has such a unique vibe, and I think, since I'm more acclimated to Rome now, and all the quirks of this city, I'm more in tune with those of other places. Cities are so, so individual. It's easy to forget that sometimes. I was happy to get to go back. It was an incredibly fun, but also very legitimizing experience. I can't wait to go back again! Hopefully there won't be such a long gap between this visit and the next one!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
I Miei Genetori Sono Bravissimi
Well, after a weekend of (allegedly) working my butt off on papers and research excursions to the Aventine, the Capitoline and Ostia Antica, and the rest of this week, which will doubtless be fraught with stress of varying shades and urgency, I'll be off to Paris for the weekend.
Let me say that again. I'm going to go to Paris for the weekend. That's one of those sentences that, if you're ever lucky enough to get to say it, you should take a close look as the reasons why you can. I am fully aware of the two main reasons I'm able to say it: their names are Kurt and Kathy Jackson.
I had another moment this morning, while standing in the Pantheon taking notes on centralized, domed structures of antiquity (find me a better place in the world to have this class, I dare you) when it hit me again. I've gotten used to the kind of suffocating joy that occasionally shows up when I take a mental step back from the mundane (hah!) of everyday life here and actually realize where I am and what I'm doing. It's at these moments when I realize how undeservedly, phenomenally lucky I am to have my parents.
For my entire life, which now borders on being 21 years long, my parents have basically done everything for me. They've provided me with every opportunity, every chance I could have possibly wanted and more. For my entire life in Great Falls, they not only sat through plays and awkward recitals in sweltering auditoriums, but they got more involved in my strange activities (judging for speech tournaments? ugh.) than I had any right to expect. They were constantly doing everything they could to keep me safe and happy and to give me a future and an education that they thought I deserved. They supported me and gave me everything, even when there wasn't a person on the planet who could have been less aware of how lucky she was.
And then they sent me to college. They didn't just send me to college, either. They drove me there. From Montana to Michigan. That drive sucks. And my dad has done it four times now. If that's not a testament to love, I can't think of one. Now that I've seen comparatively more of the world and have more experience with people my age and the concerns that they face, I realize that my chance to go to college is more of a gift than I will ever be able to deserve. College (mine in particular) is expensive. The economy is weak. There are two kids coming up behind me. And yet Kurt and Kath don't ever mention any of that.
In fact, as incredibly huge as the chance to matriculate at a school that literally seems to have been tailor-made for me is, they've given me still more: they've given me this chance to travel and experience new parts of the world. And every morning, when I wake up and head to class at the Vatican or the Roman Forum, and when I can plan to go to Paris for the weekend, I can't help but take a step back and marvel at the sheer generosity and love of which I'm the undeserving recipient.
I don't pretend to have been the easiest child to raise by any stretch of the imagination, and I know for a fact that I was often supremely, audaciously unaware of just how much they did for me, and are still doing for me. But right now I'm having a moment of clarity that compels me to thank them. I really like the person I am. I like the fact that I am able to deal with situations presented to me competently (a lot of the time...), the fact that I like to try new things, and the fact that I'm not intimidated by putting myself out there. I like my curiosity and my eagerness to learn. I like my work ethic, which is a lot less sporadic in real life than it manifests itself here. I like my sense of humor. I like my sense of right and wrong. And I know that I have my mom and dad to thank for all of these things I like about myself. I also know that these things have helped me get to where I am, will help me get to where I want to go, and most especially are helping me right now deal with the curve balls that life in a foreign country will throw at you.
I'm going to go to Paris this weekend, and I'll joyfully return to speaking a language that's always been such a constant part of my life. I try to emulate my mom's passion for French and transfer the joy she gets from speaking that language into my own academic pursuits. I try to remember her enthusiasm and interest in people as people in my daily interactions. I hope that someday I'll have the courage that she does to put herself out there and really try to make a difference, even in the face of indifference, which is often a more disconcerting enemy than outright antagonism.
My dad is going to celebrate his birthday while I'm in Paris. I feel like the only way I'll ever be able to express how much his constant, unerring dedication and commitment to giving me, as well as my brother and sister, the best of everything have meant to me is by applying those principles of dedication and commitment to my studies and my life, which he has worked so hard to provide for me. His love of learning and his intimidating knowledge of basically everything make me want to work harder so that I can make him as proud of me as I am of him. I can't express how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, Dad. Happy Birthday!
I'm a lucky person in so many ways. I'm sure this fact hasn't escaped you, as I recount my adventures, and I'm sure it'll be made clear to me once again with all the force of a frying pan to the face when I'm reunited with Mona Lisa on Saturday. And I really just want to acknowledge where all my opportunities have come from, and to thank my parents so much for my life. It's pretty damn awesome.
Let me say that again. I'm going to go to Paris for the weekend. That's one of those sentences that, if you're ever lucky enough to get to say it, you should take a close look as the reasons why you can. I am fully aware of the two main reasons I'm able to say it: their names are Kurt and Kathy Jackson.
I had another moment this morning, while standing in the Pantheon taking notes on centralized, domed structures of antiquity (find me a better place in the world to have this class, I dare you) when it hit me again. I've gotten used to the kind of suffocating joy that occasionally shows up when I take a mental step back from the mundane (hah!) of everyday life here and actually realize where I am and what I'm doing. It's at these moments when I realize how undeservedly, phenomenally lucky I am to have my parents.
For my entire life, which now borders on being 21 years long, my parents have basically done everything for me. They've provided me with every opportunity, every chance I could have possibly wanted and more. For my entire life in Great Falls, they not only sat through plays and awkward recitals in sweltering auditoriums, but they got more involved in my strange activities (judging for speech tournaments? ugh.) than I had any right to expect. They were constantly doing everything they could to keep me safe and happy and to give me a future and an education that they thought I deserved. They supported me and gave me everything, even when there wasn't a person on the planet who could have been less aware of how lucky she was.
And then they sent me to college. They didn't just send me to college, either. They drove me there. From Montana to Michigan. That drive sucks. And my dad has done it four times now. If that's not a testament to love, I can't think of one. Now that I've seen comparatively more of the world and have more experience with people my age and the concerns that they face, I realize that my chance to go to college is more of a gift than I will ever be able to deserve. College (mine in particular) is expensive. The economy is weak. There are two kids coming up behind me. And yet Kurt and Kath don't ever mention any of that.
In fact, as incredibly huge as the chance to matriculate at a school that literally seems to have been tailor-made for me is, they've given me still more: they've given me this chance to travel and experience new parts of the world. And every morning, when I wake up and head to class at the Vatican or the Roman Forum, and when I can plan to go to Paris for the weekend, I can't help but take a step back and marvel at the sheer generosity and love of which I'm the undeserving recipient.
I don't pretend to have been the easiest child to raise by any stretch of the imagination, and I know for a fact that I was often supremely, audaciously unaware of just how much they did for me, and are still doing for me. But right now I'm having a moment of clarity that compels me to thank them. I really like the person I am. I like the fact that I am able to deal with situations presented to me competently (a lot of the time...), the fact that I like to try new things, and the fact that I'm not intimidated by putting myself out there. I like my curiosity and my eagerness to learn. I like my work ethic, which is a lot less sporadic in real life than it manifests itself here. I like my sense of humor. I like my sense of right and wrong. And I know that I have my mom and dad to thank for all of these things I like about myself. I also know that these things have helped me get to where I am, will help me get to where I want to go, and most especially are helping me right now deal with the curve balls that life in a foreign country will throw at you.
I'm going to go to Paris this weekend, and I'll joyfully return to speaking a language that's always been such a constant part of my life. I try to emulate my mom's passion for French and transfer the joy she gets from speaking that language into my own academic pursuits. I try to remember her enthusiasm and interest in people as people in my daily interactions. I hope that someday I'll have the courage that she does to put herself out there and really try to make a difference, even in the face of indifference, which is often a more disconcerting enemy than outright antagonism.
My dad is going to celebrate his birthday while I'm in Paris. I feel like the only way I'll ever be able to express how much his constant, unerring dedication and commitment to giving me, as well as my brother and sister, the best of everything have meant to me is by applying those principles of dedication and commitment to my studies and my life, which he has worked so hard to provide for me. His love of learning and his intimidating knowledge of basically everything make me want to work harder so that I can make him as proud of me as I am of him. I can't express how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, Dad. Happy Birthday!
I'm a lucky person in so many ways. I'm sure this fact hasn't escaped you, as I recount my adventures, and I'm sure it'll be made clear to me once again with all the force of a frying pan to the face when I'm reunited with Mona Lisa on Saturday. And I really just want to acknowledge where all my opportunities have come from, and to thank my parents so much for my life. It's pretty damn awesome.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Visiting French Dignitaries and the Mob
Two very random and unconnected topics, you say? Not really. I'll tell you what they have in common: Fall Break. I'll warn you right off the bat that this post is probably going to be one of those obnoxiously long ones that are not entertaining to anyone but me... but if you're trying to procrastinate from homework or are just flat out wasting your employer's time and money by not doing your job... glad I could help.
Fall Break is one of those intriguing mysteries that usually does not reveal itself to those students whose matriculating institution runs on the awesomeness that is commonly referred to as the quarter system. Going from a school that runs on ten-week terms to a school that runs on semesters is surely taking some getting used to, but after a grueling week of midterms, the week off was exactly what I needed.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where the life you're living is so far removed from what it normally is that you feel as though the two couldn't possibly be connected? This happens to me a lot, considering the geographical distance between the place where I grew up and the place where my life and most of my friends are back in the States... there's very little overlap between Montana and Michigan. There's even less overlap between Michigan and Italy, at least culturally. The nine of us on this program share the general experience and a lot the the personality traits that define K College students, but we've sort of been stuck in this world that is so different, both culturally and academically, from any shared experience we had before this. We've had to become friends on totally different terms than we would have if we were at K, which is wonderful, but sometimes you just get homesick for people who get the long-standing jokes and with whom you can be content just to hang out and be in each other's company.
That's why it was so nice when Elsa came to visit last weekend. We could just hang out and walk around and catch up, and it was as if no time had gone by at all since we last saw each other in June. We went to the market and bought food to make dinner one night (like we do at home... except we went to the delightful little street market in the piazza down the street rather than Meijer...), we went for numerous walks and just wandered around Rome, we went out for a delicious Italian meal at (where else?) Le Fate... we even watched some Glee!
And the incredibly wonderful and reassuring thing about her visit was this: it seemed absolutely natural that all of these things should be occuring on a different continent. The way in which we just kind of picked right up where we left off at the end of the school year, while at the same time walking around the Coloseum looking for an English-speaker to take our picture, makes me realize how lucky I am to have made such strong friendships in college. Study abroad can change you, make you a different person than you were when you went in, and this is completely as it should be; life is that way. It's just nice to know that the world does not completely stop with each new phase and experience, and that there are some things that will remain constant through those phases and experiences. Bleh. Philosophical mumbo-jumbo. The point is: it was wonderful to see her and get to show her some of the things I love about Rome. Thanks for coming, Els!
After Elsa left on Tuesday morning, Kelcie and I had to make our way to Fiumicino to meet Professors Gwynne and Higgins, as well as the other seven girls from K, to go to Sicily. At first, when I heard that this was going to happen over Fall Break, I was a little resentful. It's a class, after all, and we're supposed to have a week of vacation. But, since I am me, our time in Sicily wound up being, in all probability, very similar to what I might call my ideal vacation.
We arrived in Catania after an hour and a half flight... after standing at the gate for about an hour in what the Italians have the audacity to call a line. Oh, Alitalia... you suck. A little harsh? Think of it as foreshadowing. We got on a little bus that would turn out to be our home (ish) for the week, and drove the hour and a half to Siricusa.
Italy is constantly surprising me. Sicily bears only the tiniest bit of resemblance to Lazio (Rome), which is so different from Umbria that they could be on different continents, and Umbria and the Veneto (Venice) could not be any more different if they had brains and were trying... and all of these places (and these are only the ones I've experienced first-hand) are on this dinky little penninsula that couldn't kick even North Dakota's ass in a size race... and it's shaped like a boot! It is continually shocking to see how very, very different each new place I visit is, and how mind-blowingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful they each are in their own way.
Sicily reminds me of nothing so much as the Edenic myth. Sure, in order to come to that conclusion, you have to ignore a few big industrial works and some pretty epically crappy roads that are constantly under construction but never get any nicer... but really. It's an island, completely contained in and of itself, where there's such an abundance of fruit trees that you just can't see the forest through them... and it was the end of October when we were there, and every other plant that wasn't just eye-wateringly green and alive was blooming with these obnoxiously bright-colored, beautiful flowers. The weather remained balmy, in perhaps the mid-seventies with blue, blue skies and puffy cotton-ball clouds, with cool breezes coming off the expanse of turquoise water crashing up against the ornately craggy coastlines. So basically, October in Sicily is late May in Michigan and a myth in Montana.
The first night, when we got to our unattractively-named but nevertheless wonderful and cozy hotel, the Hotel Gutkowski, we took a walk with Professor Gwynne around the islet of Ortigia, which is Siracusa's historical center. Ortigia, formerly known mythologically as Delos, along with having some very beautiful views of the ocean and the hills, has the distinction of having been the 'birthplace' of Apollo and Diana. So, in the midst of the quaint little winding streets that have come to characterize my very favorite places in Italy (Trastevere, Asissi, Venice...), there's a massive temple to Apollo, and another to Minerva (the one to Diana was at one point next door) which is remarkably well-preserved for the simple fact that it now serves as the Duomo of Siracusa. Yeah. You can see the columns through the walls that have been put up to enclose the space, and what was once the cella of the temple has now been transformed into the side arcades of the basillica. We spent some time having class in there, pointing out the things that were consistent with both the architecture of a Greek temple and with a Christian church. Which is what I would have been doing if I'd been on vacation in Ortigia myself. Lame.
The week was so action-packed that I'll just give a few of the highlights. The archaeological museum in Siracuse and then the park that goes with it, containing a Greek theatre complex, a Roman amphiteatre, a who bunch of really cool tombs cut into the rock, and a quarry with big caves that felt like entering the mines of Moria, followed by a boat ride around the sea caves of Ortigia with five of the other K girls and a young, very nice French couple, followed by a delicious seafood dinner overlooking the water in a restaurant where the floors are glass and you can see the Greek grottos and the natural freshwater spring below... that was the first full day.
Driving up into the hinterland of Sicily is an experience that I don't think I'll ever have the opportunity to forget. There are so many allusions to Narnia and Middle Earth and Eden that I could make that it would sound trite and meaningless, as well as painfully dorky. But the sites at Agrigento, with it's massive, majestic temples looking out over the ocean, and at Akrai, where we nine performed the end of Theocrites' "The Persians" (I played Xerxes to great acclaim) and Pentalica, where my real Montana-girl roots came out as I clambored through viscious brambles and up limestone cliffs to see the tombs in the rock and then turn around and wave at those below... if those aren't good justifications for dorkiness, I don't know what would be.
One of the coolest things we did, however, was drive to a crater on Mt. Etna, which, in case you're unaware, is a gigantic volcano on the eastern coast of Sicily. The professors warned us to bring warm clothes, since the elevation changes so drastically from Siricusa to the crater, and boy, did it. You can fool yourself, when you're looking at the horizon, into thinking that what you're seeing there is just a bunch of particularly angular clouds... but up close, the mountain leaps up at you, seemingly out of nowhere, higher by far than anything else around it. The snow line is deliniated from the inhabitable area by a constant thick layer of clouds... you can see how the civilizations who lived in this and areas like it could believe the gods lived in such places... even by today's ostensibly more pragmatic standards, it's completely plausible.
The crater is like a different world, as craters tend to be. First of all, for the first time since coming to Italy, it actually felt like the time of year it's supposed to be. It was cold, but in that pleasant, expectant way that makes you think of Halloween... which was cool, because it was. It was fun and energizing to run around up there, and I don't think I've ever relished a cold nose like I did when I was there, just because it's such a novelty here... but I digress. Suffice it to say that if Sicily is an unreal experience, Etna is the pinnacle thereof.
We spent most of the week galivanting around southeastern Sicily, coming back each night to Ortigia and the Hotel Gutkowski, right on the edge of the ocean. The final night, after our trip to Etna, however, we spent in Taormina, which is the culmination of everything I loved about Sicily put into one tiny place. The town is built on a series of high, craggy cliffs and overlooks the sea. You can see Etna smoking in the distance. We watched the sun set from the ruins of a Greek theatre, and the breeze off the ocean smelled like salt water and flowers and amazing food... which we then proceeded to eat at a pizzaria by our hotel. The next morning, after a fairly early night (for Halloween, anyway), we took a cable car down to the beach, where Michelle and I, barefoot in the ocean, looked for sea glass.
Jealous? I didn't think that I could ever learn so much and have it be such an incredibly relaxing vacation... and I'm fairly enthusiastic about learning. The whole week was some sort of idyllic sojurn from the idyllic sojurn that is my life in Rome. The only bump came at the very end, when lovely Alitalia lost the reservations for only half of our group... including myself. The efforts of Professors Gwynne and Higgins, wonderful people that they are, were the only reason that I'm not still in Sicily waiting for some fat guy's daughter to get married so I can ask for a favor... and I'm not sure even the Godfather could finaggle his way through the idiocy that is the Italian national airline.
But we got home to Rome safe and sound, and BAM. Real life started up again. A week away from Rome has made me realize how much it really has become my world... and that fact, once grasped, has made me wonder and dread what will happen when I have to go one step farther back; when Rome was the vacation and I have to get used to life in Michigan again. It's a strange thought... but however it hits me when I get back, I'm sure that the week we spent in Sicily will be one of the most vivid memories I keep of my home here.
Fall Break is one of those intriguing mysteries that usually does not reveal itself to those students whose matriculating institution runs on the awesomeness that is commonly referred to as the quarter system. Going from a school that runs on ten-week terms to a school that runs on semesters is surely taking some getting used to, but after a grueling week of midterms, the week off was exactly what I needed.
Have you ever had one of those experiences where the life you're living is so far removed from what it normally is that you feel as though the two couldn't possibly be connected? This happens to me a lot, considering the geographical distance between the place where I grew up and the place where my life and most of my friends are back in the States... there's very little overlap between Montana and Michigan. There's even less overlap between Michigan and Italy, at least culturally. The nine of us on this program share the general experience and a lot the the personality traits that define K College students, but we've sort of been stuck in this world that is so different, both culturally and academically, from any shared experience we had before this. We've had to become friends on totally different terms than we would have if we were at K, which is wonderful, but sometimes you just get homesick for people who get the long-standing jokes and with whom you can be content just to hang out and be in each other's company.
That's why it was so nice when Elsa came to visit last weekend. We could just hang out and walk around and catch up, and it was as if no time had gone by at all since we last saw each other in June. We went to the market and bought food to make dinner one night (like we do at home... except we went to the delightful little street market in the piazza down the street rather than Meijer...), we went for numerous walks and just wandered around Rome, we went out for a delicious Italian meal at (where else?) Le Fate... we even watched some Glee!
And the incredibly wonderful and reassuring thing about her visit was this: it seemed absolutely natural that all of these things should be occuring on a different continent. The way in which we just kind of picked right up where we left off at the end of the school year, while at the same time walking around the Coloseum looking for an English-speaker to take our picture, makes me realize how lucky I am to have made such strong friendships in college. Study abroad can change you, make you a different person than you were when you went in, and this is completely as it should be; life is that way. It's just nice to know that the world does not completely stop with each new phase and experience, and that there are some things that will remain constant through those phases and experiences. Bleh. Philosophical mumbo-jumbo. The point is: it was wonderful to see her and get to show her some of the things I love about Rome. Thanks for coming, Els!
After Elsa left on Tuesday morning, Kelcie and I had to make our way to Fiumicino to meet Professors Gwynne and Higgins, as well as the other seven girls from K, to go to Sicily. At first, when I heard that this was going to happen over Fall Break, I was a little resentful. It's a class, after all, and we're supposed to have a week of vacation. But, since I am me, our time in Sicily wound up being, in all probability, very similar to what I might call my ideal vacation.
We arrived in Catania after an hour and a half flight... after standing at the gate for about an hour in what the Italians have the audacity to call a line. Oh, Alitalia... you suck. A little harsh? Think of it as foreshadowing. We got on a little bus that would turn out to be our home (ish) for the week, and drove the hour and a half to Siricusa.
Italy is constantly surprising me. Sicily bears only the tiniest bit of resemblance to Lazio (Rome), which is so different from Umbria that they could be on different continents, and Umbria and the Veneto (Venice) could not be any more different if they had brains and were trying... and all of these places (and these are only the ones I've experienced first-hand) are on this dinky little penninsula that couldn't kick even North Dakota's ass in a size race... and it's shaped like a boot! It is continually shocking to see how very, very different each new place I visit is, and how mind-blowingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful they each are in their own way.
Sicily reminds me of nothing so much as the Edenic myth. Sure, in order to come to that conclusion, you have to ignore a few big industrial works and some pretty epically crappy roads that are constantly under construction but never get any nicer... but really. It's an island, completely contained in and of itself, where there's such an abundance of fruit trees that you just can't see the forest through them... and it was the end of October when we were there, and every other plant that wasn't just eye-wateringly green and alive was blooming with these obnoxiously bright-colored, beautiful flowers. The weather remained balmy, in perhaps the mid-seventies with blue, blue skies and puffy cotton-ball clouds, with cool breezes coming off the expanse of turquoise water crashing up against the ornately craggy coastlines. So basically, October in Sicily is late May in Michigan and a myth in Montana.
The first night, when we got to our unattractively-named but nevertheless wonderful and cozy hotel, the Hotel Gutkowski, we took a walk with Professor Gwynne around the islet of Ortigia, which is Siracusa's historical center. Ortigia, formerly known mythologically as Delos, along with having some very beautiful views of the ocean and the hills, has the distinction of having been the 'birthplace' of Apollo and Diana. So, in the midst of the quaint little winding streets that have come to characterize my very favorite places in Italy (Trastevere, Asissi, Venice...), there's a massive temple to Apollo, and another to Minerva (the one to Diana was at one point next door) which is remarkably well-preserved for the simple fact that it now serves as the Duomo of Siracusa. Yeah. You can see the columns through the walls that have been put up to enclose the space, and what was once the cella of the temple has now been transformed into the side arcades of the basillica. We spent some time having class in there, pointing out the things that were consistent with both the architecture of a Greek temple and with a Christian church. Which is what I would have been doing if I'd been on vacation in Ortigia myself. Lame.
The week was so action-packed that I'll just give a few of the highlights. The archaeological museum in Siracuse and then the park that goes with it, containing a Greek theatre complex, a Roman amphiteatre, a who bunch of really cool tombs cut into the rock, and a quarry with big caves that felt like entering the mines of Moria, followed by a boat ride around the sea caves of Ortigia with five of the other K girls and a young, very nice French couple, followed by a delicious seafood dinner overlooking the water in a restaurant where the floors are glass and you can see the Greek grottos and the natural freshwater spring below... that was the first full day.
Driving up into the hinterland of Sicily is an experience that I don't think I'll ever have the opportunity to forget. There are so many allusions to Narnia and Middle Earth and Eden that I could make that it would sound trite and meaningless, as well as painfully dorky. But the sites at Agrigento, with it's massive, majestic temples looking out over the ocean, and at Akrai, where we nine performed the end of Theocrites' "The Persians" (I played Xerxes to great acclaim) and Pentalica, where my real Montana-girl roots came out as I clambored through viscious brambles and up limestone cliffs to see the tombs in the rock and then turn around and wave at those below... if those aren't good justifications for dorkiness, I don't know what would be.
One of the coolest things we did, however, was drive to a crater on Mt. Etna, which, in case you're unaware, is a gigantic volcano on the eastern coast of Sicily. The professors warned us to bring warm clothes, since the elevation changes so drastically from Siricusa to the crater, and boy, did it. You can fool yourself, when you're looking at the horizon, into thinking that what you're seeing there is just a bunch of particularly angular clouds... but up close, the mountain leaps up at you, seemingly out of nowhere, higher by far than anything else around it. The snow line is deliniated from the inhabitable area by a constant thick layer of clouds... you can see how the civilizations who lived in this and areas like it could believe the gods lived in such places... even by today's ostensibly more pragmatic standards, it's completely plausible.
The crater is like a different world, as craters tend to be. First of all, for the first time since coming to Italy, it actually felt like the time of year it's supposed to be. It was cold, but in that pleasant, expectant way that makes you think of Halloween... which was cool, because it was. It was fun and energizing to run around up there, and I don't think I've ever relished a cold nose like I did when I was there, just because it's such a novelty here... but I digress. Suffice it to say that if Sicily is an unreal experience, Etna is the pinnacle thereof.
We spent most of the week galivanting around southeastern Sicily, coming back each night to Ortigia and the Hotel Gutkowski, right on the edge of the ocean. The final night, after our trip to Etna, however, we spent in Taormina, which is the culmination of everything I loved about Sicily put into one tiny place. The town is built on a series of high, craggy cliffs and overlooks the sea. You can see Etna smoking in the distance. We watched the sun set from the ruins of a Greek theatre, and the breeze off the ocean smelled like salt water and flowers and amazing food... which we then proceeded to eat at a pizzaria by our hotel. The next morning, after a fairly early night (for Halloween, anyway), we took a cable car down to the beach, where Michelle and I, barefoot in the ocean, looked for sea glass.
Jealous? I didn't think that I could ever learn so much and have it be such an incredibly relaxing vacation... and I'm fairly enthusiastic about learning. The whole week was some sort of idyllic sojurn from the idyllic sojurn that is my life in Rome. The only bump came at the very end, when lovely Alitalia lost the reservations for only half of our group... including myself. The efforts of Professors Gwynne and Higgins, wonderful people that they are, were the only reason that I'm not still in Sicily waiting for some fat guy's daughter to get married so I can ask for a favor... and I'm not sure even the Godfather could finaggle his way through the idiocy that is the Italian national airline.
But we got home to Rome safe and sound, and BAM. Real life started up again. A week away from Rome has made me realize how much it really has become my world... and that fact, once grasped, has made me wonder and dread what will happen when I have to go one step farther back; when Rome was the vacation and I have to get used to life in Michigan again. It's a strange thought... but however it hits me when I get back, I'm sure that the week we spent in Sicily will be one of the most vivid memories I keep of my home here.
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