I have reached a sobering moment in my study abroad experience. I no longer have the time or money to travel far distances. And you know what, I'm okay with that. I saw amazing places and had amazing experiences. There are places I wished I could see; cities that I wish it were possible for me to visit still. But I have no regrets on the time I have spent here so far, I only wish that I could had more time. So with no more trips to write about, do I keep writing this blog? I just can't abandon my wonderful audience! For their sake and mine, I have three more weeks to continue to enjoy interesting experiences and bring you along with me through this blog. Hopefully you will find these last few posts as enjoyable as the rest.
So last week when I received and email asking for volunteers to harvest olives at a local farm, I thought that I couldn't pass up such an opportunity. After a week full of rainy weather the trip was almost canceled. However the morning came and had clear(ish) skies and the trip was on. Friends from school and I met up with Trudi, the school counselor (it was her olive grove) and she drove us to a village nearby her property called Corciano for a coffee. Corciano is a small, stone-built village, one that looks too perfect for a post card. We walked around to take a few photos and got a tour from a local museum docent through a small Contadini house. The contadini were the members of the Italian agricultural poor class, similar to peasants. They owned no lands and were under contract by their landlords to provide to them a certain portion of their harvest (this practice, which was eerily similar to slavery, was finally outlawed in Italy in the 1960's, the last contract bound contadini are still alive to this day!) In the recent history contadini have been romanticized by Italian culture and are now seen as the root from which Italian cooking and culture are based in.
After our short tour we then drove over to Trudi's olive grove and started the work. It was a cool afternoon and the clouds were filled with the empty threats of rain. In Italy the olive harvest has never been successfully mechanized and is almost completely done by hand. The Italians believe that the mechanical handling of the olive is too rough, it bruises the fruit, and produces sub-par oil. We spent the next few hours placing tarps below trees and using small plastic rakes to comb the branches free of olives. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a cousin this summer.
One evening this summer my family and I were solemnly seated on the front porch at my grandparent's house in San Diego, reminiscing about days past and greeting the many neighbors and friends expressing their condolences over my uncle's imminent passing. My cousin walked out of the front door, carrying pruning shears, and updated us on what was happening inside and the withering condition of his father. He walked over to the large, dusty tree that braced up against the front of the house. He began to cutaway the dead or dying branches from the tree, letting the released fall to the ground and out of sight behind the wall of the porch. I asked my cousin what he was doing; why he was taking the time to take care of this neglected tree. I expected a response concerning a simple reprieve from dreariness of inside. I was surprised to hear a very different response. He explained to me that, if he no longer had to work for the rest of his life, he would like nothing more than to tend to his trees in his backyard. He would prune and care for them, watching them produce the fruits of his labor. I thought that for such a driven man, who has such a passion for cooking and the restaurant industry, surely he would not be so contempt to live the simple life of a farmer.
I thought on this conversation as I slithered between branches and plucked olives from their rightful places. It was a warm feeling caring for this tree. I rather liked the activity: the motion, the flick of the wrist, the rewarding perspiration on my brow. I finally understood my cousin's perspective. As a member of the modern, big-city American culture, I am bashfully unaware of the give-and-take relationship between mother nature and the farmer. My knowledge on the topic began and ended within the chilled produce sections of the supermarket. I realize now that farmers pour their lives and their energy into their fields, and the earth (hopefully) rewards them with sustenance. It's no wonder agricultural based societies looked to the earth, sun, and sky and saw the faces of gods.
Also I would like to point out, the museum docent was a pretty, young Sicilian girl that I struck up a conversation with. It just goes to show, even with a mustache, I can catch the attention of the ladies ;)
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Weekend Trip to Prague
Last winter before studying abroad I asked everyone I knew who went abroad which city was their absolute favorite; the city they would return to if they ever could. Hands down the most mentioned city was Prague, Czech Republic. Prague was therefore always on the top of my "cities I can't miss" list. Finally, I was able to spent a weekend there, and might I say, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The city is beautiful, with rich history, amazing architecture, and a welcoming atmosphere. Of all the European cities I have visited, Prague has seemed the most accessible for foreigners. It truly deserved all the recognition it was given.
Our trip began Thursday night when 25 of us from my school in Perugia (more than a third of our whole program) got on the bus that would take us all the way to Prague, which in total is a 14 hour bus ride! We all booked a weekend long, all-inclusive trip to Prague through the same student traveling company, Bus2Alps. We piled into the bus, our home for the next 14 hours, and cozied up with the 20 or so students from Rome going on the same trip. As we drove through the darkness movies were played and most of the bus was lulled to sleep, with the exception of myself and anyone else unlucky enough to not possess the ability to sleep on public transportation (honestly I wish I could, but I cant. I envy you people). We arrived early Friday morning to our hostel, an hour late, which gave us very little time to unpack, eat, and get back down to the lobby for our first free walking tour of Prague. We all made it back downstairs in time, tired and grumpy, but ready to explore the city. We were given an amazing tour by a very entertaining guide, an Irishman named Deckland, who possibly knew more about Prague than most Czech's! After the tour ended we grabbed a quick lunch. For me this included a delicious bagel sandwich (my first bagel in months) and a pumpkin spiced latte from Starbucks.
Yes, Starbucks. I walked into the Starbucks in the middle of Old Town Square in Prague and was overcome with a feeling of homesickness. I turned to a friend of mine and explained just how important such a silly experience like going to a coffee shop was to me. Starbucks is, oddly enough, a large part of my family life. My mom worked for Starbucks for over 10 years, and so did many of my siblings. My little brother still works at a Starbucks in San Diego. One might call being a barista something of a family vocation. I walked to a familiar room and observed pony-tailed women in their green Starbucks aprons, hurriedly running back and forth behind the counter trying to fulfill their never-ending list of demanding coffees. It felt like home. My only indication of being outside of the States was when the Czech girl behind the counter mispronounced my English name. If she had not I would have mentioned to her how my mother, a Starbucks store manager, would have loved her smiling customer service. I enjoyed every sip of that coffee as it warmed and soothed the shivering bones in my cold-intolerant SoCal body.
After walking around for a little while we returned to the hostel for a necessary nap. We ate cheap takeout Chinese food and then got ready for our evening out on the town. Bus2Alps had prepared a pub crawl for us! That evening was a blur of beers, cigars, dancing, and friends. We all made it back relatively early and fell into our beds, exhausted. The next day we awoke, enjoyed the complimentary breakfast, and got ready for a second walking tour. This tour was not given by a real guide, only our Bus2Alps chaperons, yet it was still a chance to see the sights of Prague we could not see the day before. After thetour, Bus2Alps had arranged a luncheon at a traditional Czech restaurant, one which boast a very popular 500 year old beer recipe. The meal, and especially the beer, was amazing. We returned to the hostel for yet another nap and there we stayed until dinner. We had an amazing meal at an Indian Restaurant that I found through great reviews on TripAdvisor. The next few hours were filled with disappointment. My friends and I were supposed to meet up with the rest of the Bus2Alps group and go to another bar. Unfortunately dinner ran late and we missed the meeting time. We started asking cabbies around the area how to get to the bar and none of them had heard of it. After finally finding cab drivers who knew of the bar and agreed to drive us there, we finally got our hopes up. They proceeded to drive us in a weird direction and stopped outside of a pub, charging us 12 Euro for the cab ride. Being clueless tourists we paid and got out of the cabs; which sped off in a hurry. We realized we had gotten duped too late as we walked down the street and found out they took us in a complete circle. Fed up with everything the majority of us decided to spend a few hours in a nearby Huka bar. Thankfully a group of our friends from Perugia unknowingly walked into the same establishment not 10 minutes later. A few hours later our large group returned to the hostel to get some sleep before our long ride home.
The next morning we ate breakfast and rejoined our Roman travel companions to make the long drive back to Italy and Perugia. For 14 hours (with one break of 45 mins) we watched movies and chatted on the bus. Walking back to our apartments in Perugia was an amazing feeling. It seems anytime we leave this town we are so happy to be coming back.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Weekend Trip to Venice
Last week, with my limited funds in mind, I had to decide what cities were on my must-see list. Venice was placed right at the top of that list. I knew I could not leave Italy without seeing Venice. So with two days to plan, two friends and I decided to make the long trip to go see the sinking city.
We started our journey early Friday morning and hopped on the train in Perugia. After five hours and three trains we finally arrived. We ate a quick lunch and checked in to our hostels, then finally we started our tour of the city. Venice is... well exactly how it looks in the movies. Everywhere you turn there are canals, some larger than others. There has to be hundreds of them, and hundreds of bridges crossing them all. One very large expanse of water, the Grand Canal, basically splits the main island of Venice in two. Unfortunately, the Venetians have only ever built 4 bridges that allow pedestrians to cross the Grand Canal, which can make walking around the city utterly frustrating. More than once my friends and I walked down a street to find ourselves walking towards water, with no where to go but some stairs walking down into the green watery depths. We made our way to St. Mark's Square; probably one of the most famous piazzas in all of Italy. It was breathtakingly large, very similar to Piazza del Duomo in Milan. Our initial reaction to the sight of St. Mark's Basilica was rather subdued as the entire front facade was covered in scaffolding in lieu of a current restoration process. The inside however, that is a different story.
Everything I knew about St. Mark's I knew from reading Dan Brown's most recent novel The Inferno, where his protagonists frantically search the depths of the basilica for hidden clues. Dan Brown mentions how the church is famously known as the "golden church" because of the millions of golden tiles that make up its walls and ceilings. And I would definitely agree with that statement. For some unknown reason the lights within the church are kept at a very dim intensity, and only after letting your eyes adjust do you really comprehend the level of brilliance within the dark space. We had planned ahead and downloaded a free walking tour of the building; a 45 minute detailed description of the many murals and piece of historical artwork within the church and it's museum. After walking all the way through the basilica, mouths agape, we were allowed to go out on the balcony and overlook the entire square. The view was spectacular.
We had also downloaded a free audio guide that took us down the Grand Canal following the stops of the local water buses called vaporetti. It was a 45 minute trip going down the entire length of the canal, pointing out all the famous building and monuments on the way. Unfortunately most of the photos I took while on that vaporetti were terribly blurry and I have not included in the photo album. After all that walking and audio-guide-listening we were hungry. We spent almost a half an hour trying to find a restaurant that was very highly rated on Tripadvisor and Yelp. This place is a very small kitchen that specializes in only selling fresh pasta noodles, however at certain times of the day they sell the pasta with a small selection of signature sauces. It was cheap and served by the half pound in small chinese-food to go containers. We got our pasta, bought bottles of wine and found a place at the edge of the Grand Canal to sit and enjoy our dinner. We sat there, eating pasta from a to go container and drinking wine from the bottle, watching gondolas go by, chatting and enjoying each others company. We finished the night by finding a small local pub and getting a couple beers. The next morning was going to be another early one!
We woke up early and headed off in the direction of St. Mark's square again, however this time in search of the Doge's Palace. The Doge's Palace is a palace/capitol building turned museum. It was the home of the Doge, Venice's historical elected leader (the Doges ruled the city and surrounding area of Venice for over a thousand years!) The palace was a beautiful museum, one that I wish we had some sort of guide for. The most amazing section of the museum was its Armory. The armory was home to a collection of swords, spears, suits of armor, primitive firearms, and one very special weapon. This thing... WAS THE COOLEST. It was a sword that was inlaid with a gun! Half way down the blade on one side was the barrel and the trigger was in the handle. From a logistical standpoint, its completely foolish, as one now has a bad pistol attached to a horribly off balanced sword. But still... that's so awesome. The museum also contains a tour of the Venice prison, attached to the Doge's Palace by a span aptly named "the Bridge of Sighs," as it was the walkway upon which newly sentenced prisoners walked sadly to their new accommodations. After leaving the Doge's Palace the rest of the day was spent navigating the streets of Venice, stopping at mask and glass shops along the way. Mid-afternoon we grabbed the train back to Florence and finally back to Perugia after another five hours of train travel. On the train I met a group of traveling air force soldiers. They were a really fun group of guys and girls traveling to Florence on their extended weekend (they got Monday off for Veteran's Day). As always, it's such a pleasure to meet fellow Americans on the road.
My final thoughts on Venice are bittersweet. I am definitely glad I went to go visit it, as there are parts of the city that I really enjoyed. However, I spent far more money than I thought I would (prices there are ridiculous) and the city is so difficult to get around. With only money left for two more trips, my list of must-see cities has gotten much smaller. Let's see where I end up in a few weeks!
We started our journey early Friday morning and hopped on the train in Perugia. After five hours and three trains we finally arrived. We ate a quick lunch and checked in to our hostels, then finally we started our tour of the city. Venice is... well exactly how it looks in the movies. Everywhere you turn there are canals, some larger than others. There has to be hundreds of them, and hundreds of bridges crossing them all. One very large expanse of water, the Grand Canal, basically splits the main island of Venice in two. Unfortunately, the Venetians have only ever built 4 bridges that allow pedestrians to cross the Grand Canal, which can make walking around the city utterly frustrating. More than once my friends and I walked down a street to find ourselves walking towards water, with no where to go but some stairs walking down into the green watery depths. We made our way to St. Mark's Square; probably one of the most famous piazzas in all of Italy. It was breathtakingly large, very similar to Piazza del Duomo in Milan. Our initial reaction to the sight of St. Mark's Basilica was rather subdued as the entire front facade was covered in scaffolding in lieu of a current restoration process. The inside however, that is a different story.
Everything I knew about St. Mark's I knew from reading Dan Brown's most recent novel The Inferno, where his protagonists frantically search the depths of the basilica for hidden clues. Dan Brown mentions how the church is famously known as the "golden church" because of the millions of golden tiles that make up its walls and ceilings. And I would definitely agree with that statement. For some unknown reason the lights within the church are kept at a very dim intensity, and only after letting your eyes adjust do you really comprehend the level of brilliance within the dark space. We had planned ahead and downloaded a free walking tour of the building; a 45 minute detailed description of the many murals and piece of historical artwork within the church and it's museum. After walking all the way through the basilica, mouths agape, we were allowed to go out on the balcony and overlook the entire square. The view was spectacular.
We had also downloaded a free audio guide that took us down the Grand Canal following the stops of the local water buses called vaporetti. It was a 45 minute trip going down the entire length of the canal, pointing out all the famous building and monuments on the way. Unfortunately most of the photos I took while on that vaporetti were terribly blurry and I have not included in the photo album. After all that walking and audio-guide-listening we were hungry. We spent almost a half an hour trying to find a restaurant that was very highly rated on Tripadvisor and Yelp. This place is a very small kitchen that specializes in only selling fresh pasta noodles, however at certain times of the day they sell the pasta with a small selection of signature sauces. It was cheap and served by the half pound in small chinese-food to go containers. We got our pasta, bought bottles of wine and found a place at the edge of the Grand Canal to sit and enjoy our dinner. We sat there, eating pasta from a to go container and drinking wine from the bottle, watching gondolas go by, chatting and enjoying each others company. We finished the night by finding a small local pub and getting a couple beers. The next morning was going to be another early one!
We woke up early and headed off in the direction of St. Mark's square again, however this time in search of the Doge's Palace. The Doge's Palace is a palace/capitol building turned museum. It was the home of the Doge, Venice's historical elected leader (the Doges ruled the city and surrounding area of Venice for over a thousand years!) The palace was a beautiful museum, one that I wish we had some sort of guide for. The most amazing section of the museum was its Armory. The armory was home to a collection of swords, spears, suits of armor, primitive firearms, and one very special weapon. This thing... WAS THE COOLEST. It was a sword that was inlaid with a gun! Half way down the blade on one side was the barrel and the trigger was in the handle. From a logistical standpoint, its completely foolish, as one now has a bad pistol attached to a horribly off balanced sword. But still... that's so awesome. The museum also contains a tour of the Venice prison, attached to the Doge's Palace by a span aptly named "the Bridge of Sighs," as it was the walkway upon which newly sentenced prisoners walked sadly to their new accommodations. After leaving the Doge's Palace the rest of the day was spent navigating the streets of Venice, stopping at mask and glass shops along the way. Mid-afternoon we grabbed the train back to Florence and finally back to Perugia after another five hours of train travel. On the train I met a group of traveling air force soldiers. They were a really fun group of guys and girls traveling to Florence on their extended weekend (they got Monday off for Veteran's Day). As always, it's such a pleasure to meet fellow Americans on the road.
My final thoughts on Venice are bittersweet. I am definitely glad I went to go visit it, as there are parts of the city that I really enjoyed. However, I spent far more money than I thought I would (prices there are ridiculous) and the city is so difficult to get around. With only money left for two more trips, my list of must-see cities has gotten much smaller. Let's see where I end up in a few weeks!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fall Break: Final Day
My final words on Sicily! I feel like I have written a novel so far. But please bear with me, I have a few more things to claw my way through. There is no need to get grizzly. (Puns are fun)
My final night in Sicily was Saturday night and my last dinner was promised to my great aunt and her family. I was picked up by her grandson Ricardo, the same cousin that brought me to her earlier in the week. Together we walked into her building and up the tiny staircase to her apartment. Inside awaited eight or so family members, none of whom spoke English, yet all of whom were foaming at the mouth to meet me. Thus began my final exam, my Italian test for the week. I was separated from my life-line, my cousins who know a semblance of English and can help me when I stumble for words. I was introduced to everyone, greeted them, and sat down very timid and nervous, leaving sweat marks in my pink shirt that I just knew were visible (yeah, that's right, I wore a pink shirt,my aunt said its looks good with my skin tone). I was implored to serve myself as much as I wanted, "eat everything you want," they told me, "We will serve ourselves after you." Well if that sentence right there doesn't make your skin crawl with heightened expectations I don't know what will. In my very humble opinion... I would say I outdid myself. I was understanding everything, with the exception of my great aunt's rough Sicilian dialect, and responding coherently. We ate and chatted about my time here in Sicily, what I was studying in Perugia and in America, how I felt about Italy so far, and how the family was back home. The meal was fantastically prepared and I promised them I would try to recreate it in Perugia. Upon saying such a thing my great aunt shot up, went to the refrigerator to pull out the uncooked extras, and proceeded to rip them apart, showing me exactly how to make them. One simple statement and I had a 70 year old woman whom I had just met fervently explaining cooking techniques to me. This was the kind of unruly power I had in that tiny kitchen. It felt regal and yet slightly raunchy, like I was not worthy of such attention. Every time I opened my mouth to talk the room got quiet to listen to what I had to say. After a few courses and coffee, my cousin asked if it was time to leave. Eager to end such an ordeal I replied with a subtle, "Yes, that would be fine." I thanked everyone for graciously welcoming me and listening to my poor excuse for Italian. We walked down to the car and my head was spinning. The amount of love and generosity that was just dumped on me, along with the constant translation of languages in my head left me slightly dizzy. It was an experience that was equally as wonderful as it was harrowing (harrowing is too strong of a word, it truly wasn't that bad). Ricardo dropped me off at my aunts house and thankfully offered to bring me to the airport the next day.
The rest of the night was spent trying to find some place to "show me a good time" as my cousins would put it. I was with my two male cousins and their girlfriends fighting the traffic of Palermo to try and find a bar or nightclub to spend the night in. Instead we drove around and around, finding no where to park and no place that wasn't spilling into the streets with people. I could hear the disappointment in the voices of my cousins. They were determined to send me off to Perugia as hungover as possible with good memories of a night spent on the town to hold me over until the next time we would see each other. Little did they know I was happy as a clam, enjoying everyone's presence, sharing stories, and looking out at Palermo from behind the BMW window. Growing up worlds away from each other it would seem easy to not feel connected with them. But the opposite is true. They are just as loved by me as any of the cousins I grew up with in San Diego.
Here's the part where I thank those who I know are reading this (Jessica!) Thank you to my aunt Antoinette and uncle Giacomo for feeding me and giving me a home to live in for a week. Thank you to my cousins Domenico, Pietro, and Giovanna for grabbing the leash and dragging their mute shy puppy of a cousin around their city. Since I know no Sicilian (that's not true I have since learned two words!) I spent a lot of time staring off into space, silently listening, and probably making my cousin's friends think I was a weirdo. Thank you to my cousin's girlfriends, Jessica and Filomena, who made huge efforts to get to know me even though neither of them understand English.
That's it. Now I can say I have been where I come from. I can say I have walked in the footsteps of my ancestors. It's an awesome feeling. Hopefully I have detained it forever within the words of this blog.
My final night in Sicily was Saturday night and my last dinner was promised to my great aunt and her family. I was picked up by her grandson Ricardo, the same cousin that brought me to her earlier in the week. Together we walked into her building and up the tiny staircase to her apartment. Inside awaited eight or so family members, none of whom spoke English, yet all of whom were foaming at the mouth to meet me. Thus began my final exam, my Italian test for the week. I was separated from my life-line, my cousins who know a semblance of English and can help me when I stumble for words. I was introduced to everyone, greeted them, and sat down very timid and nervous, leaving sweat marks in my pink shirt that I just knew were visible (yeah, that's right, I wore a pink shirt,my aunt said its looks good with my skin tone). I was implored to serve myself as much as I wanted, "eat everything you want," they told me, "We will serve ourselves after you." Well if that sentence right there doesn't make your skin crawl with heightened expectations I don't know what will. In my very humble opinion... I would say I outdid myself. I was understanding everything, with the exception of my great aunt's rough Sicilian dialect, and responding coherently. We ate and chatted about my time here in Sicily, what I was studying in Perugia and in America, how I felt about Italy so far, and how the family was back home. The meal was fantastically prepared and I promised them I would try to recreate it in Perugia. Upon saying such a thing my great aunt shot up, went to the refrigerator to pull out the uncooked extras, and proceeded to rip them apart, showing me exactly how to make them. One simple statement and I had a 70 year old woman whom I had just met fervently explaining cooking techniques to me. This was the kind of unruly power I had in that tiny kitchen. It felt regal and yet slightly raunchy, like I was not worthy of such attention. Every time I opened my mouth to talk the room got quiet to listen to what I had to say. After a few courses and coffee, my cousin asked if it was time to leave. Eager to end such an ordeal I replied with a subtle, "Yes, that would be fine." I thanked everyone for graciously welcoming me and listening to my poor excuse for Italian. We walked down to the car and my head was spinning. The amount of love and generosity that was just dumped on me, along with the constant translation of languages in my head left me slightly dizzy. It was an experience that was equally as wonderful as it was harrowing (harrowing is too strong of a word, it truly wasn't that bad). Ricardo dropped me off at my aunts house and thankfully offered to bring me to the airport the next day.
The rest of the night was spent trying to find some place to "show me a good time" as my cousins would put it. I was with my two male cousins and their girlfriends fighting the traffic of Palermo to try and find a bar or nightclub to spend the night in. Instead we drove around and around, finding no where to park and no place that wasn't spilling into the streets with people. I could hear the disappointment in the voices of my cousins. They were determined to send me off to Perugia as hungover as possible with good memories of a night spent on the town to hold me over until the next time we would see each other. Little did they know I was happy as a clam, enjoying everyone's presence, sharing stories, and looking out at Palermo from behind the BMW window. Growing up worlds away from each other it would seem easy to not feel connected with them. But the opposite is true. They are just as loved by me as any of the cousins I grew up with in San Diego.
Here's the part where I thank those who I know are reading this (Jessica!) Thank you to my aunt Antoinette and uncle Giacomo for feeding me and giving me a home to live in for a week. Thank you to my cousins Domenico, Pietro, and Giovanna for grabbing the leash and dragging their mute shy puppy of a cousin around their city. Since I know no Sicilian (that's not true I have since learned two words!) I spent a lot of time staring off into space, silently listening, and probably making my cousin's friends think I was a weirdo. Thank you to my cousin's girlfriends, Jessica and Filomena, who made huge efforts to get to know me even though neither of them understand English.
That's it. Now I can say I have been where I come from. I can say I have walked in the footsteps of my ancestors. It's an awesome feeling. Hopefully I have detained it forever within the words of this blog.
Fall Break: Santa Rosalia and Mazara Del Vallo
This one might be long but I have a lot to say for these two days!
On Thursday I had the pleasure of meeting my grandmother's sister! I was brought to her house by a cousin of mine (who I just met). There I enjoyed some fresh brewed coffee as my great aunt told me how happy she was to meet me and how well I spoke Italian. She invited me to dinner Saturday night and of course I obliged (I will get to that story later!).
Afterwards I met back up with my aunt, cousins, and my cousin's girlfriend. We climbed in the family car and were off in the direction of Palermo to visit a famous church of one of the patron saints of Palermo, the Church of Santa Rosalia. This particular church sat on top of a large mountain in Palermo. As we rode up we could see from the road just how massive the city of Palermo was. There were numerous apartment complexes, more than I could count. We arrived at the church and I was surprised to see a strangely square building, one unlike any other church I had seen before. My aunt explained to me the story of Santa Rosalia and why her church is way up on this mountain. A young man has fallen deeply in love with Rosalia, a noble born woman, and he pursued her greatly. In order to assuage his advances and stay faithful to her religious vows, she fled to the top of the mountain and lived in a cave for 10 years. We walked into the church and subsequently into the cave, and an utterly strange event transpired.
The cave was... downright creepy. I did not enjoy the sight of it. It was dark and very strangely lighted, with yards of metal plates tacked onto the cave ceiling to try and prevent water from dripping onto the pious visitors. There was a particularly creepy bust of a woman sitting in a lonely niche with pale white skin, deeply red painted lips, and blue staring eyes. I took my photos and though I should say a prayer or two to try and clear my mind. I sat in a pew and closed my eyes. All I could think about was how I didn't feel God in this place. The walls were dark and ominous, giving no feeling of comfort. I felt no divine presence, no inner peace. I opened my eyes and contemplated this mismatched feeling. A single large drop of water landed square on my right shoulder. I was startled and looked upwards to find the source but found nothing except the plates of metal designed to keep the water at bay. Was that God's way of telling me he was in that place? I was reminded of the bible verse Matthew 18:20 - "For where two or three gather in my name, there I am with them."
We left the mountain and headed to the beautiful beach town of Mondello. I was told Mondello was a very rich neighborhood of Palermo where most soccer players and politicians lived. The beach was a soft white sand not unlike the sand of the Del Coronado's beach (for any non-San Diegan, the Del Coronado is a famous beach side hotel on Coronado Island; when the President comes to San Diego, they stay there.). We walked down the boardwalk and got gelato, stopping at the small tabletop vendors selling cheap jewelry and scarves. I saw a very out-of-place building and asked what it was. My aunt explained that it was a relic of the war, an old scouting tower, as this was a perfect place to see all of the beach and surrounding area. We left after sunset to be back in Aspra by dinner time.
My trip in Sicily was coming to a swift end and I had a thought that wouldn't go away: I have not seen Mazara del Vallo, the city of my maternal family. I knew that I could not leave the island without seeing it. I asked my aunt if we could see it the next day, which was Friday. She told me the car had to be taken to the mechanic and if I truly wanted to go I would have to take the long ride by train alone. I called my grandmother on my mother's side and told her I was thinking of visiting Mazara, the city where her mother and father were born. I was thousands of miles away from her and yet I could see her smiling through the telephone. I explained it would be difficult but I thought I would give it a try. My grandmother told me that she had never even seen photos of the place, and that if it were possible I should try and find the church where her parents were married. That night my dreams were utterly filled with conflict. Should I go? It would be a grand total of 8 hours of traveling for 4 hours walking aimlessly in a city that I had no idea about. The alarm I tentatively set the night before called an armistice, ending the feuding thoughts. "I'm going to go on an adventure," I thought.
I looked up train schedules, made sure I had a map on my phone, and grabbed the next possible train out of Bagheria. I would have paid 50 euro for that train ride (in total I paid 16 euro for travel). The morning was clear and beautiful. I decided I rather enjoyed the southern part of the island, as it was filled with rolling hills of farms and quaint coastal towns. I arrived in Mazara and headed in the direction of the duomo, the tallest thing I could see. Thus began my 4 hours of randomly walking the streets, camera in hand, taking a photo of everything I could (especially every church I could see). Mazara was gorgeuous. Almost every building was made of a pale yellow limestone similar to Palermo Cathedral. I found numerous small tile paintings plastered to walls, presumably made by children, displaying Mazara as a city of peace and art. I visited many churches and buildings. However my favorite, was a structure which literally made my jaw drop. I arrived at a seemingly normal old church to find its doors completely open, with the light of the sun shining brightly through. I was curious so I walked up to the doors and was surprised to see the church was completely without a roof (after further research, I found out that the roof collapsed in 1933). I walked in and fell silent, watching birds fly in and out of the top of the building. I could have taken a thousand photos of that church, instead I stuck to five or six. For my last hour in Mazara I walked up and down the boardwalk, smelling the salty sea breeze and feeling... at home. I thought, "any minute now I will see the top the the Star of India, sails tucked away, nestled neatly next to Anthony's Fish Grotto." As I returned to the Mazara train station I thought about how I was surprised to not find the name Asaro or Giacalone (my grandmother's family names) on any buildings since I was told they were popular surnames in Mazara. As I walked I looked closely at the names printed on the doorbells of the buildings on the road to the train station. Sure enough, the third building I looked at, there it was, Asaro. I snapped a quick photo and was on my way. I sat back on the train and returned to Aspra, tired from a long day's journey.
To my grandmother: Nana! let me know if any of the churches look familiar!!
On Thursday I had the pleasure of meeting my grandmother's sister! I was brought to her house by a cousin of mine (who I just met). There I enjoyed some fresh brewed coffee as my great aunt told me how happy she was to meet me and how well I spoke Italian. She invited me to dinner Saturday night and of course I obliged (I will get to that story later!).
Afterwards I met back up with my aunt, cousins, and my cousin's girlfriend. We climbed in the family car and were off in the direction of Palermo to visit a famous church of one of the patron saints of Palermo, the Church of Santa Rosalia. This particular church sat on top of a large mountain in Palermo. As we rode up we could see from the road just how massive the city of Palermo was. There were numerous apartment complexes, more than I could count. We arrived at the church and I was surprised to see a strangely square building, one unlike any other church I had seen before. My aunt explained to me the story of Santa Rosalia and why her church is way up on this mountain. A young man has fallen deeply in love with Rosalia, a noble born woman, and he pursued her greatly. In order to assuage his advances and stay faithful to her religious vows, she fled to the top of the mountain and lived in a cave for 10 years. We walked into the church and subsequently into the cave, and an utterly strange event transpired.
The cave was... downright creepy. I did not enjoy the sight of it. It was dark and very strangely lighted, with yards of metal plates tacked onto the cave ceiling to try and prevent water from dripping onto the pious visitors. There was a particularly creepy bust of a woman sitting in a lonely niche with pale white skin, deeply red painted lips, and blue staring eyes. I took my photos and though I should say a prayer or two to try and clear my mind. I sat in a pew and closed my eyes. All I could think about was how I didn't feel God in this place. The walls were dark and ominous, giving no feeling of comfort. I felt no divine presence, no inner peace. I opened my eyes and contemplated this mismatched feeling. A single large drop of water landed square on my right shoulder. I was startled and looked upwards to find the source but found nothing except the plates of metal designed to keep the water at bay. Was that God's way of telling me he was in that place? I was reminded of the bible verse Matthew 18:20 - "For where two or three gather in my name, there I am with them."
We left the mountain and headed to the beautiful beach town of Mondello. I was told Mondello was a very rich neighborhood of Palermo where most soccer players and politicians lived. The beach was a soft white sand not unlike the sand of the Del Coronado's beach (for any non-San Diegan, the Del Coronado is a famous beach side hotel on Coronado Island; when the President comes to San Diego, they stay there.). We walked down the boardwalk and got gelato, stopping at the small tabletop vendors selling cheap jewelry and scarves. I saw a very out-of-place building and asked what it was. My aunt explained that it was a relic of the war, an old scouting tower, as this was a perfect place to see all of the beach and surrounding area. We left after sunset to be back in Aspra by dinner time.
My trip in Sicily was coming to a swift end and I had a thought that wouldn't go away: I have not seen Mazara del Vallo, the city of my maternal family. I knew that I could not leave the island without seeing it. I asked my aunt if we could see it the next day, which was Friday. She told me the car had to be taken to the mechanic and if I truly wanted to go I would have to take the long ride by train alone. I called my grandmother on my mother's side and told her I was thinking of visiting Mazara, the city where her mother and father were born. I was thousands of miles away from her and yet I could see her smiling through the telephone. I explained it would be difficult but I thought I would give it a try. My grandmother told me that she had never even seen photos of the place, and that if it were possible I should try and find the church where her parents were married. That night my dreams were utterly filled with conflict. Should I go? It would be a grand total of 8 hours of traveling for 4 hours walking aimlessly in a city that I had no idea about. The alarm I tentatively set the night before called an armistice, ending the feuding thoughts. "I'm going to go on an adventure," I thought.
I looked up train schedules, made sure I had a map on my phone, and grabbed the next possible train out of Bagheria. I would have paid 50 euro for that train ride (in total I paid 16 euro for travel). The morning was clear and beautiful. I decided I rather enjoyed the southern part of the island, as it was filled with rolling hills of farms and quaint coastal towns. I arrived in Mazara and headed in the direction of the duomo, the tallest thing I could see. Thus began my 4 hours of randomly walking the streets, camera in hand, taking a photo of everything I could (especially every church I could see). Mazara was gorgeuous. Almost every building was made of a pale yellow limestone similar to Palermo Cathedral. I found numerous small tile paintings plastered to walls, presumably made by children, displaying Mazara as a city of peace and art. I visited many churches and buildings. However my favorite, was a structure which literally made my jaw drop. I arrived at a seemingly normal old church to find its doors completely open, with the light of the sun shining brightly through. I was curious so I walked up to the doors and was surprised to see the church was completely without a roof (after further research, I found out that the roof collapsed in 1933). I walked in and fell silent, watching birds fly in and out of the top of the building. I could have taken a thousand photos of that church, instead I stuck to five or six. For my last hour in Mazara I walked up and down the boardwalk, smelling the salty sea breeze and feeling... at home. I thought, "any minute now I will see the top the the Star of India, sails tucked away, nestled neatly next to Anthony's Fish Grotto." As I returned to the Mazara train station I thought about how I was surprised to not find the name Asaro or Giacalone (my grandmother's family names) on any buildings since I was told they were popular surnames in Mazara. As I walked I looked closely at the names printed on the doorbells of the buildings on the road to the train station. Sure enough, the third building I looked at, there it was, Asaro. I snapped a quick photo and was on my way. I sat back on the train and returned to Aspra, tired from a long day's journey.
To my grandmother: Nana! let me know if any of the churches look familiar!!
Monday, October 28, 2013
Fall Break: Palermo and Day 4
Tuesday morning of last week I woke up ready to visit Palermo, the capital city of the region of Sicily. Three lovely ladies (my cousin Giovanna, her friend Luana, and my other cousin's girlfriend Filomena) were my guides through the city. We arrived at Palermo Centrale station after a short ride from the Bagheria train station. From there we started down a famous street in Palermo, Via Roma. We walked past one beautiful church and the most ornate post office I have ever seen to see the first of two amazing theaters. This one I immediately noticed as Teatro Massimo, the theater featured in the film Godfather part III (terrible movie) in the scene of Michael Corleone's son's murder. Directly after seeing this theater we walked to the second famous theater in Palermo (and my personal favorite), Teatro Poilteama. We walked to the other side of the long piazza of the theater to find a small reconstruction of a Greek temple. To the best of my knowledge this temple-like structure has absolutely no historical significance, and yet I found it strikingly beautiful. We then walked to a famous intersection known as Quattro Canti. Each of the four corners of the intersection house a large fountain, one for each season. Directly behind one of the fountains is a beautiful church called San Guiseppe dei Teatini. The interior of this church was magnificent. From there we walked to the duomo of Palermo (the duomo of a particular city is it's largest or most famous church, it does not actually have to have a dome!) which is simply called the Palermo Cathedral. This massive yellow limestone church was a beautiful sight! Strangely the outside was far better to look at than the rather plain interior. We saw a few more churches and ended up at a famous fountain whose official name is Fontana Pretoria however it is known to the locals as Fontana Vergogna or "shame fountain" as all the statues are clearly and bashfully nude. We ended our tour of the city sights by walking down and the path of an old market. When we returned to Aspra I parted ways with my female escorts and thanked them for patiently speaking to me in Italian all day. I had thought the day of picture taking was over. Instead I took some photos of Aspra and my cousin drove me up a nearby mountain so I could take some shots of the whole city from above. I slept well that night after a long day of sightseeing, obviously after applying heavy amounts of cortizone ointment for my countless mosquito bites.
The next day was not as eventful. My cousin Domenico, his friend Mauro, and I went out in their small fishing boat to fish for "poupu"which is Sicilian for octopus. And wouldn't you believe it! We caught nothing! Thus continues my streak of fishing endeavors without catching a single thing ( I think I am up to 6 times in a row). Pardon my digression, but it makes no sense how terrible of a fisherman I am. And yet, I enjoyed myself. The sea was calm, the sun warmed my body, and the view of Aspra and the backdrop of the mountains was beautiful. When I looked out onto Sicily from that little boat, I could not help but notice how ancient the island looked. Jagged mountains shot up and fell down in huge cliffs near the water's edge. The unsettled areas around and lining the mountains were filled with sparse grass and small olive trees. I had to be looking out at the same sights Greek mariners saw five or six thousand years ago when they ventured this far west and first founded settlements on Sicily. In Homer's The Odyessey, one of the most famous classical pieces of Greek literature, the island of Sicily (or what is thought to be the island of Sicily) was inhabited by families of gigantic cyclopes (I googled it, that's the plural version of cyclops) (don't you start doubting me). In the midsts of the adventure of the main character Odysseus, a blinded cyclops by the name of Polyphemus breaks off the tip of a mountain and hurls it at the fleeing Odysseus' ship, sending the rock crashing into the Mediterranean. I stood in that tiny boat, flinging my fishing rod, finally understanding why Homer had used Sicily for such a story. So many of these mountains looked as though their tops has been loped off by a giant. As I recreated the scene in my head, I couldn't pick which mountain in my plain of sight would be my wounded mountain, sitting at a fraction of the height it used to have before Polyphemus had to decapitate it. Unfortunately my most unplanned and sloppy attempt at speaking Italian was trying to explain this story to Domenico and Mauro. I kept mentioning words like mountain and cyclops, they had no idea what I was trying to say.
Later that evening I was brought to a small and famous village called Santa Flavia. I tried taking pictures but I found out very fast the orange light of street lamps is the worst lighting for photographs. I believe I spared some in order to show you how terrible the photos came out.
Fall Break: Sicily Day 1 and 2
I'd like to start out by saying in Sicily, no one speaks English. Thankfully most of the younger generation are taught and therefore can speak Italian. However the overwhelming majority speak Sicilian, which is surprisingly different from Italian. I would estimate that 80% of my time in Sicily was spent in silence trying to listen and understand what the hell everyone was saying. When some one addressed me, which they did and I am very grateful for, they spoke Italian slowly and clearly. I surprised myself every time by actually understanding them and being able to respond. I had full conversations with friends and family in Italian, which until a year and a half ago was only a dream I could say I wanted to accomplish. Now, that dream is becoming a reality (Thank the lord!).
My first two days in Sicily were very similar. I was living with my aunt's family in the sleepy fishing town of Aspra, a small section of the larger Sicilian city of Bagheria. A little tidbit of information for you: apparently Aspra is home to 90% of the world's sardine factories. The place is reminiscent of the old American coal mine towns whose very life blood came from their single export; if the sardines were lost the town would fall apart. But I digress! Both days I woke up late, aroused by the loud snoring of my cousins whose room I shared and the magnificently itchy feeling of a dozen new mosquito bites acquired throughout the night. Both days we ate a late lunch followed by a trip out to the sea on a little boat, in search of a small strip of beach to wash up on and pass the time. It was very relaxing. After returning from the beach we would shower, eat a home cooked meal, jump in the family car, and ride out into the night in search of friends and a place to sit and enjoy a beer. The town was so small that everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows that everyone has nothing to do and was seeking entertainment. We would drive down the streets, yelling at other local kids, wondering what they were up to. Both nights we ended up at a small outdoor bar in Porticello, a nearby town known for (you guessed it) its large port. We grabbed beers and conversed in a slurry of languages: English, Italian, Sicilian, and sometimes other dialects of Italian (my cousin is dating a wonderful Neapolitan girl).
During these two days I formulated an analogy that by the end of the trip I had confirmed to be downright accurate. Sicilians eat how they drive: with as little rules as possible.
Driving in Sicily is not for the weak of stomach. It is simple, fast, and without regulation. Seat belts are not obligatory. A girlfriend of my aunt's pointed out the fact that she could tell exactly who was the American in the car because I was the only one wearing my seat belt. "Mi scusate," I would say, " e' un abitudine, non sto pensando!" (I'm sorry, it's a habit, I am not thinking) Also it is clear that Sicilians do not have a healthy respect for what we might call a "lane line." Maneuvers were made that in the California would grant you a nicely sized ticket. However they do have a healthy respect for the size of their vehicle and just how small of a space they can get their car into. Crowds of car were able to crawl through tiny streets without a drop of nervous sweat produced from their drivers (maybe it's just me but I don't like anything to get within a foot of ole Besty, my 23 year old Cadillac).
The classic Sicilian dinner is very similar. The meal resembles a densely crowded street as participants make mad rushes for the large platters of food spread out on the table. Before the meal the table is populated with loafs of bread, liters of soda and water, and the large platters of whatever meats and vegetables are being served. Everyone sits, and the chowing-down commences. Few words leave mouths in order to make room for the copious amounts of food going back the other direction. Arms are reaching and plates are passed. Bread is broken and used to scoop up any juices left on a plate. The meal is done after 15 minutes. Now this is the kind of eating I can get used to.
I did not take any photos these days but not to worry, There are plenty more to come!
My first two days in Sicily were very similar. I was living with my aunt's family in the sleepy fishing town of Aspra, a small section of the larger Sicilian city of Bagheria. A little tidbit of information for you: apparently Aspra is home to 90% of the world's sardine factories. The place is reminiscent of the old American coal mine towns whose very life blood came from their single export; if the sardines were lost the town would fall apart. But I digress! Both days I woke up late, aroused by the loud snoring of my cousins whose room I shared and the magnificently itchy feeling of a dozen new mosquito bites acquired throughout the night. Both days we ate a late lunch followed by a trip out to the sea on a little boat, in search of a small strip of beach to wash up on and pass the time. It was very relaxing. After returning from the beach we would shower, eat a home cooked meal, jump in the family car, and ride out into the night in search of friends and a place to sit and enjoy a beer. The town was so small that everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows that everyone has nothing to do and was seeking entertainment. We would drive down the streets, yelling at other local kids, wondering what they were up to. Both nights we ended up at a small outdoor bar in Porticello, a nearby town known for (you guessed it) its large port. We grabbed beers and conversed in a slurry of languages: English, Italian, Sicilian, and sometimes other dialects of Italian (my cousin is dating a wonderful Neapolitan girl).
During these two days I formulated an analogy that by the end of the trip I had confirmed to be downright accurate. Sicilians eat how they drive: with as little rules as possible.
Driving in Sicily is not for the weak of stomach. It is simple, fast, and without regulation. Seat belts are not obligatory. A girlfriend of my aunt's pointed out the fact that she could tell exactly who was the American in the car because I was the only one wearing my seat belt. "Mi scusate," I would say, " e' un abitudine, non sto pensando!" (I'm sorry, it's a habit, I am not thinking) Also it is clear that Sicilians do not have a healthy respect for what we might call a "lane line." Maneuvers were made that in the California would grant you a nicely sized ticket. However they do have a healthy respect for the size of their vehicle and just how small of a space they can get their car into. Crowds of car were able to crawl through tiny streets without a drop of nervous sweat produced from their drivers (maybe it's just me but I don't like anything to get within a foot of ole Besty, my 23 year old Cadillac).
The classic Sicilian dinner is very similar. The meal resembles a densely crowded street as participants make mad rushes for the large platters of food spread out on the table. Before the meal the table is populated with loafs of bread, liters of soda and water, and the large platters of whatever meats and vegetables are being served. Everyone sits, and the chowing-down commences. Few words leave mouths in order to make room for the copious amounts of food going back the other direction. Arms are reaching and plates are passed. Bread is broken and used to scoop up any juices left on a plate. The meal is done after 15 minutes. Now this is the kind of eating I can get used to.
I did not take any photos these days but not to worry, There are plenty more to come!
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