Looking out my apartment window, I see two Perugias. I see modern day Perugia, the one that abides by the second hand ticking on my left wrist. This is the one that listens impatiently for the echoes of tower bells clanging the newest hour, signaling for children lugging their trombones and clarinets to be let out from the music school across the parking lot, and for la pausa when the doors of my neighborhood storefronts close. But as I turn to my right, facing the building adjacent mine, I see old archways embedded in the ancient stone walls, now long unused but still lingering hopefully. The happenstance arches don’t seem to serve any purpose in modern day Perugia, as the doorways that once stood beneath them have now been moved to inhabit other more recent arches on the side of the building. But in these long-idle remainders in the stone walls, I see quiet reminders of other lives, of other histories these buildings have had. The buildings seem to be tired from so many years of holding roofs up over ungrateful heads and seeing lifetimes of ugliness and love carried out beneath their exhausted arms. They don’t seem to care that I stand here on the street, my mouth gaping open as I stare at their ancient beauty. These buildings remind me that I am only a passenger here, a temporary fixture, a blink of an eye in the grand lives of these ancient archways. I am part of this moment-by-moment, modern-day Perugia that exists in juxtaposition with these permanent stone walls, dragging centuries of history behind them. Here, away from the world I grew up in, a temporary bird of passage in a foreign place where history is so prominent, I have had to learn to be comfortable with the only thing that I brought with me from the rolling hills of southeast Minnesota: myself.

My life as a temporary Perugian carried out beneath my apartment building’s sturdy, wise roof has been a whirlwind of growth. I have always been an advocate of growth outside my immediate comfort zone, and by being a quiet, shy observer, it’s not hard for me to feel outside of my element. I, however, ignored my blushing cheeks and shy ways, and zealously ran after this goal of growth by throwing myself into situations of unfamiliarity and possible growth through leadership conferences, teen-exchanges, and a French language full-immersion camp. But it wasn’t ever enough; I was never fully out there on my own. Here in Perugia, swimming in a different culture, with a new, delectable language to absorb, and with a completely different terrain of land and history than my home, I am without immediate contact with those I love most and away from the familiarity of my native country. I have finally stepped outside of my bubble and have taken that big jump across the endless blue ocean.

Although I am out of my little pond of Minnesota, however, I have not started another life separate from my own in the U.S. or gone wild in my freedom from preconceived notions and acquaintances. No, I am undoubtedly still the same person at my core. I still love to write more than anything, the countryside moves me more than any museum of art ever could, and I still eagerly anticipate the daily phone call from my boyfriend. But in removing myself from habitual reassurances, I have finally, inversely, become more at ease within myself. Any other changes that have occurred here have all derived from this need for self-lucidity: if any part of my personality has prevented me from feeling this internal peace, I have attempted to slowly alter or change those aspects. And alternately, if I have seen some aspect of Italian culture and society that fits within this nature of mine, I have tried to adopt it, and make it my own. I try to learn from my Italian hosts, taking bits and pieces of their slow lifestyle, and fit it into my own where it seems to coincide. Throughout this semester, I have watched Italians closely, and have taken in how they seem to have retained a connection to the earth, how their food culture is so much more sophisticated and healthy than the American diet, and how family is still an always important component of their lives. This differs greatly from the mainstream American culture, but nevertheless coincides with the teachings and respect for others that I was raised with. The aspect of Italy that I connected with most while abroad was the Italian campagna. It gave me so many levels of beauty to gaze at, so many inspired words to write, and also created a fire inside me to learn more about organic farming, and other crops that are difficult to grow at home, like the plump grapevines, ironic sunflowers, and quiet olive trees.

Because of my experiences here, I have had my eyes opened to other future temporary experiences to stimulate growth, feeding my always bottomless appetite. My connection to the beautiful Italian terra madre, mother earth, has exposed me to the possibility of working on an agriturismo, which use organic farming practices to produce their own food. My time at school has brought about another possible future endeavor for me: coming back to work at my school in Perugia, or to student teach abroad elsewhere.

Since these experiences are usually temporary moments, my mind runs in overdrive, taking in all I can, stimulating every sense to make me feel alive and searching for more. My eyes are greedy for more to see, my brain hungry for more stimulation, my tongue quivering for more languages to wrap itself around. And I don’t think I would ever feel one-hundred-percent ready to leave any of these momentary lives, because I don’t think anyone is ever really done growing. So it’s better to leave while my appetite is still strong, strong enough to push me back into new places, to jump across other oceans to new lands waiting to teach me, other wise buildings to house my small little moments of an ever-searching quest for personal growth.

As my departure date from this temporary life under ancient roofs looms closer and closer, my heart pace quickens in protest. I am not ready to leave yet, one of the voices in my head shouts. This part wants to stay longer in this beautiful country and become fluent in Italian, eat more fantastic food, and see more of the patient countryside. I am addicted to this growth, and any place that inspires so much learning, so much knowledge-seeking, is one that I am loathe to leave. But the other voice reminds me that I have my plane ticket already, and a boyfriend, family, and friends that I really want to spend the holidays with. However, I have decided to reconcile these two equally important parts of me; the part that itches to be on the move, absorbing new ideas, fueling greater learning, but also the part of me that is my foundation. I could not move so freely about the world without a firm, loyal, and patient foundation to keep me grounded. I don’t think these two sides of me need to be in conflict, either: rather, I prefer a resolution that will satisfy both halves by promising to return someday, not necessarily to Italy, but some other fantastical land, some alluring country different than my American culture. I don’t think I shall ever quench this thirst, and I don’t want to. Knowledge is something I want to always be searching for more of. Growth is something always worth climbing up to the next peak for. And hopefully, in these future adventures, growth expeditions, and knowledge searches, I will have the comfort of not only myself, but my boyfriend Todd, or my sister, or best friend Megan, or any of the many loves of my life. My time here in Italy is so short, and the ticking clock of the moment-by-moment Perugia reminds me, as always, that this is only a passing thing. But it’s one of the passing four month periods of my life that I will always carry with me, like those buildings carrying the remnants of ancient doorways to other histories, happy scars of all the fleeting lives carried out beneath their watchful eyes.

Barcelona, December 5-7th. Amanda and I, on our last big adventure . . .

Barcelona’s mystical charm has captured my imagination. You can see the toughness and pride of this still staunchly Catalan city, as it defines itself separately than the rest of Spain in accordance to their previous separate nation, history and language. Catalan is still the language spoke most prominently there, and as the bus I rode wound through the countryside on its way to the city, I saw an abandoned building that told me everything I needed to know: Catalunya was written in big, loud graffiti letters, while underneath was written Espanya with a big red X through it. You see this toughness, this stubborn nature of the nation within a nation in its landscape, and you see their choice of stubborn freedom, an enhance imagination, run its course through the city limits with the creations of architects Antoni Gaudí and the like.

I fell in love right away, as I sat on the hour long bus ride from the Girona airport to the city center. Looking out my windows, my overfed imagination ran wild, making up stories and mythical creatures in my mind. The grass here grows in raw, grassy tufts, bursts of adrenaline as they finally break through the dry, caked land and into the proud Catalan sun. The mountains too, are tufts of greenery, roughly scattered here and there. They, in my zealous imaginings, became a tough, grassy, uneven rug laid over top of all Catalunya´s treasured stories, hiding them from the greedy Espanya. Kapoc trees that twist and wind around upon themselves became dark fairytale creatures that take all the bad energy of the people, of the history and absorb into their altruistic way, the evil curling their branches, thwarting their aged trunks.

In Barcelona, you choose the color of the sky. As the bus drove into the city, it carried on this tradition of mythological visions as the tops of the partitions between highways had glass panes of all different colors. It’s as if they were saying, like the process of selecting paints, "What color would you like your sky, miss? Are you someone who is satisfied with your happy life? If that’s the case, we have bubbling, fantastical blues of every shade for your picking. Or are you one of those people who only wish the world in which you live was more like the world in your imagination? If so, we have just the colors for you: a rosy red, or a trepid yellow, or even sinfully gleeful green."

Barcelona was home to one of the world’s most expressive and artistically free artists of all time; Picasso. Manda and I wound through the series of rooms full of Picasso’s early work, and watched as the works slowly progressed from the clear realism in his first work towards his better-known style of Cubism.

Saturday was the Day of Gaudí. His famous unfinished church, the Sagrada Familia, made me cry, I loved it that much! I am not one of those people who cries when seeing art, but this time, I did. It was so beautiful, so resonating for me, as his architecture, his art, is so natural, so approachable. In his words, “originality consists in returning to the origin.” The interior looks like palm trees, and the top spirals on the outside have bundles of fruit, echoing his organic style, and how he takes his inspiration from nature. The stain glass was all colorful geometric shapes that made the room glow with fiery reds and comforting blues. It was the most beautiful church I have ever seen, and it didn’t feel intimidating, even though the top spirals reach up forever, past all other buildings attempting to break the skyline of Barcelona. It was something I could feel, a style that I could relate to, a quiet refuge among the other lofty, beautiful, yet somewhat scary churches I have seen on my travels.

We then made our way to some of his other creations. First his Park Güell, with the boldly colorful bench that winds around the main market square, and the quiet trees by his earthy, clay-looking walls, and the tree-imitating columns supporting the ceilings of his creations. We started from the side entrance, and made our way to the famous dragon in the main entrance, near the colorful mosaic tiles on the walls leading into the park.

We also saw his Casa Batlló, which reminded me of a house that a mermaid would live in under sea. Some say the top looks like the back of a dragon, the light reflecting blues and purples from his scales. The last creation of his that we saw was his other apartment building, Casa Milà which wound around, up and down, its walls so different than the other boring, straight walls of the buildings next door.

We then made our way to the Port as the sun passed below the water, and then we ended our night in the Plaça d'Espanya, where every Friday and Saturday night, they have a fountain show, lighting up the shooting water, in time with music.

We made our weary way back to our endearing little hostel, owned by a young “hippie-ish” couple, and run by them, the woman’s brother, and her mother. They, too, added to my love of Barcelona, with the homey-feel of the hostel. Tired, feet sore, but minds racing, as if just brought to life, we dreamt that night of places that only exist in our imaginations, and Barcelona.

November 14-16. Athens, Greece.

The dogs in Athens were among the most hilarious phenomenons I’ve ever seen. All over Athens there are these huge, fat homeless

dogs that look like they could be werewolves, they're so huge! It must beall that amazing Greek food, I guess. But anyway, in addition to beinglumps of lard, they are all also COMATOSE, I swear to god! They just lie in the middle of streets and sidewalks, sleeping, I guess, and nothing you can do, no noise you can make will wake them up or startle them! And they all lie in packs - we went to the Temple of Zeus, and there were SIX mangy, plump dogs all lying down, passed out from so much eating! And then, the few that ARE awake, follow you around everywhere! We had this one dog follow us across one of the busiest intersections in Athens - he just waltzed across the crosswalk with us! I felt like he was our tour guide, telling us all the stories behind everything in his head. I started making voices for him, it was great! And then he had to stop and poo, so we just kept walking, and later, like half an hour later, he found us again, and started following us again! It was hilarious!! Oh Athens . . . hehe!

Greece is fun, although Athens isn't the romantic oceanside view that you see in all the postcards. But as any historical city, it has its own beauties, which we saw as much of. We started out early the first day, 8 am and saw the Acropolis with the Parthenon and Ancient Agora, and such. I really enjoyed that - if you like the Roman Forum, you would like this. The only down side was that it was sprinkling a bit off and on all morning, and everything in Greece is outside, but oh well. It wasn't too bad, and the sun came out later. Also, since its off-season for tourists, they're reconstructing a lot of the

Acropolis, so there's scaffolding everywhere which kind of takes away from the grandness of it all. But it's still pretty amazing!

We also saw the ancient temple to Zeus, which was really cool. Then on to the National Museum of Archeology. We got there about 25 minutes before it closed though, so we kind of had to rush through it. It was interesting, though - lots of statues, sculptures and old pottery, gold, and artifacts like that.

Good thing is that Greek food is really good, and really cheap! We had the authentic Greek gyros, at a little place that we found by recommendation of our Greek hostel owner. We also had dinner the first night in Greece in the center of the city at one of the many restaurants with waiters waiting outside, calling to you, begging you to come in and eat. At this place, we fell in love with the guy outside, who promised us a bottle of wine on the house. He sat us next to the window, and recommended mousaka and other delicious food for us through the open window between his pleas for business to other passers-by. However, confusion ensued when we tried to ask for the check, they brought us a platter of fruit, free. Confused, but pleased, we promptly ate the fruit, and then asked for the check again, but before we could get the words out of our mouth, they brought over ANOTHER bottle of wine! On the house! And to top it off, the waiter said “For the beautiful ladies by the window.” Apparently, we were good business bringers, and they wanted us to stay as long as possible. Really confused, and starting to get slightly frustrated, but not about to turn down free wine or compliments, we sat for a while longer and sipped our wine. FINALLY, after two bottles of wine, appetizers, Greek salads, mousaka, and our fruit platter, we were able to get the check and leave.

Aahh, Greece. :)

October 31^st through November 2^nd – Paris!

This weekend I went to Paris with my usual traveling buddies of Lauren, Carly, and Angie. We however, had a new addition to our group, as we met Lauren’s friend Josh who was visiting from home at the airport in Paris. It was a great weekend, despite getting lost on our way to the hostel, it being frigidly cold compared to the more soothing cool temperatures of Italy, and the dreary rain clouds overhead. I regret to say that we did not have any really “French” food, per say, other than the croissant at breakfast. We were on a strictly low budget that weekend, so we had brought a bunch of food along to eat, and did any of the rare food shopping in Paris in the cheap supermarkets, buying yogurt and pear sauce.

We saw as many sites as we could cram into our one night on Halloween (which apparently isn’t a big deal over here as I only saw one person dressed up in all of Paris), and the one full day on Saturday. Friday night, we went to the Arc di Triumph and from there, walked down the busy, twinkling-lit main drag that leads all the way to the glass pyramid of the Louvre. Friday nights are free after 6 pm for people under the age of 26, so it fit in perfectly with our measly budget!

Saturday, we got up and moseyed over to the Picasso Museum, which I really loved. I never knew how many different mediums and art forms Picasso used until seeing all his sculptures, collages, paintings, etc. in this museum! We then walked to the Notre Dame, which was amazing! I especially loved the gargoyles, who with their bulging neck muscles, scream down at you from the top of the outside walls, and, literally, drooling contemptuous rain drops from their foul mouths. But really: they have holes in the tops of their heads, so the rain runs through and out of their mouth, making it looks like they’re either really hungry, or foaming from the mouth in anger! This was also free, which was even more amazing!! After the Notre Dame, we took the metro to the Eiffel Tower, so we could see it during the day hours – impressive, of course! But we left to do some shopping and browsing elsewhere before coming back to see it all lit up – in blue! The soft glow of the electric blue was made even more fuzzy by the haze from the light sprinkling. We waited around, our mouths hanging open as we looked up and up, until the clock struck a new hour, and behold! The tower looks as though it were on fire with twinkling white lights dancing playfully and feverishly, eager to show off in their short moment of fame! It was beautiful! Apparently they light it up every hour on the hour for a few minutes – I know it was longer than one minute, so maybe 5 or 10? I’m not quite sure, but I loved every short minute of it!

Of course the day we left, Sunday, was sunny and beautiful, which was greatly appreciated as we reluctantly made our way back to the Charles de Gaulle Airport, the light streaming in through the glass ceiling of the building. I didn’t want to say goodbye to the French airport efficiency and cleanliness – Italy’s Fiumicino airport is so chaotic, and the lines to get through security are always a hair-tangling mess! The efficient French staff, however, rushed us through security before we could say merci, and out of their lovely country, back into the arms of the sometimes endearing, other times frustrating chaos of dear, old Italia. Au revoir, Paris!

Second half of Fall break: October 21-26

This one is going to be brief, as I'm sure most of you have heard it from my parents already! But I'm so happy that I was lucky enough to have 4 out of my 5 family members come and visit me, and that Amanda is still here - I didn't realize how much of comfort it would be to have someone I knew here. And I'm even more lucky, because I have more visitors yet to come! Betsy and Gary are coming for Thanksgiving with Amanda and I in Perugia! But anyways. Back to my original train of thought - fall break, parte due . . .

I sat down on the step outside of the Chiusi train station, expecting to be sitting there for a while, waiting for my family to battle their way onto the high-stress Italian highway, the autostrada, from Rome to Chiusi where I impatiently waited. So that’s where I was, reading my book when I hear a wonderfully familiar voice saying “Say, are you looking for someone?” I look up to see my dad’s comforting face grinning down at me, and immediately, my heart jumped into my throat as I sprang up to give him a bear hug. I couldn’t stop the goofy smile stretching across my face as I watched my always energetic and smiling Mom, a slightly groggy looking Michael (apparently he had taken the wise choice and fell asleep during the nerve-damaging car ride), and the always calm, no matter the circumstance, Amanda.

We crammed all our bags into the tiny, fuel-efficient rental car and took off on what turned out to be a couple hour search for our rented house in the Italian campagna, the countryside, near the cities of Chiusi and Città delle Pieve. Finally, after stopping to ask directions (of course the people we asked spoke solo italiano, so I got to practice my language skills), we stumbled upon the house. A while later, fashionably late, Italian-style, the owners showed up to give us the keys. They were a married couple who also spoke only Italian, so again, I became interpreter and have to say, I was thrilled at the opportunity to use my Italian or else! They had an apartment downstairs where they occasionally stayed, but they mainly just came by morning and night to do chores – feed the sheep, ducks, and the ever-hungry kittens that had greeted us as we drove up, and to care for the little vineyard, greenhouse, and olive trees scattered around on their little patch of land. They were very sweet, and during the course of our stay, gave us a traditional country breakfast cake, a bottle of their homemade wine after Dad asked questions about their vineyard, and when we left, they presented us with a little gift of a plaque that the wife had painted herself for us. We stopped at the Chiusi grocery store on our way home from our day-trips throughout the week, to grab the essentials: big, plump purple grapes, cheese, a big loaf of crunchy-on-the-outside bread, and a bottle of wine. Mmmm, there’s nothing like the Italian snack!

During the week, we took day trips. I apologize, because I am not going to do all these places justice in the small attention span of my blog.

Wednesday we went to Siena, which I won’t spend much time on, as I’ve already written a blog about that city when I went on my Tuscany Getaway weekend with a group from school.

Thursday we took the train to Florence and met up with my friend Lauren who was in Florence from Wednesday to Friday to see the sights. We went to the Uffizi and saw Botticelli’s famous painting, “The Birth of Venus” and many others from that time period and before. We then made our way over to the famous Duomo, the biggest domed cathedral, which was impressive on the outside, but not so much on the inside as they had the area under the duomo blocked off from tourists. Then, on to the Accademia where we saw the beautifully done masterpiece of David by Michelangelo. I think this was everyone’s favorite from the Florence trip. Before heading back to our haven in the country, we stopped by one of Florence’s million little markets and did some speedy shopping.

Friday we spent in Perugia, also taking the train to avoid the craziness of parking during the Eurochocolate Festival. While I am an avid lover of chocolate, this festival did not impress me – in fact, it infuriated me! A walk from my apartment to the main school building which normally took me ten minutes max, now took me literally half an hour, due to the HOARDS of people that took over the city center. Also, there weren’t really any activities to participate in, other than elbowing past people to finally reach one of the booths scattered through the city center, only to pay a fortune on over-priced chocolate that could be bought for significantly cheaper at one of the grocery stores in the city. So we stayed clear of the Festival as much as possible, instead going to a quieter street to eat at my favorite restaurant, La Lanterna, and buying chocolate from the sweet older man who works at the grocery store next to the main school building. Mom bought so much chocolate to take home that he gave us Michael’s overflowing plate of eggplant slices for free! See, this is the way to do Perugia chocolate! We went home early that day in order to see the sun set in our country refuge, making dinner and relaxing.

Saturday was my favorite of the day trips, as we drove to a city a little bit further south of Perugia called Orvieto. It’s a city built on tufa, which is volcanic rock that is only found in this region in Umbria. Tufa looks funny, as it’s full of holes – Rick Steves says the locals joke that it’s Swiss cheese! It’s a beautiful little city, touristy, but not in an annoying way. We had packed a lunch which we ate from a beautiful park on one edge of the city, which is where most of these pictures were taken. We went down into the pozzi, which are wells that Orvieto is famous for, which I also have pictures of. From Orvieto, we drove through the winding hills to get to Rick Steve’s favorite little hill town, Civita. Civita has 14 remaining residents, and cannot be reached by cars as it rests atop a pinnacle in the middle of a valley! You have to park and then take a foot-bridge from the nearest, more populated town of Bagnoregio to get to Civita! It’s a beautiful little town, caught in moment of the past, with the tourists that come there its only income. There fore, some of the residents are a bit forward from getting “donations” from you, but its worth it to walk through the city on its old stone roads and look out on the green valley below.

Sadly, Sunday Mom, Dad, and Michael left pretty early in order to get to Rome with enough time for Michael to see the Colesseum and Roman Forum before flying back to the States early Monday morning. So Manda and I made our way back to Perugia by train, and days flew by, and so here we are! Whew! Finally catching up a bit!

Here's a random writing exercise I did for my creative writing class:

“Ciao, bellissima!” the gelateria owner calls to me as I pass by his sweet-tooth heaven on my usual absent-minded trudge home to Via Bruschi. I look up, seeing the honestly sincere grin waking up his entire age-wrinkled face, his eyes twinkling with kindness, and my cheeks flush with shy pleasure. I know he says this to every slightly familiar female who passes by, but it makes my day every time. This tiny little phrase, ciao, bella, this simple, daily Italian greeting is so different than the dry, drab common American greeting of hey, or the hopeless hipsters’ bored ballad of what’s up. Now that I have been spoiled with ciao, bella! I know that these are the two little words that my red cheeks and I will miss most when we leave Italy.

It’s true that I have many problems with how some Italian men interact with women, especially those who they know to be American students, like one other walk home when a not-so-pleasant man lewdly licked his scheming lips as he squinted his eyes and hungrily looked me up and down, up and down, saying in halting English, “Oh my god, how beautiful!” While I had to resist the overpowering urge to either spit on or slap that man, our sweet, old gelato man, as my roommates and I call him, and his innocent little mantra of ciao, bella, has never moved me to any action other than involuntary smiling. When I hear the Italian guys at school yelling down the hall to one of the other female students, ciao, bella, I don’t feel violated; instead, I feel a surge of love for these guys. In Italy, this friendly, yet completely polite greeting means infinitely more than just a short, disinterested introduction to get out of the way before launching into an exhausting story. But my gelato man’s mantra stops and takes time to actually greet you, and to shake hands with your self-confidence.

In the U.S., a country where eating disorders are sadly as common as pasta in Italy, it’s a shame that we Americans don’t greet each other in such a complimentary fashion. Granted, Italians say this to everyone, and I think they would even say it to a donkey’s grandmother, but the tiny little boost of confidence it gives, the warm rosy cheeks it produces are enough to make anyone’s day and to make any woman feel beautiful.

Sorry I haven't blogged in a long time!! I have so much to catch up on (Fall break, Paris, my second trip to Rome, and now after this weekend, Greece!)

But this is from the first part of my fall break, while I was waiting for my parents, Amanda, and Michael to come.

Oct0ber 17-20

They call themselves i nonni, or “the grandparents.” Their faces are creased with age lines upon age lines, their skin weary and permanently tanned from decades of summers running around their Italian childhoods. The three of them, Walter, Benito, and Evalina, sit at the same table in the little piazza right outside of my friend Lauren’s bedroom window everyday. They pass their days watching passers-by, drinking espresso, smoking, yelling at each other with flailing hands one minute, then the next chuckling, the crinkly laugh-lines around their eyes piling on top of the age lines. Time has stopped flying for them – they say it seems as though it’s going backwards, so there they sit, inviting anyone and everyone they knew to stop by and chiaccare, to chat.

It’s difficult to write of each of them separately, as all I know of them has been as the trio, with every moment playing off of each friend in turn, a playful game of tag perfected by years of practice. I met them during the first part of my fall break, while I waited anxiously for my family to come visit me. I was introduced by my friends who live in the apartment above i nonni’s piazza, who was introduced to them by another foreign student, and so on. I’m beginning to see that I am the latest in a chain of frazzled, flighty foreign students who have gravitated to these calm, wise souls patiently guiding us along our quest to practice our italiano, but giving so much more than an opportunity to fumble along in broken Italian; without us even realizing it right away, they slow down time, and in this quiet suspended moment, they teach us more of the Italian way of life and the depths of the Italian language than could ever be absorbed in real time.

First there’s Walter, the joker of the triad, always stretching his mouth into a teasing grin, the whole left side of his goofy smile missing all its teeth, making the effect even more hilarious. Immediately after being introduced to us, he furiously beckoned over the waiter from the café across the street and ordered us each an espresso. The waiter lazily returned with each espresso and a little pitcher of cold milk which he promptly took back when Evalina scolded him as only a grandmother could, saying in Italian, “Why would you bring us cold milk?! What are we supposed to do with cold milk?!” Evalina speaks quickly, her sweet voice trembling with emotion, and the words flow ceaselessly. She kept poking her tongue with her finger saying her mother would tell her she had una lingua lunga, a long tongue, because she never stopped talking. Her husband Benito, on the other hand, hardly speaks at all, but his calm, steady presence at the table is a constant to be relied upon. Their guests, including us students, change daily, hourly even, but Benito continues to sit there, the quiet ying to Evalina’s chattering yang. They, like most couples that have been married for over fifty years, have become two comfortable halves of a whole, and only as a whole do they balance each other out.

As we sat and drank our espresso, Evalina reached over and patted my arm, her big eyes brimming with heartfelt advice to bestow. She told me how she loves talking to i giovani, the young people like us, because our spontaneity and good-heartedness keeps her young at heart. I’m using all my energy to focus and comprehend everything she’s saying that I can hardly come up with adequate responses other than si, si, è vero, or yes, yes, it’s true, but Evalina doesn’t seem to notice – she just keeps going, her paper-thin hands fluttering through the crisp fall air as she rattles on. She advises me in emphatic Italian to parlare con il cuore, to speak with the heart, and pats her chest above her own heart while looking deep into my face. “This way,” she says in Italian, “you will have ‘un’anima tranquilla,’ ” or a tranquil soul. She rests her hand on my cheek as again she searches my face, and apparently finds what she’s looking for as she nods once, and smiles her peaceful smile. Together we glance up from this penetrating conversation for a brief moment to see my friends Angie and Lauren talking with Walter about what they had for lunch. When they tell him we had paninos again, he throws his hands up in disgust and cries “Basta questi panini! Spaghetti! Mangi spaghetti!” or “Enough of these paninos! Spaghetti! Eat spaghetti!” We all take a moment to pause and chuckle at his indignation, before Evalina taps my arm and pulls me back to our conversation.

As I listen, I glance over at Benito. He is still silent as ever, but I now, as I look closer, I see his gaze is intent upon my face as he listens to my feeble responses to Evalina’s heart-to-heart advice. His honest gaze makes me think of the Italian verb sentire which can mean either to listen or to feel. I think maybe these Italians are right, that the act of listening and the ability to feel compassionately are irreversibly intertwined. If only everyone could listen with the earnestness of Benito, or to take a moment to pause from our daily rush and instead, just listen to these gems of the elderly and their stories, our ability to empathize with the people would be so much more pure and patient. I smile shyly at Benito in response to his gaze, and my cheeks burn with intense love for this group of old friends and all their personality quirks that make up the chaotic, but balanced dialogue of their trio.

Eventually time did catch up with Lauren, Angie, and I, and we remembered groceries to buy, hostels to book, plans to make, and the second-hand of our mental clocks groaned as it started its vicious circle again. We made our excuses to i nonni, promising to come back soon, and each of them kissed us on the cheek, and Evalina patted my face again, smiling her trusting smile. Flurries of arrivederci and ciao-ciao flew back and forth until we reluctantly tore ourselves away. Fall break continued, and time flew, as always, but for those two simple hours of speaking cuore a cuore, full of carefree laughing, and endless joking, time stopped out of respect for i nonni, and waited.

I don’t think I shall ever tire of seeing Italy’s breathless panoramas. Last weekend I went with a group from my school on a “Tuscan Getaway” trip. We spent Friday in Siena, visiting the “most beautiful cathedral in Italy.” Apparently, the people of Siena used to have many wars with the Florentines, and so had a fierce sense of competition bred into them. Therefore, when Florence claimed to be building the biggest cathedral in Italy, Siena decided to challenge them. They had built the skeleton of a huge addition that would have doubled the size of the cathedral when the Plague arrived, and all their workers died, and construction was forced to stop. After the Plague, they revised their goal, and decided that if Florence would have the biggest cathedral, then Siena would have the most beautiful. And so it is. Mosaics cover the floor, and while these are usually covered with protective cardboard most of tourist season, they were luckily uncovered when we were there. Siena is also where Saint Catherine was born and spent her years. She is an important saint, as she was the first women saint who claimed to have the power to speak directly to God, and she also convinced the Pope to move from his exile in France to Rome and the Vatican, which was another bold move that women had never been allowed to do. When she died, the Vatican claimed her body, but the people of Siena protested and so it was decided that her body would be exhumed, and divided to please everyone who wanted the honor of housing her body. So Siena has her head and her right pinkie in the church where she was a Domenican. Of course pictures aren’t allowed, so you’ll have to see this oddity yourself someday.

Then from there we drove to our agriturismo in Volterra where we spent both Friday and Saturday nights. We ate dinner at the ristorante at the agriturismo, drinking wine and sharing thoughts. The ristorante wasn’t as cozy as the agriturismo I went to with my Creative Writing class – it didn’t have the immediacy of knowing exactly where the food came from, and the down-to-earth, simplistic style of eating as the other one. However, it was cozy, the food was good, and the compagna (countryside) surrounding this agriturismo was the most beautiful that I have seen. I’m aware that I keep saying that with every new weekend at yet another countryside place, and every new blog that accompanies it, and I’m sure I’m losing credit as a writer here, but honestly, this was the most beautiful scenery I’ve seen yet. At the risk of boring you with yet another waxing description of the countryside, however, I will restrain myself, and let you imagine it with help from the pictures. It was in the Chianti region and I could see San Gimignano’s towers protruding through the haze on a distant hill. The quietness of the country speaks to me more clearly than anything else. So I’ll try to be quiet here, and even though pictures hardly ever give a beautiful place justice, or at least mine, I’ll let them speak for themselves.

The next day we spent in San Gimignano, standing looking up and out, with our mouths gaping, “catching flies,” as my grandpa Lyle used to say. The towers are amazing, the punti di visto, or points of view, even more so. It was very touristy, and there were lots of shops that had the same sort of gifts, but I enjoyed it, because many of those shops had local handpainted ceramics, which I have become obsessed with. The Raffaellesco style is my particular favorite. Perugia has a ceramics “market,” if you could call it that – it’s tiny, with just a handful of people, but they carefully display ceramic plate after plate on the back steps of the cathedral, the colors popping out against the drab stone steps. I’ve already spent money here, and while I can’t buy any more lest I not have a way to get them home in one piece, I still stop by to admire the new creations whenever they’re out.

We left the agriturismo in the morning on Sunday and made our way to Cortona, but first stopped at a tiny little village called Monteriggione. It’s like a magical moment caught in the generations past – the town hasn’t grown past it’s tall, imposing city walls, and it’s so tiny it’s amazing it even has city walls. We stayed for about an hour, and got coffee, gifts, and had just enough time to see a bride draped in a very traditional-looking crisp, white wedding dress, hooking arms with her father to walk into the town church and down the aisle. Fitting goodbye for this fairy-tale town from the past.

Then on to Cortona – this was again, pretty touristy, and had many English-speaking people wandering about the various shops, but it surprisingly didn’t have gaudy, dime-a-dozen tourist trap shops that so many cities have. Instead, it had more artist’s shops and galleries, not only ceramics, but watercolors, leather-bound books, photography, and other artsy trinkets. I loved Cortona, as it was a city around the same size as Perugia, but felt less stuffy, and, even more amazing, had grass! In Perugia, it’s almost all pavement and cobblestones, but here, there were houses with little square patches of grass-lawns! Cortona is nestled in the side of a big hill, yet another Italian city that you have to wind around and around in your car, getting green with carsickness before you reach the beautiful punto di visto at the city center, which of course, is always at the top of the hill. From Cortona, you can see the glimmering reflection of Lake Trasimeno in the distance, and the hazy blue, spongey mountains crowding the horizon. I drank in all the beautiful views and fresh air that I could before climbing back on to the miserable bus for another queasy car ride back to dear ol’ Perugia.

This weekend, I simply stayed put. It was a relaxing weekend, even though it was the weekend before midterms. However, I already had my Italian midterm, and the midterms that were due Monday for me were a large charcoal drawing for my Drawing class, and a six to seven page paper for my Creative Writing: Italy of the Imagination class, both of which I considered to be “fun” assignments. I spent four hours on Friday doing my drawing – I’ve come to love this class. I can go into the art room a wound-up ball of stress, and after three hours of drawing, I come away humming and smiling as I bounce home. I wrote the rest of my paper Saturday and Sunday, taking my time, letting it digest, allowing time for re-writes. I tentatively started a fiction piece after finishing the beautifully written “Under the Tuscan Sun” by Frances Mayes. I discovered Philip Rothdke’s beautiful poetry while surfing poets.org, and later, listened to the classic Fleetwood Mac, covering all genres, capturing all moods. I worked out, something I’ve started up again since coming to Italy – it’s nothing drastic, just the half-an-hour conditioning routine I did when I was in gymnastics. Just something to make me feel less guilty about the occasional gelato and crepe con nutella!

Saturday I got the craving for my mother’s bubbling, crumbly apple pie, for Grandpa Lyle’s sweet, heavenly, quickly-eaten apple butter, for tongue-warming, chunky applesauce. Unfortunately, I do not know how to make apple butter, and ovens are a rare find in Italy, so pie was also out of the question. So I decided to make applesauce. However, I didn’t have all the ingredients, and of course, by the time I realized this, it was dead-smack in the middle of la pausa, when all the shops close down from 1-4 pm for lunch.

While I waited, I decided to make torta al testo, the simple Umbrian flat bread that I learned to make at an azienda one of my first weekends here. All it takes is a couple handfuls of flour in a pile on the table, and then make a hole in the center of the mound. Pour into this hole a package of yeast. Around the edges, sprinkle a teaspoon or so of salt, and then drizzle a bit of olive oil over the flour. Then start to mix it with a fork, pulling the outer edges in towards the center, adding water as needed. When it gets doughy, knead it for a little while (not long, probably five minutes tops), and then roll it out with a rolling pin, or in my case, an olive oil bottle, as my beloved rolling pin is currently sitting safely at home with all my other kitchen things. Next, sprinkle a little flour on both sides before putting it on a testo, which is the cooking stone that Italians use over an open fire, or, in my poor college student fashion, a huge frying pan over the stove - works just fine! Just let it bake/cook for a little while on one side, then flip it when necessary. The whole process takes all of about 25 minutes, and is considerably cheaper than the torta al testo-style flatbreads I could buy in the grocery store! When it’s done, you can slice it open and melt cheese in the middle with vegetables or anything your watering mouth desires.

Italian pasta was created to cling to my hips. During my first month in Italy, I have eaten mouth-wateringly raw Florentine bistecca, a heavenly meringue dessert called semi-freddo, flavor-oozing grilled lamb, and miles and miles of unforgettable bruschette smothered in fresh tomatoes, just-picked basil, and moist mozzarella. Yet the primo piatti, the first course, usually consisting of pasta, is always what I, during that first chaotic week, and my happily plump hips, remember best.

The first week or so that I was here, I ate at a cozy little restaurant in Perugia called La Lanterna. Their dishes are mismatched, with different sets of silverware at each table setting, and the collection of knick-knacks decorating the restaurant are a distracted group of paintings, local hand-painted ceramics, and old relics you’d see in an antique store – they seem to follow the rule that if things are mismatched enough, they begin to match. Being the cheap college student that I am, I only ordered one course aside from the bruschette that my friends and I shared, and of course it was pasta.

The dish, Tagliatelle della Lanterna, was tagliatelle pasta with a happy medley of vegetables in creamy, white sauce, not too much that it overpowered the vegetables, but just enough to smooth over any rough edges of taste. There were diced zucchini and carrots, fresh tomatoes mixed in with lightness of the barely-there cream sauce, all working together to balance the heaviness of the pasta. Each bite melted my over-stressed body into a gooey mass of bliss. All my anxieties about being in a new city, new school, new country wobbled and disappeared, and instead was replaced with a goofy-relaxed euphoria that one can only get by eating orgasmic pasta.

My love affair with pasta started young. As mischievous little kids, my twin brother Michael and I had a fetish with dried pasta – we would sneak into my mother’s kitchen cupboards when she was in the bathroom, or outside in the garden, and would open the plastic bin that held the dry stalks of spaghetti noodles, and steal a handful each, giggling as we’d crunch away feverishly, frantically depleting my mother’s always-disappearing supply of pasta. While Michael still to this day enjoys the satisfying crunch of dried pasta, my taste for it has heightened dramatically – pasta al pesto, any kind of pesto, with any vegetable under the summer sun – torrid tomatoes, of course, grilled eggplant slices, diced zucchini, sweet red onion, fresh thyme or basil, and supple summer squash. Pasta with meat sauce – I once had a meat sauce made from every part of a rooster’s meat, organs, everything, and it was one of the most delicious meat sauces I’ve had with pasta – it was somewhat salty, with a kick of red pepper to keep things interesting. With my dish at La Lanterna, I found something simple, yet completely delicious, something mouth-watering that was not so pretentious that three-hundred sous-chefs and myself couldn’t create it. Rather, this pasta dish was something approachable, something conquerable, something inspiring. With the first taste of this pasta, I began to create similar dishes in my head, and during the following weeks, enthusiastically tried, tossing away the mistakes with a carefree attitude, and instead, trying new tactics and discovering a new, even better dish. Like the lonely student I was in a new place, my palate didn’t want to meet the famous and gorgeous, but possibly snobby Catherine Zeta Jones right now - no, I wanted the comfort of my boyfriend Todd, my family, or my best friend Megan, who are the most down-to-earth, loveable people I know. My palate wanted comfort, it wanted familiarity, within this first week. And while I have since been able to venture out and appreciate the famous flavor of Florentine bistecca just like I have been able to respect the genius of Michelangelo, I was glad to have my age-old friend, pasta, there to start my journey off! Together, we have and will continue to embark upon many a tasting adventures, conquering the famous, and surrendering to taste-bud bliss.

So I realized that I've mainly been writing about my weekends, which don't have much to do with Perugia, as I'm traveling the majority of my weekends. Therefore, I'm failing to give you an accurate picture of what my day-to-day routines are here. So this post is my first step in righting this imbalance. Following is an essay I wrote for my Creative Writing class about my neighborhood gelateria, which let me tell you, has a lot to do with my day-to-day routines! Enjoy!

There is a little gelateria that veers off of Perugia’s main Corso Vannucci onto the quieter Via Bonazzi, near my apartment. Its name is Gelateria Gambrinus, although this is of little importance; I only just found out today, as I walked home and made a point of remembering it so I could write about it. But it’s not the name that means something to me, or even just the gelato; it’s something much, much more.

Coming to Perugia, I quickly noticed that the native Perugini tend to walk around with determined, slightly annoyed looks plastered to their otherwise Michelangelo-beautiful faces, and have earned a reputation for having, as my Italian professoressa says, una mentalità chiuso, or a closed mentality. But upon entering this gelateria on one of the first sweltering, sticky days of being here, I shivered in delight as its cold, refreshing chill dissolved the sweat from my brow, and my fingers tingled as I was met with a warm smile and a friendly greeting.

The gelateria itself is not pulsing with gaudy colors or flashy signs to catch the eye of passers-by. It doesn’t have tables brimming with welcoming chairs to lull eager tourists in, and if you do decide to sit on the handful of red plastic stools scattered haphazardly about the tiny space, you risk having other jolly customers brush their bottoms on your arm as they squeeze past to buy their cono piccolo with after-eight e nuttellone. Instead, the focal point of the store is what it should be: the creamy faces of the gelato flavors peering up at you through the frosty glass partition, beckoning in all their delicious delight.

The fatty cheeks of gelato lie lazily in metal pans that have mismatched labels, all written on a different day, it seems, with whatever scrap of paper was handy at the moment. The labels indicate the usual suspects: the cheerful mint-flavored After-eight, which is one of my favorites, there is the sinfully dark Ciocolatto, the sensual pleasure of 300, of course the fresh, cleansing flavor of Limone, and the chunky gooeyness of Kinder. In addition to gelato, in the cooling fall months when frozen gelato doesn’t seem to do the trick, I have seen other dolci surfacing in the store window. My favorite of these new dolci is the crepe con nutella, made right there in front of you, or if you’re feeling especially delicious, un crepe con gelato - you choose any flavor, and he wraps it up in a warm, melted heaven that is enough to make your knees buckle and eyes water with pure love.

The usual routine in my gelateria consists of me going in, being greeted with a Ciao, bella! or Buona sera, bellissima! from one the two male store owners. I believe them to be father and son, judging by their similarities in physical appearance (same goofy smiles, same crinkled eyes), and general sweet-natured way of greeting me. After exchanging ciaos, I then proceed to order: Vorrei un cono piccolo con kinder e amarena, per favore! Grazie! It even took me a while to notice the cash register – it is small and has been painted a dark barn-red, and the tired hand-written price signs attached to it are peeling off in corners where the scotch tape has begun to get worn and dirty. Instead, I usually just hand my 1,50 euro over the counter to the owner, and giggle as we both say grazie at the same time – again! If you decide to stay and devour your messy-gooey crepe in the gelateria, they cry out and passionately insist you sit down and enjoy it first, and pay later. This practice is common among bars and caffès in Italy, but never have I had it been insisted to so vehemently!

The father, who looks to be about 70, works the day shift, and the son, who is about 50, takes over, sometimes with another sulky teenage employee, at about 7:00 pm for the dinner rush. The father is more eager to please, and likes to chat, although they both speak solo italiano! The son prefers to tease, and while his face is more shadowed and a bit more stern-looking, he is quick to stretch into a sloppy smile at his own punchline.

While I have since met many more friendly and charming Perugini in the days and weeks I’ve been here, these two were the first open-armed, welcoming natives that I met here, and they’ve treated me like I was an age-old friend since the day I first walked in. A few weeks ago, I was trudging past on my way home with three bulging grocery bags in tow threatening to spew tomatoes, pasta, risotto and onions all over the sidewalk, and I looked up to see the father standing in the doorway, looking out. Upon seeing me, he quickly chattered in Italian, “I’m so glad to see you buy groceries, too! I was worried!” We share a friendly, knowing laugh, and on I walk, back to my apartment, giddily smiling the whole way, because for the first time, I feel like I know my neighborhood, and that it, the tiniest bit of it, knows me.