7-21
My feet haven't been this sore for some time; they probably sustained this much abuse at my last theme-park visit, or even summer landscape work comes to mind. Both are appropriate analogies, since I went to the Chateau Versailles today with a few others from the program.
The tour de France had blocked our train directly to the palace, and fortuitously we learned of this by one of our peers who guided us along an alternate route with the trolley (much more futuristic-looking than one from San Fran) to rendezvous with our desired station. While we waited for our train, or rather, the second train, since the first looked like a pressure cooker, one of our party introduced a simple game in which your neighbor has to think of an animal (or member of some other predetermined category) that begins with the final letter of the preceding animal, and when stumped can challenge a person at random, or the group can decide to proceed to the next letter of the alphabet if no other options exist. The letter N was proving to be problematic in the animal category, at least for us.
Versailles greets you with open arms; two symmetrical wings reach out from the central entrance and surround the square with sculptures and all the garnishes of royalty. A golden gate blocks the entrance, and passage into the bliss is granted not by sanctification but by a 15 euro ticket; after purchasing this I went to stand in the line to enter with the others.
I call it a line, Italians call it a queue, and while I don't know what the typical French word would be, the ticket lady, after a moment of deliberation, decided on the word "manifestation." While I can't quite make the word fit to the scenario as far a strict dictionary usage is concerned, referring to the line as a "manifestation" also seemed particularly appropriate. A long string of plebeians traversed the gently sloped expanse of cobblestones laid before the gate like a snake with two turning points in its long tail, producing three long stretches of "manifestation" baking in the sweltering sun and eating ice cream novelties. What exactly was being manifested is unclear, but the sentiment that there might be some greater force at work to create this monstrosity (maybe that was the word she was searching for) was amusing. Since the line did not have guiding ropes or some other form of organization, it certainly had an other-worldly quality; I would have expected to see a crowded mob form at the ticket booth otherwise.
The museum had an audio-guide tour, and my eyes had rolled out the door before I had even picked up the dreaded device. In Austria two summers ago I had my fill of audio guides; the Palace of Schonbrunn and the two residences of Mozart come to mind as being especially painful. An all-too-charming voice spews out date after date, name after name, and a plethora of terms that all either bear too little significance for my brain to imbibe at the time, or comes in too rapid of a succession, or is just thrown in to fill space, like a high school term paper. The tone, which attempts to conjure in your imagination the sights and sounds of an idyllic, pleasant, charming lifestyle that is easy to to market but feels a bit plastic. Sure, there are plenty of interesting things to learn, and I enjoy studying history to the extent that I can, but trying to appreciate my surroundings while simultaneously trying to figure out what names and dates are going to contribute to my overall experience is rather tiresome.
I knew we were in trouble when, especially after our improvised lunch after which I felt like I was the only one prepared for an afternoon of touristic activities (I've become highly skilled in the art of feeding myself; I even stocked up on nuts for the road), other members of the party greeted the audio guide concept with eager enthusiasm; energy levels were going to drop quickly. My prediction was aided in its fruition by the mass of people we had to swim through, with passing glances at the descriptions of paintings. The chateau is stunningly ornate, and yet another wonderful exhibition of craftsmanship and artisanship(?) from the previous centuries. But having been turned into a museum, a major tourist attraction complete with audio guides, the experience feels plastic. This is where all the "old stuff" is lathered with a glossy veneer and some glitter.
As the group's stamina limit was being reached, I sensed I might not be able to walk the gardens if I intended to stay with them. This presented a dilemma, one that I have often found myself in. These were great people that I would love to get to know more and share experiences with, but it would be at the expense of a solo experience, one that was partially my goal destination. The politically sensitive thing to do would be to remain with the group, since I had in essence invited myself along knowing I might not have another chance to go and knowing I might not make another chance, not to mention my high esteem for a shared experience in principle. But the door of opportunity knocks, and having thought through the return trip in my mind and assuring myself of my navigational independence, I decided to break off and do my thing.
Another factor in my considerations was whether I saw myself returning to Paris in the near future or not. In this modern age traveling is becoming easier and there is a chance that, if I do my homework, more opportunities will come that allow my return. But the opposite is equally viable; responsibilities will pile up once school is finished and I will be likely tied down by a small and transient income, and thus I need to seize the opportunities while I can. Yet as a general attitude, I'm trying to move away from being pulled from one novelty to the next, which I find myself doing often, feeling the pressure of both shared experiences and solo interactions with the culture. Can't please everyone.
I can't report on what I missed by doing my own thing and venturing into the sweltering sun accompanied by my trusty companion L.B. (Lunch Box, which contains my camera), however I was informed they went to Starbucks. I find nature, both natural and cultivated, to be my favorite arena in which to practice my photography. After descending towards a massive "orangerie," row upon row of trees in slatted wooded boxes and creatively trimmed shrubberies. I noticed people holding water bottles coming out of a large doorway. Having just consumed the bag of salty nuts I had bought earlier, I was open to the idea of quenching my thirst before it accompanied me through the rest of the gardens. Inside there were no water bottles, but a photography exhibit of prints ranging in size from small to wall-size. After appreciating the images for a few minutes, a badged and suitable dressed employee approached me to explain the exhibit. He was friendly and seemed genuinely interested in the subject, so I was happy to learn that all the pictures were taken by one man from one location: his window. Apparently he has spent 40 years taking millions of pictures of the sky, the wildlife, the small pond, the trees at all times of day in all seasons. I was amazed by the variety of birds he had captured, and all of them looking towards the camera. What patience must have gone into creating such a portfolio that might take decades of National Geographic photographers to reproduce. As my informant told me, the artists' intent for the exhibit was to show the extraordinary in the ordinary, and that one does not need to travel to take good photos but just needs to wait for the right cloud formation, the right lighting, for the deer to reappear, for the duck to spring from the lake in flight.
You can get a taste of it here http://ahae.com/collection/
I found the concept captivating. Patience and time are the keys to creating beauty, as well as thousands of dollars in camera lenses. But one just needs a lifetime of dedication to create something special, something inspiring. Only a lifetime. Is that too much to ask?
I made my way through the gardens to the home of Marie Antoinette, which was less crowded and gave me space to chase a butterfly through a flower garden with my zoom lens. Thoroughly grateful after happening upon the photography exhibit, I had another surprise: I overheard someone informing a young man and his wife that the Tour de France would be riding through at 5:45. I meandered through some paths a little and then made my way back to the spot where others were gathering with their cameras. It was not a bad location; my position was elevated above the road next to a man-made lake, and there weren't many of us because of the additional fee to enter this area of the garden (I was letting loose at this point). Thus I was facing the gate straight on, and the riders would come directly at me before turning in front of the gate by the steps I was standing on. First motorcycles and cars passed through, many more than I deemed necessary, and finally, as the bystanders along the perimeter clapped and cheered, the mob of bikers passed through the gate, escorted by several vehicles. I don't know much about the race, but this didn't look like one; they were casually coasting through and chatting with their neighbors. Following were dozens of magazine vehicles, cars with bikes and tires on the roofs (a bit excessive), and finally emergency and official vehicles. It took 30 seconds for the bikers to pass, but the entire parade was about 15 minutes. On my way out I found the idea of freshly squeezed orange juice to be appealing, but the attendants were closing shop. Thus I had no choice but to made a detour on my return-tram-ride to pick up four large oranges for half the price I would have paid for a small cup in the park, one of which I peeled voraciously on the spot, and two more have been consumed during this entry.
Glorious.
8-7
This entry is a little late; I am already back in the states and am visiting friends before heading back to NJ. The program finished up, and on the last night I had a nice treat: one of our program coordinators was a pianist and was in a private home concert. A few of us tagged along, and it was really a pleasant evening. The host had organized several similar events in her living room, inviting friends and family over to enjoy the music and company, as well as the table of homemade dinner options and desserts. Most people spoke at least some English, and they were very forgiving of my inability to speak French, agreeing that lengthy immersion is the only way to get a handle on any language. Some of them had traveled or studied in the States, and to my surprise, missed it very much, though it could have just been the college experience that was absent.
The program contained a Brahms clarinet sonata, a Schumann clarinet sonata, a Debussy clarinet solo, and some more recent works by Joan Towers. These were the most "modern" pieces on the program, and seemed to grab the audience. Is it because it is new and different? Perhaps. Was there "shock value?" Maybe, but there might be a better way to explain it. My guess is that contemporary classical music tolerates a greater variety of rhythms and sonorities, and in place of classical elegance we have raw, primal expression. Perhaps music is primarily rhythm, a bending and stretching of our sense of time. Some suggest this chaos we hear parallels postmodern philosophy, in which all the wonders of modern science have also dispelled a spiritual sentimentality for many; it seems distancing ourselves from the religious tradition has also generated a view that the tonal craft is obsolete. But there are many contemporary composers who write chaos but speak beautifully about the spiritual element in their music. The creative act might be the paramount thing, regardless of the art produced and its reception.
I think this ends my blog; the movies on the plane were better this time (The Promised Land with Matt Damon is recommended) and the jet lag was more severe... but it is good to be home. I am excited to put into practice the things I learned at the program and hope that it will open doors in the future. I heard on NPR about the benefits of traveling alone; you are more likely to meet new people, you can operate at your own rhythm, etc. and I agree wholeheartedly.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Friday, July 26, 2013
Coffee Machine = Veggie Soup
7-8
I probably shouldn't be surprised that the coffee vending machine at school also dispenses tomato soup.
It is one of the most convenient contraptions: for 50 cents you are given an array of coffee-esque options to choose from, all variations of "cafe instant" and milk, cocoa, machiato, cappucino, capamochacococoffiato... a small plastic cup drops down (it's smaller than the one you're thinking of), you hear a sprinkle of sugar drop down, and then a strained noise is made as it produces your selected beverage, stirrer included. The sugar level is adjustable, though I have forgotten this feature every time so far. Like most mini-espressos here, this little shot of caffeine is just enough to render you slightly more alert as you head to class or the practice room.
I had noticed the button "potage legumes" in the past, and assumed it was some natural herb drink, tea perhaps. I was proved wrong as my friend appeased his curiosity and watched a little purple cup be filled with steaming-hot tomato soup and a sprinkle of basil; though it is a little salty, it gives Cambells a run for its money. Vive la France.
I've discovered, a bit late in relation to my peers, the magical French baguette. Gluten-free friends, I apologize.
The bread makes the sandwich. The exterior has a crispness of many miniscule layers that makes each bite a divine encounter, and the inside is more plush than a tempurpedic pillow. Add some quality meats and cheeses, and lunch just became the highlight of your day. I would typically complain at the skimpy ration of filling given, but the bread is so good you quickly forget this minor detail. By the time you've finished the baguette your jaw has endured a strenuous workout; we decided tight jaw muscles explain why some French are less vocally expressive.
7-14
In one sense I regret having learned French, or rather, 5% French as I estimate it. Sure, there are many more signs I can understand than if I had no exposure to the language, and with my translator I can recognize good phrases when it produces them and seek alternatives when it provides an awkward literal translation. This has helped me immensely when buying things at stores or asking for things at the front desk of the dorm. But with a small solution comes a greater problem. I am often able to pose a question, but seldom can I understand the response. I am in a stage where I can confidently, politely, express a need (Survival French) but am struck dumbfounded if the answer to my question goes beyond "oui" or "non" or "voila." It must be amusing to watch my confident, task-oriented politeness slump into an expression of confusion' to watch my world-conquering assurance dissolve as I break eye contact and search for an inward happy place where what remains of my dignity can reside. But my assailant never looks amused, nor does he or she simplify their answer or convert to English as I hope they will have the compassion to do after I've waived the white flag. This at least applies to the middle-aged and older generations. Younger server at restaurants often immediately respond in English once they have patiently watched me struggle to communicate, but this is almost equally humiliating, because I would almost prefer the small victory of fooling the person into thinking I speak the language, provided the response is one of the select few I can comprehend. But I am not fooling anyone. I think of Napoleon retreating from the barren stretches of Russia as his Grand Armee dwindles with each passing moment. A prime time to escape to Corsica.
The program has been busy but not overwhelming; the faculty are wonderful people, accomplished but humane. Still, I have had little creative energy to put into this journal, and since I have been reading less it is harder to describe things in detail or put words together at all. But yesterday was Saturday, and after handing in a song and practicing I went for a long walk, to see the city as a temporary resident instead of as a tourist. This led me to the Church of St. Germaine, as well as the Seine river where people hang their people off the path over the water and hang out for the evening.
I probably shouldn't be surprised that the coffee vending machine at school also dispenses tomato soup.
It is one of the most convenient contraptions: for 50 cents you are given an array of coffee-esque options to choose from, all variations of "cafe instant" and milk, cocoa, machiato, cappucino, capamochacococoffiato... a small plastic cup drops down (it's smaller than the one you're thinking of), you hear a sprinkle of sugar drop down, and then a strained noise is made as it produces your selected beverage, stirrer included. The sugar level is adjustable, though I have forgotten this feature every time so far. Like most mini-espressos here, this little shot of caffeine is just enough to render you slightly more alert as you head to class or the practice room.
I had noticed the button "potage legumes" in the past, and assumed it was some natural herb drink, tea perhaps. I was proved wrong as my friend appeased his curiosity and watched a little purple cup be filled with steaming-hot tomato soup and a sprinkle of basil; though it is a little salty, it gives Cambells a run for its money. Vive la France.
I've discovered, a bit late in relation to my peers, the magical French baguette. Gluten-free friends, I apologize.
The bread makes the sandwich. The exterior has a crispness of many miniscule layers that makes each bite a divine encounter, and the inside is more plush than a tempurpedic pillow. Add some quality meats and cheeses, and lunch just became the highlight of your day. I would typically complain at the skimpy ration of filling given, but the bread is so good you quickly forget this minor detail. By the time you've finished the baguette your jaw has endured a strenuous workout; we decided tight jaw muscles explain why some French are less vocally expressive.
7-14
In one sense I regret having learned French, or rather, 5% French as I estimate it. Sure, there are many more signs I can understand than if I had no exposure to the language, and with my translator I can recognize good phrases when it produces them and seek alternatives when it provides an awkward literal translation. This has helped me immensely when buying things at stores or asking for things at the front desk of the dorm. But with a small solution comes a greater problem. I am often able to pose a question, but seldom can I understand the response. I am in a stage where I can confidently, politely, express a need (Survival French) but am struck dumbfounded if the answer to my question goes beyond "oui" or "non" or "voila." It must be amusing to watch my confident, task-oriented politeness slump into an expression of confusion' to watch my world-conquering assurance dissolve as I break eye contact and search for an inward happy place where what remains of my dignity can reside. But my assailant never looks amused, nor does he or she simplify their answer or convert to English as I hope they will have the compassion to do after I've waived the white flag. This at least applies to the middle-aged and older generations. Younger server at restaurants often immediately respond in English once they have patiently watched me struggle to communicate, but this is almost equally humiliating, because I would almost prefer the small victory of fooling the person into thinking I speak the language, provided the response is one of the select few I can comprehend. But I am not fooling anyone. I think of Napoleon retreating from the barren stretches of Russia as his Grand Armee dwindles with each passing moment. A prime time to escape to Corsica.
The program has been busy but not overwhelming; the faculty are wonderful people, accomplished but humane. Still, I have had little creative energy to put into this journal, and since I have been reading less it is harder to describe things in detail or put words together at all. But yesterday was Saturday, and after handing in a song and practicing I went for a long walk, to see the city as a temporary resident instead of as a tourist. This led me to the Church of St. Germaine, as well as the Seine river where people hang their people off the path over the water and hang out for the evening.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Mostly about Food
7-6
First week of the Paris music program completed. It has been a wild ride so far, with a variety classes, but also a surprisingly generous serving of free time on the side. I am surrounded by very talented musicians, and feel very out of place, and very at-home at the same time.
I've spent about 100 euros in cash this week, plus some on the credit card; as much as it was my goal to eat ultra-frugally this trip, it is impossible to get to know one's classmates and the local flavor without some fiscal laxity.
Tonight was an interesting one: 6 of us (three Westminsterians, two Georgians, and an Australian) made our way through some train transfers to arrive at a place that was ultimately within fairly close walking distance of the school we had set out from. The line was out the door of the Buillon Charter restaurant but moved as quickly as a queue line for a roller coaster. One member of our cohort had come here with family friends a few days prior and was excited to introduce the experience to us. It was the feeding troth of the city. The large room we entered into reminded me of a large Philadelphian courtroom lined with paintings, but it was packed with too many tables to have the semblance of governmental order (snort), and the tables with too many people to create an atmosphere other than chaos. This broke any and all rules I might have come to learn and appreciate about the pace of European dining. Imagine the subway at rush hour, but with tables and servers awaiting the hordes of people bursting from the train doors.
A server came out the queue frequently to find smaller parties as vacancies opened up, again not unlike a roller coaster line. We were admitted, and as I approached the table, two servers wiped down a table, threw down place settings, and disappeared into the feeding frenzy before I fully realized what was happening. They had timed our arrival at the table so that we could watch it being turned over from start to finish as we approached, and squeeze by the servers into our seats without having to pause to wait for them to finish the chore. It seemed excessively rushed of a maneuver, but it was all part of the well-oiled machine. We sat, and a woman in her 30's rushed tot he table to hand out menus and left without uttering a word. She was IN THE ZONE, how many tables she was serving I can't guess, if "serving" be the right word. I would expect the same enthusiasm from someone pouring slop into the pig troth, yet the efficiency was of an ER physician. I, being at the far end of the table, did not catch half of what she said when she returned, but I think she may have said something to the effect of "what do you want" or maybe even "ok go." I ordered escargot for 6.50, and she scribbled (along with the other orders) directly onto the paper tablecloth. Before her pen had hardly finished its swift, barely legible etching, her eyes were directed away from us at her next target, her foot was even mid-stride towards the neighboring table. Questions about the menu (it was in French, after all) were, well, out of the question; hardly would the plaintive words "what is this" be out of our mouths when she would roll her eyes, point at the menu, and snap a one-word response: "Chicken - pork - duck" omitting translations of the qualifying details that we deemed important. Our translators and pocket dictionaries were ill equipped for this level of dining, so we were shooting blindfolded. My kind of restaurant: I am always up for trying something new. The snails were delicious; my friend across from me gave me the tutorial of holding the snail with the clamp and pulling out the little guy by his head with a small two-pronged fork. It immediately reminded me of shellfish from home, like the chewy neck of a clam. They were hot and came in a delicious green sauce. The duck was equally yummy, like the dark meat of turkey. You couldn't have convinced me to anticipate the quality of the food, but apparently this place is a favorite of the locals and serves good food at the right price. They don't need friendly service for a good dining experience here, since the waitstaff aren't working for tip, so we were getting the true local treatment. Conversation was relaxed and low-key; we ventured into holistic medicine when the usual musical discourse ran dry. A pleasant group of people. The server grabbed our plates with the same tour de force she served them with, but her demeanor had relaxed in intensity; she was still blunt but smiled occasionally; my sense is she has a strong nurturing quality that she consciously represses when at work. The most impressive feat was how she tallied our meal prices (desserts included; we were really ordering blind on those) on the tablecloth from memory; we watched in amazement as she added all the columns quickly and gave us our total. As we slowly pulled out our cash and bantered about who was paying what, I'm sure we all felt a little inept, since we couldn't add nearly as quickly as our server; the image in my mind is one of a math team blown out of the water by the competition and left in a daze to stare at their figures. After finding the total several times we finally reached the point where we could say our goodbyes and exit the building. I'm looking forward to going back.
First week of the Paris music program completed. It has been a wild ride so far, with a variety classes, but also a surprisingly generous serving of free time on the side. I am surrounded by very talented musicians, and feel very out of place, and very at-home at the same time.
I've spent about 100 euros in cash this week, plus some on the credit card; as much as it was my goal to eat ultra-frugally this trip, it is impossible to get to know one's classmates and the local flavor without some fiscal laxity.
Tonight was an interesting one: 6 of us (three Westminsterians, two Georgians, and an Australian) made our way through some train transfers to arrive at a place that was ultimately within fairly close walking distance of the school we had set out from. The line was out the door of the Buillon Charter restaurant but moved as quickly as a queue line for a roller coaster. One member of our cohort had come here with family friends a few days prior and was excited to introduce the experience to us. It was the feeding troth of the city. The large room we entered into reminded me of a large Philadelphian courtroom lined with paintings, but it was packed with too many tables to have the semblance of governmental order (snort), and the tables with too many people to create an atmosphere other than chaos. This broke any and all rules I might have come to learn and appreciate about the pace of European dining. Imagine the subway at rush hour, but with tables and servers awaiting the hordes of people bursting from the train doors.
A server came out the queue frequently to find smaller parties as vacancies opened up, again not unlike a roller coaster line. We were admitted, and as I approached the table, two servers wiped down a table, threw down place settings, and disappeared into the feeding frenzy before I fully realized what was happening. They had timed our arrival at the table so that we could watch it being turned over from start to finish as we approached, and squeeze by the servers into our seats without having to pause to wait for them to finish the chore. It seemed excessively rushed of a maneuver, but it was all part of the well-oiled machine. We sat, and a woman in her 30's rushed tot he table to hand out menus and left without uttering a word. She was IN THE ZONE, how many tables she was serving I can't guess, if "serving" be the right word. I would expect the same enthusiasm from someone pouring slop into the pig troth, yet the efficiency was of an ER physician. I, being at the far end of the table, did not catch half of what she said when she returned, but I think she may have said something to the effect of "what do you want" or maybe even "ok go." I ordered escargot for 6.50, and she scribbled (along with the other orders) directly onto the paper tablecloth. Before her pen had hardly finished its swift, barely legible etching, her eyes were directed away from us at her next target, her foot was even mid-stride towards the neighboring table. Questions about the menu (it was in French, after all) were, well, out of the question; hardly would the plaintive words "what is this" be out of our mouths when she would roll her eyes, point at the menu, and snap a one-word response: "Chicken - pork - duck" omitting translations of the qualifying details that we deemed important. Our translators and pocket dictionaries were ill equipped for this level of dining, so we were shooting blindfolded. My kind of restaurant: I am always up for trying something new. The snails were delicious; my friend across from me gave me the tutorial of holding the snail with the clamp and pulling out the little guy by his head with a small two-pronged fork. It immediately reminded me of shellfish from home, like the chewy neck of a clam. They were hot and came in a delicious green sauce. The duck was equally yummy, like the dark meat of turkey. You couldn't have convinced me to anticipate the quality of the food, but apparently this place is a favorite of the locals and serves good food at the right price. They don't need friendly service for a good dining experience here, since the waitstaff aren't working for tip, so we were getting the true local treatment. Conversation was relaxed and low-key; we ventured into holistic medicine when the usual musical discourse ran dry. A pleasant group of people. The server grabbed our plates with the same tour de force she served them with, but her demeanor had relaxed in intensity; she was still blunt but smiled occasionally; my sense is she has a strong nurturing quality that she consciously represses when at work. The most impressive feat was how she tallied our meal prices (desserts included; we were really ordering blind on those) on the tablecloth from memory; we watched in amazement as she added all the columns quickly and gave us our total. As we slowly pulled out our cash and bantered about who was paying what, I'm sure we all felt a little inept, since we couldn't add nearly as quickly as our server; the image in my mind is one of a math team blown out of the water by the competition and left in a daze to stare at their figures. After finding the total several times we finally reached the point where we could say our goodbyes and exit the building. I'm looking forward to going back.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
More on the Lump of Coal
6-30
We took a tour of the underground caves of Orvieto, and I was very surprised to find that they were dug out by people for private use below their homes; a far cry from your typical waterway cavern. Orvieto is a plateau of volcanic ash (for those confused by the title of the post) formed from the collection of refuse from neighboring eruptions. The Etruscans got here first, digging a water well that was discovered and excavated by Orvietans years later. I scraped the wall with my nail and it crumbled easily; I then began to question the security of my being underground. One cave contained a donkey-powered grinding wheel for the production of olive oil, a source of fuel for lamps. Private cellars were for storage or to raise pigeons.
6-2
Yesterday was a long train ride from Milan to Paris, and I can't help but feel slightly guilty for not doing any journaling en route, but then again there was not much to write about.
We did make it into the cathedral in Milan the night before, at a time when a Catholic mass was taking place. Being present in the building when it is being used as originally intended does not detract from the "tourist" experience if one is content with observing your surroundings with the eye of a museum curator, or perhaps a social scientist taking note of People Practicing Religion; there is another place being surrounded by beauty in a worship service can take you, but you have to allow yourself to be taken there. I'll admit, the priest's tone sounded pedantic, and the organ's harmonies were becoming an amorphous globule oozing between the giant pillars, although the lack of sonic clarity, I will suggest, parallels the ambiguity of faith and gives the room a very other-worldly quality which, I need not suggest, fits appropriately with the ceremony taking place. The evening sun had ignited the lofty stained glass, and the incendiary neon beacon aimed at the floor was too vivid to try to capture with my camera. It almost felt sinful to use the camera, and technically it was, for you were required to purchase a wristband to do so, but it was not being enforced. I had no desire to ascend to the roof of the church as I had considered before; I was in a contemplative frame of mind, content with soaking in the experience. The forest of rooftops will have to wait for another day.
My first encounter with France, or rather, the French, took the form of a young woman sitting next to me on the train. There is no hiding the fact that she was very pretty. For logistical purposes I attempted to speak to her in Italian (I did not succeed, I assure you), and while I could not decipher her response (surprise) the issues pertaining to luggage and outlet usage were sorted out. As I settled back into my past-times I breathed a sigh of twofold emotions: despair at the forfeiting of a romantic miracle taking place, and relief of the same, given the return to a simpler course of action. Later in the day I discovered that the language barrier was twice as thick as I had perceived it to be: two rivers, two canyons, two plateaus representing not only my inability to comprehend her quite basic utilitarian verbiage, but also at my inability to recognize even the language I was failing to understand. By observing her book I gleaned that she was a native of the country we were traveling to, and not the one we came from. This was my opportunity, thought I, to revive the long-dormant and rapidly deteriorating French vocabulary from early college, but I was without necessity to talk, lest I fabricate another logistical maneuver regarding the luggage or the outlet, but she had already removed her phone charger from the shared outlet, so my options were few. My former professors have often said to always carry a book, and I am now starting to see why.
7. Cities
Paris is my new favorite thing. And I should probably specify by "thing" I am referring to an aggregate of many things that cumulate into a very pleasant living experience. It is a lovely city. The subway system was my first love (or at least the first to reciprocate), quite indistinct from NYC or Boston save for a board that lists all of the stations served and lights up ones that the approaching train will reach. It would almost be appropriate to call this feature a light at the end of the tunnel; in fact it was a dozen lights within a tunnel but producing a similar elatedness, a joyous rapture at not only finding one's way but doing so without visiting every information booth you happen upon. I have never stepped into a vehicle of public transportation with so much confidence.
The city is clean, at least where I am now, bouncing between the Cite Universitaire and the Schola Cantorum at the stop called Port Royal (there's a port here?). Heading towards Notre Dame, you find the beautiful church proudly overlooking the river and dozens of streets packed with restaurants and cheap eateries, colorfully displayed and appeasingly self-advertised; some details that make the scene unique elude me now, hopefully I will pay attention next time.
I haven't been publicly ridiculed for my nationality as of yet, but I have gotten the impression here that those of the middle-aged-to-older generation have absolutely no patience for the English language, and have a variety of expressions of annoyance readily at disposal for anyone who might presume that they have acquired command of it. Despite my well-intentioned efforts to use the vernacular I have received the glare, the scold, the roll of the eyes, the seethe, and often combinations of the above. One restaurant server did give me a small chocolate for my efforts, I believe, although it is possible that she simply forgot to provide my friend with one. Armed with the translator on my phone I have been making small improvements to my communicating ability and have noticed that people seem to appreciate the effort and are growing in grace towards my ineptitude.
We took a tour of the underground caves of Orvieto, and I was very surprised to find that they were dug out by people for private use below their homes; a far cry from your typical waterway cavern. Orvieto is a plateau of volcanic ash (for those confused by the title of the post) formed from the collection of refuse from neighboring eruptions. The Etruscans got here first, digging a water well that was discovered and excavated by Orvietans years later. I scraped the wall with my nail and it crumbled easily; I then began to question the security of my being underground. One cave contained a donkey-powered grinding wheel for the production of olive oil, a source of fuel for lamps. Private cellars were for storage or to raise pigeons.
6-2
Yesterday was a long train ride from Milan to Paris, and I can't help but feel slightly guilty for not doing any journaling en route, but then again there was not much to write about.
We did make it into the cathedral in Milan the night before, at a time when a Catholic mass was taking place. Being present in the building when it is being used as originally intended does not detract from the "tourist" experience if one is content with observing your surroundings with the eye of a museum curator, or perhaps a social scientist taking note of People Practicing Religion; there is another place being surrounded by beauty in a worship service can take you, but you have to allow yourself to be taken there. I'll admit, the priest's tone sounded pedantic, and the organ's harmonies were becoming an amorphous globule oozing between the giant pillars, although the lack of sonic clarity, I will suggest, parallels the ambiguity of faith and gives the room a very other-worldly quality which, I need not suggest, fits appropriately with the ceremony taking place. The evening sun had ignited the lofty stained glass, and the incendiary neon beacon aimed at the floor was too vivid to try to capture with my camera. It almost felt sinful to use the camera, and technically it was, for you were required to purchase a wristband to do so, but it was not being enforced. I had no desire to ascend to the roof of the church as I had considered before; I was in a contemplative frame of mind, content with soaking in the experience. The forest of rooftops will have to wait for another day.
My first encounter with France, or rather, the French, took the form of a young woman sitting next to me on the train. There is no hiding the fact that she was very pretty. For logistical purposes I attempted to speak to her in Italian (I did not succeed, I assure you), and while I could not decipher her response (surprise) the issues pertaining to luggage and outlet usage were sorted out. As I settled back into my past-times I breathed a sigh of twofold emotions: despair at the forfeiting of a romantic miracle taking place, and relief of the same, given the return to a simpler course of action. Later in the day I discovered that the language barrier was twice as thick as I had perceived it to be: two rivers, two canyons, two plateaus representing not only my inability to comprehend her quite basic utilitarian verbiage, but also at my inability to recognize even the language I was failing to understand. By observing her book I gleaned that she was a native of the country we were traveling to, and not the one we came from. This was my opportunity, thought I, to revive the long-dormant and rapidly deteriorating French vocabulary from early college, but I was without necessity to talk, lest I fabricate another logistical maneuver regarding the luggage or the outlet, but she had already removed her phone charger from the shared outlet, so my options were few. My former professors have often said to always carry a book, and I am now starting to see why.
7. Cities
Paris is my new favorite thing. And I should probably specify by "thing" I am referring to an aggregate of many things that cumulate into a very pleasant living experience. It is a lovely city. The subway system was my first love (or at least the first to reciprocate), quite indistinct from NYC or Boston save for a board that lists all of the stations served and lights up ones that the approaching train will reach. It would almost be appropriate to call this feature a light at the end of the tunnel; in fact it was a dozen lights within a tunnel but producing a similar elatedness, a joyous rapture at not only finding one's way but doing so without visiting every information booth you happen upon. I have never stepped into a vehicle of public transportation with so much confidence.
The city is clean, at least where I am now, bouncing between the Cite Universitaire and the Schola Cantorum at the stop called Port Royal (there's a port here?). Heading towards Notre Dame, you find the beautiful church proudly overlooking the river and dozens of streets packed with restaurants and cheap eateries, colorfully displayed and appeasingly self-advertised; some details that make the scene unique elude me now, hopefully I will pay attention next time.
I haven't been publicly ridiculed for my nationality as of yet, but I have gotten the impression here that those of the middle-aged-to-older generation have absolutely no patience for the English language, and have a variety of expressions of annoyance readily at disposal for anyone who might presume that they have acquired command of it. Despite my well-intentioned efforts to use the vernacular I have received the glare, the scold, the roll of the eyes, the seethe, and often combinations of the above. One restaurant server did give me a small chocolate for my efforts, I believe, although it is possible that she simply forgot to provide my friend with one. Armed with the translator on my phone I have been making small improvements to my communicating ability and have noticed that people seem to appreciate the effort and are growing in grace towards my ineptitude.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
A Tale of Two Cities, or rather, a City and a Lump of Coal
6-29
Rome wasn't built in a day, but we toured most of it in about 6 hours.
Which makes me very grateful that it wasn't our primary destination, but a touristic splurge while staying in the quiet, quaint, peaceful city/town of Orvietto. Rome is anything but quiet, quaint, and peaceful, it is quite similar to any other large city, busy with traffic and pedestrians, minus the billboard-sized TV screens and plethora of neon lights. What is lacked in seizure-inducing visual mayhem is made up for in People Who Have Never Been There Before that wander aimlessly, or rather, with aim but with inadequate navigational preparation, which results in frequent pointing, questionable glances around corners, swift panoramic scans for signage (I am, in fact, describing my own behavior as well), and when all else fails, blindly trusting the Herd (gazelle, buffalo, ants, take your pick) to lead from one watering hole to the next and away from the predatorial street vendors that some of the weaker members fall victim to. The city is in fact a tourist mecca much like Disney or six flags; each attraction having a long admittance line, and in place of an overhead entrance payment you pay for each individual attraction (like your local fair that sells fried dough) and trudge through long stretches of city between each point of interest. At night I imagine the flashes of cameras would have sufficed to guide us through the sites and sights, but we had a highly qualified Commander in Chief (sister Sarah) to route and reroute the itinerants: we did not require the translating/tour-guiding services of Jenna since the city of Rome had long ago grimly resigned itself to an octi-lingual identity, and Jenna, being Romed out after her semester in the country, had no interest in roaming with us. With an amused smirk the city watches swarms of Americans look to the British flag for directions and descriptions in a familiar language, especially as we near the national Holiday that celebrates our renunciation of any and all reliance upon the English.
With Sarah's militant programming, mom's FO!!OLP?!ROOF IN!??TUI?TIO!N and my hum-drum bumble-dee-gum (...) we found our way to the coliseum, pantheon, Trevi fountain, tomb of the unknown soldier (aka Wedding Cake), and probably best of all, the sight of many-a-Catholic pilgrimage, St. Peter's Basilica next to the Vatican. The Cathedral was also a highlight due to our meeting Doug and Olivia, a lovely newlywed couple who had been honeymooning in Rome for the past few days and had just exited the Vatican, which was closed for the rest of the day. I was not too disheartened to not make the Vatican this round, among other things (Sarah just reminded me of aqua-ducts and baths) for I am 24 and am on my second trip to Europe (both have been centered around a study-abroad program, the best justification for hopping the pond I can find recently seconded by visiting family), and as transportation becomes easier I imagine other opportunities to be a tourist will arise.
The Basilica contained more gold than I had ever seen before (not a clear measurement term, I know), and if I had seen more, it was certainly not so ornate. The craftsmanship that was put into this structure: sculptures, paintings, arrangements of stone in the floor, arched doorways, marble pillars, glittering designs across the entire ceiling, multiple windowed domes that surrounded the mother dome, a 7-story-high bronze altar, the entire visual history of Christianity as documented by the Catholic Church present in one building, with far more than the human eye, let alone conscience, can take it. Despite the nasty politics that mar the church's history and the questionable siphoning of funds for grandiose architecture that could have done more good elsewhere, the competition to build bigger churches succeeded in at least one area - making one feel small, regardless of one's relationship to God. Looking at the moon can incur similar feelings of smallness and humility, but the church contains a symbolism, an intention to teach and represent, and hopefully a goal to point to something greater than itself or its engineers. It is a great responsibility to represent the world's dominant religion (don't quote me on that), and even if the ornate-ness may to some feel distant, the theology impersonal, the hierarchy silly, and the finances self-aggrandizing, I am sure entering the church in Rome has caused many to question their beliefs, if only for a moment. Whether Christine doctrine is imbibed at that moment is of no concern, of mine, for in the wrong hands it does a great disservice to the world, but no more than self-assured tribalism in all its forms. Asking existential questions is a valuable act it itself, and beyond that I think Christ and Christianity have brought to the world good ethical teaching, the encouragement of contemplation, strong communities, beautiful poetry, unity of spirit, faith, hope, love, and of course, music.
Perhaps if I didn't have Orvietto to return to I would have appreciated Rome more, but I think there is a deep human need to kick back and relax, specifically in a European cafe on a cobblestoned street surrounded by Few People, and maybe even Old Things.
6. Old Things
It is probably redundant at this point to reflect on the oldness of things, as I have already discussed the churches and other things. The Orvietan duomo is rather large, almost intimidating given its black-and-white-striped exterior that brings to mind jail criminals in old cartoons, but the alabaster windows (initially mom and I thought they were petrified wood) were a refreshing change from my repeated frustration at being unable to identify the figures in the stained-glass windows of other cathedrals.
Rome, Milan, and Florence are hybrids of antiquity and semi-modern architecture that bears the imprint of the surrounding history; walking down the streets of Orvieto I can't help but wonder: what is holding this place together? The city resides on a hilltop and is surrounded by aging and mossed walls; tiled rooftops that have weathered many storms, houses that never intended to have intricate indoor plumbing, brick ledges in intermediate stages of deterioration; time's layer of imperfection, perfectly and evenly distributed, old things that also have the character and authenticity of oldness, unlike the many sites of interest that are continually restored, the side streets are the true time warp; one might easily cross paths with a 12th-century tavern keeper who hasn't bathed once in his life.
Mendelssohn's wedding theme just started trumpeting from the Duomo organ; we were enjoying the finest eat-out-meal thus far consisting of caprese salads, pasta, and grilled chicken. A wedding was taking place during our meal, and from our table outside in the square I was able to hear the upper mixtures through a glass side-door to the church, installed not for its oldness but as a handicapped entrance. I'm glad I caught the great ritard at the end' even from outside the reverberation lingers, soaring from one end of the nave to the other after the fingers are lifted from the manual.
During Jenna's your of the town (the word "city" reminds me too much of bustling Rome) we stopped in on various piazzas and villas, and peeked in on a monastery where she had stayed for the semester. I'm starting to take things for granted, or at least to see them as opportunities to expose myself to "interesting historical facts" that I won't remember specifically but will hopefully retain generally as things to refer to when the specifics are necessary. Old Things are still inanimate objects that can't speak of themselves, though with minimal introduction they encourage reflection, which is never a bad thing. It is the story of people, and after reading, listening to that story, one feels connected to the people and events that transpired, the progress made that has advanced certain things, ideas, philosophy, technology, medicine. And yet we see how some things never change' customs and careers have evolved but not their purpose. Lifestyles have become more varied, global, time-conscious, but start and end the same, are still oriented towards life, liberty and happiness, and different degrees of knowledge, success, romance, friendship, service, excellence, pleasure. Many of these attributes are maintained in structures and elements of culture that have stood the test of time, and amazingly so; I can't fathom how the pantheon was erected save for images filled with excess scaffolding and hordes of manual laborers. There might even be a mystical element that draws us; how often are plots in movies directed by ancient prophecies or findings? We intuitively know our present is connected to our past, some take it further and state it is guided by our past, termed fate or Providence. What has been preserved also blurs the details of our messy past, similar to how time can smooth out conflicts from yesterday or last week' yet the preservation of a church can ennoble the human cause and inspire patient craftsmanship to achieve a personal monument, or to stretch the soul and cause a reorienting of priorities.
Having just walked through the town I saw arched doorways, round handles on doors, great big stones for walls, structures built into the rock instead of on or next to it. History doesn't always provide answers but nonetheless asks questions: how were things done before our time? Why? What are the benefits of change? What is sacrificed?
7. Fast Food
A term not often used here in reference to various convenient eateries, especially food "to go" as we call it, since people here are generally proud of the fact that Slow Food is a cultural staple, for two reasons as I can gather: it is slow, and it is food, or rather, really good food, and not glorified pig slop that has been recolored, packaged mass-produced, branded, and franchised. There is the occasional BK or McDonalds, but if you've had your fill of those, there are kebap stands that contain as much meat and sometimes more than advertised; there are pizzerias and sandwich shops with the same frequency as American chains, but all with slightly different offerings. Sure there is the benefit and convenience of knowing what to expect and having those expectations fulfilled; a 6-piece nugget is pretty much the same wherever you go. And while I don't mean to blindly exonerate the food distribution system of Europe, ingredients seem to be produced more locally as a rule, taste fresher, probably cost more, but that is no problem for me. Lack of consistency, which Sarah was observing, can be a problem if you don't know the sweet spots; the tuna sandwich I had in Rome had tuna around the edge as a garnish for the tomato, lettuce, and roll, but it is my own fault for buying food within a block of Trevi fountain.
But it is all an extension of the Slow Food mentality I think: Coffee is an event, Jenna says, and the drink is rather small compared to the huge caffeinated drinks from Starbucks. You sip your small espresso at the coffee bar from a *gasp* ceramic cup and continue on your way when you *gasp* finish. Hence the existence of the
8. Coffee bar
Which I haven't experienced first-hand but have watched as people publicly sip their drink with defensive glances like watched vultures (actually I just saw one man exhibit the described behavior, but the image stuck). So far I have preferred the cafes where you can get a cheap drink and work for a few hours, or socialize, or gaze into the abyss...
Back to point 7, it seems a similar force of "variety" is at work in the plethora of gelaterias, every block contains one, or two, or three wherever there are shops, since they are often home-made, at least of a different brand, and small in size. One can easily have one and, with the sweet tooth activated, go for seconds up the street. You couldn't do this in the US without developing a lactose intolerance, where a small ice cream has grown to a quarter-gallon since no one ever orders anything larger.
What I like about Orvieto - its intimacy, variety, quietness, can also be its downfall. We were just joking about Belle from Beauty and the Beast wanting "much more than this provincial life," and the same can go for any small town. The gossip, the dirt on people, which isn't limited to small towns by any means, but can tend to play a larger role in the course of each day's events, simply because there is much less to focus on. There is also the opportunity to develop close relationships wtih good people, which is helped by the slower pace of life. A good place to retire, but not to learn about the world and explore its offerings; raising kids would be questionable.
Sitting here and writing whatever meanders into my mind could be detrimental for my return to school. Seeign the same person open and close shop every day can be nice from a distance, but the other side of the coin is that they may not really enjoy what they do, and wish they could be doing something else...
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Unedited Disjunct Ramblings after Departing
6-26
It was with heavy hearts that we left the Renzi's today. I can't speak for everyone, but if I were to venture a guess, we were all leaving behind something that we had only just obtained; removing a part of ourselves that we had only just discovered; a room in a house or a box in the attic filled with pictures, books, stories, memories we didn't know existed, and we are required to close the box and shut the door before fully exploring what it contained. Renzo is my grandmother's cousin, which may seem a significant distance on the family tree, facing south while we face north; our branches have not bumped into each other thus far during life's breezes and storms. Yet branches on adjacent trees can rub against each other as well, and as far as this metaphor is concerned (there is a better one I am certain), similarly do we meet and connect with people, create a family not necessarily related by blood but by spirit. How much stronger the connection of the spirit when reinforced by blood, and I imagine the duty to care for those in our genetic lineage often generates the spiritual connection that might not have been created otherwise, and to those whom we have developed a connection with voluntarily outside of sisters, uncles, and the rest, the time to practice duty will reveal itself in its own time.
The practice of faith often provides us with an image, a symbol of all humanity belonging to the same family or even entity; love your neighbor as yourself: the two are one. Love your enemy. Give yourself to acts of service for your Family. Love is spontaneous as well as long-suffering, and both types are symbolized by the family.
I was thinking of writing that blood relation is a deeper connection than the bond formed in other contexts, but now I see genetic family as just one of many contexts in which we share meals, share memories, seek fun, challenge to grow, forgive for mistakes... all in all, to create family. Perhaps "community" is the proper term, but where is the line drawn, when our ideal community is the family? We want our communities to be "like family," and we want our families to be healthy communities. I suppose both terms can have positive and negative connotations depending on the amount of hopeful utopia one is sprinkling on them. Family can be created in a mutually beneficial relationship, two lovers, a group of friends, joining for companionship. A group will also join to pursue a common goal, and create family in a club or community service project, or a musical ensemble. It can be created between someone in a position of provision for another; every child receives this until they attain independence; those in need rely on society for sustenance, on teachers for education, with the ultimate goal of achieving independence and perhaps continuing the cycle of giving. It cannot occur with expectation, but only hope that what is imparted is received with gratitude and passed on in the paradox of duty and joy, duty because sacrifice is made, joy because the teacher can grow as much as the student if they allow it; intention and vulnerability, humility, are the keys.
I digress. Renzo and Adri felt like family. We were greeted with smiles, delicious meals, and the context was that we were related on the family tree. We had never met, we spoke different languages, we lived in different continents, and yet there was no question that we belonged at the same table. All people belong at the same table, I correct myself, but the context decides the direction in which the conversation moves, or does not move, and the connection of family gives us something to converse about. Any group of people can discuss the weather, yet the weather of the area we were in had particular significance to us beyond its effect on our plans for the day, for this was the climate my extended family grew up in, this was the weather that 1/4 of my ethnic identity, unbeknownst to me, had experienced before I was born (what remains is Irish and English, the former having only seen its home recently from the confines of the Dublin airport). Any gathering of people can discuss the food, but the cuisine before me was a step closer to the roots of my mom's Italian cooking, and paralleled my grandmother's recipes and the stories of her mother's cooking, but in the country that it originated it, reliving the experience in the culture with people who speak the language (and for the most part, only that language), and maintain not just the cuisine but the tradition surrounding it: the topics of conversation, the language, the wines from close friends, the sequence of multi-course meals that amazingly emerge from their modest kitchen and are placed next to tasteful place settings. There are many people that can venture into a European city and be in awe at and interested its history, but we were able to return from touring to a mealtime with people who live in that history day to day, who have made their own efforts to learn from its wisdom, who would probably shudder at the thought of referring to their daily life as "culture," as something foreign to one's identity that has to be learned, as we were doing.
Part of the soberness of our departure, I think, but maybe the lesser part, was that we had been exposed to a culture, a history, that belongs to all people but to us in a personal way through Renzo and Adriana, and that it was deeper and richer than we could manage to imbibe in the time allotted. We knew we had only skimmed the surface of the city and further exploration would be conducted primarily through secondary sources: books, pictures, etc. Above all, though, we were leaving people that cared for us, that loved us, maybe because we tried to be gracious guests to our generous hosts, maybe because we were interested in getting to know them and cared for them, but certainly because we were family connected through very familiar others; a context that existed long prior to our entering their front door. It was with sadness that we left, but the sadness was felt for all the right reasons. Their hospitality was perfect and beautiful, and I'm sure they went to great pains to make it so. We could not but feel we were imposing, for each meal was so complete, and with each came shopping, cooking, serving, cleaning, and returning to the best vantage point for the next round.
It would not be correct of me to say that no context existed other than our family connection, for Jenna had opened the door and made initial contact when she visited in March and April during her study abroad in Italy. All this was begun, of course, with their invitation. The open door was maintained in no small part by Jenna's quick study of the Italian language; I was really impressed with the ease in which she conversed with Renzo and Adri, only after a semester o Italian and a semester of immersion. She has really become an Italian. A fine translator she has been (when she feels like doing free work) and spending time with Renzo and Adriana would have been much less enjoyable without her bilingual capabilities. Renzo comprehended English pretty well, but seldom chose to speak it; for most people, the language barrier would result in awkward silences and frequent gesticulating, but Renzo simply spoke in Italian in a way that made you wonder if he forgot you can't understand; I would speak slowly in a mix of English and, with the help of Google translate, a few Italian words, and after feeling relatively successful at my attempts to communicate upon his affirmation that he understood me, he would, in his regular jovial, charismatic manner, smile broadly and open the floodgates of Italian discourse, drowning me in a flood of words that were interpreted by my ears as a pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables, words that often ended in a vowel, and beyond that, gibberish. Jenna would be nodding her head and giving the occasional verbal affirmation, and I, having cast down my eyes in shame, would glance up to her from time to time with the small but sincere hope that she would have the mercy to relieve me of the verbal onslaught by translating a key phrase here or there, which she sometimes did. In general, as best as I was able to follow, conversation was either about the family's whereabouts and doings, the Renzi life then and now, the vineyards that produced the wine we were consuming, the food, music (the attended opera often)... I'm sure there was much more I missed out on, but in retrospect there might have been something more important than the content of the conversation. Perhaps the emphasis was the quality or character of the dining experience. My tendency to space out during conversation if my my mind deems no immediate or eternal consequences for doing so means my retention of and contribution to the conversation was equivalent to any uni-lingual mealtime discourse I've been surrounded by in the past. What I will remember is that the conversation was not inhibited by the language barrier, that lack of comprehension did not impede freedom of expression, that my ineptitude for language did not inhibit Renzo from exercising his gift for oratory, which was essential for him, a man of class hosting guests. What I will remember is that mealtime was a multi-tiered event in which Renzo was the entertainment, with clean, uplifting small talk. It was the atmosphere that his persona generated that was more important than the details of the conversation, but as I said before those details were certainly important to us, probably more so than for the typical guest. Adriana certainly contributed as well, but didn't seem to see much value in talking with someone extensively in her own tongue if the primary response was going to be a puzzled expression, thus she generally directed her comments towards Jenna while the rest of us waited with bated breath for an interpretation, like parched hikers fumbling over a slippery faucet handle. Had the entire company concerned themselves with comprehensibility, we would have experienced timidity instead of confidence, anxious silence instead of humor, and smiles of withdrawal instead of smiles of appreciation. When you take pride in your family, friends, and affairs, you show it, give your best, maybe play the game a little as professionalism dictates, clean up, and rest, or work, or do whatever will best prepare you for the next social engagement.
There is also a time for silence. Now we are in Orvietto.
It was with heavy hearts that we left the Renzi's today. I can't speak for everyone, but if I were to venture a guess, we were all leaving behind something that we had only just obtained; removing a part of ourselves that we had only just discovered; a room in a house or a box in the attic filled with pictures, books, stories, memories we didn't know existed, and we are required to close the box and shut the door before fully exploring what it contained. Renzo is my grandmother's cousin, which may seem a significant distance on the family tree, facing south while we face north; our branches have not bumped into each other thus far during life's breezes and storms. Yet branches on adjacent trees can rub against each other as well, and as far as this metaphor is concerned (there is a better one I am certain), similarly do we meet and connect with people, create a family not necessarily related by blood but by spirit. How much stronger the connection of the spirit when reinforced by blood, and I imagine the duty to care for those in our genetic lineage often generates the spiritual connection that might not have been created otherwise, and to those whom we have developed a connection with voluntarily outside of sisters, uncles, and the rest, the time to practice duty will reveal itself in its own time.
The practice of faith often provides us with an image, a symbol of all humanity belonging to the same family or even entity; love your neighbor as yourself: the two are one. Love your enemy. Give yourself to acts of service for your Family. Love is spontaneous as well as long-suffering, and both types are symbolized by the family.
I was thinking of writing that blood relation is a deeper connection than the bond formed in other contexts, but now I see genetic family as just one of many contexts in which we share meals, share memories, seek fun, challenge to grow, forgive for mistakes... all in all, to create family. Perhaps "community" is the proper term, but where is the line drawn, when our ideal community is the family? We want our communities to be "like family," and we want our families to be healthy communities. I suppose both terms can have positive and negative connotations depending on the amount of hopeful utopia one is sprinkling on them. Family can be created in a mutually beneficial relationship, two lovers, a group of friends, joining for companionship. A group will also join to pursue a common goal, and create family in a club or community service project, or a musical ensemble. It can be created between someone in a position of provision for another; every child receives this until they attain independence; those in need rely on society for sustenance, on teachers for education, with the ultimate goal of achieving independence and perhaps continuing the cycle of giving. It cannot occur with expectation, but only hope that what is imparted is received with gratitude and passed on in the paradox of duty and joy, duty because sacrifice is made, joy because the teacher can grow as much as the student if they allow it; intention and vulnerability, humility, are the keys.
I digress. Renzo and Adri felt like family. We were greeted with smiles, delicious meals, and the context was that we were related on the family tree. We had never met, we spoke different languages, we lived in different continents, and yet there was no question that we belonged at the same table. All people belong at the same table, I correct myself, but the context decides the direction in which the conversation moves, or does not move, and the connection of family gives us something to converse about. Any group of people can discuss the weather, yet the weather of the area we were in had particular significance to us beyond its effect on our plans for the day, for this was the climate my extended family grew up in, this was the weather that 1/4 of my ethnic identity, unbeknownst to me, had experienced before I was born (what remains is Irish and English, the former having only seen its home recently from the confines of the Dublin airport). Any gathering of people can discuss the food, but the cuisine before me was a step closer to the roots of my mom's Italian cooking, and paralleled my grandmother's recipes and the stories of her mother's cooking, but in the country that it originated it, reliving the experience in the culture with people who speak the language (and for the most part, only that language), and maintain not just the cuisine but the tradition surrounding it: the topics of conversation, the language, the wines from close friends, the sequence of multi-course meals that amazingly emerge from their modest kitchen and are placed next to tasteful place settings. There are many people that can venture into a European city and be in awe at and interested its history, but we were able to return from touring to a mealtime with people who live in that history day to day, who have made their own efforts to learn from its wisdom, who would probably shudder at the thought of referring to their daily life as "culture," as something foreign to one's identity that has to be learned, as we were doing.
Part of the soberness of our departure, I think, but maybe the lesser part, was that we had been exposed to a culture, a history, that belongs to all people but to us in a personal way through Renzo and Adriana, and that it was deeper and richer than we could manage to imbibe in the time allotted. We knew we had only skimmed the surface of the city and further exploration would be conducted primarily through secondary sources: books, pictures, etc. Above all, though, we were leaving people that cared for us, that loved us, maybe because we tried to be gracious guests to our generous hosts, maybe because we were interested in getting to know them and cared for them, but certainly because we were family connected through very familiar others; a context that existed long prior to our entering their front door. It was with sadness that we left, but the sadness was felt for all the right reasons. Their hospitality was perfect and beautiful, and I'm sure they went to great pains to make it so. We could not but feel we were imposing, for each meal was so complete, and with each came shopping, cooking, serving, cleaning, and returning to the best vantage point for the next round.
It would not be correct of me to say that no context existed other than our family connection, for Jenna had opened the door and made initial contact when she visited in March and April during her study abroad in Italy. All this was begun, of course, with their invitation. The open door was maintained in no small part by Jenna's quick study of the Italian language; I was really impressed with the ease in which she conversed with Renzo and Adri, only after a semester o Italian and a semester of immersion. She has really become an Italian. A fine translator she has been (when she feels like doing free work) and spending time with Renzo and Adriana would have been much less enjoyable without her bilingual capabilities. Renzo comprehended English pretty well, but seldom chose to speak it; for most people, the language barrier would result in awkward silences and frequent gesticulating, but Renzo simply spoke in Italian in a way that made you wonder if he forgot you can't understand; I would speak slowly in a mix of English and, with the help of Google translate, a few Italian words, and after feeling relatively successful at my attempts to communicate upon his affirmation that he understood me, he would, in his regular jovial, charismatic manner, smile broadly and open the floodgates of Italian discourse, drowning me in a flood of words that were interpreted by my ears as a pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables, words that often ended in a vowel, and beyond that, gibberish. Jenna would be nodding her head and giving the occasional verbal affirmation, and I, having cast down my eyes in shame, would glance up to her from time to time with the small but sincere hope that she would have the mercy to relieve me of the verbal onslaught by translating a key phrase here or there, which she sometimes did. In general, as best as I was able to follow, conversation was either about the family's whereabouts and doings, the Renzi life then and now, the vineyards that produced the wine we were consuming, the food, music (the attended opera often)... I'm sure there was much more I missed out on, but in retrospect there might have been something more important than the content of the conversation. Perhaps the emphasis was the quality or character of the dining experience. My tendency to space out during conversation if my my mind deems no immediate or eternal consequences for doing so means my retention of and contribution to the conversation was equivalent to any uni-lingual mealtime discourse I've been surrounded by in the past. What I will remember is that the conversation was not inhibited by the language barrier, that lack of comprehension did not impede freedom of expression, that my ineptitude for language did not inhibit Renzo from exercising his gift for oratory, which was essential for him, a man of class hosting guests. What I will remember is that mealtime was a multi-tiered event in which Renzo was the entertainment, with clean, uplifting small talk. It was the atmosphere that his persona generated that was more important than the details of the conversation, but as I said before those details were certainly important to us, probably more so than for the typical guest. Adriana certainly contributed as well, but didn't seem to see much value in talking with someone extensively in her own tongue if the primary response was going to be a puzzled expression, thus she generally directed her comments towards Jenna while the rest of us waited with bated breath for an interpretation, like parched hikers fumbling over a slippery faucet handle. Had the entire company concerned themselves with comprehensibility, we would have experienced timidity instead of confidence, anxious silence instead of humor, and smiles of withdrawal instead of smiles of appreciation. When you take pride in your family, friends, and affairs, you show it, give your best, maybe play the game a little as professionalism dictates, clean up, and rest, or work, or do whatever will best prepare you for the next social engagement.
There is also a time for silence. Now we are in Orvietto.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Firenze (Which somehow translates into English as "Florence")
6-24
City names change depending on the language you are speaking. Why? I understand if the spelling changes to accommodate a different language, but completely changing the word seems counterproductive, even a well-intended plot to keep tourists out.
Today we are in Florence/Firenze at the
lovely home of Renzo and Adrianna Renzi.
Our afternoon meal was very similar to dinner from the previous night in
2 distinct ways. The first was my
repeated mistake of neglecting to associate the stack of dishes in front of me
with the impending arrival of one course riding on the heels of another. Thus I neglected to say
“Basta” (enough) while pasta was being served into my bowl, and upon finishing
it I was more than satisfied. Then
came the beans, pork, rabbit (it tastes like chicken, I promise) all of which
was stewed to perfection. Following that was a chilled wafer filled with
chocolate that puts Kit Kat to shame.
Apparently, eating in an Italian
family is a sport. I compete with
reservation, for I have not been executing hard physical labor for hours on
end, but I may only be able to resist for so long. Renzo has surpassed my mom in the not-so-subtle art of
force-feeding the young men at the table; he does so with such a gracious
authority I fear I could be “fired” from the family for insubordination. This is training to be an Italian.
The second similarity was the
universality of music as a topic of conversation. Families gather, as do strangers, and discuss the weather,
the food, the people present in body and in spirit (families more so), and once
these topics are exhausted, an art-loving family can always turn to music, and
being a musician I can always, by merely being present and referred to as “the
musician,” elicit a stream of impassioned references to famous conductors and
composers, and listen to someone discuss the music they love. Renzo put on Horowitz playing Mozart’s
allegro and adagio in Bb, then the rondo in D, before switching to Wagner. I believe he said Horowitz married
Toscanini’s daughter. Several
times he asked me to sing; I truly am no match for his artistic sensibilities
as a singer, for very rarely and only in dire circumstances have I been
requested to sing solo, but relatives are usually forgiving, and after
requesting that a vacancy be made in my abdomen (very difficult when you just
appeased Rezo’s entreaty to polish off the salami) I inhaled and squeaked out a
few Italian from my repertoire.
Renzo and Adriana’s home is one
floor of a three-story condo complex that looks like it used to be one large
mansion. It is accessed through a
gate, leading to a street that stretches straight into the heart of the city,
or at least one of its vital organs, the train station. It is hard to say how long the street
is, for my sense was skewed by the frustration of lugging a medium-sized
suitcase up the hill, and the sidewalk, with its deep potholes and frequent
curbsides, gave the little wheels more than they bargained for. I don’t mind a little exercise, but it
would be no small inconvenience if the suitcase lost its ability to roll at
this stage of the trip. Does
Hummer make suitcases?
The house is essentially a small
Italian museum, with books from the 14th century, including an old
handbook for the pope and another with pages made from lambskin that were then
stamped with pictures and text.
There were also a number of small pre-Christian statues and fragments,
as well as Etruscan pottery, and a wooden angel that was restored by a museum
expert. The history of Milan on
one of the higher, inaccessible bookshelves must have been 16 volumes, the
Italian encyclopedia twice that.
Artwork covered the walls in the hallways, leading to a maze of small
rooms that I frequently got lost in.
The adventure of the day was when
we left their house to walk to a piazza that overlooked Florence. Armed with cameras and purses, and one
umbrella, we journeyed down the sidewalk, taking note of some grey clouds above
but not considering the potential omen contained in them. When the light rain started, we had
already walked for about 30 minutes, and our initial reaction was to huddle
under a tree and remain optimistic about our situation, as the clouds were
surely moving in a direction favorable to our plans. In sequence, the following occurred: The rain became
heavier, Jenna opened her umbrella which barely covered the four of us, the
lighting flashed nearer, Jenna scouted to see how close we were to our
destination, the covering found in our tree was deemed temporary and swiftly
entering its final stages of usefulness, the sky unleashed its watery torrents,
we made a few quick dashes for more secure covering, and in the process of
doing so we secured our fate. The
battle for dryness had been forfeited.
We waved our soaked flag of surrender and, after handing the umbrella
and valuables to mom, made our way back to home base, mostly jovial at the
sheer ridiculousness of our circumstance.
It reminded me of some type of orientation event at college, the dreaded
icebreakers. Not that we were
entirely dysfunctional when we set out, but it is always refreshing to be in a
non-critical crisis to see how everyone responds differently and freed from
social inhibitions. My response
was to find a reason to run back to the house alone, but that would have been
of little use, since Renzo and Adriana were not likely to allow soaked people
into their car, and given my poor inner navigational system it was unlikely
that I would have ever made it back to the correct address. Nonetheless, the idea of leaving the
group to run alone, even in a moment of non-critical crisis, felt heroic and
self-sacrificing, not to mention efficient and task-oriented, and a brief
respite from making further decisions on behalf of the group. I decided to walk with my sisters,
soaked, as mom trailed behind with our valuables under the umbrella, and by the
time we arrived back at the Renzi’s, we were drenched, shivering, and
carefree.
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