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 14^th 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.    

Si, grazie!

6-23
              As every traveler would probably agree, manners are the key to survival, and should be the first list of vocabulary one learns.  Those intending to travel to Italy at any point in the near future would do well to study the title of this post, which means, "Yes, thank you!" and is pronounced, "see, grat-see-ay." If you're interested in moving beyond survival to conversation, I'm afraid the limits of my knowledge have been reached.

Today was a long day, and thankfully I was up for most of it.  All of the days in fact are long, due to our slightly more northern global position, and the sun sets sometime between 9 and 10 in coordination with dessert.  Dinnertime in Italy is around 8, which may seem problematic depending on one’s customs, but this also opens up opportunities for late afternoon gelati or early evening drinks, or both, as was the case today.

            After receiving some frantic texts and receiving some nonchalant ones, Jenna and I had a successful rendez-vous with the other half of our bandwagon, comprised of my mom and older sister, Sarah. Between 9 and 1 we were all aboard a train traveling from Zurich to Milan, and my appreciation of the countryside (point #4) was again at al all-time high.

            Driving through Colorado a few weeks ago with the Westminster Handbell Choir was a sight to see, as the rocky mountains are one of the picturesque highlights of Midwest America: the road runs parallel to a winding river surrounded by steep rock faces clothed in green pines; like the Grand Canyon, rugged yet designed with as much finesse as European cathedrals.  Riding through the alps reminded me that America is, in many ways, historically, culturally, and now geographically, the rebellious younger sibling of Europe (for some good reasons, of course).  It does not suffice to describe the mountains as majestic, which they are, or even huge, which sounds too basic, but otherwise I feel reduced to childish babble.  The closest I can come within the confines of my limited vocabulary is Tectonic Favoritism.  The sky-scraping heights and lush green slopes are breathtaking, and once on is acclimated to the best nature has to offer as I fear I might swiftly be reaching, you can at least appreciate the feats of human engineering that enable public transport through and private homemaking in such an impossible terrain.   Long-legged bridges linking the chest of one hill to another almost gave me cramps in my calves.  And I will never forget the stream that, after being divided by a rock formation, formed two smaller streams that turned back on each other and launched off the cliff in the opposite direction from whence each came, creating a delicate x-shaped waterfall slightly above eye-level.  Or maybe it is more like the Underarmor symbol.

            The woman sitting across from me was reading a German newspaper and working on an Italian crossword puzzle. Having forgotten the German words for “four” and “ten” I asked for her assistance using International Hand and Facial Gestures (counting with my fingers and giving her puzzzled looks when I arrived at the problematic digits), and she kindly filled in the blanks.  Based on this short lesson and my acceptable pronunciation (I took a German diction class) she must have decided that I was a promising student of the language, and continued to teach me the days of the week.  I believe that oral tradition is the most efficacious method for learning a language, the acoustics of our train car were inhibiting the process and I quickly had to decide whether to fetch a pencil and paper or to split my attention between my book and our lesson until she realized I was no longer wholly invested in it.  I chose the latter, knowing I was missing a great opportunity, and I could not help but feel a mix of understanding and pity being conveyed from my teacher.    Later on we were ably to find our way over the language barrier for a brief few minutes to discuss the basic premise of my trip to Milan; each time I referred to the city she corrected me, “Milano,” using the occasional English word for the remainder of our discourse.

            Jenna and mom had much better fortune conversing with fellow travelers; a Swiss engineer, who had taken part in the design of the railway presently transporting us, pointed out that we were passing the same church three times at different elevations as we wove our way up the mountainside. We would not have noticed otherwise, for the turns occurred in unlit tunnels and were designed (we were told) to not be perceptible.  The centrifugal force (I use the term, not necessarily him, so engineers beware) was measured in testing phases with a dangling string.

            Milan, a merchant-city-turned-fashion-designer, contains some exciting historical highlights, which we were guided through by our cousin Sara Renzi.  The nature of our cousin-ness is elusive to me, for we belong to the same family tree but I know not much beyond that.  We started our tour at the Gothic Duomo, the third largest cathedral in Europe, whose exterior walls are populated by over 100 statues and who reaches heavenward with a similar number of fragile-looking spires.  I think it is the most detailed cathedral exterior I have seen thus far, and I would hate to be the one overseeing its preservation.  But preserved it must be, at least until next week when we return to go inside; sleeveless skirts are deemed indecent and unholy to the chagrin of the females in our party.  Word to the wise: when traveling Europe in the summer heat, don’t forget your overcoat.  Sara also informed us that this was the location of St. Augustine’s baptism.  Location may not be everything, but I can’t help but feel  a little jealousy.  

            From the Piazza we turned into a famous archway, the Galleria Vittoria Emunela II.  Stepping onto the mosaic floor, you walk down a stretch of shops and restaurants with ornate walls, religious mosaics above, all enclosed by a glass ceiling.  Our guide had many historical facts to share, most of which I failed to retain, save for the fiasco where public complaints forced out a McDonalds branch; I had difficulty imagining the neon golden arches neighboring the ornate stone pillars; perhaps they could have been modeled in the Gothic style, but ultimately I am glad things ended the way they did, for while I have no desire to walk into the Prada shop that took its place, it seems more fitting than a truck stop.  The Piazza della Scala, guarded by a tall gray Leonardo da Vinci leads to the Teatro alla Scalla, one of the most famous (and perhaps the oldest) opera houses in Europe.  We walked through a castle inhabited by the Sforza dynasty in the 15^th and 16^th centuries (the street vendors selling Coach handbags were a nice touch), and then went to an art museum that was conceived during the church raids conducted by Napoleon’s army as they swept the continent.  Sara informed us that the golden backgrounds of icons were replaced with blue skies as Renaissance humanism set in.  Along with many famous paintings by Bellini, Caravaggio, and Raphael, was The Kiss (Il Bacio), from the 1880’s, which has often served as a symbol of the Romantic period.  Does anyone know why infant Jesus, and the cherubs in general, looks so grumpy?

            What occurred next deserves to be added to The List:

#5: Free food when you order drinks

            And the real miracle was that only 1/5 of our party ordered something with alcohol in it; Sarah ordered a fruity “spritzer” and most of us followed suit (When in Milan…).  Our server brought out peanut and potato chips, of which we were certainly appreciative.  Then came 5 miniature turkey sandwiches complete with whole-grain bread and pyramidical arrangement.   A moral dilemma followed, for the sandwiches looked too good to pass up to their rightful owner, but I took the high road and joined in the array of quizzical looks aimed at our server.  “It is free,” he said.  Fine by me.  Apparently free food is often served to encourage people to stay.  Included in the price of the drink you say?  The prices don’t seem higher than usual, especially for the quality and location.  I wouldn’t mind if U.S. restaurants adopted a similar business strategy. 

Regardless of what country you are in, nothing beats family dinner.  Sara, her husband Francesco, and their two young daughters live in a small but comfortable apartment in the city, and what may be lacking in size is generously compensated for by warm hearts, delicious pasta and salads, and free spirits, especially from the energetic children who filled the evening with playful Italian chatter.  The parents put on lightly overwhelmed expressions when referencing the boisterous younger one. “Mamma mia!” Sara would say with a tone of exasperation.

I was amazed by the number of books in the house.  I learned Francesco had studied philosophy, and he owned every classic in the genre that I am aware of, and infinitely more (rumor has it the basement is full of books as well).  Their prized possession of late is the complete works of Dante Alighieri, contained in 6 beautifully bound, individually cased volumes.  The Divine Comedy only made up a small bit at the end of volume 6, the rest contained encyclopedias and other writings.  They say it takes 10,000 hours to be good at something; I can only wonder how many times over Dante reached that benchmark before producing his pinnacle work.

Sara’s English was very good, and with it she was able to maintain conversation about life in the city, the family tree, the beauty of Paris that awaits… Francesco had never been to the I.S. as Sara had been, but was able to follow the conversation aptly enough, at least better than I was (I’ve often been referred to as a space cadet).  He loved classical and film music in particular for its lush use of the orchestra. We started with Stravinsky’s Firebird suite, made a stop by Villa Lobos (he was familiar with the music on Westminster's program with Dudamel last fall), passed through Duruffle (he owns the Requiem recording with orchestra as well as with organ) and Milhaud, waved to Berlioz and Bernstein, and ended with Bernard Hermann and John Williams.  While I was familiar with Williams’ music growing up, I would have been curious to watch it emerge in the culture as Francesco had. 

Hopping the Pond, and Then Some

6-17

I`m not usually one to do this sort of thing, but having received several requests to document my journey I would feel guilty if I just passively absorbed my life experiences as I typically do.  The church in Sparta kindly gave me a journal before I left, so what follows here are excerpts from that (trust me, you don`t want to read it all) and perhaps some extra thoughts as the transcribing process inspires. 

Before we begin, a few disclaimers: my natural journaling style is pretty dry, which is probably why I haven`t done much journaling in the past few years, save for moments of emotional duress.  To make it more interesting, it appears I have subconsciously absorbed a Nathaniel Hawthorne-esque style, whose writing I appreciate for its wit humor.  The House of Seven Gables had some brilliantly funny passages and if you have a copy on hand I would suggest reading that instead of this.  If you find this blog`s style at all pretentious, I apologize; but then again I don`t, for this creative tack helped me avoid the introspective melancholic meanderings that typically fill (or don`t fill) my journal entries, and thus I had a much better time doing it.

A second disclaimer, which may only apply for the first few days` worth of entries: the keyboard I am currently typing on has some keys in the wrong places (you read correctly: not different places, but the wrong places) so if you see y`s and z`s swapped for each other, or a ö instead of an apostrophe, I beg your forgiveness.

This trip starts with a rainy bus ride to Boston Logan airport, and yes, even Peter Pan has to deal with traffic.  My neighbor was a deeply tanned Bostonian returning from the Vineyard a day later than planned, and as things were turning out his decision to soak some extra rays meant missing the drop of the puck as the Bruins continue the battle for the Stanley Cup (game 3, Blackhawks).  Currently I am in the airport, and the intercom has just informed me that my bus neighbor was not the only one affected by the rain, as my flight has been postponed approximately 1hr, which could prove disastrous given my 9hr layover in Dublin before heading to Zurich (I joke).  This drastically alters how I intended to pass the time en route; I may have to move a movie-viewing to the morning (assuming the movies are available, free, and good) which I slowly enjoy a vacuum-sealed pastry that hardly contains more nutritional value than the plastic it comes packaged in. I might as well give the fold-out table a lick, if not to enjoy some microscopic delicacies, at least to give my immune system something to do.

There is something about airports that awakens a primal unnerving instinct, and I imagine that the cause is not limited to one`s placement in a crowd that will-not-likely-but-possibly-could-be a source of personal harm in the struggle to survive, one can derive a similar feeling in cities, subways, amusement parks, etc.  With a crowd comes crowd control, which here exhibits itself in the form of The System (TSA, large bathrooms, escalators, free wifi), The Man (Starbucks), and anz other number of things that represent the simultaneous squashing of our individuality and the validation of our autonomy.  My choices are many, but the spectrum of choices is the same as everyone else`s, and even there I would need an ipad to keep up with the lot of them.  All this aside, it is probably the idea of being airborne in a tin can between to large spinning blades that makes our inner caveman squirm.  Or maybe it`s just me.

Not that I`m afraid of flying, but the slight apprehension tends to stimulate my creativity, that little spinning electrified orb of Ideas that contains complete pieces of music etched on its surface.  The problem is that it spins too quickly to get more than a theme or brief passage transcribed, but with luck I`ll get a few things jotted down before exiting the airport.

Which leaves me with the decision of staying in the airport with my books and muse, passing the time people-watching and catching snippets of international conversations, or venturing out of the city for the day.  My backpack is a bit full… a good of an excuse as any to remain in my comfort zone.  I`ll reserve my adventurous spirit for when I meet up with my sister Jenna.  I imagine my free time could be spent between learning French (or as far as my phone app will take me), learning French history (or bits and pieces as referenced in the The Hunchback of Notre Dame), and jotting compositional ideas.  Should be a grand òle time.  The composing has felt slow this week, but I imagine this is typical when you are building (or growing) a new sound-world to play around in.  Eventually the important things make themselves more prominent than the rest.  When will I be able to write quickly? Deadlines help, which force me to rely on my intuition, but can also lead to copy-and-pasting from various styles that I have become familiar with in my studies or playing. 

6-18

Being a naturally self-critical person, I have no qualms with extending said  criticism to encompass the country I am from, and while I am “proud” to be an American I feel no reason to be more prideful than a person from some other country, and Europe certainly puts us in our place in many respects.  I think it is time to start a list of things Europe does better than America.

1.       Chocolate, and by extension, basically anything you put in your mouth.

This one assumes you have already paid for the item to be consumed and there is still money left in your bank account.  I haven`t purchased anything other than a large cappuccino thus far, although I have nothing bad to say about the raviolis on the plane, certainly more tastefully prepared than the latest Die Hard movie and Oz the Great and Powerful, the latter of which I couldn`t force myself to finish.  My opinion on European chocolate was formed during my study-abroad trip two summers ago in Salzburg with Gordon College.  Everything was meticulously prepared and presented, and quality always won over quantity. Hershey has no place here, and neither does anything with high fructose corn syrup.  The novelty of the chocolate`s quality has worn off, I won`t be crossing my fingers trying to carry 10lbs of chocolate bars through customs, but I would love to have this as the norm.  I will probably be visiting this first point often during my trip.

2.       Restrooms. At least, Dublin airport had double ply.

There are still some things better about America: frappes, free water, free public restrooms to name a few.

I am currently residing in Switzerland with friends of the family (the Hunklers, wonderful people), as well as with Jenna who has been studying in Orvietto and arrived here yesterday.

6-19

Our hosts have a piano, a lovely Baldwin, which enables me to further tinker with a song that I feared would remain untouched until France when I start the music program.  Overcoming jet-lag was more involved than I expected: around 2am (or it might have been 3) I was awake and restless, and I felt I would be tossing and turning until morning.  Perhaps I had rested more than I thought on the plane? (well, I hardly did much thinking at all...) It seemed I was not needing as much sleep as I had expected to.  This was proved erroneous, for the next time I looked at the clock it was 11:45am.  It was the strangest phenomenon, and without fully comprehending what had just occurred I was able to conclude with mathematical certainty that I was well-rested.  There was no evidence for an interdimensional wormhole or time-travel, so if any of that happened, I must have slept through it. Pity.

Over lunch I was entreated by my sister to add "cheese" to my list of things Europe accomplishes better than America.  "They use real milk" as our host Stefan pointed out.  The variety laid before us (two varieties to be exact) paired deliciously with the home-made bread. Conversations centered on the topic of sleep, graciously provided by Stefan who was volunteering at a sleep research center for his required civil service.  I learned giraffes sleep but 15 minutes a day, which could mean that they are low on the food chain; I was unaware that they were a staple of any animal`s diet.  This of course nullifies the joke I made about giraffes being "high" on the food chain, but it could be amended to "their heigh compensates for their position on the food chain" or something like that.

After an afternoon of tinkering and chocolates (!) we ventured to Stefan`s eagle sscouts graduation ceremony held at the ruins of a small castle.  Everything was in English to my surprise; apparently the program is connected to an international high school.  The sausage was wonderful, as was the view of the town from the castle`s observation tower (no barbaric horde in sight).  We returned to the house to enjoy a British variety of Jello, which is termed "jelly" and tastes much more like the fruit it claims to represent than Jello will ever hope to.  The evening was concluded with a viewing of Lincoln, which I thoroughly enjoyed, especially after the horrendous movie selection on the plane.  How easy it is to forget to aspire for greatness.

Last night also exhibited the repercussions from jet-lag, and this time I was really waiting for morning to come and had enough willpower to remain in bed until 7am.  A hearty breakfast and some tinkering time, and then we were off for a day of adventures in Germany.  Our host Leeanne works at the Black Forest Christian Academy and had 2 hours of library duty today.  Jenna`s reading selections included Rick Steve`s European guide and some Shakespeare. I was feeling ambitious and opened up Team of Rivals, one oft he Lincoln biographies that our movie from the previous night was based on.  Apparently one of the first things Lincoln said to his wife-to-be when they met at a party was, "I want to dance with you in the worst sense."  Now I know where they get all the lines for James Bond.

Lunch was a very large doner kebap (lamb meat with veggies and a yogurt sauce) that easily counted for two meals, and from there we ran several errands.  Going to a supermarket in a foreign country is probably the most efficient way to build vocabulary, perhaps even moreso than being lost and late for an appointment.  No, the universality of food and the predictable layout of clearly labeled items expedites one`s cultural immersion.  We ran other errands that brought to my attention another European trait; I know not if it is a true advantage but it seems to be so thus far:

3. Faith in the general public to behave ethically.

Whether it was the paying at the register after your meal at the kebab place (you could easily sneak out), or the shoes left unattended outside while the saleswoman went to lunch, or the fruit stand that was also left unattended except by a basket to receive payment, there seems to be a trust that people will do the right thing.  This may not be the case everwhere in Europe, but wouldn`t be tolerated in the States.

Continuing our supermarket escapade I encountered my word-of-the-day: Froop.

Now this may not really count as a word-of-the-day, since it may not be a real word and the context suggests a likelihood that it was the name-brand of a food product.  It was, alas, a typical cup of yogurt, but I was nonetheless amused, and begged to be spoken with an embittered tone that commmunicates utter disappointment with one`s breakfast choice. "My poor fellow, what are you eating this morning? Gruel? Pig slop?" "Froop."  I am no linguist, but if I was pressed to guess on the English etzmologz for "froop" I would have to say that it is a hybridiyation of "fruit" and "goop," which now sounds much more appetizing.

They say genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.  If that is the case, then the decision to get a haircut must be in the same category.  The week has been hot and humid, and I was eager to shear off the better part of what could quickly grow into what others have termed my "poof."  At the salon, Leanne did a fine job translating for me (well, I have to assume so, don`t I), but my vague expectations for what I had in mind for a final product, exacerbated by the language barrier, seemed to make her apprehensive to follow her hair-designing instincts (I assume she had developed them) out of fear of not being tipped.  "I will tip you the same," I wanted to say, "for I will be satisfied, or rather, I will not be displeased, unless zou clearly botch it up." (I wouldn`t have said that). There is no way she could have done a worse number than some of my family`s attempts on our back porch, experiences that contributed to my blissful indifference towards my physical presentation. Being at Westminster has heightened my sensitivity, but I still consider myself to be a lost cause.  After a quick "zehr gut" and "dankeschone" I hurried off to the department store to purchase a comb.

Dinner was a delicious cheese fondue and an array of sides. I brought up giraffes again, and learned that it is possible that giraffes sleep only 15 minutes per day not due to predator evasion, but rather the incessant need to maintain a high caloric intake, a nearly impossible feat when one`s diet consists of leafy greens.  This seems a more plausible hypothesis than predatorial evasion, for the question remains: what animal eats giraffe? The brontasaurus feared the t-res, but natural processes have eliminated the Large Walking Jaw from the animal kingdom, or at least relegated them to the great white shark.  Until birds and lions learn to wrap tow cables around their legs (that`s a star-wars reference) I`d say giraffes are in the clear.  But a quick google search should probably clear this up. Baby giraffes predicably are suseptible to hyenas and crocodiles, while adults need only fear a pack of lions, as well as this guy:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/food/article-1121222/Giraffe-Its-height-fine-dining-says-TV-chef-Hugh.html

6-21

Kandern and Loerrach were the names of the towns that yesterday`s events took place in.

Today was an uneventful day of tinkering.  I am going to refer to composing as "tinkering" from now on. "Composing" sounds too grand and exciting, filled with flashes of inspiration in quick succession and the rapid churning out of new ideas.  This is hardly the case for me.  "Tinkering" brings to mind a pile of smashed lightbulbs that didn`t work prior to Edison`s breakthrough.  It brings to mind a bear carved from wood, whose nose you have practiced on other pieces of wood before slowly and carefully preparing each shave on the final product, only to create a decent nose that really belongs on a different bear.  I spent the afternoon slowly searching for and piecing together a few measures, and now wonder if they really belong in the piece, given thier departure stylistically.  I could justify the departure as called for by the text, but I play that card a little too often for my composition teacher.  Oh, to achieve one-ness.

Things to add to my European superiority list:

4. Countrysides.

We drove through Alsace on our way to Ferrette, France where a fold music festival was being held.  The time of day was certainly of assistance.  Gently rolling hills of land both wild and cultivated, spotted with small clusters of trees and surrounded by dense forests, mountains beyond, all warmed by evening sunlight.  You twist along a narrow road as unpredictable as the French landscape. Finally we drove through a small pass and down a steep slope shouldered by rock walls to a town cradled in a vally; the hills like looming giants facing outwards to deter intruders. One feels at home instantly; I was itching to get on my roadbike and soar.

The festival was not French-specific, there was a variety of English traditional dancing, blues/jazz, French "gypsy" music as Stefan called it, and American covers.  The town had steeply sloped streets, probably the main distinguishing factor other than the countryside in the distance to remind me that I wasn`t in Epcot.  The architecture was traditional in design, but seemed recent in construction, at least superficially. The town, or at least the street we were on, seemed to be constructed solely for the festival, with numerous venues for various bands to perform simultaneously.  I wanted to add "coke in glass bottles" to my list, but Jenna assured me that this was not as unique as I might like it to be. The French also lost points in Jenna`s book in the category of hygiene, especially the men.  I didn`t notice... draw whatever conclusions you will.

This morning I slept in until 9:30. I used to consider myself a morning person, but the practice is slowly becoming a theory.

When I meet new people who ask what I`m going to do with my degree, my best response as of late is "I`m not sure, but I am very glad to be getting the education."  I can then continue to joke about how many loans I am taking out to get better at my hobby before listing the various low-paying-but-fulfilling opportunities a music career can contain, some of which I have experienced and most of which I hope to continue at a level that supports a meager existence, and maybe a Porsche.