Surviving the Italian Train System

Train travel is a love hate relationship. I have been able to travel around Europe, jumping on a train in one country and in just a few hours getting off in another. But with train travel comes train trouble. Here is a guide to survive the notorious Italian train system.

First, just to give some background, there are three types of trains in Italy. There is the Eurostar, the nicest but also the most expensive. Every seat is plush and comfortable, some even with a little leg room. They make fewer stops, have a dinner car (well most of the time), and travel to the larger tourist and commercial destinations. Next there are regional trains. As the name suggests they travel regionally, stopping at every po-dunk little city and run down train station between Roma and Timbuktu. However they are fairly inexpensive – maybe a euro or two, but you definitely get what you pay for. In general they smell like a backed-up toilet, the seats are spotted with dirt and you can see the make-up and dead skin stuck to the head rest. To add a dash of excitement don’t be surprised if you are bumped and jostled or shoved and sat on or who knows the train may just screech to a halt or crawl painfully slow to your final destination. Finally there are InnerCity trains (IC), the love child of a Eurostar and a regional train. It has fewer stops than a regional, is not as expensive as a Eurostar, and as long as the train’s toilet hasn’t exploded then it might not smell too bad.

As for seating arrangements there is a wide variety. You can sit in a single seat. These sound great because you are near the door and don’t have to sit next to a stranger, but don’t get too excited. Next to the door, where there will ultimately be a cold breeze, is also the toilet and remember what I said about the smell and in general someone will also be lazy and not want to drag their bags to the middle of the train cabin instead opting to stack them in the large empty space next to the single seat near the door.

Then there is the four seat arrangement where two sets of seats face each other with a small table in the middle. This is ideal if you are traveling with a group. You are able to sit and chat with each other, maybe even play some cards. But that table, which is great for books and food, is also a royal pain in moving around and facing each other – just imagine where your feet have to go – right into the other person’s leg room, so I hope all your friends are very short. As for the regular two seaters, they really aren’t that bad when it comes down to it, unless you are claustrophobic and then maybe you should just not be on a train. Lastly with seats, in my opinion, always…always get the window seat if you have the option. With the window your head can bypass the weird discolored head rest that makes it impossible to sleep and instead lean against the window. Just don’t think about that oily streak across the window from the previous train sleeper or the drool stain on the arm rest – it is totally sanitary. And of course this situation is ideal because it discourages the frequent stops to that horrible bathroom because you don’t want to have to disturbed the spiky haired, pierced Emo kid dressed entirely in purple who is perilously sleeping upright in the seat next to you.

Oh the bathrooms…what a great place on a train. As a rule of thumb with train travel, if you haven’t guessed already, pay the 30 euro cents at the train station before you get on. It might only be a hole in the ground at the train station, but at least you don’t have to touch the toilet there and the toilet sits still. But if you don’t listen to my strongly, strongly encouraged advice, here is a little bit about what to expect.

Dirty…smelly…umm did I say smelly. I do believe I have seen it all in train bathrooms because sadly I am just that cheap. There will be toilet paper on the floor and most likely graffiti on the wall. Also for the ladies, if a man just came out of the bathroom you might turn and find another restroom, especially if you just traveled around a corner. One thing to the good side though for the train bathrooms there is usually water for your hands, but don’t count on soap or a towel so make sure you have your handy hand sanitizer. As for toilet paper that is usually a big, fat, NO because it is all over the floor and you just don’t want to use that. Yet if it comes down to it and you just have to go, don’t squat or you will find out how the floor got so dirty and Oh - make sure the train is moving. Trains are probably the most UN-environmentally friendly sources of transportation because when the toilets flush if you watch it go down, you will see the speedy ground below open up – and well of course, remember that next time you decide it would be exciting to walk on the train tracks!

Camera shy

“Oh my gosh…there we are. We are on TV!” I heard someone shriek from behind me. The room burst into noise and rustling. You would think our mushroom lasagna had burst into flames and was torching the kitchen at how quickly everyone ran out of the kitchenette to gather around a television smaller than the box of wine we had tapped for dinner at this announcement.


With the furry I turned around from the layers of fresh pasta and finely grated parmigano that I was lining a pan with and I could instantly feel my face rush red in a warm blush at the sight of myself taking notes on television.

My hair was disheveled – in a tangled mess partially covering my face. In my hands was my jacket that I had to take off because of the hot production lights over head which caused my note taking to look awkward and nerdy.

I didn’t know they were filming us then, I thought to myself. While it is notable that Rété Veneto doesn’t put on a “show” for the news, I really could have used some hair and makeup.

On Tuesday morning my travel writing, cultural communications, and ethic courses visited Rété Veneto, a television station in Bassano del Grappa. An office, hidden on the outskirts of town, in a building that doesn’t even seem large enough for a family of four, is a surprisingly small production facility for the station that transmits to a region the size of Chicago.

Inside was even more cramped, especially when you are trying to maneuver around 14 extra people through small offices, production rooms, and a multi-use studio. Taking up more than half of the entire hallway standing shoulder to shoulder our group quickly settled around Angelica, one of the newsroom editors, for our tour accepting that we were going to be uncomfortably close for the next hour and half.

Even though early in the morning and close enough to my class mates to know if each showered the night before, the company tour was eye opening to the differences between Italian news and American news.

“One thing is the journalist, one thing is the news” Angelica said describing American and Italian news. American news is more about the show – it’s over the top and glamorous, while the Italian news is all about just the news, she continued.

Throughout the remainder of the day we came to learn this fact well. Standing around the studio, we were told we were going to be on the 10:45 news brief with the pattern station. Immediately my hands started sweating and I’m sure my eyes were probably wide with anxiety.

The lights from the overhead were bright and hot like the most miserable summer day, which did not help calm my nerves. When we were grouped together behind Angelica I made sure to stand off to the side and not directly behind her to try to avoid the camera.

Once the camera was off and I stopped holding my breath, I was glad that I did a great job of staying off the camera almost the entire time. But obviously you just can’t hide on stage.

RIP my beloved Keds

RIP my beloved six dollar blue and green plaid Keds.

My pile of dead shoes continues to grow as I travel more and more around Europe. I have now lost two of my most favorite pairs of shoes.

Barcelona saw the end to my black flip flops that I have had since I was 12. They were perfectly molded to my feet and even though they were wearing millimeter thin in spots they were the most comfortable pair of shoes I have ever worn. The bottoms of the flip flops were so worn that they have almost killed me several times. They have zero traction. Whenever it rained I had to walk perfectly flat or I would fall right on my face.

When I was a senior in High School, my band traveled to Victoria, Canada for a parade. One afternoon there was a freak rain storm and as we walk to the olden day photo shop I slipped and sprained my wrist; yet I still love them.

They also almost killed me another time. The spring of my freshman year of college my friends and I decided to go rafting down a river near Sweet Home, Oregon. I wore my beloved black flip flops because I have really soft feet and hate walking on the rocks. It also happened to rain that day, but we decided to float the river anyway. It was below 50 degrees outside and I’m sure the river was well below that temperature because the rain almost felt warm when you were out of the water. About half way down the river, exhausted from high water and I’m sure almost hypothermic we decided to cross the river and hike up the bank to the road and call our friends to pick us up. Stupidly I decided to wade across the river with my flip flops on. The water was up to my chest and strong. All of a sudden one of my flip flops slid off of my foot and began floating downstream. Knowing I loved those shoes and could not lose them, I reached for shoes and left my raft. Yet the current was too strong and started to carry me down stream. I reached one flip flop as the other came off and I hit the rapids. Crying out to my friends I desperately tried to grab at the rocks beneath me but they were to slick. Finally I turned on my stomach and landed on some rocks that brought me to a halt before I hit the second rapids. Crying, bruised, and scratched in only my bathing suit I laid of the rocks and called for my friends to come get me – but also to make sure to grab my flip flips. I was not going to leave without them.

Barcelona brought an official final end to my flip flops. As we went out to find some dinner one of my travel buddies accidentally stepped on the heel of my shoe, ripping the strap from the sandal and tearing the weak rubber. I thought I might cry – but the first thing that ran through my head was my sister laughing – see absolutely hated those flip flops, thinking they were the ugliest things she’d ever seen. To make the situation worse, we were too far from the hostel to return for me to put on a new pair of shoes so I had to improvise and tie off the strap and basically walk on one foot around the dirty floors of the Barcelona metro and grainy sidewalks along the beach.

However, my six dollar Keds made it through that trip to Barcelona and up and down all the stairs. They even survived my trip to Florence – horse back riding and being chased through the streets. They saw more laps around Paderno then I would like to admit and even made it to Prague, Czech Republic. But that is where the fun ended.
The historically old streets of Prague are rough and uneven with small cobble stones that make walking difficult. I can’t even imagine trying to maneuver those streets in Stilettos, but my Keds were going great. The smooth sole and light weight fabric traveled great over the rocky pathways; yet by the second afternoon a large hole in the heel started to appear and by the end of the day my shoes were “talking” the flap opened so far.

With a deep sadness I packed up my Keds back in my bag and went to the mall in Prague and bought myself a new pair of tennis shoes. Again only the equivalent of six dollars, my new black and gray high tops roamed the streets of Munich, Germany, up the frozen paths to the Disneyland castle in Fussen and wondered the barren streets of Bratislava. Each day I was reminded of my loss, seeing my Keds sitting out-of-service in my bag – yet I could not throw them out.

Now sitting in my room in Paderno are my sad, broken, shoes that have been through so much with me. I feel as if throwing them in the trash and leaving them in Italy just doesn’t seem appropriate.

Would haling them back to the States and burning them in a good bye ceremony be too much?

Behind the Quiet Walls of Bratislava

Two hundred and twenty Slovenian crowns left to spend and two hours left to kill. I wondered into a small café and souvenir store off of the main square in Old Town Bratislava. Originally intrigued by the posters of croissants and coffee I decided to sit down at a small corner table with red and white checkered table cloth and table lamp for a second lunch in a measly attempt to spend the remainder of my Slovenian money.

At the counter I eyed a delectable looking chocolate mousse and banana cake. Ordering with only charades and pointing I managed to get a slice and a round warm cup of cappuccino for less than 100 crowns or three euro and then settled into my corner table with my book. Over head was the light and upbeat music of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. The music carried my thoughts and spirits lighter after a long 7 days traveling around the former Austrian-Hungarian Empire. A quiet moment to myself to think and just really enjoy my surroundings, then I suddenly realized…

Wait! I’m in Bratislava! I actually made it to Bratislava…

Just under four years ago I sailed by that same Bratislava. Recognizable by the large castle fortressed with four corner watch towns that loomed over the entire city at the highest point of the Danube river valley, Bratislava was one of my young and naive dream cities that I wanted to visit. Built off of impressions I gathered from watching the movie Euro Trip with my high school friends, Bratislava in my mind was a poor eastern European city where two pennies could buy you the world. However, on that trip my dreams of seeing the city would sail by on the hydropower boat that carried my high school travel group and me smoothly past on our way to Vienna.

It is still remarkable to me, that my second travel week here at CIMBA panned out that my travel group of four girls wanted to stop by Vienna before returning home to Paderno del Grappa. Since I had already visited the gold clad palaces and gothic style cathedrals of Vienna, Austria, I pulled from my high school dreams the chance to visit Bratislava.

At 7:00 am Saturday November 16, I yanked myself drowsily out of my bunk bed at the Wombats Hostel in Vienna and grabbed my purse and black and white pea coat and made my way to the West Bahn train station to cross the border of Vienna to Slovakia and the undefined border of Western to Eastern Europe.

Only an hour away from Vienna, Bratislava is the capital of Slovakia, a country that has seen war for centuries. The country only gained its independence in 1993 when Czechoslovakia divided into the Czech Republic with Prague as its capital and Slovakia represented by Bratislava.

A city on the rise, Bratislava is starting to flourish as a European hub along the Danube River however its dark history can be seen in every crackling stone building, bullet hole filled walls, and constant military presence.

I arrived at the small, empty train station outside of Bratislava around nine in the morning and quickly realized that I should have printed off a map or found directions before I left because no one spoke English. Finally I found someone in the train station who sold me a map and pointed me in the right direction of the bus.

Take bus 80 – five stops.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I counted to myself as the bus scooted through the west bank of Bratislava and over the main bridge to Old Town, not knowing where I would end up if I lost count.

Five. I jumped off the bus and before me laid the entrance to Old Town and above my left shoulder watched the castle.

Old Town, more than just the walled in portion of Bratislava, was a whole another world. Within the walls, the mix of eastern and western cultures converged in the city streets; however, with each winding street the Old Town remained ghostly dead. Beyond a few small tourist groups and the random store owner, the streets were empty. You could walk for a few blocks and not see a sole, as if you were the only one left.

The city on the outside, people ran around wildly, sirens constantly rang with police cars chasing one another – the people inside with dark masks covering their faces, and trams honking at pedestrians crossing the crowded streets. Yet within the walls of Old Town remained a quiet peace – a peace though that swallowed with it a feeling of deep sadness, in hopes of a revival for the town.

My own mind raced with the history of Bratislava as I read my walking tour guide map and strolled through the Old Town’s many squares and stared in awe at the castle’s grand walls.

But then I spotted that café with its red and white checkered table clothes, warm cappuccino, and moist, crumbly cake. With each bite and sip I was able to quiet my own mind like the walls of Old Town for Bratislava. I was able to swallow the frustrations of traveling to revive my spirit and excitement and – well of course – spend a little cash in a city where you can still almost buy the world for two pennies or at least something more valuable - a new state of mind.

Presidential Election

In the dead of night or first minutes of the morning darkness – you know, that time in the middle of night where it is the darkest and coldest immediately before the sun starts to peak above the horizon, I strangely felt the closest to home through the blare and bright repetitive flash of the TV screen. Thousands of miles away from the United States and I still almost believe I could hear the hopeful and excited cheers echoing off the Atlantic waves.

Barack Obama is the 44th elected president of the United States, the cheers announce in unison roar.

While people back in the United States were just finishing up dinner and settling down in front of their televisions or traveling to Grant Park or Times Square to watch the election live on November 4, 2008, it was already the 5th here in Italy and way past my bed time. I wondered over to the Simpson room on the CIMBA undergraduate campus from the computer lab a little after midnight. The sun had long gone down and the cold mountain wind that rushes down the steep slopes of Mount Grappa was swirling the leaves around the cobble stone path ways. The Simpson room, the common meeting place with chairs and a T.V. and satellite from the US Army base in Vicenza, was already scattered with the few other students dedicated enough to the presidential campaign to sacrifice sleep. The three almost-comfortable chairs were already taken by this time with students dressed in flannel pajamas and sweatshirts. Also it was obvious from the open plastic wrappers from candy bars, empty tan coffee cups from the vending machine, and paprika potato chips, they had already been there awhile and were prepared for the long night ahead.

Coverage of the election started about 1 am. Still wide awake from excitement, the first states closed the polls and one by one blinked red or blinked blue up on the screen.

Red…

Blue…

John McCain was ahead 5 electoral votes after the first two states announced.

For the next two hours, the five of us who survived past one thirty at night, sat transfixed by the screen as the colors illuminated the voters decision and illuminate peoples hopes and dreams for the United States.

By a little past 3 am and after 2 cups of cappuccino, a coconut chocolate bar, an apple with peanut butter, and a bottle of water, I started to wind down – finally giving in and pushing four chairs together and wrapping up in a blanket to try to get comfortable; yet determined to make it to the official president-elect announcement.

A Barack Obama swayed room, each time a blue state would appear on the screen a tired, strung out cheer would erupt, keeping us on our toes and letting everyone know we were still conscious.
3:30 am marked the hour when only the strong would survive with our group dwindling down to just myself and fellow Oregon student Jill. It also marked when Ohio turned blue – a battle state, notorious for voting with the winner. Twenty electoral votes went over to Obama’s side by a close margin of only 3%.

With still almost half the country to finish voting, Jill and I enjoyed the low-budget, ridiculous commercials on the Army satellite station and the educational presidential facts reported by Brian Williams.

Even though we already knew that Obama was going to win the election, Jill and I were on edge. Finally a little past 5:00 am, the screen all of a sudden split out. Washington, Oregon, and California had not closed their polls yet, but flat on the screen in gold and the patriotic red, white, and blue read that Obama was the elected 44th president of the United States of America.

Shocked, we sat sitting at the screen asking, What? Huh? What's going on? And then the news station panned to the crowds of people celebrating in Grant Park, Chicago.

At that moment, even half way across the world, I could sense a change in the attitudes of people. Looking at the numerous flags over Barack Obama’s head as he gave his winning speech, I felt proud to be an American again for the first time in eight years.

Swallowing Eggs and Ethics - a chat with Dominic Standish

As the sweet smells of cinnamon French toast, crunchy thick bacon, pan roasted potatoes and fluffy scrambled eggs settled in the cozy living room and our breakfasts in our stomachs, my traveling writing class of seven scattered around the room, laughed as Professor Standish narrated his beginnings in journalism, exclaiming in praise “Hallelujah” for the International Herald Tribune finally offering him an assignment.

Wednesday morning instead of having regular class, everyone in my travel writing class got up a little bit earlier, threw on our slickers and trekked through the rain down the empty streets of Paderno to our professor’s house. To break up the normalcy of class, we had a homemade “American” breakfast and a conversation with a British professor from CIMBA.

Dominic Standish, an expatriate, has been living in Italy for 11 years. After only four days in Italy he was married in Venice and has since started a family. When asked what his role is as an expatriate, he jokingly replied that it is less about patriotism and more defined by public responsibility.

It’s the responsibility of journalists to spur debate and to stop the erosion of public intelligence, he commented - a reoccurring theme in the overall conversation and a point that I think is worth reflection.

As a journalist it is important to realize that your work influences the public. Society depends upon journalists to be a watch dog – to provide checks and balances. While I don’t think any media can be completely impartial, journalism strives to offer the public accurate, clear, and unbiased material so they can develop their own opinions.

Standish offered the idea that as a journalist he works toward initiating a conversation with society. People 30-40 years ago, according to him, valued debate. Academics played a wider role in society and journalism worked to connect the two for the good of the public. However today there has been an erosion of public intellect. The media no longer holds the deep moral journalistic standards that propelled the industry only a few decades ago.

As we have been exploring in Standish’s Mass Media and Ethics course, ethics policies, which have increased ten fold in the past 30 years (ever sense Watergate), are becoming more and more restrictive – regulating more than just journalists' action but also how they are expecting to think ethically about situations. People in my opinion are no longer building their own morals but depending on the ethical codes of their companies to mold their beliefs, leading to the ethical decay that we have been witnessing in recent history with company scandals and downturns.

Journalists should be working on defining society’s morals by preparing news for public debate. The media should spur conversation and dredge up people’s personal opinions.

Finally, I also agree with Standish when he suggests that more academics should enter journalism because as he divulged the hardest piece to write is a story you know the least about…

Trotting Under the Tuscan Sun

The lavish and warm glow of the sun reflected off of the burnt red, olive green, and golden yellow leaves of the rolling hills. The grape vines, sprawling and climbing in even rows, are slowly withering in the cooling weather and the fields are being turned to rejuvenate the soil. A meandering path, twists in front of me. Made of gravel, the road is spotted with holes from heavy hove traffic. The land is open before me, stretching in a panorama that makes you feel a part of one of Bob Ross’ acrylic paintings – small and insignificant on the horizon yet with the all world before you with endless dirt paths in front of you to explore. It is autumn in Italy and I am trotting Under the Tuscan Sun.

On Saturday, October 25, 2008, though I wasn’t fixing up an old house in the Tuscan country side, I was horse back riding under that same Tuscan sun and in the same Tuscan hills, thinking about how perfectly Frances Mayes described an olive tree’s ability to just be, no matter who was there to tend for it. A trait, I related, that I would hope to see in myself one day.

“The olive tree does impart a sense of peace. It must be, simply, the way they participate in time. These trees are here and will be. They were here. Whether we are or someone else is or no one, each morning they’ll be twirling their leaves and inching up toward the sun.” ~ Frances Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun page 69.



Having never ridden a horse, I woke up this morning nervous yet filled with excitement. My palms were cold and clammy as I pulled on my five day old jeans and plaid Ked tennis shoes that have slowly worn a hole in heel. I assumed there was a possibility of getting dirty riding horses, gathered from the many western movies that I watched with my dad growing up, so I didn’t want to wear my good clothing. I also dawned my hat to cover my tangled hair from the long night in my eight person hostel room and grabbed my pack and rain coat for the day’s adventure as I headed out the door.

After a continental breakfast, I met up with my friend Stephanie who was staying at the same hostel and we were off for our Horseback Riding Wine Tour of Tuscany (according to the brochure), yet neither of us knew really what to expect.

Outside of the McDonalds across the street from the train station, we met our tour guide for the day – a 24 year old Italian student living in Florence named Daniele Rettino. He was dressed in a nice black, ribbed sweater, baggy blue jeans that were faded in the center, a slate grey baseball hat, and dark aviator sun glasses that made it impossible to see his eyes.

Anxiously we shook his hand and he offered us a seat in the gray van marked L’equipe Agrifoglio, the name of the horse club we booked the excursion through. Making small talk as we waited for our fellow horseback riders to show up, he asked us if we had ever been horseback riding before. Stephanie and I looked at each other and laughed, replying that neither of us had ever been before, even though Stephanie is from Texas and you would assume she would be a professional cowboy by now.

Jokingly he told us not to worry – they had ponies we could ride!

The forty minute van ride to the ranch flew by quickly like the Tuscan landscape outside of the van window.

By the time we arrive, luckily, the sun had come out, enveloping the country side in light and making the lonely, last flowers of fall and the magnificent red, orange, yellow, and green hues of the hills brilliantly pop out of the landscape in every direction.

The ranch at first glace was not what I expected. It was more rustic with small individual wooden structures for the ponies and donkeys. It was more charming with grape vines growing up the sides of the deck of the barn and over the pergola, and it was more homey with the employees laughing and joking in Italian with each other while gathering the horses and playing with the small dogs and cats that roamed freely across the ranch grounds.

Before I knew it I was up on a horse. A beautiful horse of chestnut brown with a long coffee brown tail and mane and white feet named Giada. Of course in my ignorance through the whole trail ride I assumed that my horse was a female, referring to Giada as a she, yet I was bluntly corrected by the owner of L’equipe Aglifoglio who let me know Giada was actually a he, point to his male anatomy – making me blush.

After the quickest riding lesson I could have ever imaged in broken English:

To turn left, pull to the left. To turn right, pull to the right. To stop, pull the reigns back. Keep your heels down ALWAYS and give it a kick to start.

We were on our way.

To start we follow along a hand built wooden face that separated the pasture and the stables before turning off the path toward the open vineyards and olive groves of the neighbors’ farms.

As the tour continued, we wondered through hills and fields, precisely laid lines of grapes and olives, and small villas and farm houses nestled in between where the hills converged.

Riding along I quickly became accustom to the movements and tendencies of my horse – his long strides, focused path, and need to be forth in the line of six horses, refusing to pass the large black horse that paced third, named Gustave. Why he could not pass Gustave I do not know, but I didn’t mind as long as Giada seemed happy, calm and corporative.

On what I assumed to be a peaceful and quiet horseback ride (which it was some of the time) the tour was also marked with yells from the riding guide, a Italian women in her middle thirties and an accomplished rider of 15 years, to Maria, a fellow beginner, who was riding in the rear of the line.

She would yell, MMMAAAAAAARRRRRRRIIIIIIAAAAAAAA, Maria! Velocemente…velocemente…scossa…scossa…scossa…Maria!

Roughly translating to faster, faster, kick, kick, kick she would yell to Maria who was lagging behind the group by a couple hundred yards.

Though I found this ferocious bickering back and forth I was not able to escape the wrath of our riding guide. While we were riding all of sudden the path sprawled open into a golden field where the grasses seemed to carry on forever. The wind was blowing through the tall grass and the sun was shining through a patch of scatted clouds, making the scene literally picture perfect. Pulling out my camera to capture the image digitally, I hit a bump in the rough dirt road causing my camera to slide out of my hands a crash hard into the ground. Looking around not knowing what to do to get my camera, I road past it and turned around on my horse just in time to see my camera almost get smashed to smithereens by the horse behind me.

The Italian rider behind me seeing my confusion and poor scratched camera on the ground called up to the front and gathered the attention of our riding guide. Dismounting and marching over to my camera looking obviously angry for having to yet stop again, she handed back my camera saying nothing; yet the stern, don’t do that again, look glared through her eyes, and we returned to the trail in front of us.


The remainder of the ride was smooth sailing if you can use a boating analogy for trying to convince a horse to go down a rocky hill and ride past barking dogs. I continued to take photos and a consistent bellowing of Maria could be heard echoing through the Tuscan hills surrounding us, so maybe I should describe it more as, as smooth as the pot holed, rocky dirt path that we trotted along – stressed from hard work, exhilaratingly bumpy, straddled by the most vibrant land and heated by the Tuscan sun!

Two hours after our departure on the horses we returned to the ranch. I was sad for the riding to be over yet happy to get some blood flow back into my feet which were tingling like pins and needles. After dismounting and almost collapsing to the ground from having to use my legs to stand again, I said goodbye to the beloved Giada and the group said goodbye to the first half of our adventure and hello to an authentic Tuscan meal and Chianti wine tasting to end our rumbling stomachs.

Tuscan Food and Wine

Antipasta:

Salami and prosciutto with sheep cheese and bread

Primo:

Tri-pasta platter including cheese ravioli in a white truffle sauce, hand rolled spaghetti noodles with meat sauce and flat egg noble pasta with fungi garnished with a slice of lemon.

Dessert:

Biscotti di Prato, a dry almond biscuit that you dip in the dessert wine
Chocolate fruit cake sprinkled with powdered sugar


Wine Tasting:
2008 regional white
2007 100% Chianti red wine
2005 Aristocratic Chianti red wine
1996 Santo dessert wine



(Posted from my travelog assignment in Cultural Communications)

No Longer Tall, Dark, and Handsome

American cinema has forever skewed our impressions of Italian men. They are all made out to be these romantic, tall, dark, and handsome types. Men who will whisper sweet nothings into your ear, whisk you off your feet in spontaneous romance, and then win you over with their expensive yachts or country side vineyards. While this may be a large generalization of cinema’s impression of Italian men and maybe an accurate depiction for a 1% population of Italian men – it is most of the time very, very wrong!

Before leaving the states all my friends and I joked about finding an Italian husband to bring home and maybe two or three more “Italian hotties” to pack home in my suit case for them. While this was amusing at the time, I quickly realized after arriving that our depiction of Italian men was very different from reality.

This weekend while I was exploring Florence I was starkly reminded of these cultural differences.

On Friday October 24th I departed Bassano del Grappa early in the morning for a day by myself exploring Florence. I planned to meet up with some friends later on in the weekend for a horseback riding excursion and shopping, but I had all day Friday to myself to just wonder the city on my own. I was excited to travel by myself. I saw it as an opportunity for personal growth and enrichment – looking back now I don’t really know what I was thinking by those general statements, but that was what I told myself I was looking to get out of traveling by myself.

While I did find out that I can travel by myself and that it is actually twenty times easier getting around a city without the limits of other people telling you where to go, what to see, and that they need to stop to eat or ask, dove la bagno? I also found out that you are much more vulnerable.

Around 4:00 p.m. on that Friday afternoon, I made my way up the winding steps that were dug into the hill side to La Plaza di Michelangelo. The highest point in Florence, the Plaza looked over the sprawling city of burnt red tile roofs, Catholic Church steeples, and the majestic green and white tile dome of Duomo where I had stood looking up in awe only hours earlier.


With some time to kill before dinner and most of the city already seen by foot, I decided to sit at the top of the steps with my book, Deception Point by Dan Brown, and watch the sun slowly set – draining golden hues through the gray clouds over the historic city.

A few other people also shared in my laziness at the top of the plaza, sitting with friends on the steps sharing a snack of Chianti wine or chips from the local vender.

As I read my book I noticed the ground beneath me was covered with reflective red, pale yellow, and glittery blue confetti. I imagined it was from a celebration earlier in the day – maybe a romantic, intimate wedding overlooking the city and all its colors.

After about half an hour, a young Italian man sat down near me. Wearing white shorts with embroidered floors, a gray t-shirt, and black back pack, he was looking down at a map of Florence trying to figure out where he was. Turning toward me he spurted out something in Italian, which I in return used my little knowledge of Italian to say non capisca that I didn’t understand.

He then asked if he was at La Plaza di Michelangelo in English, pointing to the map, obviously able to distinguish that I was American from my unclear Italian accent. I shook my head yes to confirm his location and then returned to my book.

Scooting closer, he asked me if I was on holiday in a mild attempt to strike up conversation – I humored him and we went back and forth between English, Italian, and even a little French over the basic introductions and conversation topics.

His name was Jamal, if my memory serves me right. Twenty-four years old, he was attending school in Rome for architecture yet he was raised in Sicily where his fathered owned a restaurant. He also supposedly owned a restaurant in Boston, Massachusetts of all places and a home in Palm Springs; however, I was skeptical on whether or not that was an exaggeration.

In the middle of our conversation, he all of a sudden ask me to watch his bag, then quickly disappeared around the corner walking in a hurry – returning a few minutes later with a bottle of Chianti wine and two plastic cups in his hand.

I tensed when I saw the bottle of wine. I was originally just being polite talking to him and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. When he offered me a cup I softly declined in Italian with non grazie, hoping he would not be persistent, yet he offered again. Looking crushed behind his brown eyes and his body language sinking, I politely accepted the small cup with the second offer.

“Cin-cin!” with a toast to new friendship, I slowly sip the Chianti wine. It was smooth, rich and full in flavor. You could almost even taste the flowery bouquet that Chianti wine is known for, even though this bottle was inexpensive (the price sticker still attached, reading 4,95 euro).

Obviously uncomfortable now from being forced into a situation that I was not prepared for – in the States I would never share a bottle of wine with a stranger – I sat in silence sipping the wine.

Noticing my discomfort, Jamal tried to pull me closer, putting his arm over my shoulder. I pulled away. He then tried again to sit closer, putting his arm over my shoulder and pulling me close, this time leaning in to try to kiss me. His cold hands were frighteningly tight on my arm and his breath smelt like the Chianti wine that he was quickly trying to finish, as I stood up wiggling out of his grasp, shaking my head and saying no over and over.

I couldn’t believe he had just tried to blatantly hit on me and right there in the middle of the public square.

Quickly I grabbed by book off of the dusty steps and stuffed it into my polka dot bag as I walked away down the stairs; yet Jamal followed trying to apologize smoothly, grabbing my arm to stop me. I pulled free and dashed out of sight, my heart pounding and mind rushing for ideas of what to do if he followed.

As fast as I could I ran down the same earth dug stairs and across the bridge that gapped the two banks of the Florence city center. Glancing over my shoulder while I was stopped at a traffic light, I saw out of the corner of my eye Jamal, in his white shorts, t-shirt, backpack, and now bottle of wine in hand making his way down the stairs.

Under my breath I cursed myself for wearing my neon pink Marmot rain coat as I turned into the towering cities streets of muted tan and gray to lose my Italian admirer, who was definitely not coming home with me to meet mom and dad.

Side note: After writing this story, I wanted to clarify that I do not assume that all Italian men act this way and that any generalization I use in my writing is being used to bring attention to the subject matter and not to say that the stereotype is true. I believe that cinema and stereotypes have heavily influenced both American and Italian’s images of each other making for circumstances that can be uncomfortable and easy misconstrued. In the U.S. most depictions of Italian men are as how I described earlier in my blog, giving women a skewed impression and expectation of the Italian population. Additionally I feel as if American women are also stereotyped in film for Italians. I feel as if many Italian men see American women as “loose” or “easy” as many popular movies portray – especially of collage age women. The cultural differences between Italians and Americans along with gender differences and the influence of film has created in some circumstances a difficult mixture of stereotypes to sort out.

Too Expensive to Eat

The clearest day in the past six weeks, described our tour guide on our Zürich and Surrounding excursions. The middle Swiss Alps received new snow just two days ago.


The air was crisp and cool. Straining to breath, my lungs burned in my chest with the sudden temperature change and increased blood flow as I hiked up the hillside. My legs pushed forward though up the steep incline from the gondola drop off point to the top of the outlook point on the left bank of mountain walls that surrounded Zürich Lake. Rounding the last bend, my heart seemed to pound a hundred miles a minute from what I look back on now and hope was only excitement and not from exhaustion before reaching the top. At the last minute the trees opened up like a curtain to an anxious crowd and their stood before us all of Zürich and the Swiss Alps!

Hey…Look, look…Snow! I shouted to my travel friends who followed shortly behind. Snow!

However all that shouted back was gggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuummmmmbbllle (stomach translation: FEED ME) and a friendly reminder that my stomach and pockets were empty.

Water clean enough to drink straight out of the lake, air so clear that the painted white mountain peaks glistened in the sun light, and rolling parks of trees vibrantly changing colors from fresh sage green to golden yellow, and burnt orange so refreshing that it made you never want to leave – yet too expensive to eat.

Zürich, Switzerland is everything and more that you are told about Switzerland. It has the rolling hills, steep alpine mountains, flourishing nature, even the chocolate, army knives and watches line the streets however it is also import to remember what Switzerland is more renowned for – its Swiss bank accounts.


On the average day the American dollar is about equal with the Swiss Franc. Yet also on the average day in America where a Big Mac combo meal at McDonald's can be purchased for about $5, it is scarce to find a hamburger and fries (not including a drink) for under 20 Swiss Franc.

After travel and accommodations, which additionally are not inexpensive in Zürich, a student’s budget does not stretch far. In the two and a half days I spent in Zürich, I had a total of three meals:

Dinner day 1: Donner Kanab…………………………………………12,00 S.Fr
(The cheapest meal I could find on the street for dinner)

Lunch day 2: Bratwurst with bread……………………………………8,50 S. Fr
(The cheapest meal I could find on the street for lunch.)

Dinner day 2: Chicken Sandwich with fries………………………23,40 S. Fr.
(The cheapest sit down meal I could find for dinner.)

As we departed Zürich, after seeing some of the most breath taking sites of all my travels so far, we quickly made our way to the back of the train to the food cabin and filled our pockets with snacks and drinks to settle our grumbling stomachs.

Pizzeria Cornaro: Fire exstinquisher please!

“My mouth is on fire!” I shrieked through a mouth full of half-chewed pizza. “I don’t know if I am going to be able to finish this.”

I now know what makes a good pizza. The temperature has to be just right in the oven, a scorching 750 degrees Fahrenheits, the bottom of the pizza can’t be burnt, and the dough should be a day old and made with fluffy white and rich multi-grain flour. I also now know what doesn’t make a good pizza – spicy peppers!

As you enter Pizzeria Cornaro in Asolo, Italy, the town of a hundred horizons, you are greeted by the sweet floury smell of yeast and by the owner Saverio, an Italian man, shorter than my average height of 5’6”, who can only be described as a master pizza chef. Dressed in a slightly wrinkled white polo, white linen pants, a white cloth apron, and hair dusted white from age like his brown shoes from the settling baking flour from a hard day’s work, Saverio fulfilled my image of an Italian pizza maker.

The small restaurant is instantly welcoming by the grin that is spread across Saverio’s face, like an excited elementary school kid waiting to share what is on his mind. Inside, the bar counter takes up half of the already cramped room and in the back up three stairs is the pizza preparation counter and oven, flaming hot and ready. Scattered on the walls are posters and photographs, decorating in a ragged yet perfect way. The groupings of photos, collages almost, of past customers and famous pizzas and not to forget Motocross and NASCAR memorabilia. Altogether mixed and matched with eclectic flare, the restaurant even had a potted lemon bush on the counter’s corner.

As the sixteen of us squeezed in, huddled shoulder to shoulder, we resembled an anxious group of metro riders ready to jump off at the next stop. Around the counter with a tray of two types of dough and flour for demonstration, Saverio burst into rapid Italian – language rolling off his tongue, which even though I couldn’t understand, was full and rich in tone, making even a description of dough ingredients sound like a wild and romantic adventure story through the Amazon, described by the greatest of authors.

“Before you eat it…. you need to look beneath it, if it is dark, if it is black it is not good – it’s burnt, they didn’t pay attention,” repeated our translator pausing to fill in the description as Saverio continued in Italian. The passion that Saverio shared, his wide eyes, big hand gestures, varied vocal intonation, and body language, quickly spread to the group, who showed their interest with curious eyes, wide smiles and excited laughter.

Pausing in mid sentence, Saverio puts us all on the spot and pries for answers – asking, how long to flatten a pizza?

Cinque minuti, I hesitantly guess in broken Italian when he points to me first for an answer, cautiously rounding up to five minutes in fear of being completely wrong.

Ten to twelve seconds he later replies after everyone has guessed. We all laugh from our naivety and exuberant estimations, with only one person guessing even under a minute.

Finally after some more information on pizza preparation is given and all the other students have made their pizzas, two of my friends and I step up to try our hands at pizza making.

Standing closest to the open oven, the heat warmed my left side and blushed my face as Saverio plopped down a pile of dough in front of me. The dough warm from deep within was oddly sticky yet smooth to the touch from the just right mixture of water and flour.

Saverio, seeing that I was struggling to stretch the dough larger than a tea plate, came up behind me and hung the dough half off of the counter and quickly spun the pizza out into a large pizza, almost 18 inches across.

Scoping out the toppings, I stood on my tip toes to reach the spicy salami, green grilled zucchini, and chunky mozzarella cheese from the top shelf of metal bins that lined the wall behind the counter. In small handfuls I spread my choice toppings onto the soft dough. Only once finishing my pizza did Saverio offer the spicy peppers and in excitement for some hot food I gathered up a few pinches and sprinkled them generously over the entire pizza.

Waiting, hungry and thrilled to try a new pizza, I stood around the counter for my pizza to emerge. After only a few minutes, Saverio with his six foot long pizza scooper made out of wood and metal reached into the flaming oven and pulled out my pizza.

I could instantly smell the melted cheese, peppers and warm vegetables. Sliding my pizza onto a warm plate that was sitting next to the oven, to my surprise I had found that Saverio had formed my crust into the shape of a heart.

Biting into the pizza, my mouth discovered crunchy corners, smooth browned cheese and vegetables cooked just right to the point that they were warm but not soggy. Looking around at everyone devouring their pizzas, I was proud of my pizza. After the first bite I thought to myself even, I make a damn good pizza, this was a great experience – then my mouth began to water, my nose started to run, and my eyes to tear up in the corners when the spices hit the back of my throat. My mouth was on FIRE and I quickly extinguished my dreams of becoming a pizza master.

My six dollar Keds

“Your feet must be killing you!?” exclaimed this middle aged man wearing a sturdy pair of tan hiking boots laced up to the ankle to a young lady whose shoes can’t be described as anything but torturous. “…aren’t those shoes uncomfortable?”

It always surprises me, tourists’ choice of shoes when traveling. I personally think a light pair of tennis shoes is ideal. They are easy to pack, generally moldable, not heavy on your feet and most of all comfortable to wear and to walk in. My favorite pair of travel shoes is a six dollar, Ross store deal, pair of worn-in, blue and green plaid Keds. I have had them for almost two years now, and even though they are getting thin they have seen almost more traveling then I have.

They have hiked from Eugene’s puddle filled Willamette Street all the way to the top of muddy Spencer’s butte to the surrounding foothills of Zurich, Switzerland to see the painted white peaks of the Alps to the miles of polished marble floors of the Louvre in Paris and also up thousands of dusty steps and sidewalk escalators of the Barcelona hills to Guell's Park. They have never once given me a blister and while they may not be the most stylish shoes I have ever seen, they are a close friend of mine.

While not everyone may be as attached to their good pair of travel shoes, I think it is important for everyone to have that set of shoes. On my most recent travel with my beloved plaid Keds, we explored Barcelona, Spain, where I have to say I saw some of the most ridiculous travel shoes yet.

Leaving the metro station at the Vallcarca stop from the L3 green line, my Keds carried me up the last set of stairs to the sun heated streets outside of Guell's Park in Barcelona. The streets were trash strone with blacken bubble gum and dust settled permanently on the sidewalks. The metro stop let out according to the map only 800 meters away from the park where Antoni Gaudi built some of his most famous mosaic architectural pieces, including the lizard fountain; however, that map failed to mention that 600 meters were straight up hill.



Turning that first corner off the main street, the hill rose straight up at almost a 45 degree angle. I looked down at my already swollen feet from the day’s earlier wondering and was glad to see my Keds. Then I looked up at the hill and started my trek to the top.

The sidewalks on either side of the road to Guell’s Park were lined with inch thick ridges that helped your feet grip the ground, yet I could only image how dangerous it would be to walk down that hill in the rain. Also in the humid sun, the asphalted let out a warm haze that seeped through the soles of your shoes. Along the way for the weary walker there were stores with water and ice cream to catch your breath or browse the souvenirs.

For the hike, my Keds served me well. However the toes of the tourists in ballet flats, Nike flip-flops, knee high leather boats, various strapy sandals, and my personal favorite purple rhinestone wedges didn’t seem to share in my excitement to see Gaudi’s art.



Luckily for those who forgot their comfortable shoes and opted for the stylish choice, half way up the hill, the ridged sidewalks and calf burning slant of the hill gave way to platform upon platform of electric powered escalators!

L-I-F-E

LIFE seems to ironically be a large part of well...life, and studying abroad.

I left Eugene, Oregon to escape LIFE. I went to Cinque Terre for the weekend, so to no have to participate in LIFE, and yet I somehow still ended up playing LIFE™ over the weekend.

This past weekend, while I was in the famous, coastal towns of Cinque Terre on the western coast of Italy, with its warm beaches and houses of peach, rose, and golden yellow hanging precariously on the edge of rock cliffs, I was a computer analyst.

I made $80,000 each payday, was happily married with two children, won the Pulitzer Prize, drove an amazing blue car, and retired with 1.4 million dollars, yet I somehow I still came in third place in my own game of life.

While my life experience may not have been as revolutionary, mentally challenging or skill building as many of my fellow peers who stayed back on campus for the LIFE workshops, but my evening playing LIFE™, was equally as fun and eye opening.

My travel group and I returned to our hostel after a 16 hour day of traveling, hiking (more like mountaineering), town roaming, and people watching around Cinque Terre at an early 8:00pm. Exhausted, we could no longer climb anymore stairs or even really keep our eyes open and our minds from wondering to images of our beds.

Luckily for us, our hostel had a curfew of midnight, making it impossible for us to try to force ourselves to go out on the town with the other students from CIMBA, yet we couldn’t go to bed feeling as if we completely missed out.

We had noticed when we first arrived at the Hostel Manarola that it had a variety of board games in its common room, Sorry, Cluedo, Cinque Terra puzzles, and LIFE. Seeing the irony of playing LIFE this evening, with the others back at campus, we put on our pajamas and moved through the quite, linoleum lined hall ways down to the dinning room and made ourselves as comfortable as possible at a large wooden bench table.

As we traveled around the board, stopping at “get a job,” “buy a house,” and “get married,” it made me think about how my life will actually turn out. What my career will be, my family, getting old; however it also allowed us to let go. We laughed loud, yelling at others to pay up when they landed on our square and acted silly, not caring who saw us.

Once we completed the game about an hour later, growing old and retired, we counted up the money we had made. This admittedly was not an easy task and sadly the accountant had the most difficulty; however in the end the doctor beat everyone with her $100,000 pay checks. Then we finally made it to bed.

The next morning as we checked out, the hostel manager asked us all if we enjoyed our stay. We all turned to each other and laughed and told him we did and as we walked out of the hostel, the morning glow illuminated the hues of the city and the water twinkled with ripples as the wind blew, and I joked with the girls saying that I enjoyed LIFE.

Deep History and Dark Places: Exploring Beyond Trieste

Beyond the winding cobble stone roads, baroque buildings shining with gold leaf patterns, majestic coastal castles, and the thriving maritime culture of Trieste, lays a deep history and some very dark places.

Trieste, a coastal Italian city located at the head of the Gulf of Trieste and the Adriatic Sea, is home to more than 200,000 people. A culturally diverse city, it borders Slovenia and Croatia and takes pride in its blended heritage. Yet many travelers to Trieste may never see past the music festivals and large populated piazzas to the adventures outside the city that built the region’s vibrant history.

Only 22 miles northwest of Trieste, the remains of over 100,000 fallen World War I soldiers rest. The largest Italian war memorial, Redipuglia, sits solemnly on the west face of mountain Sei Busi in stark gray contrast to the lush green surroundings. Completed in 1938, the memorial is a lasting reminder of the bitter fighting that consumed the eastern front of the war.

As you walk up the stairs from the parking lot and around the corner, Redipuglia opens up before you. It is an amazing yet overwhelming first impression. The twenty two terraces, headed by 75-ton cube tomb, stretch up toward the sky, where three bronze crosses overlook the landscape. That first glimpse of the memorial makes you feel small and then the momentous realization sweeps through you of the thousands on thousands of soldiers killed in this single location.

The entrance to Redipuglia is marked by an anchor chain that is draped from each side. The rusted red and black chains lay on the ground as if the weight of the soldiers behind it was too much to bear. Behind the gate spreads out a flat opening approximately two football fields in length with two lines of 19 bronze plaques forming a path. Called “Ura Eroica” or the “road of heroes,” the plaques are each engraved with the names of the bloodiest battles of World War I.

The names of the soldiers slowly appear as you approach the first terrace wall. Listed in alphabetical order, the names of the 40,000 known soldiers who died at Sei Busi seem to stretch endlessly on each terrace. Looking closely at the names you can see dust lightly layering the stone face with finger prints left behind by visitors.

At the top of the memorial, after climbing the 44 cases of stairs that zigzag their way to the top, lay two common graves for the 60,000 anonymous soldiers who rest at Redipuglia. The graves are a silent reminder of the horrors of war and the horrendous number of families whose sons never returned home. Yet, as you stand at the top of the memorial and look out over the war zone that once covered the country side, the view of the open country side, small coupled towns, new growth ash green trees and overall beauty of the transformed land sweeps you.

Moving from one of the highest points around Trieste at Redipuglia to one of the lowest and darkest destinations is the Grotta Gigante. Located only 9.5 miles outside Trieste, Grotta Gigante is the world’s largest touring cave. The main cavern is 280 meters long, 65 meters wide and 107 meters high – large enough to fit the entire St. Peters Cathedral inside the cavity. Discovered by Antonio Federico Linder in 1840, Grotta Gigante is apart of the underground cave system of the Timavo River.

As you begin your descent into the cave, the damp air surrounds you and your whole demeanor changes. Everyone starts to use low voices and becomes wary of the wet stairs beneath their feet. The first fifty stairs or so take you though a narrow opening in the ground to the second discovered entrance of the cave. As soon as you hit the last tight turn in the stairway, the cave opens up in the main cavern. Over 500 ground and overhead lights illuminate behind the rocks, stalactites, and stalagmites, creating a dark, shadowy glow over the entire cavern. Beneath the electric lights grow small green fern-like plants; foliage that never would have existed without the introduction of light into the cave. Continuing down the 500 stairs to the base of the cave, the ominous glow accentuates the rough ridges and distorted shapes of the rocks from thousands of years of water erosion and corrosion.

During the 50 minute tour, the group pauses three times for information about the cave surroundings. While the tour guide speaks Italian, the information is repeated in English by a recording for foreign travelers. From the base of the cavern to the top hang two seismograph pendulums, 100 meters high, which the tour guide explains records the temperature, air conditions, and seismic movement in the cave. In contrast to the dark, rough nature of the caves, the scientific equipment seems out of place with its smooth, white lines.

Once you have reached the bottom of the cave and the moist, cold air has settled on your skin, the tour guide leads you up another 500 stairs to the original entrance to the cave at the opposite corner. Before turning the final corner of stairs out of the main cavern, a platform overlooks the 100 meters to the bottom, leaving a bird’s eye view of the silent cave in your memory.

By looking just slightly above and below and around the area of Trieste, you can discover a whole different landscape full of secrets and history. You can reach darker places for a new adventure and leave with a deeper understanding of the local area and its rich history.

Sidebar:

While Redipuglia and Grotta Gigante are the destinations, getting there is half the fun.

Redipuglia

The easiest way to get to Redipuglia is via bus. There is no admission cost so it is a great place to visit and take your time walking around and really exploring the area. You will want to make sure to bring a sturdy pair of walking shoes and a light jacket. Additionally if you are tired and thirsty after climbing the 22 terraces, there is a restaurant and restroom facilities at the base of the monument near the parking lot.

Grotta Gigante

From central Trieste to Grotta Gigante you take bus 42. The bus takes you up into the hills of the neighboring towns outside Trieste. The road is very narrow, yet provides clear views of the Adriatic Sea, Trieste, Slovenia, and Croatia. Talk to the locals on the bus if you are not sure where to exit. Most of the people are very friendly and helpful, especially the locals who travel this route daily. When you exit the bus follow the signs to the entrance to Grotta Gigante. The path will lead you down a quiet, rural neighborhood that is scattered with small grape farms and Italian cottages. At the end of the road is the information center, a small food vendor selling sandwiches, drinks, and pasta, and restrooms. You can buy the entrance tickets inside the information center. For Adults the admission is 8,50 euro. Also you will want to bring a light jacket and a good pair of walking shoes.

"American Boy"

Sitting outside on the concrete patio of what can barely qualify as a bar, I sip some Prosecco. The bubbles in the wine are refreshing to the taste after tap water all day and a hardly satisfying meal of again flavorless penne pasta with ragu sauce and some sort of mystery meat. I chat with my friends aimlessly at a four person table, while a group of 20 of more other American students attempt to rearrange all the other metal and plastic tables into a snaking line that resembles a massive family sitting down to a raging thanksgiving dinner of wine and beer.

I think to myself this isn’t an Italian experience. If I wanted to get smash drunk every night, I should have just spent the $120 for a fake ID in the United States and the other $1200 of my plane ticket on a new wardrobe. Yet as my spirits are getting down, and the other students are getting high on spirits of another kind, the song “American Boy” by Estelle, a British hip-hop star, comes on and the cultural irony kicks in with the tune’s catchy beats.

Studying abroad in Paderno, Italy, I expected an extreme culture shock – somewhere where I would be submerged in the Italian culture. Not understanding the language or traditions, I thought all the students would try to learn quickly and blend in. Oh, how I was wrong. Yet, slowly I have realized that the culture here in Italy is as affected by American culture as we are by the expectations and assumptions that the media has given us of Italy.

While the culture in deeply routed in its history and takes pride in its Italian heritage, everywhere you go, even in Paderno’s little town, is spotted with English and other universal signs. The Italian high school students on campus sport shirts that say “New York” or “Abercrombie” and in Venice there is a Blockbuster. Also in Trieste, I think I saw more stores with English names than Gucci bags.


Also, as if “American Boy” was not enough of an insight into the mix of influences on Italy, last night my advisory group for school went out to dinner. The 11 of us traveling by bus trekked to Bassano, which is about 30 minutes away, to a club called Panic Jazz. Climbing the stairs to the second story restaurant and club, we could hear the smooth trumpet of Miles Davis coming from the speakers. Jazz music was definitely one of the last types of music I expected to hear while I was abroad, yet even more of a surprise was listening to that American jazz music, while drinking Italian wine, and eating Mexican food! I had an amazing chicken burrito, filled with red, orange, and yellow peppers and shredded chicken that was moist and seasoned. Even though the Mexican food was not exactly the same as the American Mexican food that you get in the states, it was more fun to try the Italians take on another culture’s food.

Being in Italy is no longer about becoming as Italian as possible, but about accepting the culture and contributing to the mixing pot of culture that is growing in this area. It is about eating as much good food as possible, sharing a pitcher of Italian wine (even if we can’t hide our loud American, drunken selves) and getting to know the people, no matter their nationality, around you.

Orange Pants

Twenty eight hours and 45 minutes into my first “day” abroad, over 5400 miles from my home in Washington and with only thirty minutes of sleep, I found myself sitting at a dark bus stop outside of Venice Mestre with my travel partner, lost, and wondering if I will ever make it back to my hotel. This, however, I am sure will be only one of many lost and confused adventures during my three months of studying abroad.

The beginning of my journey, or at least the first twenty something hours, went amazingly smooth, with only a few late planes and sleepless hours. The adventure didn’t truly begin until we entered Venice.

I traveled with another student, Amy Santamaria, from the University of Oregon from Frankfurt, Germany to Venice, Italy, where we had booked a hostel. The plane landed late but both of us easily spotted our four bags of luggage and lugged it outside to an awaiting taxi. From the airport we went to our hostel, the Hotel Centrale, located in the center of Venice-Mestre, only a short bus ride from the island.

Even though exhausted, sweaty from the 90˚ weather, and starving for food that wasn’t served on an airplane tray, we decided to bus into Venice for the afternoon.

Before we left the hostel, the concierge told us to take bus #7 to Venice and to purchase the bus ticket from the driver. However, when we got on the bus the driver ignored us so we swiftly moved to the side of the bus and hoped nobody would notice that we didn’t pay. Luckily for us no one seemed to care, but before the end of the night, karma would make us pay.

After wondering the canals and pathways of Venice for a few hours and eating some delicious sour apple gelato and real Italian cheese pizza, Amy and I decided to return to our hostel and get some rest. This time we easily found the bus ticket booth and ask for two tickets for bus seven back to Venice-Mestre. Later, after paying, we realized that we were charged for a round trip ticket, thus paying for our way there in the end.

As we waited for the bus to leave, a German couple, staying at the same hostel, noticed out Hotel Centrale map and told us they knew where the stop was. So we joked with them about following them off the bus before they took their seats at the back of the bus. The older man of the couple wore bright orange linen pants with a white and orange Hawaiian print shirt, so we assumed it would be easy to spot him exit through the crowds of people huddled on the bus.

Around the third stop, Amy said she spotted the man with the orange pants exiting the bus. While I thought it was still too early to get off, Amy was already in the crowd pushing the way through to exit, so I followed. Disheartedly as the bus left and the man with the orange pants sprinted across the street, we noticed we were not at the right stop. Somehow, yet another man with orange pants and a white and orange stripped shirt had led us astray.

Now 28 hours and 45 minutes into our trip, late at night we sat at that dark bus stop and brainstormed how we would make it back to our hotel. With the last ounce of our energy, we decided to stay at the bus stop to see if another bus would come by. Only out of pure luck, I’m sure, another bus came about fifteen minutes later and we were able to navigate back to the Hotel Centrale.

While I wouldn’t describe getting lost in Venice as the best way to start a trip studying abroad, laying in bed in our tiny hostel room that night and laughing about our crazy first day, made all the difficulties drift away as we soundly slept for the first time in over thirty hours.

Buongiorno!

Buongiorno, shalom, jambo, salut, aloha, ciao! No matter which way you say hello, as William Arthur Ward said so clearly, “A warm smile is the universal language of kindness.”

Hello! And welcome to my travel blog. My name is Kelsey and I am currently studying abroad in Paderno del Grappa, Italy. I am regularly a student at the University of Oregon in the journalism and anthropology department and a proud fan of the Ducks. For the next three months I will be in Italy as apart of CIMBA, a journalism and business educational international program.

Paderno del Grappa is in the Veneto region of Italy, approximately an hour north west of Venice. With a minuscule population of only a little over 2,000, we are in the middle of town and surrounded by truly the Italian country side and its unique culture. Just last night, I actually got the opportunity to talk with an Italian high school student, who also attends school at the campus, Istituti Filippin, in Paderno about the area. She said, roughly transposed to English that Istituti Filippin isn’t in Paderno but that Paderno is Istituti Filippin, to demonstrate how small the town is.

While I am abroad I intend to travel as much as possible, without hopefully spending all the money I have saved, and then sharing those travels with you. Through the program we are encouraged to explore Europe and learn and grow from those experiences and I am going to take full advantage of this wonderful opportunity that is slowly developing in front of me. I look forward to many exciting adventures that lead to new discoveries and great stories! Ciao for now!