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.