Like trying to rope an octopus

Like trying to rope an octopus... That is a quote from an article on the hurricane. A bizarre simile to be sure, but accurate.

I got this picture as Kate and I were wandering around Viterbo with our cameras, being tourists for the day. Magically, my camera's batteries did not die, and it did not run out of memory! That's always supposed to happen! We explored the vast web of back streets, and found beautiful shots that were simply of daily Viterbo. It's so amazing that what is completely normal to the people here might be several hundred years old, if not older. This particular picture I think is the most magical. On the first balcony is a woman hanging up her laundry. Behind her on the second balcony is an old man just sitting and watching the world. I love how the light and the arch and the clothes hanging to dry all seem to center around this moment, especially the man.

Luca died last night. Il nonno cried all evening. I tried to imagine what it must be like to lose a grandchild, especially here where the families are so close. Il nonno lives in the same house as his daughter and grandson, something that's unusual back in the States. Marco was remarking on how different US life is from Italian because an American would consider leaving her or his home before mid-20s or so, at which point an Italian would leave to get married. Don't think that they're lazy, though: the price of houses is going up rapidly here, while wages remain the same, so it's becoming more and more expensive for someone to leave home (this has to do with Berlusconi, whom Marco calls a "funny, funny man"). In America, on the other hand, it's encouraged to leave home as soon as possible. SYA, also, though it offers an awesome opportunity, encourages kids to leave the nest. That really shows how much less value is placed on the family as a unit in America than in Italy. However independence is the emphasis that replaces family, and I do like that a lot. If it weren't for that value, I wouldn't be here in Italy now. Marco said that Italian teenagers would not even consider studying abroad for a year. Though doubtless there are exceptions, for the most part it holds true; I'm so glad that I grew up in a family and society that supports such a venture.

I'm having severe telephone issues. All the phone cards I've gotten seem to only give about a quarter of the promised minutes, and my main phone card, which had seemed really good, apparently has a monthly limit which I reached after only two calls... And my cellphone is out of minutes, so I have to purchase some more within 24 hours, or else, as far as I can tell, my sim card expires and I have to get a new one. Actually I'm not quite sure what the deal is. I got a cute little text message from the Ricarica (the company from which I purchase minutes) that said a lot of stuff in Italian, some of which I was able to understand: "il credito sta x terminare" and "48h" - rather ominous, really.

By the way, I really do love The Aeneid. Seriously. And I'm not just saying that because there's a giant link to this page from the Latin website. I honestly think it's the most amazing creation I've encountered thus, and every second of painful Latin grammar has been worth being able to read this epic. I'm translating to line 80 today. At the moment I've only just finished the part on Aeolus and his winds. Now Juno is going to request that he release his winds to destroy Aeneas' ships. I'm really glad that I'm reading it in English too, even if I don't like the translator, Allen Mendelbaum. The assignment in English is to write a journal entry on each book of The Aeneid, and in the journal take the point of view of anyone we so choose. For the first book I wrote from the perspective of a failed author who spent years and years working on a Homeric epic that runs parallel to The Aeneid. However the epic, The Marconeid, which recounts the tale of Marconeas and the wrath of Bacchus, never did sell much. In fact, the instant The Aeneid hit the shelves it outsold Marconeas' woeful tale tenfold, and now the author lives in poverty, bitter and revengeful. As he reads Vergil's work, he realizes that it is indeed worthy of all the fame it has received, a brilliant story to which his hardly compares. It was pretty fun to write, though I started to feel pretty bad for the author. I'm excited that I get to create a different viewpoint for each book, or if I want to I can use one for several books. Who knows what characters are waiting to be created...

It rained heavily last night. The wind was lashing against the windows, and the trees were bent to the ground. Somehow it felt appropriate for the evening, as I sat waiting for Armida to come home. Marco had called to tell me that Luca had died and that no one would be home till late. So I just watched through the window as the trees thrashed about. In the distance, over the mountains, was the same lightning I saw a few weeks ago, but now I could hear the thunder. Even this morning it was raining hard. However now, everything seems new. The clouds are bright, there's a fog over the mountains, and the water on the olive trees glistens as a breeze blows; there's hardly a trace to hint at the violent weather all night long. So beautiful here.

And that's about it for now. The sun shines through the clouds now and again, and occasionally the wind picks up a bit. No one's home, so I'm just resting in my room, watching the trees by my balcony, waiting for something to happen.

Arrivaderci,

Holly

My tales of woe, Italian, and other matters

So by some freak accident I mastered the past tense, or at least something close enough to it to be mistaken as it, in time for the Italian placement exam. With the combined greatness of that and my ability to make up lots of stuff that strangely turned out to be real Italian, I have (to my horror) been placed in the Advanced Italian class. I am very happy to say, though, that no one else in the class has any idea what's going on either. Since apparently we're all so brilliant and are therefore obviously beyond the level of chapter 1, the teacher gave us a test on the first day of class so she could tell which chapter to start us on. Though we tried to dissuade her, to convince her that we all really would like to start on Chapter 1, per favore (of Book 2 - isn't that scary enough?), she did not relent, and we took the test. Well, we all failed, so now we're on Chapter 1. So much for the smart class. Really deep down, though, I am glad I'm in this class - though we're starting at the beginning (more or less, with Book 2), it's an accelerated class, which will really plunge me into Italian, for which I'm glad.

I've got to say, there's something vaguely insulting about watching American movies, Hollywood movies, that I haven't seen before, in Italian and not being able to understand them. I mean, I live where they're made! Sort of... that's not really my point anyway, so never mind. I was just watching a Diane Keaton/Goldie Hawn/Josh Hartnett (among others) movie called Love in the City, -something- in the Country. See? I can't even understand the bloody title! I sort of got the gist - there were a lot of love triangles. I liked the cellist with the cello-hole shape things tattooed on her back. But really, for the most part I had no idea what was going on. And it had the actress from Groundhog Day!! All these actresses and actors I know, and I can't even understand the movie. Well, all the more motivation to learn Italian quickly (other than my smart-class-ness).

I feel and am treated like a 5 year old. I guess with my current grasp of the language I'm more of a 1 year old, so I should be proud to be treated as such big girl, but still it's rather frustrating. I've got to say, it's disconcerting to hear your name and see people pointing at you, but never once be addressed, and be unable to understand anything they're saying. I'm at the point where really the only words I can recognize are names, so I'll hear -italian, italian- Viterbo -italian- 'olly -italian, italian- to no end. The other day, a crowning moment in my 5 year old-ness, Armida took me to pick flowers. They're sunflowers, something like "giresole" or "girasole" which is really cool because "giro" means 'around' or 'circle' and of course "sole" means 'sun' - so it's a flower that turns in a circle, or at least a semi-circle, to follow the sun. Anyway, we picked 4, and then every time Armida talked to anyone for the next few days, she told them about me picking flowers. I've realized, though, that there's no point in trying to fight it. For most of the year, I will be a 5 year old. No buts. In a situation like this, I can't be anything else. I don't know this language, this culture, this country. I'm new to it all. In a way it's wonderful to be like a kid here. It's okay to make mistakes. It's okay to sound exceptionally dumb. I'm learning, I'm absorbing, and every time someone exclaims over the vase on the table and tells me what pretty flowers I picked, I just have to remind myself, I have everything to learn, and where better to start than in the footsteps of a kid?

The Aeneid is AWESOME! I'm reading it both in English and in Latin right now, though I'm enjoying the Latin more. While the English version is really good, I can't get really enthused about it because the rhythm is painfully rigid, and because the author doesn't seem enthusiastic enough about the story. In his introduction, he talks about how he always used to consider The Aeneid far inferior to Homer's epics and to Dante's Inferno, and how it took him ages to come around and begin to appreciate Virgil. His translation is accurate and beautiful, yes, but it seems a desecration to an amazing epic to be translated by someone who didn't think much of it. Therefore I love the Latin version far more. I don't know if tonight's lines were particularly easy or if I'm just brilliant, but it was so wonderfully clear. There's something so awesome about reading actual Latin, not a translation. Just seeing the words in the original format, as the author himself, some 2000 years ago, wrote them, is so amazing. Word order, something that doesn't come out in an English translation, is fascinating, since in Latin the words can go in most any order, and authors take advantage of that to make a point. And the moment the meaning becomes clear is wonderful, because I'm literally understanding Virgil's own words and the structure of his sentences.

Sono stanca. Ciao,

Holly

Food and related disasters

Today as I was sitting by a gelateria with some classmates, an old, old man came up to us and started to talk to us. We couldn't understand him, so he switched tactics. "Quanti anni hai?" he asked, smiling toothlessly at us. After exchanging looks that said "ummmm, this guy is nuts," we told him (stupid in retrospect, but I doubt he was going to kill us). Then he pointed at himself and said "ottantasette," 87. We made appreciative noises and exchanged more glances, when he started poking himself in the stomach. Through his gestures he managed to convey that he wanted one of us to feel his abs. Cautiously, one classmate poked his stomach, and he happily walked away. I'm still thinking that one over. My conclusion is that he isn't let out of the house much. Maybe he'd only just escaped. I'll bet that all he does at home is sit ups, but no one ever properly appreciates how strong he is. He just needed a little validation. Or else he's that famous 87-year old mass murderer I heard about the other day, picking out his next victims...

Never rely on one good source of food. They will do something horrible to it. What was good once is no more. Every morning for the first week, my breakfast consisted of different and weird combinations of Nutella, cornflakes, and café americana (all of which, apparently, are foods -and drinks- that are worthy of an American here. Hey, speaking of American food, can we talk abut the McDonald's Viterbo here? That's it's name. McDonald's Viterbo. Aaah, the worldwide greatness of America. Makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside). Finally Armida got some kind of bread, which was, quite thankfully, not the weird, tasteless anti-French bread stuff at meals, but instead more like a croissant with berries and sugar on it. At last! Real, edible breakfast food! After I had gone through about five bags in a week (though that in part may have been due to a tad bit of snacking between meals by anonymous parties...) Armida evidently realized that not all Americans eat Cornflakes dipped in Nutella (which, by the way, you should never, ever try. Ever) and started just giving me the croissants for breakfast. Though I was still drinking the coffee, no easy feat as she pours a full mug with only a little sugar and no milk, this was definitely an improvement. And then came disaster. I should have known it was too good to be true! My sweet, wonderful croissants, breakfast food of my life! Gone! Snatched away, ripped from my arms by cruel fate! Do you know what she did to them? Do you KNOW what she DID? Actually, don't answer that. It's too horrible. I am still trying to figure out why anyone would do this to an undeserving pastry. As far as I can tell, she stuffed them. But with what? "Crema," she says. By my definition, cream is sugary goodness. Right? However, this - this cream, as she calls it - it has a thick, rubbery consistency, practically chewy, and an oddly bland flavor. Strangely like chicken, in fact... Perhaps this is some sinister plot to make me eat chicken. I knew they were up to something...

Things I was scared of when I came to Italy

Though I never considered giving up on this adventure, certain fears lingered in the back of my mind.

1) Being a foreigner (specifically an American foreigner): this is actually something I've come to love. It's okay to walk around the town with a camera out - no one cares, because I'm just an American, and they're used to American tourists. But on the flip side of the coin, when I go into a shop and try to talk in my mangled Italian, suddenly I'm no longer a tourist because I'm not just here to see the sites and take photos, but to learn and to take part in Italian culture. The Italians I've encountered thus far are all so eager to help me learn Italian, and don't care that I know so little. They're just thrilled that I try ("try" being the key word here. There are still several months between me and success). Still, though, it's fun being the foreigner, being the one who can speak another language here (it makes me feel bilingual, even if I still can't speak any Italian...).

2) Coming to love the Bush Administration: AAAAAAH!!! Everyone I know who's studied abroad has told me that they came back loving America and thinking it's great. That was possibly my greatest fear of studying abroad. As an American living in Europe, would I become defensive of Bush and of the greatness of Cheney? And seriously, why complain about Bolton? He isn't that bad, right? Ew. Ew, ew, ew. But now, thank all that is good and holy, I think I know what everyone meant about coming to love America. I've come to appreciate things about America that I never even thought of before. Things I didn't like, I still don't like, but suddenly I love the little things, like how it's summer all year round in Pasadena, and how blue jeans are the second greatest invention known to man, and how "okay" is now a word in every language, so when my tongue is tired of speaking Italian I can just say okay and still be understood. I love also how the high schools work, how each school has its own curriculum, and a person can go to different schools based on her or his interests.

3) Liking America better than Italy: What with my newfound affection for home, I was afraid that I would not like Viterbo as much. Not so. Not so at all. They're so different, so completely different that there's honestly no comparison. I love Pasadena for my friends and for Westridge and for the year-round summer and because everyone wears flip-flops even in the rain. But here, Viterbo, Italy - I love it for its antiquity, and for the rich history and identity both ancient and modern that the US lacks utterly. When I first heard I'd be living in an Etruscan town, I was disappointed because I identify ancient Italy solely with the Romans, and the idea of living in a town that wasn't originally Roman was a deterrent. However that's all fluff and nonsense. The Etruscans have every bit a rich and wonderful history as the Romans, in fact possibly more so, as indeed the Romans learned much from the Etruscans when under their rule. Living here is living in a museum, but a fascinating one, where everywhere I look is something at least several hundred years old if not older. I love how when I turn a corner suddenly I'll be in the medieval quarter of the town, ancient stone buildings on either side. And I love the traffic. It's nothing like driving in the US - here it's take what you can get, drivers will go wherever they please as fast as they please, as will motorcyclists and pedestrians, yet I have yet to see a single accident. But any worry I had that I would not like this town was a foolish one. Viterbo is perfect.

4) Changing my mind: Not for a moment since I first discovered this program (Advertisement moment: SYA IS AWESOME!!!!) did I have any doubt in my mind that I would go. I knew that if I passed up this opportunity I would never forgive myself. At the same time, though, I couldn't imagine leaving behind everyone and everything. But it was one or the other, and I knew which one I was going to pick. I was terrified, though, that once I couldn't turn back, I would change my mind; I would want to go back home, back to what I know. But I don't. I love you all, but I haven't for a moment regretted coming here. When I'm frustrated that I can't say even simple things in Italian, or when I'm sore from lugging so many books to and from school each day, or when my host mother gives me poisonous things to eat, I love it. Every moment here, every weird or intimidating experience is a new and awesome one. I can't get enough of everything around me. I wouldn't change a thing if I had this all to do over again.

Strada

So my time in Italy thus far has proven beyond doubt what I've always suspected. I have exceptionally low tolerance for alcohol. I must be some strange variety of human, because the first sips go straight to my head and even one glass makes me feel pretty tipsy. My host brother has evidently taken it upon himself to teach me the different varieties of wine, so last night at dinner we had Chianti. It was a really fancy dinner because both Marco's girlfriend Marta and her brother Mateo were there. Mateo looks EXACTLY like Charming from Shrek 2 wavy hair and all, which was really really distracting all through dinner. Anyway, I finished my first glass of wine quickly because I figured it was best to get it over with. However Marco then proposed a toast, and refilled my glass, as you apparently cannot toast without a full glass. I slowly made my way through that one, as I felt it would be rude not to finish it. At this point I was having trouble concentrating on what everyone was saying and kept zoning out, staring at Charming. I think I must really have weirded out Mateo... The instant I finally painfully finished the glass, Marco whisked it away and filled it again. Armida must have noticed that I was completely out of it, because she scolded him. His response was "-Italian, Italian- Chianti!" I did not finish the third glass. I downed as much as I could as slowly as I could, but lesson learned: never, EVER finish your first glass. EVER.

Yesterday I went to the market in Viterbo with Kate. It is an awesome market! Mostly it's just got undergarments, but there are a lot of cool, cheap shoes. Kate and I have decided to not buy any shoes all year, and then reward ourselves for our sacrifice by having a major splurge right before we go home. While in theory that's a great plan, I have major self-restraint issues when I see shoes, so I don't know if I can make it. Anyway, we got some fruit and ate it sitting next to one of the many statues of Viterbo. Then we wandered about, and I got "La Fabbrica di Cioccolato" at a bookstore, with the excuse that it will help me learn Italian, but really because it has a picture of Johnny Depp on the front. Now it gets to sit next to my computer and be loved.

I have the news on as I'm writing. Apparently this is "Shit for America" weekend - the tv (pronounced t-vu or tele-vu) is playing classical music and showing picture after picture of the devastation in New Orleans, mixed with shots of the World Trade towers on 9/11. Watching the news on New Orleans in Italian and only getting the gist of what's happening is pretty intense. I can only imagine what it must have been like for the students four years ago, the first group to come to SYA Viterbo, to watch 9/11 unfold.

Not just back in the US are things tense, though. My host cousin here has cancer. It's so strange to think that when my family agreed to host a student he was fine, and now, only a few months later I'm here and he's dying. To suddenly be part of all this is so huge. I've come from a family with not many problems and a country I know to a strange place where I don't speak the language and am part of a family facing a massive crisis. There's a steady flow of people coming in and out of the house; as far as I can tell Luca is coming to live here at the house with his girlfriend who already lives on the second floor. No one is really telling me much but I hear his name in almost every sentence, and my host mother will go walking by with blankets and stuff and say -Italian, Italian- Luca -Italian- before going downstairs to Marika's floor.

The door at the bottom of the stairs is closed and there are lots of voices behind it. My laundry is down there but I'm scared to get it because I honestly have no idea what's going on. So I'm here in my room, procrastinating on my homework and poking my head out the door every once and a while to see if the voices have died down yet.

For Italian class my homework is to interview a member of my host family. However this seems a bit awkward right now. "Hi, Armida, I know your nephew's dying two floors below us, but what's your favorite color?"

Tomorrow real classes start for me finally. I'm signed up for 8 classes right now, Latin, Greek, Italian, English, Pre-calc, Art History and Ancient History, as well as the second semester class taught entirely in Italian, Italian Civilization. I may drop Art History, however, in favor of Sanskrit... but it's a tough decision! How can I not take Art History when in Italy? But still, that's a class I can take back home, whereas I can't take Sanskrit at Westridge. I guess I'll just start Art History and see how I like it, then switch to Sanskrit if I drop the class. Decisions, decisions!

Do Not Attack The Mailman

A few SYA rules to be noted:
1) Please don't scotch tape anything to furniture or walls without expressed permission.
2) No hitchhiking.
3) Do not attack the mailman.

You've really got to wonder what sort of students SYA has had in the past.... Evidently point 1, the tape issue, is a result of a girl a few years back who taped study cards to her dresser. Most unfortunately, the dresser turned out to be an ancient family heirloom, and the ancient family finish came off with the tape. So that rule is understandable, if still very amusing. The next two rules however, leave much to the imagination. I would think the second rule is simply precautionary, and not a result of someone's mistake - at least I hope not.... However rule 3 is still puzzling me. Do not attack the mailman. Is this really something they've had trouble with in the past? Very, very strange.....

First day at Via Cavour 77, my school for the year. The school is right on a main street, on the second floor of what is now an apartment building but was once a "palace," or a grand house in which lived the nobles of Viterbo. Along the walls are frescoes that are obviously really really old - the colors are faded and cracks run through the pictures, yet they are still beautiful, perhaps more so because of their worn appearance. The school has three classrooms, and a meeting room - piccola! At the doorways you can see how thick the walls are - some three feet thick!!! That really is what strikes me most - the frescoes of course are beautiful and definitely antique, yet only when I walk through the doorways do I really remember how old this building really is.

Once everyone got over the excitement of exploring the school, classes began. Proper classes aren't until next week, so today I had only three classes: Italian, "Living with an Italian host family," and more Italian. I really need to get a notebook, because I've been writing everything in my italian packet and I can never find the notes I'm looking for... For lunch the whole school went to the Mensa, the university cafè. Starting next week, I'll have lunch during period 6 (no idea what time that is...) - students could pick either period 6 or 7. I know several of my classmates who are going during period 6 also, so that will be fun.

I'm back from school now, about 4:30, and no one else is home. Il nonno picked me up by La Porta Romana, a giant stone archway at the entrance of Viterbo (I was amazed to see it, but apparently these are completely common, appearing at several points in the walls of many cities here...), and dropped me off at home. I kind of like being here alone, as it allows me to be lazy and rest momentarily - learning Italian by living with a family and being forced to speak and understand is literally physically exhausting, and that paired with lingering jetlag is tough. I'm sitting on my balcony right now (no joke, I have my own little balcony, right off of my room!). Literally a few feet away from me is the top of an olive tree, the edge of a grove. There are a few red roofs in my view, but for the most part it's just trees and fields. In the distance are mountain foothills, over which there are huge white clouds. Last night I stayed awake long after everyone else had gone to bed, because the clouds were flashing brilliantly with silent lightning. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'll attach a picture, but it does little to convey the magnitude of the storm. Since the clouds are so far off, the air was still warm, not even a breeze. I couldn't even hear i tuoni (the thunder) - just the brilliant orange flashes of lightning far in the distance.

And that's all for the moment. Tomorrow I'll go out and explore more of the nooks and crannies of Viterbo, get lost, discover ancient alleys...

Have You A Bell Bottom?

I thought weird translations were reserved for Asia, but apparently I'm wrong. This one appeared on a billboard (which I think was advertising pants...) with 5 naked men facing away from the camera. A large black line covered their buttocks, and in the line was written "Have you a bell bottom?" This isn't Engrish - it's Ingrese. My personal favorite was during some commercial on la telivisione, when this message appeared in large, happy letters: FUN YOU SPACE MONKEY! (I'm still working on that one...)

Then again, I'll bet my Italian is pretty warped at the moment. All I can really say right now is 'good, yes, I (don't) understand, okay, how's it going/it's going okay, thunder, and bubble' (bene, si, (non) ho capito, allora (which can basically mean anything you want it to), va bene, tuoni, e bolla). Molto helpful, I know (bubble really comes in useful in a pinch...). Oh yeah, and I know stocazzo, which is apparently a very very bad word, though no one will say what it means. I feel that it would not be prudent to go around saying it very often....

I must sound a bit retarded when I try to piece together sentences but at the moment it's a great achievement every time I'm able to say something that makes at least a little sense, such as "there are many trees" (ci sono molti alberi), or "I eat slowly" (io mangio lentamente). It's funny, though - I've been here less than a week, and already I speak more Italian than I ever spoke Spanish, which I studied for, what was it.... 8 years? That does give me hope, though! I may really be fluent-ish by December! And the people here are so helpful! If I have trouble with a verb, they'll conjugate it for me until I remember io through loro; if I mangle Italian horribly they still try so hard to understand, and they help me along as I try to say things.

If you're ever in Italy, there's only one word you need to know, and that is "molto." If someone gives you food and asks something or other, all you have to say is "molto," because they're asking you if it's good or if you like it or something along those lines. It doesn't matter how many times you've had the same meal, everyone wants to know if you like it every time every five bites. In basically every situation, people ask "is it pretty?" "Do you like it?" "Are you happy?" and "molto" works in every case. And in a pinch, you can just spout off "bene, bene, bella, bene, bello!" till your head spins.