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