A peculiar thing happened today: a sassy old lady marched up to my friend Allie and I and confidentially said in the most American Italian I’ve ever heard, “parlare inglese?”
I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”
Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.
This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.
Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apartment. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Today's Response to Poetry
Two in class free writing responses to this poem: http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/10/06/081006po_poem_warren
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
A Writing Assignment (aka homework) - Wandering
Walking through Rome is always a tale of discovery. The roads twist and turn with the flow of the city, losing you in its comforting maze until suddenly it opens up and you are awestruck, faced with a bright piazza containing some grand fountain. This could never happen in the United States. This couldn’t happen anywhere else in Europe. Only in Rome do the streets suck you in and lose you, hiding its treasures within a labyrinth of city life.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Evening Exploration
It was near the end of the day when I heard the music. Drifting through the closed windows in the back of my apartment was a haunting yet jazzy melody. I’ve heard this same tune before, but never figured out where it was coming from. I went out onto the balcony and listened. It was loud, filling up all the space between apartment buildings and coming from the south. I went to the front of my apartment and threw open the windows. Nothing. Not a single sound besides the cars driving by could be heard. How could something so loud on one side not reach the other, two rooms and a hallway away?
This was the day to finally investigate. I had shut myself in all day working and now I would discover the origin of the mysterious music I heard weekly. Maybe it was a band playing at a cool club. Maybe it was a weekly open air concert at a park. Maybe it was a traveling guitarist, roaming the streets in search of fans. Whatever it was, I’ve heard it for over two straight months and I had to know.
The night was clear and warm, something that had become rare during my stay here. I followed the street toward the closest point to the music I now wasn’t hearing, but no matter where I walked, I couldn’t hear it. Could the apartments be that good at blocking noise? Frustrated, I decided to just continue my walk, going down a street I had neglected these past weeks.
Restaurants, cafés, patisseries, all empty. Waiters sat outside smoking, watching me walk by. No one was on the street at all. I checked the time: 7:05 on a Sunday night.
Continuing my walk down I began to think I was on some sort of highway. There were green signs posted every once in a while telling me the direction of large Italian cities. Suddenly, the buildings stopped and fenced in field started. I looked through the bars and was shocked to see a lit castle-like structure, complete with tall circular guard posts, which I immediately hurried towards. Through twisting streets and renaissance buildings I finally reached the structure and realized it was actually a wall, the same wall by my apartment, and inside was a park, Parco degli Scipioni.
Somewhat disappointed and somewhat delighted about how common antiquity was in Rome, I decided to venture down another nearby street, turning this way and that before soon realizing I was lost. Damn. As it was the midpoint in the term I was really getting annoyed at how often I could get lost. I thought about the path I took but was still utterly confused, and so I chose a direction and stuck with it. Ten minutes later I noticed a leaf covered sign: Napoli. Highway? I live next to a highway type thing! And thus, five minutes later, I was saved.
It’s weird how much a place can change in about an hour. At 8:35 the streets were filled, the restaurants had lines, and light flooded the area. I walked back to my street by the park and faintly heard a jazzy tune drifting down to the street, out of a bedroom window above.
This was the day to finally investigate. I had shut myself in all day working and now I would discover the origin of the mysterious music I heard weekly. Maybe it was a band playing at a cool club. Maybe it was a weekly open air concert at a park. Maybe it was a traveling guitarist, roaming the streets in search of fans. Whatever it was, I’ve heard it for over two straight months and I had to know.
The night was clear and warm, something that had become rare during my stay here. I followed the street toward the closest point to the music I now wasn’t hearing, but no matter where I walked, I couldn’t hear it. Could the apartments be that good at blocking noise? Frustrated, I decided to just continue my walk, going down a street I had neglected these past weeks.
Restaurants, cafés, patisseries, all empty. Waiters sat outside smoking, watching me walk by. No one was on the street at all. I checked the time: 7:05 on a Sunday night.
Continuing my walk down I began to think I was on some sort of highway. There were green signs posted every once in a while telling me the direction of large Italian cities. Suddenly, the buildings stopped and fenced in field started. I looked through the bars and was shocked to see a lit castle-like structure, complete with tall circular guard posts, which I immediately hurried towards. Through twisting streets and renaissance buildings I finally reached the structure and realized it was actually a wall, the same wall by my apartment, and inside was a park, Parco degli Scipioni.
Somewhat disappointed and somewhat delighted about how common antiquity was in Rome, I decided to venture down another nearby street, turning this way and that before soon realizing I was lost. Damn. As it was the midpoint in the term I was really getting annoyed at how often I could get lost. I thought about the path I took but was still utterly confused, and so I chose a direction and stuck with it. Ten minutes later I noticed a leaf covered sign: Napoli. Highway? I live next to a highway type thing! And thus, five minutes later, I was saved.
It’s weird how much a place can change in about an hour. At 8:35 the streets were filled, the restaurants had lines, and light flooded the area. I walked back to my street by the park and faintly heard a jazzy tune drifting down to the street, out of a bedroom window above.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
The Rain in Rome
Is it really supposed to rain this much? Before I got here I expected a few weeks of scattered showers, but suddenly the sun would break through the clouds and people would sing and dance in the streets. Kind of like Mamma Mia, but the Italian city version.
This has happened a couple times (the song and dance provided by me), but it’s always been a false alarm: a few days of sun, but once you put away the heavy coat forever you hear torrents of rain coming from the open window. This was al tolerable at first, but as midterms approach at school, I’m making the realization that half my time here, in sunny Italy, is going to be spent under an umbrella.
The Italians seem unperturbed by it, though inexperienced with it. They smack the umbrellas into the side of walls, street signs, and passersby. Getting anywhere has become a game of dodging the metal tips of umbrellas that follow you wherever you move. It’s no wonder half the population seems to walk around with broken umbrellas and street vendors are at every corner dangling their wares in your face, people here must got through an umbrella per week!
It’s also become clear that the rain is out to get me, like a personal vendetta for doubting its existence. My roommates decide to stay in, I make plans to go out: cue rain. I run out of eggs or milk: cue rain. I decide to work on my homework in the living room: cue an instant hurricane outside that knocks the windows open and drenches the papers that are now flying about the room.
When I decided to come to Italy, it was a decision based on wanting something different. I wanted a different culture, a different language, a different way of looking at life that would open up new ideas for me. Well, it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles, so I guess this is something different.
This has happened a couple times (the song and dance provided by me), but it’s always been a false alarm: a few days of sun, but once you put away the heavy coat forever you hear torrents of rain coming from the open window. This was al tolerable at first, but as midterms approach at school, I’m making the realization that half my time here, in sunny Italy, is going to be spent under an umbrella.
The Italians seem unperturbed by it, though inexperienced with it. They smack the umbrellas into the side of walls, street signs, and passersby. Getting anywhere has become a game of dodging the metal tips of umbrellas that follow you wherever you move. It’s no wonder half the population seems to walk around with broken umbrellas and street vendors are at every corner dangling their wares in your face, people here must got through an umbrella per week!
It’s also become clear that the rain is out to get me, like a personal vendetta for doubting its existence. My roommates decide to stay in, I make plans to go out: cue rain. I run out of eggs or milk: cue rain. I decide to work on my homework in the living room: cue an instant hurricane outside that knocks the windows open and drenches the papers that are now flying about the room.
When I decided to come to Italy, it was a decision based on wanting something different. I wanted a different culture, a different language, a different way of looking at life that would open up new ideas for me. Well, it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles, so I guess this is something different.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The View From My Apartment
I can read for hours in my apartment’s living room, never noticing how much time goes by. The room itself isn’t that spectacular: white walls, cheaply framed abstract art, a table, some chairs, two couches, and a TV in the corner. The light always stays the same, reflecting off the walls and keeping everything moderately bright. That is, until sunset, which is when the latestness of the hour finally makes itself known.
It’s amazing. All throughout the day cars honk their horns, construction on the street corner continues to make a giant hole grow, ambulances seemingly drive in circles around the street, people yell at each other at the top of their lungs, and just when I don’t think I can take anymore of it a warm orange glow fills the room. Silence falls over the street as pink clouds sift past my window. It really does happen in an instant. One moment I’m reading over my homework, and suddenly I can’t see the words clearly as the room becomes dark and gray.
The glow doesn’t last for long, and if you run to get a camera you miss it. That said, I had my camera with me this time, but it still couldn’t capture the warm look of the room. Outside the sun raced toward the Americas as I snapped a couple photos. San Giovanni in Laterano changed from tan to pink to orange to gray in the span of five minutes and the moment I leaned out my window towards the left I was in awe. I think I stopped breathing for a second as I stared at the horizon, camera forgotten. These are the moments when I remember I’m in Italy. The rest of the day I’m just in another city, quickly navigating through crowds, doing homework in my apartment, impatiently waiting for the metro to arrive. The language barrier isn’t even an issue for me anymore, since I rarely pay attention to what people are saying at home. Instead it’s moments like these, when I can’t even begin to imagine how all those Renaissance painters could even begin painting when they had that impossible view as their guide. I glance at my camera’s screen. It’s a nice image, but it’s just a tiny part of the sky that is surrounding me, making silence golden, and time slow down. And by the time I look up again, it’s all gone. The streetlights are on, the sky has darkened, and clouds blow in for tonight’s storm. It’s just a normal cityscape again as I shut the window on the ambulance that drives by and turn on a light.
It’s amazing. All throughout the day cars honk their horns, construction on the street corner continues to make a giant hole grow, ambulances seemingly drive in circles around the street, people yell at each other at the top of their lungs, and just when I don’t think I can take anymore of it a warm orange glow fills the room. Silence falls over the street as pink clouds sift past my window. It really does happen in an instant. One moment I’m reading over my homework, and suddenly I can’t see the words clearly as the room becomes dark and gray.
The glow doesn’t last for long, and if you run to get a camera you miss it. That said, I had my camera with me this time, but it still couldn’t capture the warm look of the room. Outside the sun raced toward the Americas as I snapped a couple photos. San Giovanni in Laterano changed from tan to pink to orange to gray in the span of five minutes and the moment I leaned out my window towards the left I was in awe. I think I stopped breathing for a second as I stared at the horizon, camera forgotten. These are the moments when I remember I’m in Italy. The rest of the day I’m just in another city, quickly navigating through crowds, doing homework in my apartment, impatiently waiting for the metro to arrive. The language barrier isn’t even an issue for me anymore, since I rarely pay attention to what people are saying at home. Instead it’s moments like these, when I can’t even begin to imagine how all those Renaissance painters could even begin painting when they had that impossible view as their guide. I glance at my camera’s screen. It’s a nice image, but it’s just a tiny part of the sky that is surrounding me, making silence golden, and time slow down. And by the time I look up again, it’s all gone. The streetlights are on, the sky has darkened, and clouds blow in for tonight’s storm. It’s just a normal cityscape again as I shut the window on the ambulance that drives by and turn on a light.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Laundry Day
It stops being a vacation once you have to do laundry. It’s the moment where you realize can’t just throw your dirty clothes in a suitcase, hop on a plane, and leave it all till later. I did laundry a little over a week ago. And it sucked.
As far as I can tell, Roman washing machines are miniature plastic death traps covered in numerous buttons and knobs that trip the circuit breaker every five minutes. The machine itself, conveniently located in the bathroom for some reason, is just as big as a washing machine back home, with an interior one fifth the size that resembles a shiny metal cheese grater.
This, of course, made me nervous with my clothes. My roommates had already tried using it the day before I did with frightening results. This is what I woke up to that day:
“Oh my god! My underwear is blue! My underwear and EVERYTHING is blue!!!”
By the time I had stopped laughing and went to investigate, I had come to this conclusion: yes, everything was, indeed, blue, and no, I was not going to touch the questionable detergent they bought in the local marcado.
After a trip to the supermarket and a careful reading of the poorly written instructions left by our landlady, and I felt confident enough to try out the machine for myself. I carefully picked out items I would not miss, just in case they magically changed during the wash, slid out the drawer on the machine, and was promptly confuzzled all over again.
You see, all washing machines here have a drawer on the front of the machine that you slide out to pour in all the stuff you’re going to wash your clothes with, four sections in all. Each area is marked by a simplistic symbol, like a flower for instance. However, the instructions had not bothered to mention what each symbol stood for. Google answered that question for me, though I still have no idea what the square on the far left is used for.
The number one thing I hate spending my time doing is shopping for clothes. Specifically the type of clothes shopping when you have specific things you need to buy. I also was never planning on shopping for clothes while in Rome and spending more money then I needed to. For these reasons I was absolutely dreading the outcome of my laundry day.
Two agonizing hours later I rushed to the washing machine and opened the door. After a flood of water poured out (this, unfortunately, is normal for our beloved machine) I inspected the clothes and let out a sigh of relief, my clothes were fine. The next hour was spent kicking the “out of order” dryer, wringing out my drenched towels and shirts, cursing the torrents of rain that made the clothes line obsolete, and carefully hanging things I needed on the bathroom heater.
All said and done, it took three days for everything to be washed, dried, and put away. It probably won’t take as long now that the rain isn’t as strong anymore and I’ve figured out how best to utilize the heaters, but I’m still not looking forward to tomorrow, when I have to do laundry all over again.
As far as I can tell, Roman washing machines are miniature plastic death traps covered in numerous buttons and knobs that trip the circuit breaker every five minutes. The machine itself, conveniently located in the bathroom for some reason, is just as big as a washing machine back home, with an interior one fifth the size that resembles a shiny metal cheese grater.
This, of course, made me nervous with my clothes. My roommates had already tried using it the day before I did with frightening results. This is what I woke up to that day:
“Oh my god! My underwear is blue! My underwear and EVERYTHING is blue!!!”
By the time I had stopped laughing and went to investigate, I had come to this conclusion: yes, everything was, indeed, blue, and no, I was not going to touch the questionable detergent they bought in the local marcado.
After a trip to the supermarket and a careful reading of the poorly written instructions left by our landlady, and I felt confident enough to try out the machine for myself. I carefully picked out items I would not miss, just in case they magically changed during the wash, slid out the drawer on the machine, and was promptly confuzzled all over again.
You see, all washing machines here have a drawer on the front of the machine that you slide out to pour in all the stuff you’re going to wash your clothes with, four sections in all. Each area is marked by a simplistic symbol, like a flower for instance. However, the instructions had not bothered to mention what each symbol stood for. Google answered that question for me, though I still have no idea what the square on the far left is used for.
The number one thing I hate spending my time doing is shopping for clothes. Specifically the type of clothes shopping when you have specific things you need to buy. I also was never planning on shopping for clothes while in Rome and spending more money then I needed to. For these reasons I was absolutely dreading the outcome of my laundry day.
Two agonizing hours later I rushed to the washing machine and opened the door. After a flood of water poured out (this, unfortunately, is normal for our beloved machine) I inspected the clothes and let out a sigh of relief, my clothes were fine. The next hour was spent kicking the “out of order” dryer, wringing out my drenched towels and shirts, cursing the torrents of rain that made the clothes line obsolete, and carefully hanging things I needed on the bathroom heater.
All said and done, it took three days for everything to be washed, dried, and put away. It probably won’t take as long now that the rain isn’t as strong anymore and I’ve figured out how best to utilize the heaters, but I’m still not looking forward to tomorrow, when I have to do laundry all over again.
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