I've gotten published in a magazine!
For a writing assignment on voice, we chose an author to parody and apply their style to our own Roma experience. I chose Salinger's style in The Catcher in the Rye and it got published by The American!
As of writing this entry, it can be found on the front page of their website, but here is a direct link:
http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=2372
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
"Parlare Inglese?"
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?
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?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A Writing Assignment - Acting Silly In Portugal
You ever say a word or sentence and instantly know you’ve said something stupid? The moment of realization is always a millisecond too late, as everyone is suddenly paying attention, and everyone catches and repeats the unfortunate remark.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Trevi Fountain
Walking through Rome, sounds can be a pretty predicable thing: cars honking, people chatting, the wind through the buildings, until, suddenly, sounds of a rushing waterfall?
Yes indeed, the infamous Trevi Fountain. You hear it before you see it and the intriguing sound draws you in till suddenly you’re in a medium piazza with a large fountain, one of the most famous fountains in the world for that matter. Unfortunately, the sounds that brought you here, aided by guidebooks, tour guides, and buses, also brings hundreds of others every single day to this little spot, turning a visit into a nightmare of navigating the crowds and vendors to a suitable spot to take it all in.
The fountain itself is absolutely amazing, to put it lightly. The first time I saw it I couldn’t speak for a moment as my mouth hung open in awe. The smooth white carvings of the massive stone gods give way as crystalline water flows through the course rocks to the sparkling blue waves below. It commands the piazza and from the side Neptune seems to hold up his hand to order his audience into silence.
But no one is listening. They are too busy yelling, stick fighting, staring at their gelato (never buy anything in the piazza while you’re here, about a block away is the best gelato I’ve ever had in Rome, so hold off temptation for this Italian obsession until you’re ready to leave), doing anything and everything except looking at the fountain. Even the people taking pictures do it only as something to cross off their list. For an instant they are as motionless as a statue, but if they just turned around and looked, they would see how true art really moves with such a still force that it is impossible to be captured with a camera. The horses charge toward the crowd and the Tritons strain to hold them still as hundreds of people sit along the cold white seats unaware of the force in front of them. It’s a madhouse of tourism, children climbing on the rocks, police whistles pierce the air, an annoying scent of tobacco everywhere, I’m constantly getting elbowed by someone and am chased out of the center by all the noise, though the second I move an inch, I’m in the way of someone’s picture. A rare few sit and soak in the artwork, and I instantly love them.
Just sit and look at something, just his leg, the musculature, the size, it’s beautiful. The more you look, the more it reveals to you. The coral on the sides, the roughness of the stone, you want to play with it, explore it, this place does not exist for visitors, but for lovers who can’t get close enough. Night falls and light dances off the caves of stone as a warm breeze drifts past. Time doesn’t deter visitors so it is best to find a seat on the side where it’s calm and lose yourself in Nicola Salvi’s masterpiece for a while before heading back into the chaos of the Roman streets.
Yes indeed, the infamous Trevi Fountain. You hear it before you see it and the intriguing sound draws you in till suddenly you’re in a medium piazza with a large fountain, one of the most famous fountains in the world for that matter. Unfortunately, the sounds that brought you here, aided by guidebooks, tour guides, and buses, also brings hundreds of others every single day to this little spot, turning a visit into a nightmare of navigating the crowds and vendors to a suitable spot to take it all in.
The fountain itself is absolutely amazing, to put it lightly. The first time I saw it I couldn’t speak for a moment as my mouth hung open in awe. The smooth white carvings of the massive stone gods give way as crystalline water flows through the course rocks to the sparkling blue waves below. It commands the piazza and from the side Neptune seems to hold up his hand to order his audience into silence.
But no one is listening. They are too busy yelling, stick fighting, staring at their gelato (never buy anything in the piazza while you’re here, about a block away is the best gelato I’ve ever had in Rome, so hold off temptation for this Italian obsession until you’re ready to leave), doing anything and everything except looking at the fountain. Even the people taking pictures do it only as something to cross off their list. For an instant they are as motionless as a statue, but if they just turned around and looked, they would see how true art really moves with such a still force that it is impossible to be captured with a camera. The horses charge toward the crowd and the Tritons strain to hold them still as hundreds of people sit along the cold white seats unaware of the force in front of them. It’s a madhouse of tourism, children climbing on the rocks, police whistles pierce the air, an annoying scent of tobacco everywhere, I’m constantly getting elbowed by someone and am chased out of the center by all the noise, though the second I move an inch, I’m in the way of someone’s picture. A rare few sit and soak in the artwork, and I instantly love them.
Just sit and look at something, just his leg, the musculature, the size, it’s beautiful. The more you look, the more it reveals to you. The coral on the sides, the roughness of the stone, you want to play with it, explore it, this place does not exist for visitors, but for lovers who can’t get close enough. Night falls and light dances off the caves of stone as a warm breeze drifts past. Time doesn’t deter visitors so it is best to find a seat on the side where it’s calm and lose yourself in Nicola Salvi’s masterpiece for a while before heading back into the chaos of the Roman streets.
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