It’s 2:00 a.m. London Time

As you can see, I’m parked at a nice little counter at the London-Heathrow airport.  It’s about 2 a.m. in the morning their time.

My trip here was pretty simple.  I called a taxi to take me to the train station in Florence, Italy. I discovered they charge an extra service charge if the driver gets out of the cab to help with bags.  Anyway, the train came, I got on without a hitch.

I made it in time to the regional train to the airport in Rome.  It’s a good thing I told myself to get there early because customs took a little longer than I was expecting.  The only thing that happened there was that my gate changed.  Other than that, it’s been a smooth trip.

Knock on wood.

I’ve been waiting a very, very long time to say I’ve made it anywhere without problems.

Ever since I’ve started flying, there is always a problem.  Like the Spring Break Fiasco of 2012.  Or the 2013 Easter Break Delay.  Or the time my flight was delayed … forever.

Anyway, it never happens when I’m with someone or with a group.  Then, it’s all good.  

Here’s hoping that my 12:50 p.m. flight to Atlanta will still fly and that my luggage will arrive when I do.

In the meantime, I’ve got to deal with having three different currencies in my wallet.  I’m probably going to be handing out euros and pounds for the next week when I get back to America.  

 

 

What do I say …

So here I am sitting in my apartment.  I’m typing up one of my final blog posts.  I’m surrounded by half-packed bags.  I’m trying to think of what I can say to describe this trip.

It’s true that it was study abroad trip.  I took photography and writing classes while I was here.  I learned new skills in both of the classes, but I can’t say that they taught me the most important lesson.

This trip to Italy has reconfirmed something I’ve known for a long time.  It’s that if you take the time to learn a different culture, you’re better off for it.  So many people get stuck in their own rut of their own culture and don’t branch out.  It’s my belief that stereotypes and misunderstandings stem from those ruts.

I’ll be honest.  I didn’t have much of an opinion – good or bad – about Italians when I got here.  I think I just generalized the trip to “I’m going to Italy” over “I’m going to be immersed in a new culture that could potentially change my life.”

Going even further, I would say one of the most important lessons about culture I’ve learned on this trip is that I can’t come in to a country with the idea that these people are repressed or deprived of anything. 

Sure, they don’t have dryers in Italy.  So what?  I heard many a person in my group complain about the lack of dryers and how hard it must be for the Italians.  I took a look around a residential street, saw all the clothes lines and decided they were wrong.  The Italians aren’t out anything because they don’t have dryers.  They have their own style and, to be honest, it may take a little longer but it’s fresh and saves energy.

Then, there was the water situation.  I drink tap water.  I always have.  True, I have a water bottle with a filter on it, but I figure if I can drink Waco water, then I can drink Italian tap water.  If you read my first blog post, then you know about my experience with water.  I’ve heard several Americans talk about the drinking water as though it’s bad.  I haven’t confirmed this, but I heard a rumor that Florentine water can lead to kidney stones.  If that’s true, then I’m in for a world of hurt.

As I’ve mentioned in another post, Italians don’t drink to get drunk.  I don’t go out late at night to pubs or bars, but I’ve heard that the majority of people who do that in Italy … are not Italians.  They’re most likely Americans.

However, my philosophy is that if you truly want the Italian experience, then you should embrace the Italian lifestyle.  Hang your clothes out to dry.  Drink the water.  Drink wine responsibly.

My final piece of the culture puzzle is talking to local people.  I’ve met so many neat people while I’ve been here, as I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, and I learned about Italian culture through them.

I met a girl named (and I’m about to butcher the spelling) Arriana (pronounced air-e-on-a with a little tongue roll in there).  She was selling scarves in a market.  We talked for a few minutes and I bought a scarf.  I took her picture for my scrapbook and showed her.  We exchanged email addresses.  As I stood there, she suddenly says, “No, like this!”  She grabs my purse and puts in front of me.  She then does the same with my camera.  Both of them have cross body straps.  She explained to me that even having it on my hip is risky because pickpockets will come along and steal a lens right off the camera or reach in the purse for a wallet.  

I’d already been aware of pickpockets, but having a local, who I’ve only known for a few minutes, look out for me like that was great.

Then, there were the old men.  If you’d traveled with me in Italy or if you take a look at my pictures, you’d probably notice most of my portraits are of old men that look like grandfathers.  Part of it is the fact they have great faces to photograph.  The other part is that most of them are so sweet.

During our Tuscany countryside trip, we visited Pienza.  It’s a nice sleepy town known for its cheese.  There were four old men who were sitting on park benches, enjoying their Sunday morning.  I’d already asked if I could photograph two of them.  A few of my classmates were snapping shots of the newcomers, who I’d actually met earlier as well.  

After the “photo shoot,”  I stuck around to get their emails/ addresses so I could send them the pictures I took.  Only one of them spoke English.  They were so nice and they got a kick out of us taking their picture.  As I was leaving, they said, “Ciao bella!”  It means “Goodbye, beautiful!”  

So, if you’re ever traveling abroad or anywhere for that matter, take the time to learn the culture.  It’s so crucial to having a genuine experience.  That is one of my take-aways for this trip.

Now I’m off to finish packing for my 32-hour traveling experience.  There might be another blog post after that, so look out for another one.  I’m stopping in London on the way back home so maybe I’ll meet some cool people there.  Ciao!

Quaking with Awe

I was sitting on my bed when it happened.  A tremor ran under me, but I thought it was just a big truck.  At the time, I had headphones in so I couldn’t hear the faint rumbling.  My closet doors started rattling and my bed started shaking.

It lasted long enough for me to question whether I should a) panic, b) get help or c) get more sleep because I was imagining things.  It was my second earthquake, but my first in Italy.

The power of an earthquake has always been fascinating to me.  I took a Rocks-for-jocks class (I’m a journalism major) and learned that while we can try to predict earthquakes, we’re much, much better at knowing where they originated after they happen.  It’s something I’m in awe of – we try to predict the weather, floods, the outcome of sports.  We always want to know when the next thing is going to happen.  With this particular natural disaster … let’s just say it’s tough.

Anyway, that started off my weekend on an exciting note.

Saturday a friend and I traveled by train to Pisa.  We’d been told there wasn’t much there besides the tower, but we wanted the typical tourist pictures.

We saw the tower, which is really leaning by the way.  I thought it was rather ironic that I’d just experienced a tiny earthquake and now was looking at a building that could eventually collapse because of lacking support.

It was beautiful.  I suppose I wasn’t ready for how close it would look to us.  For some reason, I’d pictured it across a green field and totally unapproachable.  We could’ve touched it.  I secretly wanted to, but I don’t think the ticket people would’ve appreciated me jumping a fence just to poke the tower, especially because I didn’t buy a ticket.

We saw the typical tourists holding up their hands as if miming at their friends but really just aiming for the perfect picture of them holding the tower up.

Most people come for the tower and I’ll admit that’s why I came.  However, the church next to the tower is amazing from the outside.  Unfortunately we needed tickets to go inside everything and that wasn’t on our list of to-dos.  Just seeing the baptistry, the church and the city wall was enough for me.  Besides the vendors with their little light up toys, it was a great scene.

The river, the streets, the people, the horses and carriages — everything fit together for a nice day trip.

All in all, it was a good weekend.  Now on to editing more of my 2,000-plus pictures.

Dining Don’ts

You go to Italy and you expect great food.  I, for one, was looking forward to the pizza.  The pizza was exactly what I was expecting — great, cheesy and totally Italian.

However, there were some things I wasn’t expecting.  Dining in any country tends to have a cultural norm attached to it.  In America, we expect good customer service, good food and free water.

Italy was totally different.  I hadn’t looked up dining in Italy at all.  I figured I’d wing it and follow the example of those around me.

Here are just a few things I’ve learned about dining in Italy from my time here.

First of all, if you sit down as a group, you pay as a group.  The waiter will bring one ticket with everyone’s meals on it and you’re expected to pay all together.  It makes it simple for the waiter, but not for us.  We Americans were used to waiters who will willing split the check for us and let us pay separately.  In Italy, it’s the ultimate working together test.

There was one time we successfully had the check split, but it was a hassle for the waiter because he wasn’t used to it.  

Another problem you run into when you’re paying all together is the fact not every has the correct change for their meal.  When all 20 of us were out eating together, collecting money was slightly ridiculous.  If not everyone was paying attention at the same time, then it just wouldn’t work without someone getting a headache over it.

Then, you have to be mindful that the waiter won’t bring the check until you ask for it.  Italians consider it rude to bring the check before you’re ready and even worse if they bring it before everyone at the table is done eating.  When we were out eating as a group, we were all done except one person who tends to eat a slower, yet constant, speed.  We asked for the check (she was OK with it) and the waiter expressed his concern that he would offend her if he brought it.  It took some convinced, but we finally made him understand it was OK.

In America, we don’t find it quite so offensive if someone doesn’t finish their meal.  Here, it is.  If you leave something on the plate, it’s either because you didn’t like it or you’re sick.  This is most likely because they almost always make their food.  No microwaves or heated up frozen stuff.

During our first dinner in Florence, they brought us course after course of food.  I’m a one-plate-and-I’m-done type person.  The meal was already planned by the Study Abroad in Florence program.  When I slowed down and couldn’t eat the new plate of pasta in front of me, the waiter asked if everything was OK.  I didn’t understand him, but the study abroad representative translated.  She had to explain to him that I wasn’t sick or didn’t like it, I was just full.  

Even the atmosphere in restaurants are a little different.  Americans understand noise.  They tend to be rather loud.  Italians aren’t.  In a restaurant, it’s not culturally acceptable to yell or talk loudly as we might in America.  When we are a little loud, we get looks from surrounding tables and we’re immediately written off as American.

Another thing I should have been expecting, but didn’t, was that wine is served with every meal.  You obviously have the option of drinking it, but Italians tend to have one or two glasses with their meals.  I don’t like wine and so I usually stick to water or Coke.  However, we were told when we first got to Florence that Italians don’t drink wine to get drunk.  They drink it as a nice accompaniment to their meal.  It’s not acceptable to sit at dinner and get drunk off of the wine in Italy.  If anything, it labels us as Americans, because the stereotype is that we love to party party and alcohol is part of that.  So, while wine is accepted here, it is not provided to we can get wasted.

There was something else I never really appreciated in America that I think I will now.  Water is not free in Italy.  There are no free refills.  If you order more than one of anything, you pay for both.  In America, it’s illegal to charge for tap water.  Here, the only water that’s free is the water that comes out of those little fountains on street corners.  Also, in America I get free refills!  

Something else you should know if you ever eat out in Italy is that you don’t leave tips.  There is a cover charge already added to the bill in most places.  It’s always good to check how much the cover charge is –they charge per person sitting down.  

This might be why customer service is not a high priority.  It’s not that the waiters or people at the counters aren’t nice.  They just don’t rush to get anything done for you.  Americans expect everything to come the instant they ask for it.  We consider it good customer service to give the customer what they want.  

What we consider poor customer service here could be part of the relaxed Italian lifestyle.  They tend not to rush to anything.  They don’t seem to concerned about getting concerned.  They’re the people who ask, “What’s the rush?” and sit down to have a good conversation with a neighbor.

That’s one thing I do like about Italian dining.  It’s a time of eating together.  Eating in separate rooms in front of different TVs is almost unheard of here.  Dining together provides fellowship.

I like some aspects of Italian dining — the checks at the end of the meal, the expectation to eat ALL your food, and eating with a purpose.  There are some things I miss about American dining though.  Free water, free refills, and prompt service are just a few things that I’m looking forward to having when I return to America.

The Godfather’s a Fake

I’m going to make an offer that you can’t refuse.  

I’d like you to read up on the real mafia.  The kind with political, economic and international ties.  Not the movie version.  I’ll tell you why in a second.

The movie The Godfather is a classic.  Horse heads, swimming with the fishes, and murders all around are characteristic.  The movie is also symbolic, and I personally love the music.

The myth of the movie was broken today when we had Prof. Valentina Dolara come and tell us about the mafia.  I’ll admit, I wasn’t entirely prepared to hear that the movie was unrealistic.  I know, I know.  I’ve previously complained about unrealistic movies in another post.  Anyway, now I know why the movie is deceptive.

 If anything, the movie plays up the mafia lifestyle.  The people in the real world who fight the mafia know that the life of a mafia member is not glamorous.  They don’t always enjoy pleasant weddings, lavish food or take expensive vacations.

According to Roberto Saviano, the author of Zero Zero Zero, mafia godfathers and bosses often don’t leave their homes for years. Saviano has a contract out on his life for the book he wrote about the mafia and drugs.

The real mafia doesn’t fight other families.  That’s gang territory.  The separate mafias have a certain understanding and respect for each other.  That’s one difference from the movie.

“It’s one of the first words that comes to mind when you think of Italy,” Dolara said.

The mafia influence in Italy is evident.  They are involved in the politics and the economy of Italy.  Several mafia groups participate in human trafficking, drug trade and waste trafficking.  In this way, they can control power and gain money.  Dolara explained to us that the mafia’s influence on politics could be seen two years ago in an Italian town.  They basically said, “You don’t vote for who we want in office and we’ll stop picking up your garbage.”  Bags upon bags of trash lined the streets because the mafia has a handle on waste.

What’s even scarier is that the mafia are not only in Italy.

“The mafia is a global problem,” Dolara said.  She pointed out that a single mafia group’s godfather could live halfway around the world from his people and still be in control.  It’s an international thing.

There are three ways to join the mafia:  you’re born into it, you’re chosen to be inducted or you volunteer for it.  There is a very strong cultural code among each mafia group that is difficult to understand from the outside.  Once you’re in, you don’t leave.

Part of this cultural code is religious.  Another part of this code is silence.  

Their golden rule of silence basically states, “I wasn’t there and if I was I didn’t see, if I saw I didn’t hear and if I heard, I didn’t understand anything.”  

Violence in the mafia is very real.  

They strive for fear, respect and obedience.  They don’t believe they’re wrong.  They don’t see the harm to society in their actions.

While The Godfather may glamorize the life of a mafia boss, it does capture the essence of what the mafia does.  Threaten with fear.  Seek out respect.  Accept only obedience.  

The end of the movie really states the religious side of the mafia and the idea of no wrong.  The main character could stand at his nephew’s baptism without blinking an eye while his soldiers murdered people.  

It’s very real.  It’s very dangerous.  

I’m so glad I know the basics of the real mafia.  Because when I go home, I won’t leave the mafia behind.  They’re in the U.S. too and going strong.

Lulo Loko

The guy followed me a good block before he decided to talk to me.

I’d seen him when I walked out of my apartment.  He was dressed like any other Italian man – scarf, pants, jacket, etc.  He carried a rather beat up satchel and rode a blue bike that had a built in basket for his artwork.

Lulo Loko pedaled beside me and began speaking to me in Italian.  I took this as a compliment, because it was nice not to be pointed out as the American on the street.  I decided to be sociable but to keep moving because I was on my way to a tour with my group.  When he found out I don’t speak Italian, he asked in English where I am from.

We had a good conversation for a few blocks.

I learned he is a painter who’s 5-year-old studio was closed down recently.  He’s making his big break this week in an event for painters.  When he found out I’m a writer and taking a photography class, he said he’d happily get me into the event so I could report on it.

Now, I’ve met sketchy people in Italy.  I’ve seen them and usually I can spot them.  He didn’t seem super sketch, so I decided to take a few portraits of him while we talked.  He wrote down his email, phone number and address of his new studio so I could contact him later.

Unfortunately, I have class right at the time the event would start.  It was a reminder that in America, we don’t usually strike up conversations with people on the street.  Oftentimes, we walk right by, looking straight ahead and thinking about our own business.

I know he was just trying to promote his work.  It was interesting to have a stranger start a conversation like that – but that’s how Italians are.

The Green Accordion

Everything. Everything and everyone is in your personal bubble when you’re on the regional train to Sorrento.  

When we started out on our venture from Florence to Sorrento, I was super excited to ride a train again.  You see, I’d never ridden a train except for the little one that choo-choos around Disney World.  My first train was from Florence to Venice and that one was nice.

Our journey was in two parts.  Step one – ride the nice train from Florence to Napoli.  This train was great.  We sat in nicely-cushioned seats, had our own little table and our own trashcan.  We even had a button that would raise a curtain when we wanted to view the landscape.  Of course, there were a variety of tunnels so the majority of the ride was dark, but the option was there.

Step two – catch the regional train from Napoli to Sorrento.  It seems like it would be no big deal, but you’d be surprised.  We hopped off the train and found our guide.  She promptly informed us that our next train would leave in 10 minutes.  Needless to say, an extra ounce of anxiety immediately popped up when we realized we had to rush to our train.  We made it through the gates and descended the stairs to the platform.  

It was dark and a little creepy.  People were already lining the platform, ready to board the train.  If we’d known what they knew, we would have been pressed right up against the edge of the platform.  

The train arrived and I could instantly see that it was shorter.  Much shorter.  It passed us.  We had to push through the throng of people to get a place on the train.  

Now, I’m not a fan of pushing people.  It’s normally a rather rude thing to do.  When I knew I’d be left behind if I didn’t, however, it became survival of the fittest.  

I technically didn’t push anyone.  I didn’t use my hands.  I was armed with a purse, camera bag and backpack.  That was enough to get people to cram.  I made it on the train and realized we were all packed in like sardines and there was no where to sit.

As the doors threatened to close, I heard an Australian woman behind me declare, “My front’s in, but I’m not sure about my back half.”  She managed to get her back half on the train and we were off.

I clung to the handle above me and attempted to eat a quick pizza frita I’d grabbed on the way through the train station.  It was difficult, let me tell you.  The train would speed along evenly, then brake.  Speed a little more, break.  Slow down. Slow down again.  Brake.  

We tumbled about in the train, but it was almost uncontrollable.  I even saw a few locals almost face plant on the person next to them (there was no room for them to completely face plant on the floor).  

Eventually, the tourists and other people cleared out and we were able to find seats.

That’s when the little boy came.  He came along the aisle, playing his tiny green accordion and looking at anyone and everyone with this tragic face.  A mini Pringles can hung from his instrument, banging against his accordion as he played as if it were begging for money too.  

My heart went out to him.  Yes, he was a gypsy boy.  Yes, he was adorable.  Yes, I wanted to give him money.  I knew, however, it would go directly to his mother/overseers who were standing at the front of our car.  They looked well dressed and well fed.  I know it’s difficult to judge a book by its cover, but I wasn’t about to help pay for this little boy to grow up to become a beggar or a gypsy.  This was already a routine for him.  It was sad.

All in all, the train ride was kind of fun.  It was an experience that I certainly won’t forget.

TAXI! … Maybe not.

*This post was meant for June 12, 2013. Wifi was sketch that day.

Movies lie. It’s true.  They make it seem like anyone can step onto a street corner, yell “TAXI” and actually get a taxi.  

I tried today.  It didn’t work out the way I’d planned.  You see, I thought I’d give finding my iPhone one last try before giving up.  Florence has a lost and found, but it is about a 40 minute walk.  So, I woke up early, walked down the street and planned how I’d call a taxi.

I waved at a few taxis.  After a while, I realized most of them already had fares.  I know there’s a way to tell from the outside of the taxi without having to creep on whoever’s inside, but I haven’t found that yet.

Anyway, I finally decided to call the phone number for the taxi company.  People had been giving me weird looks as I waved at every passing driver.  When I called, an Italian woman came on.  I said something to the effect of “Is this the place I get a taxi?” The phone cut off.  

From there, I decided to walk across the river and find a busier taxi spot.  My confidence waned as I noticed how they were all speeding along.

There was a tiny corner shop run by a local.  As I approached, my first instinct was to ask for help.  So I did.

He was very nice and understood English.  He even called the taxi for me.  It all worked out.

I still don’t know how to get a taxi unless it’s sitting there waiting for me.  However, it was an experience through which I learned that movie makers had a point in creating a lie around taxis.

If the film was realistic, the main character would wander around the streets, desperately searching for a ride.  That doesn’t make good TV at all.

Sea of Faces

They’re starting to look familiar.

Not only am I catching on to the layout of Florence, I’m also starting to recognize the people. I noticed the same people in their daily routines.  It’s kind of cool to think that I’ve been here long enough to start expecting to see certain people.  Like the accordion player on the bridge or that guy who runs the supermarket.  

When you think about recognizing people, it’s normally because you live in close proximity like in the same town.  We’ve been in Florence for more than a week.  That seems like a short time, but it seems longer to me.  The more I recognize, the more I feel like I’m becoming less of a tourist.  

It’s a fun feeling.

A Day of Firsts

Pick pockets. Risotto. No phone.

Today wasn’t all that bad.

I slept in, which was a blessing after the night I had running through Italy looking for my phone in the pouring rain.  I went to class.  I went to dinner.

For the first time in my life, I tried risotto.  I’ve always heard Gordon Ramsay talk about how the perfect risotto should look and taste.  To be honest, I thought mine looked pretty good.  Taste was a different matter.  It wasn’t terrible.  It wasn’t great.  All in all, I’m glad I tried it.  There were pieces of zucchini and parmesan mixed in with the rice.  Some of the rice didn’t seem completely cooked and the parmesan had this weird strong flavor that was rather over powering.  I like cheese, but this was a little too much.

After dinner, we stood talking in the square outside the restaurant.  It’s a nice place with a fountain in the middle.  It got exciting when I heard some people in my group yell over to another group of people.  Three guys were facing another man, who was accusing them of pick pocketing.  They’d stolen his phone.  He got it back.  The men weren’t too pleased that our group had yelled over at them.  This is the first time I’ve “witnessed” or been aware of pick pockets.  I’m sure I’ll be much more aware now.

This was also the first day in six months I’ve been without my iPhone.  I know, I know.  Phones haven’t always been around and I can live without one.  You’re right.  But try living in a foreign country and worrying that someone is taking your phone apart or selling it on the street.  It’s a constant thought in my head.  It’s like I’m in mourning, but it’s worse because I don’t know what actually happened to my phone.

All in all, not a bad day.  I got fed, I’m more aware of pick pockets and my phone is just a material thing.  Not too shabby.

Tiny Cars, Big City, Clueless Pedestrians

 Linda Wilkins

Learn fast, die trying or stay put. That’s the best way to survive.

When I first arrived in Italy, it was like stepping back in time. Then I saw the tiny cars zooming around, the trams gliding by and the buses squeaking their way through the city. The idea that the modern can successfully combine with the ancient is a foreign idea to Americans. Literally.

The ancient part of Rome is the only part of the city that many Americans acknowledge. They forget that it’s been thousands of years since that time and that Romans are no longer walking around in gladiator attire or togas. Modern Rome is also an important part of experiencing the city’s culture.

I came close to death each day I was in Rome. You take one step into the street without knowing the way the traffic works and you might as well be committing suicide. I’m sure the Romans are used to silly Americans walking around in a daze, so they almost always stop, but you can’t always count on that.

There lanes in the street for cars and buses to follow. However, it works like the pirate code in Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. The pirate code was more like guidelines than actual law. The lanes in Italy are optional. Cars don’t have to stay in them and motorcycles tend to ride wherever they’ll fit. The trams have drivers who can brake when they need to and people can freely walk on the rails.

There are three kinds of tourists. Those that learn and live, those that resist and fight back and those that remain ignorant.

The tourists that never learn the foreign culture haven’t grown or gained anything. They’ll wait 30 minutes on a street corner until the traffic dies down before crossing. They’ll complain about the bus and tram systems and never attempt to learn how it works. I saw many a tourist begin walking across the street when the little green man ‘walk’ flashed and then immediately pause halfway when a motorcycle continued to come down the street. The motorcyclist hit his brakes as though he were used to camera toting tourists freezing like squirrels in the road.

Then there are those that know they’re in a foreign place and yet expect the Romans to somehow change their culture or habits to suit the tourist. With my study abroad group, I heard several in my class wonder aloud why the trams didn’t stop and wait for everyone to get aboard. They questioned almost every aspect of the Roman traffic system. I saw one person in the group shake their finger at a car that was speeding along the road. The driver wasn’t doing anything wrong by Roman standards, but in America he would be pulled over by the police. Arguing with a passing driver that can’t hear you doesn’t do any good except to give your lungs a work out. The drivers in Italy have grown up in that culture. They aren’t going to change to fit your idea of American driving.

The tourists who learn the system tend to fair a lot better than those that resist or ignore it. After about two days wandering in Rome, I realized I was acquiring something like a sixth sense about when to move to the sidewalk or when to dash across traffic. After a week, I had intuitively learned to listen for cars approaching from behind. I understood that the drivers are used to pedestrians and will not purposefully aim for you. In this way, I learned to trust the drivers. It took a while.

There was one point when I was walking in the street. A taxi turned down the road we were on and proceeded to drive toward us. In my mind, I believed I was clear of the taxi. It continued to come at us. I heard my professors warn us that the taxi was coming. I heard them tell us to get on the sidewalk. Stubbornly, I continued in the street. The taxi did not stop. I could have hugged the taxi because it was so close to me. A feeling of terror mixed with surprise took hold of me as I did a quick jig to the side. The wind from the taxi blew around me. I immediately started laughing. While this situation could have ended a lot worse, I felt like a true Roman – unafraid of the traffic and willing to take a few risks to get where I need to go.

I’m learning and so far I’ve survived. Tourists should take the risks of learning a new culture – it pays off in the end.

*This was a story submitted for my classwork.

iPhone Frenzy

I ran frantically to the bridge where I’d been just 20 minutes before.

It was raining. I was in my pajamas, raincoat glistening.  Running up the sidewalk, a passing car’s tire sprayed water on me.  This happened two more times before I reached my destination.  

You see, earlier tonight we were photographing fireworks over the river in Florence.  It was a lot of fun.  The problem was that my camera wouldn’t point high enough by just sitting it on the wall and I couldn’t hand hold it and get a good shot.  I, like a genius, used my phone to prop the camera up.  

The rain came and we decided to head back to the apartment.  It was only then that I realized I no longer was in possession of my iPhone.  Whoops.

In a crazed panic, I threw on my raincoat, grabbed my keys and Italy phone and ran to the bridge.

Of course it wasn’t there.  It could be swimming with the fishes in the river.  It could be lying in a trash bin.  Someone could be trying to break into it.  

I stood on the bridge for a good five minutes staring at the spot where my phone should be.  The rain fell lightly on my head, but still quickly drenched me.  I was styling a tie-dye T-shirt, comfy pants and Keds.  In my head, I imagined dramatic music from a movie like Titanic playing in the background.

The phone is just a material thing, so I’m not entirely devastated.  I think I was more upset because it wasn’t like I was pick pocketed.  I left the phone out for anyone to take.

Either way, it was an eventful night.  At least I got good pictures out of it.  My phone served me well even until its final moments.  It will be missed and possibly replaced when I arrive back in America.  Thank you, iPhone. It’s been fun.

Stair Steps to the Sky

I imagined climbing endless stairs.  It wasn’t pleasant.

Today I, along with four other people, traveled to San Gimignano in Italy.  It’s a small city with mainly historic buildings that haven’t been modernized.  Any where you look, you see a medieval style structure.  It was great.

We knew when we got there that there was potentially a tower we could climb.  This city sits on a hill, so climbing a tower would only improve the already impressive view of the surrounding country side.

Eventually, we found the tower.  It didn’t cost much to go up it.  I’ll admit, I was hesitant.  I wanted to climb because I wanted pictures.  The lady behind the counter said it was 220 steps to the top.  That’s half as many that it takes to reach the top of the Duomo in Florence.

Thinking back, it doesn’t sound like much.  At the time, however, I imagined climbing and climbing and being unable to make it to the top.  It sounds a little silly, I know, but it’s a tiny fear I have of getting stuck somewhere and not being able to come down.

Even though my head was saying no, my hands reached into my wallet and I paid for a ticket.  I followed the other two people with me to the entrance of the stairs.  We started climbing.

I paused after the first flight because there was a room full of old art that I wanted to see.  When I returned to the stairs, I noticed an elderly man was just ahead of me, practically jogging up the stairs.

When I saw him, I’ll say I got a little competitive.  No way was this guy going to out-climb me on these stairs.  So I kept going. And going. And going.  I counted the whole way up.

When I finally reached the top, it was a great feeling.  First of all, the view is breathtaking.  Secondly, I’d climbed a lot of stairs and felt great doing it.

Climbing the tower was a good decision and only reinforced the idea I can climb the Duomo (dome) of the church in Florence.  That’s around 440 steps right there.  Still intimidating, but imagine the awesome feeling and pictures I’ll be able to get when I finally climb it.

The moral of this story is this:  If you see an elderly man beating you up a flight of stairs, you better get over whatever is holding you back.  You might just see something beautiful if you do.

The Most Interesting Man in the World

It can be tough to find the most interesting person on the street.  

Some people just have that face or outfit that makes them stand out from the sea of people swirling around in the ever circling whirlpool of life.  

For my photography class, we have to take pictures of people.  It’d be easy to walk up to anyone and ask if I can take their picture.  The problem is that not every one can give a picture that wow factor that an interesting face can.

This morning we wandered through the streets of Florence looking for interesting people to photograph.  Every one had some quality that makes them interesting, but sometimes it just wasn’t enough for what we wanted.  

Eventually, we came across a man reading a newspaper and sitting in a little cafe.  His face crinkled when he smiled.  He was happy when we asked to photograph him.  Mr. Salvatore spoke little English, but he understood when we’d ask him to turn his head this way or look at the camera.  At the end of our little session, we asked the lady behind the counter to ask him his email address so we could send him the pictures.  She informed us that Mr. Salvatore was homeless.  Looking at him, you’d never know.  Walking by, you’d never guess that this happy-go-lucky man didn’t have a home.  

Later, we walked down the street and saw another interesting person.  He was using a crutch to walk because of a deformity in his leg.  He carried a cup to collect money from passers by.  We took his picture.  As I snapped the last shot, a lady walking by said something really rude to him.  In my picture, I captured his face, his anger as he heard her words.  I proceeded to put some money in his cup and ask him his name.  Antonio.  I wished him a good day and smiled.  He smiled in return, which was a big contrast to his face moments before.

On the way home, a friend and I spotted a rather uniquely dressed individual.  He was walking the same way as we were, so I could follow him without seeming like too much of a creeper.  I quickly adjusted the settings on my camera and hoped he would pause.  Unfortunately, he was turning down another street.  I proceeded to chase him.  Calling after him, he turned and nodded his approval when I asked to photograph him.  I knew he was in a hurry, so I snapped the picture you see above.  Mr. Wanny Antonio Di Filippo gave me his card and wished me a good day.  It was only later I discovered that he is the President and CEO of Il Bisonte, which is a well known brand for leather.  If you’d like to know more about him, visit http://www.ilbisonte.com/eng/2013_the_diary.php.

While I’ve still got to work on discovering cool faces in the crowd to photograph, I am constantly surprised by the people that you meet.  I have a feeling that photography is going to be a way to get to know interesting people such as Mr. Salvatore, Antonio and Mr. Di Filippo.

 

Historically Modern

Who knew it’d be so hard to build something new?

During our tour today, our guide Stefano told us that getting permission to build new buildings or add on to older ones is really difficult in Florence.  He showed us one place on the street that has been under construction for 12 years because the people who had to approve the project said the new canopy would be “too modern.”

I’d never considered the idea that Florence or any other city with such a long history would have difficulty deciding between becoming modern or preserving its heritage.  Back home, there are places that are protected because they are historical locations.  Some people even fight to have buildings declared historical.  I started thinking about the consequences if that happened in a city like Florence.

There’s an old building literally every 10 feet.  Imagine how difficult it is to decide between whether this building has enough historical significance to remain old or if that building should become modern.

I don’t claim to know the politics behind anything like this in Florence.  It’s just something I don’t think many people know or consider when they visit places like this.

Firenze

After living in Florence, Italy for five days, I’ve finally got the lay of the land.  The streets are made of cement blocks and I trip every 10 steps.  It’s all part of the experience.

The people here are not so different from us.  We may dress differently and speak different languages, but all in all we’re still people.  Just today I met an Italian who was more cordial than some people in America.  Nova does not speak much English but was kind enough to allow me to take his picture.  From what I could understand, he is originally from Rome and is just traveling to different cities.

My experience with the resident Italians has only reinforced what I’ve known for a good while now.  We should take the time to learn about other people, to talk to them and to understand them.  Many people around Nova avoided him or just snapped a picture and moved on.  I understand that he looks like he’s begging for money but from what I saw, he wasn’t.  He was simply enjoying the view like any other tourist.  He tried his best to have a conversation with me and it was great when we finally understood each other and could laugh at our struggle.

I’m still walking around in shorts and with a camera on my shoulder, a trademark tourist.  Hopefully that won’t daunt my mission to make new friends.  Who knows who I’ll meet in the upcoming weeks!

Roma

Rome if you want to – and I definitely wanted to.

It’s been a week since my arrival in Italy.  Rome was my first stop with the Baylor study abroad group.  After a week of walking, eating and little sleep, I’ve already had enough experiences to fill a whole notebook.

There are several things I’ve learned about Rome.

First of all, Americans stick out like a sore thumb.  Some of the characteristics of Americans versus Italians were explained to me by my professors and my Study Abroad Italy guide, but most of them were observed.  Romans tend to wear pants and jackets frequently.  I’ve yet to see any Italian wearing shorts.  When the weather was good in Rome, I wore shorts and that instantly separated me from the Romans. In addition, the rather large camera hanging from my shoulder at all times was a dead give away.  Then, there is the language barrier.  I can walk into a store and say, “Buon Giorno!” as much as I want and still be pinned as an American.

On one of our walking tours with our guide Giovanna, she told us that the little fountains that can be found all over Rome produce water that is safe to drink.  I was skeptical for a while.  I had my own water bottle and that was good for me.  That week we had walked miles around Rome.  That day in particular was tough – we walked up hills, around buildings, up jagged stone stairs, and barely paused for spaces of about five minutes each.  After touring Capital Hill and the coliseum, we made our way to the Pantheon.  To get there, we had to climb a hillside.  By that point, my water had run out.  The combination of jet lag, blisters, and slight dehydration slowed me down.

Through the headsets we were required to wear during the tours, I heard Giovanna say, “Right up here are the natural spring waters.” That’s all I needed to get me up that hill.  Some of my group was already gathered around the water squirting out of a statue’s mouth and I was just putting my bottle under the tap when Giovanna explains that this is the same water that runs through all of Rome.  I paused.  I hadn’t wanted to drink the water in the other fountains.  There was no telling where it came from or what bacteria was in it.

In that brief moment, I recalled the numbers of people who would stop and take a swig of water.  Surely they wouldn’t offer it to tourists if it was unhealthy.  I stopped myself there.  Tourists.  That’s what I was.  Wasn’t I here to learn the Italian lifestyle – to do what they do? In an instant, the cool water filled my bottle and I sipped happily.

To be a tourist is easy.  Throw on a backpack, shorts and a camera and gawk at every ruin you see.  To be immersed in a culture, to embrace it is a bit more difficult.  While I knew I’d still be pinned as an American, I could at least attempt to not be that American who avoids doing what Italians do because it’s dirty or that’s not how it is in the states.

I have a month left in this country.  A month to live like an Italian.  I’m sure I’ll be drinking a lot more fountain water while I’m here and I don’t have a problem with that.