An Artichokian Metaphor

I am currently in a love-hate relationship.

Right now it is mostly based in hate since artichokes and I are not in good favor with one another.

La Carne Non Più: Meat No More

This is one of my favorite stories to share, so please forgive me if you are someone who is hearing it for the bagillionth time.

As many of you know, last spring semester I studied away from the Georgetown Hilltop and relocated to the hillside of Fiesole in Florence, Italy. During those four months abroad, I commuted from my homestay to attend classes at Georgetown’s Tuscan villa, Villa Le Balze. As a homestay, I lived with another female student from the program in the home of a local family. My host mother was the sweetest, tiniest woman, and, as could be expected, she was an incredible cook. Every meal at Flavia’s table reminded me of those Sunday mornings as a child spent with my Italian great grandmothers.

Longing for a Conversation

I am in language withdrawal.

Right now I am suffering from an inability to speak in a foreign tongue. Having lived with Flavia and gallivanted throughout Italy for the past four months, my mind gradually began to think in two languages. Although I was far from bilingual, hearing Italian words became music to my ears and conversing in the tongue felt like singing a beautifully, eloquent song. Today, however, I am back in a country where ain’t, yo, home boy, BBM, and lol, among others, are everyday words and phrases.

In high school I studied Italian for three years, but I was unfortunately unable to continue with the language as a senior. Lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it), Georgetown required that I study a language during my undergraduate career. Looking to review and renew my interest in the language of my dad’s ancestors, I enrolled in intensive Italian courses during my freshman year at the university. As a student in the College, I was only required to take Italian through the intermediate level, so I completed my language studies at the end of last spring, or so I thought…

Arrivederci, Italia!

Orson Welles once said, “There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror.” No offense to Mr. Welles, but I think he forgot the emotion “anxious.”

After waking up Thursday morning at 4:30 to the sound of my alarm, I climbed out of bed for the final time in Italy. Outside my window everything was dark and eerily silent; only the occasional sound of car zooming by disturbed the silence of the morning. As I slowly lifted myself out of bed, the reality of what was to come began to sink in: in less than 24 hours I would be back in America.

Charlie and His Diet

My host dog is, or is supposed to be, on a diet. In light of the fact that all he seems to do all day is lie around, it doesn’t surprise me that he has a weight issue. But, as always, there is more attributed to his poor numbers on the scale than just his lack of exercise. The other culprit: Flavia’s delicious dinners.

Perhaps if Flavia was not such a good cook Charlie would be in better shape. But alas, Charlie is only two years old and already he has been advised by his veterinarian to start eating healthier. The problem for Charlie is that he really has no control over what he eats. Though I am sure he has no qualms about enjoying whatever it is in put in his bowl, he has no way of recognizing that the food he is consuming is contributing to his poor health state. How is a dog expected to lose weight when he is constantly being fed food too good for him to refuse?

L’Arte di Non Fare Niente

It is hard to believe, but in less than a week, I will be back in America. After more than three months abroad, I keep trying to tell myself that the clock and calendar will suddenly freeze, and I will be able to stay in Florence forever.

Although there is plenty of magic to be found in the Renaissance city, it seems there is nothing that can be done to stop time. Perhaps even worse, my last few days in Italy will not be a time of relaxation or contemplation. Rather, with my semester officially ending next Thursday, my to-do list includes a nine-page art history paper, 2,500 words for a class on European globalization, an Italian composition and two other tests to worry about.

Yet amid the craziness of finals, I am making a strong effort to practice l’arte di non fare niente. Italian for “the art of doing nothing,” this saying epitomizes the Italian ability to spend hours on end doing seemingly nothing. This is in sharp contrast to the fast-paced, have-to-do-it-all lifestyle of the typical American. With Starbucks coffee in hand and Blackberrys in their pockets, Americans seem to race from point A to B without ever taking a break.

To read more, check out the original post for Georgetown’s weekly magazine The Guide.

Morphing into Spaghetti

I can remember when I was little and my mother warning me that if I ate too much of one thing, then I would turn into that food item. Oftentimes the warning followed when I gobbled down too many chicken nuggets or too many Oreos. Upon hearing this idea, I would imagine myself morphing into a strange mass of breaded chicken or stumbling up the stairs as a giant chocolate cookie.

If this really were the case, it is likely that after more than three months living abroad  today I would resemble either spaghetti, penne, farfalle, or maybe even orecchiette. In light of my newfound beverage of choice, I might imagine that instead of blood, my veins would also be readily pumping wine. 

Where Every Day is Sunday

When I was younger, every Sunday was spent visiting my Italian grandparents. Dressed in our best to impress outfits, my sister and I loaded into the car, and our dad drove us to the tenement house he grew up in with his big Italian family.

Unlike the stereotypical Italian sons who live with their families well into their thirties, my dad moved out of his childhood home in his early twenties after he got married. Yet as a true Italian, my father recognized the value of Don Corleone’s quote to Johnny Fontane in The Godfather when he said, “A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.” Although my dad no longer lived on the second floor above his grandparents, or below the floor with his aunt and uncle and cousins, his strong connection to family kept him going back every Sunday.

Making sure that my sister and I were aware of our Italian heritage was a strong motivator for my father to drive us to our grandparents each weekend. When we arrived, we were always greeted with hugs and kisses just as warm as the heat emanating from the kitchen. On the table, there was an array of Italian goodies to satisfy our growling stomachs. While my sister and I dove into the homemade egg biscuits, chicken soup or pizza, my dad and his mother immersed themselves in conversation about the “good ole days” in their Italian neighborhood.

To read more, check out the original post for Georgetown’s weekly magazine The Guide.

La Bella Lingua

In his essay, “In Defense of European Languages,” Carnegie Mellon professor Stephen Brockmann describes Italy and its language as “beautiful, fun and sexy.” Though as an Italian-American I am certainly biased, I believe that professor Brockmann is absolutely correct in his assessment. With such eloquence and poetics, the Italian language is one of the most romantic to speak and hear.

Having studied Italian for three years in high school and one year intensively at Georgetown, I was very anxious to come to Florence to finally practice my language skills. Yet, even with four years of study under my belt, I felt a sense of unease flying off to a country that required me to speak a different language. Considering I had never spoken the language outside of the classroom, I had no idea what to expect when I arrived in Florence.

Before my plane took off from the airport in the United States, I got a little taste of what was to come during my four months abroad. As I waited to board my flight, dozens of passengers surrounded me conversing in Italian. There were times when my ears perked up to certain words and phrases that I understood, but the majority of the time I simply sat in awe admiring how wonderful the words sounded as they rolled off the Italians’ tongues.

To me, the beauty and romanticism of the Italian language can make even the simplest words and ideas sound exciting. This, however, can cause problems with someone like me who does not speak the language fluently. In my attempts to sound sophisticated and also grammatically correct, it is very easy to mispronounce a syllable or entire word and thus change the entire meaning of what was intended.

To read more, check out the original post for Georgetown’s weekly magazine The Guide.

 

Benvenuto a Firenze!

In the 14th century, Pope Benedict XI was on a mission. Looking for an artist to commission paintings for St. Peter’s Basilica, Benedict found himself in the “Jewel of the Renaissance,” Florence, Italy, where he encountered the immense talent of the painter Giotto. After requesting a sample of the artist’s work, the Pope received an unexpected submission: a perfectly round hand-drawn circle. It was extraordinarily simple, yet it was absolute perfection.

There is no comparison of artistic skill between Giotto and myself. I can neither paint nor sketch; I can’t even draw a straight line.

There is, however, a strong connection between us: a firm confidence in our talents and willingness to prove it. Drawing a perfect circle unaided is no simple task, but rather one that requires significant practice. Unlike Giotto, I have no masterpieces to prove my skills, but I am willing to put in the extra effort to become a master of some craft.

My academic passions in life are based in the arts of politics and writing. Longing to be in a place surrounded by people with similar passions and interests, I knew that Georgetown University was the school for me. After completing three semesters on the Hilltop, I am anxious to explore other areas of the world that exhibit the same fervor for culture, history and politics like D.C. Looking to Giotto, I have found it in Florence.

Just two weeks ago, I arrived in Italy to study in the small Florentine town of Fiesole at Georgetown’s Villa Le Balze. Like Washington, Florence is a city of pure allure and majesty, with a rich history and enthralling atmosphere. In the short time that I have been here I have already explored the Uffizi Museum, which showcases renowned artists like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. I have also shopped along the Ponte Vecchio and in the open-air markets, and I have fully embraced the Italian style of eating by enjoying multi-course meals.

While I am willing to let my guard down when it comes to my diet, I quickly realized that I must be more cautious about my public behavior. As an American — and especially as a female — I stick out like a sore thumb and, therefore, am an easy target for pickpockets and the opposite sex. I have realized that excessive smiling in Italy is perceived as an invitation to the men, so I’ve found it is better to appear occupied and enthralled with the surroundings than overly friendly.

But this has by no means deterred me from interacting with the locals. Rather than rooming at the Villa, I am living with a local family for the semester. Because of this decision, I am forced to practice my four years of Italian. Whether in my homestay or in the city, communicating in Italian is essential because it is the most efficient way to make my needs and ideas clear. It certainly was not easy to tell my host mother that the bathroom door had fallen off the hinges — but with lots of repetition and hand gestures, the problem was solved.

Regardless of feeling lost in translation, I am excited for all the adventures to come. With four months ahead of me to immerse myself in Italian living, I foresee a semester abroad as the perfect opportunity for me to become well rounded — just like Giotto’s circle.