Growing up, a lot of my most sentimental and vivid memories take place near the ocean. During the summer, the ocean meant family and soccer games drawn in the sand, Maine lobster and late-night orders for ice cream written on the back of receipts; it meant poker games played with real money and bets between cousins, it meant drives to the Blockbuster to pick out movies, it meant a liberating sense of freedom undiscovered back home. It meant my brothers were my best friends and it meant the only sadness I was aware of was the sadness you felt when the sand was littered with starfish that had washed ashore during the night.
I couldn't expect a place to compete with the memories I have near the water in Maine, or even in Massachusetts. But I couldn't possibly have understood what it feels like to be in a city on the water. How it looks entirely fake, as if the mirage of buildings grows from the water like flowers sprouting in a garden.
How the buildings are exactly as you'd hoped a building would look if it had the privilege of resting on the Mediterranean for hundreds of years- carved and created to be artwork, to be historical memories of an ancient city like handprints in the sand.
It is impossible for me to even begin correctly representing or explaining Venice, though I'll futilely try. My first impression was so mystical, so enchanting, that I took a video rather than pictures, which I'll upload above. Our water-taxi driver was playing upbeat Italian music. I told him I liked the music, and he said, "Music, no work." There were buildings on either sides of us that looked like French and Italian hybrids: French detailing, swirly-designs on the railings, cream-colored long windows; but yellow and red buildings, Italian-esque, some with statues and dome-ceilings. The buildings lined up on either side like playing cards: neat and straight, one by one, but slightly chaotically.
I kept telling myself that a place like this could not exist. It is the surreal feeling you get when you enter Disney World as a kid: it isn't real (at least not the reality you're used to), but it leaves its mark on you regardless and fills you with that tiny thought that maybe it could be real if you let it.
This is the best example I can give. Not because it looks, feels, or smells anything like Disney World. But because I had the same sensation I had when I was a kid: the sensation that I was suddenly surrounded by something otherworldly.
It was unfortunate how little time we had in such a place. We didn't arrive until 11:00 a.m., and we left at 5:45 p.m. I could have stayed for weeks. I wanted to become properly acquainted with the city, with the people and the food and the culture. I wanted to know what kind of lifestyle you could possibly lead when your life is as fragile and fleeting as a city resting on water. But I'm lucky to have gotten the chance to see it at all, and perhaps if I'd stayed reality would have snuck back in and the magic of it all would have diminished.
While there, we watched a glass-blowing demonstration. The man took a strange gooey texture out of an oven, toiled with it using some iron instruments, and casually wrapped a piece of the goo from one end to the other right before it froze into place as a vase. If I wasn't already lost from reality, I was watching this. It was entirely surreal: have you ever seen something liquid, glowing red, freeze in a split second into an object as ordinary as a vase? After, in classic tourist style, the tour became a marketing tool for the glass-blowers: "for you today, we give you a great discount... you can get the entire Venetian glass table set for 625 euro, rather than 800 euro!" (I had 15 euro in my pocket and we were all concerned about whether or not we could afford lunch, so I think he misread his audience). After the glass-blowing demonstration we were given a break for lunch. I had the best spaghetti I've ever had (I'm not kidding: perfection), and a glass of Bellini, apparently a Venetian specialty. It was delicious. After lunch we all walked to a spot for our gondola ride. 4 of my friends and myself paid and piled in, toasting with some white wine we'd bought at a convenience store in plastic cups. We pulled out and began our ride.
For about three minutes, it was great. The sky had been cloudy all afternoon but I was happy about it: I thought it added to the movie-esque quality of the city. I think you know where this is going. Right when we pulled down a side street, it began to pour. Absolutely pour, like buckets were being overturned on the rooftops above us. I had a raincoat, but it didn't help much. The water managed to drench us anyway. The gondola man pushed us under a bridge, where we sat, freezing and dripping, for a few minutes. Then he moved us slowly out from under the bridge and right under another one, like we'd appreciate the exciting scene change. Despite all of this, I was happy. I don't mind the rain: how often in your life are you stuck in the rain? Plus, how often in your life are you stuck in the rain in a gondola in Venice? The way I saw it, it was a chance for a memory, and I wanted to make it a good one.
After we stepped off the most exciting gondola ride of my life (it was the only gondola ride of my life so it actually does take the title, although our views consisted of only the ceilings of two bridges), we met with the group for our grand tour. I'm usually really nerdy about tours. I make sure to stand right beside the tour guide in the front to make sure I can hear everything clearly. I take mental notes of things to remember. My friends even know not to say much while we're on a tour because I don't want to have a conversation and miss something crucial. So for a while I was stoked about the tour. I followed our tour guide obediently through the narrow streets, critically looking at the buildings and listening intently as he explained things.
The problem was that it was literally the most boring analysis of a city anyone could have ever done. The tour guide had a million weird tics and he spoke so slowly, with a slight smile on his lips the whole time like everything was on the verge of a joke. Also, he decided that what we really wanted to know while in Venice was how many times the theatre burnt to the ground throughout the 1900's (three) and why there was a bird on the side (it was a phoenix, because the theatre rose from the ashes. He didn't realise we were from Elon). Also, he was the only one under an umbrella while the rest of us were getting soaked. Our breaking point was when some weirdo (who we're really convinced was not even on the tour), hopped under the umbrella with the leader like that was something normal. We all looked at each other and escaped down the next side street we passed.
Walking around Venice is a blast, but it's costly. First off, if I lived in Venice and had a million dollars, everything I owned would be made of glass. In every store we walked into the walls were lined with the most beautiful, detailed, delicate glass vases and bowls and cups and figurines and jewelry and picture frames. For a while I thought about getting my Christmas gifts here, but the only thing I could really afford was a teeny glass porcelain cat, so I thought maybe not. It was still great to walk around. We weived in and out of the side streets, through the narrow alleyways, under cafe umbrellas and into other stores. Then we walked along the water. It's a city I could spend my life exploring.
Certaldo
The following morning we met at the train station at 8 a.m. with our classmates and teachers to depart for a food festival in Certaldo. I didn't know much about Certaldo, and it turns out, most people don't. It's the village Boccaccio (one of the three most influential writers in Italian literature; the other two, Dante and Petrarch, perhaps are more well-known) lived in, and we visited his house while there. Some of his stories are based there. Our Italian professor - a man I cannot help but feel resentment towards because he can turn a question about spaghetti into a lesson about the earliest civilisations' forms of food and how they connect to literature (because everything, apparently, connects) - spoke for about an hour about Boccaccio and read some of his work. Granted he interrupted his own reading of Boccaccio to tell us what he thought, because we really needed to know that he doesn't think the Renaissance ever actually happened, but even so, it was interesting. We climbed the stairs of Boccaccio's house to see the most incredible view I've seen thus far. It was similar to the views at the top of the Duomo and San Miniato but even more extraordinary because one side was all mountainous and agricultural terrain. Never in my life have I seen more plotted and well-organized land, all intermediate bits of flat grass, skinny and tall dark trees, and straight lines of planted soil.
After the view and the exploration of Boccaccio's house, we walked back out onto the street. Another thing about Certaldo: it is approximately four roads by four roads. Tiny. The street where the market was on was organized like this: approximately 6 vendors on the "main" brick walkway, two vendors off to the side, three vendors inside a church, and five vendors on the parallel road outside the church. The tables were usually manned by only one person. These people weren't like street vendors in Florence: they didn't know much English, they were calm and respectful and laid-back, and they didn't mind much if you looked for a while and didn't buy anything. They answered questions we had to ask them for class, and they were proud of their specialised foods but there wasn't any competitive feel to the festival amongst the vendors.
One vendor was selling cannolis straight from Sicily. Catherine and I split a pistachio one, and it was the softest, creamiest, yummiest cannoli in the world (I should probably stop saying everything is the best, since there isn't any room for improvement, but it's so hard to describe it any other way when you sit there eating and thinking, there can't be anything better). Another vendor was selling homemade chocolate and she showed us what was popular in Italy; American's understand plenty about chocolate - we eat it in large quantities, you can get it anywhere, and you can find it in most desserts - but we don't necessarily understand the important quality only found in a homemade chocolate. They were so rich, so warm, so creamy and soft and wonderfully, beautifully sweet.
After lunch we walked around some more, speaking in broken Italian with the locals (really didn't get us far, but we tried!) We departed for Florence around 3:30. I was happy with our trip to Certaldo. It might not have been Oktoberfest or Amsterdam, but it was something I would never have done on my own in Italy and it was precisely a place to go to get away from tourist locations and to see Italy for what it sometimes is: simple farming, a town with four streets, friendly and calm locals who are happy and proud making their living on homemade chocolate, and the most beautiful views in the world.
^Vendors for the "festival"
^Breathtaking
Other random experiences/thoughts:
1. Since I don't know where else to put general observations/experiences, I'll write some here. First off, in the French Riviera I witnessed the most peculiar situation between a French boy and his friend at the beach. The French boy stood over his friend, blocking the sun, and spoke for a long time. His friend, clearly sleeping, did not respond. I of course couldn't understand a word, so to me it was just a long mysterious soliloquy. But the boy's actions were fascinating, so I continued to watch from my spot. The boy became frustrated and animated, throwing his hands in the air, before deciding on another course of action. He bent down and picked up his swimming goggles and walked to the water. Then he marched back and tipped the water he'd picked up in his goggles all over his friend. Let me take this moment to mention that these boys could not have been younger than 18. They were most likely my age, at least late teenage years. His friend sat up, yelling, and then turned over and went back to sleep.
The boy looked remorseful. He sat down in the sand and pulled a pillow pet from his backpack - I swear it gets weirder- and put the pillow pet under his friend's head, speaking softly. After a moment of no response he took the pillow pet back and spent the next ten minutes attempting to strap the stubborn pillow pet (a sheep) around his arm, although it kept coming undone. He spoke to himself (or his friend, if he was ignoring the fact his friend was sleeping) as he did this.
This whole scenario was so ridiculous and entertaining. But it was a hundred times more interesting because of all the things the boy said that I will never understand or know. When I can't understand a situation, I listen to the people for some answers. Here, this was impossible. It was the most fascinating thing to realize how little I can understand about people, about my surroundings, about occurrences that happen right in front of me, without knowing the language.
Listening to other languages so frequently has also shown me something else: we are all speaking complete nonsense. Sure, it makes so much sense when you understand a language that it sounds entirely logical and reasonable - writing this down seems natural, like something I was always meant to do. But hearing another language puts it all in perspective: language is just the most crazy and ridiculous sounds put together to create symbols for things we have no other way of communicating. I listened to the French boy and I wondered what he heard when he listened to me: surely I sounded just as nonsensical as he did to me.
2. Another experience I had occurred last Tuesday. After class, I decided to go find the Universita di Firenze. I wanted to see where Italian students went to school, what an Italian school looked like, and (in very nerdy fashion) what the library looked like. So I began walking solo, enjoying my temporary independence. I was walking by the Duomo when I boy of about 20-25 on a bike called out, "what is your name?" I don't know how they always know I am American, but I turned around to say, "can't talk!" before realising I didn't know where I was going anyway. So I slowed down and said to him, "Dove e Universita di Firenze?" He said, "I will take you." I shook my head vehemently, repeating, "oh no! That's not necessary. No thank you." But he was already walking alongside me with his bike. Then I was afraid of offending him so I said, "alright, if you are already headed that way." (ha).
Here's the great part: I started off by asking him in Italian whether he lived in Florence. I asked him where he lived. Who he lived with. What he did for work. If he had a brother. All in Italian. He asked me a few questions back, which I answered methodically and carefully: "sto a Firenze per tre mesi"(I am staying in Florence for three months); "studio a Italiano e letteratura"(I am studying Italian and Literature); "abito in vei di cimatori"(I live on this street... probably could have left this part out, but I was so excited to be able to say it!); and so on. I answered (very grammatically incorrectly, I'm sure, but I tried) and told him my family was back in the U.S. I told him I lived with my friends. It was all very splotchy, but I was able to get my point across! The only slight glitch came when I tricked him into thinking I knew more than I did. He suddenly started asking more elaborate questions and saying longer answers, and I had no idea what he was saying anymore. Worst of all, I don't know how to say "I don't know" or "I don't understand," so I just kept shaking my head and saying, "no," and shrugging my shoulders to show him I didn't know.
Anyways, so then we reach a piazza the school is near and he says to me, "Universita?" motioning, like I'm showing him where it is. I said, "I don't know where it is! I thought you did!" But he doesn't understand me. So he begins walking again and asks an Italian on the street where the school is. Finally, we stumble into a random building (not sure what it was, but it did look a lot like a school's admissions building so I'll accept it), and he asks the lady if it is the school. Then he turns to me and nods, saying, "Universita!" and motioning to the room we are in. I grin and say, "grazie! Great, universita!" Then I don't know how to get rid of him. How do you say, thanks so much, go away now? I attempted by saying, "Ok, well... vado a bibliotecha. Ciao!" (I go to the library. bye.) He asked if I had a Facebook so I gave him my name, knowing there's no harm, but when he asked for my number I was quick to say, "oh, sorry, I don't have one!" Then, finally, he says, "Okay, ciao!" And then he grabs my hand to shake it, leans in, and kisses me on both cheeks. He walks away and I continue to stand there, so humored by his departure. I totally forgot Italian's kiss goodbye, and although I might have expected it from an odd older man or woman, I certainly never thought someone around my age would say goodbye like that. So uncomfortable!
Anyways, so then I wandered around their library (very boring and ordinary - not worth the walk, except I enjoyed watching the Italian's studying for a minute and observing differences in clothing, etc. from Americans). I crossed the street and walked past a few small cafes and a great courtyard that looked exactly as some American universities do - this is a spot I will return to. And then I returned home. I passed what I thought was an authentic restaurant on the way and demanded to return to it with my friends, but it wasn't until halfway through my meal that I realised it was another Americanized restaurant: the menu is in English, they have an "American breakfast," and most of the customers are tourists. I'm trying to find authentic Italian, but they always know how to trick me into thinking they are authentic!
3. On Wednesday night my friends and I went to the club 21 right across from our apartment (about three feet from our door!). I made one friend, an Italian, who knew such little English that he demanded I go outside to google translate a conversation. Understandably, I didn't talk to him long. Then on our way out we made some friends, a boy from Amsterdam and two boys from Florence, and went to Secret Bakery with them (its a law that shops here close at 10 to alleviate late-night violence... this one place, which looks like a garage door, stays open later and serves hot out of the oven croissants filled with nutella. Absolutely amazing and so much fun. You knock on the garage door and they open it and you have to whisper what you want. There is no menu and they don't tell you what they have. You just have to guess. Then they come back with a white bag and hand it to you in exchange for a euro).
After, we brought the boys back to our apartment because it was one kid's birthday and they wanted to "have a house party." We enjoyed talking to them: they were fluent in English, of course, but we practiced our Italian anyway. One boy, the birthday boy from Florence, showed me the most amazing card trick. He took three cards from a pile: a 2 of hearts, a 2 of spades, and a 2 of diamonds. Then he moved them around and flipped them upwards to show me that they were now all 2 of hearts!! THEN he said, "what is this?" pointing to one facedown. I said, "2 of hearts?" He flipped it over and it was a 7! I want to know how to do that.
4. Lastly, on Friday night I took a cooking class and learned how to make the most amazing tirimisu and ravioli from scratch. So much fun and so delicious.
That's all for now. I will continue exploring and observing every day. Buona giornata (have a nice day)!
^View from tower of Certaldo
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