Oktoberfest

This weekend I visited Munich.  It seemed different from other European cities I’ve visited, and perhaps that is slightly due to the very nature of it: a city rebuilt after World War II but with buildings meant to replicate the historical buildings of the 1400’s and earlier.  Apparently the Nazis were fervent with their documentation before the war, taking pictures of exact detailing of buildings for later replication.  It was hard to accept the tour guide’s explanation that the “building right in front of us was built in 1408” after hearing they were all modern replicas, but I suppose that in itself represents Germany’s chaotic history. 

 We slept on the 8-hour bus ride to Germany; we were awoken at 8 a.m. and frantically changed in bathroom stalls at the gas stop on the highway to be ready for Oktoberfest.  We were behind schedule and had no time for breakfast.  We arrived at the hostel at 8:30 and got to Oktoberfest by 9.  I hadn’t realized that Oktoberfest, although many other things, is ultimately a fair grounds.  People were packed in a space lined by tents and food vendors on either side.  I could see a Ferris wheel and other rides up ahead of me.  We walked straight into the Hofbrahaus tent, something advised to us by countless friends and relatives who had been to Oktoberfest before.  We found some Elon kids but didn’t want to stay with kids we knew – Oktoberfest, I’ve always been told, is about meeting people from all over the world (granted, Hofbrahaus is notoriously the all-English-speaking tent, but still).

We explored a bit and finally found some room at a table with a group of Australians and a group from Wake Forest.  This was great: a super well-rounded representation of the world. The Australians were all exuberant and animated – they’d been here for a while.  They’d all graduated from the same high school and all shared the same common backstory: they’d graduated from college and then they’d quit their jobs to travel around Europe.  They’d been travelling for about 2 years.  I resisted the urge to ask them how they could possibly afford it.  I found it fascinating that they were all in pursuit of adventure, giving up conventional success in favor of it.  In the U.S. it is common to study abroad and it is common to travel throughout Europe for say, a summer after graduation.  But it is very rare to hear of an American graduate travelling without an expiration date. Even rarer to hear of one quitting their job right out of college (essentially giving up something they’ve worked their whole education towards, and something necessary to repay loans for that very education), in order to spend their time and their money following a European travel itinerary planned day-of, if at all.   

            Anyways, so we heard their stories for a while.  A guy stumbled to our table during this: balding, goofy-looking, with lederhosen on and a beer in his hand.  The Australian sitting beside me leaned over and whispered, “this guy finds us at every country we visit.  The only reason we tolerate him is because he was going to buy his girlfriend a house but she dumped him.  So now he has plenty of cash that he uses to buy drinks for all of us.”  Sure enough, the guy flagged down a waitress and ordered a round (about 12 euro a beer) for the 6 Australian’s we were with.  I felt for him and his story, but I could see him the way the Australian’s saw him.  He fit the stereotype of the guy you only tolerate because he buys you drinks.  

            The rest of the day went relatively the same.  There were more random friends made that we’d then lose in the crowd moments later.  Great hot dogs and chicken (Germany is fantastic at meats). And, of course, beer.  We napped most of the afternoon.  I loved the experience but staying in a tent all day felt stifling and I wanted to spend the rest of my time exploring Munich. 

            The next morning we went on a bike tour.  This was great.  Seeing Munich, or any city, on a bike gives you the perspective of someone who lives there.  What it would be like to bike through a garden, to the grocery store, etc.  We also covered a lot of ground.  We saw a beautiful church and buildings that mirrored what we saw in France.  We saw the Hofbrahaus headquarters.  Our tour guide, another Australian, was hilarious and very well informed.  She joked about how much German’s love their beer, saying it influenced the culture in innumerable ways: she told us a [presumably] true story about a time when Sweden came to take over Munich.  Germany attempted to build a wall to stop them, but because Germans are permitted to drink 8 liters of beer per workday, they didn’t make it very far (the wall was about 6 inches high).  The Swedes came back and said they wouldn’t take over Munich if Germany could give them money; Germany could not give them money, but they ended up convincing the Swedes to leave with 30,000 (something like that) dollars worth of beer.

            Anyways, so the tour was great.  One thing I didn’t like (although perhaps it wouldn’t have been appropriate anywhere in Munich) was how seldom any symbol of remembrance for the Holocaust was displayed.  Perhaps this is because Munich does not want to be remembered in this way, but it seemed like a slight avoidance of the truth. Anyways, we watched some river surfers for a while.  We stopped for an hour for lunch and had half a rotisserie chicken each with French fries.  I don’t know how German’s aren’t obese.  We sat with the tour lady.  She told us she graduated from college and came to travel to Europe as well, similar to our friends from the day before.  As she said, “I travelled around for a while.  And then I met a boy here in Germany.  And so I stayed.”  She smiled as if to say, isn’t that always the case? We asked her if she was going to stay in Munich and she said, “oh absolutely not.  This really isn’t a place I want to live.  We’re saving up enough money to move back to Australia, him and I.”  Another Australian in pursuit of nothing but adventure.  I wanted to ask her what she wanted to do for work (I don’t think it was be a tour guide) but it always seemed to come second in priority for the Australian’s I met.  They’d much prefer a conversation about Europe or travel, so we spoke about that.

            After the bike tour, my roommates and I were dying to go to a Starbucks we’d heard about in Munich.  I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s been such a long time and we were craving coffee that tasted American.  Also, eating or drinking something we’re used to (Subway, for example), is so comforting that sometimes it’s hard to resist.  Anyways, so we found a Starbucks and then headed back to Oktoberfest.  We had no interest in returning to the tents, but we wanted to try the rides and the food.   We rode the Ferris wheel and observed Oktoberfest from a vantage point high above it. 

            The next day we went to Dachau.  The weather was cloudy and cold, which didn’t alleviate the somber mood of Dachau in the slightest (not that it should have).  It is one thing to learn about the Holocaust in books and on TV – it is another to walk the grounds the prisoners walked and fell on, to see the beds the prisoners slept and died on.  It was horrifically sad because it felt like the mood of Dachau hadn’t changed since and perhaps never would.  It was like walking along a cemetery, except the cemetery is only for those murdered.        

            We drove home through Austria.  The small houses, which looked like Monopoly game pieces, scattered the mountains and looked like they grew out of them.  The towns along the mountains were wonderfully simple, as humble and beautiful as the trees and rivers around them.  A small rusty train at the bottom of the mountain looked more out of place than anything else.  I couldn’t imagine what a life here would be like. 

On the ride home it dawned on me how lucky I am that happiness comes easily to me: I heard a few kids behind me complaining about things I’d never even realized should have concerned me.  They complained about not having wi-fi in the hostel (for what? Why are you so worried about commemorating memories rather than simply making them?); they complained about the weird people and the weird food of Munich; they complained about how uncomfortable the seats were on the bus and how the movie playing was stupid and how expensive the beer had been and how they needed more clothes and it was just so endless.  Of course, everyone has different tastes and everyone is entitled to a bad mood: but do they not realize how unproductive it is to sit and bemoan the very little things that do not deserve the power of a thought, never mind the power to determine a mood?  I wanted to tell them we are returning from Germany.  We are safe and alive and warm and fed.  If you focus one second’s thought on any of that, maybe you’ll feel content.  Maybe that’ll be a strange feeling for you, but maybe you should try to allow yourself to feel it anyway.

 ^Welcome to Oktoberfest :)

 ^Hofbrauhaus

 ^Beautiful church

 ^Where the gold ends, a Nazi used to stop people and take their names because they were taking this shortcut in order to avoid saluting Hitler.

 ^Touch the nose of the lion for luck

 ^So much luck

 ^Famous river surfers

 ^Germany street at sunset

 ^Dachau

 ^Austrian town

            

Venice & Certaldo

Venice

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.  

 ^the main market street

 ^our view from the tower

 The main street in Certaldo^

 ^Library in Boccaccio's house

 ^Boccaccio's backyard

^Vendors for the "festival"

 ^Best cannoli

 ^Typical Certaldo street

 ^homemade chocolate

^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

French Riviera/ Living Like a Local?

            As I write this, I am sitting on a slanted rock wall that allows the higher water of the Arno to flow into the lower water of the Arno, like a waterfall.  I chose this location to work on my “homework”(blog) after an extensive search that went like this: I got out of class at 3:15 and said goodbye to my roommates.  As much as I love doing things with them, I wanted to experience the city by myself to see how I could handle it like a local.  I began walking leisurely (what I thought was leisurely, until I realized I was speeding by literally everyone I walked by) across the Ponte Vecchio.  I stopped at a gelato shop and, before I could change my mind, bought myself a small cup filled with azteco (white chocolate and cinnamon – amazing) and lavender.  I’d been avoiding trying lavender because it sounded like I’d be eating perfume, but today I figured it was the middle of the afternoon and hot out, so why not try eating a flower.  I ended up loving it.  It wasn’t a strong taste at all. Maybe the best way to explain it would be to say it is like the creamiest, fluffiest vanilla ice cream, with a tiny bit of lavender flower sprinkled on top.  It probably still sounds ridiculous, because who wants to eat a flower, but it was the perfect snack for a walk along the Arno.  Then I walked to the other side of the bridge and along the Arno until I found a beach area.  I remembered being told that you could sit right beside the rushing Arno water if you sat further down a path beside the beach, so I began walking down this path.  Turns out, its covered by slick mud and pigeons and broken beer bottles.  I was considering staying anyway and finding a dry patch when I looked across the river and saw a perfect sitting area in my same location on the other side.  I walked back up to the street and was about to begin my trek to the other side when I noticed you could follow a path upwards and end up at a fountain high on a hill.  So I decided to do that instead.  I began walking up steep steps.  I’d already finished my gelato by then (stupid small portion sizes; stupid skinny Italians) and I was sweating, but I was hoping the top would be the perfect study spot.  When I reached it I sat down at the fountain; it was only then that I noticed if I walked further up, I could see the whole city.  So I picked my stuff up and began to walk the steep incline, flanked on either side by tourists and who I assumed were locals (because they were alone and without cameras.  Also, they didn’t have the same nervous-I’m-going-to-get-mugged look).  When I reached the top, I realized that it was absolutely beautiful… but there wasn’t anywhere to sit.  Then I decided that after all, I had liked that fountain spot, so I walked back to it and sat down.  Where I had a perfect view of the other side of the river and the perfect spot right beside the rushing water.  It was then that I decided I’d stop being lazy and just walk to it, so I grabbed my backpack and walked all the way to the end of the road to cross a bridge to the other side.  The whole time I was thinking, thank goodness I am alone, because no one on earth could tolerate all this moving and indecision.  Finally I reached the other side and walked a small rock path to the clearing.  I’ll post some pictures of the spot, but really it isn’t the view I like as much as the sounds: as I type I can hear rushing water that sounds like a waterfall.  I can hear birds flapping their wings as they fly off.  But best of all, I can’t hear any people or any sounds of traffic.  I am at peace.

            So now I’ll explain earlier today, since I loved it so much, and then I’ll explain my weekend.  I haven’t written in a while because we’ve been bombarded with homework, which is mainly a problem because I really do think I’d be learning so much more if I could put my pencil down and go out onto the streets of Italy.  But I’ve gotten into more of a pattern (do weekend homework on Thursday, right after class, so I don’t stress about it) and that helps.  Plus, our GST teacher has promised to cut it out with all the reading about food.  So, anyway, back to today.  It is probably one of my favorite days so far, because it is the first day I really feel like a local, not a tourist.  That isn’t to say I feel Italian.  It’s more to say that I feel like someone who is trying to acclimate herself to the culture around her, rather than forcing the people of Italy to acclimate to me and my language and norms.  For example, after class I was able to get to the other Academia di Europa building to sign up for a cooking class, which previously took me about 45 minutes to find because I was incredibly lost.  This time, I was there in 5 minutes.  From there I was able to find the bookshop with my map simply because I recognized so many street names.  I only started walking in the wrong direction once!  After the bookstore I began walking in the direction of the grocery store to get cereal and food for dinner, since it’s my turn to cook tonight.  On my way I passed a smaller grocery store and thought I’d try it (I also passed an older man standing beside a younger man.  The older man said ciao to me, so I politely said it back.  Then he said, “My younger cousin is for sale,” pointing to his cousin, but in my haste I thought he was annoyingly trying to sell me something, so I said a bit abruptly, “no, thank you.”  Then I realized what he’d said and felt awkward so I said, “oh! Sorry. Maybe!” Which probably wasn’t a much better response). 

Anyway, so I entered this small grocery store.  Not only was I able to find oatmeal (such a delicacy here – costs more than my dinner and is absent everywhere else I’ve looked) and honey, but I was also able to speak entirely in Italian to the workers of the grocery store.  Granted, I only said a few words like si (yes), cosa significa --- (what does --- mean… he didn’t let me finish this one before he interrupted in English, so there was that), and dove e miele (where is the honey), but the point was, I was able to understand how they answered me, even with some words I didn’t know.  When the man at the counter said pronto? (ready?) I replied “Pronto!” which was my first experience, basically, saying anything other than yes or hi in Italian.  So moral of the story, I’m pretty much fluent now. 

            After the grocery store I ate the most delicious meal of oatmeal, honey, and blueberry’s I bought at the market on my street.  Not exactly a typical Italian lunch, but I was feeling guilty after spending 5 whole euros on oatmeal.  So that will be my meal from now on.  Then I unpacked, went to class, and had my little excursion that led me here. 

            Okay, so now for my weekend.  This weekend my roommates and I booked a trip to the French Riviera through Bus2Alps, a tour group primarily for students studying abroad in Italy (or anywhere in Europe, actually, but for me, Italy).  We started the trip Thursday night at 9:00 p.m.  We didn’t arrive in Nice, France until 3:00 a.m.  We had one 45-minute break, of which I spent munching on Ritz crackers because I refused to eat breakfast at 2 in the morning.  I slept on and off the whole way.  When we arrived, it was immediately clear that the city was different, architecturally and aesthetically, from Florence.  Most of the buildings were a light cream color.  There weren’t any buildings I saw with pinks or yellows or browns, and no brick.  Most of the buildings had beautiful dark metal balconies with intricate designs.  The streets were much wider than in Florence, without cobblestone, and most importantly, without many cars or people.  The tram ran throughout the city, which meant cars weren’t permitted on a road as long as there were tracks on it.  This in itself was strange, because at all times of the day the road looked the way Florence does at 4 a.m.  But most importantly, like I mentioned, the roads were practically deserted of people.  I don’t mean literally, but I do mean that in comparison to Florence, there was probably a 1:50 ratio of people on the streets.  I never had to say excuse me or walk around anyone because there was so much free space.  The sidewalks themselves were the sizes of roads. 

            Anyways, so we all passed out immediately when we got into our beds at the hostel.  I imagined a hostel to be sort of a dirty and run-down place, but ours didn’t look much different from a hotel or motel (except part of the ceiling was apparently missing, but I didn’t even notice that until night 2 when my roommates pointed it out because why dwell on the negative?)  We got up, happy as could be (I say this incredibly sarcastically) at 7:30 a.m.  Showered and changed, we met downstairs in the lobby so our guide could walk us to the other hostel, where other students were and where our free breakfast was.  On the streets of France I felt energized immediately.  People were sitting outside on the sidewalks in small cafes, and it reminded me of perhaps a Hemingway novel or an old movie.  Truthfully, it never felt like a real place.  It felt like a movie set.

            After breakfast Morgan, Rachel and I decided to sign up for scuba diving.  I’d heard the night before that it was an option and I asked them to do it with me.  It was something I’d always wanted to do and was simultaneously terrified of doing.  Part of me thought, “why not just wait until another trip? You can do it anywhere,” but I knew I’d regret not doing it.  After signing up we got a tour of Nice.  We walked through smaller side streets that looked to me more like Florence (Nice is influenced by Italian architecture in some parts because it used to be an Italian city) with colorful buildings.  Still, the main buildings looked much different from what I am used to because they were cream-colored, not brick, and much more intricately designed with small but crucial aesthetic details.  I’ll post pictures because it is impossible to describe.  We also learned a few interesting stories, such as a robbery that took place in Nice where the man escaped out the window onto a moped and was never heard of again.  There were also 7 statues at the tops of some of the lampposts in the main square, and I fell in love with them when I learned that they pointed in the directions of the 7 continents. 

            We were given a break from our tour to walk through the market in downtown Nice.  Markets are everywhere, I’ve found, in Europe.  They are one of my favorite places to go.  Filled with fantastic looking fruits and vegetables, nuts, spices, honey and jam, desserts, meats, cheese – and each food so carefully considered, so significantly picked for freshness, that even buying an orange from the market is exciting.  Plus, it’s a good chance to speak with the locals and to try to bargain for deals.  I got a tangerine for free, for example, but I’m not sure if that’s bargaining so much as it’s simply the guy was too lazy to figure out the price of just one.  I looked at some of their soaps and plates, thinking of gifts for home, but couldn’t think of a practical way to go scuba diving with them.  After the market we walked to a top spot of Nice where you can see the whole city.  Admittedly, the tops of cities are beginning to look the same to me now, and I wasn’t any more impressed than I was at the top of the Duomo.  But looking out into the Mediterranean is experiencing something new every time you look.  It’s just so endless and beautifully blue.  We took pictures and stood beside a waterfall.  Then we climbed to the bottom.  I talked to our guide-friend, Dan, who told me about living in Alabama and a great art museum just built there with (apparently) the biggest collection of American art.  Something to add to the bucket list, I guess.  When we got to the bottom of Nice, beside the yachts in the harbor, our guide took those of us who were scuba diving to a little shop along the coast.  We were fitted with scuba gear and signed waivers.  The waivers, luckily, said nothing about our safety: only that we promised to listen and follow directions.  We grabbed sandwiches before leaving and I learned that the stereotype of the unfriendly French person is not entirely untrue: we were all yelled at, while handing over money, for “being in France but not speaking French! Ridiculous! Learn our language!” I completely agreed with the man, of course.  We were arrogant Americans, assuming that he should be forced to learn how to speak to us in his country rather than the other way around.  It would be the same if the French came to our country and began ordering hamburgers in French.  But I couldn’t help but feel frustrated: we were only here for one weekend! Why did we need to learn French for a weekend?

*sidenote: a group in a raft just glided down this little wall beside me… I have to do that!

            Anyways, after we were all fitted with gear we brought our tanks and masks onto the boat.  We took the boat out onto the coast and anchored near some high rocky mountains.  It took about two hours for it to be my turn, but in the meantime I swam around the boat and got my gear on.  Finally, a man said, “Who is next?” I’d wanted to go with Morgan and Rachel, but it seemed like this was my opportunity and we apparently couldn’t go together anyway (since we weren’t certified).  So I raised my hand and swam over to him.  He (aggressively) strapped a vest around me and handed me the mouthpiece for air.  He showed me the scuba sign for “okay,” one I already knew.  Then he said, “Do this signal if your leg is bitten off by a shark.”  He laughed.  I definitely didn’t.  He motioned towards the water. “Okay, go down.” He said.  It seemed too abrupt to me, but I put the mouthpiece in my mouth and went under.  It was the most surreal feeling to breath underwater.  Immediately I came back up because he pulled my arm.  “No hard kicking!” He commanded, showing me the motion with his hands of my apparently rapidly moving legs.  “Soft, gentle kick.” He slowed his hands down to show me.  I nodded, unable to speak because my throat felt blocked.  I was suddenly so nervous, but when he motioned for me to go under again I did.  Just like that, I was part of a world I hadn’t ever been apart of before.  It was the calmest sensation.  Truly, the only sound was my own breathing.  He held onto my hand and guided me lower.  I could breathe fine, and I’m sure I could have breathed like that for hours, but I’ll admit it wasn’t long before I thought I can’t wait to reach the surface and breathe for real.  It wasn’t that it was hard, but something about breathing underwater didn’t give me the satisfaction of a real breath.  Perhaps it was all in my head.  Anyway, so I followed him down towards the bottom.  I watched the fish swim, unaware and unafraid, past me.  They were all light blue or grey with small black or yellow spots.  I didn’t find them as interesting as I found the bottom of the ocean.  Since I wasn’t certified, this wasn’t far from the surface, and the guide was in control of my oxygen tank.  My only job was to kick slowly and observe, following his lead.  He touched the coral and sponge at the bottom, so I did the same, noticing my hand looked marble-white.  Then he reached in-between two crevices, and as if he’d planted it there himself, came out with a circular shell with a hole in the middle, which was apparently (I found out later) alive at some point.  I don’t know a thing about biology so I can’t say what it was, but it was purple and prickly and beautiful.  I held onto it gently with my hand for the rest of the time. 

            It was also interesting that I didn’t feel cold the entire time underwater.  I didn’t feel refreshed necessarily, either.  I guess I didn’t notice temperature at all after a while.  The man picked up a barnacle (prickly like a porcupine… I think a barnacle?) and put it in my hand, urging me with hand gestures not to move.  When I felt it suction itself to me, he turned my hand over.  It didn’t fall out.  Finally he picked it off me and set it down, pulling my hand so I could follow him along the bottom.  The entire sensation was unlike anything I could experience anywhere else or properly explain here.  Imagine you had a dream where you were stuck in an aquarium tank with these creatures all around you, but you could breathe and didn’t have any comprehension of time.  It could’ve been an hour in your dream, but it could have been only three seconds before you woke up.  This is what it was like. 

            After everyone had a chance, we pulled the anchor up and headed back.  On the boat ride back, I asked some guys and girls on our trip how they felt holding the guide’s hand.  Apparently, I was the only one who’s hand he held.  So I guess it wasn’t exactly protocol.  Maybe I looked like I needed the extra help, but some of the guys were joking, “you were on a date under there, huh?”  The guide came over to me and my friends and offered us wine, only encouraging the teasing, but none of us were about to turn him down.  Anyway, so finally we docked and went home.

            We got a quick dinner at some Chinese restaurant and then met at 9:00 at a bar called Wayne’s Bar.  It was a bar in downtown Nice where cover bands played each night, and the rule was that when a cover band was playing you could not sit down.  You had to stand the whole time, either on tables or chairs or the ground.  I didn’t mind the rule, but it wasn’t exactly the music for dancing.  They played slow covers of Jupiter, for example.  Also, the prices were ridiculous.  One beer cost 6 euro, and that was the cheapest thing on the menu.  Normally, a 6-pack of beer at the store costs about 6 euro.  So we didn’t stay too long, maybe an hour, before leaving.

            We planned on walking to a club but suddenly we were inexplicably exhausted (actually, it probably could be explained: 4 hours of sleep, tops?)  Instead, I asked if we could get crepes, the one thing I had been dying to do all day.  So we walked to this outdoor café and ordered crepes with sugar and strawberries.  So delicious and totally worth the trip.

            We went to bed by 12:30 and woke up at 8, so not the greatest sleep but not the worst.  We got ready quickly and had another free breakfast at the other hostel (each morning we had at least two pieces of toast and two bowls of cereal, since it was our only free meal).  Then we took the bus to Eze, a small medieval town with a perfume factory.  We were given a tour here, but it really seemed to me more like a great marketing tool for them: “this is where we make the best perfume using lavender… it’s only 26 euro if you want it in the big bottle, and we can give you a smaller bottle for 16 euro.”  After, we soaked ourselves in the various tester products simply because we couldn’t choose which smelt best.  It was fun, but it was basically a way to connive us out of money.  After the tour we walked to the gardens of Eze, with beautiful sculptures along the way and plants from all over the world (some cactuses, for example, were from Mexico.)  When we reached the top we took plenty of pictures.  On the way down we grabbed lunch.  Sandwiches here, for the record, are so much better than in the U.S.  Each ingredient tastes like you picked it straight from the garden. 

            We then took the bus to Monaco/Monte Carlo.  We were dropped off right in front of the Monte Carlo casino.  This was clearly a place for the rich.  We walked up a red carpet just to enter.  The ceilings were high and covered in elaborately painted murals of golds and reds and yellows.  We were stopped at each entrance point and asked whether we were going to enter the casino.  If we did, we needed our passport in hand.  We decided not to enter because it was 10 euro just to get inside and then I’d presumably lose all my money inside anyway.  I decided I will come back when I have unlimited travel funds.  So then we ended the day on the beach.  I swam in the ocean by myself for a while.  We read our books for class.  Then we went back to the hostel.  We had a great dinner at a seafood place – probably my most expensive dinner so far, 25 euro, and probably not worth it apart from the bread.  Still, it was fun, and then we went home and crashed.  We’d planned on going out but couldn’t find the energy.

            The next morning we had an 8 a.m. wake up call.  We were on the bus by 10.  We took the bus to our last destination, Antibes.  This is probably my favorite place so far.  Antibes is apparently the “yacht capital of the world” (with the most yachts in their harbors).  The town itself was beautiful.  To me, it consisted of (and I know this is only because I didn’t have enough time to truly explore) one straight road under a brick archway.  The road was lined with small French cafes, coffee shops, and bakeries.  We attended a market that closed at 1.  The market had the usual fresh fruits and foods, etc., but it also had beautiful jewelry and clothes.  I got a smoothie and fruit for lunch and ate it on the beach.  I spent time in the water and walked along a rock pathway to look out into the ocean.  We spoke for a while with some Europeans, a guy from Italy and a guy from Antibes.  I wanted to practice my Italian on the guy from Italy but chickened out.  At 3:45 we departed for Florence.  It took us hours longer than it was supposed to, and we didn’t get home until midnight.  But the trip was entirely worth it.

            That’s all I have time to write about now, because I’m supposed to be making dinner tonight and I’m sure my roommates are fuming that I’m not back yet (at least, if their hungry they are). But last mention of this spot: as the sun sets, it is the most beautiful and peaceful place in the world (only slight exaggeration).  The red-orange blazing sun is reflecting off the water and setting in a way so I can only see the city as one continuous shape of domes and bell-towers and trees.  There’s a cool breeze and the sound of the river down this little wall never ceases. 

 ^Monte Carlo Casino

 ^Antibes

 ^Antibes beach

 ^Nice

^Monte Carlo

^Inside the casino