Evenings are quiet, laid back. A stroll along the quieter canals, a sip of a sweet spritz in the shadow of a familiar campo. The sun sets at last on the pitched roofs of the campanile. Dinner's not a big deal, it's a plate of mixed cicchetti, a tapas-like affair of fried seafood, meatballs, tomato, something like that.
And you bump elbows with friends so easily. By chance. This town is so small, so tight that you can't help but run across the people you know, few though they may be.
Sitting on the steps of the train station before Brandolin took the train back to Treviso, two carabinieri approached. In slurred, accented Italian they asked for our documents, hands open, gesturing impatiently against their blue uniforms. My American citizenship unsettled them, and they flipped my drivers license over and over, looking for something, always hoping to find it on the other side.
Alice returns home from the mountains with shopping bags filled with wood, with paper, pens and exacto-knives for her architectural thesis. In the single-bulbed light of the kitchen she knocks down some calculations on an oversized calculator before constructing a maze of ruler-straight lines on paper.
To the drill of a construction site, to the clink of plates and tiny espresso cups, the bump and roll of carts over bridges, the people walk. They walk with purpose in sharp suits and bright silk ties and shiny shoes; they walk frailly, with a cane, or two, stopping for a rest at the uneven street corner; they walk under pressure, weighed down by a heavy camper's backpack and the need to catch an 8:00 train; they walk elegantly, with calm, hands behind their backs, swaying back and forth with a glance at each decorated storefront, an ear open for the nearest bell tower's chime. They walk carelessly, bumping their shopping bags against strangers' legs and poking themselves in the eyes with their sunglasses. Everyone walks in awe, wrinkles of disbelief on their foreheads -- it's almost too overwhelming, the volume of crenelated and tiled marble on such raw and chewed-away, soggy wooden supports.
But this Venice is normal; this go-around, the Venice that I see is normal and calm. It is normal, it is calm, and yet it is absolutely exceptional. I feel the flux of the crowds in my blood, in my lungs; I feel the range of prices and the qualities of products, the taste of fruit and fish, the silences and uproars of empty churches and crowded squares.
Culture shock.
-a
Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Monday, July 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Alla Trevigiana
I expected a swift pick-up at the airport in Treviso, and a simple drop-off. Where? That would be my friend's grandmother's house. She was on vacation, you see. It's a pretty random and complicated-sounding story, right?
Anyway, I knew it was Signor Fuser when he walked in, hands behind his back, yellow polo. He passed through the automatic doors, checked the arrival times, and then he figured the kid with the black duffel and overloaded backpack was that American guy he was supposed to find.
But no quick pick-up/drop-off deal did I receive; in twenty minutes we were in a buzzing Trevigian restaurant before a hot pizza and a cold beer. "I'm glad Helene has this calm, relaxed American friend," he said. "She's always in a hurry, doing a thousand things at once." Good thing I passed the test, right?
After a zippy tour around the grandmother's house in Villorba with Signora Fuser, I sat down with both parents for a glass of bubbly water. It fizzed more than usual. Later in the kitchen, I couldn't remember which glass was mine, so I took the Speedy Gonzalez one. The water was little help against the humidity; it seemed like the religious icons, pictures of the Pope, were all going to melt and slide down the walls. On the TV, almost too modern for such an old-fashioned place, a news story about a mountain festival is accompanied by Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."
By day, the fish market in Treviso is, well, a fish market. The workers hose down the wooden platform before row after row of fish on ice. By night, it's loaded with aluminum tables, chairs, young people, and later on, empty cans and bottles.
There's a fountain not many people know about in Treviso, fortunately Helene knew about it. It's called "The Boob Fountain." I don't have to explain much, but just so you know, there's a hilarious picture coming up.
Helene took me to the local pool in Treviso. It was surrounded by little cypress trees, and the tiles on the bottom were wide and smooth. Pool rules said you had to wear a different pair of flip-flops in the pool area. And everyone had to wear a swim cap. Mine was a flashy shade of neon red. Picture that, now.
At dinner they set little candles, citronella, afloat in a dish of water. All to ward off the mosquitoes, which spiraled above the fish and tomatoes. Marcello, Helene's father, smiled as he cracked open a heavy bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco, the best. In the humid garden, it tasted like summer.
A calm sort of nightlife wraps its way up and down the city's ancient walls. Drink-stand deals sprinkle the fringes of the historic center. At still more aluminum tables, girls bat their eyes and grind their heels into the gravel while the boys lean against the crumbly bricks.
Took a trip to Veneto Designer Outlets. Like Tanger, or whatever you know like that... you know, like a kind of consumer's Disneyworld. Here, we got crenelated stucco walls and bell towers in the Venetian style. It was wild, I tell you. Wild!
-a
Anyway, I knew it was Signor Fuser when he walked in, hands behind his back, yellow polo. He passed through the automatic doors, checked the arrival times, and then he figured the kid with the black duffel and overloaded backpack was that American guy he was supposed to find.
But no quick pick-up/drop-off deal did I receive; in twenty minutes we were in a buzzing Trevigian restaurant before a hot pizza and a cold beer. "I'm glad Helene has this calm, relaxed American friend," he said. "She's always in a hurry, doing a thousand things at once." Good thing I passed the test, right?
After a zippy tour around the grandmother's house in Villorba with Signora Fuser, I sat down with both parents for a glass of bubbly water. It fizzed more than usual. Later in the kitchen, I couldn't remember which glass was mine, so I took the Speedy Gonzalez one. The water was little help against the humidity; it seemed like the religious icons, pictures of the Pope, were all going to melt and slide down the walls. On the TV, almost too modern for such an old-fashioned place, a news story about a mountain festival is accompanied by Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."
By day, the fish market in Treviso is, well, a fish market. The workers hose down the wooden platform before row after row of fish on ice. By night, it's loaded with aluminum tables, chairs, young people, and later on, empty cans and bottles.
There's a fountain not many people know about in Treviso, fortunately Helene knew about it. It's called "The Boob Fountain." I don't have to explain much, but just so you know, there's a hilarious picture coming up.
Helene took me to the local pool in Treviso. It was surrounded by little cypress trees, and the tiles on the bottom were wide and smooth. Pool rules said you had to wear a different pair of flip-flops in the pool area. And everyone had to wear a swim cap. Mine was a flashy shade of neon red. Picture that, now.
At dinner they set little candles, citronella, afloat in a dish of water. All to ward off the mosquitoes, which spiraled above the fish and tomatoes. Marcello, Helene's father, smiled as he cracked open a heavy bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco, the best. In the humid garden, it tasted like summer.
A calm sort of nightlife wraps its way up and down the city's ancient walls. Drink-stand deals sprinkle the fringes of the historic center. At still more aluminum tables, girls bat their eyes and grind their heels into the gravel while the boys lean against the crumbly bricks.
Took a trip to Veneto Designer Outlets. Like Tanger, or whatever you know like that... you know, like a kind of consumer's Disneyworld. Here, we got crenelated stucco walls and bell towers in the Venetian style. It was wild, I tell you. Wild!
-a
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Photos! and Notte Bianca
Finding myself in the streets of Florence
Backlogged on photos. Here's the BC Reunion, Roma.
Giardino di Boboli in Florence.
When I shave each morning, I turn on the radio. The stations usually alternate between English and Italian songs. It was a cloudy day when a bouncy, upbeat Italian pop song came on. I slipped and nicked myself, right on my adam's apple.
Italy has been eliminated from the World Cup. It happened on the jovial feast day of San Giovanni, Florence's 4th of July. "Each one of us knows, deep down, that Italy will lose," said Luca in his well thought-out English. "But during the game, everyone will be absolutely convinced that they will win." Well.
Some character sketches. There's one other coed roommate couple in this program, Beth and Ashley. Ashley's a Canadian guy, over-aware that 95% of all people with his name are girls. He watches football, not soccer, and enjoys the little things. Like killing mosquitoes. Beth is a professor, also 28. She has a quiet first impression but has been to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.
She told me that story while we stood in a crowd, tangled in a mess of parked bicycles along the Arno. With thousands of Florentines and expats we watched the red, blue and green fireworks sail skyward from Piazza Michelangelo.
The next day Beth and Ashley hosted a dinner party. We drank a wine called "Red Viper" (I think Ashley picked it out because it looked cool - it was actually fruitier than we all expected). We played a game. I'd played before, in college, but the first time I'd seen it was in the movie Inglourious Basterds. You ask yes-or-no questions to guess the name on a card stuck to your forehead. I was Meryl Streep.
As I walk down the streets in this city, I pay attention to the license plates on the cars. They usually have two letters, a space and then a jumble of more letters and numbers. I always look for the initials of friends and family.
I was a little amused, a little disgusted to find a cigarette machine right outside a pharmacy. This country, never lacking in beauty, style or art, doesn't seem to lack much irony, either. I guess it's a human thing.
Saturday night was "Notte Bianca," white night, on the other side of the Arno River. That meant live music, cheap bar prices and hundreds upon hundreds of Florentine kids leaning on lampposts and fountains under yellow spotlights. All the trashcans were filled with cups and bottles by midnight.
I'm gonna mention some of my co-teachers. Corinne and Beth jumped Alice into a grocery cart and bumped her over the cobblestones. The locals turned from their trance music to watch, and grinned. I got separated and called a roommate from the Ponte Santo Spirito. That was my night.
Bravissimi.
-a
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
World Cup, Acqua Alta
I watched Italy's first World Cup match not at my apartment, not downtown with thousands of people in front of a huge projector screen. I was with two friends in my teacher program at a local bar (Piazza San Jacopino) with 60 year-old men and their grandsons.
In the streets are butts of cigarettes, broken bottle-glass and ticket stubs of busses, trains and concerts. All glazed with a city dust that creeps under doors at night with the mosquitoes.
During the day, my apartment is so quiet. Six hours before I give my lesson, I eat lunch to the hum of the fridge. I'm looking for a radio to fill in the cobwebbed corners with some kind of dialect that was already musical before it sang a song, one that was popular 30 years ago.
My teaching program's school, "The Learning Center of Tuscany," has a break room. Inside it is a coffee machine that has probably earned more of my money than the local bus system. There is a microwave, but no fridge. On top of it, there's a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Sending letters is worth the effort. It is a struggle in today's over-ramped techno-world. But sending a letter in Italy is a herculean effort (bet you like that classical reference). The post office is like a waiting room that also happens to mail stuff. Oh, and sometimes, a package arrives on time. I recently mailed a letter to NC State at the local post office. They made me buy 10 envelopes, so give me an address, I'll write you a letter from Italy.
Today I finally got my radio. It cost 25 euro, but it's well worth it for the fun we have in lesson plan preparation. Can't wait to bring it home.
Vespas are not really vehicles, I've decided. They're more like shoes. Let me explain. The paths people take while riding a vespa are no different from the paths people take while walking. You'd cut across that sidewalk to the other road on foot, and so you'll cut across that sidewalk to the other road on a vespa. Which means if someone's gonna bump into you, you gonna get nailed. By a vespa windshield.
Something weird happened today. I went out to lunch with some kids in my program, and it started raining really hard. Hail, in fact. That's not as weird as what happened later, when we got up to go back to the school and found about six inches of water on the ground outside. We stood with a group of orange-vested construction workers and waited a couple of seconds. My friends tied plastic bags around their feet, and braved the high water. I waited for the water to go down before going back. Didn't wanna mess up my nice shoes.
-a
In the streets are butts of cigarettes, broken bottle-glass and ticket stubs of busses, trains and concerts. All glazed with a city dust that creeps under doors at night with the mosquitoes.
During the day, my apartment is so quiet. Six hours before I give my lesson, I eat lunch to the hum of the fridge. I'm looking for a radio to fill in the cobwebbed corners with some kind of dialect that was already musical before it sang a song, one that was popular 30 years ago.
My teaching program's school, "The Learning Center of Tuscany," has a break room. Inside it is a coffee machine that has probably earned more of my money than the local bus system. There is a microwave, but no fridge. On top of it, there's a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Sending letters is worth the effort. It is a struggle in today's over-ramped techno-world. But sending a letter in Italy is a herculean effort (bet you like that classical reference). The post office is like a waiting room that also happens to mail stuff. Oh, and sometimes, a package arrives on time. I recently mailed a letter to NC State at the local post office. They made me buy 10 envelopes, so give me an address, I'll write you a letter from Italy.
Today I finally got my radio. It cost 25 euro, but it's well worth it for the fun we have in lesson plan preparation. Can't wait to bring it home.
Vespas are not really vehicles, I've decided. They're more like shoes. Let me explain. The paths people take while riding a vespa are no different from the paths people take while walking. You'd cut across that sidewalk to the other road on foot, and so you'll cut across that sidewalk to the other road on a vespa. Which means if someone's gonna bump into you, you gonna get nailed. By a vespa windshield.
Something weird happened today. I went out to lunch with some kids in my program, and it started raining really hard. Hail, in fact. That's not as weird as what happened later, when we got up to go back to the school and found about six inches of water on the ground outside. We stood with a group of orange-vested construction workers and waited a couple of seconds. My friends tied plastic bags around their feet, and braved the high water. I waited for the water to go down before going back. Didn't wanna mess up my nice shoes.
-a
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Expatria alla Fiorentina
My apartment in Florence. It's a little distant from the city center, and I like it that way. Our neighborhood is tree-lined and close enough to a grocery store.
I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.
Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.
I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.
Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.
We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.
As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.
Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.
Ciauu,
-a
I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.
Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.
I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.
Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.
We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.
As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.
Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.
Ciauu,
-a
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Last Day in Venice
I’ve been meaning to comment on how Anna and Juliana’s apartment has a wooden door with a round brass knob in the center. In an odd way I feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings every time I walk in.
When you enter the apartment, someone’s usually there. Often it’s Alice, because she’s working on her architecture thesis. There’s this unspoken rule that you have to say “Ciauu!” when you enter the apartment, and whoever’s home responds, “Ciauu!”
I went for a walk. Venice is like a funnel, and everything spirals down into Piazza San Marco. The Basilica looks white in the afternoon sun. The roof tiles lie in their onion-shaped, neglected beauty. Demystified and out of context, they remind me of a moldy shower.
The campanile soars above Venice’s skyline from far away. Up close, it doesn’t seem so big. Back at BC, I had a class in Campion Hall, with a window that looked out on the maintenance building and that brick tower or smokestack or whatever it was. On a crisp, clear day, and sitting in the right place in the room, I could trick myself into thinking it was a campanile.
I saw a dog take a shit in Piazza San Marco. The owner cleaned it up, but I’m still not sure how I feel about that.
Walking down by the Salute. Seaweed floats up through Coke cans and bits of Styrofoam to the stairs that descend into the water. There, it basks in the sun and resembles a pile of little dead snakes.
I traded pens with Anna for kicks. She got a Hampton Inn desk pen from Allentown, PA. I got an Italian pharmaceutical promotional pen. Sweet.
The idea of partying in foreign countries is a really weird idea, if you think about it. And yet, on an empty stomach, I hit the campo with Juliana, her friend Valentina (who I’d finally know in person, as opposed to only in photos) and Alice. We ended up in Rialto where this random old man took a little too much interest in our conversation.
Before heading off to Florence, I got a panino for the train. I was hungry, and didn’t know if it would be better to: a.) eat it slowly, digesting it at an even pace, or b.) wolf it down as fast as I could and have a ball of panino sit in my stomach while I gaze out the window of the countryside.
I chose option b.)
More on Florence later.
-a
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Granita? or Slushy?
Let's see, what we got today?
Hmm, I've learned since getting here that there's a wrong way to spread Nutella on a piece of bread. Apparently I've been screwing up for several years. But I may be getting the hang of it now. So look out, breakfast world.
The real trick is using a little spoon. With the knife, you'll break bread in a very unholy way. I dropped a piece on the terrazzo floor in the kitchen, and it blended in perfectly. I've never seen bread pull a camouflage trick like that. Poof.
Through the sweepy see-through curtains in the kitchen, I can see and hear the passersby shouting ahead at each other. It's not as good as taking a shower, but it's better than the TV. Which I've watched.
Alice and Silvia and I ate lunch together today while watching "The Bold and the Beautiful." The climax of the episode involved a photo-shoot and two cougars (one, a large cat, the other, a woman on the older side agewise). Italians prefer dubbed television and movies. As a once-active Godzilla fan, I highly approve.
I ran into a Brasilian girl on the way back to lunch. She asked me the way to the nearest vaporetto station, and I told her. She seemed new around town, because she asked, "A vaporetto. Now is that a bus or a boat?" She had pretty cool sunglasses though.
The price of silk ties has risen one euro in the past year.
Alice showed me Campo San Simeon Profeta, which is, according to her, "the quietest campo that looks out on the Grand Canal." I think it's true. I had a gelato, she had a granita. Basically, a granita is a slushy. But let's be real, what sounds better? Granita? or slushy? We talked NFL and NBA.
My friends from Treviso, Laura and Laura, came to visit. We spent the time in Campo Santa Margherita, where I pointed out British accents and Minnesota Vikings jerseys.
New phone number: (+39) 347 090 8321. Gimme a buzz should you randomly happen upon Italy.
With aficion, let's hope.
-a
Hmm, I've learned since getting here that there's a wrong way to spread Nutella on a piece of bread. Apparently I've been screwing up for several years. But I may be getting the hang of it now. So look out, breakfast world.
The real trick is using a little spoon. With the knife, you'll break bread in a very unholy way. I dropped a piece on the terrazzo floor in the kitchen, and it blended in perfectly. I've never seen bread pull a camouflage trick like that. Poof.
Through the sweepy see-through curtains in the kitchen, I can see and hear the passersby shouting ahead at each other. It's not as good as taking a shower, but it's better than the TV. Which I've watched.
Alice and Silvia and I ate lunch together today while watching "The Bold and the Beautiful." The climax of the episode involved a photo-shoot and two cougars (one, a large cat, the other, a woman on the older side agewise). Italians prefer dubbed television and movies. As a once-active Godzilla fan, I highly approve.
I ran into a Brasilian girl on the way back to lunch. She asked me the way to the nearest vaporetto station, and I told her. She seemed new around town, because she asked, "A vaporetto. Now is that a bus or a boat?" She had pretty cool sunglasses though.
The price of silk ties has risen one euro in the past year.
Alice showed me Campo San Simeon Profeta, which is, according to her, "the quietest campo that looks out on the Grand Canal." I think it's true. I had a gelato, she had a granita. Basically, a granita is a slushy. But let's be real, what sounds better? Granita? or slushy? We talked NFL and NBA.
My friends from Treviso, Laura and Laura, came to visit. We spent the time in Campo Santa Margherita, where I pointed out British accents and Minnesota Vikings jerseys.
New phone number: (+39) 347 090 8321. Gimme a buzz should you randomly happen upon Italy.
With aficion, let's hope.
-a
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Jetlag: Urban Legend?
Well hi there. My name's Andrew. I just graduated from Boston College with an indulgent bachelor's degree in English. To prove (or at least to lay the allegation) that I do have a future in some capacity, I'm attending grad school next year for a Masters in English. After that... well, the utility of holding your breath goes way beyond swimming.
That said, this blog will not be proofread or revised in any way. Take that as an inside track rather than an amateurist streak.
Today I'm writing from my friends' flat in Venice, Italy. I'm here until Sunday, when I take the train to Florence. As it goes, I'm signed up for an Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, which lasts a month. During that period I'll be living in Florence.
My journey began on a grey and silent day in Munich, Germany, when my Charlotte-bourne plane touched ground. The airport was more quiet than a library. I got halfway through "The Sun Also Rises" and picked at my fingernails.
The flight to Venice I know well. It took me over the Alps and the Dolomites. I could spot the island where my semester abroad program was. My generous Venete hosts Anna and Juliana, whom I met last year in Venice, are now employed by the same program.
Yesterday night we ate gnocchi and I made fun of my friends for never having heard the song "Say Aah." I'd say this country's about 3 months behind on the music. They're still on Tik Tok.
After that, we hit the vainglorious narrow streets of Venice. Took me back, really did. Chillier than normal, but we stared at the fisherman boats docked along the Zattere in protest of new government netting laws. After the which, we got a spritz in Campo Santa Margherita. It was sweet, the aftertaste this time was bitter.
I feel like my Italian sucks, though I've been studying it consistently. Feels kind of like a shirt that instead of getting too small after some time, it got too big.
I'm glad to be here.
That said, this blog will not be proofread or revised in any way. Take that as an inside track rather than an amateurist streak.
Today I'm writing from my friends' flat in Venice, Italy. I'm here until Sunday, when I take the train to Florence. As it goes, I'm signed up for an Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, which lasts a month. During that period I'll be living in Florence.
My journey began on a grey and silent day in Munich, Germany, when my Charlotte-bourne plane touched ground. The airport was more quiet than a library. I got halfway through "The Sun Also Rises" and picked at my fingernails.
The flight to Venice I know well. It took me over the Alps and the Dolomites. I could spot the island where my semester abroad program was. My generous Venete hosts Anna and Juliana, whom I met last year in Venice, are now employed by the same program.
Yesterday night we ate gnocchi and I made fun of my friends for never having heard the song "Say Aah." I'd say this country's about 3 months behind on the music. They're still on Tik Tok.
After that, we hit the vainglorious narrow streets of Venice. Took me back, really did. Chillier than normal, but we stared at the fisherman boats docked along the Zattere in protest of new government netting laws. After the which, we got a spritz in Campo Santa Margherita. It was sweet, the aftertaste this time was bitter.
I feel like my Italian sucks, though I've been studying it consistently. Feels kind of like a shirt that instead of getting too small after some time, it got too big.
I'm glad to be here.
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