In the morning, the campi between San Giacomo dall'Orio and Rialto whisper with quiet local activity. There's the bump of a push-cart on the steps of a bridge, a slurrish shout-out, always in dialect. Fruit vendors and cafe owners are the first ones, more than ready for the waves of tourists that break upon the city at 10 sharp.
The Sagra continues, I think it lasts a week. Maybe less. Each day the rows of wooden tables are unstacked and hosed down, the plastic outhouses cleaned out by a limby old man. The string lights still stretch from church tower to treetop, and the row of white tents still has a vague perfume of sausage and polenta.
A carrier boat pulls up to to the nearby canal steps and unloads a couple hundred crates of Beck's. Yesterday's shipment lies in chips and pieces over the cobbled pavement, some held together by the red label.
At the gelateria near Anna and Juliana's place, they have the weirdest, most outlandish flavors. Basil, peach, licorice, to name a few. A Japanese guy in front of me asked if he could have a taste of the coconut. The gelato man shrugged. "Why? It tastes like coconut."
The next morning, I walked the streets for the last time with Venetian keys jingling in my pocket. At 11:13 I dropped them into an empty jam jar on Juliana's shelf.
Alessia had told me she worked at the airport. I found her at a wine-tasting kiosk, sans those fabulous new glasses of hers. Instead she wore an orange lanyard around her neck. She said she'd offer me a drink before my flight, but she wasn't allowed to open any bottles until her boss arrived.
Lufthansa is steady, efficient, German. On-board refreshments include any kind of drink and a snappy choco-hazelnut bar. It's a step past British Airways, all they give you is a twinkyish ham-roll for breakfast. Alitalia I've never tried, but my intuition, ahem, stereotypography, makes me feel like the CEO puts more funding into in-flight dinners than on-time arrivals.
Dinner on my transatlantic flight rolled around, first on silver trays, then in our stomachs. The baby kicking the back of my seat in time with "Frere Jacques" did not make things easier. But it stopped long enough for me to ask the flight attendant if wine came with dinner. "Yes, and it costs 6 dollars," she said. "Oh," I responded. "So wine doesn't come with dinner." With a confused expression, she assured me that it did. "Not for me, it doesn't," I laughed. She knelt and asked me if I preferred red or white.
That seemed an appropriate end to those adventures.
If you have any inquiries, so do I.
-a
Showing posts with label venice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label venice. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Venice this go-around
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
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
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sagra
Sunshine tops the crenelated brick walls in Campo S. Simon Grande. I leaned back on a wooden bench next to a Korean couple to watch it all go by on the grand canal. Trash, trash boats, private taxies, vaporetti loaded with suitcases and their owners.
The freight boats had a little bit of a thrill out in the canals on Friday night. Ah, the Redentore. Instead of fruits and vegetables they carried shirtless twenty-somethings, rack after rack of beer and hours upon hours of electronica music. Now, paint-chipped and sun-stained, they took up their old life, usually under the command of some kind of balding, browned old man in a fisherman's vest.
Less famous is the feast of San Giacomo, which appropriately takes place in the campo of the same name. Not by chance, I'm guessing. The Sagra is what they call it. I shuffled shoulder-by-shoulder through a thick crowd of hungry Veneziani toward the barbecue kiosk's counter. I leaned over, taking in a healthy dose of greasy, salty smoke. The grillers and waitresses drank a beer between orders, smiled at the hassled customers, balancing plates of sausage, chicken, and white polenta. On top of that we ordered a dish of bigoi in salsa, a kind of pasta in fish sauce, and two plates of the saltiest fries I've ever washed down with a Beck's.
The whole night, the locals stacked beer cans next to their kids' legos. They talked, gesticulated under the festive string-lights which their children blew bubbles and a band of 40-somethings sang out in an only half-comprehensible Venetian dialect.
Two tables down , I recognized this girl by her hairdo. It was swirled and flipped up in the back, a little frizzy in the summer air, and held in place elegantly by a pair of chopsticks (she studies Chinese). Next to her, a girl I swear I saw earlier that day as I rattled my suitcase over the cobblestones, up and down the olympic-sized Ponte degli Scalzi. Her new glasses were a graduation gift, obsidian-colored and wide-lensed. I exchanged a quick word and a friendly kiss with each of them. Then the streetlights were extinguished, and that sent us home.
Festa.
-a
The freight boats had a little bit of a thrill out in the canals on Friday night. Ah, the Redentore. Instead of fruits and vegetables they carried shirtless twenty-somethings, rack after rack of beer and hours upon hours of electronica music. Now, paint-chipped and sun-stained, they took up their old life, usually under the command of some kind of balding, browned old man in a fisherman's vest.
Less famous is the feast of San Giacomo, which appropriately takes place in the campo of the same name. Not by chance, I'm guessing. The Sagra is what they call it. I shuffled shoulder-by-shoulder through a thick crowd of hungry Veneziani toward the barbecue kiosk's counter. I leaned over, taking in a healthy dose of greasy, salty smoke. The grillers and waitresses drank a beer between orders, smiled at the hassled customers, balancing plates of sausage, chicken, and white polenta. On top of that we ordered a dish of bigoi in salsa, a kind of pasta in fish sauce, and two plates of the saltiest fries I've ever washed down with a Beck's.
The whole night, the locals stacked beer cans next to their kids' legos. They talked, gesticulated under the festive string-lights which their children blew bubbles and a band of 40-somethings sang out in an only half-comprehensible Venetian dialect.
Two tables down , I recognized this girl by her hairdo. It was swirled and flipped up in the back, a little frizzy in the summer air, and held in place elegantly by a pair of chopsticks (she studies Chinese). Next to her, a girl I swear I saw earlier that day as I rattled my suitcase over the cobblestones, up and down the olympic-sized Ponte degli Scalzi. Her new glasses were a graduation gift, obsidian-colored and wide-lensed. I exchanged a quick word and a friendly kiss with each of them. Then the streetlights were extinguished, and that sent us home.
Festa.
-a
Monday, July 19, 2010
Closing the Book (German Chapter)
So I'm way behind in my blog, it's obvious. I'm gonna start by saying I'm in Venice now, city of paintbrushed canals, quietly decaying churches and palaces. And the humidity that melts more than a gelato.
I'll catch up with the last bits of Germany. I ended up falling into some interesting situations.
One afternoon, German historian and professor Walter Pehle picked me up in his Volkswagen and took me to the S. Fischer Publishing House. As random as this seems, this is the place Lothar used to work.
At Fisher, the editors are blocked story by story around a deep, wellish atrium. "This is art," said Walter, pointing down into the courtyard at a modernesque arrangement of blue and turquoise metal. "There are some people who do not agree." I wonder if speaking English makes Walter's sense of humor more dry. It's possible; he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of a couple swear words.
From the rooftop terrace, I gazed upon an impressive skyline of Frankfurt that wavered in the heat. Then, several stairs and keyholes later, we were in the publisher's archives. Among the oldest were books by Thomas Mann, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka. Woolf's translations were published by Fischer. Since all this, the company has summarized itself in a red logo: three fishes. "Two looking to the left, and one looking to the right," Walter said (I may be wrong, though, it may be the other way).
Walter wore a pink polo. His quirky circular glasses and the bucket hat he wore reminded me of my grandfather, but instead of classical music, jazz is his thing. "I know every note to this," he said as he played a favorite while we were stuck in a traffic jam.
The next day, my last in Germany, I biked up to Neu Isenburg. The trail led me past stark rows of timber after timber, all the while the crush of rubber on sand and pebbles. The people I passed had calm, serious faces.
In the early afternoon, the streets are quiet except for maybe the tap of a crooked man's cane, or the ding of a bicycle bell. Silence is as common as the walnut trees; in a cafe stands a young woman, blonde, her hands clasped behind her back. A clean white apron matches her smile.
On the bus to the airport in Hahn, we rolled through the ivied and steepled countryside. The man in leather shoes tapped his feet. I didn't see any earbuds or headphones, he must have been listening to the scenery of windmills and hills that stay green even in the 35 degree heat. For him, it's a bouncy oom-pah.
Next time, photos. Promesso.
-a
I'll catch up with the last bits of Germany. I ended up falling into some interesting situations.
One afternoon, German historian and professor Walter Pehle picked me up in his Volkswagen and took me to the S. Fischer Publishing House. As random as this seems, this is the place Lothar used to work.
At Fisher, the editors are blocked story by story around a deep, wellish atrium. "This is art," said Walter, pointing down into the courtyard at a modernesque arrangement of blue and turquoise metal. "There are some people who do not agree." I wonder if speaking English makes Walter's sense of humor more dry. It's possible; he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of a couple swear words.
From the rooftop terrace, I gazed upon an impressive skyline of Frankfurt that wavered in the heat. Then, several stairs and keyholes later, we were in the publisher's archives. Among the oldest were books by Thomas Mann, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka. Woolf's translations were published by Fischer. Since all this, the company has summarized itself in a red logo: three fishes. "Two looking to the left, and one looking to the right," Walter said (I may be wrong, though, it may be the other way).
Walter wore a pink polo. His quirky circular glasses and the bucket hat he wore reminded me of my grandfather, but instead of classical music, jazz is his thing. "I know every note to this," he said as he played a favorite while we were stuck in a traffic jam.
The next day, my last in Germany, I biked up to Neu Isenburg. The trail led me past stark rows of timber after timber, all the while the crush of rubber on sand and pebbles. The people I passed had calm, serious faces.
In the early afternoon, the streets are quiet except for maybe the tap of a crooked man's cane, or the ding of a bicycle bell. Silence is as common as the walnut trees; in a cafe stands a young woman, blonde, her hands clasped behind her back. A clean white apron matches her smile.
On the bus to the airport in Hahn, we rolled through the ivied and steepled countryside. The man in leather shoes tapped his feet. I didn't see any earbuds or headphones, he must have been listening to the scenery of windmills and hills that stay green even in the 35 degree heat. For him, it's a bouncy oom-pah.
Next time, photos. Promesso.
-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
Italian Crossword Puzzles
Here's a brief profile of my friends I'm staying with. Anna, a bubbly and irreverent brunette hooked on Grey's Anatomy, and Juliana, an sweet blonde who'll kill you with her affection. Both are spoiling me at their apartment in Venice. I do what I can to repay them.
My favorite part of this place: I close myself behind the shower's wobbly doors and uncoil the shower head from the wall to the music of campanile bells and a mother reprimanding her child in the backyard, sounds that filter through a colorful layer or two of hanging laundry.
Traveling in vaporetto: I didn't forget the sound of one of these bus-boats pulling up to a stop, or the image of the sailor lasooing the dock and twisting a knot probably passed down from generation to generation. I don't think I ever will, either.
Today, at Lido. Perfect sun, chilly water. I love digging through my pockets and having to distinguish between Eurocent coins and shells.
In the vaporetto on the way to Lido, I helped Anna with an Italian crossword puzzle. Meaning she taught me several new Italian words and completely ridiculous definitions for them.
On the beach, we played volleyball and Italian tennis-badminton. I fell asleep in the heat and had dreams I couldn't remember. After which we ate lunch along a sidewalk, spending as much time watching the people pass as enjoying our tramezzini. And of course, gelato.
I'm here for a pretty long haul, but when I get bogged down I just read more of "The Sun Also Rises" and it's better. Instantly. Here's what I hit recently: "You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."
Tonight, I did not hang around cafès. I ate sushi for the very first time. This was in Mestre, the city on the mainland right outside Venice. The place was called "Sushi Wok," and was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Needless to say, I feel like an elephant seal right now. One nice thing about Italian restaurants is that you don't tip. I know you don't like that, Matt Maerowitz.
Juliana went home to Pergine for the weekend. So at the sushi place were me, Anna, her boyfriend Giovanni, and four of his friends that he studies Japanese with. So cute going to a sushi joint with your Japanese classmates. They spoke fast, and this is only my second day back in this lingual world. I got issues. I thought, what would be easier, following this conversation, or doing Anna's crossword puzzle by myself?
All the Blockbuster stores I ever knew in the United States have gone out of business. Today, I saw one in Mestre. There were both lights on and people inside. Blast from the past.
Do I feel American? Absolutely. Do I care? I don't know. All I know is when I indulge my friends and speak English, it sounds about as weird as "Deliverance" dubbed in Italian. Which I haven't seen.
This isn't really a sightseeing blog, is it?
My favorite part of this place: I close myself behind the shower's wobbly doors and uncoil the shower head from the wall to the music of campanile bells and a mother reprimanding her child in the backyard, sounds that filter through a colorful layer or two of hanging laundry.
Traveling in vaporetto: I didn't forget the sound of one of these bus-boats pulling up to a stop, or the image of the sailor lasooing the dock and twisting a knot probably passed down from generation to generation. I don't think I ever will, either.
Today, at Lido. Perfect sun, chilly water. I love digging through my pockets and having to distinguish between Eurocent coins and shells.
In the vaporetto on the way to Lido, I helped Anna with an Italian crossword puzzle. Meaning she taught me several new Italian words and completely ridiculous definitions for them.
On the beach, we played volleyball and Italian tennis-badminton. I fell asleep in the heat and had dreams I couldn't remember. After which we ate lunch along a sidewalk, spending as much time watching the people pass as enjoying our tramezzini. And of course, gelato.
I'm here for a pretty long haul, but when I get bogged down I just read more of "The Sun Also Rises" and it's better. Instantly. Here's what I hit recently: "You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."
Tonight, I did not hang around cafès. I ate sushi for the very first time. This was in Mestre, the city on the mainland right outside Venice. The place was called "Sushi Wok," and was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Needless to say, I feel like an elephant seal right now. One nice thing about Italian restaurants is that you don't tip. I know you don't like that, Matt Maerowitz.
Juliana went home to Pergine for the weekend. So at the sushi place were me, Anna, her boyfriend Giovanni, and four of his friends that he studies Japanese with. So cute going to a sushi joint with your Japanese classmates. They spoke fast, and this is only my second day back in this lingual world. I got issues. I thought, what would be easier, following this conversation, or doing Anna's crossword puzzle by myself?
All the Blockbuster stores I ever knew in the United States have gone out of business. Today, I saw one in Mestre. There were both lights on and people inside. Blast from the past.
Do I feel American? Absolutely. Do I care? I don't know. All I know is when I indulge my friends and speak English, it sounds about as weird as "Deliverance" dubbed in Italian. Which I haven't seen.
This isn't really a sightseeing blog, is it?
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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