A Different Flavor

The monastery in Eberbach is where they filmed the adaptation of Umberto Eco´s The Name of the Rose. The 38 degree heat was delicate, quiet. The wine cellar had all the silence of a royal tomb.

In the Rhine valley, carps rippled the surface of a bubbling pond while we socialized to a sip of Riesling. The winery´s square was terraced with beerhall benches and orange umbrellas. Below, a vista of vines leading down to the water´s edge. A view worth raising a glass to it.

"Lovage" is the name of a sweet herb in the Seligenstadt cloister garden. To me, it had a scent of celery, cinnamon and licorice. The interesting tastes and flavors went all the way to the ice cream shop near the basilica; here we found exotica such as "dragonberry" and best of all "dolphin." I tried neither. The latter I actually try to avoid when I buy my tuna. Just kidding. It was blue and had some kind of chips in it.

Early in the morning, Lothar, Linus and I drove to pick up some pastries. We passed a yellow awning and Lothar pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is a very bad bakery." The cookies in the good bakery known as "Americans" have German flags pasted on them with the text, "World Champions 2014." Well.

Backyard badminton is getting more and more intense. The point (at least, the way I play) is to grunt with each shot and celebrate Wimbledon-style at every point. Makes it more fun, I think. And Linus really goes for the competition - Quentin just likes the fun.

One thing occurred to me. I know what German sounds like, simply because I don´t understand it. It´s a weak advantage, but I think meaning precludes the sound, it replaces it. Along those lines - the fourth Harry Potter movie isn´t my favorite. But hearing Hagrid speak German was a little highlight of the day.

Local wildlife includes: frogs, mice, hedgehogs, and the parrots next door. For a touch of whimsy we´ll also mention the neighbor´s automatic lawnmower.

Shakalaka.
-a

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

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