Sorry I haven't written in awhile. Words come to me like hunger comes to the body, they come univited into my mind--when I am working in the fields, or riding in the van, and then full inspiration hits and I write it all down. Maybe its because Ive been so busy this past week that the words haven't come, but anyways, all that matters is they are here now....
Clothes don't make the man. Sandro said this to me and I have to agree that nothing could be truer. When I first met Sandro, I failed to really see him and instead saw his outward appearance, his house and his fields. What I have come to see is that none of this truly reflects who he is as a person (and this applies to everyone I meet). It is the relationships people make, their perspectives on life and their abilities to feel compassion and empathy... these are what make a person.
Italy, and Europe for that matter, are very different than America in terms of physical culture. Here I am strange for shaving my armpits and twice I have been told that wearing a bra all the time (especially my sports bras) are not good for me, so I have adopted my lifestyle to the italians and I go braless and wear no makeup, sadly I cant bring myself to not shave (thats a little too much for me). It is amazing to be so natural, to not worry about perfecting myself with eyeliner and mascara and wash my hair daily, and yet be told that I am the most beautiful, gorgeous and free. This is one thing we Americans fear--a fear of the natural.
The hot summer heat brought with it two traveling gypsies who have taken residence at the farm on Via Fontevecchia. They have been together for nine years, and together they travel the world in their van that they converted into a home. Veronica is from the south of Italy while her partner, Kevin, is a native of england. I tell them that their love is an inspiration. They love eachother with such incredible passion, even after spending no more than two days apart for the last decade. You don't meet many people who have both fully realized their dreams and live it everyday. Veronica is like no one I have ever met before. She is both spiritual and grounded, concerned with the soul and the spirit and listening to what your heart tells you. She is an incredibly confident person and in just two weeks she has already helped me to understand myself better and to go after what I want it life, even if it might not be the easiest choice. Kevin is also very spiritual and like Veronica, he is incredibly easy to talk to. The only thing that surpises me about Kevin, is his sometimes sexist comments (of which he means no harm). Little comments that inspire a superiority/inferiority essence easily get on my nerves, and sometimes I have to struggle to keep my anger down. But besides a few miguided words, Kevin is a wonderful person who inspires me to follow my dreams take life with an open mind.
Here is a snippet from a journal entry that I wrote two days ago:
As I write this I am sitting in a jungle listening to birds singing in the distance and basking in the soft glow of the sun that streams through the canopy. Garet and Sandro are nearby, creating structure to the garden that is my jungle. I smoke bamboo cigarettes and sip water from glass bottles as I listen to them speak the world's most beautiful language.
The other day I was driven through mountain roads and past herds of cows and sheep to the home of my ancestors. Abruzzi was more beautiful than I could have ever imafined and I now understand my love for the natural, for the mountains and for a simple life. I was surrounded on all sides by rocky blue mountains that rose to the heavens and rolling green pastures that inspired a desire to walk among its grasses for the rest of my days. We arrived at a spot in the center of the mountains where hundreds upon hundreds of people were gathered to celebrate the festival of sheep and to eat the food that uplifts the soul. All was white, green and blue--the herds of sheep led by their faithful Maremma sheep dogs, the unspoiled grass wrought by the hands of God and the endless sky which was dotted with octopus and flying rainbows.
The Abruzese had erected lines of cloud white tents from which smoky scents of fresh meat and the sweet perfume of honey wafted into the cool breeze. Upon entering the crowds of people, Sandro declared that it was time to eat and time to drink (even though it was only 10 in the morning). He waited among the throngs of italians, waiting impatiently for his fresh meat panini. While I waited for my lunch, I listened to the preists chanting prayers to the crows and watched red, white and green billow in the breeze. Sandro returned from the chaos with a fresh proscuitto panini and gorgeous white bread and a bottle of local wine for us all to share. Less than two hours later it was time to eat again and we sat on the side of a grassy hill, watching the sheep down below and eating more proscuitto with pecorine cheese. You have not had cheese until you have had this. Made from sheep, it is a soft, moldable yellow/white spread that is so strong it could transform the taste of any food. We slathered it on our sandwiches and the delightfully pungent taste and smell of this cheese was so good that if I had died sitting on that hill, I would've died in heaven. God must trucks full of this cheese in heaven. We once again walked among the people, petting beautiful dogs, taking pictures and drinking wine from the bottle. This didn't last, because before too long, it was again time to eat. We made our way to the top of the hill, to a large pasture, where a small wooden meat shop stood. People were everywhere, walking among the vendors, grilling their food and sitting at wooden tables eating grilled corn on the cob and meat, meat, meat. Sandro and his brother, Massamiliano braved the crowds of people waiting for their fresh meat while Alessandra (Max's girlfriend) and I sat outside listening to the music. Everywhere were old men belting out songs of love and passion, while playing accordions and fiddles and harmonicas. My favorite song had the repetitive chorus of "ti amo, ti amo, ti amo" (I love you) and I made sure to film this beautiful performance. When the men returned, we took our sheep meat on sticks to a nearby grill and cooked them until they were smoky black. We feasted on our fresh lunch with wine and cheese and laughed at the rambunctious Abruzese (singing and dancing like today was the happiest days of their lives). Sandro and his brother called it the sheep woodstock and I can imagine that this festival was very similar to the famous music festival (just without the drugs).
Ill write more soon, about planting the fieds, peppers as green as the grass of Abruzzi and delicious fried zuchini flowers...
Love you all,
Bela
Roman Countryside
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
As Sweet as Rafiki's Figs
Sorry I didnt have internet for a few days so you might get a wave of posts coming soon! Lots to write about from hippies who live in a van, shooting stars and midnite dinners after the bars (just a preview)
I think Ive been brainwashed. All of a sudden I not only can stand the 70s funk that is constantly blasting through the speakers, but I think I actually like it. I hear my favorite songs come on and I can sing along and laugh when Sandro dances terribly. I also love pulling weeds. What is that? I get an odd sense of satisfaction as I hear and feel the roots pulling from the soil and I leave green destruction in my wake. Maybe its all the parts put together...the sound of crunching roots, the wonderful feeling of mud coating my fingers, the sun hot on my neck and billie holiday belting into my ears.
On Wednesday night Sandro and I had dinner at the veterinarians house (father of the bike riding boys). Saying this was the most delicious feast I have ever had the honor of partaking in is an understatement. Once again, Italy was on a crusade to turn me into a hippopotamus as I was served enough food to sate Tommy and Mark's (my enormous brothers) Thanksgiving eating contests. We started off with red wine and fresh baked bread and a platter of melon and proscuitto (my very favorite). We then dove into the most delicious bean casserole-white beans, herbs and tuna. Next came the home made fettucine, cooked with plentiful sovory asparagus and pancetta. I usually stay away from asparagus (it turns your pee neon yellow) but My God was this asparagus good! Now at this point I was on my way to explosion, but the Italians didnt seem to notice as a pan full of roast chicken, sausage and golden fried potatoes was placed in front of me. I crammed as much crunchy meat into my mouth as was humanly possible and helped myself to two servings of potatoes that could make Ronald McDonald cry with envy. At this point I was tempted to follow in Chucks wise footsteps and unbluckle my belt (if I were wearing one) so I could make room for more food). We then feasted on Fresh tomato slices, mozarrella and basil drizzled in oil and out of the warm oven came heaven in a dish...a perfectly made fig pie. O Mio Dio! Pie was accompanied by gelato and cafe and the evening was finished with a shot or two of grappa. I'm quite sure that one dinner can not get any better. The Italians got it right...they know how to enjoy their food and they induglge their tummies with patience, letting dinner span into the late night or early hours of the morning.
I must look like a body builder to the Italians. I have gotten so many comments about how I am a strong girl that I am starting to think I must have muscle veins popping out of my neck like a weight lifter on steroids. On one visit into Rome, the same man who asked me to live with him, looked at me and said "you are a strong girl". Now to me, thats a strange comment. And the boys. My riding team thinks I am so strong that one of the boys even asked if he culd feel my calf muscle. Their father assures me that its not because I look like a barbaric xena warrior, but rather they know I am strong because (in their opinion), I run super fast-to the bar of the next town and back. Gianpoalo especially thinks I am strong as he noted at dinner that my arms are strong, my legs are strong, my stomach is strong and even my neck is strong. But this is also the boy who is entranced by my hair (I once caught him kissing it).
So wonderful news-I havent gained weight! Or if I have, it isnt much. Preparing myself for devastation, I tried on a pair of shorts and a pair of pants that fit me just right before I left for Italy. I pulled them up my legs (success), fit them over my butt (again success), zipped the zipper (Am I dreaming?) and then buttoned the button (incredible!). I actually ran from my room, grinning like a fool and shouted at Sandro (Italy hasnt made me fat yet!). That was a good day.
On Tuesday, Sandro's father Venicio came home with us. Sandro's mother is around the age of 50 while Venicio is at the ripe old age of 80. He is full of stories and boasts of his treasured museum, found to the side of Sandro's garage. The museum is unbelievable, worthy of the pictures I took, as it houses old wood covered wagons, weaving looms, african machetes and arrows and pictures from the 1940s of himself with american indians. The objects he has acquired over the years are incredible, and I especially loved the books that dated as far back as 1857. He is letting me read an old french book from 1927. Anya if I could take it for you, I would in a second...what a birthday present that would be! Even at the age of 80, Venicio has not lost his work ethic, and I see him clearing away weeds for a bocci court under the hot sun or axing at weeds beside his museum. Speaking of bocci, the pro that I am, I beat Venicio at his favorite game yesterday (a close win of 5-4). O the sweet taste of victory.
After four weeks in Cannetto Sabino I have become somewhat of a regular at the local bar and when I arrive in the mornings, without being asked, the bartender prepares a creamy cappucino for me. Ive always wanted to say "Ill have the usual" and that day has finally come! On our way back from errands the other night, we ran into Aurelio (the oldest man in Cannetto) and he again gave me presents of fresh, succulent fruit. When I thanked him he told Sandro that he requires no thanks because my presence is like the gift of fresh fruit (so he is just returning the favor). He also told Sandro that we look beautiful together and should get married. Hahaha. Aurelio makes me think of the blue butted baboon Rafiki in the lion king because I can just imagine him shouting and dancing around with his walking stick if he ever saw me and Sandro so much as hug. I Dont really know why I think of Rafiki, but I just think of the reaction the baboon has when he finds out Simba is alive...I think Aurelio is capable of the same crazy dancing and monkey hollering.
Most nights after I have doused my arms and legs in bugspray, I ask Sandro to tell me a story. I dont ask because I like the stories (although Im sure I would if I understood the words), but rather because the Italian is like a lullabye, beautiful word after beautiful word falling from his lips. Italian is enchanting and I find myself lost in thoughtless trances when I hear italian spoken around me.
Yesterday Sandro, Matteo and I drove to Toffia, a nearby medieval town that rivals the beauty of Fara Sabina. Again with narrow cobble stoned streets, flowers hanging from iron windowsills and big wooden doors, I was convinced that someday fate would lead me to live in this beautiful town. Set high up on a mountain, I would be safe from brutal vikings, barbaric xenas and enticing ronald mcDonalds in my stone fortressed medieval village. The views were incredible, looking out over the entire valley and the streets were a series of twists and turns, stairs and bumps that a volkswagon would have trouble driving down. Before we left, we made our way through the confusing streets to Sandro's friends house. We were greeted by a shoeless man, wearing brown linen pants, a button down floral shirt and many earrings and rings. His house smelled of incense, was decorated with brightly colored tapestries and weed and herbs were strewn across the table. He was a hippie at heart and had moved from Wales to Italy to pursue his career in theater. I sat in his home, listening to reggae and breathing in herby fumes and all I could think about were two people very dear to me: Lily Merat and Roy Cutler. I thought of Lily because I imagine her living in a home very similar to the one I was sitting in. I picture her sitting at an old wooden table, surrounded by friends, reggae and the smell of incense and herbs. I was sitting in her future. I thought of Roy because I imagined him meeting this man and becoming instant friends. I couldnt stop thinking about how perfect it would be for them to talk of their bands, their passion for theater and their world experiences.
We went to the open market on Sunday morning (every Sunday morning I can be heard singing "sunday morning" by Maroon Five nonstop) where hundreds of tents were set up along the road and in the field, creating a maze of shoes, toys and fresh cheese. On Sunday they have a special market where they sell animals and I felt a bit terribe about leaning against the fences and peering into the cages at these poor animals who constantly get poked and touched and cooed at by annoying women who reek of perfume. As we stood watching the beautiful cows and horses, I couldnt stop thinking about slave trading and how incredibly awful that time must have been. But anyways, all of the animals were beautiful and I loved the smell of hay, manure and fresh air. There were pink pigs, adorable bunnies, puppies, baby ducks, chickens, cows, horses, ponies, mules, donkeys, mice...just about anything you could ever want. It was such a weird experience, people walking around with cotton candy and sausages as they bought cows, pans from the man who was doing a live cooking demonstration on microphone, fresh meat and toy cars. After Sandro carefully picked out five chickens (he always buys an odd number because he hates having an even number of anything) we ventured to the fresh food area of the market. There was bottled olive oil, yellow wheels of cheese, strings of sausage and snails in baskets. I was lured to the stand with fresh tapenade spreads and after trying them all I chose a light orange organic dip made from zuchini...soooo good! After, I left Sandro with his friends and found my weakness..shoes. There were so many beautiful pairs of shoes but of course (seeing as Im a xena warrior giant) the Italians dont accomodate gigantor feeted Americans very well. With a size nine foot, or size 40, it was quite difficult finding a pair that fit my feet. But after minutes of searching I found an adorable pair of green high heels and I couldnt resist buying them since they were only 6E! Might as well take advantage of an opportunity when it comes along.
That night I went to a country horse show with Matteo's girlfriend Elena. On the way to the show we talked about soccer in Italy and how it is very hard to gain respect as a female player. She said that in Italy soccer is considered solely a men's sport and that any women who play have to endure endless jokes and frustrating comments. Women soccer players are considered manly, lesbian or just strange. Man, I think I would go crazy in Italy! If any guy tried to make fun of me for playing the country's national sport, I would just have to school him with my skills. At home, I get some comments from ignorant and stupid guys who think I cant keep up with them, but after a few times of playing with them it usually gets better. One of my friends at Skidmore wrote a paper on the stereotypes and obstacles of female athletes and during the interview I told her that for a girl, almost always you are considered bad until you prove that you are good and any guy is considered good until he proves that he is not. But at least in America I have that chance to prove myself.
I usually don't enjoy horse shows or horse races, but this show was much different. It was a small ring in the absolute middle of nowhere. We sat on the grass hill in front of the ring which was surrounded by blue mountains, green fields and the setting sun. Everyone was wearing cowboy hats and eating peanuts and we all cheered as the horses executed the jumps and turns perfectly. That night we returned to Sandro's house where we had a barbecue with 15 of his closest friends. We made a fire in the back yard and made a make-shift grill with an iron grate. We ate sausages, sides of pork, pototoes and whole onions, charred to perfection, and drank wine with oiled bread. Reggae blasted from the stereo and we all sat around on wooden benches enjoying our feast. At the end of the night I held Chloe, our friends little baby girl. I rocked back and forth with the sleeping baby, singing lullabyes and rubbing her little toes. She was beautiful. So believe it or not, even with all the wine I drink everyday, last night was the first night I have been drunk. Not too drunk mind you, but drunk enough to be very tired and see the stars spin around me. I definitely don't miss getting drunk and Im definitely not ready for school parties to start up yet. But no worries, I woke up perfectly fine and healthy, not one second of a hangover to show for my cups of wine the night before :)
Until next time, much love,
Bella
I think Ive been brainwashed. All of a sudden I not only can stand the 70s funk that is constantly blasting through the speakers, but I think I actually like it. I hear my favorite songs come on and I can sing along and laugh when Sandro dances terribly. I also love pulling weeds. What is that? I get an odd sense of satisfaction as I hear and feel the roots pulling from the soil and I leave green destruction in my wake. Maybe its all the parts put together...the sound of crunching roots, the wonderful feeling of mud coating my fingers, the sun hot on my neck and billie holiday belting into my ears.
On Wednesday night Sandro and I had dinner at the veterinarians house (father of the bike riding boys). Saying this was the most delicious feast I have ever had the honor of partaking in is an understatement. Once again, Italy was on a crusade to turn me into a hippopotamus as I was served enough food to sate Tommy and Mark's (my enormous brothers) Thanksgiving eating contests. We started off with red wine and fresh baked bread and a platter of melon and proscuitto (my very favorite). We then dove into the most delicious bean casserole-white beans, herbs and tuna. Next came the home made fettucine, cooked with plentiful sovory asparagus and pancetta. I usually stay away from asparagus (it turns your pee neon yellow) but My God was this asparagus good! Now at this point I was on my way to explosion, but the Italians didnt seem to notice as a pan full of roast chicken, sausage and golden fried potatoes was placed in front of me. I crammed as much crunchy meat into my mouth as was humanly possible and helped myself to two servings of potatoes that could make Ronald McDonald cry with envy. At this point I was tempted to follow in Chucks wise footsteps and unbluckle my belt (if I were wearing one) so I could make room for more food). We then feasted on Fresh tomato slices, mozarrella and basil drizzled in oil and out of the warm oven came heaven in a dish...a perfectly made fig pie. O Mio Dio! Pie was accompanied by gelato and cafe and the evening was finished with a shot or two of grappa. I'm quite sure that one dinner can not get any better. The Italians got it right...they know how to enjoy their food and they induglge their tummies with patience, letting dinner span into the late night or early hours of the morning.
I must look like a body builder to the Italians. I have gotten so many comments about how I am a strong girl that I am starting to think I must have muscle veins popping out of my neck like a weight lifter on steroids. On one visit into Rome, the same man who asked me to live with him, looked at me and said "you are a strong girl". Now to me, thats a strange comment. And the boys. My riding team thinks I am so strong that one of the boys even asked if he culd feel my calf muscle. Their father assures me that its not because I look like a barbaric xena warrior, but rather they know I am strong because (in their opinion), I run super fast-to the bar of the next town and back. Gianpoalo especially thinks I am strong as he noted at dinner that my arms are strong, my legs are strong, my stomach is strong and even my neck is strong. But this is also the boy who is entranced by my hair (I once caught him kissing it).
So wonderful news-I havent gained weight! Or if I have, it isnt much. Preparing myself for devastation, I tried on a pair of shorts and a pair of pants that fit me just right before I left for Italy. I pulled them up my legs (success), fit them over my butt (again success), zipped the zipper (Am I dreaming?) and then buttoned the button (incredible!). I actually ran from my room, grinning like a fool and shouted at Sandro (Italy hasnt made me fat yet!). That was a good day.
On Tuesday, Sandro's father Venicio came home with us. Sandro's mother is around the age of 50 while Venicio is at the ripe old age of 80. He is full of stories and boasts of his treasured museum, found to the side of Sandro's garage. The museum is unbelievable, worthy of the pictures I took, as it houses old wood covered wagons, weaving looms, african machetes and arrows and pictures from the 1940s of himself with american indians. The objects he has acquired over the years are incredible, and I especially loved the books that dated as far back as 1857. He is letting me read an old french book from 1927. Anya if I could take it for you, I would in a second...what a birthday present that would be! Even at the age of 80, Venicio has not lost his work ethic, and I see him clearing away weeds for a bocci court under the hot sun or axing at weeds beside his museum. Speaking of bocci, the pro that I am, I beat Venicio at his favorite game yesterday (a close win of 5-4). O the sweet taste of victory.
After four weeks in Cannetto Sabino I have become somewhat of a regular at the local bar and when I arrive in the mornings, without being asked, the bartender prepares a creamy cappucino for me. Ive always wanted to say "Ill have the usual" and that day has finally come! On our way back from errands the other night, we ran into Aurelio (the oldest man in Cannetto) and he again gave me presents of fresh, succulent fruit. When I thanked him he told Sandro that he requires no thanks because my presence is like the gift of fresh fruit (so he is just returning the favor). He also told Sandro that we look beautiful together and should get married. Hahaha. Aurelio makes me think of the blue butted baboon Rafiki in the lion king because I can just imagine him shouting and dancing around with his walking stick if he ever saw me and Sandro so much as hug. I Dont really know why I think of Rafiki, but I just think of the reaction the baboon has when he finds out Simba is alive...I think Aurelio is capable of the same crazy dancing and monkey hollering.
Most nights after I have doused my arms and legs in bugspray, I ask Sandro to tell me a story. I dont ask because I like the stories (although Im sure I would if I understood the words), but rather because the Italian is like a lullabye, beautiful word after beautiful word falling from his lips. Italian is enchanting and I find myself lost in thoughtless trances when I hear italian spoken around me.
Yesterday Sandro, Matteo and I drove to Toffia, a nearby medieval town that rivals the beauty of Fara Sabina. Again with narrow cobble stoned streets, flowers hanging from iron windowsills and big wooden doors, I was convinced that someday fate would lead me to live in this beautiful town. Set high up on a mountain, I would be safe from brutal vikings, barbaric xenas and enticing ronald mcDonalds in my stone fortressed medieval village. The views were incredible, looking out over the entire valley and the streets were a series of twists and turns, stairs and bumps that a volkswagon would have trouble driving down. Before we left, we made our way through the confusing streets to Sandro's friends house. We were greeted by a shoeless man, wearing brown linen pants, a button down floral shirt and many earrings and rings. His house smelled of incense, was decorated with brightly colored tapestries and weed and herbs were strewn across the table. He was a hippie at heart and had moved from Wales to Italy to pursue his career in theater. I sat in his home, listening to reggae and breathing in herby fumes and all I could think about were two people very dear to me: Lily Merat and Roy Cutler. I thought of Lily because I imagine her living in a home very similar to the one I was sitting in. I picture her sitting at an old wooden table, surrounded by friends, reggae and the smell of incense and herbs. I was sitting in her future. I thought of Roy because I imagined him meeting this man and becoming instant friends. I couldnt stop thinking about how perfect it would be for them to talk of their bands, their passion for theater and their world experiences.
We went to the open market on Sunday morning (every Sunday morning I can be heard singing "sunday morning" by Maroon Five nonstop) where hundreds of tents were set up along the road and in the field, creating a maze of shoes, toys and fresh cheese. On Sunday they have a special market where they sell animals and I felt a bit terribe about leaning against the fences and peering into the cages at these poor animals who constantly get poked and touched and cooed at by annoying women who reek of perfume. As we stood watching the beautiful cows and horses, I couldnt stop thinking about slave trading and how incredibly awful that time must have been. But anyways, all of the animals were beautiful and I loved the smell of hay, manure and fresh air. There were pink pigs, adorable bunnies, puppies, baby ducks, chickens, cows, horses, ponies, mules, donkeys, mice...just about anything you could ever want. It was such a weird experience, people walking around with cotton candy and sausages as they bought cows, pans from the man who was doing a live cooking demonstration on microphone, fresh meat and toy cars. After Sandro carefully picked out five chickens (he always buys an odd number because he hates having an even number of anything) we ventured to the fresh food area of the market. There was bottled olive oil, yellow wheels of cheese, strings of sausage and snails in baskets. I was lured to the stand with fresh tapenade spreads and after trying them all I chose a light orange organic dip made from zuchini...soooo good! After, I left Sandro with his friends and found my weakness..shoes. There were so many beautiful pairs of shoes but of course (seeing as Im a xena warrior giant) the Italians dont accomodate gigantor feeted Americans very well. With a size nine foot, or size 40, it was quite difficult finding a pair that fit my feet. But after minutes of searching I found an adorable pair of green high heels and I couldnt resist buying them since they were only 6E! Might as well take advantage of an opportunity when it comes along.
That night I went to a country horse show with Matteo's girlfriend Elena. On the way to the show we talked about soccer in Italy and how it is very hard to gain respect as a female player. She said that in Italy soccer is considered solely a men's sport and that any women who play have to endure endless jokes and frustrating comments. Women soccer players are considered manly, lesbian or just strange. Man, I think I would go crazy in Italy! If any guy tried to make fun of me for playing the country's national sport, I would just have to school him with my skills. At home, I get some comments from ignorant and stupid guys who think I cant keep up with them, but after a few times of playing with them it usually gets better. One of my friends at Skidmore wrote a paper on the stereotypes and obstacles of female athletes and during the interview I told her that for a girl, almost always you are considered bad until you prove that you are good and any guy is considered good until he proves that he is not. But at least in America I have that chance to prove myself.
I usually don't enjoy horse shows or horse races, but this show was much different. It was a small ring in the absolute middle of nowhere. We sat on the grass hill in front of the ring which was surrounded by blue mountains, green fields and the setting sun. Everyone was wearing cowboy hats and eating peanuts and we all cheered as the horses executed the jumps and turns perfectly. That night we returned to Sandro's house where we had a barbecue with 15 of his closest friends. We made a fire in the back yard and made a make-shift grill with an iron grate. We ate sausages, sides of pork, pototoes and whole onions, charred to perfection, and drank wine with oiled bread. Reggae blasted from the stereo and we all sat around on wooden benches enjoying our feast. At the end of the night I held Chloe, our friends little baby girl. I rocked back and forth with the sleeping baby, singing lullabyes and rubbing her little toes. She was beautiful. So believe it or not, even with all the wine I drink everyday, last night was the first night I have been drunk. Not too drunk mind you, but drunk enough to be very tired and see the stars spin around me. I definitely don't miss getting drunk and Im definitely not ready for school parties to start up yet. But no worries, I woke up perfectly fine and healthy, not one second of a hangover to show for my cups of wine the night before :)
Until next time, much love,
Bella
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A Theiving Day in Rome
I stole today. I have become a grappa drinking, cigarette smoking (even if its just a little bit), italian cursing, criminal. Rome has corrupted me to the core. Let me explain...
Today was an early day...ok maybe not that early...I woke up to a refreshing cold shower at 8am. We drove with the boys into the heart of Rome, Sandro late for his friends funeral mass. Side note-Sandro never onced referred to the mass as a funeral but rather a celebration, which I thought was quite accurate. (Since when did we stop rejoicing the lives of those who have passed, remembering them with smiles-even if bittersweet-that they deserve. Would our dead loved ones really want to see us in such immense grief?) He dropped me at our usual meeting point, the street that leads up to the Vatican, and I proceeded down the Via Della Conzilliazone among crowds of religios people hoping to find themselves one step closer to God and those just hoping to lay their eyes upon the centuries old masterpeice of Michaelangelo. Wearing cotton shorts that were about 1 inch longer than "booty shorts" and a sleeveless tanktop, I really had no intention of entering the smallest country in the world. But then I met a skinny man with an accent I couldnt quite place (who would later scrawl his telephone number and email address on the tour brochure so I could call him the next time I was in Rome). I was skeptical at first when he told me that I could skip the line to see the Vatican that stretched around corners and corners of streets-hundreds of people standing in the hot sun. Now is that really fair for me to walk by all those feet aching and sweat soaked shirted tourists? But the man was adorable, talking to me about school and Fara Sabina, so I decided to follow him through the crowds to the already waiting tour group. The tour was waiting in a little cafe on a side street where I mete my adorable tour guide who was excited that I was Italian and applauded my courage to travel alone. I was given a headset and shawls to cover my naked knees and shoulders and although I saw people paying the 45E fee, for some reason I did not feel compelled to get into line. We left the cafe after I enjoyed a croissant and cafe and we made our way to the entrance of the Vatican Museum. We walked by people, impatient in the hot sun, and arrived at the entrance in less than 5 minutes. I have never seen more history first hand in my entire life. Everything was art. Everything was hundreds, if not thousands of years old-the frescoes, floors, ceilings, tapestries and statue upon statue, upon statue.. I was feet away from ancient Greek carvings, could almost touch the tapestries woven in the 16th century, depicting Jesus' life, and I stood beneath the ceiling that took three years to complete. I have to be honest, staring up at such incredible paintings, on a ceiling none the less, it was difficult to fully comprehend that one man alone had the imagination ,the skill and the patience to devise such an enormous work of art. I took puictures of everything, so you can all enjoy it...almost as if you were there with me. We made it to the end of the tour and I shamedly walked away, not a penny poorer, having seen one of the most famous chapels for free.
I was famished after two hours of walking and listening so I made my way towards the center of Rome with the sole purpose of finding delicious Italian food to fill my belly. I searched down tiny side streets, aware that the best food is always hidden, and I stumbled upon an enticing jewelry shop before I found my resturant of choice. There, I met Joseph, a graying man in his 50s who told me of his days in Boston when he was much younger and spry than he is now. I reminisced with him for a few minutes and he then directed me to the best resturaunt in the area, complete with air drawn maps and violent hand gestures. Suffice it to say, Joseph was right. This resturaunt was really good. I sat on the edge of the street, drinking a large glass of red wine as always, and eating fresh baked bread. For antipasto I dined on a platter of four different kinds of fish, drizzled in lemon and oil, none of which I recognized except the light pink salmon. But no matter, it was all delicious. I then enjoyed a fettucine dish with eggplant and zuchini and an orange sauce that I couldnt place. To finish, I was christened with a foamy, white mustache, as I slowly drank a creamy cappucino. I think Ill be full (sta gonfia) for the rest of my life.
Tradgedy strikes at the most inoportune times. We were waiting in a bar for our drinks, and all of a sudden my eye starts to throb and ooze gooey goo. Awesome. So thankfully I had my glasses with me and I was able to take out my contacts. But alas, not even that worked. While Sandro talked with his friends, worrying about my pained state, I lay in the car crying over my gooey goo. When we picked up Sandro's father, Sandro returned with a vial of chamomile that resembled a withes potion. I dabbed my eyes with chamomile soaked cotton and of course this resulted in a scratched eye. Perche Dio! So I lay in bed, unable to open one eye, no exaggertion, when Sandro appears with yet another home remedy. He presents with a halved, raw potato which he instructs me to place over my eyes, while I blink continously. I dont know hoe, but the eye which I could barely open moments before, now felt good as new, (even if I still looked like a vampire). O the magic of potatoes! So now Ive been healed, like the blind by Jesus, and the testimony to this miracle lies on my dresser-two mascara stained, good laden raw potatoes. Amazing!
Buona Notte,
Bella
Today was an early day...ok maybe not that early...I woke up to a refreshing cold shower at 8am. We drove with the boys into the heart of Rome, Sandro late for his friends funeral mass. Side note-Sandro never onced referred to the mass as a funeral but rather a celebration, which I thought was quite accurate. (Since when did we stop rejoicing the lives of those who have passed, remembering them with smiles-even if bittersweet-that they deserve. Would our dead loved ones really want to see us in such immense grief?) He dropped me at our usual meeting point, the street that leads up to the Vatican, and I proceeded down the Via Della Conzilliazone among crowds of religios people hoping to find themselves one step closer to God and those just hoping to lay their eyes upon the centuries old masterpeice of Michaelangelo. Wearing cotton shorts that were about 1 inch longer than "booty shorts" and a sleeveless tanktop, I really had no intention of entering the smallest country in the world. But then I met a skinny man with an accent I couldnt quite place (who would later scrawl his telephone number and email address on the tour brochure so I could call him the next time I was in Rome). I was skeptical at first when he told me that I could skip the line to see the Vatican that stretched around corners and corners of streets-hundreds of people standing in the hot sun. Now is that really fair for me to walk by all those feet aching and sweat soaked shirted tourists? But the man was adorable, talking to me about school and Fara Sabina, so I decided to follow him through the crowds to the already waiting tour group. The tour was waiting in a little cafe on a side street where I mete my adorable tour guide who was excited that I was Italian and applauded my courage to travel alone. I was given a headset and shawls to cover my naked knees and shoulders and although I saw people paying the 45E fee, for some reason I did not feel compelled to get into line. We left the cafe after I enjoyed a croissant and cafe and we made our way to the entrance of the Vatican Museum. We walked by people, impatient in the hot sun, and arrived at the entrance in less than 5 minutes. I have never seen more history first hand in my entire life. Everything was art. Everything was hundreds, if not thousands of years old-the frescoes, floors, ceilings, tapestries and statue upon statue, upon statue.. I was feet away from ancient Greek carvings, could almost touch the tapestries woven in the 16th century, depicting Jesus' life, and I stood beneath the ceiling that took three years to complete. I have to be honest, staring up at such incredible paintings, on a ceiling none the less, it was difficult to fully comprehend that one man alone had the imagination ,the skill and the patience to devise such an enormous work of art. I took puictures of everything, so you can all enjoy it...almost as if you were there with me. We made it to the end of the tour and I shamedly walked away, not a penny poorer, having seen one of the most famous chapels for free.
I was famished after two hours of walking and listening so I made my way towards the center of Rome with the sole purpose of finding delicious Italian food to fill my belly. I searched down tiny side streets, aware that the best food is always hidden, and I stumbled upon an enticing jewelry shop before I found my resturant of choice. There, I met Joseph, a graying man in his 50s who told me of his days in Boston when he was much younger and spry than he is now. I reminisced with him for a few minutes and he then directed me to the best resturaunt in the area, complete with air drawn maps and violent hand gestures. Suffice it to say, Joseph was right. This resturaunt was really good. I sat on the edge of the street, drinking a large glass of red wine as always, and eating fresh baked bread. For antipasto I dined on a platter of four different kinds of fish, drizzled in lemon and oil, none of which I recognized except the light pink salmon. But no matter, it was all delicious. I then enjoyed a fettucine dish with eggplant and zuchini and an orange sauce that I couldnt place. To finish, I was christened with a foamy, white mustache, as I slowly drank a creamy cappucino. I think Ill be full (sta gonfia) for the rest of my life.
Tradgedy strikes at the most inoportune times. We were waiting in a bar for our drinks, and all of a sudden my eye starts to throb and ooze gooey goo. Awesome. So thankfully I had my glasses with me and I was able to take out my contacts. But alas, not even that worked. While Sandro talked with his friends, worrying about my pained state, I lay in the car crying over my gooey goo. When we picked up Sandro's father, Sandro returned with a vial of chamomile that resembled a withes potion. I dabbed my eyes with chamomile soaked cotton and of course this resulted in a scratched eye. Perche Dio! So I lay in bed, unable to open one eye, no exaggertion, when Sandro appears with yet another home remedy. He presents with a halved, raw potato which he instructs me to place over my eyes, while I blink continously. I dont know hoe, but the eye which I could barely open moments before, now felt good as new, (even if I still looked like a vampire). O the magic of potatoes! So now Ive been healed, like the blind by Jesus, and the testimony to this miracle lies on my dresser-two mascara stained, good laden raw potatoes. Amazing!
Buona Notte,
Bella
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Beautiful People
The other day I met the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I'm not speaking of physical appearance, although in her many years she is very beautiful with crew-cut silver hair and eyes that seem to know everything. She exudes confidence and ease and speaks her mind easier than anyone I know. She is rough, and yes she is tough and she isn't afraid to yell jovial curses at Sandro when he is late for his deliveries. I can't really explain why I like this lady so much but she is the kind of person that I want to know. I feel that I could learn something from her.
All the people here are wonderful. The other day I was invited inside the house after running with the boys and I sat at the table with the mother and her son Gianpoalo who is studying english in school. We had a conversation half in english, half in italian about my school, running, President Obama and how Gianpoalo likes just about every country except Afghanistan. He is a seriously funny kid. They gave me a delicious bright red drink (which of course I forget the name of) and before I left they made sure to give me a present of chocolate peanuts, which I devoured in a day (chocolate is my weakeness). They insisted that Sandro and I come for dinner next week so I will be treated to a delicious home-cooked pasta meal and of course, delicious wine.
Tabaldo (probably not spelled right) and his family live in town and own a gorgeous greenhouse just up the rode from Sandro. They too are the most wonderful people and Tabaldo loves trying out his english words. When he figured out the name for pope, he would point at the distant lights and yell "there's the pope", and yesterday on the way to the music he called for me and Sandro "lets go brothers!". Haha I told him to use "guys" instead so for the rest of the night he would call "andiamo guys!".
The mother of the veterinarian (who is the father of the bike riding boys), affectionately called nonna which means grandmother, is an absolute sweetheart and she gives us fresh tomatoes from her garden and brings me water before I head off for my runs. And Aurelio, o Aurelio. He is the oldest man I have ever seen but has a spirit that never wanes. He always smiles when he sees me and informs me everytime that he can speak four languages (arabic being one of them), but of course he can't speak english...except bye-bye! He is the man I will buying the lovely olive oil from and the wine and fresh figs and fruit he brought me as a present were incredibly delicious and juicy.
It seems that Sandro knows everyone. We will be sitting outside at the bar and every person that comes in or drives by gets an "auuu-oooo!". It would be so nice to have such a close-knit village. Maybe someday.
Bouna Notte
Bella
All the people here are wonderful. The other day I was invited inside the house after running with the boys and I sat at the table with the mother and her son Gianpoalo who is studying english in school. We had a conversation half in english, half in italian about my school, running, President Obama and how Gianpoalo likes just about every country except Afghanistan. He is a seriously funny kid. They gave me a delicious bright red drink (which of course I forget the name of) and before I left they made sure to give me a present of chocolate peanuts, which I devoured in a day (chocolate is my weakeness). They insisted that Sandro and I come for dinner next week so I will be treated to a delicious home-cooked pasta meal and of course, delicious wine.
Tabaldo (probably not spelled right) and his family live in town and own a gorgeous greenhouse just up the rode from Sandro. They too are the most wonderful people and Tabaldo loves trying out his english words. When he figured out the name for pope, he would point at the distant lights and yell "there's the pope", and yesterday on the way to the music he called for me and Sandro "lets go brothers!". Haha I told him to use "guys" instead so for the rest of the night he would call "andiamo guys!".
The mother of the veterinarian (who is the father of the bike riding boys), affectionately called nonna which means grandmother, is an absolute sweetheart and she gives us fresh tomatoes from her garden and brings me water before I head off for my runs. And Aurelio, o Aurelio. He is the oldest man I have ever seen but has a spirit that never wanes. He always smiles when he sees me and informs me everytime that he can speak four languages (arabic being one of them), but of course he can't speak english...except bye-bye! He is the man I will buying the lovely olive oil from and the wine and fresh figs and fruit he brought me as a present were incredibly delicious and juicy.
It seems that Sandro knows everyone. We will be sitting outside at the bar and every person that comes in or drives by gets an "auuu-oooo!". It would be so nice to have such a close-knit village. Maybe someday.
Bouna Notte
Bella
Soul Consuming Jazz
Last night Sandro and I rode through the countryside in his failing blue van. He yells "cautione (definitely not spelled right) as he revs the engine and barrels up the hills to avoid stalling halfway to the top. We drive through mountains and past the expanses of twinkling lights down below on the steady climb to the medievl town of Fara Sabina. With each sharp turn he sounds the horn to alert oncoming cars of his passage and with every twist of the road I get thrown from side to side-from Sandro's arm to the opposite door. I love it...exhilirating knowing that if I don't pay attention I might end up on the floor. We arrived at the main road to Fara only to see a long line of cars, like impatient first graders waiting for recess. We parked along the side of the road and made the long trek up the many hills to the heart of the beating town. As we approached the stone wall that encompasses the tree lined walkway, our friends called down from up above (my bike riding friends, their father the veterinarian and their beautiful mother). Along the walkway were children winding in and out of legs, stands selling beautiful wood carved bowls, glass blown jewelry and pocket knifes and the always present gelato stands. Before venturing to the music we stopped in the bar for the delightfully painful Grippa and a chat with some friends. The walk to the center of Fara Sabina is like nothing I have ever seen before. Picture the most romantic cobblestoned, narrow street and wooden doored town that you only see in movies, and that is Fara Sabina. We walked through a high arched iron gateway and entered into beauty incarnate. The cobblstones made it dreadfully hard to walk in so high heeled boots but of course I didnt mind and with the throngs of Italians we made our way through tiny streets, high stone buildings and brightly colored laundry flapping in the wind. I told Sandro that someday this is the place I will live. I have to. I need to. Its imperative to my being that I someday reside in the dreamlike streets of Fara Sabina. Vines and red flowers hung from iron windows and children fled behind large oak doors while the nonna's of town yelled from the windows and smiled on all the passerby. We made it to the center of the village where a large stage was set up, facing hundreds of cheering, beer drinking europeans. Everywhere people were drinking and smoking and dancing along with the trombones, saxophones and jazzy guitars. It was too easy to get lost in the music. I sat on the steps of an old medieval house, consumed in jazz, beer in hand, watching the most beauiful people on earth sway to the music. When I walk through the streets and the crowds I constantly get stared down by the women and of course I thought: "they've spotted me! The imposter...what the hell is an American doing here at our jazz festival?" But before I could dwell on this further, Sandro pointed out this fact and told me all the women are "inviduous", by which he means envious. HAHA at least its better than all the woman wanting to expose me as a fraud. We made our way back down the stone streets to the walkway where a 10 piece jazz/funk band was playing and dancing funky music. I don't understand people who dont dance to this kind of music...the music forces you to tap your feet, then move your hips and finally let lose and let the music take over your body. I stood by myself, next to an exuberant french lady and we danced like fools to the beautiful music. It was beautiful. When the music was finally finished I sat on the stone ledge, feet hanging precariously over the ledge, watching the moon high above and the lights of Rome and the countryside. I'm quite sure that life cant get any better. Well actually maybe if you were all here it would be perfect.
Once again I have more to write but Ill finish later.
Love, love, love, always,
Bella
Once again I have more to write but Ill finish later.
Love, love, love, always,
Bella
A summer of many tongues
I speak four languages here: native english, high school french, broken (mostly curse word) italian, and exceptional gibberish. I am slowly learning to decipher the conversations and questions of other people by picking out the one, sometimes two words I understand and then using my "creative thought" (thank you Skidmore...their motto is "creative thought matters) to piece together the meaning. Last night, for example, my friend said something to her husband that involved the world "fredo" (cold). From my deductive reasoning I figured out that she was saying "the baby is cold" so I quickly placed my jacket over the baby. One point for Erin.
I am acquiring many useful skills here. An ability to live in peace with the spiders. They are my unwavering companions as they accompany me to bed, in the shower and at meals. I am learning to gain weight (even if its just a little bit) gracefully. I dont worry about what I eat here because I have to enjoy the tastes, the smells and the euphoria while it lasts. I am becoming a master of gestures. I know what Sandro is saying just by looking at his face and the movement of his hands. I am becoming an expert wine drinker and an adept fly swatter. Finally, after months of forgetting how to open my heart, I have learned to once again love everything about life. I have truly fallen in love with the people, the country and the simple life that is so beautiful it could break your heart. I relish every sound, every smell and every taste-I am in blissful content just standing in the doorway, eyes closed feeling the radiance of the stars soak into my skin and the night breeze tangle my hair. I wish I could share with all of the beauty of living off the land. The dogs and the crickets are my lullabye and the slowly cooked pancetta and zuchini pasta dish is my dream.
When I miss everyone from home, I simply look at my body and know that you are all here with me. I see the tattoo on my ankle and I am sitting at the bar eating chocolate gelato with Danielle and Melissa. I touch the silver bracelet and multi-colored orange wire on my wrist and I hear Mark and Jenny playing drums to the 70s funk escaping through the doorway. I twist the ring on my finger and I am sitting at the table with Nick, rolling a cigarette. The glint of copper in the sun and I am belting out Norah Jones with Emma as we pull the weeds from the hot soil. The feel of the cross against my chest and Ann is watching over me and the peace sign which I turn over and over in my hands and I can see Tommy running beside me to the bar to get ice cold gatorades. And when I run my fingers over the tattoo on my ribs, I know that Anya is laughing as she watches me dance like a fool to the jazz music in the town square.
I feel like Lance Armstrong. Every night at 7pm I am called from the fields or my glass of wine (A-REEN,A-REEN!!) and I know its time for my nightly ride. A day off is not an option here because I simply cannot let my devoted teammates down. Every night I run to the next town, flanked and followed by my boyfriends, my nine year old bike riding trainers. They ride close behind and close in front, lowering the impact of the wind and propelling me towards the finish line. Our checkpoint is the local bar where we stop for gatorades (which I chug in 3 seconds flat only to regret it as I get that familiar stich in my side on the run back).
I am learning to cook...me a real Italian cook! The other day I made a tasty lunch of fresh eggs, zuchini, pancetta and goat cheese and for dinner I made Sandro and I pasta with zuchini, sausage and eggs...so delicious! Yesterday Sandro treated me to a fresh proscuitto and mozarella pizza, sausage and mushrooms and the strange but delicious sausage and golden potatoes pizze pie. And on the side we had fried scallops and a tomato, cheese and rice fried concoction. It was unbelievable! Ill have to ask him again what the name of that heavenly food was.
Sandro is a pro with home remedies. He puts fresh squeezed lemon on my mosquito bites, olive oil on my scrapes (NO...NOT THE PRECIOUS OLIVE OIL!), makes me a chamomile concoction for my eye infection (I cannot believe that I have another eye infection), a glass of wine for a restful nights sleep and a raw egg for an energy boost. With a flawed healthcare system and a modest salary, I would say Sandro has become quite resourceful.
I need to go wash some dishes but I'll make sure to write about last nights jazz festival soon!
Ciao for now,
Bella
I am acquiring many useful skills here. An ability to live in peace with the spiders. They are my unwavering companions as they accompany me to bed, in the shower and at meals. I am learning to gain weight (even if its just a little bit) gracefully. I dont worry about what I eat here because I have to enjoy the tastes, the smells and the euphoria while it lasts. I am becoming a master of gestures. I know what Sandro is saying just by looking at his face and the movement of his hands. I am becoming an expert wine drinker and an adept fly swatter. Finally, after months of forgetting how to open my heart, I have learned to once again love everything about life. I have truly fallen in love with the people, the country and the simple life that is so beautiful it could break your heart. I relish every sound, every smell and every taste-I am in blissful content just standing in the doorway, eyes closed feeling the radiance of the stars soak into my skin and the night breeze tangle my hair. I wish I could share with all of the beauty of living off the land. The dogs and the crickets are my lullabye and the slowly cooked pancetta and zuchini pasta dish is my dream.
When I miss everyone from home, I simply look at my body and know that you are all here with me. I see the tattoo on my ankle and I am sitting at the bar eating chocolate gelato with Danielle and Melissa. I touch the silver bracelet and multi-colored orange wire on my wrist and I hear Mark and Jenny playing drums to the 70s funk escaping through the doorway. I twist the ring on my finger and I am sitting at the table with Nick, rolling a cigarette. The glint of copper in the sun and I am belting out Norah Jones with Emma as we pull the weeds from the hot soil. The feel of the cross against my chest and Ann is watching over me and the peace sign which I turn over and over in my hands and I can see Tommy running beside me to the bar to get ice cold gatorades. And when I run my fingers over the tattoo on my ribs, I know that Anya is laughing as she watches me dance like a fool to the jazz music in the town square.
I feel like Lance Armstrong. Every night at 7pm I am called from the fields or my glass of wine (A-REEN,A-REEN!!) and I know its time for my nightly ride. A day off is not an option here because I simply cannot let my devoted teammates down. Every night I run to the next town, flanked and followed by my boyfriends, my nine year old bike riding trainers. They ride close behind and close in front, lowering the impact of the wind and propelling me towards the finish line. Our checkpoint is the local bar where we stop for gatorades (which I chug in 3 seconds flat only to regret it as I get that familiar stich in my side on the run back).
I am learning to cook...me a real Italian cook! The other day I made a tasty lunch of fresh eggs, zuchini, pancetta and goat cheese and for dinner I made Sandro and I pasta with zuchini, sausage and eggs...so delicious! Yesterday Sandro treated me to a fresh proscuitto and mozarella pizza, sausage and mushrooms and the strange but delicious sausage and golden potatoes pizze pie. And on the side we had fried scallops and a tomato, cheese and rice fried concoction. It was unbelievable! Ill have to ask him again what the name of that heavenly food was.
Sandro is a pro with home remedies. He puts fresh squeezed lemon on my mosquito bites, olive oil on my scrapes (NO...NOT THE PRECIOUS OLIVE OIL!), makes me a chamomile concoction for my eye infection (I cannot believe that I have another eye infection), a glass of wine for a restful nights sleep and a raw egg for an energy boost. With a flawed healthcare system and a modest salary, I would say Sandro has become quite resourceful.
I need to go wash some dishes but I'll make sure to write about last nights jazz festival soon!
Ciao for now,
Bella
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)