Home At Last

I'm writing to you from the comfort of my home with my dog on my left and a cup of my dad's coffee on my right. Life is good. I thought I would have some kind of post-abroad-depression but I'm experiencing quite the opposite. It feels so good to be back in the states. I don't think I've ever been happier to be back in Jersey.

Saturday at 5 AM, Rome time, I woke up and packed the rest of my belongings. By 6 AM parents and I were headed to FCO airport. In a surprising twist of events, neither my luggage nor my mother's luggage was overweight. On the security line, an incredibly obnoxious woman kept failing to take off all of her jewelry and kept complaining that she had to take out her laptop from her bag. The Italian TSA agent asked her where she was flying. She said New Jersey. (Of course.) People like her are the reason why everyone hates New Jersey. We're not all like that I swear.

My mom flew on a separate plane than my dad and I, so we waited with her until her flight started to board. We located our gate and waited on the boarding line for a good 30 minutes, got patted down, I got my bag searched for the millionth time, and we finally boarded the plane. I had gotten at least 3 hours of sleep the night before, and a minimal 2 hours of sleep the night before that. I was running on empty and all I wanted was to fall asleep and wake up in the states. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for me.

I took my seat by the window, settled in, and prayed for an empty seat next to me. Quite the opposite. A guy came down the isle, pointed at the seat next to me, he said hi, I said Ciao (force of habit), and then he asked me if I spoke english. I said yes. I should've said no. Mistake number one. He asked me if I had ever been to the US before. I said yes. I should've said no and pretended to be Italian. Mistake number two. And then, the worst of news, "I'm a missionary. God sat us together for a reason. Your soul needs Jesus. Are you married?" I held back laugher and said, "no I'm twenty." Then he asked me why I wasn't married yet, because 20 was a perfectly acceptable age to be married."No, sir, I'm going to college first for health policy management." "Oh so that's your main hobby?" Oh boy.

He then started to give me a homily for the next THREE HOURS. He went through the letters of the alphabet and gave me a lesson about sin for each one. "A, acknowledge our sin, the bible tells us that Adam was..."  By the time he was on the letter C, our plane was almost over England, and I was almost an atheist. I believe in God and heaven and whatever but I don't think God was with me on the plane at that moment. I kept trying to tell the man that, "I'm tired and God wants me to sleep and thank you but no thank you." To which he responded that my tiredness was the devil trying to pull me away from God. (Someone's been drinking the Kool-Aid.) Then he told me to repent now because the plane could crash. Oh HELL no. He also felt the need to take up both half of my seat as well as his own, and the center arm rest. Why is man spreading a thing? Really, why? I spent nine and a half turbulent hours cramped in a ball pretending to be asleep while blasting rap music so that he got the hint that nope I really don't care about the purity of my soul but thanks.

By the time we landed he gave a blessing over me, to which everyone was freaked out by, including myself, and then I aggressively tried to make eye contact with my dad who was about 10 rows back. I had texted him a brief summary of events the second we landed, so he looked at me and laughed. I can laugh about it now, but during that flight I was quite close to locking myself in the airplane bathroom or stuffing myself into the overhead baggage compartment. By the time we landed I cried tears of joy. I don't think anyone's ever cried of happiness to be in Newark, New Jersey. Yet there I was.

My dad and I got off the plane, took a weird selfie for customs, and claimed our luggage. Our cab driver, mercifully, did not try to save my soul. That luxury is hard to find, these days. We finally arrived home, I hugged the crap out of my puppy, and I had a jersey bagel. It feels so good to be home.

My travel troubles aside, I would like to thank a bunch of people. I couldn't have survived the past four weeks without humor or the support of my friends and family.
I would like to thank my parents for 1- paying for my trip, 2- coming out to visit me, 3- letting me go in the first place, 4- tolerating my texts at weird hours of the night.
I would like to thank Michelle for watching the puppy for us. Sorry if she peed all over you.
I would like to thank my PC friends & IHA girls for entertaining me with your group chats and downloading GroupMe. Can't wait to reunite with you all. <3
I would like to thank the St. John's crew for being amazing people who were fantastic to travel with. I expect to be invited to any and all reunions.
I would like to thank my extended family and friends for reading my blog and keeping up with my adventures. My blog has gotten an insane amount of hits and it makes me feel quite proud!
Last and definitely not least, I would like to thank the great nation of Italy for having beautiful people who make delicious food and produce stunning artwork. Until next time, Roma. For now, I'm perfectly content in the states.

 Going to miss this view!

Spotted: New Jersey.

REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOD.

One Day More

Ciao, internet! Sorry I haven't posted in a while, but I'm trying to take in as much of Roma as I can before I head to the airport and back to the states tomorrow at a bright and (not) sunny 6AM.

This past Sunday my dad landed in Italy. My mom and I took him out to celebratory Father's Day lunch & dinner. You're welcome again, Italian economy. Eating in Rome with my family is great, and apart from the good parent/daughter bonding, I can finally order meat and fish. Over the past four weeks I've been budgeting like a college student and ordering the cheapest meal on the menu and conserving my money toe spend on wine. I have priorities. Now, I can have the best of both worlds and finally stop eating 10 euro Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe (fat spaghetti with pepper and cheese and goodness) and start eating 20 euro grilled chicken and sautéed vegetables. One month of living in Europe and I can honestly say one of my favorite parts is the vegetables. Even though my blog is entitled "no pasta left behind" and not "no spinach left behind," the same law applies. In the states I have a hard time eating raw vegetables without feeling some kind of allergic reaction coming on. In Europe, I've been eating vegetables with ease. I'm in heaven.

On Monday I had lecture, and once more reminded me of the harsh truth that studying abroad has to include studying somewhere. Don't get me wrong, I have been doing a lot of work for my art course, but this week's workload was a little bit elevated. I decided to take on the hard task of doing my final photography project on my feet. (Yes, you read it correctly, my feet.)  My parents have always told me that in the city, you can always tell who's a tourist because they're the people looking up. So, in trying to embrace as much of the Italian culture as I could and blend in, I found myself looking down. However, I had to somehow come up with a 1,000 word essay about the places my feet have been, (and presumably the rest of my body, as well), and take 30 artsy-fart photographs of my shoes. It was a strange challenge but I pulled it off. (I'll include pictures below!) Tuesday we visited more churches (huge shocker there) and a catacomb located in the Trastevere district of Rome. Trastevere is basically the Roman equivalent of Brooklyn, minus the good bagels. Thankfully, the district was artsy enough that I could take a lot of pictures of my feet. (There's a sentence that's never been typed before.)

On Wednesday we visited the Villa Borghese Gallery/Museum Estate Look At Our Money and Our Marble Statues and Ceilings and Stuff. But that's just the unofficial title. Our professors decided to make it super fun for us and we walked all the way there and all the way back. Our pedometers said that one way was 4 miles but it felt much longer. On our way there, my friends and I started to talk about our favorite and least favorite tour guides on the trip so far. We started joking about one tour guide we had at the Vatican who had the worst possible tour guide voice in the world. Nice lady, but excruciating to listen to for four hours straight. God has a weird sense of humor. She was our tour guide, "and-a she-a talked-a like-a this-a for-a four-a hours-a" at the slowest possible human pace. Every word took about four years to say and each word came with an unexpected vowel sound at the end. We were even given headsets to amplify to her monologue of the galleries but after 5 minutes of unwanted vowels, I muted her. After we struggled through the tour-a, I walked 4 miles more to my parent's apartment where I had an egg and cheese sandwich waiting for me. God bless my parents, and god bless whoever invented egg and cheese sandwiches. I have seen a lot of Italian attempts at bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel but I feel like it went against my tri-state religion to even attempt to eat an Italian bagel. In Italy, just as in Rhode Island, the words "NYC style bagel" on a menu is the equivalent of a 1 star hotel. Don't do it. (Re: Florence Blog Post)

Thursday we had our very last church visit. (Woohoo!) I think I've seen more churches in the past four weeks than most Catholics have in their entire lives. Also, I think I've heard the phrase "no photo, no video, no flash" more in the past four weeks than anyone would like to. After class, I went back to my parents apartment to find them in a food coma. They went to a wine tasting at a local vineyard on Via Appia. I'm pretty sure my mother has already booked my wedding there... and I'm not complaining. My parents were able to snag a couple courses of food for me to try and I was in heaven. And those were just the leftovers. Apparently, the vineyard grows everything that it cooks and serves, even down to the wheat in the pasta. I don't think I've ever seen my dad so relaxed. (Thank you, carbohydrates!) And I think he'll continue to be super relaxed until we have to drive up to the cape with a barking dog in the car.

Thursday night was the last night that I spent in the dorm because Saturday morning our cab leaves at the butt-crack of dawn. So today I had class in the morning and packed up my belongings to sleep in my parent's apartment tonight.  By the grace of God, my suitcase closed, but I did have to sit on it.  Never trust anyone who packs light.

In a few hours we have our last dinner as a program at the same restaurant that we had our welcome dinner. Things are coming full circle, and it is quite bitter sweet. Next time I post, I'll either be a couple thousand feet in the air, in an airport terminal, or drinking Dunks in good old Jersey.

Ciao,

Sue :)

Villa Borghese, after walking 12 miles.

Last day of Art 1790!

Hi Dad!

GO FRIARS!

A glimpse at my project:

Shadows in Trastevere

Piles of Marble in the Forum

Firenze

Papal Selfies & The Mistretta Invasion

I didn't know it was possible to feel nostalgic for the present moment, yet here I am. As I finish my third and second-to-last week in Rome, I can't help but miss Italy already, and I'm currently within its borders. I love everything about this city: the rich food, the fresh wine, the beautifully dressed people, the street music, the hum of the vespas, the language that makes even cat calling seem appealing, the strong espresso, the endless shopping, the way people pronounce their names, even the piles of broken marble. Maybe I'll try to snag a beautiful looking Italian man and get married so I have an excuse to stay. It's totally plausible... Oh wait, no, right, I have to finish college and I miss iced coffee too much. (Sorry, hunky Italian men. Please give me a few years and I'll be back.)

This weekend, I have no assigned trips or excursions. I had the option to book a plane, train, bus, helicopter, pack mule, etc, to visit virtually any country in Europe or city in Italy. However, I quite honestly do not want to leave Rome. I don't think I ever want to leave Rome. So, I planned the next best thing: my parents are paying me a visit. Or, technically, I'm paying them a visit in their fancy shmancy European apartment with old appliances and an amish-style stove. (I learned how to light a stove with a match and make espresso like a 1940s housewife. Not sure if I should be proud of that or upset because I'm setting myself back 70 years.) 

My mom arrived early Tuesday morning, crashed at my dorm to work off the jet lag, and moved into her apartment seven blocks down from my building. I spent the majority of the day helping my mom unpack and locate grocery stores. We found one grocery store across the street from her apartment which sold American specialties, namely: fruit roll-ups, Lucky Charms, Pop-Tarts, and Crisco. Truly a microcosm of the American diet. My dad is set to arrive early Sunday morning, and we are planning to FaceTime Michelle and Genevieve whenever something interesting happens. (Which, if you've been reading my blog, isn't hard to come by these days.) The Mistretta's are coming home after 90 some odd years. Sorry, Italian ancestors, I know you were in a rush to leave Italy but we're in a rush to come back.

On Wednesday, this great nation gave me another reason to want to stay: my bucket list got one item shorter. I took a selfie with Pope Francis. Attention IHA or Providence, if you would like to use my papal selfie for any kind of alumni brochure or ad campaign, godspeed. In fact, if I don't make it on some kind of alumni brochure, I will be deeply offended. After I hung out with Papa Fran, and his squad of cardinals translated his homily into 10 different languages, I bought a Pope T-shirt. Sacrilege? Probably. Worth it? Yes.

On Thursday, I spent a majority of the day on mass transit trying to get to and from the catacombs of St. Sebastian. In New Jersey, I have no reason whatsoever to utilize the train or bus. In Rhode Island, the RIPTA is a backup plan if I don't feel like driving. In Rome, it's just about the only way to get around, unless you want to walk 25 miles. Honestly, I would've preferred walking: most Europeans don't believe in deodorant, and the ones that do believe in deodorant also believe in excessive amounts of Armani aftershave.

For the past few days, my mom and I have been operating on a tight schedule of sight-seeing, shopping, eating, more shopping, coffee break, nap time, bottle of pinot grigio time, and dinner time. But unfortunately, I also have to fit in studying somewhere in that mix. It's about time- over the past month I've been doing more 'abroad-ing' than studying. Earlier today my mom and I were stranded in the vatican amidst a lightning storm. I think that was God telling me to not waste ALL of my parents money frolicking in Europe and make time to earn credit hours. You win this round, God.

But amidst complaining about studying I decided to give my mom, and her wallet, a break for the evening and I cooked dinner. I honestly can't get over how much better every single ingredient tastes over here in Europe versus at home. It's borderline unfair. At home, the vegetables make me break out in hives. In Europe, I eat them no problem. I'm starting to wonder if my pollen allergies are an American construct....

Conspiracy theories aside, we're off to prepare the apartment for when my dad comes tomorrow morning, and thus the Mistretta invasion will be complete - minus Michelle and Gen. (Come on over guys!!)

Ciao,

Sue :)

Our Christmas card for the next 100 years.

Trapped in the Vatican with the woman who gave me life. Hi mom. 

Italian domestic goddess.

Friar in Firenze

This past weekend I did what comes naturally to me: I went north. Early on Thursday morning we departed for our last long weekend trip to visit Montepulciano, Siena, Florence, and Assisi. We had a 9AM appointment for a wine tasting in Montepulciano, so I braced myself for an impending day drinking headache. All I wanted was an espresso and an omelette at that point, but no, I got salami, bruschetta, parmesan cheese and rounds of reserve label wine. I shouldn't complain, it was a really fun experience, regardless of the time of day. Even though we were in an actual winery and I should've appreciated the bouquet and swirled my glass and stuff, I was more focused on how good the bread was. And if you ask me, the bouquet was a little too robust for a Merlot, although I'm partial to the softer California grape. (Props if you understand that reference.)

After Montepulciano, we boarded the bus and drove to Siena, which had too many hills to manage with only wine and cheese on our stomachs. However, I got through the tour and located a coffee shop. At this point, I was so caffeine deprived that my eye wouldn't stop twitching. Don't get hooked on coffee, kids, you'll look insane 90% of the time. I decided to take a chance and order iced coffee. Europeans have some strange construct about iced drinks in that they don't exist. Beverages are typically served either piping hot or at an uncomfortably strange room temperature. If you find refrigerated water, you've hit the lotto.

I knew that ordering iced coffee was going to insult the locals, so I braced myself for the worst. I walked in and pretended I was Italian (the skin tone helps me out), but then all hell broke loose because my American started to show when I opened my mouth. I'm only fluent in Italian curse words. Full of false hope with a twitching eyeball I said, "Ciao, espresso with uh, ice and milk?" The sassy Italian Barista looked at me like she had just smelled a fart and said: "No. I make coffee ice cream." So I tried again, "no, espresso with cold milk and a cup of ice?" I didn't know I was a comedian. The sassy Italian barista started to laugh and gathered her co-workers to share the moment. Glad I could serve as entertainment. I think they're still laughing. Humiliation aside, I got my iced latte! It was pure euphoria, my first iced coffee beverage in two and a half weeks. I'm quite proud, even if I was the village idiot for a day.

After I was laughed out of Siena, we traveled further north to Florence. Our one star hotel was a strange little place, located on the third floor of probably the world's oldest hotel building. Side note: why would you advertise that your hotel is one star? While you're at it, hang a sign that says "the hotel equivalent of camping." There was a three-star hotel on the second floor but no, we were going to rough it one-star style. Our particular hotel room was in a remote corner of the fourth floor, had no air conditioning, no hot water, no water pressure, and a dusty television from 1993 that hung directly over my bed. We tried to open up the window for relief but our hotel room faced a bunch of walls. So between the humidity and the long trek to our room, we decided that we were in Guam. Everyone else was in Florence, and we were in Guam. We tried to be optimistic because our hotel was in the center of Florence and right in the action. But we were also right next to a bell tower that decided to ring incredibly loudly whenever it felt like. It was like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The church bells decided to ring at 3:34, 4:12, 5:40, 6:15. I don't know what time zone we were even in. Oh wait, no, we were in Guam, so that's what time zone we were in.

After spending one night in actual hell, we moved to a different room with air conditioning and more water pressure. I've never been more happy to be cold in my entire life. My inner New Englander was pleased. Despite our hotel tragedies, I really did enjoy Florence. I talked my way into a discounted leather bag, went shopping, dodged gypsies, drank wine that had just been picked from the vine, and ate homemade good pasta. Congratulations, Italians, you win at carbohydrates.

On Saturday we visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence which housed so many famous paintings that my head was spinning. Sorry, Metropolitan Museum of Art, but my heart currently belongs to Uffizi. Once more, my inner history nerd came out so I hung onto every word of our tour guide and took my time staring at the paintings. Unfortunately, the galleries incredibly crowded, so I wish I could've had the entire museum to myself for at least an hour. However, I'm not a Medici, so I don't think I have that luxury.

As I was leaving the Uffizi, tragedy struck once more. I was walking on the narrow sidewalk of a narrow road and saw a pigeon walking in the street. Everything was serene and calm. I decided to be introspective and think, "wow, Florence is great." Then, a taxi came zooming down the narrow street and the pigeon flipped out, smacked right into the back of the knee really hard, and knocked me down onto the cobblestone. I said a bunch of four-letter anglo-saxon words while a pack of Asian tourists took pictures. I was the village idiot once more. I had flashbacks to freshman year at Providence when I inadvertently kicked a squirrel in front of two basketball D1's. I'm such a graceful human being.

With a pigeon-shaped black and blue on my shin, we continued to tour Florence and contributed to the success of the Italian economy. Then on Sunday morning, we left for Assisi, which had amazing views of the Italian countryside because the town is situated on top of a mountain. I got to know that mountain quite well. Assisi has probably been existence for as long as it has because of the terrain. Talk about a fantastic defense mechanism: if anyone ever tried to invade Assisi, they would probably decide "nope I'm not climbing that" and leave. We got lost in the hills of Assisi and couldn't find our tour guide so Google Maps sent us climbing about 39 cliffs to the top of the mountain. Assisi made Guzman Hill look like a field. Never have my legs been more sore in my entire life. Thank you, St. Francis of Assisi for blessing my leg day. If the views hadn't been so incredible, I would've cried. However, the view from the top of the mountain was worth the sweat and almost tears.

Now we're back in Rome, and it's good to be home. So far, no pigeons have attacked me and the air conditioning is working well in my room. I'm about to start cleaning my room because my mom is visiting tomorrow! (Hi mom!) I'm going to pretend that yes, my room has always been this neat.

Ciao,

Sue :)

Tuscany!

Wine makes the best presents.

Friar in Firenze

Assisi, post hike. 

An Ode to Food Allergies

I love food. I will eat anything and everything in sight. Especially in Italy, I'm in heaven. The Italians really know how to eat. Huge shoutout to my metabolism on this trip, couldn't have done it without you. But just like everyone else, there are certain types of food that I shy away from eating. Not because of "I don't like the texture" or "I don't like the taste" but "I don't like it when my throat closes up." (Fair warning, ladies and gents, this is a more introspective and serious blog post.)

I was diagnosed with nut allergies when I was about three years old, and since then my list has expanded to include several fruits and vegetables. I've always grown up thinking that my food restrictions were completely normal. My mom has the same allergies that I do, and my sister is a picky enough eater that you would assume she had some kind of food restriction. (Michelle sticks to three main food groups: potatoes, pasta, and chick peas.) Family dinners never consisted of any peanuts or tree-nuts, but I never felt like I missed out. On the contrary, I felt bad for people who don't get to experience my family's cooking.  Our Pierogi's are legendary.

Now that I'm 20 and slightly wiser, I've realized that nut-free kitchens are not the norm. As I got older, I started noticing the special treatment and (sometimes unwanted) attention that came along with my food allergies. My teachers in grade school had a "safe snack" in the classroom for me whenever the other kids brought in nut-ridden birthday cakes. The nurse in high school had my Epi-Pen on file just in case I was ever careless enough to eat a peanut. I was given "special" accommodations in college, namely: a car and a kitchen. I loved these accommodations and really appreciated it whenever people took the time to understand my allergies. However, I never liked the social stigma of being "that girl with the food allergies." Especially in grade school, my peers made it seem like I was allergic to everything. To this day, I wish I had a dollar for the amount of times that people have asked me, "so what CAN you eat?"

Accommodations can only do so much, and eating is not as easy as pie. My first obstacle came last summer when my roommates and I moved into an apartment with a kitchen. Almond milk was the new food craze. I felt so guilty about compromising with the girls about what they could and couldn't have in the apartment. However, because they're fantastic people (hello penthouse ladies!), they made accommodations for me and were careful about what they ate. For that, I am eternally grateful. But even so, I felt guilty for some reason. I couldn't understand why I kept apologizing when my allergies weren't my fault. I didn't ask for this, and I don't think anyone would.

I've never complained about my allergies before, but 20 years of checking labels and you start to wonder: "why me?" Despite careful shopping and menu reading, I'm at risk of having an allergic reaction during every meal. (And even one time in the middle of a morning run. Thank you for rescuing me, Cape Cod EMTs, but I hope to never see you again.) I can't imagine what it would be like to have a food allergy without proper access to health care or proper education on how to manage what you eat. I'm privileged when it comes to medical care, but even I slip up, sometimes. Knock on wood, I've only had three substantial allergic reactions in my 20 years of life, one of which was my initial diagnosis. Those odds are pretty good. I'm lucky enough that my allergy isn't extreme, so "may contain" labels mean nothing to me, and "processed on the same equipment" is simply a way to avoid lawsuit. My allergies are easily manageable and not a big deal, but they're still a significant part of my life.

As I start my second week in Italy, my attitude on food allergies has evolved once more, this time for the better. I stopped seeing my allergies as a disabler and I'm starting to finally accept them as part of the cross I have to carry. When picking an abroad program, I could only travel to European countries because the diet is quite similar to what I eat at home. Before I left for Rome, I had to pack extra Zyrtec, Benadryl, EpiPen, AuviQ, the list goes on and on. Most kids pack bathing suits when they go to the Amalfi coast, I pack anti-histamines. This is my normal. Every time I eat, I take a small risk. I choose carefully, ask questions, carry Benadryl, and learn the warning signs. My food allergies are not a reason to give up on experiencing life and shy away from traveling. Granted, asking for ingredients is a pain in the butt, especially in another language, but I can handle it. I need food to live; everyone does. So I can't eat almonds, life goes on. No one has to be sorry, including myself.

Truthfully, if I had the opportunity to get rid of my allergies, I don't know if I would take it. Managing my health has become an integral part of my life. I've mastered the fine art of ordering at restaurants (in English, Italian, and German), cooking (thanks for teaching me mom!), and shopping for food. It can be annoying to be careful, but it's better than the alternative.

At PC, I declared a Health Policy Management major. Your guess is just as good as mine when it comes to where that major will take me in life. But now I'm starting to think that I can channel it towards diet and nutrition. I love food, so I might as well make a career out of it. Maybe I can use my life experience and culinary skills to one day help other people, especially kids, to manage their food restrictions. I think it's about time that I accepted my version of normal and celebrate just how far I've come. I've beaten all of the odds, and I'm proud of that.

Ciao,

Sue :)

Content with my carbs. No pasta left behind.

Home Sweet Rome

I'm finally back in Rome after a long weekend excursion to Southern Italy. The temperature here keeps rising and rising and I keep getting sweatier and sweatier. It's hot as hell in Italy, but the natives don't seem to mind or even notice when the pavement starts to sizzle by 8 AM. It will be a 90 degree day and Italian men will still wear their three piece cashmere suits on their vespas. It seems to be a fact of life. It's easy to spot the tourists around town because they're the people who look like wet squirrels. I am one of them.

Last Wednesday, on what seemed to be the hottest day of the year, our program visited Vatican City. Unfortunately for us, we had to follow a strict dress code of covered knees, covered shoulders, and covered toes. The security guards were incredibly strict about these rules, because it's not like the Vatican has bigger problems to deal with or anything. For future reference, don't get caught taking pictures in the Sistine Chapel. They'll have you deported. (It's like a two minute walk, it's totally fine) By the end of the day it looked like I had showered. Also, I found out that I was dehydrating myself by drinking mineral water that had a substantially high concentration of sodium. I'm all for electrolytes but I was practically drinking designer ocean water. It wasn't the healthiest thing in the world. After I got back to campus and took about twenty showers, I drank my weight in Gatorade and sat down to do homework. I had almost forgotten that study abroad has to involve studying somewhere. Pity.

On Thursday we visited a few of the National Museums of Rome, most of which had a fantastic amount of statues to imitate. Our textbook probably put it best: "oh no, not another pile of broken marble!!" The beauty of Rome is in its ruins, but it's hard to keep a group of thirty something college kids focused on the beauty of a pile of marble. This weekend we're going to Florence and I'm very excited to finally see some Renaissance paintings! I love marble, and all, but there are about as many broken statues of Roman emperors here as there are nail salons in New Jersey. (Possibly more...which is saying something.)

Before the sun rose on Friday morning, we boarded a bus for our first weekend trip: Pompeii, Paestum, and Naples. I had seen Pompeii 10 years ago when my family had visited Italy, but I had honestly forgotten most of it. With more mature eyes, I couldn't believe how extensive Pompeii was. As a ten year old, I'm pretty sure I only had pasta on my mind and I didn't take in all of the historical and archeological facts. Because Pompeii is practically in the desert, it was also hot as hell. However, there was zero dress code so I was free to wear hiking attire. Thank God. The inhabitants of Pompeii might've invented cross walks, bakeries, and bath houses, but they didn't invent shade or air conditioning. I mean it's not their fault, they only had rocks to work with. (Notice a theme?)

After our tour we took a shopping break and I managed to talk my way into a half priced necklace. However, the owner of the shop kept creepily calling me a beautiful Italian woman so I probably shouldn't have fostered his business. Europeans seem to know no boundaries. (Side note: today while walking through a Piazza, I ignored a street vendor and he said I was ugly, told me not to come back to Rome, and said that I didn't deserve a vacation. Lovely people here. Simply lovely. Points for creativity, sir, but my ancestors will probably kick you in the butt. So beware.)

After Pompeii, we traveled further south to Paestum, which seemed to be the world's smallest beach town. There was one super market, three restaurants, two clothing stores, and one hotel. I'm pretty sure we gave the town more business in one weekend than they've gotten in about three years. The hotel we stayed at was nice, but it had strange quirks. For one, the WiFi password was afrodite69. So, if Aphrodite had an afro? Also, the showers only emitted cold water, which made for some bitter wake-up calls. We decided to go to Paestum in the first place because there are incredibly well preserved ruins of Greek temples dedicated to Hera and Athena, as well as fresh Buffalo Mozzarella. (It's Godly, no pun intended.) In one of Paestum's museums we saw the Tomb of the Diver, which is the oldest painting that was ever found. It's strange how such a small town can have such an extensive portion of history.

Apart from priceless and ancient art and architecture, Paestum also had a lovely beach, even though it was about the size of PC's quad. We spent the majority of our time tanning and swimming in the Mediterranean. The salt water and sea air were cathartic, as well as the tanned and toned natives who played soccer in front of us. Talk about nice views. However, by the second night, our bus driver was so bored that he took us to the neighboring town of Agropoli to watch a soccer game. Er, football match.  Even though we were deep in the heart of Italy, the majority of the natives were rooting for Barcelona to win.

On Sunday, after we ran out of things to do in Paestum, we traveled to Naples to visit an art museum. I had an oddly sentimental feeling being in Naples, considering a majority of my Italian great-grandparents lived there at one point and departed from its port to settle in New York. In fact, one of my great-grandfathers left Naples twice, because New York denied him the first time. So Naples must've been quite a bad place to live at that point in history. That's Mistretta dedication.

The pizza in New York is great and all but the pizza in Naples was unreal: like the direct opposite of Rhode Island pizza. (Sorry, New Englanders, it's not your fault you have bad water.) We had lunch at the critically acclaimed "second best Pizza in Italy," because the restaurant that made the number one best Pizza was closed on Sunday. But the second best was pretty fantastic. I miss that pizza already. With full stomachs and happy hearts, we boarded the bus for one last time and came back to home sweet Rome. As much as I loved experiencing small town Italy for a weekend, I had really missed the atmosphere in Rome. Many people compare Rome to Manhattan but there's really no comparison. Manhattan is crowded, loud, rushed, and grey. Rome is crowded, hushed, slowed down (except for those vespas) and colorful. You can't find the history of Rome anywhere else in the world. Every ally way, every street corner, every Piazza has so much character and history and ease. I feel so at home here, but I don't want to un-do the Americanization that my ancestors tried so hard for. So yes, friends and family, I will eventually return to the states. But for now, Rome is my hometown.

Ciao,

Sue :)

The inhabitants of Pompeii were short, so I found a door that was just right.

Paid my dues to the Goddess Athena. 

"AND I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU"

This guy kinda looks like my ancestors. 

Tomb of the Diver: the oldest painting recovered.

Content with my fedora and sandwich.

Update from La Citta Eterna

I think I need to start a collection of bizarre roommate stories, because strange things tend to happen to me in dorm settings. Especially when it comes to roommates, humor and patience are very important. In fact, humor and patience are necessary. When a girl tells you she's terrified of sharing a toilet with another person, you know you're in for a reality check. My assigned roommate had experienced way too much anxiety and culture shock in a two-day period and decided to leave in the early hours of Sunday morning. She packed her suitcase and boarded a flight without telling anyone.

So, with a second closet to store my belongings, I settled into the room and finally uncovered the last of my belongings from the depths of my suitcases. Thank you, Italian customs, for not confiscating my Wild Berry PopTart stash. 

On Sunday afternoon, I joined a group of lovely St. John's students for a Piazza walk through Rome (in case any of you are reading this: Ciao! You got a shoutout. Wooohoo!). I had been so concerned about meeting new people, especially considering everyone in the program already knew each other from the NYC campus. However, the transition was seamless and it feels like I've known these people forever. We share an equal love for New York diners and an equal dislike for the state of Florida. (Nothing personal, just the humidity, crocodiles, the police blotter. Bath salts? Really?) I doubt any of us would survive south of Battery Park.

We walked thorugh a bunch of Piazzas throughout Rome, each of which had complicated Italian names that could've totally passed for names of pasta shapes. One of the Piazzas we visited was La Piazza della Rotunda that housed the Pantheon, gladiators smoking cigarettes, doe eyed tourists with matching t-shirts, and pushy vendors trying to sell selfie sticks. (3 euro, in case anyone is in the market for one.) Nerdy art history fact: the inside of the Pantheon is sized such that person can see the entire space from the doorway. Architecturally, it is right at the limit of human vision. Instead of overwhelming visitors, it places dazzling architecture and symmetry within the scope of human perception. Meanwhile, when you stand in St. Peter's Square, you are overcome with the immense size of the Basilica and the power of the Church seems almost overbearing. Nerdy rant over - back to the fun stuff.

We stopped for gelato on the way back to campus. I had to indulge in Italian Ice because cross contamination can be a real pain in the Bernini. (Is that a phrase? It is now.) After our walking tour, we reconvened for dinner. The restaurant we went to had insanely delicious mozzarella. I might go back and order just straight cheese. After we devoured pizza, we went to an outdoor bar and enjoyed a few glasses of wine by a bonfire. European living is so much more relaxed than American living. While the traffic is insane and the street vendors are creepily pushy, everything comes to a halt when the sun goes down. At around 7:30, dinner restaurants just start to open and hoards of Italians emerge from their villas and apartments to share a meal with one another. Eating is not so much a necessity here as it is an experience. During dinner, our waiter never rushed us, never pushed the check in our faces, and also didn't expect a tip. In America, the waitress or waiter to never leaves your side and asks if everything is okay every two minutes. Eating is sacred time here, and I love it. 

On Monday we had a floor meeting and class. I almost forgot that study abroad had to involve studying at some point. Bummer. So far, the course seems exactly like first semester Civ at PC minus the heavy reading and plus more art. (For those of you who don't know what Civ is - it's basically western european history, philosophy, literature, and theology all packed into 4 semesters of fun and class bonding.) I thought I was done with Civ but I'm not. I'm never going to be done with Civ at this point. 

Tuesday morning we went to Altare Della Patria Roma for Festa Della Repubblica. It was a military parade where all of the Italian soldiers marched in uniform and sang, flew planes, and rode around on horses. It was quite intimidating but also really awesome. I had to fight the urge to salute them. 

After the pomp and circumstance, we walked to Crypta de Balbi which housed an archeological dig that dated back to the time of Julius Caesar. The site rested on a small theatre and grain distribution center. The Roman government operated under a "bread and circus" policy wherein they would keep citizens happy by feeding them and entertaining them. Which, to be honest, is also the way to my heart: give me carbs and make me laugh. The historical background of the site made it more interesting, otherwise I would've assumed that the museum housed a bunch of old rocks.  (Then again, a majority of Rome is simply a bunch of old rocks. But, it's a bunch of old rocks that Julius Caesar might've touched. And that guy has a salad named after him, and a Shakespearian novel, so you know he's important.)

I have a three hour break before we all reconvene for afternoon coffee and shopping. In the meantime, I'm going to catch up on sleep. Jet lag is still a pain in the Bernini. (That phrase will catch on. I'm telling you.)

Ciao!

- Sue :)

Overlook from Piazza del Popolo 

 Yaaaay. Abroad friends.

 Finally got a post-puberty photo on the Spanish Steps. 

 Festa Della Repubblica 

Caffeine Deprived But I Survived

O captain, my captain must've been on a mission because the plane arrived an hour early, landing at a bright and cheery 6:45 AM Rome time. My body thought it was 1AM New York Time, aka bedtime. No such luck. The fatigue is hitting me like a brick. I have been awake for at least 36 hours. Also, as of writing this sentence I have no caffeine in my system, which is probably half the problem.

Getting to the plane was pretty straightforward, despite the fact that two TSA agents asked me to verify my birthday because I looked too young to be born in 1995. I may look like an unaccompanied minor, but I can legally play the lottery in 50 states, thank you very much. Also, instead of asking me to verify my birthday, wouldn't it be more effective to ask me to name all of the Backstreet Boys? Seems like a more entertaining option.

The plane ride was bumpy ("pockets of air"), I couldn't eat any of the food (but thanks for the water and bread, United), I couldn't sleep (old man farting in front of me), and a woman tried to set me up with her 21-year old son (he's super into swords and he's single, obviously). But despite all of that, I arrived safe and sound.

The cab driver's name was Marco. I had to restrain myself from saying "Polo" whenever he answered his phone. Apparently talking on the phone and driving is pretty kosher in Italy... but then again so is horrible driving etiquette. Marco wore a three piece suit despite of the 80 degree forecast (he was going to sweat anyways... he's Italian) and he drove a shiny black Mercedes. While driving on the highway, people kept looking in the back of the car expecting to see someone important but nope, just a sweaty, disheveled, and caffeine deprived girl. Hello, Italy, this is what an American looks like.

Everything from the most recent 12 hours is kind of a blur thanks to jet lag. At 8AM I arrived at the dorm, unpacked, showered, and napped for 3 hours because my eyelids wouldn't stay open. Don't know how, but I woke up, and stumbled upon a grocery store which sold mostly American food. Thank you globalization, couldn't have done it without you.

I located a coffee bar, chugged a double espresso, and ate some weird Italian version of a Taylor Ham Egg and Cheese. It wasn't quite the same as Ronnie's Bagels, unfortunately, but staying awake through lunch was an accomplishment in itself. I went for a nice stroll around town before I got too sweaty (it's because I'm Italian. It comes with the territory).

Now I'm off to kill three hours of time before I'm forced into ice breaker exercises. It's like freshman year all over again, minus the go friars chants. And what's the fun in that?

Ciao,

Sue :)

P.S. I am not responsible for any stupid grammatical errors. Direct your corrections towards jet lag.

Ah, the motherland. 

 Oh Yes, le Holiday Inn and le McDonalds. So cultured 

Pre-Departure Jitters

Hello, whoever decided to click this link! (So basically, Hi Mom, Dad, Michelle, and Gen.)

I'm about to embark on a month long journey to Italy to study art and architecture. The itinerary includes: Rome, Pompeii, Paestum, Naples, Siena, Florence, and Assisi. Thus the Civ tutor qualifications continue to build up. My upcoming journey will be my second trip to Rome within the last ten years. I'm very excited to see Italy as a slightly taller and substantially more mature woman.

Maybe I'll remember to blog regularly, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll find a cute Italian boy with a good last name. Maybe I'll reject him because I love the US far too much to compromise my lifestyle. Maybe I'll find out why my ancestors left Italy in the first place. (Why would anyone want to leave a country that has a designated nap time?)

Packing is going swimmingly because I never unpacked from college. All I had to do was airlift moderately-clean clothing from one suitcase to another.

One special aspect of my packing process, however, includes a lot of allergy management precautions. For anyone reading this who has the privilege of eating without restrictions: pat yourself on the back and go eat some Trail Mix. Not only do I have stunning looks and modesty, but also pretty substantial pollen, fruit, and nut allergies.  On a day to day basis, I don't even think twice about my allergy management: it's something I've always had to do since age three. However, skimming the ingredients of a PopTart box is a far cry from gaining food security in a nation where hand gestures are the main form of communication. Managing my allergy will definitely be a challenge, but I'll make it work somehow.

Scary stuff aside, pre-departure also consists of memorizing Italian phrases that might help me get by. I have my ancestors to thank for our family's swift Americanization. The only Italian words I know are curse words, pasta shapes, and the lyrics of Volare. So if I'm in a jam, I can either let my angry Sicilian show, or I can ease the tension with some Italian folk music.

It's about 36 hours before I board a plane, so I'm off to pack as many granola bars, Gatorade, and Pop-Tarts into my suitcase as possible. I wonder if I can get french fries through customs..? Stay tuned.

Ciao,
Sue

August 2006

I'm long overdue for a post-braces photo on the Spanish Steps.