Rome, without the strife.

Before this weekend, I hadn't a good impression of Rome. This may or may not have been because the last two times I had gone there for bureaucratic/emotionally draining/Russian visa-related reasons. This time, it was equally as hectic a trip, but much more enjoyable. I went for Friday and Saturday with the Michelangelo and Botticelli classes. They packed in an obscene amount of activity, but I am (mostly) thankful to have been jerked around mercilessly for forty-eight hours. Most importantly, we had a private visit to the Sistine Chapel on Friday night. That was amazing. It ended up being about seventy people (not an inconsiderable number, but whatever) but having studied the ceiling, it was an unreal experience. Earlier on Friday, we got to climb up to the dome of St. Peter's, where we caught the sunset over Rome - also magical, obvs. The actual climb up, and down, the dome was one of the most hair-raising things I have ever done. Imagine an endless spiral staircase that is also at around a 45-degree angle. I... understand vertigo now, a little bit? But the views were so utterly worth it, baby's got the bends or whatever. Then on Saturday, we went back for the Vatican museums. There, I got to see the Laocoön, Apollo Belvedere and the Belvedere Torso. Um, I saw the Laocoön. The Laocoön. Biggest. Fucking. Moment. Of. My. Life. (Sorry, mom.) Then of course, the Raphael rooms, where the School of Athens is. And, and, on another one of the walls, the fresco of Mount Parnassus (the writers) where he included, of all the people, Sappho. I dissolved into giggles immediately, of course. Oh, Sapphic chic. Oh, Wellesley. Love y'all.

Of course, after the ridiculousness of seeing Laocoön (still obsessed with this, as you might be able to tell) we go to the church of Santa Maria del Popolo to see Caravaggio's Conversion of Paul and Crucifixion of Peter. That particular Crucifixion is known for it's realism, most famously in the dirty feet of one of the figures.

Look:
We first looked at that painting in Humanities at Pioneer (oh yes) and then I had forgotten all about it. Seeing it again reminded me of how much I liked it. It's probably my second-favorite Caravaggio, after the Supper at Emmaus. And THEN, we go to the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria to see Bernini's St. Teresa in Ecstasy. Saturday was basically one huge orgy of masterpieces. And of course, I had walked by Santa Maria della Vittoria about four times (it's really close to the train station) without having ANY idea that the sculpture was even in there. Absurdity.

Okay, I'm tired and I still have to upload ALL the photos from fall break and ALL the photos from this weekend. You'll get an update when that happens.

Love,
me

Imbeciles. I'm Living Amongst Imbeciles.

Things That Have Actually Just Happened, or, "Overheard in the Syracuse Computer Lab."

"Is that how you spell Belgium?"
"Mussels in Brussels! Hahaha, that is so funny!!!"
"How you do you say Bruges? Broo-jes? Bru-gees?"
"The only reason why I know where Bruges is is because of that Colin Farrell movie." (And I'm pretty sure it's not because they've seen In Bruges, either)
"Oh my god, Stella Artois is Belgian, too! It's, like, my favorite beer!" Carly, that statement, and the girl whose mouth that statement came out of, would make you feel shame in calling Stella 'my lady.'

Now I don't feel quite so bad about noticeably rolling my eyes in class, every day.

ALSO: Things I've Learned From All Songs Considered: (well, really Only One Thing So Far)

• Did you know: That Paste Magazine Sampler/ Ann Arbor's 107.1 standby Jesse Sykes is also a collaborator with Sunn O))) and Boris? I most certainly did not!

The Rest of Rome, Bologna, and Lucca

After my epic morning spent in the Russian consulate, I thought that I would take the afternoon to de-compress in Rome. I had a pleasantly full-coloured free map from my hostel and nothing but time left. So, I walked. And walked, and walked, and walked. Rome covers... much more surface area than Florence. And that's your warning. Granted, I was coming from the periferia (the suburbs, the 'burbs), but the size and scale of Rome is far vaster than Florence. Or, now I could kind of understand why most Italians regard Florence as kind of a backwater compared to Roma or Milano. In one afternoon, I walked (yes, I calculated it on Google Maps) 4.6 kilometers from the Russian consulate to the Piazza Navona, and probably more because I didn't take the direct route. Then I walked all the way back to Roma Stazione Termini, another three or so kilometers. On the way there and back, I stopped by the Triton fountain, designed by Bernini in the 16th Century; the Trevi fountain, a mess; and walked up the steps to one of the many papal palaces, whose name is escaping me, but one that I really enjoyed? I stopped for a snack of pinenut meringue-cookie things that were predictably delicious, as has been basically everything I've eaten since arriving in Italy. There are pictures of all of these things coming, I promise.

Speaking of the Trevi Fountain, avoid it if you can. I know it has a ton of history and even more appearances in pop culture magic, but all of that mystique is stripped away when you are actually there. The piazza is literally packed to the gills with tourists wandering aimlessly about, living statues, and street vendors who only seem to sell strange 'souvenirs,' all of which are required to make obnoxious noises. It's very hard to get a good picture of the fountain, and you are (or, at least I was) ready to scream from the sheer number of bodies packed into one small space after two minutes.

The obnoxiously huge crowd in front of the Trevi Fountain:



This was still Friday afternoon, and after arriving at the train station, I decided that I wasn't quite ready to return to Florence yet. So I went to Bologna instead. My friend Rachel, whom I went to high school with, is studying there for the year, at the Universitá di Bologna, and had an apartment with a spare bed. I ended up only staying for a night and a morning, but I hope to go back before I leave here. In Bologna, we met up with some of Rachel's friends from her program and grabbed dinner at a little osteria, Osteria dall'Ursa (restaurant of the female bear). I had a pasta there whose shape was called 'gramigna,' and I'd be lying if I said I didn't order it solely because I was interested in what shape it was. Kind of hilariously, the pasta bore more than a striking resemblance to worms. After dinner the six of us went to an amazing gelateria simply name 'Il Gelatauro.' If you are ever in Bologna, go to 98 via San Vitale and have gelato there. I got cioccalatto e arancia again, mixed with the verde con marron glacés (green tea with candied chesnuts), which was a very... interesting combination. I really want to try zenzero next time, which is ginger-flavored gelato. We simply went home to bed after that, because Rachel had to be up early for a trip to Urbino the next morning, and I was dead tired from my probably-at-least-eight-kilometers of walking.

Saturday morning I woke up fairly early, around eight. I was going to Lucca, a little Tuscan town, maybe an hour and a half from Florence, two and a half from Bologna. The story behind why I wanted to go to Lucca goes something like this: for my internship/position at The Florentine, my first story was to be about the Tuscan locations that Spike Lee had shot around for his new movie, Miracolo a Sant'Anna. One of the towns, Barga, was pretty easily accessible from Lucca, and I wanted to go on Sunday. But first, Lucca.

Lucca was awesome. I loved it. It's probably my favorite place in Italy, right now. More than Florence, more than Assisi. It's a medieval city whose massive walls are still completely intact. Therefore, all Luccans/the Lucchese (and all the visitors) can walk/bike/jog on top of 'la mura di cittá' and take in the views of the Tuscan hills in the distance. When the carabinieri aren't looking, you can even walk on the parapet of the wall itself, until they see you and shoo you off...

Here's a photo of the view from la mura di cittá:


Another of aspect of Lucca that I loved was the size - it was perfect for a day trip or an afternoon/evening/morning excursion. And it's only a five euro train ride away! I'm utterly in love. Anyways, I walked around most of the city that afternoon, went into the Duomo and the other chiese (churches), and generally had a really good time. Oh, a note about the architecture, Lucca is only twenty minutes from Pisa, and most of the religious architecture is in the style of the Pisa Romanesque, which as I discovered, is really kind of heinous. Like, just plain ugly.

Per esempio:


But I digress, and I'll have photographic proof, too. I also ate incredibly well that night, at a little trattoria close to my hostel. I had the full Italian dinner - primi, secondi, plus wine and coffee. I started with a 'piatto tipico di Lucchese,' (typical Lucchese dish) zuppa di farine, basically a barley soup. Then I had trippa alla toscana, tripe cooked fork-tender in a tomato, celery, and carrot sauce. For dessert I ordered crostata con fichi fresce e noci, fresh fig tart with walnuts, and a macchiato. Molta, molta buona. And for the seventh time, pictures to come, soon!

Pictures of my courses:

Zuppa di farine:Trippa alla toscana:


Crostata con fichi fresce e noci:


Sunday morning dawned bright and early, again, and at least I thought that I was going to be in Barga shortly. But once I arrived at the bus station, I was kindly informed by the ticket agent that the only bus to Barga left at 10:25 and returned at 1:00, leaving me a little less than two hours in the town proper, therefore kind of not worth it at all. Oh well. I left, walked around (on top!) of the walls until I got back to the train station, and hopped on the train back to Florence instead. It being the last Sunday of the month, I knew that the flea market at the Piazza di Ciompi was going on, and therefore I obviously had to stop by. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this on the blog yet, but for about a week, I was obsessed with buying this vintage accordion that I found in the smaller, daily incarnation of the flea market there. Anyways, I didn't buy it (probably thankfully) but I knew I wanted to check out the bigger version of the market. And now, instead of wanting to buy an instrument of dubious quality that I can't play, I want to buy cameras of equally dubious quality that I don't have the foggiest idea how to use. Ah, c'est la... But, E.B., I've found both Fed and Zenit cameras at these markets, and obviously I think of your on-a-blanket-in-the-mud purchases.

Then-I-went-home-then-I-changed-and-went-back-to-school-to-do-homework. Lame! But that's what Sunday was like. Whew.


EDIT: 18:04, 02/10/08: With promised photographic proof!

Sono andata a Roma...e Bologna...e Lucca

Oy vey. Very, very, very full weekend, again. It starts Thursday afternoon, when I hopped on the local train from Florence to Rome, for a mission to get a visa to Russia. You should know that though the local train is very cheap (16 euro and change to go to Rome, as compared to 35 euro for the Eurostar) it is very, very slow. It took nearly five hours to get to Rome from Florence, including a rather interesting delay... somewhere between the two cities; I have no idea what godforsaken town the train simply stopped at for nearly an hour. What made it a little bit more interesting was the mother and daughter sitting opposite me: the daughter started fidgetting profusely at around the half-hour mark of delay, and even with the language gap, I could tell that she was very anxious to arrive in Rome, perhaps to see a long-distance love? That would be the only factor I could think of that would leave her as agitated as she was. Who knows, I just made up one more-hairbrained-than-the-next story about them, just because I could. Anyways, I got to Rome, I had a mediocre dinner in the train station because I was tired and couldn't bother, and checked into my hostel for the night, which was filled with what certainly seemed like an entire high school of German students, but luckily none of them were in my room, 'South America.'

Friday morning dawned bright and early, as I began what was going to be (unbeknownest to me at the time) a very long morning. I have a picture of my breakfast, because the cornetto con cioccalato (chocolate crossaint) that I had was legitimately bigger than the cup my cappuccino came in, and the coffee cup was certainly sizable.

The only good thing about Friday morning:


From there, I left for the Russian embassy, a fairly short and very pretty walk from my hostel. I took a lot of pictures of the Roman houses along the way, all excellent examples of late Renaissance and early Baroque architecture. Upon arriving at the Russian embassy, the most hilariously, absurdly well-guarded building I've ever happened upon, I was told, in a roundabout fashion in very broken English, that I was supposed to be at the Russian consulate for all visa-related matters. Crap. Of course the consulate was nearly two kilometers in the other direction (though I didn't know that at the time, either), and of course it closed (or so I was told) at noon. It being ten at the time, I thought I had plenty of time to walk over to the via Nomentana, 16. After a broken-Italian conversation with the lawyer's office at via Nomentana 16 and instructions from the very courteous concierge at a hotel that the Russian consulate was actually located at via Nomentana 116, I was not hopeful of my prospects. The walk is always less scenic when you are stressed.

I got to the Russian consulate, was let in another ridiculously well-guarded gate, and was told that the visa department was on il primo piano, the first floor. I automatically assumed that the first floor was technically the second first, because Italians and most Europeans count the ground floor separately. Another wait of about thirty minutes commenced outside a closed door, where I bonded with a Russian-Italian baby, but where it turns out was emphatically not where I was supposed to be. An admonishing Russian matron herded me downstairs, promptly told me that the visa forms I had filled out prior to coming were the wrong ones, and gave me new ones. By now, know that it was at least quarter after eleven. When I had finished filling out the forms, it was 11:40. I had been told that the consulate closed at 12:30 by the embassy, which evidently wasn't the case when I returned to the window and another unsympathetic Russian woman of a certain age (and girth) informed me that the consulate actually closed at 11:30. I am firmly convinced that diplomats do absolutely nothing. This is when the tears first started. I knew that morning was the only time that I could go to Rome, and I needed that visa now. Luckily, they took pity on me (but not until after a fresh batch of tears during the payment process) and the moral/happ ending of this story is that I have a Russian visa. Or I will next Friday when I go back to Rome (durrr...) to retrieve it. But now I know where to go, the correct address of that location, and I'm hopefully hitching a ride back with one of the SUF classes that has a day trip to Rome that day.

Next time (because the library is closing soon and I have to go home for dinner), the rest of my afternoon in Rome, evening/morning in Bologna, and visit to Lucca.

Thursday

After school and aperitivi, I went to the Nextech festival with my friend Pete. I invited a lot more people, but since many of them were either tired from the week or preparing to go to Assisi the next morning, it ended up just being the two of us. Firstly, the journey to the festival itself, which I suppose was a mini-saga in itself. A quick geography lesson: my host mom's apartment is on the via Dei Bruni, due north of the Centro and about a 35-40 minute walk to the piazza del Duomo. The Nextech festival was at the ex-Stazione Leopolda, southwest of the city center, a good hour's walk from my house. Therefore, I took a bus to a stop vicino to the venue, but one wrong turn at the Porta al Prato meant that I walked fifteen minutes' in the wrong direction, with a bottle of Chianti in one hand and a map in the other. But after that little detour, and a correct left turn back at the Porta al Prato, I found the coolest venue, ever. I stupidly didn't bring my camera, but you'll just have to trust me that it was the best thing, ever. One thing that I actually really appreciated about the entire operation was that the promoters or designers or whatever really knew how to light the entire space in a way that was atmospheric without being garish or too over-the-top.

Stazione Leopolda used to be a train station, probably before they built Santa Maria Novella, but now it's a reclaimed space, maybe a bit like the courtyard of P.S. 1, but really not like anywhere I've ever been before. The station is set back a bit from the street, and behind these big, Deco-ish wrought-iron gates is a big open courtyard with weird modern sculptures and lots of benches set around the perimeter. Inside, the floor plan is actually kind of similar to a Roman basilica, now that I think about it. There are two enormous central rooms where they had projection screens (one) and DJs spinning (the other). The video projections included a very, very cool series on eyes and a kind of incongruous addition of the Gnarls Barkley video for 'Crazy.' The 'side aisles' of the space were probably the waiting areas of the old station, where they had smaller screens and benches for the revelers who were tired of dancing.

I hadn't heard of any of the DJs or the band that played that night, but all of them impressed me greatly. They were all from various locales in Europe; the live band, Poni Hoax, was French and I think the DJs were from Germany. Chicks on Speed were supposed to play on Friday night, but at the ticket counter on Thursday, I saw that they had already scratched. Oops. Anyways, for thirteen euro, I had a GREAT night of... a trashy, wonderful indie hipster dance party. It felt like I was home, which was a singularly wonderful feeling. And while we were sitting on the kerb before entering, finishing the bottle of wine, I have to say that the people-watching was incomparable. And by incomparable, I mean that it felt like I was in Brooklyn again?

My night was good enough for me not to get home until five, ante-meridien. This was perhaps a poor choice considering the fact that both of us had to be on the bus for Assisi at seven thirty. The walk home took a while, obviously, but it was surprising how many people were still out on the streets at that hour. Don't worry, Mom, Pete and I walked back together, and the streets of Florence are absurdly well-lit at night. We ran into two independent sets of other Syracuse kids out on the way back, too. I stumbled into bed a bit past five, knowing that I had just experienced something unique to my stay in Florence, though I hope that some other ridiculous event happens at Stazione Leopolda so I can go back. And that was Thursday.