Closing Time

Whenever times change, for better or for worse, I’ve heard people say, “It’s something in the weather.”  Well, spring has sprung here in Italy and it’s greeted me with a smile.

With less than two weeks left, school is rapidly becoming more stressful and assignments are piling up; however, the Paderno campus is livelier than ever.  Wednesday was the first true spring-like day, with the temperature in the upper 60s, the sun shining, the grass freshly cut, and the clouds away. Conveniently all classes were cancelled for Thursday because the school offered an optional field trip.  I have class at 8 AM every morning, and the bus was departing at 8, so I made the executive decision to treat myself to sleeping in and then climbing the feared and infamous Mount Grappa, a 14,000-foot hike in the Dolomites close to campus.  Before I knew it, innocent, gorgeous Wednesday had transformed into a portable-iPod-blaring, wine-drinking, and ultimate-Frisbee-playing day.

The sunshine brought nearly the entire undergrad community together.  People were coming out to the sports fields before, between and after classes.  The laughs never stopped.  I found myself lounging in the grass, eyes closed, sun beaming on my face, reflecting on my time abroad.  The initial day, missing my train; waking up to the roosters for the first time; aimlessly exploring the nearby towns; missing more trains; the cuisine; the new friends; the old friends.  My time here has been amazing and flown by all too quickly.  It put a pit in my stomach thinking that it took practically three months to get the whole slew of students together for something non-school based.  Since being over here, I’ve found that nature has a way of doing that.  Whether it’s walking the countryside, laying on a beach, climbing a mountain, or roaming the city streets, it is when you’re in the outdoors, surrounded by others, that you tend to feel most connected. 

When the sun began to set on the booming Dolomites, no one was ready to end the day. So we didn't.  The local pizzeria, A Sole, was packed - everyone wanted to escape the cafeteria pasta and celebrate the day with a drink.  From the looks of things (and people) come Thursday morning, the concensus was Wenesday was a little too successful.  Pink noses kissed from too much sun, and eyes heavy from too much vino.  None of that stopped any of us from having an equally fabulous Thursday, though.  I made the tiring, but rewarding, trek up Mount Grappa and was more than pleasantly surprised when I could see all the way to Venice from the peak. It was incredible.  The Italian horizon seemed to virtually never end. Patches of town followed by rolling hills painted the skyline.


When I finally arrived back at campus, the sun was hitting that special brim on the mountains right before it slips away into the evening night.  Kids were yelling, basketballs flying, dogs barking - a good and perfect day in paderno.  ANother night out made for another challenging Friday morning, but the promise of Cinque Terre was in the air, and my spirits were high.  I can honestly say that Saturday day spent on the Monterosso beach was my favorite day of the semester thus far.  There were between 60 and 70 other students in Cinque Terre for the weekend and by late afternoon all of us were parked on the Monterosso beach together, an unforgettable afternoon.


As excited as I am to get home to my family and friends, the idea of leaving Paderno and my new friends  is almost devastating.  Just when everyone gets truly comfortable with one another and "life in Italy" is just...life, it's closing time, and we have to pick up and leave.  I feel so blessed to have had the experience I did while here. I learned more about myself than I even imagined and I feel as though in some ways I have changed, and for the better.  I have new interests, appreciations and understandings.  I would not change my time abroad for anything.  I'm not in Kansas anymore, and my time to go back is swiftly approaching, but I promised myself two things.  One: to take back my memories and never forget them.  Think of them frequently, smile in the remembrance, but not to live longingly in the past.  Two: as busy as I am going to be for the next 11 days, I will soak up every moment I have left.  Every time I spend in the classroom, with a friend, eating, traveling, running - every time, all times I will be appreciative of the time I have left.

Sunset on the Dolomites from my room

"The Jesus Field" before the festivities

Nearing the top of Mount Grappa

Monterosso Beach

Old and Gray

Howth, Ireland, is a small fishing town on the eastern coast, just north of Dublin.  I went to the front desk of my hostel and asked the man working if he had any suggestions for day trips.  He listed a few places and a girl behind me chimed in with Howth.  She told me she’d been in Ireland for 10 days and out of all her day trips, Howth was her favorite.  So, we decided to take her advice and bought train tickets the next morning.  It was 2.70 one-way, so I figured even if it wasn’t all that great, at least I wasn’t breaking the bank to get there.

The train there was fairly tarnished, oddly small - hardly any cars - and stopped frequently at teeny towns.  About 35 minutes passed and the train arrived in Howth.  I loved the town from the minute I stepped out of the train station.  Immediately outside was a fresh market set up with trinkets and vegetables, run by chatty, kind, authentic Irishmen.  Once through there the town was lined with local shops and restaurants.  All along the water were outdoor restaurants, crowded with locals, serving up fresh seafood.  Seals swam by the pier and oversized white masts filled the sky.  The edge of the town was cliffs along the ocean, creating a beautiful backdrop for the perfect town.  Everything about Howth was charming. 

We sat at the end of a dock with our boots dangling over the water and the seals beneath our feet. We just basked in the sun in silence for close to an hour, it was a gorgeous day and I was in great company.  We asked someone where we should go for lunch and the told us to go to Summit Inn.  She said we could either walk up the road for about 15 minutes or we could take the scenic route along the cliffs and it’d take about an hour and a half. We chose the road less traveled.

The cliffs were unreal.  The sky was so clear at one point I looked out on the ocean and honestly couldn’t tell where the skyline met the water because it was so blue.  The water was clear as could be and small boats filtered in an out routinely.  Being so caught up in the beauty of our hike, we clearly missed the turn to the restaurant because we found ourselves at the foot of a lighthouse that was a few miles away from the Summit Inn. Great.  We trekked through thorn bushes, flowers, and mud to get there, making our own path, but it was such a spectacular day I couldn’t even be upset.  The laughs were rolling by the time we got to the restaurant and the food was unbeatable.  Their homemade chowder was the best I’d ever had and the grilled chicken quesadilla was just the right fix for my [never-ending] Mexican cravings.

We went back to the town by the road, giving our tired legs a rest, bought a bottle of white wine, and shared it on a bench by docks, watching the sunset.  The time I spent in Howth was indescribable and unforgettable.  My sister, Mackenzie, just got engaged a few days before and I spent so much time thinking about the wedding and how happy I am for her.  I rarely send texts just because of the international rate, but I sent her a text saying, “I think I finally found my favorite place – Howth, Ireland.  We’re going to come here together one day when our kiddies are grown and we’re old and gray. I love you and could not be happier for you.” To finish off the trip and officially make it one of the best trips ever, I got a strawberry milkshake at a cutesy café on the way to the train station.  The small, rusty, old train didn’t even faze me on the way home. I just gazed out into the inky sky, speckled with white stars, and thought, “Yup, definitely not in Kansas,” and smiled. 

The train tickets cost us €5.40 round trip, but I would’ve paid anything.  I wish I could’ve spent more time there, but we were leaving for Paris in the morning so it wasn’t even an option.  The friendly, whimsical town of Howth will just have to wait another decade or so for my next visit, and hopefully, Mackenzie will be with me. 

Roman Ruin

Rome, Roma, the capital of Italy, The Eternal City, The City of Fountains, the city of…everything.  I had never been to Rome before this weekend, just heard the history class tales of the relentless Roman Empire, fearless gladiators, the benevolent Pope, sparkling fountains, timeless architecture and other sensational features.  The phrase goes, “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” well, I saw it in one day, with a finale I will never forget – for better, or for worse.

Some people would probably say I missed out on things by covering it all in one day. I have to admit, I did not see the Pantheon, but that’s the only thing I didn’t hit on my list and I would not trade my hours spent in the Vatican for anything.  Since being abroad I have learned the importance of researching a destination prior to arriving.  I have a friend who lived in Rome and sent me some fabulous restaurants and undiscovered spots.  I researched sights, weather, tour guides, apartments, hours of operation, and everything between. I was ready to take on Rome.

My friends and I stayed in an apartment just a block from the Spanish Steps.  Fabulous location, not so fabulous décor, and the landlord stole €50 from me after he drunkenly let us inside at the midnight hour.  The main attractions were somewhat far from our apartment, but we were willing to make the trek in order to take in all the scenery.  Rome was stunning.  I can literally think of no other word.  The architecture was a romantic style and reminded me of Vienna.  Large, pristine buildings made of soft-colored stone with protruding cornerstones.  As captivating as the refined of parts of town are, they are merely a backdrop for the historical sights and ancient ruins.

The first real sight I saw was the capitol, il Vittoriano a Roma.  I’ve been told Washington DC was designed in a manner to intimidate outsiders.  From the layout of the roads, to the positioning of the Washington Monument, the White House, and other large memorials, DC’s goal was to demonstrate authority.  The capitol in Rome was no different.  I was humbled by the size and polish of the building. The guise of the statues was overwhelming, as was the power of the large Italian flags, waving proudly in the wind against the cerulean sky.  The stairs, the columns, the roofline, the size: all almost too great to take in.

Moving forward from the capitol, we casually passed by old ruins, Roman and Imperial Forums, even Julius Caesar’s grave was in the mix. With the ruins on my rights and the bustling street and city line to my left, it felt as though I was in an some kind of a dream; a make-believe city.  It is hard to imagine the time and effort that goes into the upkeep and restoration of landmarks that are as ancient as those in Rome.  The city does a spectacular job at keeping the balance of “old and new” Rome, I think.  The city is lively with tourists and business travelers, both seeking completely different things, yet both found in this historical hub of a city.

Finally I arrive at the Colosseum and catch a deal with an outside tour group. Although I have been told to be wary of groups outside of attractions, because they can be scams, this group had badges and did not except money until in the office inside the Colosseum.  For about €5 more, I was able to cut all lines and have a live tour guide, rather than used headphones and an automated voice.  The infrastructure of the Colosseum was vastly different than I had pictured. The underground level looked like a maze. Tall, narrow brick walls reached up to where the ground would have been laid, and grass-lined ground wove between the models.  The bricks were polished but I learned that the Colosseum was originally made of Travertine, and the bricks that laid beneath are now the surface.  I also learned it's the shape it is today because the builders took off [sections of] the marble from the Colosseum and used it for St. Peter's.

Trevi Fountain

Onto all the famous spots from here: the Trevi Fountain, Fontana di Trevi, the Piazza Navona and Piazza del Popolo,  Castel Sant’Angelo and Vatican City.  A student deal was a must for the Vatican – we cut the never-ending lines, got a two-hour tour including the Vatican museums, the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica, all finished just in time for me to stop at the gift shop and get Rosaries blessed by the Pope for my sister.  Not a bad afternoon.  The two hours inside flew by.  I felt so immersed and engaged in the Roman history, I kept scooting to the front of the group to ensure I could see and hear everything.  I can’t even begin to describe the paintings, cravings and artifacts, my words will do them no justice; it is something you must see for yourself to understand the true splendor and beauty of it.

Looking out on Vatican City

Sunset on St. Peter's

The sun set just perfectly on Vatican City as we were leaving, a perfect goodbye.  The group headed to Hotel Eden, one of the spots my friend had recommended.  She said, “coming from someone who had Rome as their backyard, the best view of it is from the sixth floor of Hotel Eden...at sunset.  Some aperitifs and 'ritzy snacks' - you honestly won't want to leave. You must go.” So I went.  360-degrees of just windows looking out on one of the most gorgeous skylines I think I’ll ever see.  I remember thinking, “how can a city as big and busy as Rome seem so peaceful?”  The "cheapest" drink was a casual €18, but the view was priceless and quickly cancelled out the price (that and the free hors d'oeuvres!).

We walked back to our stuck-in-the-70s apartment, freshened up, and headed to cozy outside Roman restaurant we had spotted earlier.  The best pasta I have had in Italy thus far was there. A gnocchi with radiccio, tyrol sausage and a gorgonzola sauce – divine.  I had a terrible case of the 24-hour stomach flu the day before, so I only had about a glass of wine at dinner, and for this I am thankful.  I pulled out my phone to check the time while the girls were finishing off the last bottle of wine and before anyone could even ask why I was pale and shaking  I quickly ran out of the restaurant.  I had just received a text from my friend from home saying, “Ken, my mom died” and when I didn’t immediately respond she said, “This isn’t a joke. Please call me.” The third time I tried to get through I got a hold of her and I cannot divulge into the conversation without getting emotional, so I’m not going to get into it.  The day was an amazing, but long, and this just brought my exhaustion to a whole new level. 

I was going to go back to the apartment but everyone thought it would be better if I was surrounded by people so I would be distracted.  We found a bar called Scholars that had ESPN America and was playing the KU/Texas game.  It was an incredible game, but my mind was not there, it was back in Kansas with Lane and her family.

Sunday was dreary, it drizzled all day. It felt so symbolic of my emotions. I had a test and presentation the next morning and all I wanted to do was get back so I could prepare for them, but once I got back my work-mode was not much of a mode.  Although Rome and all it’s glory was spectacular, my own Roman ruin made the trip a little bittersweet. I’m not in Kansas anymore, and for once, there is no place I would rather be. 

Laney, my thoughts and prayers are with you. 

The Kennedy Battery

Cold days: heavy lungs, deep breaths.  Warm days: tight chest, quick breaths.  All days: loose-laced sneakers, one piece of gum, Rumours album by Fleetwood Mac blaring, and I’m ready to go.  Running is something I do regardless of the weather, regardless of my mood, and something that always helps my personal ambiance. 

Doctors advise against them, I swear by them: loose laces

Distance is my specialty, and it has been fine-tuned since being in Italy.  Towns strung together by narrow roads, surrounded by open fields and wineries, steeples appear to be calling my name miles away, and the temperature always seems to be just right.  Although my work out regimen is not much of a regimen at all, if it’s a blue-sky day, I try and run.  The mountains create the issue of altitude and uneven terrain,  but the views and seemingly endless roads make up for it.  At school and back at home I have such a system with my running.  I have marked out the two or three routes I like best, know the exact distances and time it takes to complete, but have sadly found myself losing some of the spirit.  Running on another continent just may have solved my problem.

My iPhone is also my iPod, so because I cannot use it over here, when I run here it's a treat to tote it around.  I usually crave music when I’m running, and depending on my mindset, the genre changes.  I like the beats in rock, rap, and, surprisingly, mellow.  But for being such a music junkie, I have been surprised by my enthusiasm when I find my phone dead, meaning I run without music.

My phone screen...take the family with me everywhere

The quiet of the mountains overwhelms me when I run.  The further I run, the less cars I see, the more peaceful my journey becomes.  The crispy melody of my shoes on the dirt road, the sun on my shoulders, and I’m in a whole new world. As I move away from the town and through the mountains I love seeing the rolling, green hills, filled with sparse vineyards, horses, work sheds, and every thing between.  My runs through the nearby towns are more like running at home, yet not at all.  There is the bustle of cars, trucks, stores, bikers, church bells and all that comes with a "city."  But at the same time, the towns are so much more quaint and compact; they are unlike any other area I've run through. 

My "half-way spot" is always strategically selected, and usually from a far; creating a goal for me to strive to attain.  If I'm in the mountains, I try to look for an open area with one dominant object near it (tractor, shed, large tree, etc).  I will stop there, sit, stretch, pray, and then sit.  It's usually a ten minute stop, and it's so calming, it is literally like I have recharged the Kennedy battery, and I'm ready for the remainder of my run and the end of my day.  If I'm going the town route, I stick to the church steeples; they are elevated and I've found that most the towns have at least one.  My stops there might be my favorite because I miss going to church so much, and I feel my thoughts are based on everyone at home I'm missing and praying for while I'm away.

Option A: 

Option B:

A fully-charged Kennedy Battery

For being one of the most generic activities, running is one of the most personal times for me.  It's more than an exercise, it's a learning experience, a spiritual time and a passion.  Each run evokes different thoughts, but I always revert to the same "place," that calm, homey, memory lane, when I hit my "half-way spot."  I'm not in Kansas anymore, but even I can't run from the memories of it.

Sky High

It was a warm summer night in Colorado and I was goofing off with my brothers in our backyard.  After an “innocent” back flip with a wet grass landing, I wound up in the Vail Valley Medical Center with a shattered wrist in need of three surgeries, 12 titanium screws and two plates.  The morning after the accident I was supposed to go skydiving with my older brother and sister, but, clearly, could not.  I was devastated.  I was so upset to miss out on such an amazing experience, but am a firm believer in the “everything-happens-for-a-reason” theory, so, c’est la vie.

 

A year and a half later, I found myself strapped to a British man named Dave, dangling out of an nine-seater plane over the Alps, asking me if I’m ready to fall.  And all I can think of in my head is, why did I think this was a good idea again? but I enthusiastically reply with, “I’ve been ready!”

 

I have always had this vision of Switzerland as a crazy, extreme sport country.  Whenever I have heard of people traveling to Europe and canyon-jumping, skiing, skydiving, paragliding, night sledding, anything ridiculous, it’s always in Switzerland.  When a group of us decided the destination for the weekend was Interlaken, I knew I would be skydiving, whether anyone else wanted to go or not.  Luckily, 11 other people were interested in the thrill.  We researched various venues and found a group price at the company Skydive Switzerland.  The company picked up our group from Balmers, our hostel, at noon and we returned at 4:30 pm.  What happened in those four hours was not only life-changing, but also in slow motion.

 

I volunteered to go first, but the company had already divided us into four groups of three, and I was in the fourth group.  Oddly enough, I never found myself truly anxious. It was, however, slightly unnerving when we were told our training session would be less than five minutes, and it turned out to be a quick two.  Really? TWO minutes to teach us how to jump out of a plane from 14,000 feet!? But, again, c’est la vie.  

 

Watching all of my friends suit up was equally as exciting as when I suited up myself.  Just knowing what an incredible experience we were all about to endure was enough to plaster a smile across my face for an entire afternoon – scratch that – weekend.  We were lucky with our weather, a little cloud coverage, but no wind or rain.  The three groups on the ground would stare aimlessly into the sky and wait for the small ants of our friends to begin to emerge from the clouds.  One then four then six!  The came quickly behind one another and the shutes of varying colors floated back down to earth.  Each person was priceless after the landing and all testaments were the same.  Faces windblown, smiles appeared to be propped open, bodies moved like linguine and "that was the best thing I have ever done in my life!" on repeat for the next few minutes.

 

After the plane takes off, you fly for about fifteen minutes, and Dave, my professional partner, was giving me brief historical overviews of the places and mountains we were cruising over.  Finally, when the tour guide stopped, the doors rolled up, and my photographer literally cannon-balled out of the plane, I knew it was my time.   Dave waddled me up to the door, slid my Nikes over the edge and pulled me close.  He reminded me to keep my hands on my suit and my head close to his right shoulder for the fall because he didn’t want me to get whip-lash (thanks).  He also said that when he gave me a double-tap on my shoulder that meant it was time to let my hands and head be free.  Then he casually asked me, “are you ready to fall?” And was I ever.

The initial drop out of the plane is a little blurry, which I am blaming on the flip Dave had us do instead of the normal dive, but other than that, the trip was in slow motion.  I was expecting more of a dramatic drop feeling, similar to the sensation being on a roller coaster when you've just gone over the peak, but my stomach stayed calm throughout the entire time.  A strong rush of air went through my nose and even in the tiny holes of my goggles.  It was practically a wind-less day, but 14,000 feet up the air was strong and cold.  Probably against my better judgment, I decided to not wear the gloves the company, "strongly advised."  I had written "thanks" on the palm of my right hand, and "mom & dad" on my left; I want to take a picture in the air flashing my hands to the camera (see below), so gloves simply were not an option for the afternoon.  Double tap on the left should and my arms were flying free.  We were so high even , the highest peak in the Alps, was not showing.  After a few more seconds, we moved through the clouds and popped out even with the peaks. My eyes could not move fast enough.  Dave pointed out a few ski runs and I wondered if it was where the rest of the group had gone.  And that's when I realized I was in the middle of a life changing experience.  Literally, before jumping out of that plane, I had never experienced that and once I landed I would join a list of people who can say they've done that - dove through the sky from a plane and lived.  I could have been skiing, but I chose to take a risk.  I've been skiing since age 3 and love it, probably my favorite thing to do.  But it's always easier to do the thing you love, the thing that's easy.  That day I decided I was going to experiment with heights, adrenaline and trust.  

Flip out of the plane..

"Thanks Mom & Dad! I Love U!"

Caught in the midst of gawking at the sights, I saw my camera man drop thousands of feet down below me and before I even had time to panic, Dave had pulled out shute and there we stayed.  Although the rush of the free fall was indescribable, the long soaring period was unreal.  It is so quiet you feel so in tune with your surroundings.  I feel like I could almost hear the mountains breathing when the wind would whistle between the peaks.  Dave pointed out more specific things this time, explained some of the meaning behind the Swiss architecture, made some light "death before landing" jokes, and before I knew it we were coming in fast, and I could see my friends waving me on below.  The landing was not nearly as rough as anticipated, and for that I'm thankful! 

Annnd here comes the shute...

See ya...

I guess I always could've gone skydiving back at home, but something about landing in the middle of cornfields just doesn't sound quite as appealing as landing in middle of the Alps.  Nope, definitely not in Kansas anymore, and the more time I spend away, the more I learn that's not necessarily a bad thing.

And that's all she wrote.

Just Enough to Warm Up a Cold Day

Coming off one of the best trips of my life, I imagined it was going to be difficult to come back to reality; to Paderno; to class; to a dorm room.  I arrived back “home” around 1 pm Sunday.  It was a beautiful, blue-sky day, and the campus was literally a ghost town.  No CIMBA students were back yet, the high school boarders weren’t even anywhere in sight.  So, I decided to take a day trip to Crespano – the small town just west of Paderno.

Unfortunately, I didn’t make it there in time for the Sunday morning market, filled with fresh fruits, authentic trinkets, local meats, and more.  I did get to watch them take it down though.  The fruits, although they were not as glamorous as the grocery products I’m accustomed to seeing in the states, looked divine.  Everything looked so organic, so natural.  I love apples, I eat anywhere from five to eight in a week.  A particular vendor saw me gaping at the large Gala apples he had and jokingly whistled at me, so I quickly closed my mouth and looked up at him, just in time to catch one of them he tossed at me.  Embarrassed, I started fumbling through my purse for Euros when he shot me big grin and some warm eyes, implying it was fine and “on him.” 

After spending 10 days with my parents in Budapest, Salzburg and Vienna, I became quite accustom to our after-lunch/pre-dinner stop into a local bakery for a sweet.  We didn’t miss a day (or a dessert). My sweet tooth, which I thought was not capable of expanding any larger than it already was, has been magnified to the nth degree after this vacation. So, naturally, my next move from the closing vendors was to the gelateria.  Due to the hoards of people surrounding the door and the crowded tables inside, I knew the place had to be good, a local hot spot.  There was a wide variety of flavors, but none of them had quite the aesthetic appearance I was anticipating.  Blindly and overwhelmed, I asked for one scoop of nutella and one of banana.  The banana was on top and was that of a camel color, and the nutella appeared to have globs of something floating within.  After my judgmental eyes were done criticizing, I took a bite and quickly scolded myself.  The banana was dark because it was made fresh, that day, from real bananas.  The globs in the nutella were actual scoops of nutella.  It was delicious.  I sat down and took in the scene.

Although it was not the nicest venue I have ever been in, it was clean and it was cozy.  It was furnished with dark, cherry wood, and the pods of families – all generations present – made it all the more warm.  I sat long enough to order another, dare I admit, scoop of gelato and just observed. Groups of friends kept circulating in and out, but the families remained for long periods of time.  There was one family sitting close to me that I watched for a while.  I may not speak Italian, but I could tell they were close, it reminded me of my family.  They were all laughing, sometimes at what appeared to be a joke, and even sometimes at one another.  At first it was just grandparents and four teenagers, just enjoying a chilly Sunday filled with family and chocolate fondue.  Eventually the teens parents arrived and the mood was roaring.

I finally decided it was time to head out when one of the kids asked if I could take they’re picture, I was happy to.  I left with a smile on my face and some Euros well spent.  I walked up and down the old town for a little until it started getting dark.  The town is very simple.  Most the buildings are very "flat." No extravagant entrance, just a welcoming sign and a homey atmosphere.  Even the colors of the exteriors are muted, but a good muted, an old, authentic tone.  The streets are all cobblestone, except a few "new" ones with crooked dashed lining the middle.  The businesses proudly wave the Italian flag out front and churches are simple, standing tall and proudly by themselves.  

I'm not in Kansas anymore, and as cold as I was on that walk home, it was the warmest I'd felt since saying goodbye to my mom and dad in the Vienna airport.  The quaint and friendly town had put a the meaning of a true small town into perspective.  The old values, original architecture, pure and organic foods, and the generations of family and happiness...it was just enough to warm up a cold day.  Kansas is full of small towns, some known for their agriculture, some known for nothing at all.  But this town was like none of those, and none I have ever ventured to before.  I hope to be able to make it to a Sunday market, but if not, at least I have the memories of my day spent there, and joy it brought me in those brief moments are enough to last forever. 

Little Change of Setting, Big Wake Up Call

I love photography.  All kinds, candid, posed, scenic, anything.  However, it was not until my travels this semester that I found my love of buildings.  To me, they have always been just that - buildings. They have rooms that hold people.  Over time, the people change, the furniture changes, the indoor painting changes and there's the occasional remodel or addition, which completely alters a building.  So, for the most part, that is how I viewed cities, just a cluster of meaningless buildings.

After traveling to places like Florence, that literally take your breath away, I have started to observe buildings, not just pass them obliviously.  Florence is known for luring people to sights like The Duomo, the Campanile and the Palazzo Vecchio, all of which have design, detail and history laced into their structure.  After researching cities, venturing to them, exploring the attractions and spending time there, photographing, I have learned the importance and individuality of architecture.

Inside the Palazzo Vecchio

The Duomo

The definition of architecture is "the style in which a building is designed or constructed, especially in regard to a specific period, place or culture."  Now that I truly appreciate the architecture, I see why the word holds so much substance.  As I've been saying, Florence was beautiful, but one of the reasons it holds such a majestic presence is because of the amount of history that resides in the city.  And not only does the city hold historic importance, but the buildings tell stories of their own.  With every craving, with every stone placement, we have some of the most beautiful creations in the world: buildings.

My love and attention to detail ran wild when I went to Belgium this past weekend.  My first stop was to Brussels, Bruxelles to the French, and I was beside myself.  Part of the reason I found such elegance in the city and the construction was because of its European status.  Being the main center of international politics and the capital of the EU, Grand Place was literally humbling to walk through.  Between the buildings trimmed in gold, rooftops lined with graceful statues, and quaint french boutiques and bistros scattered along the perimeter - the city put me in my place.  As a tourist, I felt blessesd to have the opportunity to be there.  As an American, I was proud of my camera lens and used it creatively!

Grand Place

The Markt

Next was Bruges, Brugge as the Dutch say.  Truly, and surprisingly, my favorite city in Europe thus far. The town had some similar grand architecture (ie: Provinciaal Hof and The Church of our Lady), but it was the surrounding buildings and the town itself that swooned me.  All the buildings, pieced together as one unit, but individually painted to differentiate each from the next.  On top of that, the tall, narrow buildings then had unique rooflines, adding character and charm.  The Markt itself, essentially the center of the city, was incredible.  Every direction I looked, I snapped a photo. It was chilly and overcast, and the pictures still look stunning.  And that is what real architecture does.

The best architecture does not have to necessarily be in the best location.  But the best architecture can take any day, and time period, and any specific moment, and change it for an individual.  True architecture moves a person in a way that cannot be described in words - you feel the history, the depth, the beauty, the ambiance, and all together they create this incredible sight.  Something as moving as history with the power of a visual aid (also known as, architecture) has the ability to change someone.  Now, when I go back to the States, I am going to pull into St. Louis, see the Arch, and think about the symbolism and history it holds.  It is the gateway to the West, it is a legacy of Lewis and Clark.  Like I said, it's not the location that matters, it's the story behind it and how it makes you feel.  All I needed was a little change setting and I got a big wake up call.  I'm not in Kansas anymore, and I'm not sure when my next excursion to Europe will be, but I know I will be stopping in Bruges for a few days.

Not Full of Bologna

Culinary experience –

Bologna, Italy: It’s No Bologna.

“Eat your way through Bologna,” I mentioned the phrase in a prior blog, but aside from minimal sites and some decent shopping, that is pretty much all to do in Bologna, so that’s exactly what I did.

I stayed in a wonderful venue, which was really more like a private flat than a hostel, and served complimentary breakfast in the mornings.  I have found that in Europe, people eat more simply at breakfast: always a café and either a croissant or toast, possibly some jam or nutella, and maybe cereal or a yogurt, to accompany your espresso, but that’s about it.  Therefore, by the time lunch rolls around, I am starved, and it is never a good idea for me – or anyone – to search for a restaurant when hungry; 9 out of 10 times you will settle for a place that had you begun your restaurant-hunt earlier, you would not have chosen. 

For being renowned for delicious cuisine, it was terribly hard to find a luscious restaurant Bologna.  Most places I have traveled to thus far have had a surplus of “cafeterias,” which implies it is a self-serve establishment (translation: sub-par food – keep walking).  After too many twists around narrow allies, we finally stumbled across a charming outdoor patio with a sign that read the all too familiar words, “pizzeria,” so naturally decided to park it there for lunch.  Little did we know we were about to plunge into a food-coma of much more than pizza.

In Italy, all the bread served in restaurants is dry.  No other way to describe it, just dried out, sourdough bread.  I find this so ironic because in America, it is at the Italian restaurants where you find the delectable, warm, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth breadbasket.  Well, finally, in Bologna I caught my first break.  The bread slices were shaped as small, half-circles, served warm, and although were still slightly dry, with a sprinkle of olive oil, they were delicious.

Six girls and three breadbaskets later our first courses, antipasti, finally arrived.  My older brother, Tim, has always raved about the dish prosciutto and melon, something that did not exactly sound appetizing to me.   However, his judgment is spot-on with food so I knew I needed to try it.  Best. Decision. Ever.

The mixture of textures was unbeatable.  Sweet, soft and dense meets salty, chewy and lacelike.  Sounds bizarre but I can truly say it was one of the best delicacies I have ever enjoyed, and plan on ordering whenever I see it on the menu.  The finest prosciutto comes from northern and central Italy, so this dish was actually more expensive than my main course.  The freshness of the meat was impeccable and worth every cent.  It is important to know that when prosciutto is made, it is first salted and left alone for two months.  However, since it is salted at the beginning of the process the salt flavor is not overwhelming and tastes very natural.  There were four succulent pieces of honeydew, probably the equivalent of half a melon, with a hearty portion of thin, pink prosciutto.  I have had prosciutto before but never in such a large portion; it was more difficult to slice pieces than I had imagined, but the art of tearing the appropriate amount of meat to pair with the melon was learned quickly.

  

After passing the prosciutto plate around a few times – there some definite food envy at that table – it was time for our main courses.  I ordered meat tortellini with a potato and rosemary sauce.  Potato sauce sounded questionable at first, but I wanted to try a meat tortellini.  I had only previously had cheese or spinach-filled noodles, and, as I promised myself, I would try new foods and experience the culture as the locals do, so I figured I would try it. 

The way the rosemary herbs and the potato flavoring mixed was incredible.  Because a potato sauce is fairly dense and holds little flavor, the rosemary was the perfect accent.  Some times, I even tend to think rosemary is too potent, so the two had a wonderful blend.  It was apparent the noodles were homemade.  The dough was soft and so thin in the center, the pigment and texture of the beef showed through.  Thankfully, there was a small serving of pasta – I have the tendency to eat until my plate is clear, regardless of what my stomach tells me – so I was not terribly full after all was said and done.

But, God forbid I pass up a dessert, so the “full” feeling was just around the corner.  Literally, around the corner in the restaurant was a large gelato case.  I have never seen anything like.  Each flavor was piled into its container and towering close to a foot above it (see picture!). 

Fior de Latte, um, don’t mind if I do.  I had that flavor in Florence for the first time and I have had it at each gelato shop since. And Bologna was no different.  The taste is very rich, but being the “sweets girl” that I am, I have no problem stomaching two scoops…and a cone.  Fior means flour, so the flavor literally translates to flour of milk.  If my research has served me correctly, it is the base for most cream flavors, even the chocolates.  But the starch white is enough to make you plunge your spoon in and the sweet, creamy consistency is truly a cathartic blend in your mouth.

It was the perfect meal and the perfect finish to a blustery Saturday.  “Finish? You had just finished lunch, how is your day finished,” you might be thinking.  But, if I am SO full (yet so content!) that I can’t even muster up the strength to shop anymore, let alone think about walking around, that’s when you know I am really satisfied – and it’s time for a little “siesta.”

Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of the New York Times Best Seller, Eat Pray Love, said it the best when she was traveling through Italy, “the ‘no carb left behind’ trip.” Cheers, cin cin, to that.

Three Strikes, You're Out

Being American, I have a tendency to travel places and assume everyone will: speak my language, wear what I wear, eat how and what I eat, care what I think, etc.  After my first few weeks in Italy, one would assume I would have realized that is not the way the world works, wrong again.   

This weekend I traveled to Bologna, Italy, with some girls.  We were “shocked” with the amount of people and stores that did not speak English, and even more surprised when our train home on Sunday was cancelled and the office merely shrugged their shoulders at us.  Little did we know, there was a strike scheduled for that Sunday until 9 pm.  We had three trains cancelled and missed a bus, it was a long day.

In the states, we have a low tolerance for “inconveniences.”  We expect refunds, notifications and apologies.  We don't think companies have the right to cancel something they have organized (a fundraiser, flight, party, meeting), and they do. Americans want instant gratification, but we don't always deserve it.  Especially in my case this past weekend, when my friends and I were, basically, insulting the Italians culture in the sense that we complain about "not knowing" the trains were cancelled, when they're blaring it [in Italian] over the loudspeaker, printing in the newspaper and posting it online.  We simply do not take the time to learn their language, but we expect them to know ours so they can help us when we need directions, or, in this case, at a train station.  

"No train for nine more hours?!" 

"...I don't speak Italian." 

"What do you mean we can't get our money back?"

American’s can be so illogical in our thinking it is embarrassing.  It's no wonder why people think of Americans as pompous and entitled.  And, not to completely dog on Americans, it is bad with other countries as well, but it is certainly time I learn I need to adapt to the European culture, not the other way around.

Something I have learned, is it's crucial to not only research, but also understand other countries…know the land you live.  That rule goes for places you travel, also.  My friends and I should have checked further into Bologna, that's for sure.  We heard the slogan, "Eat your way through Bologna," and if you could see our cafeteria meals at school, you would know why we jumped on that train without a second look.  But, that being said, that’s our American mindset at best; so often we jump on the first thing we see.  For my first 10-day travel week, which is next week, I am doing research on anything I can.  I am looking up weather, activities, restaurants, sites, customs, politics, economy, literally every thing.  And now, I am even more excited for my trip, and feel confident that I am going to get the best experience I can, because I am prepared for what's ahead of me.  As of Monday, I now have my laptop's homepage set as "ANSA," so I can watch for updates (ie: train strikes!) and keep tabs on current events.

Once and for all, I am making a vow to immerse myself in the cultures.  I am going to practice my Italian phrases, express genuine gratitude to all the locals who gladly help me, and take advantage of all things I am blessed with…remembering the views, savoring every taste, listening to each sound, absorbing every minute.  I am slowly realizing - yet again - I am not in Kansas anymore.