Arrivederci Roma

Andrea

August 19, 2012

Today marks one month since I’ve left Rome and it’s dominated my thoughts of the day… even though school is starting tomorrow and I should really be fully focused on that (okay, well, I did do a bit of studying today and was just reading Sophocles’ Antigone – in English, which we’ll be translating in my Greek class).  Now that I’m in Kansas, Italy seems so far away and it’s almost hard to believe that our adventure even happened, though I have the wares and photos to prove it.  So many things remind me of our times in Italy, and so many things here remind me that I am not in Rome anymore, and oddly enough, am in Kansas.  Somehow my ruby slippers transported me to a new land where locusts caw like buzz saws, the pasta aisle has dwindled down to a mere few foot section (severely lacking a variety of shapes, I may add), wine is kept under lock and key, local yokels boast their masculinity via the volume of their trucks, strange bugs wage war on my ankles (damn you, chiggers!), and everywhere I turn nothing I see is older than a few hundred years; there is no Pantheon to gaze upon, no ancient city beneath my feet.

I should be used to this strange new land, I should feel at home, but it feels unfamiliar and foreign to me.  I long for the land in which my best friend and I would take hundreds of pictures in a few hours, discover new gelato flavors, attempt to converse in another language with curious passersby, and sit on the very spot where great Romans once did, knowing that this is the greatest adventure of our lives, the time which made our unique bond greater than ever.  For such a long time our seven-month sojourn felt as though it would never end, it seemed an eternity, though now a month in the US seems to have flown by in the absence of my best friend.  I used to cherish the days in Rome, wanting each day to last longer, wishing that the sun would never set (except, of course, to relieve our poor souls from the intense heat), but now I spend my days thinking of the next.  What is it about Italy that makes you appreciate the little things?  Was there something in my daily espresso that allowed me to look at the world in a different way?  Was is my conversations with sweet old men who treated me as though I was their own granddaughter after only moments of chatting?  Was is the way the sun set over Piazza Navona?  Was is the way my Baffetto’s pizza tasted?  Since I know that I will never know what the answer it, I will just call it magic.  I miss the magic of Rome and the stronghold it will always have on me.  I miss hopping trains to unexplored cities, not having to question weather a dish was fresh or organic, and seeing the way of new way of life that I knew was really an old way. 

In this new land there are no olive groves to explore, no language barriers to break.  Kansas is the land of twisters, storm cellars, and flying houses and is lacking the most important component of all: Kristin.  After being joined at the hip or ear (via phone) and being a mere mile away from each other for so long I find it difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that she is now in Taiwan and that I can no longer call my best friend to relay each silly anecdote or discuss our weekend travel plans.  I’ve never really had a true best friend before until Kristin.  I feel like the Tin Man at the end of the Wizard of Oz, though with a slight twist in that I wasn’t heart-less before, and like the Tin Man says, “I know I’ve got a heart, because it’s breaking.”  Not only did my LOT Polish airlines flight take me away from Italy, it also stole me from my BFF.

My time in Rome would have been indescribably different without Kristin’s presence.  Together we embraced Roman life, celebrating our good fortunes and being there for each other when the city turned on us.  I think in our time in Italy we did learn the beauty of doing nothing, but I think we both wish that we would have had more time to perfect this new skill.  One can never have enough time in the Eternal City, for this reason it will continue to pull both of us back again and again.  There is no limit on Pantheon gazing sessions, visits to Giolitti for gelato, the number of cream filled croissants you can eat in a lifetime, or trips to cheap yet delicious pizza places in Garbatella.  I can only hope that the Eternal City will one day call us back so that we can enjoy it again together soon, as best friends were meant to.  Until then we begin our own unique adventures in opposite corners of the world, struggling to find our places and paths; Kristin teaching English in Taiwan and me getting my MA in Classics in Kansas.

Thank you, Kristin, for teaching me what friendship and adventure are all about and thank you to our readers for being a part of our journey.  Like Dean Martin says, arrivederci Roma. 

Until our next adventure, enjoy il bel far niente.

It ain't easy being blonde...

Andrea

Kermit may have had a hard time being green, but I’ll tell you, it ain’t easy being blonde in Italy, and especially in Rome!  My light hair and blue eyes seem to attract a lot of unwanted attention in the land of dark hair and dark eyes, where my features are a bit of a novelty.  Sounds like every girl’s dream, right?  WRONG!  I get cat-called on a regular basis by the Romans.  Again, this might not sound like a bad thing, but sadly it’s not my age bracket that’s making all the noise.  There seems to exist in Rome a lack of understanding of “age brackets” in general.  What do I mean?  I get hit on by creepy old men.  Hmm, you’re old enough to be my father?  Gross.   The Roman men don’t quite understand that a 20-30 year age gap is a bit inappropriate… and that despite their best attempts to flatter me I will not go out with them!  The Romans call me “biondina,” which means “little blonde girl,” and boy is it getting old.  Being blonde in Rome is like sticking a giant sign that says “TOURIST” on your back and an easy excuse for the old duffers to chat you up.  “Where are you from, Sweden?” 

Usually these creepy encounters occur just after I’ve been texting/talking on my phone, and therefore the old creepers know I have a phone number.  Greaaaaaat.  After a few minutes of conversation, which I cannot resist because it’s an opportunity to practice my Italian and because I’m a nice person who will talk to people who talk to her, they usually ask for my phone number so that we can “get a coffee” later.  What am I supposed to do?!  They know I have a phone and if I say “no” it becomes this big ordeal; “why don’t you want to give me your number?” “what’s wrong – do you have a boyfriend?”  (in which case I always lie and say yes, not that this keeps them at bay that well) "it's okay, your (imaginary) boyfriend won't have to know"… and then the run around continues for several more minutes.  I’ve given up and found that it’s just easier to give them your phone number BUT the trick is to make sure that you get Creepy McCreeperton’s number, as well.  Why?  Well, when they call, you know who’s calling and therefore don’t have to answer!  I save all their first names and them write "Creeper" afterward in my phonebook.  They are persistent, however, and I have ignored many a phone call.  Let this be a tutorial for all you other blondies frequenting Italy any time soon.      

Anyway, as I am leaving Italy soon, I am getting excited to get back to the land of northern European descendents, where I will not stick out like a sore thumb, be cat-called, and have to dodge dodgy old men.  Yes, it’s nice to be unique, but in Rome unique is something I’d rather not be.  Oh Kansas, land of pasty, blonde haired, blue eyed people, here I come!

Update!

Phew, so many updates!  I’m going to try to be better at posting regularly in my last few weeks in Rome, especially since Kristin is in Turkey for a few weeks which means I’m bored.  In the last months Kristin and I have been keeping pretty busy traveling, working, and wandering Rome.  I was AWOL for two weeks while I guided my mom and brother around Italy; our so-called “walking tour” of Italy in which I almost killed them with all the physical activity.  It’s a miracle they still wanted to bum around the country with me after a few exhausting days in Rome!  I also spent a week in the north to use up the remnants of my Eurail pass, which means more time away from my comp, but more blog material!  Anyway, expect more posts from now on.  The crazy adventures continue!

The Tact-less Lithuanian

Andrea

In the US we are taught not to bring up certain subjects in conversation upon first meeting someone: religion, politics, money, etc.  What subjects did the tact-less Lithuanian* who took my ancient Rome tour bring up?  Religion, politics, & money.   Oh yes, the Romans gods sent me an obnoxious tourist – or rather, tour guide! – for my birthday (April 21^st, which is also Rome’s birthday and hence my not taking the day off so that I could do a special Rome birthday tour).  Before the tour even started I knew he would be a problem.  The first thing he said to me was that he was going to be a tour guide at the Colosseum.  Oh great, someone to critique all of my facts and stories!  He started of by telling me everything he knew about the Colosseum, which wasn’t much and I soon realized that he was really only taking my tour to mooch information.  It was going to be a rough 3.5 hours – this was not how I wanted to spend my birthday tour!  Luckily the rest of the people in my group were great and a one nice Canadian woman picked up on my slight annoyance with him immediately, especially when he tried to rally the group at 10:05am, because he wanted to leave on time.  Lucky for me I somehow managed to keep my cool and simply told him that this was his day off and to relax and let me lead the group. 

Things were not much better as we boarded the metro to the Colosseum.  He repeatedly tried to lead the group, talking over me, and asking me questions solely so he could relay the answers loudly to the group.  My patience with him was getting thin.  For the rest of the tour I tried to distance myself from him, staying close to the Canadian woman who silently sympathized with me.  However, no matter what I did I could not shake this guy.  He was always at my side, asking me why I didn’t mention this fact, or why I didn’t share this story, or why I let the group talk so much.  Hey Lithuanian dude, it’s a 3.5 hour tour and I want to let everyone else have fun!  It’s no fun if you’re lecturing them and not letting everyone socialize!  Of course, I said this to him in a much nicer way than I was thinking it.  Apparently his tours would only be a half hour and he wasn’t going to let anyone talk or ask questions.  My patience-o-meter was dropping rapidly.  I dodged many of his other inappropriate questions, such as how much money I made, was my agency looking for other guides, and whether he might be able to get a job at the hostel on the side.  Ha! 

I managed to grit my teeth and bear it for the rest of the tour, trying to hide amongst the rest of my group, all of whom were very nice, and shooting “help me” glances at the Canadian when the tact-less one would say something else inappropriate.  Why did I have to have one bad apple on my birthday?!  At the end of the tour I decided to grab lunch with my group, taking them to one of my favorite restaurants, L’Archetto, which is a spaghetteria and pizzeria with one hundred different kinds of spaghetti sauce.  I tried to get rid of the obnoxious Lithuanian by tempting him with the mock gladiator battles that would take place in about an hour and a half at the Circus Maximus, which he was intrigued by, but not quite enough to leave the group.  Damn!  At the restaurant, the shit hit the fan and my patience-o-meter nearly hit zero.  Mr. Tact-free started interjecting random topics that were so far off the rest of the table’s conversation and so inappropriate no one could believe it; “so how about that mosque by ground zero in New York?” “What do you all think of the Iraq war?” “Why don’t Americans like Muslims?” and about six other insanely off topic and unbelievable questions, making incorrect assumptions in all of his questions.  Jaws dropped almost every time this guy opened his mouth.  It was as if this guy had no social skills at all.  These are things that 1. You generally don’t discuss with a group of people you just met and 2. You don’t bring up randomly when everyone else is talking about their travels, studies, and how good their spaghetti is (and boy was it good!).  The rest of the tour group had had about enough as well, attacking his loaded questions and shooting him down rather quickly, then returning to their piling plates of pasta and pleasant discussions.   He had it coming!  It was almost as if he wanted to provoke the rest of the group.

By the time lunch was over we had all had enough of this guy and luckily he was anxious to get to the mock gladiator battles at the Circus Maximus that were part of Rome’s birthday celebration.  After he left the group I took the rest of them to Giolitti in celebration, one of the most famous gelaterias of Rome.  The group immediately began berating the tact-less one and they were all shocked at my nice demeanor towards him.  “Didn’t you just want to smack him?” one person asked.  Apparently the only one who could sense my annoyance throughout the tour was the Canadian woman.

So let this be a lesson to all: follow the social niceties of first encounters and don’t bring up touchy, inappropriate, or the off-limit subjects of religion, politics, and money.  Don’t be the tact-less Lithuanian!

(*I should note that I have nothing against Lithuanians – just this guy!  Being half Polish I don’t have any qualms about fellow Eastern-Europeans, just certain people who do not know how to act properly in social situations.  I use people’s nationalities in the blog posts instead of their names for the sake of their privacy.)

The Black Rabbit of Sicily

Andrea
There are two kinds of people in this world: the kind that like the movie Donnie Darko, and the kind who don’t.  If you like Donnie Darko, you will probably like Palermo.  Palermo is the biggest city in Sicily and is famous for what they like to call The Family, aka the mafia.  Palermo is a dark mix of architectural styles, cultures, foods, and is full of dark creepy alleys in which you expect some shady deals to be made.  Palermo also never really recovered from WWII, so in some sections of town you can still see the bombed out buildings and feel as though you’re in a war zone.  Why the Donnie Darko comparison?  Well, nothing against Donnie Darko or the people who like it, but it takes a special kind of person to really enjoy that movie.  It’s dark, strange, there’s a giant black rabbit, and just leaves you very confused at the end.  Palermo is of the same caliber, minus the rabbit, of course. 

I am not a Donnie Darko fan, and therefore, was not a fan of Palermo.  I had been there three years ago with some excavation friends and was not particularly excited to return.  By some strange twist of “fate” I managed to avoid exploring a large portion of Palermo because of some lovely food poisoning (I blame my green marzipan cookie in Syracuse – damn you little old lady who baked it!).  Not only did I get the privilege of throwing up on the bus ride to the dreaded city (everyone else on the bus was very happy with me), but I also was far too weak and tired to even get out of bed to view the city the whole next day.  That was one potent cookie! 

It’s difficult to put into words what exactly it is about Palermo that sends shivers down my spine.  It’s really more of a feeling you get when you step off the bus.  I never really felt that my money or camera were going to be stolen, it was more that I felt that the city, or maybe Donnie Darko’s rabbit, was watching me from the dark alleyways.  Don’t get me wrong, Palermo is an interesting city and there are some beautiful piazzas, but if you’ve seen Donnie Darko and hated it, maybe just skip Palermo and head straight to Cefalu or Taormina instead, where the alleys don’t have eyes and you’re not on the constant lookout for the big black rabbit of Sicily.

The nice part

The not so nice part

Mom, What do boys lose?

   Thus far this experience has been extremely educational in regards to raising children. This weekend Kirra, the 6 month old puppy, began her first menstruation. Of course the house is completely furnished in white which has proved to be a problem. The girls’ cousins, aunt and uncle came over for dinner Saturday night and were present for this exciting event. Half way through dinner Kirra had to be escorted out to the terrace. The cousins who are both male (7 and 9) were very perplexed by why she was bleeding. “What is wrong with Kirra?” “Oh, she is in heat.” This led to a lengthy explanation from the older of the two girls. She began by explaining the anatomy of girls, and the dangers of taking a female dog to the park while she is in heat. “She will make the boy dogs CRAZZZY… and then you know down there.” This explanation was magnificent to witness and was a bit of a production including full Italian hand gestures.

   “So all girls lose blood? Mom, you too?!” At this point the aunt’s face went bright red. To the amusement of the girls’ mother, her sister had never given the boys the “talk”.  The boys just sat there looking from one female to the next very concerned for their well-being and a bit grossed out. “ Don’t worry honey girls use pads that stick to their underwear and it goes away.” After they left the girls approached their mother and asked “Mom, do boys lose blood too?” To which they received the response, “No, because they do not have vaginas.” “If girls lose blood what do boys lose?” “I explained all the girl stuff to you, how about you ask your dad when he comes home in two days.” Ha! Shove the responsibility of this conversation onto him. I love it!

   Cin Cin to the cycle of life,

Kristin

Artichokes, Roman ruins, and... carnival rides?

One of my secondary missions of our Italian adventure is to visit as many food festivals and eat as many strange new things as possible.  I made significant progress towards this goal on Sunday the 15^th, when I went to the Sagra dei Carciofi (artichoke festival) in Ladispoli, which is about 45 minutes from Rome by train.  Yes, that’s right, artichoke festival; the strange vegetable that looks like a large green pinecone and makes you wonder why on earth there would be a festival in its honor.  I went with few expectations, only hoping to eat as many artichokes as possible, as these have become a favorite of mine in Italy (though I still struggle to prepare them properly since in order to do so you need to cut off 70% of the vegetable and by the time I start preparing this I am too hungry to care if I do it correctly, which has been my downfall thus far).   I figured it would be a small ordeal with several food stands and that we would probably head back to Rome after two or three hours.  Wrong!  When I arrived at the festival I was shocked by the magnitude of the event.  As soon as I got off the train in Ladispoli I could see tents at the edge of town selling random things, cars included, and a very large blow-up archway proclaiming the entrance to the festival.  Geez, guess looking up directions to the event was useless (I was especially peeved that I wasted my time in doing so last minute before exiting my apartment because I missed the metro to Termini, then had to wait ten minutes for another, almost didn’t meet up with my friend and fellow foodie, Albert, and had to sprint to the train after several attempts at buying my train ticket – some machines only accept cards, some only accept cash, and some don’t work at all.  Thanks Rome.).  Anyway, in addition to the sprawl of the festival, I could already tell that this was going to be big judging by the number of people that got off the train in Ladispoli.  I think it emptied itself upon arrival.  What was even more entertaining was that many of the people exiting the train had large bags which I knew contained the cheap sunglasses, t-shirts that fall apart in two days, tissues, poorly made kitchen supplies, cheap shoes, and random other junk that is often sold at the edges of markets in Rome.  So we followed the crowd into town and gawked at the ridiculousness of the festival.  There were all sorts of tented booths selling the strangest things; windows, cars, nice kitchen supplies, and vacuums, with the occasional truck full of artichokes thrown in.  We continued to follow the crowd to what I was hoping would be the core of the festival – the part with the food!  As we entered a piazza closer to the center of town I was calmed a little bit by the increase in artichoke stands, as well as the appearance of artichoke sculptures.  Yes, I said artichoke sculptures.  Minnesota has butter sculptures, Wisconsin has cheese sculptures, and Ladispoli has sculptures that are slightly lower in cholesterol!  These things were amazing, I must say.  In addition to the elephant (see photo below), there was also a lion, sword in the stone, mermaid, rooster, and a ship.  Now that’s a lot of artichokes! 

We kept wandering towards the shore, straining our eyes for anything that looked remotely like some sort of food stand that actually belonged at the festival (cotton candy and candy stands didn’t exactly fit in, in my opinion).  After some creative crowd weaving, I saw smoke coming from a smaller piazza near the beach.  Behold the Promised Land!  Artichoke time!  Though the piazza was small, it was overwhelming due to the sheer number and variety of food tents.  There were stands from every region in Italy, but sadly many of these had nothing to do with artichokes.  Where were the artichoke stands?!  I was starting to get anxious.  What kind of festival did I drag my poor Rome food guru to?  At last I spotted the stand with a huge line of people and a delicious smell emanating from it.  Carciofi fritti (deep fried artichokes)!  This was the highlight of the day, considering that our later artichoke pasta wasn’t all that I had hoped it would be (the fried artichokes set pretty high standards), especially after waiting in line for 45 minutes because the stand ran out of pasta (which was hilarious, by the way, since when the pasta bearers did finally arrive everyone in line cheered and I think they brought enough pasta to feed an army, but then of course we had to wait an additional ten minutes for it to cook.  Man, life is rough in Italy.).   After devouring the artichoke pasta we sat and watched the preparations for the artichoke deep frying process.  When we saw the vast tubs of artichokes my eyes almost dropped out of their sockets (see photo below).  I have no doubt that all of them were consumed, but it was a shock nonetheless.  My shutterbug instincts kicked in and I began snapping photos of the battering and frying process, when an old Italian man behind me started joking that I would need to buy the photo rights from him.  The jokester turned out to be the owner of the stand and he and his sons were covered in flour from head to toe, especially his youngest son who appeared to be about 12, who was too shy to take a picture with me. 

Upon further exploration of the festival I realized a slightly disturbing similarity between American festivals/fairs and Italian ones.  All of the same components were there: cotton candy, people selling random junk that had nothing do to with the heart of the festival, rides (yes, rides – I saw a blow up slide, a roller coaster, and one of those large round swing contraptions that lifts up and spins), a stage with live music, and deep fried food, though in this case the item being deep fried was much healthier than the deep fried Oreos than you’ll find at the Wisconsin State Fair.   I was astonished at the amount of other random junk that had been tacked onto the artichoke portion of the festival and how much it reminded me of fairs in the US.  There was one significant difference, however: VERY FEW ROTUND INDIVIDUALS!  Despite the fact that the concentration of deep fried items was higher here in any other place I have been in Italy, people were eating in moderation and most were on the fairly petite side.  Oh man, am I in for a rude awakening when I return to the US – can you say “reverse culture shock?” 

All in all, I can declare my first food festival a success, despite its strange resemblance to my hometown’s yearly Pickle Festival (at which there are, of course, deep fried pickles).  Though the “fair food” here is a horse of a different color, this is something I welcome with open arms (you really can’t eat too many deep fried Oreos or cheese curds before feeling the urge to vomit from all the grease in your gut).   After seven hours of wandering the festival and exploring the town’s Roman ruins (VERY poorly preserved Roman walls and a spoliated tomb with poor, if any, signage) and its nearby castle (side note: during our expedition to the castle we saw a helicopter fly overhead and a toothless, semi-deranged native wandering the rocks on the water told us that it was likely Berlusconi inside since he has a house in Ladispoli), we decided to grab some gelato and head back.  I had been searching in vain for artichoke flavored gelato, which I had seen on a Rick Steves’ episode, however apparently this did not exist in Ladispoli (which, let’s be honest, was probably for the best since I’m 90% sure the artichoke gelato would be disgusting, but it would have been worth a try anyway).  I settled for dark chocolate (fondente) and pine nut (pinoli) instead.  (Hmmm, I suddenly realize that I have yet to write a post about gelato.  How is this possible?!  Expect one soon.)  The train back to Rome was a whole other adventure in itself, of course.  The train station got my stamp of approval for having soap in the bathroom (this is a rarity in Italy) and the fact that I didn’t have to pay to pee (also a rarity), however, it was soon clear that the ride back was going to be packed with people.  Stamp of approval revoked.  In true Italian style, we shoved our way to the front of the “line” and smushed ourselves in a corner of the standing room only section between the cars.  All of the seats were taken, so we were condemned to stand for the 45-minute ride back to Rome, next to a collection of old Romans discussing how they would prepare their artichokes the next day (most of them had several large artichoke-filled bags). 

Despite being sardined (a term Kristin and I have been using the describe the state of the trains/busses/metros when they are so full of people that you can tell what each one of them had for breakfast or when their last cigarette was) on the train and the bizarre likeness of the Italian food festivals to that of the American fairs, I look forward to more food festivals in Italy.  My new goal: eat more of the wares and make friends with the food stamp operators!  Until the next festival, buon appetito!     

Artichokes!

Vat o' artichokes

The battering process

The frying process

The artichoke stand owner, his son, & me

End result - deep fried artichokes

Artichoke elephant