Mobility in Italy

What are the things in life I'm most afraid of?  Well, that would be The Scream roller-coaster at Six Flags, menacing summertime cockroach infestations, getting a bad haircut, any and all horror films, dying alone as an old chain-smoking spinster with 17 overweight cats, etc.  And until a few weeks ago that list also included driving in Italy.  There aren't many things in life that I've been so sure I would never do, but getting behind the wheel in any Mediterranean country, especially Italy, was something I swore up and down I'd never have the chutzpah to attempt.  Just goes to show you should never say never.

anyone who knows what this means, feel free to enlighten me.

I remained in Italy this summer to complete an internship required for my degree.  A professor of mine who is also an artist got me a position at an art foundation located several kilometers outside Torino.  I'd be working with the first artist-in-residence for a new international educational residency program linking artists in Italy, Egypt, Brazil and India.  Of course I agreed immediately because the project interested me, but there was one catch.  The artist doesn't drive (how bohemian), so I'd have to not only help her with projects, but use a car for the 7 weeks of her residency.  It was almost comical at first, like karma or something.  I'd always told my friends, professors and colleagues here that I would never drive in Italy because it's just too crazy - the streets are too small, the cars come too close, red lights are simply suggestions, street signs and indications are incomprehensible (and not just because they're in another language).

My little Ypsilon!

But one month ago I arrived by train in middle-of-nowhere Piedmont to pick up the rental car, a silver-grey Lancia Ypsilon, and meet the artist.  Luckily Dina is a pleasure to work with and the foundation honored my request of finding an automatic transmission (hooray!)  Those first 2 days were terrible, I was frightened beyond belief - I thought I was going to hit everything that came within one meter of my vehicle.  I sat perched on the end of my seat, expecting the worst and readying myself to play defense.  I managed fairly well, perhaps because of my impeccable reflexes or my ability to rationalize unthinkable maneuvers based on the fact that someone in front of me is doing it.  I arrived home unscathed despite the rain and rush hour, only having been honked at 3 times - but at this point I think honking is Italian for "whaddayathinkyadoin?"

My epithet: B.L.Shultz, conquerer of the dreaded Italian roundabout.

By day 3 in the car my heartbeat had regulated, I was leaning back against the seat, my window was rolled down enough to allow for ample gesture-throwing and I wasn't too scared to turn on the way-too-'90s Italian radio stations.  I was driving in Italy and I finally got the hang of the anarchical vehicular madness!  That first week as I drove down the peaceful field-lined country roads leading to the foundation, I smiled to myself thinking "I can't believe I'm driving in Italy.  I never ever thought I'd be capable of this.  Now I'm convinced I can do just about anything."

Beautiful art foundation where I work in the Piedmont countryside

© Fondazione Spinola Banna per l'Arte

Of course having a car meant I had the freedom of actually going places on my own time for the first time since I've been here.  I didn't have to check bus schedules or consider walking times.  I was free as a bird!  Except for ridiculous parking restrictions and even-more-ridiculous Italian version of "parking" as we know it: double-parking as a lifestyle, leaving your car on the stripes in the middle of the road with your hazards on, using the sidewalk as a parking spot, disregarding pedestrian crossings and the like.  So stressful.  Just as soon as I got excited about the freedom of a car I was given a reminder of all the annoying responsibilities that come along with it - paying to park, finding spots, traffic, check-ups, and buying gas!  One liter (.26 gallons) of fuel is 1.42 euros ($2.02) and this little baby takes only diesel!  Can you believe it?!

My bike on Via Garibaldi, Turin's shopping district.

Realizing I would be giving up the car in a week but unwilling to give up my newfound mobility, I decided to find a bicycle.  This is also linked to my missing home recently, as my bike was one way I really enjoyed the summer, the city and exercising.  I went to the Saturday flea market and bought an old bike for 40 euros: maroon, 5 speed, decent brakes, girl's frame, and old school lights that are powered by my pedaling.  I outfitted it with a new bell (necessary for the busy streets of Turin) and a basket for toting my purse along.  Now I just couldn't be happier!

My bike in Piazza Castello in front of Palazzo Reale.

I've gone out a few times this week to cruise around downtown and stop for a coffee and write a bit in my journal.  Thankfully Torino is a fairly bike-friendly city and the only thing I'm truly afraid of (at least these days) is getting whiplash from riding along broken old cobblestone streets!

You Know You're Homesick When...

• You hastily combine off-brand corn chips, gruyere cheese and sickly sweet "mexican salsa" from the local supermarket in an attempt to make a sad excuse for nachos.

• You feel your eyes misting up while watching a late showing of the original language film, The Tree of Life, because you've just discovered it was filmed in Texas.

• You spend a weekend on the beach in Liguria with a big group of people but all you can think about is how much you'd like to be with all your best friends floating down the Guadalupe River.

Last Summer, aka My Glory Days

aaaaand I really miss this too.

Guys, I've been kinda down for a few days.  I know you're probably thinking I should shut my trap and go find solace in a cup of strawberry/chocolate gelato, but sometimes you just can't shake these feelings.  I can't quite decide if this has been caused by the recent departure of my fam a few weeks ago, perhaps coupled with realizing I won't be home for 6 more months, oh and add in the fact that all the good friends I've made here have gone back home to their respective countries.  I'm kind of lonely, I guess.

This is exactly how I remember summertime.

Part of me is excited by the fact that I'm so alone - that means time for me to read, catch up on journaling, do some research, complete some projects.  But that also means I'm the self-appointed Mayor of Sadville, population:1.  Maybe I've just been thinking about all my previous summers, how fun and carefree everything was.  Riding my bike around the city, taking walks with my mom, going to all the good Happy Hour spots, getting excited about book club meetings with the girls, watching movies in the park, painting my nails with Sara, attending music festivals, visiting Nicole in Uvalde and eating the best CFS ever, playing on a softball team, relaxing in the hot tub at dad's place, grabbing sno-cones, working on my tan at Barton Springs.  It's crazy how things like that truly become a part of who you are.  But things have to change, right?  That's part of life.

Summer Salsa Dancing

Summer Kickball Season Silliness

Of course it doesn't help that a few days ago I realized I was on my last tube of stashed Burt's Bees lip balm and soon I'll have to begrudgingly switch to generic chap-stick.  Ugh.  Then I got a sweet message from the Shrodes that included a picture of them eating guacamole and drinking margaritas -  but ohh, the pain, the agony!  To top it off I agreed to go on this trip with my roommate and 15 of his closest friends to the seaside.  While I was there I watched them interact, tried to follow the conversation, but couldn't find the energy or desire to truly engage anyone.  I don't know why, really, but as I sat with them on the beach and took in the beautiful landscape, all I could think was these aren't my friends.  I felt like I was in some bizarre foreign film where everyone spoke a different language and talked about things I'd never seen and people I didn't know.

Summer at the Frio River

This post is turning into a pathetic diatribe, I must say.  I'm thinking this is just a phase and I need to get over it and try to make new friends, but golly, that takes so much effort!  And in another language it becomes more fatiguing.  I just miss how easy things were when I could simply pick up the phone and call my friends, go for a drink and effortlessly speak my own language. Though, when I think back to the last time I was in Italy during the summer, studying abroad in Rome in 2006, I have to say it was one of the best times of my life.  It was that summer when I solidified my adoration for this country, this culture, this language.  It was that summer I realized I had to come back and live here, someway, somehow.  And 5 years later I'm actually doing that!  Albeit without the company of my best buddies, without all the comforts of home, but I'm here living my dream.  And that's nothing to complain about :)

Summer Abroad, 2006 (lovingly dubbed by my fam: The Gelato Tour)

So there may be hope yet to cure my homesickness.  I've just got to take it one day at a time and be thankful that I'm able to be here, thankful there are people back home who love and support me - even if I can't spend blissful, carefree summer days with them.  Perhaps my day's goal will be to complete a few things and then try a new flavor of frozen Italian goodness (preferably that doesn't remind me of home!)

xoxoxo!

Addendum:
So God must be reading my blog because when I went to the grocery store this evening something happened that was nothing short of a miracle.  I found a ripe avocado in the "exotic foods" section!!!  Now this is highly exciting, since you all know I've had NO luck finding avocados and thus have had serious guacamole withdrawals.  Well, I happily got in line to pay for the overpriced South African import after tracking down the makings for a nice bowl-o-guac.  My nearly-religious experience was further enriched by the lady behind me.  She wanted to know how you eat an avocado. (!!!)  I explained the guacamole-making process (in Italian, what's up.) and described its deliciousness to the woman, she was intrigued by this foreign dish and thanked me for the information.  I was able to not only find a food that reminds me of home and preach its glory to the masses (well, just an old lady who may not even remember, but still).  Feeling better already!