Home Sweet Home

I must begin by apologizing for the recent lack of posts, but darn it I've been having too much fun back home in The Lone Star State!  I've been promptly attending cocktail hours, frequenting the hot tub in dad's backyard, relishing in the fact that I don't need a jacket here most days, catching up on the TV shows I can't get my hands on abroad, enjoying the blessed tradition of brunch, sleeping past 10AM, donning my cowboy boots at trashy honky tonk bars, reminding my taste buds of the glory that is queso (oh sweet Jesus how I've missed you!), singing along to American pop radio in the car, meeting friends at Austin-y hole-in-the-wall coffee shops -- it's been a busy few weeks, everyone!  I've reunited with family and friends from across the state and country, celebrated Christmas in 2 cities, had a tour-de-texas-comfort-food, and rang in the new year with my best friends.  Now I find myself in that interim period where all my Austin friends are back at work and I desperately need to catch up in my journaling.

probably why I've lost weight in Italy.

I've had a great time seeing my family, and I'm feeling incredibly at home in this region of southern hospitality.  It's an added bonus that here I can indulge in a bath, use wifi just about anywhere, and get away with finagling free drinks at bars.  None of that is really possible in Italy.  What's the old adage?  Home is where the heart is.  Or is it where your bed is?  Sometimes I think it's where your mom is, but not everyone has one.  Home seems to be what you make of it, because I find myself at home in the Woodlands sipping on wine at cocktail hour, in the Heights grabbing tacos and holding my friends' baby, in downtown Houston catching up over all-you-can-eat gnocchi, in Austin decorating cookies and crafting, at Kerbey Lane for brunch with my best buddies.  And somehow I'm missing Italy a bit already - my little room with the ghetto internet connection, the old ladies peering off their balconies, the riotous crowds at the marketplace, even having to put my clothes on the line to dry.  Yet at the same time I'm ecstatic to be back among my most loved people in the world in a city that just fits like an old leather glove.  So if home is where my heart is, then my heart must reside in several planes of existence, and several time zones, for that matter.

with friends at a country bar - just prior to line dancing.

I've come to realize that even when you leave what you consider to be "home," things still change.  People change.  Buildings go up, old hang outs are torn down, people move away or have new priorities - but some things never change.  In Italy I've struggled with the professional lack of hospitality in establishments, which is part of Northern Italian culture.  Yet once I met a few Italian friends I was immediately treated like family to an extent I'd never known.  This strange dichotomy of experiences in hospitality has both annoyed me and astounded me in the past few months.  Through a few conversations with old friends over the holidays, I've been given a new perspective on the idea of hospitality.

God bless tacos and homemade tortillas.

Simply having a personable waiter at a restaurant can drastically improve your overall experience.  Heck, someone smiling during a 2-minute transaction at a shop is priceless in the way it makes everything easier.  As far as service is concerned, Texas, and the US in general, has trumped Italy.  But look at our idea of hospitality in a more personal sense.  As Americans we expect proper notice and opportunity for planning before allowing someone in your house or meeting for dinner.  We don't like inconvenience and things need to be on our terms - we'd never offer our guest room to a traveler we just met on a train (reference to a desperate moment of mine while traveling near Milan in 2008).  It's just not part of our culture.  We're nice to people we just met, but strangers are kept at a distance - we'd never give an acquaintance's friend our apartment keys for a week (reference to offer by a girl I'd just met in Torino when my roommate's boyfriend needed a place to stay last minute).

old friends, new year.

Isn't it odd the level of trust required these days to let people into our home, into our lives?  Italy may have a poor level of customer service, but they're rich in hospitality.  And while I can feel at home in a restaurant or shop here in Texas, it's often possible to feel like you're inconveniencing someone when asking them to make time for you.  There are people who once made up your idea of "home" who now can't seem to make the time to meet for coffee.  But the true nugget of wisdom here, if I can even claim to be a blogging sage, is that the beauty of true friendship and family is that those who love you could be too busy for words but would happily rearrange their schedules, change their plans, drive out of their way, and do whatever it takes to see you and spend time with you.  And to me, that's exactly what home feels like, no matter where you are.

Ski Trip

Egad, I haven't posted anything in 10 days!  Well, in my defense I've had several 20+page papers to finish, a few presentations, and an exam.  As of right now I'm finished with 3 of my courses with only 2 finals awaiting me next week.  Every hard working student deserves a break, so I took mine on Sunday.  And at the risk of sounding pretentious, I went skiing in the Alps last weekend.  (Imagine me holding a glass of wine by the stem and peering over my spectacles at you as you read this, ok?)  Ah yes, it was divine…

prato nevoso.

Thanks to a chance meeting in Austin Texas over a year ago, I had the pleasure of introducing myself to some Italians that were visiting the area looking to apply to the University.  We hit it off instantly and hung out a bit over the summer but they soon returned to their native land and we kept in touch via Facebook.  Several months later I was applying to my university outside of Torino only to remember my italian friends were from the same city!  This connection has been invaluable as one of them picked me up from the airport upon my arrival in August, the other housed me in their family's apartment my first night.  My friend's brother, Stefano, and his girlfriend Giulia have truly been saints since my arrival.  They've met me several times in the city center to have drinks, they lent their apartment to my roommate's boyfriend for a week when he was visiting and most recently they invited me and my roommates to join them skiing.  All without asking anything in return!

me, ricarda and natalie at the table.

Stefano and Giulia organized a weekend in the mountains for me and my 3 roommates - Saturday evening they picked us up from the train station in Savigliano, a town 40 minutes south of Torino.  We drove with them to Giulia's grandmother's house in Dronero, another 30 minutes by car, and they had prepared everything.  In all there were 8 of us, and Giulia set the table and served us salami, bruschetta, potato dumplings and even cannoli her grandmother made (omg, so good) and tiramisu which is a family recipe.  We sat around eating together, drinking wine, laughing, speaking Italian, trying to learn the Piedmontese dialect.  Their friends Ottaviano and Roberto started playing guitar and singing in English (hilarious, btw when Italians sing in English because they make up words), it was so much fun.

there are no words.

We drove the next day to Prato Nevoso in the Italian Alps and the drive alone was worth the trip.  Everything was covered in snow, we were winding up hills and admiring the landscape.  When we arrived we rented all the necessary equipment and got out on the baby hill.  Beginners have to start slow, you know.  Technically we should've had an instructor, but I chose to invest in a helmet instead.

Click Here to Watch the Video

The little village was so beautiful, tucked into a valley of the Alps, lined with triangular lodges and dotted with anxious winter sport adventure-seekers.  We stayed on the baby hill for a while testing out our skills, then Roberto convinced us we should go up the mountain to the intermediate hill.  I don't know what he was thinking because none of us were remotely experienced enough to descend that mountain.  But we eagerly agreed, confident in what we accomplished on the baby hill.  Next thing I know I'm being pushed onto a conveyor belt and slammed back into the ski lift, up the mountain I go!  I started to get really nervous looking down at the other, more experienced skiers and snowboarders.  But just as we got high enough in the air to view the crest of the mountain, something incredible happened.

view from the lift.

I looked around me and everything was covered in white, the mountains, the valleys, the distant landscape.  Everything was so quiet, so serene, so utterly beautiful.  My chest started filling up with air and I was smiling like I'd never smiled before.  Maybe it was the lack of oxygen due to altitude or something, but I really felt something happen to me.  It was a strange sense of euphoria just realizing where I was, what I was doing, how blessed I was, and how beautiful my surroundings were.  It's going to sound super lame, but I experienced some truly pure form of happiness on that mountain.  I couldn't stop smiling.  I felt an indescribable sense of fulfillment and joy in that moment, but unlike anything I've ever felt before.

realizing the true meaning of "breathtaking."

Soon we were shoved off the lift and onto the top of the mountain, but I must have timed everything wrong because I fell flat on my butt and slid down about 5 meters knocking into the other girls and we all went down like dominos.  Poor Roby had to try to manage all of us fledgling skiers and once we were up, we trudged over to the first drop point - it was an angle of definitely more than 45 degrees, but for some reason I was still in that goofy state of euphoria and I told the girls "we can do this, we can totally do this!"  I went first and launched myself off the hill and PLOP!, fell on my butt again only to slide down the first hill until my skis stopped me.  And honestly all I could do was laugh!  I got myself up, managed to make it to the next  drop only to look back and see the girls each on their butts unable to get up.  I kept going, smiling ear to ear, falling every 20 meters and looking like a bow-legged granny while 9-year-olds passed me going top speed.  I had a blast.  I still can't explain that feeling I had, as it was unique to that singular experience, but I made it to the bottom while the other girls had to take off their skis and walk down the mountain.

proud of myself for making it to the bottom unscathed.

The trip to the Alps was priceless - in the sense that I felt a genuine joy within myself that was augmented by the beauty surrounding me, and also because of the selfless individuals around me.  Stefano and Guilia organized the trip for me and my roommates (some girls they'd never met), fed them, housed them, and took them skiing only because they wanted to.  I can't say I've known that kind of hospitality very often in my life.  What a lovely memory I'll have of this weekend, the snow, the mountain, the company - you can't put a price on true happiness.

Hot Damn, it's Cold!

As I write this post, dear readers, I am looking out through the glass on the french doors of my bedroom and beyond the balcony there is quite an interesting sight.  Small particles of frozen rain are glittering as they pass the faint yellow light of the street lamps.  A moped sits on the sidewalk unattended gathering a delicate white powder.  I see a small dog in a jacket scurrying alongside its owner, dotting the street with tiny black prints...

Shit y'all, it's snowing here!

snooooow.

It's hard to imagine for some of you, I'm sure.  Heck, I can hardly believe it.  Sunday we had our first snow of the season and my roommate Georgina and I went out to explore the winter wonderland that is our neighborhood park.  Given that Georgina and I (Californian and Texan, respectively) were most bewildered by this phenomenon, we trekked alone to the park and left the German, French and New York girls behind.

neighborhood sustainable development park.

I've gotta tell you, it's damn cold here in Torino right now.  I'm not just saying that because I'm accustomed to wearing flip flops and a sundress to Thanksgiving dinner, but I've done the math.  Conversions, you know.  Today it was 0 degrees celsius and although that doesn't take any real number crunching, it does hurt my head just thinking about the implications.  32 is a number we'd reach in Texas maybe in early January if we were so unfortunate.  Tomorrow's forecast details a "light snow and mist" alongside a pleasant little (-1) degrees.  I'm cold.  Mind you I've been sleeping with knee-length socks (this is the part in this post where my dad is cringing) and long-sleeved shirts for about a month now to combat the lack of decent central heating in Italy.  Not bad really, I've got a good comforter and my toesies tend to keep warm.  But when I have to go outside, that's the problem.

ice ice baby.

Even though this is technically still Fall, I could swear to you it's the dead of winter in Russia.  I haven't really felt super cold until today when the bus didn't come for an hour to take me back home and even through my boots, 2 layers of socks and leggings (which will from now on be a permanent fixture under jeans) I truly believed I had developed a mildly serious case of frostbite across my toes.  I remember in August when I was packing my bag to come to Italy I grabbed several long sleeved shirts and my lovely white wool pea coat thinking, it'll be ages until I need this.  The thing hardly gets any face time in Texas and I've been wearing it every day for a couple weeks now!

i've gotta admit, it is rather beautiful.

Family, don't start worrying that I'm over here huddled near the oven, teeth-chattering, red-faced, clutching a cup of tea or something.  I'm from Texas, I'm supposed to describe cold weather in a hyperbolic manner - it's in the job description.  Luckily socks are in abundance at the local market, and since they likely "fell off the back of a truck" somewhere they also tend to be affordable.  These days I think I'll be on the lookout for a pair of boots with serious insulation and water resistant capabilities that will serve me absolutely no purpose once I return stateside.  C'est la vie.

brrrrr.

I'm fairly sure I should be in love with snow, and theoretically I am since I've seen it and been charmed by it a handful of times in the South.  But in Texas when it snows, that fundamentally translates to no school.  Always.  Yet here I am on the brink of December (not even true winter yet) and my toes almost fell off waiting for the bus!  Everyone, I still have to go to school when it snows.  Whaaat?  How am I going to make it through January and February?  This post isn't intended to be a complaint, though it has turned into a sort of cultural diatribe - I will of course embrace this change with as much vigor and enthusiasm as I have everything else on this adventure thusfar.  I'll bundle up and accessorize with scarves, hats and gloves; I'll even order cappuccinos to keep my hands warm.  I'll relish at the sight of my own breath in the air as I walk along.  I'll find comfort in using a coat rack inside establishments.  I'll look forward to a trip we've got planned this weekend in the mountains with some local friends.  But damn, I'll still be cold.

Giving Thanks

This week was particularly difficult, thinking about everything I was missing by being abroad during Turkey Day.  I didn’t even try to hide my anguish as one of my professors assigned individual presentations to be given on Thanksgiving Day (Italians just don’t get it).  I not only had to be in school on this blessed day, but on top of it I had to give a presentation.  In Accounting.  *insert self-inducing vomit gesture here.*  But I knew I had to focus on the true meaning of the holiday – not the everything’s-better-smothered-in-gravy one, but the one about recognizing and appreciating everything for which you’re thankful.

with a little hard work, you can bring America to Italy

As it turns out, the pain of missing out on an important holiday (when you’re not on the same continent being constantly reminded of its existence) isn’t really that bad.  Everyone else around me had to go to work or school, shops were still open – it didn’t feel like Thanksgiving, but I knew it was.  So I decided to organize a dinner that would be an attempt at recreating a true American feast.  It started out as a few interested folks from our apartment and before I knew it we’d invited all the faculty, staff and students to partake in our holiday shindig.  Over the course of the week, the sign-up sheet grew to over 30 names and I started to worry about how I would be able to make and transport mass quantities of stuffing (arguably the most important side dish that has been known to occasionally outshine the turkey).

presenting the turkey

the thanksgiving spread

Everything worked out perfectly.  I’d convinced the café to order and prepare a 7-kilo (15.4lb) kosher turkey and I found myself advising our international crew on how to make traditional American dishes.  Apparently the Italians didn’t understand that the Pilgrims and Native Americans weren’t feasting on lasagna or tiramisu.  We had stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, caesar salad, quiche, pasta salad, garlic bread, potato pie, mac & cheese, some weird looking octopus salad (someone didn’t heed my “green bean casserole” suggestion), apple pie, chocolate peanut butter pie, cookies, banana bread, 2 giant jugs of wine and a Frankenstein turkey that had been stuffed and sewn shut by the local butcher who likely hadn’t ever done it before.  Oh, and something that resembled gravy but was attempted by use of olive oil.  And in retrospect I probably should’ve suggested someone bring vegetables, but whatever.

needs something green.  i think.

30 of us sat around, ate, drank, pushed each other to get through the line, laughed, ate some more, and generally enjoyed the party.  To top it off there was a “Western” band playing in the adjacent room of the café and that added to the ambience.  I dined at the table with my Project Management professor and her boyfriend along with a few of my roommates.  For everyone except 4 of us, this was their first Thanksgiving and I coached them through the turkey-mashed potato-stuffing combo that must be present on your fork. 

giuliano our facilities manager - doesn't speak a word of english but that night I taught him how to say (and make) "stuffing"

It was great being able to share a native holiday with my little international family here.  I looked around the crowded room and saw my classmates, my teachers, and members of the staff enjoying each other’s company and I felt right at home on that makeshift Thanksgiving Day.  Sure there wasn’t any pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, football, or green bean casserole, but I felt incredibly thankful for being able to share my culture with another part of the world and bringing our little family a bit closer together.

chowing down on the turkey cookie i made by tracing my hand in cooking class

Progress Cafe

There's a place on east 5th street in Austin called Progress Cafe where I used to go for an Eastside Latte and some light journaling.  This weekend the girls and I found ourselves in the center of Torino just a bit north of the 2nd largest piazza in Europe (Piazza Vittorio Veneto), where we found a wonderful 3-level establishment: top level is a restaurant, ground floor is a hip cafe, and the basement is a dance floor/cocktail bar.  The name?  Caffe del Progresso.  My trip to Caffe del Progresso didn't result in quiet moments of introspection with pen in hand, rather a solid hour on the dance floor rocking out to Italian '80s with a mojito in hand.  Nevertheless, this somehow got me to thinking about my own personal progress.

gotta write it out.

Today at lunchtime I took a break in the library and grabbed my journal from my bag.  I took time to survey the recent contents and noticed I've written more in the last 3 months than I have in the entire year.  I flipped back in the annals of my thoughts, preparing myself for the inevitable cringe that often accompanies the reviewing of old journal material (at least for me).  This time I surprised myself.  I came across an entry from exactly one year ago, to date.  November 22, 2009 at 12:28pm (yes, I add the time to the entries).  How weird is that?  Back then I was journaling once a month at best, and here I was, Future Me, staring at the ghost of one year past.

Rewind to November 22 of last year, imagine if you can a time when the Twilight series just reached that obnoxious peak in popularity, a time when we all worried we had swine flu - right about then.  I was sitting in Austin Java attempting to write out my frustration with my current situation and hopes for the future.  One year ago I was working at a diner serving fried chicken and milkshakes to patrons and wondering why something "just wasn't right" with me.  I was thinking about taking the GRE because I thought "I need to get it together" and do something with my life.  What was the right decision, and why couldn't someone tell me what to do?

The answer was there on paper the whole time.  "Part of me thinks that writing this down will give me the answer, when in truth this is just a semi-permanent version of my innermost struggles.  I need strength and resolve, a sense of confidence regarding my life.  I should do what's right for me - be alone."  

let the coffee and the ink flow.

The distance I was talking about in the last post is even more true now that I look at my journal.  Distance isn't just meters, kilometers, oceans - it's time.  Years.  It's also being alone, allowing yourself to breathe and think about what you want and need for yourself.   Here are the items I outlined for Future Me a year ago: "Things need to be clear, focused and with purpose.  No more distractions.  Only success.  I need to be happy with me and where I'm going.  I suppose that can be my first step." I find it interesting that though it took me some time to heed my own words, I ended up truly listening to myself and creating opportunities to be able to truly accomplish some goals.

A year ago I was writing about probably going to UT for grad school and that was fine.  But here I sit in a castle in North Italy writing a blog post about my life studying the arts in Europe.  I was searching for balance just one year ago on a professional and personal level, now I believe I've truly attained that sense of equilibrium.  One year and 70ish pages later in my journal, I'm there.  And that's true progress.

Going the Distance

What is it about distance, I mean serious kilometers, that gives you a new perspective on things?  I've been here in Italy for almost 3 months now and I can say I haven't deeply considered my life from this angle.  Maybe it's the longitude, or my closer proximity to the North Pole.  Perhaps I should attribute this newfound consideration to the constant (or semi-constant) blogging and published introspection.  Either way, these days I seem to have much more clarity regarding my life.

I suppose it's that I am experiencing so many new ideas, concepts, cultures, places and people that it just makes a girl stop and think.  Everything that's normal, comfortable and common for me doesn't exist in this new dimension.  I'm not just talking about adjusting to a life that requires me to dry my socks overnight on the water heater to ensure they'll be ready for class the next day.  But rather the lack of nearness to people that matter to me.  One thing's for sure, being suddenly without friends and family really makes an impact on you.  But when you're too busy to realize you're actually on another continent, one day it will just hit you.

introspective moment by the ivy.

Last week I received a few packages and postcards from family members and friends with thoughtful tokens and encouraging messages.  A cute new outfit from one, giving me confidence and a touch of sass for upcoming events and presentations.  Then a handmade postcard with a photo of Rome and another with an image of the UT Tower taken just for me.  Finally a package of American goodies and a couple beautiful handmade scarves with thoughtful messages written on each.  I sat on my bed with my spoils of war carefully arranged around me and thought about how blessed I am.  There are people in my life who spend time on me because they love me, and that's an indescribable feeling.

You know what's as beautiful as the canals and tiny streets of Venice or the pastoral English countryside?  Truly feeling loved.  Knowing that someone cares enough to tell you, show you, make a gesture  of selflessness.  That's beautiful.

ruminations happen here.

Distance from my family and friends has resulted in my daily consideration of their importance in my life.  I've always known this, but why is it that these things always make more sense when you've gone far away?  The unconditionality of love is a funny thing.  No matter what someone does, where they go, who they are, why they make their decisions, love seems to transcend all of that.  And there are so many types of love that astound me.  Love at first sight, love between best friends, the love of a mother.  And the love that lasts over time, over hardship, over disputes.  What did we ever do to deserve this love?  I know I've been a stubborn, stalwart wench at times who's sloughed off the notion of love; I've ignored it when it didn't suit my needs and spent years convincing myself I didn't need it.  But that's just the thing about love, we do need it.

We must be true to ourselves and at the same time love someone for who they are, not who we want them to be.  (Thanks for that one, Grandma.)  Because what is it worth - this adventure of mine, this professional and personal discovery - if I cannot share it with those I love?

capturing the memories.

I am blessed.  Not only having the means to be here and having the opportunity to learn and grow, but also to be supported by so many irreplaceable people.  The feeling you get when you realize you mean something to someone, you made a difference to them, you're important to them and that they'd love and support you no matter what -- that's a feeling we should acknowledge and embrace in every way.

Being far from your loved ones is never easy, but it's sure made easier when you get an email from them with pics from their latest baking endeavor, when you chat with them on gmail about their day, when you skype them just to see their face, when you receive a postcard with their sentiments, and even when throwing on a new skirt or enjoying a box of animal crackers.  That doesn't hurt either.  

Retirement

No, we're not talking 401Ks or Roth IRAs, but rather my official retirement from teaching.  I know, I realize I may be disappointing a few of you, namely the teachers/pastors/educators among my friends and family, but I gave it some serious thought and I simply cannot continue.  It's not really a matter of being capable of teaching or having fun with a language class -- THAT I can do.  And I believe I did it rather well, actually.  It's quite simply the fact that I spent sooo much time creating the lessons.  I made these spiffy powerpoints with pictures and fancy slide transitions, I even had fun activities for them, all of this only to realize I was neglecting my school projects in order to impress my middle-aged students.  Priorities, siiiigh.

some serious reflections happening here

I feel a bit like a quitter not continuing with the job, I know my students enjoyed me and appreciated my humor, but I had to admit I didn't have adequate time to dedicate to the job.  I really wish I could be as involved in things here as I was in Austin -- I had time for everything!  Kickball, Book Club, endless outings with friends, heck I even had time to keep up with my favorite shows and maintain constantly manicured nails.  Then if you tack on my interest in discovering European cities while being here, that just doesn't leave time for a weekly English lesson.

classic brooding gaze across the sea photo

To confuse matters a bit, a few days after I quit the teaching job the Student Services Coordinator, Gian Lorenzo, told me about a 1.5 month-long internship at the Museo di Antropologia e Etnografia at the University of Turin.  Apparently the director was looking for 2 students to help out a few hours a week in cataloguing artifacts for an upcoming exhibition.  Gian Lorenzo informed her he knew of an American (me) and an Italian student who would be perfect for the job and next thing I know I'm cramming into his FIAT with an Italian art history student to go meet the director of the Anthropology Museum of Turin.  She immediately adored me and delighted in the thought that an American (how exotic!) would be able to provide some cultural insights into their American collections.  She doesn't speak English and our encounter was entirely in Italian, which was a welcome challenge since I speak English 85% of the time here.  In the end, what I thought was going to be an informative meeting actually turned out to be my first day on the job.  Not really sure how that happened, but I'm looking forward to seeing if this can actually work for me.

bridge over troubled waters

I figure a job at a museum will be more beneficial to me while I'm here, and heck I didn't even have to find it myself.  Plus, working in an environment where only Italian is spoken should be good practice.  She also told us we'd have the opportunity to not only catalog the artifacts but also help in the exhibition process - exciting!  On Friday I'm going to get a tour of the museum and I'll get more details about the internship.  I will be up front with her about my availability and amount of time I can afford to commit to the project.  Who knows if this will work out, but I can't imagine it could be more demanding than lesson plans (how do teachers do that every day?!), otherwise you'll be hearing from me in a matter of weeks about my latest retirement plan.  Ha!