CappucciNO

I planned on writing this at a café, accompanied by a cappuccino and the almost intelligible mutterings of the Italians around me. Instead, I am sitting in the anti-mafia park I passed walking to school every day. Today is May Day, one of Rome’s many “most important holidays.” With that, the entire city has shut down and I am left, cappuccinoless in a park I’ve only been to twice.

Italians take any chance they can get to skip work. Stores shut down for lunch and construction workers are more often seen whispering “Ciao bella” to innocent passersby than they are actually constructing anything. Storeowners care much more about their cigarettes than they do you and businessmen take their lunch breaks with a pint of beer.

At first, this, among other things, was very upsetting to me. It seemed like Italy had a complete disregard for the rules. And they do. Coming from the U.S. where everything is compensated for, and then overcompensated for, Italy’s utter indifference was shocking to me. If May Day had occurred during my first month in Rome, I would have huffed and puffed until I was out of breath. Now though, I almost expect it, and it even makes me happy.

Rome has taught me to loosen up, sometimes for the worse, but mostly for the best. In many ways, I was the opposite of Rome before I arrived here. I’ve learned to live in the moment, to not say no because I’m afraid, and to take everything in stride because usually, it doesn’t actually matter.

In a few days, I’ll be back in America, where the rules are made to be followed. Moreover, I’ll be back in America, where there are rules to begin with. Take driving for example. On January 10^th, 2012, I sat in a van with a bunch of likewise wide-eyed girls. We pressed our faces against the windows as we were driven to what would become our homes. It was as if the van didn’t exist. Buses stopped within centimeters of us and Vespas swerved in front and behind. There were no lanes to be followed; everyone went where they needed to go. This was all happening at top speed, and in complete silence. In Los Angeles, a driver will stop short, instigating a symphony of horns and out-the-window yells. Here, it just works. Cars park in the middle of intersections and the Carabineri thinks nothing of it. Scooters are driven on sidewalks if the traffic is bad, and nobody seems to mind. Somehow though, no one gets hurt and everyone gets to their destination. There are no rules, and there are no problems.

This experience has been a vacation from reality in many ways for me. Time used to be everything, and if I wasn’t involved it at least five things on top of classes, I felt I was failing as human being. Here, I don’t have those luxuries. I can’t meet someone at a specific time because who knows when or if the bus will show up. I can only be involved in so much because, lets face it, I speak enough Italian to get me through the day, max. I tried to keep myself busy by blogging and I even promised to write for an online magazine. But Italy got the best of me. I became too caught up with living and learning to focus on catering to others. That may sound selfish, but it has been so necessary. I’ve taken steps back so that I can walk forward with the self-awareness I need to succeed. I’ve learned what a good friend is, but also who to steer clear of. I am here alone, and as someone who hated that more than anything, I needed to learn when fend for myself and when it’s really okay to rely on others. I’ve learned that you only need a basic respect for the rules to get by, that the world will keep spinning if I just take it easy. Success is inevitable with a positive mindset. It may not seem that I’ve learned patience; I still get fussy when the 62 bus makes me wait or the pizza takes too long, but I’ve definitely made progress. I travelled to fifteen cities and six countries, and for at least some of the time, I was by myself. There was no one there to listen to me whine, so short of appearing insane, I just had to keep my mouth shut. I made it through the obstacles of navigation, language, cultural differences, and currency and I did it all by myself.

In short, these past few months have taught me to grow up where immaturity reigned, and grow down where I was getting ahead of myself. No matter how sure of myself I was four months ago, I have been changed for the better. I am who I am because of Italy. I may not have my cappuccino, but I have so much more.

Cheers n' Beers

After a stressful and dramatic race to Termini, I arrived, sweaty and panting, just in time to see my bus drive away. Thankfully, another one arrived in thirty minutes, and I made it to my flight just in time.

From the moment I boarded that EasyJet.com plane to London, the culture shock set in. “We proudly brew Starbucks Coffee.” “Fuckers,” I thought, reading the English magazine at my seat. I was all of a sudden offended by things that impersonated my new culture, despite their prominence in the culture I come from originally. We passed a Pizza Hut on the bus from Gatwick Airport, and I subconsciously rolled my eyes. I had expected to be so thrilled to be amongst a familiar language, but all I felt was bitterness. This of course, all faded away with the brown-bagged Rose Alex brought with her to pick me up. Stay classy, Sienna.

But before the liquor found its way into my hands, I found something else to drink to. The bus dropped me off in potentially the darkest area of London. It was empty, safe for the woozy homeless man on the corner and the two drunken girls sitting on the sidewalk. Alex wasn’t there when I arrived, so I went into the hotel across the street to wait. We had agreed that this is where we’d meet if all else failed. I walked in, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt and balancing my backpacking backpack with an overstuffed Jansport. Upon asking if I could wait there for my friend I was told, “No, we don’t let people in off the streets.” “Oh…” “I’m ‘of the streets’ now?” I thought. “Crap.” I convinced him to let me stay, but only for five minutes. Five turned into 40 as he welcomed me to the city with stories of sickness and murder in the streets of London, upon which I collected my things and perched on the corner to wait. Soon after, I saw Alex in the distance. She’d be waiting at another hotel for an hour! Seven pounds, three buses, and two hours later, we were back at her flat in Mile End. We munched on Hobnobs and sipped cheap wine until the bottle was empty and my energy was drained.

The next day was kicked off around 1PM with Fish & Chips and Abbot Ale. I opted out of the “mushy peas,” deciding to leave this traditional dish to my imagination. 

From there, we visited the Tate Modern, which blew me away. Having been in Rome, a city where rubble = ruins, for the past three months, this was a much needed reminder of my love for modern art and architecture. Things started to get a little esoteric for my taste, starting with “The Family Jewels: NNN (No Naked Niggas),” which depicted a naked, emaciated black man lying in odalisque form on a sleazy velvet couch. Art?

After the Tate, I saw the Globe Theatre and crossed the Millennium Bridge, which has since been restored after the Dementors’ attack.

After a dinner of goat cheese pizza (don’t ask me why) at Alex’s, we headed to The Roxy, a little club in Tottenham Court. The bouncer was happy to let us in, as we were the first Americans of the night. Since when is being American a good thing? London: 1. Rome: 0. We danced and made friends and eventually left, at which point I fell asleep on the bus, naturally.

The next morning was spent with a headache and an English Muffin…or is it just a muffin? We headed to Abbey Road, which, for the record, is a real road with real cars and real traffic laws, which, for the record, made taking this picture very difficult:

Next up was Oxford Street for some quality money wasting. I spent a pretty penny pence on shoes and other tchotckies my suitcase didn’t have room for. At Primark, a clothing store that always has a Black Friday atmosphere, I was able to get my hands on some cheap thrills, but not before being screamed at by a rotten old lady. Five minutes into the madness, my arm was grabbed, followed by, “Excuse me!” “Yes?” I said to the miserable looking woman below my line of vision. “You bumped into me!” “I did? Oh I’m very sorry!” I began to walk away, but she wanted to stay and chat. She grabbed my arm and proceeded to lecture me on manners and respect. “Listen to me!” she screeched over the massive crowd surrounding us. “Look, I said I’m sorry and now we’re done.” This back and forth continued for some time before finally she understood that I wasn’t interested in her reprimands, or maybe I’m just a faster walker. She disappeared behind us, and I was dumbfounded. Not only am I positive I never touched her, but of all the places to be upset by it, Primark is hardly appropriate. I took out my anger on my wallet. Whoops!

That night, I graced Brick Lane with my presence, though I’m sure they weren’t so happy to see me. Brick Lane is a street in Shoreditch lined with Indian restaurants. The most savvy waiters stand outside, offering deals to hungry walkers. The goal is to haggle with all of them until the best offer is made. This was my paradise. For ten pounds, we ate like queens at Monsoon (terrible name). Popodoms, samosas, naan, rice, tikka masala, lamb korma, tandori chicken, two beers and a mango lassi. 

This was both the best decision and the worst decision. I’ve never been so full, and I wished I’d thought the timing out better, because right after dinner, we headed to 93 Feet East for some St. Patty’s celebrations! Needless to say, we weren’t the most enthusiastic dancers.

Looking back, my last full day in London seems like it should have taken a week. We started at the London Eye, where I looked over the brilliant city and glistening water. The clouds beside us were outstanding, and looked like traditional Roman cotton candy (which is white). 

Next were the House of Parliament, Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey. Big Ben wasn’t as big as I expected and Westminster was sub par compared to what I see on the daily in Italy, but the House of Parliament was unreal. I can’t imagine why Parliament needs that much space, but more power to them! Just kidding, there should be a fair balance of power. Bad joke?

After some photos, we headed to Buckingham Palace, passing hundreds of daffodils on our way through Regent’s Park. 

We arrived just in time for the changing of the guards, which was funny. We hopped on the Tube and headed to Kings Cross, where I tried really hard to go to Hogwarts, but was unsuccessful. 

I ate sushi in the train station, which in retrospect sounds disgusting. I promise it was only mildly gross, but totally worth it.

You’d think the day would end there. Didn’t. We went to Trafalgar’s Square, where the Saint Patrick’s Day festival was taking place. Hoards of drunk people filled the square, stuffing their faces with corn beef hash and soda bread. 

As two young boys performed Gallic originals on stage, security guards waded through the fountains. 

It was quite the scene, but considering my sobriety in comparison with my peers, I decided to go to the National Gallery for a quick look. This place was huge. I could have spent a whole day inside, but had to rush through, just barely catching Van Gough’s sunflowers on the way out. The Portrait Gallery’s restaurant was awaiting our arrival. With a view of London’s skyline, we sipped English Breakfast Tea (is that joke getting old?) and munched on finger sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and way too much dessert. 

After the luxurious afternoon, we wandered through the gallery until they kicked us out, after which we made our way to Piccadilly Circus, the Times Square of London. It was beautiful and ironic. The bright lights and neon signs were plastered over original Victorian architecture. The mixture of new and old created a funky environment.

That night, we met up with some of Alex’s British friends, who took us to Chinatown for Udon noodles at a nameless restaurant. Here, I realized my obsession with Udon. Perfect timing, Sienna…you live in Rome. Afterwards, we met up with Liz and ate Haagen Daz, which I am usually enthusiastic about, but after three months of gelato, I was left unimpressed. Somehow I convinced myself to get some sleep, so we headed back to Mile End.

Resume dramatic travel experiences: We woke up late and rushed to the Tube. It was rush hour, and the subway was packed. I made everyone nervous with my sleepless-induced sniffles and probably knocked a few people over with my massive bags. Then, the swarming bus stopped short. We waited there, like sardines on their way to the salting machine, squirming, for forty minutes. Someone was sick on the subway ahead of us. Great timing, lady! After we finally arrived, I sprinted through the station awkwardly juggling one backpack on the front and one on the back. I felt like I was in a movie, only not at all because I looked like an idiot. Just before the train doors closed, I said cheers to Alex 

Roman Holiday

My life is too cool, and I’ll be the first one to say it. I’m about to head off on what will most definitely prove to be the best Spring Break of my life, but before I go, I have to document the insane week that I spent with Matt here in Rome. After his first couple days here, I got a little nervous. I had already showed him all the sights and was fresh out of interesting facts about the city. We fit what I had expected to take a week in about a day. Before leaving for Siena, I showed him the main attractions; we sneaked into Castel St. Angelo (which was ridiculous), and drank wine atop Gioncolo (formerly referred to as the Garibaldi Park).

We arrived home on Sunday exhausted and hungry. Thanks to my Grandma, there was a bunch of fancy veal waiting for us in the freezer, which we ate alongside brussel sprouts as we ogled at our strangely adult meal. Since when do I like brussel sprouts? I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me. Or maybe I’m just becoming a grown up. Actually, that’s probably exactly my problem.

I had planned to spend the next day at the Coliseum, but he had already been inside and neither of us wanted to pay the expensive price to go back. We decided to sit outside of it on a small patch of grass, whereby I quickly fell asleep in Matt’s lap. I must be pretty jaded and am definitely one of the few American’s who has fallen asleep in front of such a historic monument.

When I went to class that afternoon, I sat Matt down with a Rome guidebook and told him to find things he wanted to do. This is where things got interesting. I had no idea that Rome had so much to offer! Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’ve been too caught up to really explore the hidden spots.

On Tuesday, we climbed Quirinale, the highest of Rome’s seven hills, which was surprising, considering it was actually pretty low to the ground. We saw all sorts of political buildings at the top of the hill and laughed at the uber still guards outside of them. Afterward, we walked down by the Trevi Fountain to San Crispono, an overly fancy gelato spot that the guidebook suggested. I tasted a 30 year aged whiskey gelato, even though I wasn’t supposed to (thanks boobs), but we settled on the Crema di Mele (cream of honey) and Fresh Grapefruit flavor. It was an explosion of magic in my mouth. It was my favorite breakfast and my favorite dessert combined. This was not gelato to be eaten standing up. I made us wait till we arrived back at the Trevi, where we sat, speechless, eating the most expensive tiny cup of gelato ever.

After that we walked back to Piazza Barberini and into a church known as Cappuccini. The church was like any other, but it was what was underground that really blew my mind. For a one-euro donation, we were allowed into the crypt. A long, dark, hallway lead to three-wall rooms filled with skeletons of ancient friars, many of them still dressed in their robes. The walls, ceiling, and lamps, were all decorated with human bones arranged in elaborate patterns. Hipbones and spine segments created what looked like Victorian décor. It was outrageous, and unlike any other historical thing I’ve seen in Italy. That night, I taught Matt how to make Carbonara a la Pantry Raid. He loved it, of course, and was ecstatic to hear that Trader Joe’s sells all the ingredients!

On Wednesday, we headed into Rome’s Compton for an Open Market. After walking straight past the train station, the graffiti became more vulgar, the nuns were less present, and beggars filled the streets. Just as we were about to turn around without fresh food, Matt noticed a nun carrying a grocery bag. Then there was another. Tons of people were filing out of a small door of a gigantic warehouse. We followed the fishy scent inside, where we were confronted with the market of our dreams. There were different rooms for fish, meat, exotic produce, and local produce. We started with the fish, buying two hefty salmon steaks for just four euro and a bunch of fresh shrimp. I bought a plantain, some grapefruits, and a bunch of other things that made me too happy for words.

Later that day, we took the bus to Trastevere, where we visited Palazzo Corsini, a little known museum across the street from Trastevere’s most famous one. It was filled with interesting art from years ago, and in true Matt/Sienna fashion, we made fun of as many as we could. Afterward, we wandered across Ponte Sisto to a posh Sicilian bakery I’ve had my eye on for weeks. We ate a creamy and rich cannoli and were offered dense hot chocolate to accompany it. Matt, who doesn’t normally like cannolis, changed his mind in an instant.

We made the salmon for dinner with some wine, and after I was done studying for my midterm, we left for a jazz club. Upstairs from an unpopulated bar was an intimate arrangement of loveseats in a dim room filled with Italians. At the front, a live Italian jazz band played sweet music that, combined with the wine from dinner, put me right to sleep. A couple hours later, we sadly left the bar behind, but our heavy eyelids just weren’t having it.

Well, I’ve successfully procrastinated on writing this post. I have to head to class now, before my long journey to London begins. Don’t worry, that was only part one of the week. It gets even better. I’ll add photos and more details when I get home, but for now, ciao ragazzi! 

Reprise: Sienna in Siena

This past week and a half has been, hands down, the best time I’ve had in Italy because I got to spend it with my favorite person! Matt flew out to Rome for his Spring Break, and I couldn’t feel luckier. Among a million other things that I’ll get to later, we spent his first weekend here in Siena. I figured that if I could force one person to take countless pictures of me in front of everything and anything with my name on it, it’d be him. The forecast was snow free this time, so we packed our shorts and tank tops and headed off for a romantic weekend in the rolling hills of Tuscany.

After filling up on homemade Matzah Bry, we hopped on a bus to the train station. As we arrived, we noticed two oversized homeless women (Strega Nonnas as we called them) sitting in the middle of a sidewalk bustling with travelers. I noticed their paper towels, and joked that they must be at least sort of well off, considering paper towels are a serious commodity in my apartment. While this discussion took place, we watched as one of them waddled away from her friend. Standing in the direct eye of everyone within a mile of her, Strega Nonna #1 proceeded to lean forward and lift up her skirt, revealing way too many things I didn’t want to see. It got worse. The second her clothes were in the clear, Strega relieved herself, peeing like a well-hydrated horse all over the sidewalk. As the bus inched by, we turned our heads, jaws dropped in disbelief. I can only hope she used those paper towels to clean up after herself. Doubtful.

After verbally fighting with the ticket machine and validating my voucher in every appliance in sight, we made it onto the train and said “ciao” to Roma. A couple hours later, the train docked in Chiusi, a small town in the middle of nowhere. We used our layover to meander through the streets my dad and I once dragged our suitcases through years ago. After finding a farmers market and trying some ridiculous cheese, we stumbled upon a posh café filled with colorful pastries among smooth white décor. We ordered Sfoglia, a blueberry tart, and a couple cappuccini and sat outside in the sun. The total was four euros, a low price that really made me second guess every decision I’ve made to live in big cities. The snack was incredible, and the leftover Nutella melting on my plate didn’t go to waste.  

The train we boarded next was tiny and empty. We sat there for a while before being bombarded by two polizie in search of some action. The older one, a sweaty man with a tangled mustache began by yelling at me for having my feet on the seat in front of me. As I wiped off the dirt, he asked for our passports. I explained that we didn’t have them, to which he reacted very aggressively. “Abitiamo a Roma,” I said, but he persevered in lecturing us in Italian we couldn’t understand. Italy and the US are not the same, we learned. I had no idea! As his meager apprentice copied down the information from my passport photocopy and Matt’s New York license, the persecution continued, as the man wiped adrenalin induced sweat from his brow. Abruptly, they gave back our documents and left the car. I have no explanation for this. But my feet made their return to the seat in front of me in no time.

When we arrived in Siena, I immediately insisted on recreating this photo that I took a few years back:

The taxi driver, who was unimpressed by the relevancy of my name, drove us to Locanda di San Martino, the restored castle that my grandma generously paid for us to spend the night in. It was incredible. We were placed in a penthouse room with exposed wooden beams, a huge bed that we immediately started jumping on, and sponge-painted walls. 

The view was even better. To our right was il Duomo (the zebra church), in front of us was a typical Italian apartment scene, and to our left, the rolling hills of Tuscany disappeared into the distance. Picturesque doesn’t even cover it. It was unreal.

After washing the train off of ourselves, we ventured into the town. The narrow street we were traveling on suddenly opened up to the massive Campo which hosts the Palio. The triangularesque piazza slopes downward toward a church opposite tons of cafes that leak out onto the square. People flooded from a wooden shack near the center, which we discovered was selling Frittelli, small balls of fried rice, sugar, and orange dough. For one euro, we ordered four of these morsels, similar in texture to Thai coconut cakes, but much more exciting in flavor. We finished them sitting amongst Italian students and lovers before wandering around the medival town.

We soon arrived at a hill that puts San Francisco’s to shame. The cobblestones were crumbled and we walked backwards down it because Matt was convinced that it would be better for our knees. On our right was a “Piccola Theatre,” a children’s theater! The gate was opened, so we walked in and discovered a landscape filled with flowers, antique water fountains, and the distant noise of young laughter.

Back at our castle (no biggie), we popped open the left over champagne from Grandma’s visit. The cork bounced on just about every surface in the room before landing conveniently in my purse.

We feasted on Gnocchi di Taverno and Tagliette di Salmone at Taverna di Cecco, where I succeeded in spilling olive oil all over the white tablecloth.

The night was spent dancing at Barron Rossa with flat beer and a million Erasmus students from around the world.

The next morning, we ate the hotel’s breakfast and set off for il Duomo. Opting for the all-inclusive pass, we were able to visit the Museo di Oppera, Cripta, Baptisma, and il Duomo. Starting at Museo di Opera, we filed through ancient songbooks and statues before finding the narrow staircase that led up to the panorama view of Siena. It wasn’t the highest point in the city, but it was damn close. Everything was visible and it was spectacular.

The Cripta and Baptisma were less impressive than I would’ve liked, but the Duomo made up for it. 

The inside was even more amazing than its exterior, with detailed frescos and elaborate chapels. The ceilings were unbelievable, with domes that nearly put the Pantheon to shame. 

We ogled at the floors, inlayed with depictions of war and religious triumph. The pulpit was tall and basked in the sunlight from above. Two stained glass windows faced each other on opposite walls and illuminated the church with vibrant light. The colors were subtle and pastel, creating a relaxing atmosphere. It was great.

I had wanted to find a crew neck Universitia di Siena sweatshirt, and refused to settle for the hoodies that filled every store’s shelves. Just as I was about to give in to the expected, I stumbled upon what has come to be my favorite Italian purchase. Behind I <3 Siena aprons and rhinestone T-shirts, I found a split pea green sweatshirt faded by years in the sun. It said ITALIA in rainbow letters, each with a dancing Pinocchio on top. Written in comic sans, the world’s most hated font, was my name. It was perfect. But it was also the last one. I bought the sun-bleached child’s sweatshirt for five euro, much to the vendor’s surprise. “Per bambini,” he explained, puzzled at my elation. It has the look of a worn sweatshirt, but the softness of a new one. It’s lovely and brought the trip to a wonderful close.

After a gelato from Dolce Siena, we hopped the train back to Rome, tired and excited about the incredible adventure we just had. 

Even though no one in Siena was impressed by my name, I was impressed enough by the city for all of us. 

My Grandma, Baby Cows, & Other Wonderful Things

It’s been a week of many things. Most of them involved my Grandma and most of those involved food. She flew all the way to Rome “just to see me.” I’m a lucky girl, but I somehow know that taking her granddaughter grocery shopping wasn’t her only priority in coming to Italy. While I was in class, she toured Rome. When I wasn’t in class, we feasted on all the things I’ve wanted to eat but haven’t had the budget for.

Usually when I go out to dinner in Rome, it’s with my girlfriends, and usually we can all afford one pasta dish. Not with Grandma! Not only did I eat meat, but I decided that my moral compass didn’t work in Italy, and therefore, I could try veal. The first night, we ate veal wrapped in sage and prosciutto sautéed in lemon and white wine. That’s when I realized what I’ve been missing all these years. I can live without McDonalds, but veal might have to become a staple. That being said, I’d probably need Grandma here all the time to make that a possibility.

I showed her all around the different neighborhoods. We ate almost every traditional Roman dish: Carbonara, Amatricana, Saltimboca, Veal, Carcofi Romana…the list goes on.

On Friday, we said goodbye to Rome and headed for Napoli with the promise of gorgeous weather and ridiculous pizza. In our train car, we were graced with the presence of a diplomat. Or at least that’s what he says he is. Ancient beyond recognition, this man smelled like musky grandpa. He was a Napoli native and asked why in the world I would want to go there. “It’s dangerous,” he warned, getting all too close to my face. He introduced me to his “waiter” a Sri Lankan man who chuckled at everything Francesco said and happily obliged to his senile requests. The diplomat gave me his card in case we “got into trouble,” or just wanted to make a visit. When I woke up from my nap he asked, “did you sleep?” “I did!” He was overjoyed. With fascinated eyes he looked at me and questioned, “did you dreammmm?” “No, I didn’t dream.” This made him very sad. It soon left his thoughts, as he continued to remind me to call if I was in trouble until his waiter coaxed him off the train once we arrived in Napoli.

We arrived in the afternoon, and walked around the city for a few hours. I hate to say it, but I wasn’t impressed. Naples looked just like any other Italian town, with tall buildings decorated with hanging clothes, an overcrowded population, and lots and lots of trash in the streets. Grandma says the clothes offended her. I though they were the best part! The coastline view didn’t hurt, but that’s about all it had going for it. That, and the Margarita pizza. Named after the queen herself, this classic dish originates in Naples! Da Michele, “a not so nice ristorante,” as the man at the hotel put it, is stuffed in the hullaballoo of Naples. We knew we made the right choice when, upon approaching, we saw a horde of people waiting for their fill of pizza and beer. I grabbed a number, 43, and we waited. The inside of the restaurant was plain. The walls were white, trimmed with forest green tiles. There was a wood-burning oven in the back, where the only item on the menu was prepared for devouring. As we waited for ours, we watched the Napolitano ravage their pizzas, leaving not a drop of tomato sauce behind. Finally, ours arrived. The crust was much thicker than Roman pizza, but was also extremely moist. The pizza itself was soggy, in the best way possible. The cheese fell right off the gooey dough. Getting the three ingredients onto the fork was a task in and of itself! We ate the whole thing, and gobbled down a liter of water in the meantime. The total: six euro. Not bad!

On Saturday morning, we set sail for Capri! The water surrounding the island was crystal clear, and the land itself jutted straight out of the sea. It was one giant mountain, and the bus we took to access the Piazzetta had to scale the side of it back and forth back and forth, offering insane views of the tropical paradise.

But before we even set foot off the dock, we hopped on the last boat headed for the Grotto Azzura, or the Blue Cave. As we circled the island, headed for the other side, called Anacapri, I couldn’t help my dropped jaw. The beauty of the island and its surrounding waters was unbelievable. I just couldn’t believe I was actually there! 

We arrived at the cave, were men in narrow rowboats awaited our arrival. 

I stepped into one, followed by my Grandma, who gracefully lost her footing and plopped, back down, onto the rowboats floor. As we approached the cave, we were instructed to duck. The entrance was about a foot high, but the inside was hardly dark. Something about the way the light reflects on the water and off the cave walls causes the water to glow a bright neon blue color that illuminates the entire cave. For the short minute I was inside, the rowers sang and their voices echoed melodiously off of the walls. It was unreal. The entire day was unreal.

Back on the island, we walked around, discovered the Augustus Gardens and window-shopped in the posh designer shops that fill Capri’s storefronts. Everything on the island was pretty outdated, from the retro bus tickets to the even more vintage busses. The postcards were all clearly printed in the 80s, as was most of the merchandise sold in the non-designer stores. It wasn’t exactly topless beach weather, nor was I in exactly the right company to partake in those festivities, but I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, right?

Back in Naples, we feasted at Bersagliera, a seafood ristorante in a harbor filled with shiny white yachts. The menu was in Italian, so we were at the waiter’s mercy. He recommended a fish native to Naples. Everything on the menu looked reasonably priced, so we went for it. It was fabulously buttery and it fell apart with the slightest touch of the fork and melted in my mouth like cotton candy. Then, the bill came. Um. 45 euro? For a fish? That’s right folks. It cost 6.50 per 100 grams, and the fish was 700. Well, that happened, and it’s by far the most expensive fish I’ve ever eaten. That being said, I’m glad it happened with Grandma, and not with my roommates. I’d still be in Naples washing dishes.

Grandma and I just said our goodbyes over some more veal, this time an ossobucco, though she assures me that her’s is better. She’s sworn off Italian food for months, but I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I say, bring on the pasta!

A Not-So-Lighthearted Blog Post

I was walking to class. It was the route I take every day. But this day was different. I approached Ponte Garabaldi, the bridge I cross to get to school. It was lined with people, all looking over the edge into the Tiber river. Curious as usual, I wanted to know what was happening. I stood on my tiptoes, leaned to one side and another, and eventually crouched down to find a window between all of the legs. It was five o’clock. There was a raft in the water, carrying two men. “A woman jumped at three,” I heard someone say. And then I realized what I was seeing. The men in the raft were trying to salvage the body of a woman who jumped off the very bridge I was standing on. From the whitewater then emerged, face down, the waterlogged corpse. She was wearing a white coat and a scarf, but you could see that her skin had turned blue from the cold water. For what seemed like hours, the men tried to grab hold of her, each time missing by just an inch. She kept appearing and disappearing beneath the rough waters, lost amongst discarded trash and lost soccer balls. Everyone waited, holding their breath. Finally, they captured her lifeless body and hoisted it onto the raft. She was limp and heavy. The police waiting at the edge of the river struggled to lift her up, and immediately covered her with a white cloth, though one leg was left dangling over the river. The crowd dispersed. I stayed to watch as nothing happened for the next many minutes. The police officers stood around the body like it wasn’t there, smoking cigarettes and chatting. No one had the decency to place her leg under the cloth, or even to acknowledge that a human being had just taken their own life. The mere fact that someone had killed themselves was mortifying enough, but the fact that it took them two and a half hours to salvage her from the time she jumped is almost worse. I still don’t know quite how I feel about the experience, but I don’t feel good about it. For someone to do what this woman did, and in such a public way, is just as upsetting as it is infuriating. I walked away nauseous and quiet, thinking about all the lives I have in my life that mean so much to me. Who was this woman’s family? Did she have kids? Friends? What was her story and why did she feel that this was her only way out, and why this way? 

A Rome With A View

This past weekend was one of the best I’ve spent in Rome. About a month and a half through my journey, I now have a decently solid understanding of this crazy city. As much as I know, there’s also so much I don’t. This weekend, I saw new things and old as well as new friends and old.

One of my friends from Emerson who is studying in the Netherlands and two of his friends came to stay with me. Rome was high on their to-do lists, and I’m sure the free housing bumped it up to the top. On Thursday night, we kicked of the reunion celebration with “The Coliseum Bar Crawl.” Despite the fact that it was an insanely fun night spent dancing amongst a sweaty mess of Americans, none of the stops were remotely close to The Coliseum. In fact, upon meeting the guide outside of the ancient amphitheater, we were corralled onto a bus, which took us far far away. The alcohol helped coax my “where the hell am I?” standards to rest.

The next day, I ventured out with Kelsi on a mission to find something new. Garibaldi Park, we had been told, hosted breathtaking views of the Rome, so we decided to head into Trastevere and up a windy sidewalkless road. We turned a corner, and BAM, just like that, I was blown away. Before me I could see the entire city, from Piazza Venezia all the way to the Vatican. As we continued to walk through the park, past endless busts of soldiers who assisted Garibaldi in the unification of Italy, the views only became more magnificent. Unlike Los Angeles, which I can see most of from the top of Runyon Canyon or Griffith Park, Rome is extremely cohesive. It’s dense, but everything fits together, whether it be color, shape, or height. It was like I was looking at Google Maps, only I wasn’t sitting in my dorm three months ago daydreaming about my future…I was really there.

We met up with the Emerson boys, who I showed the major sights to: Trevi Fountain, Pantheon, Spanish Steps, and the Wedding Cake. This was the first time I had done this walk since my first week in Rome, when everything was overwhelming and nothing made sense. Now, in comparison, I was able to apply my knowledge of Italian culture and history as well as my own affiliations with the places we saw. The main tourist sights all of a sudden became highly significant and I was able to really appreciate them.

The walk ended at the top of the Spanish Steps, which I had yet to climb due to the unfortunate weather conditions with which I’ve been confronted. Just as the sun was setting, I looked over the steps, with tourists spilling onto Via dei Condotti, its twinkling lights disappearing into the distance. My moment of awe was harshly adjourned thanks to the small Indian man who insisted I take one of his roses. We got into a scuffle when I said “no,” and then “no” again, and then once more, becoming exponentially louder as the confrontation proceeded. Roses or not, these were some pretty cool steps…as far as steps go.

The next afternoon was spent in the presence of another great view. After wandering through Villa Borghese in the warmth of what Italy’s winter should consist of, my roommates and I settled down for a picnic of Tuscan wine, Gouda cheese, and sesame bread. Our view was hardly lacking in comparison to the weekend’s other lookouts. Here we sat above Piazza del Popolo, where so many people gathered in celebration of Carnevale. Like little ants, they scattered around the square, dispersing onto the streets surrounding it. Beyond Popolo, I had another jaw-dropping landscape in front of me. All of Rome, but this time from the opposite perspective of Garibaldi, was visible to me. I could see the Tiber River and all that was in front of and behind it. This was the perfect end to a long weekend.

I found new places to view old places from above. And up close, those old places meant so much more than they did when they were new. Everything seems a little less confusing and a million times more significant now. As of this weekend, Rome truly feels like my home.

Feeling Souper

Today, I made soup. That is a simple sentence, but I swear it’s a really big deal. I love soup, which is strange because I had no idea I did until I got to Rome and found a gaping hole in the grocery store in the area usually overflowing with “Campbells Soup.” Oh wait, there wasn’t a gaping hole. There wasn’t anything. No soup. No possibilities.

As per usual, I’ve come down with a plethora of colds and sniffles and other gross things I’m going to avoid blogging about. Though Mass General Hospital will undoubtedly disagree with me, my white blood cells are out to get me. After spending all of Freshman year under the weather and the beginning of Sophomore year in the same boat, I crossed my fingers that the same wouldn’t happen in Rome. Apparently that’s not one of the many hand gestures accepted in Italian culture, because I got sick. After my weekend in Florence, I dragged myself to Zen Garden and ordered a steaming bowl of Wang Dang soup(?) It was a little something like Won Ton soup, but mostly nothing like it at all. Next time I’ll ask for a little MSG on the side.

I was just getting over the last sniffles and had rid my jacket pockets of crumpled tissues when there it was…that awful, terrible, very bad feeling in the back of my throat…a little “fuck you” from my immune system. I trekked through Venice, refusing to admit that I was sick. I woke up every day with sharp pains in my throat restocked my jacket with our hostel’s toilet paper. I didn’t take medicine because there was no way I wasn’t drinking wine at Carnevale. I finally made it back to my apartment and no sooner did I set my backpack down than I announced, “I’m sick.”

So here I am, sniffly and such, lacking Campbells Chicken Noodle Soup, a Trader Joes Challah Roll, and the wonderful company of my best friend Alex. Those were the glory days that got me through my first year and a half of college.

Well, that wasn’t gonna stop me. I decided to make lemonade out of lemons, or rather, soup out of a hodgepodge of things in my cupboard and freezer. I’ve never made soup before. I’ve always been intimidated by it. Like, what even is soup? Today, I found out. I threw a bunch of things that looked like they belonged in chicken noodle soup into a boiling pot of vegetable broth, added the few spices provided in my “equipped” kitchen, and waited. The result was incredible. Guys, this is big. I made soup! And it tasted like soup too! It was delicious and I ate it all up, burning my tongue in true overzealous Sienna fashion. With the back left-hand side of my tongue singed and my nose still running like a faucet (ew), I may not be feeling 100%, but at least I can make soup!

A Venetian Carnivale

I just returned from an incredible weekend in Venice. It was freezing, but worth it.

I woke up at 4:45AM to the silhouette of what I was sure was a ghost. It was Daniella, waking me up because I’d sleepily turned off my alarm. After realizing that I wasn’t the star of the latest Paranormal Activity, I jumped out of bed and got ready for my trip on super-speed. Kelsi, Daniella, Kristen, Kara, and I missed our shuttle to the airport and had to split a cab. Already, my funds were dwindling.

A few hours later and I was at the top of the boot, in Venezia! By this point, I was only with Daniella and Kelsi, and the three of us hopped on the bus that would take us to our hostel. 30 minutes in, we thought we had made it to our stop, only to realize that we had just stranded ourselves in industrial sketchville without the slightest idea of where we were nor the proper attire the combat the cold. Eventually, another bus came and we finally made it to Hotel Colombo.

The three of us had booked a private room for two, with the intention of sneaking the other person in to save a few bucks. We soon realized that this was a terrible idea. Daniella waited, posing as our friend staying at another hostel while we checked in. When she got up to come to our room, they wouldn’t let her. We convinced them to give us five minutes, during which they copied down all of her passport information. Cool. This was going to be tough.

We decided to figure it out later, and headed off of the mainland and into the heart of Venice. A ten-minute bus ride later, I was smack dab in quintessential Italy, as I had always imagined it. We scrambled to take pictures on the first bridge we saw, only later realizing that this was one of a katrillion.

Exposed brick emerged from vibrant orange walls. Decadent curtains hung over old glass windows. The city was empty and quiet. We wandered and wandered, stopping for a long lunch during which each of us inhaled an entire pizza. An entire pizza! 

With a bottle of wine in hand, we crossed bridges and wandered down narrow streets. Usually when confronted with a dark, uninhabited road, I’ll turn right around. In Venice, these were the most inviting paths!

Eventually, we arrived at San Marco Square, where the final preparation for Carnivale were being made. We went into almost every single Morano glass shop, simultaneously thawing out and ogling at the intricate designs.

The night was mellow, spent at a couple low-key bars in the city. Venice, apparently, isn’t known for its nightlife.

Daniella decided to stay at our friends’ hostel. I wish I’d done the same. Our room was barren of character. The sheets were stained with god-knows-what and the blanket was covered in mysterious hairs. The shower was freezing, as was the room. It wasn’t ideal, but it was somewhere to sleep.

Kelsi and I woke up early the next morning to go to the train station. Why? Our original train home was scheduled to leave at midnight on Sunday so as to prolong our time in the city. But the weather didn’t play a factor last month during the booking process, and we didn’t realize we’d have to check out of our hostel at 10 in the morning. There was no way we were staying outside for over twelve hours. Enrico, our lifesaver, promised us that he’d get us on the 10AM train on Sunday morning. As long as we found him, he’d hook it up. Relieved and ready, we headed into Venice for a day of Carnivale celebrations.

As usual, we found ourselves lost and ended up on the outskirts of the city, exposed to the surrounding waters. In a grocery store, we bought 89-cent lagers, which we carried with us as we attempted to find civilization. 

In our masks, we asked for directions over and over again until finally the noise got louder and streets became busier. We met up with friends in the square, where we danced to the YMCA and other songs, following the lead of the performers on stage.

Everyone was in costume; either masked or adorned in extravagant garb not exactly appropriate for the sub zero weather. After wandering around open markets and encountering outdoor performances, we ate a late lunch of lasagna and pizza, accompanied by surprisingly free bread. I don’t think I fulfilled my carb quota for the day.

Back at the hostel, we recuperated and added more layers to our ensembles. A tiny dinner of tangerines and disgusting dried pineapples and we were on our way again. Our friends had met two Australians, Anthony and Emma. They had been studying abroad in Sweden and were travelling before heading back to the land down under. We barhopped with them until late in the night. First Torino, then Piccolo Mondo, which we didn’t enter but made some Russian friends outside. Next we ventured to Raging Pub and then across the square to Aranciatta, where we met some New Yorkers studying Classicism in Rome. Pretentious? Yes. But then again, we were in a bar named after a fruit. We then went next door to a bar filled with Americans. The walls were plastered with neon writing. Each piece of paper had a different American university written on it, and so naturally, I asked to make one for Emerson. During the creative process, I met a Lorenzo, Venetian police officer who offered to give us a tour of Venice on his boat the next day. Thanks, but no thanks.

After finding a cockroach in our room that night, we uncomfortably went to sleep. This morning we woke up to a snowy wonderland. The city was covered in powder and small snowflakes gently drifted to the ground. We immediately assumed the worst. Our train is cancelled. We’re stranded. So, we rushed to the train station and saw Enrico nowhere in sight. A lovely man from Korea, who broke the news of Whitney Houston’s death to us, let us cut in front of him in so that we could beg the attendant to let us take the 10 o’clock He complied. Scribbling some letters and numbers on our tickets for the later train, he told us to run to Platform 6.

“How did we get away with this?” we said, realizing that we were on a high-speed train that would have us back in Rome in only three hours. We may have jinxed ourselves. The conductor asked for our tickets and saw that we were on the wrong train. The Italian scribbles meant nothing to him and he explained that we either had to pay 80 Euros to stay on the train, or get off at the next stop. Kelsi faked an emotional breakdown while I explained that she’d had her credit cards stolen and we couldn’t pay for it. I went on to point out the snow that was obviously surrounding us. He grumpily took pity on us damsels in distress and let us stay aboard. That’s right. We paid 30 euro for an 80-euro train.

Back on via Nomentana, my feet are dead from the hours of walking sans adequate circulation. I had spent the entire weekend wearing all of my outfits on top of each other. Two pairs of wool socks, cuddle duds, leggings, jeans, four long sleeve shirts, a wool sweater, down jacket, wool hat, and gloves and I was still freezing all weekend long. It was well worth the suffering though. I met so many people and saw so many things. Venice is my favorite place in Italy thus far. Its charm is unequivocal and the canals are unreal. Despite the fact that the city was crawling with tourists, I felt like I experienced the city to the fullest. That being said, I’m not so jealous of my friends who are still stuck in snowy Venice.  

Caritas: A Home For The Homeless

Go to class or volunteer at a soup kitchen? The lines that divide these two are a little less clear than those that separate academics from a pasta making class. My program organized a visit to Caritas Soup Kitchen, which took place today. Like most of CEA’s activities, this one overlapped with my class schedule, but I was able to make it an hour late. It was 5:30PM and the sun had set just enough to make me not so thrilled to be walking the streets alone. Soup kitchens aren’t generally in the most gentrified of areas, and Caritas is no different. As I power walked down via Marsala for what seemed like an hour, I began to worry that I was destined for a future akin to those who I was attempting to escape. Drunkards collapsed on the sidewalk and numerous fights broke out. Street lamps weren’t in abundance and the pavement still had a thick layer of ice covering it. I turned back and headed toward civilization. In Hotel Marsala, I asked the frazzled owner where Caritas was, showing her the pixilated map on my phone. “via Marsala 109 non esiste,” she told me. Cool. After a slew of “ums,” pauses, and an exhausted use of my Italian vocabulary index, she realized where I was trying to go and pointed down the same unwelcoming road I had come from. “Should I just go home?” I thought, and then decided that Swiss Army Knife of not, I was making it to Caritas.

“CARITAS,” I saw, written in bold red letters above a doorway to my right. I zoomed in, only to see a hodgepodge of homeless people and no one from CEA. I tried talking to the volunteers, but they were convinced that I either needed to eat or see a doctor. It turned out I was at the Caritas clinic and needed to venture a little farther down skid row to find the soup kitchen.

Finally, I stumbled upon a large structure with a line of bundled people protruding from it. A small scuffle was erupting, which I pushed pass to get inside. There I found a huge cafeteria-style room filled with people, some of whom I thankfully knew. Since all the serving positions had been filled, I would be responsible for taking used trays and refilling water. Along with a bunch of grumpy kids from St. John University who where forced against their will to be there, I meandered down the aisles of tables and avoided eye contact.

It took me a little while to get comfortable there, but once I did, I met some seriously incredible people. After a few run ins with some creeps, a younger man from India tried to get me to sit down with him. I told him I’d talk to him standing, which he wasn’t a fan of. I moved onward and found him waving me down throughout the night from other tables around the kitchen. Again I told him, “I can’t sit and talk to you, I have to work.” To which he replied something along the lines of this, “The best work you can do here is talking to us. We can get our own water and clear our plates. We want to meet you and learn about where you come from and tell you our stories. Please sit down and talk to me.” “Only because you said please,” I said, chuckling as I sat down across from him. We spoke, mostly in simple English but sometimes in attempted Italian and I heard his story.

From that point forward, I made a point of pursuing a conversation with anyone who wanted one. Most people I met were men, and most came from different countries. They all moved here in pursuit of work and money because their home countries are barren of both. But when they arrived in Italy, they realized that it is no different here than at home. Everyone I met had an extremely positive outlook on life and their future and each of them spoke enough English to get by. In most cases, they wouldn’t let me speak Italian. “Are you American?” “Si!” “Not si. Yes.” “Yes.” These were the establishing words that began my exciting exchanges with the people of Caritas.

There were three people in particular though, who invited me to sit down with them, and made a lasting impression on me. First was Ouman, a Gambia native. He travelled to Italy because Africa, he said, has no money. He has no money here either but as he poignantly stated, “At least here, I am free.” I told him that I am from the U.S., which he is convinced is comprised of at least 53 states. He speaks some Italian, but is fluent in English, which is, as he defined, “the universal language.” I asked him where he wants to work. “Anywhere.” His dream job though, is sewing. He promised to make me a dress.

Next I met Luigio and Constantine. Luigio is a spunky guy from Transylvania. “That’s where Dracula is from,” he told me time and time again. His cheeks covered with deep scars and the skin under his eyes like sandbags, it was clear that this wasn’t Luigio’s first time at Caritas. Constantine, who spoke no English and used Luigio as a translator, learned that I came from California and henceforth continued to shout “SHWARTZENAGER!!” each time earning an honest laugh from me. I asked if they were friends. No, they’re “blood brothers,” Luigio explained, pretending to slice his and Constantine’s wrist and rubbing them together. I promised them I’d be back, and rushed over to the lady who wanted me to sneak her some extra pasta.

My final stop was perhaps my favorite. Four men huddled around a table, peeling their blood oranges with plastic knives. I brought them more water and was invited to chat. Roberto, the leader of the pack and the only English speaker, is a Rome native. His friends came from Palermo, Napoli, and somewhere else I didn’t recognize. The old man with the long grey ponytail and bifocal glasses insisted that I take his seat. Roberto used to be a philosophy teacher, but when the government cut funding, he lost his job. He lives in a house now, but he doesn’t know how long he can stay there. In his words, “I have to start over, do something else.” As he talked to me about philosophy and homelessness, the Napoli native to my right handed me a piece of paper. It was a photocopy of a letter he had clearly spent hours on. In terrible English, this man had written his life story. He is an engineer, a robot builder. He is homeless and lives in a car due to “social dilemmas” in society. The letter quickly became an extensive commentary on politics and sociology. He took it back when I was finished reading and replaced it to his yellow folder, filled with photocopies of news articles and written excerpts for his novel. As I spoke with the men, a nasty fight complete with pushing, punches, screaming, and fire broke out nearby. Roberto and his buddies made sure I was safe and tried to talk to me instead of following the crowd rushing to the scene. This happens every day at Caritas, I was told. I spoke with these extremely articulate gentlemen until my friends were waiting by the door and Catarina of the CEA staff had to explain to the men that I had to leave. They weren’t happy to see me go, but they knew I’d be back for more conversations on journalism, California, and the weather. They waved as I walked out the door, blowing friendly kisses as I left.

I walked away from Caritas Soup Kitchen with a newfound feeling of importance. I know that I would never have opted to speak with anyone I met that night outside of that situation, for fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. But everyone there wanted to be there and they loved that I wanted to be there too. Everyone was so eager to meet me, hear my stories, and practice their English. No one was unintelligent. They all had goals and aspirations and a rich history to share that I would otherwise be oblivious to. It’s so easy to pass judgment at someone with dirty hands, a scarred face, or a ragged coat. These people looked exactly like those who I try so desperately to avoid in Rome, but they’re also the most kind individuals I’ve met thus far. The three hours I spent at Caritas was the best three I’ve spent in Rome and beyond. If I can make it work, I’m going to make talking with Luigi and Constantine and Ouman and Roberto a weekly ordeal.