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. 

The Post Formerly Known as Sienna in Siena

Didn’t you guys take me seriously when I told you to cross your fingers for me? After a crazy Friday night spent drinking chamomile tea and writing an essay on “Oedipus,” I woke up way before the crack of dawn. It was 5AM in Rome and it had snowed all night. I rubbed my eyes as I looked out the window in awe of the immaculate white layer that covered the city. We ventured out into the darkness with the Metro station a few short blocks away. No one was outside, nor had they been all night, as proof by the untouched powder that surrounded us. To see a city usually overcrowded by loud people and insane drivers in a state of blissful silence was such an unexpected luxury. We walked in the middle of the street, since the sidewalks were piled high with snow. Not a car was in sight and everything was quiet as the sun rose invisibly behind a thick layer of fog.

I thought stories were supposed to climax in the middle, not at the beginning.

(Cue suspenseful music)

We arrived at the Metro and waited twenty minutes for it to arrive. After translating a sign telling us that it wasn’t running (or so we thought), we frantically raced up the stairs and into the still empty street. Like lost ants, we scattered, looking for buses, taxies, or any sign of human life. The effort was hopeless and our train’s departure time had already passed. My friends became discouraged. “If it’s this hard to get to the train station, think about how hard it’ll be to get back!” “We could totally get stuck in Siena.” “Italy never gets snow, this is a disaster.” “Let’s just see if we can get our tickets refunded.” “I’m colllld!” The whining got real old real fast, but I wasn’t letting it discourage me.

We trekked onward and eventually headed back to the Metro, which was in fact running and filled with people. Where were they when we needed em?! We arrived at Termini and got in line at Customer Service. Noel and I wanted to find a later train and the other girls were desperate for a refund. This place was mayhem. The staff was overly stressed, answering phones and questions on overdrive. A group of Italian men wrapped in blankets and carrying neon suitcases pushed past everyone, screaming at the staff in desperation as if the rest of us were here for our entertainment. The remiss man behind the desk told me that I could take the 9:13 train instead of the 7:13 one that had apparently been cancelled due to snow anyway. The girls were overjoyed when they were told they could get their money back, but decided to wait with us for a while before heading home.

Without any insulation, the station was colder than my Grandma’s house in the summertime! Homeless people and their dogs huddled together while my teeth chattered away in the McDonald’s food court. The adrenalin had worn off, and as my friends sipped on McCafe cappuccinos, I knocked out hard on the table. I was awoken from my slumber by Noel, who told me we had to go to our train.

We used all our recourses to get there, checking self-service ticket machines, reading the terminal board (that didn’t have our train on it) and eventually found solace in the unexpected. A browned-with-age poster behind glass in a corner was titled “Departures” and we squinted until we found that Terminal 2 was where we needed to be. We rushed over, with only a few minutes to spare. Terminal 38, 22, 18, 12, we’re getting closer! Each terminal had a train in it, either boarding or leaving. “Finally!” Noel said as the cold air slapped our faces. 5, 4, 3! “TERMINAL 2…is…empty?” The single trainless terminal in the entire station was ours.

People dragged their suitcases, rushing to board the train to Milan next door while we slumped, defeated. Our sign, next to the one that said “MILAN 9:13” was blank, and so were our faces. We deduced that all trains to Tuscany were booked and retreated to the Metro for another day spent on via Snowmentana.

I was actually surprised with my strangely positive outlook. Usually, I’d meet these kinds of situations with severe disappointment, but instead felt optimistic about the whole shebang. We did everything we could to get there, but the Crayon/Van gods just weren’t feeling it. I’m glad we didn’t bail at the first sign of trouble, and even though I was awake way earlier than I ever need to be again, I was glad I made a real effort to make it work. Siena isn’t going anywhere, and neither is Sienna. 

I Live on via Snowmentana

It’s 2PM and I’m still in my PJs, but it’s okay, because it's SNOWING! For the first time in about five years, Rome is getting snow, and lots of it. It started last night, with freezing rain that intermittently became snow. It was almost as if time was slowing down and speeding up, as the water fell quickly and then suddenly began to glide to the ground. I wished I’d brought my North Face, complete with somewhere around fifty dead birds inside of it. My hair, wet from the rain, froze into one messy icicle. Sufficed to say, the radiator and I are enjoying the view from my cozy living room today. I guess I forgot how mesmerizing snow is, because I’ve can’t stop staring out the window. The flakes are falling in pre-made snowball form, so I just might have to gear up and chase the storm.

I have train tickets booked to Siena tomorrow and I’m really hoping the minivan/Crayola Crayon gods are on my side, because I’d hate to be snowed in. All trains are cancelled for today, so keep your fingers crossed for me! Looks like I might need to pack a blow dryer to melt the snow on those Siena colored hills…

Pasta Mamma

Go to class or learn to make pasta from scratch? The fact that I actually had to think about that question really makes me question my moral code. Obviously, I opted for the pasta. Last night, I attended a pasta making class. It was by far, one of the most exciting things I’ve done since I arrived in Italy (it’s the little things!). Each working table was set up with a bag of flour, six eggs, and a rolling pin. Our instructor, a 30-something Italian wine maker and restaurant consultant led us through the process. We made “mountains” that became “volcanoes,” filled them with eggs, olive oil, and salt, and then meticulously pinched the eggs until a sticky dough was formed. I was a mess, and totally thrilled.

The instructor (whose name escapes me), taught us first to make fettuccini. He explained that every “fettuccini-like pasta has a different name, all depending on the pasta’s width. After rolling our dough so that it was super thin, we rolled it into a cylinder, cut it into pieces, and unrolled our fettuccini. It was that easy!

He also taught us how to make tortellini and ravioli. Apparently, you can put anything into these two pastas as long as it has the consistency of mashed potatoes…which was exactly what we used. It was like stuffing pasta with gnocchi! Obviously, I munched on the potatoes as I stuffed my pasta. The tortellini was difficult to make, and involved a lot of precision, but the result was incredible.

With our fresh egg pasta and rolling pins, we were sent home to feast! I met the Italian of my dreams (an old English-speaking woman whose main passion is cooking) on the bus, but arrived at my stop before I could confess my undying love. My roommates have suggested I wait for her at the bus stop at the same time next week. Is that stalking?

I arrived at my wonderful apartment to the smell of baking lasagna and was greeted with a glass of wine. We ate my fettuccini and gnocchi tortellini as an appetizer and used my leftover dough to make some creations of our own!

The result was delicious and I’ll definitely be making pasta on a weekly basis. Pantry Raid anyone?