The Lady of Perugia

I knew she would be small. She does not have Milanese sophistication or Florentine art, and that’s why I chose her. She flaunts no heirs, and her humble confidence is derived from thousands of years of establishment upon a mountaintop. Like the most precious wine of her region, her maturity only increases her value. She has changed, but she openly bears her past upon her breast - ancient Etruscan walls, medieval churches, buildings perfectly aligned together like a full bookcase, each showcasing its unique binding and title.

That was all I knew before I began abiding in her heart. After a few weeks of living by the beat of her quarter-hour chimes and rhythmically belated meals, I am more familiar with her ways. She really is charming. Her natives smile and forgive your ignorant faux pas, like ordering frothy cappuccinos after mid-morning or eating dinner before 7:30. My how she cooks! Her ingredients are seasonal, and she is currently specializing in truffle pasta dishes that have a heavy, earthy flavor as distinct as the city itself. She doles out two bacci – one for cheeks and one for tongues; both are rich and sweet. She is so hospitable. She welcomes visitors, and students are not put off by her years. Every evening her people meander out of the stonework and back alleys, gathering spontaneously on the piazza steps. Her beauty enraptures; when I look at the world from her perspective, her panoramic views inspire me.

Those with so much character offer their difficulties, too, and I am learning to cooperate. She stubbornly speaks one language only. Fortunately, it is more beautiful than my rough brogue, lilting with o’s and a’s, iamo’s and issimo’s. She sleeps little, and she does not respect those who wish to. Late into the night, or rather, early into the morning, her inhabitants jeer, banter, and laugh through her empty, reverberating streets. Her atmosphere is not as fresh as her freely flowing water; I must hold my breath as I plunge into clouds of rank second-hand smoke. Mere weeks ago, the street performers serenading me below were once too perfectly Italian; now, their accordion music is an all too familiar record stuck on repeat.

She seems hard at first, like her aim is only to challenge you. As I climb endless sets of unforgiving stairs, the echo of my hard footsteps resounds. As I walk upon narrow, winding streets covered in cold stone, I am surrounded by concrete buildings on either side. This is only her surface, though, not her character. The hardness evoked by her stone streets is a façade. Because she is tough, she can endure great hardship. She protects her people in a cradle of intimacy, and in her strength she comforts them. She comforts me, too. She kindly wakes me with the scent of freshly brewed espresso and delicate croissants. Ascending another stairwell and having one more foreign conversation, she encourages me to grow. Perugia – that is her name. For the time being, she is making me a Perugian.

Lessons in Rome

 When you stay in Italy for a long time, you have to obtain a Permesso di Sogiorno, a permit of stay. It consists of a hefty tax, pages of bureaucratic papers, and several visits to the chaotic Italian post office. Umbra students were told not to make any weekend travel plans until we received a permesso appointment. Besides my lighter school load, I and other students studying in Perugia occupy most of our time preparing meals (A side note: It never ends, I tell you. My stomach is always thinking of the next meal. Alas, this is blog for another time.), uploading photos and being a little too connected to Facebook, and planning weekend travel. This permesso appointment was seriously messing us up.

Last Wednesday, though, Abby walked into the apartment with an announcement.

“We’re going to Rome!”

Well, okay. Apparently the permesso, in typical Italian fashion, had been postponed to next month. We began planning our weekend travel in a spirit of spontaneity, booking hostels, buying train tickets departing Thursday afternoon, and consulting the dependable Rick Steves’ Guide to Italy.

Allow me to cut to the crux. I am not going to tell you about every single thing we saw in Rome. That is boring; I don’t even want to read that, much less write it. We cycled through the typical tourist’s “Rome in 3 Days” route. I did, however, gain some eternal perspective and practical travel tips. Those, I think, are worth sharing.

The millennia of history seeps through city stone, and the museums displays mankind’s most coveted pieces of historical and artistic creations. It is the ultimate fieldtrip, and one really must experience it for himself. I found myself retrieving tidbits of the history and Latin I had learned in school (thanks Mr. Duckworth and Mr. Wagner) and wishing those teachers could be there with me, allowing me to know and appreciated more. Even in my ignorance, though, I had some takeaways.

First, worship is part of the human DNA. Pagan, Christian, or political, I was struck by the historical tendency to worship and honor. There are so many masterpieces humans devoted their whole lives to creating: an ancient, massive temple to Jupiter; ornate tapestries running the length of walls hand-sewn by nuns; the more recent Victor Emmanuel monument commemorating Italy’s unification. We like big, impressive things, showing how great our devotion is. I think that speaks to the way God created us.

Second, I gained a new understanding of the brevity and unimportance of my small, meager life. Seriously, just living abroad has tripled my existential moments. I look around and realize that I am truly a speck. Over and over I admired statues and paintings, dumbfounded. All I could think was, Wow.  This is a masterpiece, this is old. It was here long before me, and it will remain long after me. Here I am, miniscule and temporal.  Then I walked down a hall with several hundred busts, and I would think to myself, These are the important, rich people. For each of these, there are billions more unrecorded lives in the world’s history. That’s something to chew on.

Third, I am thankful to be in Perugia. Speaking Italian (or trying to, anyway) isn’t a question here. In Rome, you can speak English to everyone. It is crawling with tourists.

And now for those travel lessons.

Learn military time.

Other than saving space on the face of a clock, AM and PM really is more conducive to error. It’s what I’ve used my whole life, though, and right now mistakes go the other way. I’m constantly subtracting ten and two to figure out the time, and my mental math – however simple – isn’t that accurate. Because of this, we ended up arriving at the stazione an hour after our train departed. We had to wait another hour to catch a later train. Sorry guys.

Plan and prioritize.

I left my passport in Perugia. I am not joking. And my phone charger and one less pair of underwear than I would have preferred. Thank goodness I had a copy of my passport, lax hostel receptionists, and friends that take lots of pictures to suffice for my dead phone/camera. We tried to meet up with the guys we met in Assisi last week. With the advent of cell-phones, the world has adjusted to last-minute planning, and you just can’t do that when you travel. We did finally rendezvous, and it was wonderful to see them again, but our delayed arrival and vague communication was not helpful. We didn’t think about where our hostels were located in relation to each other, or where exactly to meet. I also didn’t really check the weather. While Perugia is quickly turning to brisk fall weather, Rome was still hot and humid, and long-sleeved shirts were not the right clothing choice.

We did a lot. I’m glad we packed a lot into our days with a go-get-‘em attitude, but it was exhausting and not too fun.

Vatican city should be enjoyable, but it just wasn’t. St. Peter’s Basilica was so crowded with tour groups that I felt like we were defiling its holiness. I was so claustrophobic and frustrated that I couldn’t appreciate it at all. If you try to do everything, you will go from looking like this:

To this by the end of Day 2:

Exhausted. Let me sleep.

Not worth it.

Be bold.

Don’t be stupid, but don’t be afraid to start conversations with people. That’s one thing I’m not too bad at. All it takes is one question and a friendly face. As we enjoyed lunch, Abby could see into the kitchen and was eyeing the chef’s pizza-making skills. He invited her in; she was hesitant. “Abby, if you don’t go, I’m going for you.” She went.

The pizza dough is flying in the air.

I’m always the one talking to people and breaking group bubbles. I met a girl traveling around the world by herself, a missionary family living in Perugia that I hope to reconnect with, and these crazy Brits:

The result of a drunken bet two years ago. They all bought crazy hats and shirts and drew lots for who wore what. They then had to sport them around Rome for the day. Not a bad idea.

 Abby wanted to take a picture. They all looked to me. There is literally nothing to lose in a situation like that, so I went and asked if they spoke English. We got our picture and heard a great story.

Let your plan go.

There is a balance between doing the touristy necessary things, and just stumbling upon a memorable moment. I am such a list maker and achiever, that this is often hard for me to digest. While I have an agenda for each day, my parents have long held the philosophy that the only way to travel is without one. I am beginning to understand their wisdom. Unlike museums, the experiences you happen upon also tend to be more relaxed, enjoyable, and free. We finished our whirlwind checklist by Saturday afternoon, so we slowed the rest of the weekend down. We sat in a piazza and watched the street performers. We wandered to the Spanish steps, and low and behold a group of families were making a night singing American rock songs.

Sunday morning we meandered through Rome’s largest park, Villa Borgese. I loved this. It was my favorite walking of the whole weekend. Trees! Grass! Locals!

Rome is a big city, and it’s not to my liking. It gave me the chance to reflect, gain important travel lessons, and relax, though, and I needed to do that before I go anywhere else. I still learned  a lot from this Italian metropolis, and my whirlwind trip has transformed my travel style. 

Photo credits to Abby Wilson. Bring a charger for your camera...

Not-So Sempre Dritto

If you couldn’t tell from the title of my blog page, I really like walking. I love using my own legs to freely move from one place to another. I enjoy the Creation and company that often accompany the journey and the feeling of accomplishment and exhaustion after a long trek. Today, Abby and I did a lot of walking.

We wanted to go for a hike, and Umbria is the only landlocked region of Italy, the land is waves of mountains crashing into valleys. We didn’t think that was too tall a request, and in my “Hikes in Perugia, Italy” Google search, I stumbled upon a hike that seemed to be created for me – Perugia Assisi Marcia delle Pace. As in, a 15.73 mile walk from Perugia to Assisi that St. Francis apparently walked once and which peace protestors commemorate once a year. Um, heck. yes…or so I thought. There was that other moderate five mile half-day trip, but of course I zoned in on the challenge, and my kind, more reserved roommate Abby was respectful of that.

That's pretty straightforward, right?

We began the descent this morning and I was pretty proud of ourselves for successfully navigating out of Perugia’s narrow city alleys onto the main road. The GPS map on the website looked like it kept crossing over this road, so we kept our eyes peeled for a path. We kept on, but that path never turned up. We skirted along the edge of the two lane road as European cars zoomed by at 60 kilometers an hour, begrudgingly offering us a perilous two foot breadth. So much for our serene nature walk. Not that the views were bad – the Umbrian landscape arouses my soul every day, and the vineyards and villa houses were a nice change from the city apartments.

Perugia from a distance

 When we arrived at the first borgo a few kilometers in, we were even impressed by the graffiti. It is literally art here.

By that point, though we had seen occasional signs displaying arrows with a pedestrian on Via Roma and San Francesco, we were also becoming more uncertain about this supposed Walk of Peace. It probably had to do with that black-clad, Teva sandal guy with a hunched-over, apelike walk that we passed. He had slothed around and was now a quarter mile behind us. Awesome. Or our broken Italian. Sure, you can ask, “Dov’è la strada andare a Assisi?” but if you only pick up every third word of the response, that’s none too helpful.

Then we saw two women in hiking boots carrying huge backpacks – Gabriella and Francesca. They had walked from Venice and were headed home now. In a mix of Italian and English, they wrote down the next three borgi we needed to walk through. “Ma questa è la via solo, sì?” I asked, seeking assurance.

Sì, sì! Sempre dritto.

Straight ahead. Okay. No a destras or sinistras or qui vicinos.  Straight down this road. Certainly we could handle that. We kept on. Two blocks later, there is a traffic circle, and there is no sempre dritto. We took a few wrong turns and found the sign again. We plodded along a dirt road lining the back of farmers’ yards, unable to escape the tangent aroma of manure or our fears of previous wrong turns. A middle-aged woman smoking a cigarette was pulling out of her driveway. I caught her attention and asked if we were headed the right way. She seemed a little confused and alarmed as to how we had gotten there and where we were headed. She offered us a ride, and, yes, we took it. Paola is her name, and though she did not speak English, she slowed her Italian down so we could understand more. As she drove us several kilometers on, I gathered that she is 51, mother of two young twenty-somethings. Why are we walking to Assisi? Per divertente, for fun. She said we were both brave and crazy. I couldn’t respond with too much, so a lot of sì, sì’s were exchanged. When she dropped us off, she kissed both my cheeks and pointed up, saying we had a good God. I agreed with another sì, sì and grazie mille. Sempre dritto! she said and waved goodbye.

 We kept on. Assisi was now in sight, but the road was no less dangerous or sempre dritto, our walk shortened but still confusing. I greeted an old man sitting on his porch.  Buon viaggi signorine! he yelled and waved. We got lost a few more times, and we found our way once again. Abby declared that I was a leader with too much energy, she a blind follower. There’s some truth there - if you ever walk with me, those two components are pretty necessary. Eventually, feet flattened and beginning to blister, we made it to a road on which we really could march sempre dritto. Friday’s familiar blue dome of the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli loomed ahead in the haze, and our anxiety lessened.

We plodded to the stazione, bought our €2.50 ticket back to Perugia, and rewarded ourselves with another cup of ever-delicious gelato. “Never again,” Abby declared resolutely. She was not dissatisfied, but it was obvious she was happy to be finished; I sympathize with people I rope into going on adventures with me. You never know what could happen. I don't either.

As we walked back to a stazione bench to wait for the train, I saw two young men sporting chacos and travelers’ clothes, some of my favorite things. They gotta be American, I thought. I’ve got a Chaco radar, I’m telling you. We sat by them, and indeed, they spoke English. So we got to talking, and it turns out they just graduated from Clemson; we have several mutual friends, and the world gets smaller every day.

Today was not the perfect walk, and it definitely was not straight ahead, but when is life ever? We interacted with very kind Italians. We saw breathtaking countryside. We made new American friends and walked a truly remarkable distance. Despite the obstacles it brings, I will continue on the path of the not-so sempre dritto in Italy. I will seek direction from a God who is indeed good.  There, in the twists and turns, I will find great adventure.

P.S.

Thanks, Abby. You really were a trooper today.

The Pilgrimage

There is a stunning view of Umbrian olive trees, vineyards, and rolling hills fifty yards from my apartment. When admired by night, the landscape twinkles. About fifteen kilometers away Nestled in a low crest of the tallest mountain, a group of electric stars shine higher and brighter than the surrounding lights. Though millions of people visit it every year, it’s a small village holding a population several times less than its crowded medieval days. It is a quaint town of narrow roads, charming shops, and one stunning Basilica. The town is, of course, Assisi, the home of Francesco and Chiara, founders of the Franciscan Order.

Yesterday, a few friends and I ventured a twenty minute train ride to Assisi for our first day trip excursion. In preparation for my time abroad, I bought Rick Steve’s Italy 2013 Guidebook. When I flipped through it, I wasn’t too impressed. Perugia isn’t even mentioned in it. But, my views have changed; Rick gave us all the information I could want (and no more) on his self-guided – and more importantly, downhill – walking tour of Assisi. If you have someone like Rick, I’ve found that, contrary to my tendencies to plan, often times the best trips happen when you don’t have everything figured out. I had a train ticket, some companions, a few Euro, and nothing more. I learned a ton about St. Francis and was blown away both by his piety and the basilica built in his honor. It was a great day.

From the stazione, we took a bus to the top of the town, following Rick’s suggestions to check out the Roman amphitheater, a few worth-it views, and several churches and cathedrals. I like following directions and solving problems, and leading others, so I had a blast. The guidebook literally said things like, From the bottom of the stairs, head to the left and continue downhill. I did, and boom, there is the basilica di Santa Chiara. It was like a treasure hunt, which you know I love.

The Basilica was stunning and worth going to visit, as is Santa Maria degli Angeli on the outskirts of town. More than the buildings, two things hit home for me the most.

First, Francis obediently followed the Lord’s commands. After a lot of fasting and praying, he had a vision in which Christ said, "Francis, Francis, go and repair My house which, as you can see, is falling into ruins." And then he did it. He lived a life of obedience, chastity, and poverty. He preached the Gospel and his influence to reform the Catholic Church probably postponed the Protestant Reformation by a century. He was excited about the Gospel, and he made a lot of other people reevaluate their faith. Both he and Clare were well off citizens of Assisi who renounced their wealth and clung to their God. Christ’s church is in a new state of falling into ruin, and I don’t think I’m doing all that much about it. Nor do I really know what to do. When Euros produce food (and disappear quickly), I struggle with how to honor God with the circumstances and money He has given me. Most of the time I’m living for me, but I don’t really know what else to do.

Second, there were so many people worshiping in the Basilica. I felt much more like a tourist than a worshiper yesterday, but that was not the case for other visitors. An incredible movement sprouted in Assisi, and though much of Europe is spiritually dry today, Italy has genuine Christian roots. It founded the faith and spread it to the rest of the world. There is something really monumental and intimate about being here in person, so I’m hoping to return as a worshiper while I’m here.

One final thought. I’m beginning to settle in and figure things out. I am also learning I can’t go all the time. I wanted to see a music festival last night (I couldn’t figure out how to get there) and the Saturday market this morning (I blogged), and neither of those happened. Rest is good, and it’s okay to stay in the apartment and reflect a bit. So, as usual, I’m searching for the balance. The balance between a good time out and honoring God, between rest and travel, between time alone and time with others. Sometimes I find it, sometimes I don’t. 

Becoming a Grown Up with Pasta Toss

The tips of the fingers on my left hand are tingling with a burning sensation that is both tolerable and highly uncomfortable. It started with my thumb, and has spread to other fingertips like poison ivy. When I took my contacts out, my eyes started burning…Oops. Why, you wonder?

Because I am a little closer to being a grown up now. I see grownups as people who live on their own and provide for themselves. Okay, I might still get some financial support. But, really, beyond having a real profession in a few years, what is the quintessential definition of being a grown up? Food, of course. I’m talking cooking here – si cucina, to cook for oneself. Not going out to eat like my dad did (…or, does?) until he was thirty-five, but planning meals, buying groceries, chopping verdure, and eating delicious, healthy homemade dinners. With a nineteen pass meal plan at school, I hadn’t had the need or opportunity to do that for myself yet.

After our second day of intensive Italian class, my roommates and I faced the challenge together. And now my thumb is searing unforgiveably.

We sat around the kitchen tavolo and collaborated on a grocery list of shared items. Then we bought  biglietto for Perugia’s mini metro at exactly 16.14. One pass is good for 70 minutes, so we were on a mission to get to COOP - the larger supermercato - buy all of our necessary goods, and push our ticket back through the validation machine qui vicino our apartment by 17.24.

More Italians are shopping at supermarkets comparable to your neighborhood grocer, but there are still a lot of differences. First, nothing in Italy is gratis. Actually, that’s not true. I saw a big bin of pasta near check out that is free for Very Important Customers ogni giorno! Otherwise, though, not only do you pay for water at restaurants, but you also loan the grocery cart a Euro to unlock it and pay five cents for each plastic produce bag you use. I may have forgotten that small hidden charge and discreetly returned some bags to the roll stand halfway through my produce shopping. Sorry, Italy. I’m a frugal cheapster. Keep your bag, even if I was about to use it. Also, only produce that is in-season is sold here. Though I appreciate eating locally, when you want to buy asparagus, it’s kind of frustrating. God forbid you select your fresh frutte or verdure with a naked hand; there are also disposable plastic gloves provided under the five cent bags. After that whole mess, don’t try to take your bag-less assortment of fresh produce up the cash register. You must first put it on the scale in the produce section and print a barcode sticker.

Other notes of interest: Eggs are not refrigerated, quinoa and black beans are nonexistent here (though an assortment of squid is), and Perugia doesn’t put salt in their bread. Since salt is a preservative, you can only buy your bread if you plan on eating it that day. Lines hardly exist here, so when you have a big cart, people with one item will expectantly ask to cut you. Shopping is a learning experience in itself.

We planned on meeting back at the front of the store at 17.05, but we didn’t consider the long lines and the cutting. So by the time we made it through check out, we entered serious crunch time on our 70 minute metro pass. We made it, though – at 17.23, with one minute to spare. I kid you not.

Tonight I served up some Zucchini and Parmesan Pasta Toss. Among the seasonings, the recipe called for ¼ tsp. of crushed red pepper. We had whole pepporocini in our seasoning cabinet, so, along with the garlic, tomatoes, and zucchini, I went away at chopping up the dried peppers.

There are not too many experiences quite as authentic or satisfying as being in Italia drinking vino and eating a meal of Italian pasta with friends, both of which (the pasta and the friends) you recently made. As I silently blessed the meal, I thanked God not only for the food, but also for this opportunity – for my new friends, grocery shopping excursions, and the surprises offered each day. Sometimes growing causes some pains. Though my Indian roommate Kirti disagrees, the pasta toss had too much of a kick for me. It burned my mouth, which I enjoyed cooling off with gelato. Now that I’ve spent some time writing, the red pepper heat in my fingers is dissipating, too. What a tiny price to pay – yes, much less than the price of the plastic bags at the grocery store – for a step on the path to adulthood and independence. Today, as I settle into to the stone allies, panoramic views, grocery shopping, and home cooked meals that are part of life in Italy, I grew up a little bit more.

Feeling Like an Italian

My laptop  isn't connecting to the wifi, so I'm currently trying to write with my iPad, which isn't letting me upload pictures from today. I'm already beginning to settle in here, though, and I have the essential bearings of Perugia. I sense the words in my broken Italian coming more naturally, and I love communicating with the vendors. I feel like less of a tourist and more of a person who will be living here a while.

Sorry there aren't any pictures, but here are some highlights...

Quest'e' la mia vita oggi:
 -Italian Catholic Mass. You would be proud, Hoffa. I didn't understand much, but I picked up on the Lord's Prayer and some of the Scripture reading. All the actual Catholic friends that came too were shocked with how much they understood, since masses are the same all over the world.

-My first native cappuccino from a caffe in the piazza. So great. I don't know if my new friend Aleah has been in a beverage box the last twenty years, but I witnessed her sipping her first glass of wine and cappuccino! She thinks both are acquired tastes. I agree, but they are so worth it. Especially when you're living in Italy.

 - Monthly artisan and farmer's market. So neat! I bought fresh il pane scuro (darker bread) from a man named Andrea. We exchanged contact information, and he and his wife will likely be teaching me how to make pasta soon! I was told by a friend who studied abroad a few semesters ago that if I see something, buy it. You'll regret not getting it. I had my first regret today. There were hand crafter leather quaderni (notebooks) at the mercato for fifteen Euro, and I restrained from buying it. I've found myself already wanting a little journal to write down Italian phrases, grocery lists, and expenditures. I have learned.

-Taglierre for lunch. Abby and I sat in a narrow alley and ordered our first meat, cheese and bread platter. Yum!

-Weddings, Music, and Italiano: I swear I saw three different wedding processions in the piazza today. It's wedding season. I slyly recorded twenty second clips of both a street accordionist and bag pipe player. Abby and I are trying to speak to each other in Italian for a while everyday. We falter and fail a lot, but it's fun to have someone to work with. And we just get along really well.

Grazie mille for reading. Ciao per oggi!