London Love

London was not on my list of top places to visit. I should experience other cultures, I told myself, get out of my comfort zone. The urban center of Great Britain is not that different from America. But you know what? That’s exactly why I enjoyed this past weekend so much. Don’t get me wrong. Italy has been such a fabulous experience. Three months ago I only knew Italian stereotypes. Now I know Italy. I understand the cultural norms, and I have tried to acclimate to them (though whether I really have is a different story).  Culture clash – both in Perugia and during weekend travel – is draining. Mimed body language and late night dinners, catty women and staring men, limited grocery choices and impossibly long (yet simultaneously nonexistent) lines are some of the small differences I face on a daily basis. I think one of the most significant lessons I digested for myself in Cambodia seeing and experiencing the living conditions for the majority of the world. That lesson has continued during my time in Italy. Though Europe is made up of first world countries, even here people don’t live like Americans. These little challenges I face make living abroad memorable and worth it.

As usual, I digress. After a beautiful act of the Lord, the opportunity arose for me to visit London with my dear friend Tracey. No, London is not America, but comparatively, it’s pretty darn close. It is English-speaking, and it is a consumerist, globalized society. I confess, as much as I am trying not to live in a materialistic manner, I grew up surrounded by marketing and movies and Wal-Mart and the best customer service in the world. For one weekend, it was so nice to be able to understand (most) everything someone said and buy anything I wanted.  Familiarity is comfortable. On the bus ride from the airport, I was already developing a superiority complex over my ability to understand the language better than the rest of the Italian travelers. We saw a Costco, IKEA, Subway, KFC, and so many other chains just during our ride into the city. We were stoked.

We vowed not to eat any Italian food. Since there was a different ethnic restaurant every fifty meters, that was easy, and so satisfying. At one stop, I spotted a restaurant named L’artista. While I was repulsed by the idea of yet another pasta dish, the Italian woman next to me points to it and begins talking to her friend about eating there that night!

Spring Bowl

After settling in to Palmer’s Lodge (best hostel experience ever. I am not exaggerating), Tracey and I opted for Indian. The menu was a little overwhelming, so I told the waiter I wanted a dish with rice, chicken, vegetables, and curry, please. When the waiter walked away, Tracey whispered, “Jessica, you are so white.” It’s true… It was very much a When Harry Met Sally scenario, but I was just so happy to be able to get what I wanted and not be told how to eat my food. The supermarkets are even bigger in London than in America, and there’s nothing you can’t get. Other food this past weekend included Chinese pile up from a Camden Market stall, Vietnamese Spring Bowl, Lebanese platter, coffee large enough to nurse for a bit, Mochi icecream (gross), and a Chinese BBQ roll. My stomach has been missing vegetables so much, and it is happy now.

Globalization continued that night when we realized that the second Hunger Games movie was already released. It was fun both to be up on American culture and also act like typical Londoners, enjoying a normal Friday night. The next day we went to the Camden Markets, which provide anything you want at very cheap prices. It is dangerous territory for shopoholics. All of the stuff and the fashionable people wearing even more stuff sends this subliminal message that you need it. I kept reminding myself that no, I don’t need anything. I have everything already. Remember where these goods are coming from, Jessica. Imagine how they were probably produced. The quintessential consumerist devil and aesthetic angel were fighting it out on my shoulders. Mr. Red Horns did win the Battle of Wool, boasting a thick infinity scarf and a Fedora as its loot. The angel won the War, though, re-teaching me an important lesson.

The rest of the weekend was fairly touristy. We saw the sights, killed our feet walking everywhere, and enjoyed some rejuvenation in Regent’s Park. There was green and fall colors, and that did my heart well. My soul was filled up even more after Tracey and I visited Hillsong for church on Sunday. I haven’t been able to really worship since the summer. I haven’t been in a spiritual drought, but I needed some watering. That night, we watched an improv show at The Comedy Stand. My cheeks were sore from all the laughing. Gosh. British Humor – they’re just so clever! We finished up the weekend by almost missing our flight back to Perugia on Monday morning. Fortunately, we huffed it, paid five pounds each for fast pass customs check (where I downed ¾ of my beloved Nalgene water bottle because I forgot to empty it), and experienced the scare of missing the only way home without the repercussions.  I buckled into the plane seat thankful to have made it, but also sad to be leaving a city I enjoyed so much.

London was kind of an awesome tease of being back home. The reality is, though, that my departure date is quickly approaching. In a little over two weeks, I will be reunited with family and friends. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and rather than being home and feasting, I will be flying to my last travel destination of the semester –  Budapest. I am so grateful for the opportunity to study abroad. The friends, experiences, traveling, yes – even the cultural trials – have blessed me immensely.

The Sinking City

Pitiful as it is, I hardly knew the defining characteristics of specific Italian cities before coming here. Venice in particular was an enigma. Mama brought masks and glass earrings home from her trip a few years ago, and they meant no more than cool wall art and beautiful jewelry. I finally Googled some pictures and was shocked to find grand palaces which seemed to be floating on water, a whole city connected by hidden alleys and bridges, divided by water. The likelihood of getting lost is much greater than finding your destination. You know you’re headed the right way, and then, boom, there’s the Grand Canal, your destination across the water, and another dead end. This past weekend, I finally got to see this a-mazing (pun intended) city for myself.

To be honest, I don’t have the energy to tell you everything about my travels this weekend, which also included a day trip to Verona. In fact, I haven’t even shared the stories of the best trip I’ve taken thus far – the Dolomites. I don’t know where my initiative is right now; I’m still going in and out of ruts of feeling like I have a lot to do, and yet simultaneously feeling lost, without purpose. It’s very bizarre, and I’d appreciate some prayer. My situation is mainly teaching me that as awesome as life may seem, or even is, the deepest part of us will never be satisfied – not by travel, or money, or the best of circumstances. We will always long for a Rescuer, and I need Him desperately. It’s been an interesting discovery.

 But I want to tell you this: If you ever get the chance, Venice and its surrounding lagoons are worth it. The 80 euro gondola is not (college student that I am, I did not partake), but walking through that city an experience. There is a reason you have to battle thousands of other tourists. It’s a city worth seeing, but it’s a time bomb. Experts say it will be underwater in 70 years, and I believe it. In the fall, Venice battles serious flooding problems. At St. Mark’s, there weren’t as many tourists as the high season, but it was still hard to navigate because on must walk on raised platforms to avoid two foot puddles. Venice has its own mask, and at night, everything slows down. It removes it for a while, relinquishing part of its mysterious identity. You feel the presence of hundreds of past years in each stacked building or regal Ca’  – masquerades, high life, prostitutes, Jews. Peace, strife, and power struggles. Go, before it’s too late.

Not All Fun & Games

I had a temporary freak out session this morning. It went something like this:

I have had more free time the last few months than I’ve had since elementary school. I have gotten to see Rome and Tuscany and Capri and Brussels. I’ve made great friends, been challenged, improved my language skills, enjoyed good food. I am blessed, lucky, privileged. And I have no right to complain.

But lately, I have been missing home a lot. It’s happening to everyone a little bit. We’re not direly homesick, but we’re just…here, and we miss the happenings back in the States. I wish I could pause study abroad, spend a few months back in Charleston, and then come back to Italy when I start to miss it and reminisce. I hate to not appreciate this last month as much as I can. For goodness sake – my next three weekends consist of traveling to Venice, London and Budapest! But more than the exhaustion of travel itself, I’m getting tired of living for myself. My classes provide enough structure that I probably should be doing something, but they’re easy enough that I don’t need to focus on school all the time. I’m basically a horrible relaxer. I need more purpose, and I’m stir-crazy in this apartment. The only stress in my life is that which I give myself from wondering what I should be doing. Georgia texts me and says she has to write two papers in the next three hours. And though I don’t really want to do that either, her days are filled, and mine are loose. I remember wanting the world to pause so I could catch up and feel on my A game. Now I just feel like the world is going on without me.

This morning when my alarm went off, I was fully rested, but I stayed in the dark warmth of my bed for thirty more minutes, battling with myself.

Get up, Jessica

Why? I have nothing to do.

Quiet time, shower, letters. There’s always something to do.

I don’t want to. But staying here makes me feel even more lazy and useless.

The rational side of me thinks of dozens of things I could be doing – learning to cook new recipes, reading difficult literature, meditating on Scripture, writing. Basically the things I’ve always said to myself, “Someday, I’m going to do that.” What’s more, the things I have made time for in the past are harder. I’m feeling flabby and weak because there is not really great place to exercise. I have no Biblical regimen, I’m just floating from one thing to the next. Here I am, feeling kind of helpless and apathetic. Yet at the same time, also feeling selfish and stupid for complaining at all. I’m just ready for a little more purpose.

A few hours later, I’m feeling better. I still want more purpose, but I went on a walk and listened to this past Sunday’s sermon. I took a shower, ate vegetables, and decided there is no reason that I shouldn’t be reading Manzoni’s The Betrothed and studying C.S. Lewis more closely. It takes time to learn to articulate what you believe, and right now, I have that time. That is a beautiful gift, and I should take advantage of it.

This is by far the most unedited, stream of consciousness blog I’ve posted. I am writing it, though, primarily so that you know that as amazing as this semester is, as much as I love adventure and travel and new friends, I’m struggling, too. I have moments of missing those I love, yearning for Charleston, even desiring a more rigorous academic workload. Today is November 13, though. In exactly one month, I will be on a plane back to America. No more griping. I am going to make this month count.

An American in Italy: Laundry

            I thought I was prepared. I knew that water was not free in restaurants. I was warned not to order a cappuccino after eleven a.m. I made sure to pack Ziplock bags in a variety of sizes, a reusable shopping bag, and a set of customary measuring cups. Italians, I was told, do everything at a slower pace, and I was ready to embrace that. Or so I thought. The truth is, no one can actually prepare an American for this reality permeating every facet of Italian culture. While I enjoy the relaxing two hour meals, I never anticipated the two hour, methodical process of washing and drying my clothes in America would become a forty-eight hour ordeal on the other side of the Atlantic ocean.

I am not exaggerating here. When I return to America, doing laundry might become an enjoyable chore. I know, dear American mothers, the trouble you go through to ensure your family is looking presentable in their best clean clothes. I remember the pain of continually filling hampers, the unceasing cycles of sorting and switching and ironing and folding you endure. Enjoyable?  Such a statement hardly seems feasible. What’s the secret to an enjoyable laundering experience? Move to Italy. All of a sudden, doing laundry back in America becomes a breeze.

Every few days, I don my Nike athletic shorts and a color-coordinated quick dry shirt, enduring an hour of stares in the city streets for the sake of a little exercise. When I first came to Italy, I began to conclude that I lived among a whole society of people that do not run. I was wrong. They do run, just not in the streets. Italians go to parks on the outskirts of town and run (if you can call it that) in glamour, without a drop of sweat or an increase in heart rate.  It’s miraculous. Okay, there are a few men putting in some genuine effort, but the women might as well be on a runway model. With my waterfall of sweat and clunky Asics, I know I already look like an American on these streets, so I continue on and hope the Italian street chic forgive me. But I digress. I tell you of this taboo practice of mine because from it I amass an impressive pile of sweaty, smelly clothes in need of a thorough washing. I wasn’t a huge fan of doing laundry before I came to Italy, and nothing has changed. So I let them fester, procrastinating the inevitable laundry day until I run out of underwear.

            Eventually, I do run out, though, and I must face the first challenge of the laundering process: the washing machine. Italians, while looking twice as fashionable, own about a fourth as many clothes as Americans, and their washing machines reflect this proportion. I want to get through this ordeal as quickly as possible, so I disregard the sorting rule and opt for a single load, throwing everything in at once. It’s only economical and energy efficient, after all. When I must finally face the blasted machine, the possibility of fitting my week’s worth of smelly clothes in the bin my head will hardly fit into is seriously questionable.

            An Italian washer machine, though small, is not a complicated mechanism. There is a plug, a spin cycle and power button, and a knob of numerical temperature settings. It doesn’t seem like something that could easily malfunction, but I must have the perfect touch. One time I loaded it up, pressed the on button, and… nothing. I ensured it was plugged in, kept up trial and error for a while, and gave up, reporting a broken washing machine to maintenance. An older man named Paolo stopped by later that afternoon. He hobbled into the six by six foot closet otherwise known as our laundry room and spent all of thirty seconds tinkering before the washer was functioning perfectly. Exasperated, he walked out. I think I heard him mutter, “Americana,” under his breath before facing the three flights of elevator-less stairs outside of my apartment. Apparently, there is a light switch next to the plug that turns the electricity on and off. Well, that’s embarrassing, I thought.

After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes, I open the door, ready to get on with this chore. I pull out a shirt. It is soaked. Not just damp like you expect clothes to be after a normal wash. I’m talking sopping wet. The spin cycle, even though I always make sure I don’t press the button to omit it, is cantankerous. Sometimes it works, other times it leaves my clothes, which at least don’t smell anymore, in a pool of undrained water. Lazy and frustrated, I run the load again, hoping for a different result. Sometimes, they turn out okay. Typically, though they remain drenched. If this is the case, it is necessary to individually ring out every article of overstuffed clothing. Your fingertips will assuredly wrinkle like prunes, and your arms will have no need for dumbbell exercises.

Because the washing machine normally works for my roommates, I have recently developed a hypothesis as to why it has a personal bias against me. I think the spin cycle may be running after all, but the water can’t drain because I have stuffed too many clothes into one load to begin with. I have not been able to test this out yet. The very fact that it has taken seven weeks to realize this is frustrating. Why can’t it just work like a good ol’ large, trusty American washing machine?

On to the dryer. Oh, wait. Italy is indeed a first world country, but due to high electricity costs, the dryer is a rarity, and my apartment certainly doesn’t have one. There was a time not too long ago when I thought the dryer was a loud, bulky lint collector. I have seen the light. Actually, it is a glorious piece of equipment conveniently placed right next to the washer, not only drying your clothes, but making them warm and soft too. While that nonna hanging her sheets out to dry on the balcony does look picturesque, my situation is not quite so appealing. We – my four apartment mates and me – compete for the two seven-foot fold out drying racks to hang clothes on. It’s the only thing in Italy that is not small, almost matching the size of my runt “twin size” bed. Rather than being tucked away in some nice, nonexistent corner, these giants consume the majority of the living room floor. Back in August when the weather was warmer, it wasn’t too bad. Clothes dried overnight. They’re always stiff and starchy feeling, but at least they were dry then. Creeping into the fall, clothes stay out two full days and are still damp. What with the way I procrastinate laundering, the underwear supply really does become critical at this point. I may have substituted my bikini bottoms – or even, I confess, nothing – once or twice.

My nemesis

As for the other loads that did not go through a spin cycle, all I have to show for my great efforts to ring out the water by hand is a large puddle of more water equivalent to the size of the mammoth drying rack. As I mop up the tile floor, I dream of large washing machines and the dryers by their side, relishing the day when doing my laundry will be a pleasurable experience. In the meantime, I will be an American in Italy – running in the streets and waiting for my clothes to dry.