Charleston - okay, America - the Beautiful

There’s an old conceited saying that I’m rather fond of.

Charleston is a peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper Rivers come together to form the Atlantic Ocean.

Charleston really is the most beautiful city in the world. All semester, my new friends in Perugia had to put up with me boasting, both in English and Italian, about my hometown. When we met someone new and began talking about travel or where we were from, I would inevitably pipe in, “You should visit Charleston, South Carolina. È la città migliore nel mondo. It’s the best city in the world.” It kind of became a running joke, but I’m serious. Home is not the best just because it is a comfortable security blanket, surrounding me with dear friends and family. It is the best because every natural backdrop is stunning and the people are friendly and the weather is perfect…and my heart is never quite as content or quiet as when I am sitting on a bench looking out over the marsh.

Before I left for Italy, my advisor gave me this bell curve to demonstrate the emotional roller coaster of a study abroad student.

It looked way too scientific to be accurate, with the honeymoon stage, culture shock, and adjustment; life isn’t that predictable, I thought, but it surprised me. I remember week by week passing in Italy and comparing my experiences to that graph. It’s like I was following the predictions of a growth chart right on target. I saw everything in Perugia through rose-colored glasses, until I did not. When life is different from the norm, no matter how easy or exciting it may be, it becomes challenging. I missed the luxuries of home, I missed Mama’s encouragement, I missed normality. Every day, I was blindsided by another ignorant American faux pas I made in Italy. On good days you laugh. On other days, you just get sick of it. Like the way Italians complain – no, that’s not right. They whine. Often. Nothing is ever as it should be, and these fully grown, supposed adults, yell at each other all the time. It got old. Eventually I adjusted to life in Perugia and the Italian way, though, and I learned to appreciate, adopt even, certain parts of their culture.

This time two weeks ago, I was on a plane returning to America. In the first forty-eight hours of being home, I embraced all of the things I had missed so much about Charleston. First, the weather. When I stepped off the plane, it was 70 degrees outside, and then remained perfectly humid, creeping into the 80s, for the next week. Plus the weatherman told me the temperature in Fahrenheit. Only in Charleston is it necessary to rock shorts in December.

Then, there are these views.

Which, by the way, I went to by driving directly in a car. Public transportation is great, but it does not – nor will it ever – beat a car. Back to the marsh. I do not tire of this view, and, given my jet lag, I was not tired in the morning, so I awoke early to watch the sunrise from the Pitt Street Bridge in the Old Village. The fog didn’t cooperate, but it’s still beautiful. It remins me of a naturally gorgeous woman still groggy from a deep night’s rest. She would be stunning with a little makeup, but she is already lovely. My heart melts for the radiance of the Lowcountry.

 The first person I saw that morning waved to and greeted me. He was some middle-aged man walking his dog, but he still said, “Good morning,” like any gentile southerner. Strangers have been saying hello every day since then. There’s a reason Charleston is the friendliest city in the country. The only time people wave in Italy is to get someone’s attention.

I’ve got a lot more luxuries to write about, but when I think about it, they’re not really limited to Charleston. So I concede. My hometown is still the best, but I just have a greater love for all of America now. Even the bad, commercialized, materialistic focus it has. I don’t care. I’m glad to be back. A month ago, I dreamt of the day when I could use a dryer again. It was as good as I imagined. Same goes for the dishwasher. Wow; what an invention. Other little indulgences include deliciously fruity, unseasonal food, like the first thing I ate when I landed in the Philadelphia airport.

That's right. That's a chain brand Chik-fil-a salad with all kinds of frutis that should not be available right now. It is also dark green. Not this insalata mista iceberg lettuce with one tomato nonsense.

That night, I unpacked my stuff, and there were drawers for my clothes and shelves for my books. Why? Because America has space! Lots and lots of uncramped room for all of our personal bubbles. Alright, I’m getting a little dramatic. But we do like things big. Like coffee.

Oh yeah. That is the smallest available cup of chain brand Starbucks Skinny Peppermint Mocha, accommodating the season and my American Splenda health whimsies.

The wireless on my laptop automatically connected and hasn’t dropped since. All I have to do to print something is press the button, and boom. There it is in the office. I slept in my own bed, on an amazingly comfortable, springless mattress. I ran for miles on paths because running is condoned in America. Then I ate fattening Christmas food, because that’s what you do in America in December, and I am American. You run, and then you eat; ‘tis the season. Those first few days, if there was a way to literally hug America, I would have. Italy is not even a third world country, but life is still so different.

Now that I’m back, I’m sorting cultures out. Some things are external, like not saying “Ciao” to people when I greet them. Mainly, though, the issues are inside. I have a greater appreciation for the American luxuries I have returned to, but I also miss the simplicity of Perugia. I have been shocked by the materialism of America. Yes, I admit it. I like to shop and buy practically anything I want. But I also realized how little one really needs, and I want to maintain the simpler lifestyle I adopted there.

I’m learning to take longer breaks and spend time with friends, something my roommate Abby really taught me to do as we lived together for a quarter of a year. I’m trying not to beat myself up for not being very productive, for not keeping a quiet time with God every day and not blogging in over two weeks. I’m trying to enjoy time with family and not freak out about my future. Surrounded by longtime friends with a deep and evident love for God, I’m figuring out how and when to (or not to) verbalize the Gospel. Italy didn’t wreck me into the faith crisis I experienced in Cambodia. I am Christ’s daughter forever, of this I am sure, and I never intentionally hid my relationship with Jesus. In fact, I relied on Him almost every day in Italy, and there were times when I saw Him do some really beautiful things. Maybe, though, I unconsciously tempered it.

The truth is, my whole semester in Perugia feels like a time vat right now, totally disconnected from any other experience I have ever had. I left Charleston in August with few responsibilities and no stress, and I returned to the same scenario, the same people, even the same weather, three and a half months later. It all feels comfortable and familiar, yet strangely odd. I am perplexed in ways I struggle to articulate. Being abroad definitely changed me and forced me to grow up a little more. Whatever happened, I do think it was for the better, but I’m still searching for some very important clarity keys.

I have a lot of questions and a lot of thoughts I’m obviously still working out, but I’ll keep you posted. Italian stories are definitely not over. I finally had the opportunity to experience day-to-day life in a foreign city, to live in another country. I made friends there I know I’ll keep, and together we set out on many adventurous weekends.

Could not have asked for a better semester with greater people.

Where did you go in the fall?

I will treasure these memories for the rest of my life. For now, though, I am struggling through “readjustment,” the last part of this strangely accurate bell curve. I am grateful to be back in this city and this country, for the happy familiarity of Charleston and the easiness of life in America. I am grateful to recuperate in the midst of hugs from longtime friends and the relaxing pace of winter-break nothingness. 

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.

Moments

“Meet me at the fountain at 3:15.”

I finished ramblings on Blessed Umiliana dei Cerchi throwing in key words “local cult” and “importance of the elaborate veil” as necessary. At 3:05, my last midterm exam was done. I step through the arch of the Umbra Institute and onto the main city center, Piazza di IV Novembre. I weave through the newly arrived chocolate festival stands and extra tourists that literally appeared overnight, heading for the meeting spot. I don’t see them. I am a little early. I scan my surroundings more closely. There are people everywhere, but I don’t see a particularly special couple. They are not on the steps, but as I look a little higher, I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged man and woman. Their appearance is intimately familiar. Yet, seeing them across the world, in Perugia, a place no one from home has been, is more than bizarre.

They catch sight of me a few seconds before. Excuse the cliché, but there is just no other description for what happened. When I see them, my soul soars. In an instant, the deepest part of me, far deeper than my physical body, exudes joy. Mama and Hoffa! Backpack still strapped, I run across the piazza and up the stairs, almost tripping several times (but I do not). Then, I bear hug my parents. For six weeks, I have seen their pictures, I have heard their voices, but their physical presence is so close. They are real, here, in the flesh, and it’s almost too good to be true.

But it is true, and thus begins a week I will treasure forever. Chocolate festivities and a personalized tour of my Italian hometown. Lazy mornings and unadjusted internal clocks in a small, undersupplied agriturismo. Five days in a manual Fiat verging on toy size. Winding roads, close calls, car-sick stomachs, and a confused GPS . Classic Tuscan views - charming medieval towns, regal rows of cypress trees, grape vineyards, and golden hills. Two-hour pasta meals twice a day. Food festival, wine tasting, Duomo climb, Cinque Terre trek, and countless cappuccini. A (very) few moments of tension reminded me that I am their daughter and they are my parents. We went at the typically slow, rather unplanned Compton pace. It can still be frustrating, but I am also becoming more patient and appreciating the people I am with over the activities we do.

I savored the slow passing of each day, but the week disappeared all too quickly. Soon, instead of hugs of greeting and exuberant joy, I was squeezing two of my favorite people goodbye. I was sad, but I have grown up. I live independently now, and I knew I would be returning to a good place and even better people. I smiled, blew a kiss, and boarded. The train began to pull away. They stood on the platform waving, though I knew they couldn’t see me through the tinted windows. I waved back, and when I sat down, a buildup of my own tears surprised me. My heart had a more difficult time parting than my head, and as the invisible tie between us pulled tighter, the tears kept brimming. I closed my eyes and exhaled, trying to gain my composure. Goodbye Mama and Hoffa. I’m so thankful for this trip. Near or far, I love you.

For the rest of my life, I can talk about the week I spent in Italy with my parents. I’ll remember these precious moments – the hello, the travel, and the goodbye – forever.

I saw them, and I ran

Golden Friends

I only had one prayer while I prepared for Italy.

Lord, I can spend a semester by myself. I’m independent and I would really be able to focus on You, but I’d really like one good friend. I don’t have to connect with anyone else, they can all be wild partiers, but please, give me one companion that I am totally comfortable with. Who will pray and laugh and travel and eat with me.

Jesus loves to give good gifts to His children, and time and again, I have experienced His blessings. This request was no exception.  The very first night, before we even moved into our apartments, I announced I was going on a walk and invited anyone to come along. They declined, having just returned from their own exploration. Very well, then. I can go alone, I thought, and I set off through the parking lot. “Hey wait! I’d like to come with you!” She told me her name, but I couldn’t remember it. As we walked, it didn’t take ten minutes before she began one of my favorite pastimes: the question game – describing our perfect day, as I recall. She casually mentioned she was in a Christian sorority back at Boulder. She didn’t seem to be conforming to any stereotypes, and I liked that. This girl, Alea, became my first friend.

God! Thank you. That was quite prompt. You are so good to me.

He didn’t stop there.

Lugging two massive pieces of luggage into my room on the second day, I met my roommate.  Aside from the horrendous procrastination habits she is successfully teaching me, I love everything else about this girl. We are different; she takes “chilling” to a new level, and I’m a little more extroverted. But as we learned more about each other the first few days, I was astounded by our similarities. What?! You have two sisters and a brother? You like to hike? You listen to the Avett Brothers? Your best friend is from South Carolina? She feels like another sister; with a steady and even-keeled temperament, she is the perfect constant companion. She makes me laugh, her thoughts are insightful, and our cooking is improving together.

I guess I feared making friends because that was difficult for me freshman year of college. Here, it hasn’t been the case. Friendships just keep happening, almost effortlessly.  Mariah identifies and illuminates the beauty in others. Tracey is a hip-hop dancing joy. Kristina, Danielle, Kevin, Joe, Holly.

This past weekend, there was a pasta dinner, a burger night, an American breakfast (we like food, okay?), and a crazy Italian soccer game. It all happened with people I really enjoyed spending time with, people who make me laugh and share similar values. After dinner Friday night, we all sat around the table sharing stories, listening to music, and at times laughing until we were gasping for breath. As we walked back, Abby and I both agreed that it felt like a night with our friends at home. When we day-tripped to overcast Cortona, it wasn’t really about the Under the Tuscan Sun destination or museums at all. Rick Steves still provided great restaurant advice, but I spent the day aimlessly wandering around a charming town with friends I love. It’s true; already, I really do love them.

Abby, Tracey, and Mariah

Chocolate Chip Pancakes an friends. Not much better.

The deeper I dig into my time here the more treasure boxes of friendships I find. I feel more than pirate’s luck at striking this gold; I am greatly blessed by a loving God. He understands good relationships, and He desires them for His children.

Chocolate on Chocolate

Allow me to illustrate a conversation I recited at least 43 times this past summer.

“Jessica, when are you headed back to school?”

“I’m not; I’ll be studying abroad in Italy this fall,” I smile with excitement.

“Oh, how wonderful! What city? Florence?”

“No, Perugia.”

98% of the time, I received one of two reactions.

One: “Be careful. Isn’t that where that Amanda Knox gal who killed her roommate studied?”

In which case I acknowledged the fact and assured them that I would return alive.

Or, more likely, option two: Blank stare.

So, I would quickly tack on, “It’s smack dab in the center of Italy, halfway between Rome and Florence. Think Tuscany and wine vineyards.”

Their ignorance is fair enough -- Perugia  is one of dozens of humble medieval towns carved into Umbrian hillside. It’s the capital of Umbria, but that doesn’t mean much. And though Amanda did unintentionally put Perugia on the map, it is really known for something much richer, much sweeter: its chocolate.

Perugia’s world-famous chocolate festival is coming up in a few weeks, but the Perugina Chocolate Factory, officially owned by Nestle these days, pumps out chocolatey deliciousness by the tons. This morning, a group of us visited this real-life Willy Wonka factory. Lots of different types of chocolate, candy, and biscuits are made here, but Perugia is best known for its Baci. 

This is basically the Italian version of a Hershey’s kiss, only ten times better. Praise the Lord, I crossed into chocolate salvation. Just kidding. Kind of. Baci have a thick nutella-like hazelnut milk chocolate base topped by a whole hazelnut and then lathered in dark chocolate. It also means “kiss” in Italian, and each is wrapped with a surprise love quote. Some are better than others.

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

“Some women love their husbands so much that to avoid wearing them out they take their friend’s husbands.” (Eek! I don’t want that baci!)

“The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.”

“Love me for love’s sake only.” (or that one, thanks.)

“Day by day and night by night we were together all else has long been forgotten by me.”

We saw a replica of the world’s largest singular 13 pound Baci chocolate, created a few years ago at the chocolate festival. After the weigh in, it was chipped away and handed to passerby, and the whole thing was eaten in four hours. 

We also toured the factory with a bird’s eye view through cacao-pungent  enclosed glass tunnels surrounding the production lines. I might have illegally photographed a little bit of the manufacturing process.

 It’s so fascinating! All of the engineering and machines work together impeccably. Chocolate is rolled out, covered, cut, wrapped, sorted, packaged, and sent all over the world. Almost two million baci are made everyday. Dang.

The best part, though was when we entered one room with platters of a variety of chocolates, and the guide explained each one. Dark chocolate, white baci, baci bars, white chocolate, different shapes and packaging. And THEN, she said the magic words:  “Help yourself.”

Adults become greedy children with words like that, which is kind of disturbing. But we went at it, and oh what tasty, stomach-ache inducing heaven it was. Let’s just say I got my five euro’s worth, and I’m just beginning to recover. What a yummy, chocolatey day.

Thank you for flying with Ryan Air

As I continue to travel, the modes of transportation I have used are increasing, too. Rome by train; private charter bus to Pompeii  and Napoli; Capri and Ischia by ferry. Of course, a plane was quite necessary to arrive in Italy. There is a big – I’m talking mammoth, colossal even – difference between an orderly international flight and the travel experience I had this past weekend. That’s right, I did it, I went to visit my Roanoke friend Evelyn, by my lonesome self…with Ryan Air.

If you are not familiar with this flight company, consider yourself blessed. For cheap college students like me, Ryan Air offers some bargain flight prices – often as lows as €15. With your inconceivably cheap ticket, you are also guaranteed a bumpy ride and no space. Tacked on fees, delayed flights, and head injuries are likely.

I’m being a little hard. After avoiding all of the rent a car, get a tour guide, reserve your seat financial traps online, I managed to buy a reasonable ticket a few weeks ago. I double-checked the airport bus pickup, woke up on time, all packed and ready to go. Good so far. I get to the bus stop, and then it hits me – I don’t have a ticket! This is a seriously elementary travel mistake, but I had become so accustomed to buying my train tickets at the station that it hadn’t crossed my mind. Because the primary ticket office was closed at 7 am, a ten-minute period of internal panic set-in.

I can’t even get myself out of Perugia! And I’m planning on going to Brussels?!

By the time I returned to the bus stop, a few more people had arrived, and they assured me that I bought the ticket on the bus. Whew.

Honestly, traveling by myself intimidated me more than I anticipated. If I messed it up, I was screwed, and that almost happened before I got out of Perugia. I learned that I am much more outgoing and confident with strangers when I have a group to return to.  At the airport and on the plane, I kept to myself, and it was lonely. Traveling solo no longer has the appeal it once did.

Italians haven’t quite overcome the anarchy of previous government systems. Today, this is most evident in their lack of lines. They swarm. All sense of civility and manners apparates just like wizards in Harry Potter. This behavior is further complicated by Ryan Air’s free seating policy. There is no consecutive, orderly calling of section one followed by section two. No, no. The airport gate was a giant mob, and my inner Italian came out and jostled by way as far forward (which was still very back) as I could.

Sitting in those seats with bright yellow plastic backs, we took off and flew and landed, and I am alive. The fact that I must announce the latter part of that sentence is reason enough to suspect this is no normal flying experience. I was resting peacefully until BAH-BOOM-BOOM-SCHREEEEECH! That landing was so unsettling. There was applause. And music that sounded like it could be from Barney celebrating our arrival. “Ryan Air is proud to have a 90% prompt arrival rate. We look forward to your next flight with us.”

I’ll be praying in advance for that.

I guess I didn’t pray hard enough, though. After a lovely weekend in the perfect college city (it can only boast beer, chocolate, and fries [and waffles]) with Evelyn, my trip back was horrendous. An anticipated five hours of travel turned into thirteen hours of…well, it wasn’t really travel. We weren’t moving very often. Pisa had bad weather, so we turned around and had a rocky landing in Genoa. We wait. Ryan Air announced it would provide a charter bus to Pisa. While other air companies board their detoured passengers swiftly, we walk to the parking lot and I meet some American students. We wait two hours. Finally! A bus! Three hours cramped next to an old woman who smells like mothballs. I am exhausted and frustrated. By the time I arrive in Pisa, I’m just worried about making it to Perugia.

Things began looking up, though. Not really because of the transportation, but, once again, because of the people. I spoke to a woman who helped me get to the right train track. Later on, when the train stalled because of technical difficulties, it didn’t matter so much, because an old Sicilian named Valentina and I were an hour into a conversation in Ita-lish. My head was hurting from speaking so much, but I could also sense myself improving. Before we arrived in Florence, she said if I already missed the last train to Perugia, I could stay in her hotel that night. I love the Italians. Fortunately, there was one last train, and she waited with me to make sure I had everything straight.

One two-hour train ride and a €10 cab later, at a quarter ‘til midnight, I finally made it home. Yes, that’s the word I want . Charleston is my forever home, but after all the travel this semester and the urban, standoffish feeling of Brussels, the quaint love of the town is an abode. I am settling in here in a way I never have at Roanoke. Sunday’s extended travel was not fun, but it was a first. I grew up just a wee bit more, I had yet another “first” in Italy, and I realized just how much I love Perugia. Your flight attendant may recite an automated Thank you for flying, but for these, Ryan Air, I must thank you.

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.