For a typical American, the view of Italy is pretty ubiquitous. Few even know the difference between the south and the north. Thus, when describing my travels, I must rely solely on my descriptive ability and visuals in order to get across as much information about this diverse country as possible. With Tuscany and the walled city of Siena, this is not nearly as big of an issue.
As you train for Siena from Parma, you arrive in the general Tuscany region from Bologna via a series of underground tunnels. Sitting in my compartment, I felt my eyes droop from the monotony of any long journey. They ride through Emilia Romagna (where Parma and Bologna are located) was generally flat and characterized by agricultural abundance. We entered the tunnels somewhere outside of Bologna and not yet in Tuscany. Immediately upon exit, the previous haze of sleepiness disappeared almost instantaneously. Those who have experienced the rolling hills, full of vegetation and life know the thrill I felt. Leaving the soot and squalor of the train tunnel, I took in a deep breath full of life and oxygen and a general crispness I have only yet associated with Seattle in her own brilliance. The sun peaked over the horizon of the nearest knoll, casting long shadows upon countless valley communities. "Under the Tuscan sun..." I thought, quietly berating myself for epitomizing that 'typical American.' I had asked my host mother prior to departure "Ti piace Toscana?" "Ai! Toscana e bellisima!" was the response. "Davvero..."
I progressed around, under and through the countless hills and finally arrived at the Siena train station, outside the general city limits. We then proceeded to the city. Siena, I was told, typifies a northern Italian gothic era city. Unlike Parma, which had its roots set as an ancient Roman city, Siena developed as one of many small city states stretching the western shores of Italy. Built upon one of the foremost hills, Siena certainly struck me as magnificent. We walked to the large fortezza on the northeast wall of the city. I was amused. What was once a fortezza against Firenze now housed jazz concerts, strolling couples and a sign reading 'Wine Bar, this way'. In Centro, called 'Campo,' the 17 'Contradas' paraded with drummers and flags looking much akin to pictures I had seen of the Swiss Guard. Contradas, I soon learned, are based upon the 17 different regions of Siena and were originally assigned according to lineage and trade. Now, existing in a traditional sense, each contrada takes pride in their flag, exhibiting their fervor in the form of parades and a bi-annual bareback horse race... Tired from walking and withered, I downed an energy drink. This was the beginning.
Day gave way to night and the city unveiled her other half. Cities, even the ones you hail from and know like the back of your hand, change face at night. Everything open in the day, closes. Conversely, new venues usher in patrons only as the sun sets. The shadows crossing the Campo lengthened as we sat eating pizza, eventually disappearing and with it, the warmth of the day.
The night was freddo and naturally the Americans turned to alcohol to provide the internal warmth. I was hence surprised to find that the art of 'shooters' was quite prevalent in Siena, something like home albeit with a semblance of class. 'Three shots for €5.' According to my friend, this was the best deal in town. Although we Americans were drinking in what we simply called 'the shot bar,' it was hardly there simply for tourists. A group of Italians next to us took pleasure in downing shot after shot while watching the U20 World Cup final between Ghana and Brazil. Perhaps it was the ever present American influence that gave rise to a new brand of "drinking to get drunk." Perhaps it was the natural evolution of European integration, Italy just now adapting to typical Eastern European standards, infamous the world over. Either way, the pleasure, warmth and culture of the bar was enticing and I enjoyed every minute.
The weekend in Siena provided me with many things, but first and foremost, it helped the development of prospective; a facet of understanding necessary for any cultural learning. Parma does not epitomize Italy. Parma is central to Italian culture as much as New York is to America. Although we know this on paper, traveling to Siena brought the personal experience necessary to bring those facts up from the semi-conscious world of book-knowledge to in-your-face-real-world knowledge. The thirst for new cities, new feelings and new culture now engulfs me more than ever. I'm provided Europe, replete with just this. But this is a craving never to be completely satisfied. And thus it is meant to be. It's what makes this journey special.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Soccer, Football, Fùtbol, Calcio
Cyprus 2 Italia 3
I've had the pleasure of playing following and generally loving the world's game my whole life. Although the football instruction of America is hardly worthy of European comparison, I slowly developed my own knowledge of the game, one fuzzy televised match at a time. And yet, even in the last few years following football in Europe like Americans follow the NFL or NBA, the football culture in America remains underground. One must go searching for that atmosphere of mutual respect and understanding that only football creates. Pre 21, I was usually confined to my basement, amid a tangle of cords, stretching from a power strip to my computer and finally resting behind the tv, providing me with a laggy, staticy picture to represent the entirety of the English Premier League. Outside, for a football fan in Seattle, you're inclined to stop every person displaying the emblem of your club, seeing as this is often a rare occurance. More often than not, they're just as clueless as to the patch on their chest as to the game that they have decided to advertise that day. It's quite dissapointing.
This is my first journey to Europe and thus, my first direct experience with European football. Perhaps I was disapointed at first. That not everyone played in the streets. Or that not everyone had Parma flags waving from the rooftops. But that disapointment was soon gone. Italians treat football like Americans treat American games such as baseball or basketball. It's not something that's out there every hour of every day. But it's more of an assumed knowlege and assumed passion. Fabio Cannavaro is a nationally recognized name. He, more than Guiseppi Garibaldi, is a national hero.
I attended the last of the group-stage qualifying matches for Italy. Up against relatively diminutive Cyprus, Italy had already secured a spot in the 2010 cup. Unfortunatly, this meant that they rested most of their starters. Buffon, arguably the best keeper in the world currently, sat. But Cannavaro, Iaquinta, Cameranesi, Gilardino and 7 other world class players took the field.
It always stuns me, the beauty that football is capable of on and off the pitch. I witnessed the innagural game for Sounders FC at Quest Field; a sight that brought the MLS commisioner to tears. A sea of green flags, scarves and painted faces. A scene that Frank Lampard of Chelsea FC would later describe as fit to be in Europe. I saw the Sounders take on Champion's League victors, FC Barcelona in a friendly. I witnessed Lionel Messi, Xavi Alonso and Andreas Iniesta effortlessly humble the home team with a continuous stream of beautiful play, pinpoint precision and deadly accuracy. But this past night was the apex.
Not only is international play the best in terms of skill, but it unites countries like nothing else can. The passion that exists in Italy is incredible. From the national anthem American soccer and European football part ways. People scream, people clap and sing at the top of their lungs. The anthem is not just a mandatory homage, it's a rally point for the masses. The game progressed. Fans sat down at points but the attention never snaped from the game at hand. Frequently chants of I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA! would rise from either end of the stadium, engulfing the 22 players on the pitch in a cacaphony of national pride. And when we scored... even down 2-nil... Old men were stirred in to a frenzy next to young girls no older than 10. The energy, joy and pride were ubiquitous. Although I didn't speak Italian, by the virtue that I was emotionally attached to the play as well, I was accepted.
As Italy took the lead in stoppage time, I jumped and shouted with the rest of them. The captain from Cyprus exited the pitch for a substitute, graciously clapping for the Italians who created the atmosphere. In reciprocation, the fans gave him a standing ovation. I couldn't help it. In the face of the passion, the emotion and overwhelming respect for the game I love, I too felt pride in mia Italia.
I've had the pleasure of playing following and generally loving the world's game my whole life. Although the football instruction of America is hardly worthy of European comparison, I slowly developed my own knowledge of the game, one fuzzy televised match at a time. And yet, even in the last few years following football in Europe like Americans follow the NFL or NBA, the football culture in America remains underground. One must go searching for that atmosphere of mutual respect and understanding that only football creates. Pre 21, I was usually confined to my basement, amid a tangle of cords, stretching from a power strip to my computer and finally resting behind the tv, providing me with a laggy, staticy picture to represent the entirety of the English Premier League. Outside, for a football fan in Seattle, you're inclined to stop every person displaying the emblem of your club, seeing as this is often a rare occurance. More often than not, they're just as clueless as to the patch on their chest as to the game that they have decided to advertise that day. It's quite dissapointing.
This is my first journey to Europe and thus, my first direct experience with European football. Perhaps I was disapointed at first. That not everyone played in the streets. Or that not everyone had Parma flags waving from the rooftops. But that disapointment was soon gone. Italians treat football like Americans treat American games such as baseball or basketball. It's not something that's out there every hour of every day. But it's more of an assumed knowlege and assumed passion. Fabio Cannavaro is a nationally recognized name. He, more than Guiseppi Garibaldi, is a national hero.
I attended the last of the group-stage qualifying matches for Italy. Up against relatively diminutive Cyprus, Italy had already secured a spot in the 2010 cup. Unfortunatly, this meant that they rested most of their starters. Buffon, arguably the best keeper in the world currently, sat. But Cannavaro, Iaquinta, Cameranesi, Gilardino and 7 other world class players took the field.
It always stuns me, the beauty that football is capable of on and off the pitch. I witnessed the innagural game for Sounders FC at Quest Field; a sight that brought the MLS commisioner to tears. A sea of green flags, scarves and painted faces. A scene that Frank Lampard of Chelsea FC would later describe as fit to be in Europe. I saw the Sounders take on Champion's League victors, FC Barcelona in a friendly. I witnessed Lionel Messi, Xavi Alonso and Andreas Iniesta effortlessly humble the home team with a continuous stream of beautiful play, pinpoint precision and deadly accuracy. But this past night was the apex.
Not only is international play the best in terms of skill, but it unites countries like nothing else can. The passion that exists in Italy is incredible. From the national anthem American soccer and European football part ways. People scream, people clap and sing at the top of their lungs. The anthem is not just a mandatory homage, it's a rally point for the masses. The game progressed. Fans sat down at points but the attention never snaped from the game at hand. Frequently chants of I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA! would rise from either end of the stadium, engulfing the 22 players on the pitch in a cacaphony of national pride. And when we scored... even down 2-nil... Old men were stirred in to a frenzy next to young girls no older than 10. The energy, joy and pride were ubiquitous. Although I didn't speak Italian, by the virtue that I was emotionally attached to the play as well, I was accepted.
As Italy took the lead in stoppage time, I jumped and shouted with the rest of them. The captain from Cyprus exited the pitch for a substitute, graciously clapping for the Italians who created the atmosphere. In reciprocation, the fans gave him a standing ovation. I couldn't help it. In the face of the passion, the emotion and overwhelming respect for the game I love, I too felt pride in mia Italia.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Settling in
The progression of comfort is a strange creature. Coming to Italy, I knew the stages of development and adjustment I would encounter, but the slow and steady assimilation never ceases to surprise.
It's been just over a month since I arrived in Milan from Seattle. Reflecting on my experience over the past few weeks is odd since I am completely and utterly in tune with my current reality. If there is one thing that linguistic isolation brings, it's clarity. It seems as if nothing much has changed since I've been here. At first glance, my experience in Parma has been static. I feel as if I've been able to loosely communicate in Italian my entire time here. I feel as if I've been in Parma for 4 months, not 4 weeks. But when I select memories from those uncertain weeks I realize the immense proportion of progress I've made since I was here.
When I first arrived, I was completely lost. Although I had the capacity to introduce myself in Italian based upon the memorization of some key phrases on the 10 hour plane ride, I could only bumble in English when meeting new people. I was easily flustered and very reserved.
Midway through, language classes were always a roller coaster. Some days I felt strongly that I was learning Italian and some days I felt like I understood nothing. More often than not, I would change my mind about my level multiple times in 3 hours.
Often times in the past few weeks, when approched by Italians and addressed, I've internalized enough to communicate my lack of language skills and basically why I'm in Parma.
In retrospect it's a blur. It's trite, but it simply doesn't feel like just 4 weeks. My progression hasn't been immense, but it's been enough. Enough to change my status from complete isolation and timidity, to comfort in a not-so-long-ago foreign city. Of course, I'm a long way off from complete certainty and knowlege. A lifetime is not enough to understand this country, but I'm working with the time I've been handed.
It's been just over a month since I arrived in Milan from Seattle. Reflecting on my experience over the past few weeks is odd since I am completely and utterly in tune with my current reality. If there is one thing that linguistic isolation brings, it's clarity. It seems as if nothing much has changed since I've been here. At first glance, my experience in Parma has been static. I feel as if I've been able to loosely communicate in Italian my entire time here. I feel as if I've been in Parma for 4 months, not 4 weeks. But when I select memories from those uncertain weeks I realize the immense proportion of progress I've made since I was here.
When I first arrived, I was completely lost. Although I had the capacity to introduce myself in Italian based upon the memorization of some key phrases on the 10 hour plane ride, I could only bumble in English when meeting new people. I was easily flustered and very reserved.
Midway through, language classes were always a roller coaster. Some days I felt strongly that I was learning Italian and some days I felt like I understood nothing. More often than not, I would change my mind about my level multiple times in 3 hours.
Often times in the past few weeks, when approched by Italians and addressed, I've internalized enough to communicate my lack of language skills and basically why I'm in Parma.
In retrospect it's a blur. It's trite, but it simply doesn't feel like just 4 weeks. My progression hasn't been immense, but it's been enough. Enough to change my status from complete isolation and timidity, to comfort in a not-so-long-ago foreign city. Of course, I'm a long way off from complete certainty and knowlege. A lifetime is not enough to understand this country, but I'm working with the time I've been handed.
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