Reflection

I set out on this adventure with nothing more ambitious than the will to explore. I had not taken a Spanish class in four years, no experience translating, I was only casually acquainted with poetry, and I had never heard of Rafael Alberti. Consumed by wanderlust, I applied to the program hoping for the opportunity not just to travel in Europe, but even more so for the opportunity to explore the Spanish language in a format I was unfamiliar with.

This particular seminar serves Spanish and Italian students well, and I felt out of place. I was a political science student, returning to school to complete a second degree in journalism… Spanish and poetry had very little to do with my academic ambitions and everything to do with my personal wishes. I love language and tried to convince myself that my contribution to the group, to compensate for my unrefined Spanish, would be my enthusiasm and passion for the language and the culture. I was definitely nervous about how I would fit in—I’m older than most of the students and I was certain that they would all be fluent with perfect grammar. I resolved myself to make friends with the Italian students so that we could struggle together!

I think perhaps it was my decision to emphasize my affinity for exploring and experiencing new cultures that led me to my blog. I have always kept a journal and I love to write. I was so excited about this seminar, despite my inhibitions, and all of my friends and family truly seemed to share that joy with me as I prepared for departure. Unexpectedly, my grandmother, whom I was very close to, passed away a few days before I flew to Madrid. I seriously considered canceling my trip, but my entire family, aunts, uncles, cousins, encouraged me to go anyway. I left my grandmother’s funeral and went straight to the airport and until I landed in Madrid I was still uncertain that I could do this. I was terrified at the idea of leaving my family, my mother especially, during such a time of grief. I felt selfish and guilty. But everyone close to me had been so insistent that I continue with my plans to travel and study and I wanted some way to include them in my adventure.

I started to blog. It was so easy and natural and allowed me to write about my experiences in a format that was easy for my family and friends to access at their convenience. I could include photos and links and the best part was that no one had to feel guilty if they didn’t have time to read! Unknowingly I took on a project that connected my academic pursuits—journalism—to my personal ones; I was travel-writing. But the blog format was not a perfect way to communicate the true value of this seminar. Perhaps, just as Alberti needed the fusion of words and image, I needed some sort of hybrid too.

Alberti truly acted as an ambassador for me. I have been lucky enough to travel quite a bit in my life already, but I’ve always had the fortune of choosing where I go. Carrying around this internal conflict of wanting to be home, caring for my family, and wanting very much to just let myself enjoy traveling was not easy. I began to understand what Alberti must have lived with, the sense of belonging in one place, but occupying another. It would have been easy for me to allow my grandmother’s passing to displace my enthusiasm for this seminar, but it would have been a static and ineffective choice. I found tremendous inspiration in Alberti’s ability to seek new life and happiness in the cities he came to live in after he defected from Spain.

The time we spent in Spain, most importantly in Cádiz, brought Alberti to life. His love of the sea, of the rhythm of Spanish life, of southern culture and mysticism, of fish and wind, these quickly became grand, tangible characters to me and I fell in love with them too. Suddenly I no longer felt the heavy pull to be at home in Seattle with my family, I wanted to stay, to belong to this beautiful place. I realized, slowly at first, that we will all carry joy and sadness within us for the duration of our lives. How we assimilate the two, how we balance and manage this dialectic will determine the path and quality of our days.
Alberti never moved on, or got over Spain, he never forgot his love for his home, his family, his childhood. Despite his exile, Alberti found poetry and rhythm and life in Rome. He wrote of Rome, in the poems we translated, as another dichotomy—he both loved and hated the city, embraced and denied her. But I never actually believed that his arboleta perdida was ever truly lost. I thought he must have carried it with him always, just as he carried his love for la vida gaditana through to his return to his country later in his life. He must have always loved María Teresa, even when she passed, even when he remarried. From Alberti I learned that we don’t need to move on or away from things we loved or things that were painful, we simply need to accept them so that we can carry them with us, taking our home wherever we may be.

As I walked around Rome in the evening and came upon the Trevi Fountain I suddenly knew that I had brought my grandmother and my family with me. I carried them with me to see Guernica, to see Velasquez and Goya, to see the Atlantic stretch on forever, to see the Pantheon and the Sistine Chapel, to see me throw two coins over my shoulder into the water of the Trevi. One to return to Rome, and one for everyone at home who should come here and see for themselves what poets have been writing about for ages.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

I sneak into the Rome Center to use their internet, but run out of time to get any real work done before I have to meet the girls at the Bruno statue. We’re going out to lunch and then we’re walking up the Gianocolo together to meet for class at the Spanish Embassy so we can rehearse our poetry reading.

We do a couple runs through, and it seems pretty smooth for everyone. I’m really excited, but I’m trying to tell myself that it’s not going to be as big of a deal as I may think. I’ll have to keep remembering to slow down my reading. It’s poetry, after all, every word is meant to count.

I don’t have time to explore today, I have work to do!

Dinner is just me and Dave, we eat a zucchini frittata and spaghetti pomodoro—delicious!

Tomorrow will most likely be all work too, sorry!

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

I meet a bunch of girls down at Campo de’ Fiori. We’re determined to see the Sistine Chapel today. I mean to take a scarf or a t-shirt to cover my shoulders, but I forget in my hurry to have enough time to buy a bus pass since mine just expired.

We meet without fuss and walk to the Vatican together, consumed, the entire time, with worrying that they won’t let us into the museum with bare shoulders. We try to convince ourselves that no, it’s just the Basilica that you need appropriate dress for… but we’re really not so sure. I at least wore jeans to cover up those sinful knees of mine. But of course, when we round the final corner to enter the museum, there’s a moment of relief because there’s no real line, but guard won’t let my naked shoulders pass.

Out of the corner of my eye I spy a little shop across the street with cheap scarves hanging in the window. I take off, dodging traffic with practiced apathy, and pick a pretty scarf and plunk down my coin. I run back to meet the girls, who are waiting for me, and drape the scarf over my shoulders. I do a little model pose and a half twirl for the guard, asking, “How’s this, better?” He smiles and actually blushes as he says, “Perfect. Thank you very much.” I’m sort of touched by how genuine he is and throw him another shoulder toss as I say “Of course! Of course!” and pass on through.



I try my best to get us a cheap school group rate, but we would need to show a letter from our university (fat chance) so we all just rally to pay for our individual entry fees. Fourteen euro is a small fortune, but it’s the Sistine Chapel for St. Pete’s sake, so what can you do? I get up to the ticketing booth and plunk down my 20 euro bill and the man in the booth points to a small sign with a photo of the International Student Card which not only do I not have with me, but I never actually put my photo in it or signed it so I’m not sure it would work anyway. I shake my head and pull a pouty face. He laughs and exclaims, “Bella!” then asks me how old I am. Remembering that student discounts in Europe are only good up to a certain age, I lie and tell him I’m twenty-two. He laughs at me again, shakes his head and says, “No, no, eighteen maybe!” takes my twenty and gives me ten back in change—charging me the student discount fee. I thank him and he winks and me as he says, “Ciao, bella!” I like to call that the blonde discount. It’s good all over Italy and most parts of Spain.





It takes forever to get to the Sistine Chapel. I’m sure there’s a direct route, but they make us carve through this maze of a route. We’re all getting impatient and it’s crowded and hot and we just want to see the ceiling and get out of there… Cortney keeps asking, is this it? And it never is. I tell her, just wait, suddenly everyone will be looking straight up.



Sure enough we enter the Sistine Chapel and everyone is craning their necks up. The guards are screaming “SILENCIO” at the top of their lungs, the irony of which is not lost on me, but I’m worried if I snicker that I’ll be thrown in the dungeon at the Castel Sant’ Angelo. You know, the Sistine Chapel is smaller than I expected. It’s different. I’m glad I saw it, especially because Tony told us all that if we go to Rome and don’t see the Sistine Chapel we’re sure to burn in hell. Well, all I know is that St. Peter, the holy bouncer, holds the keys to heaven and I have a sneaking suspicion he’ll rather hear from me that I went to his church and rubbed a little more of his foot off…



As we exit, we stop in at the Vatican post office. I write out a quick note to Grandpa Rolly, since he used to collect stamps and mail it right there. The Vatican, being sovereign and not actually a part of Rome or Italy or any nation, has its own postage currency and its own postmark. Basically, because Vatican City is about five square miles, that means that this is one of the rarest postmarks in the world. Well, probably not considering how many tourists come through here with the same idea as me!



We hustle back to Campo de’ Fiori to meet with Tony and Giuseppe for our individual conferences about our final projects. There’s still so much work to be done!

I head home early to get cracking on my work. Dave and Paola and I have a lovely dinner of gnocchi with a combination sauce of pomodoro and pesto. I’m up late working, but that’s how it goes… play hard, work harder.

Monday, September 8, 2008

We meet for class at Piazza Farnese. I arrive early because I’ve mastered the bus routes and now know how to reduce my walking on the way to class to three city blocks. Jennifer and Alan arrive and I’m so excited to meet him. They’re coming for dinner at the house tonight and I can’t wait!

Giuseppe is our troop-leader today; Tony is off on important business. We set out for the Ghetto, the original Ghetto, Rome’s Jewish quarter. The neighborhood looks beautiful, but Giuseppe reminds us that not very long ago the entire quarter was enclosed with fences that were locked at curfew. Worse, whenever Jews left the Ghetto they were required to wear a yellow hat to reveal themselves as different. The synagogue, a stoic building, sits at the end of the quarter, near the river. A giant iron fence with mounted surveillance cameras surrounds it and a guard sits in a little booth on the corner. Giuseppe explains that only a few years ago someone set off a bomb in the front of the building and since then the Synagogue has no longer been open to the public.



We walk around the building, and Giuseppe points out a dedication to the lives lost in the holocaust. I’m struck by the absence of any acknowledgment of the part Italy played in the tragedies of World War II and the holocaust. In fact, I’m suddenly a little unnerved by it. The United States has many powerful monuments, memorials, and museums to recognize one of the most world-altering eras in history, despite our limited participation in the conflict. Germany had made a conscious effort to place plaques, dedications, memorials, and museums everywhere to ensure that history is not forgotten, that mistakes are not denied nor repeated. But Italy? In fact, the only memorials or museums are those belonging to the Synagogue here in the Ghetto. I’m a little disgusted. Especially because Italians are not shy about their continued prejudice against Jews.

We leave the Ghetto and I’m almost certain that progress in this city, once the center of the world, halted a long time ago.




We walk along the river until we arrive at a park with two temples. This is where Hercules docked in Rome, bringing the first cows to sell at market and establishing the very first stock-trade. This is the spot where the twins, Romulus and Remus were found by the she-wolf (or old mother she-wolf, if you prefer). Giuseppe points out the hills of Rome rising around us. Atop one once lay the Jewish cemetery, then it became the center for the Knights of Malta, and now a residential area home to the wealthy.



We don’t have far to go to reach the Greek Orthodox church, most notably home to the Boca della Verità. We line up for our chance to put our hand in the mouth, legend states that if you put your hand in and you have a dishonest soul, the face will bite off your hand. Giuseppe assures us that it’s just a legend, but we all joke about whom to bet on for losing their hand…





We walk to Circus Maximus, the scene of that great chariot race in Ben-Hur. It’s just a really big field and even though it would be cruel in this heat, I wish there were horses to rent so I could tear around the track. To the far end of the field, opposite us, one could reach the Appian Way—the very first freeway and the road all great heroes took when returning to Rome.



This is Roma Antigua, where ancient temples lie in ruin or became the skeletal structures for new churches. We pass a massive amphitheater and the last-standing corners of temples, jutting out like cracked teeth. We walk between the amphitheater and the ruin of an old temple that may or may not be in the process of restoration. Blonde Megan notices bones spilling out of a disturbed grave… this city is old.





We walk to the Campidoglio, the capitol building, where the original statue of the she-wolf rests safely in a museum. The courtyard and building layout were designed by Michelangelo, who I jokingly call the Paul Revere of Rome (I think only Gretchen will get that). From the back of the Campidoglio we can see a view of the form and the Colosseum. It’s incredible. Giuseppe points out the tomb of Romulus where people continue to leave flowers to this day.






After this, it’s time for gelato and some shade. Then a few of us girls set out to see the tomb of Rafael, housed discretely in the Pantheon. We’ve seen plenty for today and head home. Jennifer and Alan arrive and we all sit down to eat a lovely dinner of spaghetti carbonara (Paola leaves the meat out of mine!) and then head out for gelato. I’m so excited to chat with Alan, since Jennifer has told me so many wonderful things about him, that I’m pretty sure I talk his ear off!

It was a nice evening and I hug Jennifer goodbye—she and Alan are leaving soon for Madrid and I probably won’t see her til I’m stateside in two weeks. It seems like so far off, but time goes quickly.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

I wake up way too early for how late I was out. It’s insanely hot and I’m pretty sure I’ve been sweating all night. I get up and eat breakfast and then lie about the house trying to find any place with cool ventilation. It’s impossible, even the fans seem to make it worse. The weight of the humid air is oppressive and I miss the beach in Spain terribly. I’m feeling sorry for myself when Alice asks me if I have seen one of the cats. Piggy is missing and we can hear him crying, but he’s nowhere to be found. Paola, Alice, and I look all over the apartment for almost an hour. Then I hear sounds of triumph and Alice consoling the poor cat. Davide left early this morning for the south of Italy, where he will begin training with the National Military Service. He slept on the pullout bed in the living room last night and apparently when Paola folded the bed up, Piggy was inside the couch and was trapped there for hours this morning! I’m the only one who thinks this is hilarious, so I laugh to myself about it.

Paola goes out to walk Billi, and when she returns she tells me that it’s too hot to go out and no humans are outside. Later in the afternoon, Dave and I venture out for gelato and discover that Paola is in fact right. There are almost no people out. The stores are closed, the streets are deserted. It’s like the scene after the zombies attack.

We enjoy our ice cream and then go back to the house to be miserable in the heat. It’s a long way to dinner and it’s too hot to eat anyway. I’m relieved that dinner is light, lox, ricotta and grilled eggplant. Then I hit the sack, trying to ignore the weather.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

I meet the girls in Campo de’ Fiori and we hit the pavement to do a little sight-seeing and some souvenir shopping. Saturday is not the day to be out and about in Rome. There are so many people and the traffic is awful so getting anywhere on the bus takes forever. The shops are crowded and the sights are impossible. We wander in and out of churches and walk then entire length of Via del Corso, passing by the Spanish Steps which are swarming with tourists.

We cut the day short, it’s too hot, and we’re going to meet up later anyway. At home I eat saffron risotto with Alice and Davide. It’s the best thing I’ve had to eat so far. Paola is not eating with us because she has a date with her regazzo! She’s getting done up in a little black dress and has these incredible shoes on. After she leaves the kids fill me in on her boyfriend. Apparently he’s a body-builder type and looks a bit like Sylvester Stallone so they call him “Sly.”

Billi, the dog, is not too happy to have his mama out of the house and starts to get even more worried when I get ready to go out.

I meet up with the girls at Piazza Trilussa which appears to be an established hangout for the scrappy youth of Rome. We walk all over, ducking into various bars and clubs until we end up at yet another Irish bar. I walk in and immediately walk out. It’s all Americans and totally overcrowded. We stand outside and I practice my Italian with some locals, mixing in Spanish when I have to. I have more fun standing outside the bar chatting in crummy Italian that I had anywhere else. I’m even more determined to learn the language.

Friday, September 5, 2008

I meet Carin at Bar Biscione, where we’ve been meeting for class. It’s directly across the way from the UW Rome Center and I managed to get the password for their wireless network so we can jack internet from them, even though they’ve shunned us and won’t even let me in to puke in their bathroom…

Cortney is supposed to be meeting us too, but after an hour of waiting, we figure, she must be sleeping. No big deal. As I check my email and all that good stuff—wasting time, like one can only do on the internet—I get an email from Cortney, who did oversleep and feels awful. So of course, being the hardworking genius, she immediately gets tough on our sonnet and starts sending me all of these incredible solutions she’s had for some of our problems. With Cortney’s long-distance help we are able to finish a much stronger draft of our sonnet.

We linger around this café enough that one of the servers makes friends with us, especially when we learn she’s from Columbia and she learns that most of us speak Spanish! Wendy is her name and she and I hit it off immediately. She invites all of the girls to come out dancing with her tonight. She and I exchange phone numbers and make arrangements to meet later.

I do nothing but homework until it’s time for dinner. Paola is surprised to see me home early and comes into my room to ask me if I’m okay! She’s so sweet and I try to explain in my faltering beginner’s Italian that I have piles of homework. She understands and offers to make me some coffee!

I eat with just Alice, Davide, and Paola tonight, Jennifer has left to stay at a friend’s apartment until her husband, Alan comes to join her and the other American student, Dave, is eating out. We eat ensalata buffalo which is basically fresh tomato and mozzarella and amazingly enough I think the tomatoes are really good!

Then it’s time to get dolled up and hit the town!

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Today, for class, we have tutorial sessions to go over our sonnets. Carin and Cortney and I have been really struggling with our second sonnet. We don’t like it in the original text and it’s proving to be incredibly difficult because of the inclusion of some Spanish words that cannot actually be translated to English. What’s worse is when we sit down with Tony and Giuseppe we discover that we’ve completely mistranslated the first stanza. Some of the other stuff is okay, but we’re in pretty bad shape.

We’re all horribly frustrated because we were proud of what we accomplished with the first sonnet and we’ve worked really hard at this second one. We knew it wasn’t great, but we weren’t prepared to be so off-base. Basically, we have to more or less scrap what we have and start over.

We hammer away at it as much as we can, but there’s not a whole lot to be accomplished after such a devastating blow to our fragile translator egos. So we agree to meet tomorrow, our day off, to have a fresh crack at our sonnet.

It’s pesto for dinner, which is a happy change from tomato… I have a hard time, but when in Rome…

*I managed to only take one photo today. I think it sums up nicely how my group was feeling about our second sonnet. This is a photo of the window sill next to me when I sat down on the bus this morning!

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

My day starts off pretty rough. We’re meeting for class at two in Piazza Farnese, so I decide to take the morning to wander around the city. I’m not feeling well, but refuse to miss a day of sight-seeing, so I just keep on marching. I duck into a church that appears to be open to the public. It’s one of the most important Jesuit churches in the world, little did I know. It’s absolutely beautiful, but I feel very out of place, I know nothing about the Jesuit faith and have no idea what a lot of the art and décor in the church is about. For instance, there are what appear to be silver ornaments in the shape of the sacred heart hung everywhere in the church. Why would anyone need so many silver sacred hearts? I still don’t know. As I wander around I notice that something isn’t quite right with the cupola. As I walk across the church floor beneath it I realize that it’s not a cupola at all, but a shallow dome painted in forced perspective to appear to people in the pews as if it were this towering and grand cupola! I’m tickled to discover this and try to take some good photos of it—my dad will appreciate this trick since it’s one commonly used in building train sets.

I’m really not feeling well after I leave the church and I walk to Campo de’ Fiori to see if I can go puke in the restroom at the UW Rome Center. I hike up four flights of stairs and buzz the office… no one will let me in. I sit on the steps and wait for the dizziness to pass and then try buzzing again. No one lets me in. I set out on a mission to find Diet Coke at any cost. Well, here in Europe it’s Coca-Light, which is better than Diet Coke. It definitely helps my stomach and I feel more like I can make it through the day. I meet a few of the girls at the Bruno statue in the middle of Campo de’ Fiori to go get pizza at “My Friend.” Carin leads the way and we all stuff ourselves with huge chunks of spinach or potato pizza. It’s so good, I almost forget the awful heat… almost.

We meet with the rest of the group and set off for the Vatican. We cross the river by Castel d Sant’ Angelo, a onetime prison, then safe house for the pope, now a museum. As we come upon the wide via leading to St. Peter’s square, Giuseppe stops us so we can take in the view. Mussolini clear-cut this route, knocking down buildings and whatever stood in the way to build a road leading to the Vatican in an effort to connect the city to the church. I couldn’t help but think of standing at Drumheller fountain on UW campus and thinking of how the university holds a view easement, forever connecting the campus to Mt. Ranier. I don’t intend that comparison to carry any disrespect.

Tony suggests that we take a good look at St. Peter’s square, it has been designed so that when completely packed with people, no matter where a person stands they will always have a clear view of the pope. I’m not sure exactly how that’s supposed to work, it seems to me more like St. Peter’s square was designed like the drain in a public shower—everything curves into the center where the giant obelisk stands. St. Peter’s Basilica crowns the Piazza with the great curving arms of the magnificent colonnades embracing it from either side. While we snap away with our cameras, I can’t help myself and challenge a few of the girls to tell their most offensive Jesus jokes… which we do. Having gotten that out of our system we are now ready to buckle down for a little class-work. We sit on the stairs in the shade of one of the colonnades and work on our translations, hoping the line to enter the basilica will peter out (pun intended, or as Carin would say, “I’m punny”).

At about four we all book it across the square to get in line before the call for last-admittance. There are still lots of people waiting to enter, but the line is moving quickly. Rikki and I go in together, having a little laugh as we pass a family berating one of their kids for wearing inappropriate clothing. In order to enter the basilica you have to cover your knees, your shoulders, and your breasts (basically anything round). We pass through without trouble, but do get to see some people turned away for sinfully bearing their knobby knees or sunburned shoulders.

I have to say, St. Peter’s Basilica does not make my top five list. I mean, I don’t actually have a list of my favorite churches, not being someone who feels particularly at home or even all that welcome in churches. This one is massive and contains many beautiful things, but it seems daunting and impersonal to me. I can’t shake the feeling that someone was just trying a little too hard, instead of letting the beauty of one’s faith dictate how the church should come together. Perhaps that’s too romanticized of an idea for how to build a church…

The Vatican, and the Catholic Church as an entity and faith remain a little mysterious to me. Walking through the little alcoves dedicated to various saints I felt the same way I did when I toured the Mayan ruins in the Yucatan. I have only a very vague idea of what it represents, and no actual understanding of what any of it means. I was slightly relieved that I did understand the story behind the great altar in the center of the cross (St. Peter’s like many churches, sort of lies on a floor plan shaped like a cross). The story goes like this, according to me: Once upon a time some man discovered a tomb and the words “here lies Peter.” Having deduced from history that this was more or less in the vicinity of where Peter, disciple to Jesus, was crucified, this man concluded that the tomb must be that of St. Peter. The church was erected to encapsulate the resting place of Peter, considered to be the first Pope and most commonly identified as heaven’s bouncer.

There is a modest statue of St. Peter, placed just to the side of the altar over his tomb, where people come from all over the world to touch or kiss St. Peter’s feet. The right foot of the statue, which is most prominent, has been worn away from the hands of all of the pilgrims who have come to pay respect (or maybe just out of tradition) and have rubbed off a good quarter of the foot. Someone told me that the foot has been replaced once before…

I’m standing with some of the girls and Tony joins our group. I’m staring at this enormous statue of a saint, a woman running with what looks like a shawl in her hands. I’m not totally certain, but it looks like someone penciled in a face on the shawl… could there be graffiti in the Vatican? I ask the group, “Does anyone else see that face drawn on this gal’s shawl, or am I nuts?” Tony looks at me and says, “That’s the Veronica.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. Tony regales us with the story of Veronica, who ran to Christ’s side when he was crucified and wiped the sweat from his face, leaving the last portrait of Jesus (in sweat, albeit) on her shawl. This is not to be confused with the Turin Shroud (I asked). I’m still unclear on how this qualifies Veronica for sainthood, but perhaps I’ll wikipedia that later…

Once we’ve cleared the basilica, we collect again in the colonnade to go over the recitation of our poems in Spanish and Italian. We will be hosting a reading at the end of our seminar. Each group will read one sonnet and one poem in the original Spanish and Italian and then in our English translation. Because Tony and Giuseppe have invited our host families as well as some very important people in Rome, we must make sure that we don’t sound like idiots. That means practice, practice, practice!

After class dismisses, a few of us stick around. Carin has promised to lead us to San Crispino—the best gelato joint in Rome. Cortney, Carin, Isar, Courtney and I set off for the Trevi Fountain neighborhood. We pass the Trevi, without looking or stopping and book it for gelato. The San Crispino speciality is the honey gelato, which I try and determine is “interesting,” but not for me. I do get the chocolate meringue, which is exquisite. I can’t stay, I have to be home for dinner, so I take off for the bus.

When I get back we’re eating in the kitchen, crammed in the little space to enjoy pasta and gnocchi with clams, mozzarella, and tomato—it’s incredible! Tonight we’re going to see Kung-Fu Panda at the movie theater. Paola’s son, Davide, is going with us and the five of us pile into their teeny-tiny car. Davide, Alice, Jennifer, Dave, and me! Jennifer and I get Cipsters (pronounced Chipsters) and Fanta to enjoy during our movie. The entire flick is in Italian and I’m thrilled that I can understand almost all of it. Of course, it helps that it’s a Disney movie and written to ensure the comprehension by small children. I love it and can’t wait to see it in English, just to make sure I really got it all.

Then, home to bed!

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

I wake up this morning and I can’t find my contact lenses. I search everywhere, but I remember putting them down, in their little case (obviously), on top of my book on the floor next to my bed. I’m almost 100% certain that one of the three cats carried it off. There’s Piggy, Princess Leia, and Gourdzo. I’m betting on Gourdzo, he often likes to steal Billi’s toys and he’s the one who wakes me up in the middle of the night by jumping on me while I sleep. Oh well, I crack open a new pair and remind myself to buy a new case today.

Jennifer and I head into the city way ahead of schedule today. We want to have time to really look at the Pantheon, especially since discovering that there are very few people there in the morning. As I wander around, admiring the incredible marble used to construct the interior facades, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed that there’s no way to see what it once looked like with all of the Roman gods represented. I imagine that there must have been mosaics and great statues of the gods where the altars to various catholic saints now sit. I imagine it was a little simpler too, perhaps a design that allowed the marble to bring the beauty. Catholic interior decorating seems to leave all the churches and cathedrals with a cluttered appearance as gilded this and that and various figures and paintings and tapestries are all crammed in together. In my mind the beauty of the original Pantheon must have been in its simplicity and inherent grandeur.

[SIDE NOTE: Later Giuseppe tells me that most of the Pantheon was originally plated with brass. But then the Catholics ripped that out to use in the construction of St. Peter’s Basilica. Even if it’s recycling, I still consider that pillaging.]



Jennifer and I trace our now usual route to Campo de’ Fiori, but instead of going through Piazza Navona we take a left a little early and stumble upon a church tucked back in a courtyard. I remember “accidents” like this from my trip to Florence. Italy is old enough that simply by wandering one is guaranteed to run into beautiful and very old relics. We take photos, but there’s no time to linger, class does not wait for us!



Today we are off to visit Piazza Belli G. Gioachino, named for the great Roman poet. There is, of course, a statue dedicated to the man and we gather around it, but it’s awfully hard to concentrate in the oppressive heat and humidity. The sonnets that we will be translating from Alberti’s collection Roma, Peligro para Caminantes, are all accompanied by epigraphs by Belli. He was a great inspiration for Alberti and so we linger around the monument until the rivers of our own sweat threaten to wash us away.

We have a long trek up to the Spanish Embassy, and lots of translating work ahead of us. Today, the Embassy is open and we are able to collect in a small courtyard with a tiny basilica in the center. It’s actually quite beautiful and we’re allowed to take some photos before we have to get down to business.



Today we will learn about sonnets. I think most of our group has been feeling quite intimidated by the task of translating two of Alberti’s sonnets. We struggled with the two free-verse poems and now we must take on poems with very specific structure, cadence, and value.

The most important aspect of the sonnet is its sound; it’s supposed to be lyrical. In the romance languages each verse contains eleven syllables and is composed of two quatrains (four verses) and two triplets (three verses). There are various rhyming schemes (ABBA, AABB, ABAB), but there are also rules about where the stresses fall in the words. In Spanish (and I can’t speak for Italian), these rules seem fairly simple because word structure in the language is more or less patterned and regular. In English, well, we don’t really have much of a system having borrowed so many words and roots of words from so many languages. The rules in English, therefore, are different.

In English the sonnet is written in iambic pentameter (think Shakespeare*). Each line of verse must contain five metrical feet. One metrical foot consists of a short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable—this is also called an iamb. Basically, each line of the sonnet must have five iambs. Here are some definitions to really confuse things:

Iambic: of or using iambs.

Iambs: a metrical foot consisting of one short (or unstressed) syllable followed by one long (or stressed) syllable.

Pentameter: a line of verse consisting of five metrical feet, or (in Greek and Latin verse) of two halves each of two feet and a long syllable.

Metrical: of, relating to, or composed in poetic meter.

Meter: the rhythm of a piece of poetry, determined by the number and length of feet in a line.

Feet: a group of syllables constituting a metrical unit. In English poetry it consists of stressed and unstressed syllables, while in ancient classical poetry it consists of long and short syllables.

*Shakespeare wrote in the Elizabethan sonnet, which was in iambic pentameter and consisted of three quatrains and a final couplet with the rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG.

So now that we’re all equally confused… Let’s throw some history on top of it. Sonnets originated in Latin-based language, which would explain why the lyrical element seems much easier in Spanish and Italian. Giuseppe and Tony throw a bunch of names at us in a quick-dose background of the sonnet. Most important to note is the incredible impact Dante Alighieri’s work had on the world of poetry, and the Italian language itself. In fact, through the sonnet and his Divine Comedy, Dante established a single dialect that evolved into present day Italian. He wrote in the spoken language of the people, and as a political theory student I can assure you that nothing unifies a people or a country as fiercely as a common language.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) added the passion to the sonnet through his famous Canzoniere, which is a loving ode to a woman named Laura. And it was Garcilaso de la Vega who established the sonnet in Spain. It might be important to keep in mind that Dante was writing in about 1309, Petrarca was writing in about 1351, and de la Vega was writing in the early 1500’s. In England, Shakespeare was writing in the late 1500’s. There was no, literally no, established American literature or poetry during the lives of any of these poets—the United States would not exist for more than a hundred and fifty years after Shakespeare’s death. That’s a tremendous amount of history and tradition all weighing down on our little minds as we bend over our text to begin translating our first sonnets.

In fact, Carin and Cortney and I continue to stare at our text and our blank sheet of paper for a half an hour while everyone around us at least looks like they’re making wonderful progress. Carin is pissed, Cortney is confused, I’m discouraged, we’re non-functional.

We leave with nothing on paper. We wander down the hill of the Gianocolo, sort of shaking our heads, still stunned by the daunting task at hand. I keep thinking of our sonnet, trying to rework our rough English translation into something that might fit our meter requirements. I keep rolling words around in my head, scribbling little notes down when I think something might be a good start…

We stop at a small gelato joint and Carin and Cortney and I are determined to crack this thing. However, before we can get started, Giuseppe has taken it upon himself to help me get a new SIM card for my cell phone. I had asked him one little innocent question about cell phones earlier, but Giuseppe is very self-sacrificing in his quest to make sure that each one of us is safe and taken care of and really gets the opportunity to find joy in this trip. So the next thing I know, Giuseppe is leading me down this long, long street to an electronics store to help me run my errand! Unfortunately we get the Gomer Pile of electronics salesmen and it takes him about a half an hour to not help me at all before Giuseppe and I cut and run. I keep scribbling my notes the entire time.

When we finally meet back with my group I can tell that the little breather has been good for all of us. I’m pretty thrilled to be able to sit down with Cortney and Carin and show them that I’ve made some progress and it might actually be possible to translate a sonnet after all! Bolstered by my rough notes, we manage to translate the entire first sonnet. And not just a rough translation either, we OWN IT. In fact, we’re so proud of ourselves that we enjoy a rollicking round of high fives and congratulate each other with sickeningly sweet praise.

Now we’re on a roll and pretty much consider ourselves master-translators, so we set in on our second sonnet. Unfortunately we don’t actually like this one as much as the first, not in the original text, and definitely not in our rough translations. This second sonnet is much, much more difficult. So we get as far as we can and decide to plug away at it again later… we’re way ahead of schedule anyway, so why kill ourselves today?

Here is the original text of our first sonnet:

V
Vida Poética

Siempre andar de bajada o de subida.
Entrar, salir y entrar… Ir al Mercado.
¿A cómo están los huevos? ¿Y el pescado?
Se va en comer y en descomer la vida.

Ir a los templos, y la fe perdida.
Sentirse el alma allí gato encerrado.
Volver al aire… Beber vino aguado…
Ir al río… Y de Nuevo, a la comida.

Leer el diario y lamentar que todo
si no es papel higiénico es retrete,
crimen, vómito, incienso, servilleta.

Llorar porque no ha sido de otro modo
lo que ya se fue en panza y en moflete…
Esta en Roma es la vida de un poeta.

Here is our English translation:



When I get home dinner is waiting for me—cannelloni and peas! I scarf the cannelloni and eat the peas (even though I hate peas) and even though it’s a huge meal, there’s always room for gelato! Afterwards, Jennifer and I stay up in the living room, stubbornly working on our sonnets. I manage to complete a first draft of our second sonnet and feel triumphant, despite knowing that it’s pretty forced and is going to need a huge amount of work—but that’s what group work is all about! After our poetry cram session I crash hard; tomorrow there’s a lot to see!

Monday, September 1, 2008

Jennifer and I catch the bus on the early side so that we can peek in the Pantheon on the way to meet with our group. It’s absolutely gorgeous inside, despite having been converted from the original temple to a catholic church. When we arrive at Campo de’ Fiori I nearly walk right through it without stopping. The morning market is set up and there are huge umbrellas with fruit and vegetable stands beneath them and crates of tourist crap to buy. Everyone has made it to Campo de’ Fiori, except for Cortney. We start to worry because she speaks zero words of Italian and we all live so far from the city center that the realistic threat of getting lost is a major one. Carin, in particular, who roomed with Cortney in Cádiz, is worried, which means we’re all worried because Carin is kind of the rock.



Cortney shows up, looking totally cute, and completely loving Italy. She loves the food, loves the wine, loves her host family… we’re all relieved, because, well, we love Cortney.



With the whole group assembled we set off on our little walking tour. We walk through the Piazza Farnese, where the French Embassy is located and take a right onto Monseratto, the street where Alberti lived. We have a little ways to go and discover that Italian streets are numbered funny. On the old streets the would start on one side til they ran out of numbers and then just keep going on the other side, so that one runs up going one direction and the other runs up going the opposite direction. We come to Monseratto 20 and stand outside taking photos like mad tourists. Blonde Megan notices a man peering out at us from a window high up in the building. No one else seems to notice. The man comes down and speaks with Giuseppe and all of a sudden we’re being ushered into this private residence by the handsome stranger from the window on high.





This man grew up in the building and his family lived here for years and knew Alberti well. He invites us into the small courtyard in the building and then to view the garden out back. The man brings out a drawing by Alberti, a gift to his family. With the promise of being quiet to respect the other residents, we are able to climb the stairs to Alberti’s apartment and trace the walk down the flights to the main floor—in essence, the opening lines of that first poem we translated. Here we are, living the poem.





The reliefs are incredible and I try to photograph as many as I can, but the walls of the stairwell are peppered with them. I keep scanning them as I climb up, hoping to find the one Alberti mentions depicts Leda and Zeus disguised as the swan. Finally, as I slowly descend the stairs, trying to recall lines from the poem from memory, I spot the small relief of Leda and her seducer. That, for me, was a sort of Rosetta stone for Alberti’s work. I wrote before about how the boat ride to Puerto de Santa Maria brought Alberti’s memoirs to life for me, well, this staircase, and specifically this one relief brought his poems to life. I know the man lived; now his art and his words live too.





I can’t imagine living in such a magical building. I wonder which of the reliefs were Alberti’s favorites, perhaps the ones he mentions specifically in his poem, or maybe some he kept to himself. I can imagine, if I lived here in this building, that I might search for a new secret from the art in the walls every time I climbed or came down the stairs. I’m certain I would have one favorite, a single depiction of a myth or historical battle that I would look for every time I passed it. Sadly, I can’t stay long enough to pick my own favorite.



With many thanks to the man from the window we depart the building and collect in Piazza di Ricci, across the street. Tony reads Monseratto 20 in Spanish and Giuseppe reads it in Italian. Now we all have real, specific, almost tangible images to connect with Alberti’s words. It’s almost like being let in on a secret, like cheating in a way. Poetry always seems to be this sort of illusive art where the reader must always second guess if they’re really getting the true meaning as intended by the writer. We just got the cliff’s notes for the inspiration behind one of Alberti’s odes to Rome.



Tony reminds us of the fortune he found in his cookie while eating in the hub: Now is a good time to explore.

We traipse back to Campo de’ Fiori and through a little sketchy alley that smells like piss and then down around a few corners… to grab a bite to eat at a bakery and lunch café where Giuseppe knows a guy and they simply call each other “My Friend.” Of course, ever after, this particular café will always be referred to by the group as “My Friend.” For example, one could say, “I’m going to get pizza at ‘My Friend,’ care to join?” The entire group will frequent this spot for the rest of our visit in Rome, guaranteed—the pizza is delicious and inexpensive, and they serve gnocchi on Thursdays.



After lunch we set out to find the statue of Señor Pasquino, also mentioned in Monseratto 20. Pasquino was a tailor and a colloquial poet, meaning he wrote in spoken language, and was infamous for his scathing criticisms of politics and society. His cultish status persists today and people continue to write their own sharp verses to paste to the base of the timeworn statue of the poet that stands at the apex of Piazza Pasquino. As a politics student, I really get a kick out of something like this. People still post their poems and people still read them; the voice of the shy, the timid, the silently angry can still be heard. I imagine Alberti must have found this as enchanting as I do. There will always be a vital relationship between art and literature and social and political progress. It’s exciting to get to actually see a physical representation of where they meet.



We march back through Campo de’ Fiori and are stopped by an older gentleman on a bicycle who tells us that we can fill up our water bottles at any of the fountains in the city—Rome has the best water! Of course, we have already discovered this, since Americans drink water like it’s going out of style, and we’re frequently seen forming lines around the random spigots and fountains that crop up on almost every corner. We’ve even learned the neat fact that all of these public watering holes and all of the city’s fountains are powered by the ancient aqueducts, and that’s why some fountains can be stronger on some days and weaker on others.



We continue on and take a left on Via Giulia, where once upon a time the great renaissance men of Rome used to live. This road will take you straight to the bridge where you can cross over to Vatican City. Today, however, we are going the opposite direction, crossing the Tiber at Ponte Sisto to visit Piazza Trilussa, named after the poet for whom there is a discrete statue tucked off to the side.





From here we head to the Gianicolo, one of the prominent hills of Rome. We stop to see Alberti’s second home in Rome, one that he bought with the earnings from a poetry prize and the place where Tony met him first, years ago.





We continue trekking in the heat, climbing the hill to reach the Spanish Embassy where there is promise of free wireless internet. We make it to the top, only to discover the Embassy is closed and the wireless signal is not so strong from outside the gates. Nevertheless we sit on the dirty steps, in the heat, with the flies, and work diligently on our poetry translations. In order to find a bathroom a few of us venture further up the hill and come upon a giant fountain called the Fonte Acqua Paola which faces one of the most breathtaking views I’ve ever seen. Below us Rome stretches on forever.



After everyone has had the opportunity to go over their translations in their small groups, we disband for the day, to trudge back down the hill into the hot, hot city. Jennifer and Isar and I make our way back to Campo de’ Fiori and someone spies a tiny bookstore called Farenheit 451. It’s too tempting so we all duck into this cranny of a space and I buy an Italiano-Englese dictionary so I can start to learn the language.



We’re on a mission to find an art store recommended to Isar and we get a little bit lost and end up at the Piazza Chiesa Nuova, which I attempt to roughly translate as the Plazza of the New Cheese. Isar corrects me, insisting it’s actually the Plaza of the New Church. Having gotten our bearings we set off for the art store which will take us right by the Spanish Steps.

The Spanish steps lie about midway on the hypotenuse of what is called the Shopping Triangle. Piazza Colonna, a.k.a. The Column of Zara, conveniently anchors the right angle. Everything on Via Corso is relatively cheap, but as you venture closer to the Spanish steps, into the guts of the triangle, you start to run into Chanel, Gucci, Dior, Cavalli, and so on and so forth until you feel like a bum.



We do not venture down these rich-bitch shopping routes, instead braving the crowds to walk in front of the Spanish Steps. I’m not exactly sure why they’re such a big tourist draw, but I saw them, so check it off my list. As we’re crossing the Piazza, there are a whole bunch of horse-drawn carriages waiting for sucker tourists, and we have to walk past them. Suddenly, my cowgirl-sense goes off and I see, out of the corner of my eye, one of the carriage horses pin back his ears and come at me with his teeth. Without thinking I thump him swiftly on the nose with the heel of my palm. He tosses his head and for a minute I think we might have a fight on our hands, but he backs off and we continue on to the art store.

We’re all pretty wiped after our long, hot, humid day in Rome, so we head for the buses, making a detour in the McDonald’s to use the restroom. If you were to take a casino and decide to turn it into a McDonald’s, you might come close to the odd décor at this one… I resolve immediately to avoid MickeyD’s for the rest of the trip, regardless of how badly I have to pee.

The bus ride home goes much smoother this time, and we’re perfectly on time for dinner. Paola has prepared rustica, which is like a filo-dogh baked with zucchini and mozzarella inside. We eat fried potatos on the side and then go out for gelato afterward. I miss Spain, I do, but I can see where Cortney’s coming from… there’s something special about Italy.

Our host-mom, Paola, is starting to warm a little bit. I thought at first that she seemed very serious, but as she gets more comfortable with relative strangers in the house, she’s loosened up. She loves her dog, Billi, and is apparently very excited to see the movie Kung-Fu Panda, which comes out on Wednesday. As she disappears into her room we hear her singing about Kung-Fu Billi…

Sunday, August 31, 2008

I skip breakfast on account of sleeping in (so I guess it wasn’t actually a choice) and Jennifer wakes me up just before ten because Paola has invited us to go to the pool with her. I throw on my swimsuit and we head out, driving the itty-bitty car to the Flaminio Sport Club.

It’s quite a fancy place, this Sport Club. The pool is outdoor and I notice everyone in the water is wearing a swim cap. I make Jennifer ask, since she speaks Italian, if that is a rule. Yes, it is, everyone in the pool must wear a swim cap. Of course, Jennifer and I did not think to pack swim caps when we were getting ready for our European adventure, so Paola has to go borrow some from the lifeguard so we can go for a dip.

I’m amazed, as is Jennifer, that I can fit all of my hair under this little swim cap! We have to take a photo:

It’s already insanely hot at the pool and it’s not yet eleven in the morning! The pool is unheated, which means that the water is perfect. It’s totally refreshing and despite feeling self-conscious in the swim cap, I hop in the pool regularly to cool down. I do notice that the Italians seem to be more conservative than the Spaniards. For instance, the swimsuits cover up a lot more of the body, and all the women are wearing tops. However, like the Spanish, the Italians are clearly very serious about their tanning and I feel pale once again, despite the very dark tan I achieved in Cádiz. Well, until I notice a few fair-skinned girls and suddenly I’m convinced that there’s hope for me to blend in with these Mediterraneans after all!

We spend hours melting by the side of the pool then dipping in the pool to cool off. We leave at about three and I’m starving since I didn’t get anything to eat for breakfast. Paola whips up a zucchini omelet for us, while she sits down and eats only a buffolo mozzarella, perhaps that’s how she stays so thin…

Jennifer and I are both ready to head into the city, so we take the bus into Rome… well, kind of. We knew on which street we were supposed to catch the bus, and as we come up to it, there’s the number 80—the bus we need—stopped at the light right in front of us. We wave at the driver, who opens the door and shouts at us in rapid fire Italian. I look and Jennifer, she shrugs, he collapses his shoulders and lets us on. We pull out money to pay, but there’s nowhere to pay… the other passengers look at us incredulously before some guy sort of gestures at me to just sit down. So we do.

I notice that everything is totally closed and comment out loud to Jennifer. A young man in front of us turns and asks if we’re trying to go to the city center. Yes… We’re going the wrong way on the bus. We get off at the next stop, which happens to be the end of the line, and wait for the driver to do a little loop and let us back on the very same bus. He grins at us as we board, but now we know!

The ride isn’t too bad, about twenty minutes or so. We decide to go to the Trevi Fountain and it’s super easy to find because there are tourist-friendly signs directing you to all the sights.

It’s crowded with tourists and the odd pair of nuns eating gelato. The fountain is immense and so intricately detailed. We sit and stare, trying to take it all in. I share my little mythology trivia with Jennifer: The center piece of the fountain is Poseidon (in Greek) or Neptune (Roman), the god of the sea. He is flanked by two tritons (mermen) wrangling winged horses. Poseidon (I’m using the Greek name only because I’m more familiar with it) created the horse as a gift for a girlfriend. He wanted to give her the most beautiful animal in the world and so he started from scratch. The hippo, the camel, the donkey, those are all his rough-drafts before he finally created the horse, credited as being the most beautiful animal on earth. I particularly love this myth because it ties the movement of waves and the ocean with the movement of horses’ gaits. And the two sculpted horses do seem to surge forth just as the water does. Actually, the horses are probably my favorite detail in the fountain because their hooves and legs are made of seaweeds, as if they are still forming from the detritus of the ocean. They’re really beautiful.

Jennifer and I fish out our coins to go make wishes. We watch the other tourists closely to learn the proper protocol: you stand with your back to the fountain and throw the coins high over your shoulder to land in the fountain behind you. I throw two pennies, one for me and one for my grandmother. Later Jennifer and I learn that tradition states that you throw in one penny to return to Rome, two to find true love, and three to return to Rome with your true love.

We see the Pantheon, but just from the outside, it’s closed for the day, and wander over to the Piazza Navona where there are still a few street performers left. This is the great tourist trap, and with good reason, it’s absolutely gorgeous! We walk to Campo de’ Fiori, the piazza where we will be meeting with the rest of the group for class. It seems quiet and is actually much smaller than I imagined. We wander back to Via del Corso, one of the main drags and pass Trajan’s Column, which happens to be in the plaza right across from Zara, so I immediately rename it the Column of Zara and mark it on my map.

We catch the bus home to get back in time for dinner, but we haven’t quite perfected the system and miss our stop. We get off at the next one, which is a ways away and walk back. The evening is nice and we cross a river—perhaps the Tiber? Another American student, Dave, from Chicago, arrives. He will be living with Paola for four months while he studies here. He’s just a kid at twenty and reminds me of my cousin Johnny. We all sit down to eat together; delicious pasta with grilled radicchio, accompanied by bread and cheese. I’m falling in love with Italian cheese!

I’m able to understand a fair amount of Italian, but Romans speak a different dialect, so it will be more of a challenge for me. I’m determined to learn a little, or as much as I can, because Jennifer is only staying here with me for a few days before her husband comes to travel with her. Then I’ll be on my own and Spanish doesn’t get me very far here.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Jennifer and I are on time, even a little early. The whole group is there and ready to travel. I crash out on the train, as do a lot of the other girls. We played hard and worked hard during our time in Cádiz and the six-hour train ride is a good chance to catch up on some zzzzzs.

Isabel packed lunches for me and Jennifer and when I open mine I discover that she went out and bought cheddar cheese specially to make me a sandwich because I had mentioned to her that it was my favorite from home and almost impossible to find in Spain. I know I’m going to miss Isabel, and I make plans to write her and send her a thank you gift in the mail as soon as I can.

It’s a hard day of travel and I’m not sure I should say much more than that.

We get into Rome on time and as we land the plane breaks into loud applause and over the loud speaker comes this triumphant bugle call… completely bizarre.

There are no customs when you fly between certain countries in the European Union, but I can’t even remember going through customs when I flew from the U.S. to Florence about three years ago… We collect outside the airport to wait for the chartered bus that is supposed to take us to the Termini train station where our host-families will meet us. Giuseppe learns that the bus company was expecting us to take longer with customs and will be here shortly. We wait, and wait, and wait some more. No one complains, we’re happy to be together, to be in one place, to not have to hurry, to have a little bit of cool air, some snacks that somewhat resemble cheetos (which inspire Tony to break out a crass joke—not to be repeated here)… the conversation is jovial and spirits are high.

That is, until Isar discovers that her bag has been broken into and items are missing. She’s remarkably levelheaded about it and I have to give her a lot of respect for staying positive—I’d be totally upset.

After about three hours of waiting, the bus finally arrives. How long do non-existent customs in Italy usually take? I joke that Mussolini would not stand for such tardiness…

Jennifer and I are staying with Paola, an itty-bitty petite red-head in great purple high heels, and her daughter Alice (pronounced Ah-lee-chay) who is about eighteen. Alice speaks some English and is very sweet and friendly. We pile into their itty-bitty car and then into the itty-bitty elevator to ride up to the eighth and top floor of the apartment building. When we come into the apartment their dog, a skinny mutt just over a year old flips out barking at us. Jennifer and I stand with our arms linked in Alice’s, hoping that the dog is more afraid of us than we are of him… eventually he accepts us and goes off to find a toy. They have a spacious flat and I give Jennifer the bedroom and offer to crash on the pull-out bed in the living room.

We sit down to dinner, just me and Jennifer, since it’s so late. We each get half of a buffolo mozzarella and bread and some beans which I season with olive oil and salt. The cheese is fabulous and the beans are almost sweet. I’m quietly glad that the meal is light, I’m feeling overfed from Cádiz!

It’s time for bed and I’m asleep the minute I close my eyes!

Friday, August 29, 2008

When we get up in the morning, Isabel has the makings for paella out on the counters. I’m so excited, I’m almost annoyed that I have to wait til two to eat lunch! But today is a big day for us at school—the Cádiz paper is sending a reporter and a photographer. They will be publishing an article about the work our group is doing on Alberti.

Today is also our last day in Cádiz, tomorrow morning we take a train to Madrid and then fly to Rome. I’m terribly sad to be leaving Spain and to be leaving Cádiz. I have come to feel at home here and my heart breaks a little when I think that it’s taken me eight years to return to Spain. I can’t possibly wait that long again. Some of the girls have expressed frustration at how small the city is and how little there is to do. Having already done some school in Southern Spain, I actually think the smaller, slower lifestyle is better suited for the student. We’ve only had a week and a half here, so we really tried to pack in as much fun as we could, but with more time, like four months, or even the year-long program, there’s no need to cram it all in. Plus, there would be much more homework involved in a longer study. I daydream about staying in Cádiz and I see myself learning to sail better, perhaps kiteboarding, getting a bicycle, taking weekend trips to other cities… I don’t think that there’s any reason why life would have to get boring. Plus, there’s all of new Cádiz, a huge part of the city that none of us have explored beyond El Corte Ingles!

When the reporter arrives, she observes us discussing our translations for a while before she asks us some questions. Tony acts as a translator and I’m almost shy to use my own Spanish because after hearing him convey some of the other students’ words, I’m fairly certain that he’ll make me sound better than I could, using my own words!

I of course, gush about how much I love Cádiz, and how kind the people are, but I wanted to stress how valuable the poetry was in making me feel confident about traveling to a foreign country. To read and understand how Alberti was able to leave his home and create a happiness for himself somewhere else, to feel as though he belonged in another land, that does give me confidence to make Spain my own. Alberti writes honestly about his adopted city, Rome, describing both the innate beauty and the undeniable ugliness with equal dignity. I think it must be impossible to love a city without also hating something about it. It’s almost as if one strong emotion requires the other in order to exist.

For me, I love a million different tiny aspects of life in Cádiz, but I hate, with a passion, all the dog shit and all the garbage trucks. There’s dog shit everywhere and no one ever seems to pick it up and it’s on the sidewalk and in the street and in the plazas. I understand that this is “a cultural thing,” that the locals are able to just let it be, but I can’t wrap my head around it! How are the locals not embarrassed to be living among piles of shit? As for the garbage trucks… Whenever I’m out past eleven (basically every night) it seems as though the garbage trucks take over the city and I cannot avoid them! They’re loud and horribly stinky and they’re too big for the narrow streets so that I have to run ahead to duck in a doorway so I don’t get scraped up as they pass. They are stalking me and I resent it.

Of course, I don’t mention any of this to the reporter. We all look studious for the photos and thank the reporter as we pack up and leave to go home for lunch. No time to dawdle—the paella awaits! Jennifer and I race home and are seated and trying to be patient at the table as Isabel dishes up great amounts of bright saffron seafood paella. It’s so good! I could have eaten a second heaping plate, just for the taste alone, but restrained myself. Isabel explains to me how to prepare paella and I realize that this woman owns no measuring cups or spoons. Her directions are basically, “first you add this, then you do this, then you add some of this…” There’s no way I will ever be able to recreate this magnificent meal. I guess it makes it that much better.



Since today is our last hurrah in Cádiz, all of us are going to walk down to the far beach, Santa Maria. We meet at the old beach, La Caleta, and walk down together. It’s a gorgeous and very hot day and we can’t wait to get to the water. The beach is pretty busy, but nothing like the weekends and the little secret spot on the side of the breaker is flooded because of high tide so we trudge down the beach, looking for a spot. Michaela is intent on finding the prime real-estate on the beach. She finally settles on a spot and we set up camp.

No joke, within ten minutes of us putting down our towels it seems like all of the good-looking guys on the beach have collectively agreed to play an impromptu soccer match right in front of our squat. It’s definitely for our benefit, there’s no doubt about it, especially when balls are “accidentally” kicked into our sunbathing group…

A bunch of the girls have some shopping they want to get done, and this is the only day to do it. I lead the group back to Plaza de Catedral where we grab some food before hitting the shops. I buy some post cards, but that’s about it. Rome is going to be expensive…

I walk back with Rikki and Michaela and no one really has any plans to go out. Everyone wants to stay in to pack and get some sleep. We have to be at the train station at about seven fifteen tomorrow and I know that a lot of the girls are worried about getting their luggage there. I’m of a different mentality, I figure if it’s the last night, better make it count.

I make plans to meet Rikki and Michaela at Plaza San Antonio later for dinner. When I get back to the apartment Isabel tells me that there’s a huge party on the beach at La Caleta. It’s the Fiesta de la Intierra de la Caballa. From what I gather, the caballa is a type of fish that is a major pull for this fishing town, so every year they have a huge party and ceremoniously burry the fish. She says there are free drinks and live music and fireworks. I’m intent on going.

I get ready and head out to meet the girls… only I can’t find them anywhere. I walk to Plaza de Mina to look for them… nope. So I stop in at the little bar across the street from my building called la Paloma. It’s always filled with locals and I’ve always wanted to duck in to eat there—no time like the present! So I walk up to the bar and explain that I don’t eat meat. The barkeep’s wife pops her head out of the kitchen and says she’ll fix something up for me right away! I chat with the two guys behind the bar, who want to know where I’m from and what I’m doing and how long I’ll be in Cádiz. They’re sad to hear that I’m leaving the next day, but the wife in the kitchen yells, “As soon as she eats my sandwich, she’ll be back for sure!” Everyone laughs and I confess that I would really love to return. The barman pats my hand and says, “You will, and you’ll come back to eat here again!”

They wrap up my sandwich to go and give me a little bag to carry it and my soda in and I walk back to San Antonio to sit on a bench and eat. I’m half way through my fried egg and cheese sandwich (which was delicious, as promised) when I hear Michaela’s booming voice. They’ve been sitting at a café for the last hour with Faith and Isar only I didn’t see them because they were under an umbrella!

I beg them to go to the beach party with me, and Faith and Rikki finally agree. We can hear the fireworks as we walk down there, and I joke that it’s our sendoff. We are swarmed by masses of people flooding the streets as the party comes to an end. But when we get down to La Caleta it doesn’t seem like the party is anywhere near over. The band is still playing and there are piles of people milling about and dancing.

Rikki heads home and I walk Faith back to her apartment. Then I head into New Cádiz to meet friends and see what the discotecas are like… I’ve already packed so I have nothing to worry about except for getting my luggage and myself to the train station on time. So, I don’t go to bed. We stay out dancing all night and I catch a cab back to Plaza San Antonio at about ten to six, getting in the house at about five past, just as Jennifer is getting up. I freshen up, eat breakfast and we set out on foot for the train station.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Class has been moved to eleven o’clock! Boy do I need that extra hour! Originally I thought maybe I’d get up early and go to school to use the internet, but I’m so far behind on sleep that my body won’t let me get up until the last minute.

Breakfast hardly seems like enough fuel, so I make sure to add a few glasses of juice. One of piña and one of melocotón—my favorites. Then it’s off to school.

I’m really enjoying the chance to hear other people’s translations. It’s nice to know that other groups are working with the same obstacles we are. Specifically, Carin and Cortney and I have found it difficult to work with particular verb tenses. We run into trouble when verb tenses don’t agree. For example, with the poem Noturno, the Spanish text uses the subjunctive tense—a particular verb conjugation that is very uncommon and used very differently in English. The trick becomes how to convey the meaning carried by the choice to use that particular verb tense… yes, it’s all very poetic.

We are, for the most part, encouraged by the suggestions we received on our first poem, but our second poem seems to be a bit of a tougher nut to crack. This untitled poem, which we refer to as Gatomaquia (that’s the first word of the poem), has a more abstract structure that breaks up the lines of the poem into seven sections. While this makes the text appear easier to translate (it looks deceptively like less work), in actuality, each sentence will stand alone, like a snapshot, and there’s no way we can leave any line with a weak translation.

Cortney really saves the day on this poem. I think she’s been nervous about how to contribute, she’s a first year Spanish student, and just as I feel intimidated by the exceptional education some of the other students have had, so must Cortney. She shouldn’t worry at all! Cortney is one of the brightest girls I know, and an incredibly hard worker. Every time we meet, Cortney comes ready with every possible definition of words and phrases, and she does research! Today, Cortney gifts us with this tidbit:

Gatomaquia is actually the name of a theatrical work by Lope de Vega (mentioned in our poem). I believe Cortney describes it as the original “Cats.” Suddenly it all comes together…

This particular piece describes a special characteristic of Rome: the incredible stray cat population. Though we’ve seen quite a few stray cats in Cádiz, we have been assured by other students who have been to Rome before, as well as by Giuseppe, that nothing can prepare us for the cats of Rome… for the Gatomaquia Romana.

Here is the original text in Spanish:

1
Gatomaquia romana. ¡Qué poema
hubiera escrito aquí Lope de Vega!

2
Gatos en las columnas asombradas.

3
La vieja loba madre
ha sido derrotada por los gatos.

4
Rómulo y Remo bajan por la noche
para mamar la leche de las gatas
y jugar con los gatos por los Foros.

5
Gatos nocturnes en la Roma antigua.
Parecen esperar entre las sombras
la caricia sonámbula
de Baudelaire.

6
Hoy me pasó rozándome la frente
un gato muerto negro.
Venía
de la última ventana de un palacio.

7
En vez de la princesa,
en vez del duque,
hoy sale por la puerta derruida
un gran gato sarnoso.


With this poem, we encounter a lot of in-fighting. None of us are having an easy time working with the original text because of the sentence structure and with some of the lines we have three different understandings. We also have very different opinions regarding what sounds good in English. For instance, Alberti references the great myth of Rome, the adoption of Romulus and Remus by a wolf. Alberti writes, “La vieja loba madre” which literally, word-for-word, translates to “The old wolf (female) mother.” We translate this to “the old mother she-wolf.” Carin hates it. Cortney and I think it’s funny. It gets worse. Alberti repeats the word “gatos” more than a few times in his original text. Carin does not want us to repeatedly use the word “cats” in our English translation. Because words in Spanish have gender, when Alberti uses “gatos” (male) and “gatas” (female) they could actually be considered two different words. The only way to recreate this in English is “he-cats” and “she-cats.” Carin also hates this. In fact, this pisses her off big time. So, Cortney and I suggest “tom-cats” and “she-cats.” That’s a no go. Things are not looking better…

With the help of the rest of the class, we settle on “she-wolf,” and scrap “tomcats” for “kittens,” leaving only a few repetitions of the word “cats.” We may have reached a compromise. However, the joke of she-wolves, she-cats, and tomcats may never die.

Our bigger problem actually lies with our mistranslation of section six. We incorrectly understand it to mean a cat grazed the front of the speaker, the cat being described as deathly black. As it turns out, it’s a dead cat, which is black in color, whose body falls and grazes the forehead of the speaker. Whoops. This is why we consult the class and the professors!

Here is our final English translation:

1
Gattomachia romana: what a poem
might Lope de Vega have written here!

2
Cats among astonished columns.

3
The old she-wolf
has been defeated by the cats.

4
Romulus and Remus descend into the night
to nurse on the milk of cats
and play with kittens in the Forum.

5
Nocturnal cats in ancient Rome.
It seems they are waiting within the shadows
the somnambulant caress
of Baudelaire.

6
Today a dead black cat
grazed my forehead.
He was coming
from the highest window of a palace.

7
Instead of the princess,
instead of the duke,
today, through the demolished door,
passes a great mangy cat.


Back at the house Isabel has prepared the most garlic infused meal I’ve ever eaten. We eat garlic soup and then some sort of cauliflower hash, with garlic. I eat and then turn in for a siesta. I’m taking a day off from the beach and I’m going to catch up on sleep. I crash for four hours, waking up just in time to go meet Tony and the other Spanish students for office hours at Plaza de Mina.

Tonight most of the group is meeting at Plaza Fragela to eat at a little Italian restaurant where the pizza is supposed to be good. I walk down there with a few of the girls, but duck off on my own to get cash and when I make it back to the Plaza everyone has arrived and is already seated. I sit with Amy and Becky and Nicolas, the Frenchman (which is what I insist on calling him). Amy and I order the ravioli de salmón, which is okay, and we hatch a plan for the evening.

Of course we end up at the beach, of course! But the group breaks up and only a few of us end up heading back into town. I refuse to go back to the Irish bar, despite the fact that the poor bar-tenders we’ve seen the last three nights are not working tonight. Mostly I just want to do something different. We end up at a small tavern called the Woodstock, where, sadly, the have decorated using only posters and paraphernalia from bands that didn’t actually play at Woodstock…

The bar is horribly smoky, but the music is good (classic rock), but I try to make it an early night and head home before closing—for once!