Bologna (insert witty lunchmeat comment here)

In my last few days here, as I'm running out of space (and frankly, steam) with my off-line journal (it's just so analog), I hope you don't mind a bit of good-old travelogue along the lines of "and then I did this and then I did that!"

Did I ever say that Rome was hot? Did I think humidity had its upper limits? Oh Rome, thou verdant grotto, thou temperate paradise! Bologna is inland, away from mountains, sea, and river. At 10 o'clock at night Rome is pleasantly cool. At 10 o'clock in Bologna it's as hot as Rome is in the late afternoon.

I went up there for a couple of nights to see the town - which looks much like it did in the middle ages, and contains the requisite pile of beautiful churches - and work in the Conservatory's library, which has one of the best collections of Baroque music in Europe. It was slightly ill-planned. I should have gone in June, when I was moping by myself in Rome with not so much to do and the weather was cooler. I might have met a music student or two more in Bologna.

Anyway, I did get something done, and came away with a pile of new pieces. It's slightly frustrating to look for unknown composers when you can't explore the stacks in person. At the library, I had to request specific scores (one at a time), writing my name and address on the little request slips every single time! But how do you look for composers you don't know? It also was an experience in Italian protocol and bureaucracy: the library is only open from 9-1, 5 days a week, of course they're closed for all of August. They will xerox scores for you, but only up to 20 pages. You can do more on your own, but you need to go around the corner to the copy shop. You can't print from microfilm, but you can take photos of the microfilm images. You can request prints, which they will mail to you for an exorbitant sum. No air-conditioning in the library.

I was pleased to meet Constance, an energetic Swiss violinist who has been researching her PhD in Bologna. She's a few year's older than me, but is one of those ever-green people who's friendly energy makes her seem ageless. We had a nice lunch together (more below) and had a drink on the piazza in the evening. We also watched about an hour of an old Italian movie at the free cinema that was set up on the piazza, but after not being able to follow the Roman dialect, we gave up and called it a night. I hope we cross paths again.

After the library on Friday afternoon I headed straight for the department stores where I hoped to find some A/C. I was wrong, but I did find some sales. I've mentioned that Italian style is not really to my taste, but I can privately indulge myself in such frilliness with lingerie. And a new bikini.

The rest of the afternoon was punctuated by the following odd experiences:

• As I was crossing a street, three girls were coming towards me. One said in Italian, "Watch out signora she's going to grab your tit." As soon as she got to the word tetta, the deed was accomplished by her companion. That's a first!
• I met the apparently famous Bolognese band-aid woman, who tried to sell me a box right in the middle of the street.
• Sitting on the piazza, I turned around to someone tapping my shoulder. It was a woman begging, and she stood silently next to me with palm outstretched for several minutes.

I spent Saturday morning running around town, seeing all I could. It's refreshing to go to a smaller city, where the treasures lay before you like a jewel box. The main church on the piazza was meant to be bigger than St. Peter's, but the pope put a stop to it to skirt competition. Even the facade is only half done. I walked up the taller of the two medieval towers, the one that is even higher than the one in Pisa. How much water did I sweat out on the way up?? Later, a friend said that on September 11th, some Bolognese were confused and thought that it was their twin towers that had been attacked.

As I was looking at the facade of one of the many Renaissance palazzos, a handsome man approached me and suggested some other sights that were more noteworthy. He also said that I if I was interested in Italian architecture and style I really ought to see Rome. We chatted and shook hands and parted, the first such exchange that did not include an invitation.

And I ate well. Here's a newsflash: spaghetti bolognese doesn't exist! They serve it with tagliatelle, a floppier, broader, rough-cut noodle. The sauce is rather dry, but very flavorful. That lunch with Constance was a lovely salad, which must be the most unsung Italian specialty. When I've had good salads they've been a perfect balance of all the ingredients: not just lettuce with stuff on top but tomatoes in exact proportion to the beans to the arugula to the cheese and to the olives. And Italian dressing doesn't exist here, need I mention. In restaurants they give you olive oil and balsamic, salt and maybe pepper, and you just lightly dress the salad to bring out the flavors.

On the train ride home (for which I had packed a sandwich of mortadella, the predecessor to our bastardized baloney) I overheard a girl saying that she would be living in Trastevere and going to school near the Spanish steps. I didn't make the connection that I also was living in Trastevere and going to school near the Spanish steps. It turns out that this was to be my new roommate, who is very cool and nice. She's Australian, with a Chinese mother and Italian father. We picked up some groceries on Saturday night, and she asked me where the salad dressing section was. I don't believe it exists, I told her. When we went out together on Sunday night, I was pleased that it was she getting the stares from the fellas and not me for a change.

San Petronio, the unfinished.

The Neptune fountain, taken from the angle that got the artist in trouble. Can you see why?

From the courtyard of Santo Domenico (?).

Pur saresti men severo, se vedessi questo cor

One of the few things that can lighten the study of statistics is the raucous fun you can have when you graph two unrelated trends together and draw conclusions. For example, over the years, television watching has increased in proportion to birthweight. All that TV must be making big babies! Often there is a third factor for such phenomena. Ice cream sales, for example, increase with murder rates. The third factor is the summertime: tempers rise as does the temperature.

In Rome, lets just say that ice cream sales have been brisk. That is, it's hot. (Maybe there have been more murders too, for all I know.) Friends have reassured me that I've only barely tasted the true heat of a Roman summer, which can apparently be even worse than the relatively mild one we've had, but to this pampered, A/C adjusted American body, it's plenty hot.

The effect on me, and I dare say the rest of the residents (amici italiani non mi odiate!), is something of a cooking of the brains. I feel that it's a struggle to maintain whatever I've been able to accomplish with Italian. I'm speaking better than ever, but all too often I'm tripped up by the stiff American mouth we've been cursed with. (Say drawer, realty, and seersucker and you'll know what I mean.) The heat seems to make things worse, and even though my social life has been in an upward spiral, I'm frustrated no end by not being able to get the words out of my mouth as clearly as I should.

"Non ho capito." A harmless way of saying "I didn't understand," but when you hear it a few times a day, it's a rattling percussion that shakes you to your bones. Or at least nervous me. When I'm stammering in front of someone, feeling like an idiot, the communication gulf between us is as thick and heavy as the summer air itself. I certainly had my problems getting German to fit into my mouth, but at least I made it work after a while; at the end of my time there I was able to convince other Auslaender that I was a native, and people still complement me on my accent.

No one will ever mistake me for an Italian. Certainly never from appearance, and at this point not from the way I speak. I just watch my friends speak and marvel: the stra, gli, sfi, emm, and those glorious double consonants that bubble from their mouths like water from a Roman fountain.

I console myself with the fact that even if I trip up my own broken Italian sentences, I can at least sing other people's words with passable convincibility (or convincing passability?). The title sentence, for example, comes from Mozart, and has helped me figure out the congiuntivo in Italian. As much as I'm enjoying my time here, I'm looking forward no end to returning to the land of awful American accents to begin my graduate studies in singing. Digging into any of my favorite canzone is as dolce as any gelato.

I Vagabondi

Another aspect of Rome worth noting is the homelessness, which is more quirky and colorful than what we have at home. Some appear to be gypsies. I can recognize them because I dressed as a gypsy for Halloween nearly every year when I was growing up. This might have been due to my mom's extensive flower-child clothing collection, but the long skirts and patterned scarves I see on the streets here actually resemble my old costumes.

Beggars must make something of a living at it, because I see the same people regularly. A woman, perhaps about my age, sits on the street with her baby and stares at people doing their morning marketing. Italians can't resist children, and older women stop to coo with the little one. Some seem to have a rapport with the rest of their neighborhood. One woman was making her rounds with her outstretched palm and stopped to chat with other ladies at a cafe.

Children are a big draw on the begging scene. Kids trail their parents with tiny open hands, or mothers carry their small children when they approach you. More cruelly, I saw woman sitting with what appeared to be a borrowed toddler, roughly forcing her to sit and be still. The girl's face was bored and sad, and she looked older than she must have been.

Another marketing approach is the use of dogs, often puppies. Nearly every crew of bums or lonely homeless man will have at least one animal at their feet. A woman near the Spanish steps trained her German shepherd to carry a basket in it's mouth -- the dog was begging!! Lately I've been seeing ads discouraging people from abandoning their dogs during the summer. This is apparently a rampant problem, especially when everyone goes away for vacation in August. I also heard that homeless people will abandon their puppies - even throw them in the trash - when they grow up and are no longer as cute. One couple has a new addition to their two mutts: four or five tiny puppies, piled up like weisswurst. What will be their fate?

In this Catholic capital, many beggars assume a stance of prayer, with a box for coins and perhaps a picture of the Virgin. They kneel on colorful cushions, and are often dressed in jewel tones, making them sad if strangely beautiful statues in the movement of the city.

The men peddling roses, books, and other more random things also belong in this category. A woman walking with a man, or even a group of mixed men and women, will be pestered to death by the rose guys, who will push the flowers into your hand. Outside of Feltrinelli, the big bookshop with air conditioning where I spend many hot afternoons, Africans are trying to sell books of anti-apartheid poetry. Once, in a pasta place with two friends, a man came to our table selling what appeared to be rubber bras. Needless to say, we died laughing.

Five Roman Photos

Believe me, I've taken more pictures than this, just I have to upload them one by one, which eats up my internet budget like crazy, so the full experience will still have to wait! Va bene?

The Gelato.

Stefano Maderno's beautiful sculpture of St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music.

Bernini's elephant supporting an obelisk outside of St. Maria sopra Minerva.

In the old Jewish district. Do you think the Latin inscription also says Paninoteca kosher?

Trajan's Market!

Hungary, where nem means igen, WITH PHOTOS!

Some 80% of Italians take vacations in July and August. Most go down to the sea, or visit other European cities. Right now, some English friends of mine are in Sardinia. Another friend invited me to her cousin's house in Calabria, where the beach is just a stroll away and they make their own olive oil.

I, however, have chosen to spend a few days in Hungary, hanging out with my Mom and visiting the Hungarian part of our family. Klari and Michael moved back here after nearly 30 years in the States, and it's been great to spend time with them and their son, also named Michael, who is about my age and has been working in Europe. When I walked through the door of their home Klari greeted me with a Hungarian welcome, "God has brought you here." Did I ever think the Italians were affectionate? They do the two-cheeked kiss here, but several rapid micro kisses on each side.

I flew from Rome to Vienna, the closest airport to Koszeg, which is just over the Austrian border. We spend a half day in Vienna, enjoying cafe und kuchen at Demel's and a trip to the Kunsthistorisches Museum. The one problem was the weather, which was exactly the same as it had been when I was first there eight years ago in July: freezing, windy, and rainy. To top it off, my shoe was falling apart, just like it was on my first trip.

Anyway, Koszeg is a small but richly pictureseque city. The mountains are green and lush, many old buildings remain from ancient times (when the battle of Koszeg defeated the Turks), and window boxes of pretty flowers spill from the houses. Little chapels are found at the corners of some streets, and unmanned farm stands operate on the honor system: you can pay what you wish for flowers, raspberries, narrow orange peppers, and toek, a kind of long blond zucchini made into soup with paprika and sour cream. The raspberries are divine, the first I've tried that remind me of the ones I collected in my grandmother's garden with my brother and cousins when we were little.

We took a brief trip to Budapest, a three to five our train ride to the middle of the country. It was there that I discovered that the qualities I thought to be uniquely a part of my grandmother (aggressiveness, pushiness, loud talking) are actually family, if not national characteristics. We visited Gabor, my third cousin or so, who is working and studying in Budapest. He was a skinny kid with hardly any English when he came to the states 14 years ago, and it was pleasure to see him all grown up and speaking English so well.

Despite the nice pictures below, Mom and I didn't end up seeing that much of the town. This was due partly to the inconvenient train schedule, which required an afternoon departure from Budapest (with an uncomfortable, un-airconditioned, smoking-only train). We also had a travelling companion, who shall remain anonymous, who made for rather feisty company. For her heavy-footed gait and singular build, we shall call her Dumpling.

When I come to a new city, or even when I'd like to explore an old one, I like to walk around. Alot. I discovered this was not the easiest plan for my Mom and Dumpling, who moved slower and were less interested in seeing the sites. When I was up at seven, rearin' to go, Dumpling was cooking eggs and raiding Gabor's fridge to make us breakfast. I learned that force-feeding and hostile generosity seem to be engendered in the Hungarian mind. During our walks, we couldn't pass by a restaurant or even a hot dog stand without Dumpling offered to buy us a second lunch. When Mom pointed out a bakery which was offering pogarcsa, a fluffy kind of biscuit, Dumpling was running up the steps, buying us a kilo. (A kilo is 2.2 pounds.) Even when we were running to make the train, she wanted to stop and buy water, despite our armloads of fruit, juice, and snacks! Between all the food and logistics of getting around, we only managed to see a few parts of the Pest side of the city, not the hilly Buda part with Parliament and other monuments.

It is a beautiful town, very much reminiscent of Paris, with the one striking feature that everyone speaks Hungarian. Let's discuss this language for a moment. Whereas other languages throw you a bone with a few cognates, this language might as well come from outer space. People speak very clearly, every single syllable is understandable, and I have no idea what they are saying. Mom grew up hearing some Hungarian, and can understand quite a few key words, which I find deeply remarkable. This skill came in handy with Dumpling, who spoke only a few words of English. Though I did learn how to say nem, nem, nem to her offers of more food. As I was taking in the city, I also stared at the Hungarians, wondering how their brains are wired to speak the way they do.




Me and Mom. Me and Gabor.

Just one picture from Rome

Me mastering the self-timer in the courtyard of the Palazzo Mattei.

I'll put up more when I can, but this one turned out nicely!

On Travelling Alone

Believe it or not, it's the best way to travel. Travelling with a companion can be nice, somewhat irritating, or a nightmare. You might want to get to the sights early, and he might rather lie in bed all morning. On my own, I can move to my rythmn and seek company when I want it, and not be sentenced to round-the-clock companionship whether I like it or not.

There's nothing like spending a day sightseeing to make you keenly aware of your (and your traveling companion's) bodily needs. Finding a toilet, sating hunger and thirst, dealing with allergies, and becoming more sweaty as the day wears on are all rather gross situations that I prefer to keep to myself.

And yet, the problem here is that I'm not really travelling, nor am I really a student. During my vacation in Guatemala, I met other travellers almost instantly, and had to avoid them after a while. In Germany, with fellow music students, a boyfriend, and 23 roommates, I was rarely lonely. While I do have roommates here, they've proven to be a scant source of friendship: the Italain teacher who owns the apartment spends most of her time on vacation or at her boyfriend's, and the student who lived there in June (she's from the same town in Germany I lived in) was a bit of a wet blanket. Another student is arriving tomorrow, but she's in her 50's and from Mexico. I don't think we'll have that much in common.

I do manage to put together a social life, but it's often feast or famine. Apart from my conversation exchange people - who float in and out of my life - I regularly hang out with a few fun English speakers, a delightful Japanese girl, a serious German artist, and a patient Italian. But even so, you can't spend all week with just a handful of people, and I find I have some gaps to fill in my social calendar. At least, with no one to talk to, no one can accuse me of being a loud-mouthed American on the streets. But silence is not exactly conducive to language learning, and with every hour that I'm not practicing Italian, I wonder if I'm wasting my time here.

As much as I enjoy being able to choose the sights I see and my schedule, too much solitude can open the door to my own demons. My first trip to Italy was in 1997. I was 20 years old and had just spent a successful 6 months in Germany, studying the language and having some very fulfilling musical experiences. I thought I had a sweet deal travelling with my German boyfriend, who had studied art history and archeology in Rome for a year and spoke fluent Italian. For whatever reason, however, he turned on me. He was furious that I didn't speak Italian, and refused to explain anything about the art or architecture we were looking at, on the basis that as an American, I "knew nothing" about art and style and didn't have even the first inkling of how to grasp the vast wealth of knowledge he laid claim to. He didn't give me credit for being able to argue with him in his native tongue. Even as I savor Rome's treasures and masterworks, I can sometimes still hear his voice. I realize that this was eight years ago, but Keils never forget.

But then, I'll have a day like I did yesterday, with a trip to the Villa Medici in perfect weather, followed by a picnic and visit at Ostia Antica with a friend, and then music and wine with company at night. Maybe in the grand sum there's some balance, but the ups and downs can be hard to take . (I better wrap this up, I'm off to homemade sushi with friends.)

In any case, since ancient times a woman alone has been viewed as a spectacle, a travesty, or public property. A man alone is an institution. Those stares from the natives can burn , and it's awkward to walk around and realize that everyone knows I'm foreign. When I was in Urbino two years ago I asked a colleague why I was getting so many stares. "When we see a woman alone," he replied, "we think that she is sad."