Today is September 11th

It's my favorite time of year from late August onwards, until my birthday in the third week of October. The sky is often pristine, the sunlight -though it gets more scarce- is more stunning than ever, and the temperature is neither hot nor cold, humid nor dry. It's the quiet of the year, before we settle in and batton up for the winter. When we consolidate our photographs and memories of the summertime relaxation we hopefully had, and ready ourselves again for work and school and routine.

The weather lately has been reminding me of September 11th, 2001. I venture to say, there hasn't been a day like that, before or since. The most perfect of all qualities came together for a day that would have been ideal for outdoor weddings: warmth in both sun and shade, breezes that felt like a caress, and not a cloud in the sky. If those attacks had had to have come, couldn't they have been in February, or in any other time of year already uglied by harsh weather?

Every September 11th, I like to do something to make myself feel better, or do something better for the world. Last year I volunteered to deliver sandwiches to the homeless at night, seeing a New York from the perspective of the men and women who manage to find the right doorways to sleep in and the places to find food. This year, not knowing where I could volunteer, I decided simply to attend Quaker meeting for worship, where I hoped to find a bit of peace with others, and maybe to hear some messages that would enrich my own grieving.

Any New Yorker who moves to another city will quickly discover that they have long lived without a basic fact of life almost anywhere else in the world: the need to get directions. Tell me you live on 22nd and Lex and I can get there with my eyes closed. Tell me the meetinghouse is on 5 Longfellow Park Road and I need to consult two maps and a man on the street before finding my way over. But then, I saw the clogs and jeans, the grey hair, a beat up car with a bumper sticker that read "Be a buddha behind the wheel" and I knew I was among Friends.

Cambridge Friends is a large, active meeting, which means that the first 15 minutes of silence didn't actually happen; they were filled with the rustlings of the numerous children squirming in the aisles. But then something very unusual also happened, and I was convinced I would not find the peace I had come for. A man stood up and started shouting. For Quakers who worship in silence, there really is never a need to raise your voice. He angrily described a meeting about a year ago in which an elderly friend of his stood up to speak, and had to be "eldered," that is, confronted by another worshipper who cut him off and sat him back down when he had rambled on too long. I felt like performing the same favor to the man presently speaking. He went on to remind us that Quakers are not a war church (had we forgotten, I mean, that's our main schtick??) and that we should take real action against the war in Iraq. He finally sat down.

What followed was the most chatty meeting for worship I've every been to, with barely any silence between messages. Some people posed interesting questions or made observations on peace and Iraq and where to fit in as Americans who oppose the war. Maybe it was because they're in Boston, but hardly anyone mentioned September 11th.

Not being a frequent attender of meeting, I was unable to achieve the yoga nidra zen I once I could. My heart would start pounding every so often, as I contemplated rising and delivering a message. Then I would relax again as I considered just keeping my thoughts to myself. But, after 40 minutes, when no one had discussed the 10,000 pound gorilla in the room, I stood up and talked about it myself.

This time of year, with it's beauties and perfection, is steeped in a weighty sadness. September 11th 2001 is what brought me to Cambridge meeting this morning, and is ultimately what brought me to Boston. Four years ago today. So many words have been spoken and written about that day, what could I possibly have to say about it too? I barely cried that morning. I was scared, but I somehow couldn't grieve, and I felt only numbness in the weeks that followed. I walked home from my downtown office in Manhattan. Barely a week later, I moved to Brooklyn, where I would travel across the bridge at least twice a day for the next four years.

Somehow, all New Yorkers, and I guess everyone in the world who had a touch of that fear, managed to take one step at a time and lead their lives forward. Part of my choice to move to Boston was to feel a little safer; when I expressed this to a friend, he asked if I really thought I would be safer there? I can offer no solutions to this fear, or the fear felt by refugees of the hurricane or refugees in Iraq, or the fear of countless other people in countless other wars and hotspots around the world that aren't reported in the headlines. I want to share with you a few lines of a Schiller poem that came to mind four years ago, and that I think of today.

Even the beautiful must die.
What rules men and gods, does not touch the heart of the god of the underworld...
Just to be a dirge on the lips of the beloved is marvelous, because the common go down to Hades, unsung.

Was this actually such a great idea?

Well, this blog might just have to go back to its original mission. That is, chronicling the trials and triumphs of little old me, a sometime singer who's trying to become a full-time singer.

Let's begin with this move. Sometime back in April, after I had finished my school auditions and was deciding where to go, I had what I thought would be my first and only crisis. I spent a few hours sitting on the edge of my bathtub, tissue box in hand, bemoaning the fact that my dream of going back to school would involve saying goodbye to my life savings and uprooting myself from a life I was not by any means unhappy with. But, it was my dream, and I screwed up my courage, dried my eyes, and decided that I had what it took to carry through.

That was my first mistake.

After a magical summer, a pleasant time back in New York with friends and family, I packed up and replanted myself here in Boston. After the first 36 hours, things can only improve. The living space my friend found for me is not as workable as I had hoped, that is, impossibly small and roommates who can't seem to understand that this might be a problem. We've talked and will try to "work this through," but I have my doubts and I already feel uncomfortable.

Just yesterday a new hitch came up at BU that makes me reconsider registering. Neither my first nor second choice teacher is available, I don't know any of the other teachers, and I am currently assigned to study with a man, which I absolutely don't want. I turned down a full scholarship at another school because I couldn't get the teacher I wanted, now I get to deal with this situation again and pay for it? Getting a degree in singing is absolutely worthless if you don't have the teacher who can do wonders for your voice. Sure, there must be someone there who can teach me a thing or too, but I'm wary, and I might have to spend half a semester sorting this out. If I can't resolve this well, I will quit, get myself a job, and call myself a singer and hope for the best.

So without a stable home, the school arrangement I was counting on, without income and a sudden dearth of friends in a city I still don't know well, I'm petrified and feeling profoundly sorry for myself. This is the first time away from home and the first day of college rolled into one. But shouldn't I be old enough to handle this by now? That thought makes me even more glum, especially when I think about any number of life choices that could have been more fulfilling, maybe. I could have married by now. I could have stuck with my perfectly fine old life, saved a bundle in expenses and been able to clothes shop without fear. I could have stayed on in Rome, perhaps one of my friends would have eventually taken me in, and I could have always lucratively begged on the streets. I wonder what would have happened if I had stayed with the French horn, would I live on a diet of Brahms and Wagner? I always did like working at the food coop, maybe I should quit all this and go manage a Stop & Shop, or maybe Costco. Okay, now we're going overboard.

Lying in bed this morning, I turned on my cell phone's calculator to see how much my lavish, education-enriched lifestyle would cost me, and I read a message from my brother, telling me that I'm brave. Brave?? I've spent three days interrupting my crying fits only when my face hurt too much or I had to try to look happy for my roomies. I've been sobbing to my parents and to a dear companion twice a day so far. I'm just as homesick and weak as I was as a child, only now I'm too old to excuse it. The president's voice on the radio offering comfort to hurricane refugees and the news of people crushed in the melee in Iraq make my skin crawl, leaving me with images of water-swollen corpses and babies crushed like grapes. I have little appetite, and my head often aches with the pain that comes from unspent tears.

Today, the shroud of rain and choking humidity finally lifted off of Boston's face. My problems are unresolved, but not, I don't think, unresolvable. I sat in the rocking chair on the apartment's porch (yes there's a porch! Albeit overlooking a junk heap, the same view from my room...) and spoke with my brother and then a friend from Rome. What are we without friends and family? My conversation with Matt (my brother) began as most have this week, with me choking back tears and wondering why I was putting myself through all this. How is it that he always manages to cheer me up? After just a few minutes of speaking my already rusty Italian with Andrea (patient soul!) I had a smile on my face. I had emailed him only hours before, and he called from all the way across the sea to make me feel better. Lacy outlines of words, pure vowels framed by fizzy consonants and a voice that reminds me, somehow, of whipped cream.

I'm not brave Matt, just nuts, and well cared for by the ones I hold dear.

Gioite anco' al gioire

"Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter.
Sermons and soda water the day after."

-- Percy Bysshe Shelley

Once I'm settled in Boston with high speed internet I'll finally put up posts with pictures from Rome. But for now, and after those mirthful posts, this blog will return to its original purpose: to ponder the profound aloneness of the human spirit and the despair of all mankind.

Just kidding! How can I be sad coming back from a great wedding? I've been to weddings weird and weddings dull, but every so often I get to be overwhelmed by a couple's perfection, and the throngs of their friends who seem to feel the same way.

Through the miracle of Google I found the email address of Betsy, the only other girl in high school who was as tall as me. I was fortunate to get back in touch with her just as she was planning her wedding, and even happier when she invited me to attend and to sing. I spent the reception collecting compliments (while reminding people that I was not supposed to the evening's center of attention!), chatting with people who might become new friends, and dancing like a goofball. (I must comment on one New York lawyer, a Punjabi metrosexual who danced like an exuberant and funky cartoon.)

Weddings can inspire two opposing emotions in me: sadness and joy. Sadness if I'm single and wondering if my own wedding will ever come to pass, and joy if I can finally forget my gripes and rejoice in the happiness of others. Soaked in wine and dance endorphins, I had a ball tonight.

Yet at the rehearsal dinner, where singles seemed to be an endangered species and wedding rings glistened on young fingers, I felt like an outsider. What haven't I figured out that they have? These are people my age who own property, are committed to their careers, and are starting families. Now that I'm going back to school and renting a room with 22-year-olds, I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the boat.

These couple of weeks in New York have been strange. Saying goodbye to old friends, promising to see each other soon but not quite knowing when and how. More upsettingly, I'm saying goodbye to people I've just started to become friends with, and putting miles of highway and the Chinatown bus in a budding friendship doesn't exactly encourage a future. I've also just this week been warned that Bostonians can be as cold as a Massachusetts winter, and perhaps the circle of friends I've imagined for myself up there might not happen so easily.

Ahi! So much to fret over! But I'll take the advice that I sang to Betsy and Bill today: rejoice in our joy, and let all the branches of the groves resonate with the sound of our joyful and breezy laughter. (or something like that, 17th century poetry doesn't translate well!)

I'm off to bed now with happily aching feet and a sense of dread for the work ahead (I'm moving tomorrow!), but with the memories of a night of dancing and smiles, promises of new adventures to make, and.... und ein klein wenig Verachtung. ;-0 (I'll let you read Thomas Mann's Tonio Kroger to understand that one.)

Boston, or what the heck am I doing here??

A trans-atlantic flight must be the closest simulation of birth that adults can experience. A grueling passage in a dark space with poor ventilation, profound exhaustion, and the emergence into daylight feeling cranky, grimy, and ready to scream.

Thus I return to the new world, fresh as a daisy after some 22 hours in planes. My first activity? Jump on a train to Boston the morning following just a few hours of strange sleep. Dormo ancora, o son desto? Che contrade rimiro, e che terren calpesto? Ulysses murmurs to himself after Neptune sweeps him ashore on his own country. Do I still sleep, or am I awake? What city do I see, what land do I tread? Arriving home was a trip through the looking glass.

Was I really in Rome all this time? Are those actually friends I made, or just my own dreams, evidenced only by my already grey memory and miniature images on my digital camera? And what will happen to those friendships after a few years, or just a short time? I prefer a long-term stay to a whirlwind city tour, but the drawback is that I have to adjust both coming and going, and I break my heart a little along the way. There's one companion who I particularly miss right now.

Boston is a gentle city, more quiet and boring than New York, but on a more human scale. Italians would comment to me that it is a rather a European city. But nonetheless, I smirked as I walked past "historic" 19th century churches. How can I take them seriously after seeing places that have been there for 2,000 years? But I felt comfortable there for one day, and I think I'm making the right move in going up. Even the women making my sandwich and the guys in the copy shop were friendly; they made eye contact and smiled. Eye contact! Smiles! I'm not in New York anymore! I saw an ad for low-carb bread, felt my stomach turn and knew I was at home.

The day was nearly as hot as a Roman afternoon, but the hazy light and the sky the color of clam chowder reminded me that I was a long way from the Mediterranean. I summoned my strength for a job interview, which went rather well, and briefly greeted some friends. I wrote my thank-you note in the hyper air-conditioned lobby of a hotel (I do like that A/C!), and sighed as I finished off the last of my Roman spring water.

Spending this weekend on the Rhode Island shore with my parents and a family friend, I feel like I'm looking at the wrong side of the ocean.

Amor, io parto

A......a......addio Roma!
A.....a.......addio Patria!
A.....a.......amici, amici, addio.....

Ottavia, I imagine, was promised to Nero while still only a child. It was a triumph for her father, who had fallen into disgrace with the emperor after his military failures. Of course, it was a passionless union, but Nero made the most of the situation. Ottavia was humiliated by her husband's exploits, but played the role of empress and prepared to bare his children. After barely 14 months it became apparent that Ottavia would be disposed of, the only question remaining was the means. She expected murder, either by her servants or by her husband himself, and spent many nights in her chambers with a knife clutched to her breast. But Nero was merciful and only banished her from within the walls of Rome, forbidding her family to take her in or any citizen throughout the empire to assist her.

It was an unseasonably cool morning when she left, carrying the supply of grain a senator had secretly given her. She made her way through the Porta Maggiore, murmuring, perhaps, something similar to the words above, which Giovanni Francesco Busenello put into her lips for Monteverdi's opera. My sighs and tears will be carried on the winds, she sang, where they may kiss the ancient walls.

My departure from Rome will be slightly less dramatic. And yet, like Ottavia, I'm terribly sad to leave the eternal city. To make friendships only to cut them short, to begin to learn a language only to interrupt the process, to start to settle into a city only to uproot myself again. And yet, I never intended to put down roots here, it was just a long vacation before a time in my life when I don't expect to be taking more time off anytime soon. Yet leaving certain friends here was the most heartbreaking thing I've done in a long time. But what have I really accomplished here?

This summer, a friend of mine had a baby. Another friend is expecting her third child, and managed to move herself, husband and twins across the country to a new house. Yet another girl put together a solo concert program, performed it well, and got a rave review in The Washington Post.

I learned how to order an ice cream cone. I've learned to cross a busy street, and how not to talk to men. I've learned some new words, and shifted gears to the Mediterranean tempo of life. I've loved every minute, even the lonely times when I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming here alone. In some ways I do have other accomplishments to show for myself (I now know Rome better than NYC), but for the work I love, I've done nothing. I feel like the two-faced Janus, looking forward to yet another new adventure, and nostalgically back on this time here.

Eight years ago, after I came back from Germany I stood in front of a friend to greet her. She didn't recognize me. I wasn't away for that long, hadn't drastically changed my look, and she certainly knew who I was. But I think she didn't recognize the amount I had grown in the time away, which must have been reflected in my face. Rome was certainly a different trip, and less a coming of age story than a humbling, back-to-school experience with a few more delights thrown in. It's hard to assess right now how much I've learned, if it will be of use (for music, language, etc.) but I feel rejuvenated, and I come home with a the gift given to all travellers: the ability to look at the familiar with new eyes.

And soon I won't be saying just addio Roma but addio Brooklyn. Addio Flatbush Avenue and Park Slope Food Coop, addio circle of friends, and nearness of family, addio friendly workplace and cozy apartment.

On my last walks through Rome, through the stuccoed porticoes and filagreed palazzos, past antique columns in modern bars, past textured chunks of travertine and over rough tufa, across the color palatte of amber, cream, maroon, and ivory; I am deeply grateful. Grateful to have been able to take the time to do nothing but have a romance with one city, to study the language and find my way around, and to enjoy the company of good people whose friendships I will try to sustain. The magic of the experience lay not just with the landscape but with the friends who took me into their lives and hearts, and whose company I am only just beginning to miss.

The heat of a warm country heightens the senses - good and bad - and makes you feel like you just had a vigorous massage. The stares of the men here no longer sting but make me feel like a goddess, cresting through waves of worshippers. As I walk, both this phenomenon and the saturated beauty of Rome remind of the Indian song I learned to sing in canon: Now I walk in beauty, beauty is before me, beauty is behind me, above and below me.

I'm coming back, will you recognize me?

Kennst Du das Land??

As a child and young adult, I recall having a distinct image of The Personification of Italy. It was a dark-haired maiden, olive-skinned with caramel-colored eyes, flashing a brilliant smile with a gelato in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Growing up with the grandchildren of the three-I's of New York area immigrants (Italy, Israel, Ireland), Italy for me has always been a mythical, other-worldly place. The home of a good part of American cuisine, the land of big families with big hearts and smiles, the place of unspeakably beautiful landscapes, delicious produce and wine, and eternal sunshine.

For those of you who haven't watched enough Tony Soprano, allow me be the first to disabuse you of this fancy. Italians are defensive. Let me re-phrase that. Italians are not half as cuddly as you might expect, at least not to fragile me.

"Auhhh?" and a grimace appear to be a perfectly acceptable way of expressing miscomprehension to a foreigner trying to speak Italian. Do Americans do the same for foreigners in the States? And your first encounters with people are not always likely to be smiles and kisses. In fact, I am often reminded of German reservedness.

I bristle when store clerks take one look at me and insist on speaking English before I even open my mouth. Do they speak Chinese when Asian people walk through the door? I know that they're trying to help, but tell me why they keep speaking English when I answer in Italian?

Yes, Italians are warm people. But sometimes behind the smiles is a more sinister intent. If the first word you need to learn in Italian is scioppero (as in strike, which merits its own section on the Treni Italia homepage), the second word should be fregatura, or rip-off. Even the most unassuming of places can slap you with an outrageous bill, it's something you always need to be careful of. When mom was here, we had a nice meal in a local place, but were surprised at the final bill. The waiter showed me the menu and said that everything was a posto, but it took a bit of a scene to convince him that it didn't add up.

But then again, what appear to be rip-offs are often just mistakes, or at least curious judgment calls. Once, after I had waited on line for movie tickets, the clerk informed me that she didn't have change for my €10. All I needed was a €2 coin back, but she didn't have one? I asked if I could come back, and she said sure, and tossed my money back at me. I then insisted on buying the tickets (you see, I had already waited on line and the show was starting and I didn't want to wait again), and said I would return for the change. In fact, making change at almost any institution is always a chore- If you put down €2 your for your €1.70 gelato they will ask if you have exact change, even after you're juggling the cone.

I learned of a phenomenon that happens in Italy every summer, and it chills me to the bone. When people go on vacation, they abandon their pets, mostly dogs. They just drive out to some abandoned part of the countryside and leave them by the road. And we're not talking a couple of hundred animals; more like thousands. It adds up to one animal every two minutes during the months of July and August. Whether or not this is strictly an Italian thing to do or more universal, it breaks my image of the big-hearted Italian. But what I can't understand is that the same people must do this every year: get a dog, hang on to it for ten months, and get rid of it when they all head off to the shore. In Pompeii, where it got so hot at midday that I felt I could relate to how the residents felt when the volcano hit, dozens of dust-imbued dogs were roaming around, seeking out an ounce of shade.

Yet, I can't complain entirely. As much as it took a while to build up my nucleus of friends, some amazing connections have happened that I would never expect to see in New York. Once, when I was unable to make plans with a friend for the evening, she called her sister and had her hang out with me instead. I don't know if I would do the same if my brother hooked me up with one of his friends. And while it's always wise to be on the lookout for fregature, 9 times out of 10, you'll be alright. I was picking out a canteloupe at the market the other day, and the shopkeeper said that that particular breed doesn't smell like anything, but is delicious. I was wary, but I bought it anyway, and she was right.

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."

So how's the food?

You know you're entering a land of culinary greatness when people greet each other by saying "chow."

Italians - like the French, Chinese, and Haitians - are pork people. On my street are several delectable salumerie, each offering a broader array of smoked pig than I ever imagined. A request for salami at one of these places will be met with a blank stare and the question, "che tipo?" I've been doing my part to try them all. I wish I could remember their names, but as far as I can tell the main difference has been the way the fat is layered throughout the jewel-like meat. Mortadella practically dissolves in the mouth, the fat is so emulsified into it. Other sausages look like pinwheels of red and white. Of course there's also guanciale and lardo, snow-white hunks of luscious porkiness. (OK, I haven't tried them yet, I'm working my way up to it.)

One store sells my favorite prosciutto crudo (as opposed to cotto), where the kind clerk seems to be overjoyed that you even walked into his place. I take this home and put it on slices of canteloupe, which are even more tender and uniformly delicious than the ones we have at home. Opening the melon and scooping out the flesh is like dipping a spoon into custard.

But back to pork. I wonder if there's some status in this. A bakery near Campo de' Fiori (where they have wonderful sfogliadelle) features a sausage with the diameter of a tire outside their doorway. At another nearby salumeria, what appears to be the lateral portion of an entire hog sits on the counter by the window. This is called porchetta, a typical Roman speciality of seasoned and stuffed pork, roasted until the top layer of skins and fat oozes over the animal like icing. This was inadvertently my first meal here, and I'll be happy to have it again.

But one must also sing the praises of the produce here. Everything, from watery cucumbers to peppery arugula has more flavor than the vegetables we're used to. Strawberries - which are sold at the peak of ripeness - you want to roll in your mouth like candy. Fragoline di bosco, their tiny counterparts, are especially tasty; about the size of peanut M&M's and sweet, sweet, sweet.

Of the all the kind emails I've gotten, the one most popular request has been to "eat a gelato for me." Rest assured, I have borne this obligation with the solemn dignity required. I feel that NOT eating at least one gelato a day here would just be an offense. I do like to vary my frozen treat experience though, and options abound. Yesterday I had a moment with granita di caffe con panna, similar to Pennsylvanian water-ice (not at all related to 7-11 slurpees) and basically the best iced-coffee I've ever had. I discovered a small gelateria that has quickly become my favorite, offering as it does wonderful flavors (like pignole nut) and macedonia, which is fruit salad with ice cream and whipped cream. I'm managing to still fit into my pants.

And the coffee. I was never much of a coffee drinker back home, but here, it's a different story. Your morning cup of coffee is but a couple of rich tablespoons, a balance of bitter and sweet, even without sugar. This can be accompanied by a sweet pastry (called pasta, by the way), or a simple brioche or croissant (cornetto), which are lightly sugared anyway.

Of course, I've eaten my share of pizzas, pastas, and panini. Despite hitting a wall a couple of weeks ago (no more Italian food, please!) I'm back on the wagon, having my share of carbs each and every day. Pizza crust is tortilla thin, and topped with thin layers of meat, cheese, and/or vegetables, yielding the perfect balance found also in a well-cut piece of sushi. There's a nearby fresh pasta store, but even the little packets in the grocery store are tasty, and fresh pesto is easy to find. A favorite panino is made with breseola - cured lean beef - with arugola, parmigiano, and lemon.

My day usually begins with fruit and yogurt. Low-fat is usually watery and not all that great, so I've had to go for the full fat kind, which is sort of like starting your day with gelato. An Italian friend asked if I have a full English breakfast, with eggs and bacon and all. I told him that when I have a long day of sightseeing ahead of me, I do make scrambled eggs, but in my idea of an Italian style, with olive oil and pecorino romano. His baffled expression was mixed with some friendly disgust.

When I'm not feeling language-intimidated I go to a take out shop down the street where customers and staff shout and laugh with each other in loud Roman dialect. While their roast chickens look delicious, I still haven't gotten past their pizza. My favorite is the golden one with potatoes, rosemary, olive oil, and parmigiano, though a close runner up would be the mushroom pizza, with creamy fior di latte and tomatoes.

Still, there have been some misses. I did manage to buy a bottle of lousy olive oil, and tasteless strawberries. Some cookies that were on sale had a funny taste. I looked at the expiration date and discovered they were a month behind their prime. Yet even the one Euro wine is drinkable....

Sprinter's Eye View Stories and Observations

After I sent out that email to all my folks, I realized I left out some of the neat details I wanted to mention! Here they are....

In the porticoes of many of the older churches in Rome, early Christian fragments adorn the walls. On one such fragment were the following words: ATIDIEA AMANDA
Any idea what that means?

Most of the streets in the historic center are paved with arcs or hatches of uneven black tuffetti, one of the ancient building stones of Rome. These are known as sanpietrosini or little St. Peters, for some reason, and massage your feet as you walk along.

Yes, the air is bad. When Italians are not polluting with their motorinos and cars, they're smoking. Even old men know how to ask for a cigarette in English.

Last Saturday night I planned to go to a concert of Beethoven on the piazza in front of the capital, but in true Italian style, it was simply cancelled with no explanations. My friend and I walked over to the Circus Maximus (think Ben Hur), which was the site of one of the Live 8 concerts in support of Africa. The music was ridiculous - an Italian rapper!? - but it was quite a sight to see the ancient arena filled up with what must have been a million people, flanked by the palatine.

A waitress in New York summed it up nicely once: you don't want to touch them and they don't want to touch you. Here, strangers will grab your arm to pull you onto the tram, standing close together is not just for the bus, and physical affection runs rampant. School boys as well as girls hold hands, women of a certain age walk arm in arm, the two-cheeked kiss goes for men as well as women, and it's not uncommon to see a guy lean a hand on his pal's shoulder.

I noticed one church with removable cushions on the kneelers, in case you'd like to feel more penitent.

This is truly the land of fabulous shoes. Otherwise, Italian style might be summed up as... neo-super-hyper-frilly-Baroque. Italian ladies are glitzed and glimmered to the hilt, showing skin and flashing sparkly jewels. The other night I saw a mother in a tight white outfit in front of me chasing after her kid, and I got a good view of her large sequined belt. And lace thong.

At the church of St. Agostino (whose Renaissance marble facade was pilfered from the Colosseum), a little old man with misty eyes greeted me and offered a pamphlet on the church's highlights. He groaned with delight and kissed my hand when I told him I was studying Italian, and spouted stories about the masterworks in the church. Then he held my hand and looked me straight in the eyes and said, "And today, this morning, there is a new piece of art in the church." Me!

Fun with language: When I think about conversations I had in Italian a few weeks ago, I remember them in German. When I remember my time in Germany, everyone is speaking Italian.

I'm not sure if this story will work without visuals, but here goes: Before a chorus rehearsal a friend and I stopped at a kebab place for a bite to eat. Mohammad, behind the counter, took an immediate liking to my face, and gave me a sweet pastry wrapped in a paper napkin. I tossed it into my purse and ran to rehearsal. Afterwards, a fun kind of guy in the baritone section offered me a ride home on his motor bike. It's quicker than the bus, so I accepted. I also accepted a galss of wine at a sweet local joint. And then we went off to another bar. I remembered the dessert, and offered it to him as we were walking. As I would later discover, he takes to food like a cobra swallowing a dog. When we got to the bar I slipped off to the bathroom, which, as is often the case, was not furnished with toilet paper. When I reappeared, he held out a napkin in his hands and asked, "Do you want to finish?" For what seemed like a very long moment, I thought that perhaps he knew what the toilet paper situation was, and was suggesting I return to the bathroom! I realized there was still some dessert left in that napkin, but by that time I had lost appetite for it.
Postlude: Last week, I was hungry and had just enough time to stop by Mohammed's before rehearsal. "28 days," he said, "it's been 28 days since you last came to see me." The kebab was on the house...

Il Terzo Mondo

If Rome were nothing but seven uninhabited hills, I would still come here if only for the extraordinary weather and flora of the area. This, and some other cultural quirks have reminded me, of all things, of my time in Guatemala. I've seen some of the same flowers I saw there, the afternoon sun is certainly compatible with the dry-season heat I encountered in Guate, and the evening tempeste that have occurred almost daily since my arrival could be a feature of any equatorial country.

Oddly enough, I've managed to be in high places nearly every time a thunder storm hits. The first time I was coming down the Gianicolo from the American Academy in Rome after a storm, when the sky was still churning and the humidity drenched my face. Later, I was at the top of Castel Sant'Angelo, (Hadrian's family tomb turned medieval fortress turned Renaissance and then Baroque papal palace) which is topped by an enormous lightening-conducting bronze angel! And just yesterday I was admiring the pine trees in the Villa Dora Pamphilj when I realized that that cool breeze was bringing storm clouds.

There are other reminiscences of the third world. The conductor of the choir I'm singing with was telling me that in Italy you will find everything from A to Z. But nothing works. You wait a half hour for the bus, and half your old age for your pension.

Again - and sorry to keep bring this up but it continues to amaze me - the menfolk remind me of the friends I made in restaurant kitchens during my brief waitressing career. Just this morning I smiled at a muscular young man who was out walking with an older gentleman, who I assumed was his grandfather. We started talking, and he explained that he works with older people who suffer from Alzheimer's and other disablities. After the initial introductions, he posed the same questions I heard time and again from the Mexican and Ecuadorian cooks I knew in NYC: Are you married, Do you have a boyfriend, How old are you, Can we exchange numbers?

Having learned my lessons before, I replied that I didn't have a phone, but he wrote down his number and gave it to me. Then he hugged me. I patted his back and tried to pull away. When that didn't work I ducked down as he planted a kiss on my forehead. He held my hand and kissed me on both cheeks. Twice. He finally let me go as he ran after his charge, who by this time had ambled down the road. I turned in the opposite direction and hoped to lose them in the twisting streets, covering my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. My new friend's name? Francesco. A name I've learned to fear, as I and nearly every girl I know has had brusque encounters with them.

Mamma mia!

Quando men vo'

Attention blonde girls! Feeling down in the dumps? Can't get attention from the fellas? Come to Rome! Dozens of dark-haired, brown-eyed men are waiting to sing your praises, fall at your feet, and undress you with their eyes!

I couldn't imagine getting more stares if I were walking around unveiled in Saudi Arabia. Italians make eye contact, check each other out. This drove me nuts the first time I came here, but I'm actually appreciating it this time. It makes me feel like the city is acknowledging my presence here. In New York, where you probably could make a living by selling eye contact, you can walk for days without anyone looking at you. Here, babies, old ladies, young women, and of course men look you in the eye and check you out. Most men look at my eyes and then their gaze falls slightly south of my shoulders. There are many government offices in Rome, so in the center you often find military and security personnel hanging out in flocks. I get smiles and stares from beneath the brims of their uniform caps.

The fact that I'm blonde, light-skinned, blue-eyed, and tower over most Italian men doesn't help the situation. Someone was telling me (was it Francesco, or Gianni?) that light hair and eyes are the symbol of purity. Consider, for example, Botticelli's birth of Venus.

There are fewer boundaries in daily life here, so it's easy to strike up conversation with strangers. This has happened on a couple of occasions with men here, and I've since learned my lesson. I was going on my daily walk, and suddenly felt the sticky stare of brown eyes. Having no other excuse, I ended up talking to them for a while, and, because they were so insistent and because I wanted to get rid of them, I gave them my number. In New York, exchanging numbers doesn't mean you'll ever actually see each other again, and if a guy calls back, you can always somehow not be available. In Italy, they call, and you have to answer. People don't leave voice mails here (most homes don't even have answering machines) because cell phones are always kept on, even in church!

Let's just suffice it to say that my experiences have at least allowed me to add the following phrases to my vocabulary: "I'm busy right now." "I'm busy for the next few nights." "I have a boyfriend, and I feel uncomfortable going out with other men. " "You're really making me uncomfortable." "Please stop calling me." "If you don't stop, I'll change my number. Then you can call all you want." One man kept calling my cell over and over again one afternoon, thoroughly freaking me out. I was just trying to blow him off! He sent me the following SMS: "Why don't you respond? Maybe in America you live like animals but in Italy, shame on you! Addio." Whew.

I've since found some nice girls to hang out with, and I'm taking my socializing with the stronger (and in this country, shorter) sex a little more slowly....

The Language

No, it's not Chinese or Arabic, or even German, but Italian is a lot harder than I thought it would be. This is the first Latin language I've made great efforts to learn, and these fast-talking Latins are tough to understand.

It helps that there are lots of cognates (arte conccetuale, insalata verde), and even some handy borrowed words from l'inglese (memory card, middle class, non-profit), but, like Chinese, slight changes in the placement of the accent or a change or omission of a vowel result in completely different meanings. My most recent favorite is this: l'oroscopo=horoscope; ora scopo=now I am fucking.

And what makes Italian great to sing makes it difficult to speak: all those vowels. In the first couple of weeks here I watched quite a bit of TV, wondering to myself at every instant, "do I really need to learn this shit, can't I just stick with opera vocabulary?" Every language demands a new voice, and I'm still having trouble finding mine in this one. I try to get in at least a few hours of speaking Italian a day, but with so many Americans, foreigners, and locals used to talking English, it's actually a tall order.

When I speak to someone in Italian, usually the first thing they say is, "do you want to talk in English?" This never happen in Germany. People are trying to be nice, but it makes practicing all the more difficult. Sometimes English will come only after the second or third response. If I didn't hear something or didn't understand, they'll repeat themselves either in English or Italian, at which point I don't know what language to expect and can't understand a thing! But there's one request I hear every day, which even old men know in English: "Do you have a cigarette?" When they're not polluting with their cars and motorbikes, they're smoking.

I've been doing some conversation exchanges with Italians I've found through a website here, and it's been very successful. Most recently, I had a long lunch with a pleasantly nerdy fellow who works at the UN's Food and Agriculture Organization, a hideous building near the Circus Maximus with the most spectacular view of the city I've yet seen. It's a very international workplace, and the cafeteria even serves sushi, which is such a refreshing change from the sea of spaghetti options here!

Of course, the best place to learn a language is in bed, but I've resisted the romantic options here. All the stereotypes you've heard about the men are true, and it can be over the top sometime....

Routine

One part of my slightly rough adjustment was the fact that I didn't really have a schedule to work around. I still don't, really, but I've put a few events in place that keep my week churning along.

My twice-weekly Italian course just came to an end, which leaves me with even more hours to fill. There are some lonely days, and I'm not always too keen to cave into the company of English speakers, but sometimes it's just easier to stick with your own kind than to venture embarrassing language errors with the natives. Though I recently signed up for a couple of courses at a low-cost continuing ed school, and already I've met some more people there. The first meeting of a class that tours the papal villas resulted in a new friendship with a Spanish girl (she speaks Italian and English beautifully), and a spontaneous trip to the magnificent Villa d'Este at Tivoli. The other course, tarot card reading (!), should lead to more contact too.

Until recently, twice a week I began my day with a swim in the marble piscina communale, a few minutes walk from my apartment. I actually just snuck in, but one is supposed to pay. When I first asked about signing up, the secretary said I would need to get written permission from a doctor, a requirement which must go back to the time of the plague. A new lifeguard finally asked my name as I was trying to get to the pool, catching my bluff. Any thoughts on how to forge a medical permission slip?

When I'm not reviewing my verbs or trying to make friends, I'm faccendo la turista, as they say. There are endless things to see, and my wonder grows with every day. During the first few days of walking around the antiquities with my Rick Steves book, I felt like a sheep in the herd, and I couldn't imagine spending the whole summer as a tourist by myself. Travelling alone can be great or excruciating.

But then, I dropped Rick for Georgina Masson's excellent guidebook called simply "The Companion Guide to Rome." I'm grateful to Leonora for recommending it to me as it's helped me find some of the most beautiful and extraordinary sights, and fill in the gaps of my knowledge of Roman history. Me and Georgina have spent many days together, mostly touring churches, which are as easy to be found as sand on the sea. The book works like magic. When she says to ring at number 40 and a nice old nun will take you in and show you the secret garden, it all happens as if choreographed.

At first, poking my head into the countless churches here, I wondered if I had made the right choice. Do I really have that much of a passion for religious art? But what I am picking up is a sense of the Baroque style, which of course relates to the music I study. Over the top dosn't accurately describe it all. Churches are littered with angels, colored marble, elaborate tombs, ornate frescoes, and the glitter of precious metals and candles. But what I like to think about is the time when all that glitter was not gaped at but simply sensed, as communities gathered for worship and fellowship. I wonder how Rome ever supported as many churches as it has, and it's true that many masses are underattended or even empty. But, in nearly every church I've visited, I've seen sacred spaces used for what they were intended for. The tourist couple kneeling at the altar at St. Paul's, the distressed woman taking a pew at the Chiesa dei Portogesi, the African usher singing along perfectly to the liturgy at the French church at the top of the Spanish steps, and the youth group singing in Tagalog at the medieval church of St. Pudienza. I went up to a young nun and said "In che lingua cantano loro?" "What?" she replied.

Expectations

Eight years of thinking about it, six years of working, two years of procrastinating and 50,000 frequent flyer miles, and here I am, in Rome.

I came with a set of expectations, knowing fully that those expections would be met or exceeded, or that I would experience things I had never even expected. What I didn't expect was exactly how those original expectations would have to be put aside.

I expected space. Green spaces in the large parks around the city, space in my schedule to study music and language and leisure, the space of a quiet piazza filled up with blue sky. I didn't remember how too much space and solitude can make you absolutely crazy. Away from friends, family, and a life I was happy with, all the beauty in the world couldn't stop me from being unhappy.

So that was the first four days. But I got over it, and slowly I've been finding a balance between studying Italian, socializing (which doesn't always overlap), walking around town, practicing (more and more occasionally), and enjoying this baroque town. I had some bad first impressions (graffiti, sunburn, tourist mobs, men urinating on antiquities), but I've started to find the parts of this town that have enchanted people for ages.

I thought I would be writing phrases like "in my mind's iPod I hear Resphigi's Pines of Rome," when in fact there is generally so much car and motorcycle noise in this town that I can't hear myself think. When I come to quiet corner I'm most content to enjoy the silence. The traffic is stressful here, to say the least, and one wrong turn can put you on a street as busy as the West Side Highway but in the space of Spring Street. I spent the first few days taking the most direct route (which meant where the cars are) and being immediately plagued with stinging eyes and sneezing fits. I've started taking extra asthma medication.

I'm slowly slowly beginning to be able to leave the house without looking at my map, though navigating the streets around here is like walking through spaghetti, so I still get lost or need to retrace my steps.

The whole point of this trip was to learn Italian, but even that's harder than I expected. When I arrived in Germany in January 1997, there were no Americans there on long term vacations. In Rome, on the other hand, I'm not the only one who came up with the idea of spending some time here, and the piazzas resound with English chatters. Storekeepers and most everyone else can manage some English, and will do so even when I'm talking to them in Italian. It's so frustrating! At least, when I called the Casa di Goethe, they broke into German instead.

I am making some progress, and I am happy with my twice weekly course at ItaliaIdea. I might look into another supplementary course too. I have found a few Italians who are studying English, so I've been meeting with them once a week each to do a language exchange. It's been quite successful, and I'm also slowly starting to make Italian friends, but they need to have patience. Many men seem to be eager to be my friend....