#9: "Gee Whiz! That's A Gosh Darn Castle!"

The View from San Miniato.

(My apartment is just below the Dome) The mausoleum below San Miniato Il Palagio's Cellar, and was once a dungeon  Outside Il Palagio Some random kids frolicking towards a vineyard at Il Palagio

Chianti

~

In America, students love teachers that take their classes outside. This is the trademark of the open-minded, easygoing educator and it never fails. So far, out of the 18 classes I have attended, four have been outside. This is unheard of in the states--at least on Chapman's campus.

This past Wednesday, my creative writing teacher asked us to meet for class at San Miniato al Monte, a church overlooking the city. (see first photo) There is a gold mosaic on its facade that, when one looks in the direction of the church from the city center, it is easy to see San Miniato perched on the hillside. The view is incredible. The lack of obnoxious sounds is also incredible.

The legend goes: More than two thousand years ago, San Miniato was merely in passing when he fell in love with Florence and decided to stay. The Romans persecuted him for his Christian beliefs and beheaded him in one of the city's piazzas. San Miniato did not approve, so he picked up his head and flew up onto a hillside beyond the city walls and lived in a cave.

Centuries later, Florentines erected a shrine in his honor on the hillside. Some time after, the church of San Miniato was erected. The gold mosaic on the church's facade iconically represent Mary, Christ, and San Miniato. He watches over a city whose leaders--despite his love for Florence--murdered him for beliefs that are now common.

After doing some reading and discussing how to effectively describe a place, we were asked to do just this. We each spread out, trying to figure out what we wanted to say about Florence. Our new home. Weird. Too weird. I had already been inside the church and spent a half hour staring at the cluster of red clay roof tiles and yellow walls that make up the city of Florence, so I wandered into the cemetery below the church. I read names, figured out ages, and did what most people do in cemeteries: think.

I walked back up the stairs and sat, still unsure of what to write. Red clay roof tiles and yellow walls, red clay roof tiles and yellow walls. Green hills. Red clay roof tiles. Yellow walls. Why do I like the way Italy looks so much? Why do I consider this prettier than America? This is what I wrote:

"When I walk the streets of towns and cities that do not blend harmoniously with the landscape--and rather, blatantly disregard nature's taste--I feel like an intruder. I feel uncomfortable, guilty, upset, anxious and dissatisfied. The style with which human beings build upon the land is as significant as why and how they do so, and for some of us, obnoxious, lifeless architecture is bearable, but has a subtly depressing effect. As Americans we are the inhabitants of a 'civilized' nation, a newer and rebellious one at that. Our architecture shows this: we do not care much for organic harmony between the environment ad our constructions--we ostentatiously steal 'mother nature's' thunder, so to speak, with our skyscrapers and 'contemporary,' 'industrial' designs. Many Americans therefore, are dazzled by civilized nations whose architecture seems to have sprung from the earth. Firenze is a garden of man's design, existing in harmony with the unadulterated wilderness that cradles it. In Firenze I do not feel like an intruder. I feel like a visitor, yes, but instead of discomfort, guilt, and anxiety, I feel calm because I feel welcome. I sense that the hills don't mind the buildings made of their stone or the roofs made of their clay. The visual harmony, that one must witness their self from the sloping outskirts of the city, has fostered spiritual harmony in me, something that is more difficult when I am home. But perhaps that very struggle for inner peace has primed me; perhaps the peace is instead coming from within and is merely inspired by this new and different land. But I doubt it."

And then my teacher asked me to read aloud. I don't like it when that happens.

~

Moving on: new story.

So, everyone said there was a free wine tasting trip and I said, 'Hey, that sounds great!' and then I procrastinated and didn't sign up in time. 'It's full' she said, and I said, 'Wow, bummer...I shouldn't have procrastinated.' But, I was reminded that Oktoberfest was still going on this past weekend, which meant that SOMEONE was bound to bail on wine tasting and flock to Germany. So I tagged along and hopped on the last bus. Thank you Oktoberfest.

An hour or so later we are in Chianti and I hop off the bus and find my friends, who took the first bus. We take a look around and realize that the big, stone building the buses are parked next to is a castle. 'Gee whiz,' I said. 'That's a gosh darn castle! Well I'll be!'

The Tuscany region is known worldwide for the wine produced here. The name of the winery is Il Palagio, and it is one of the many wineries in this region of Tuscany, known as Chianti. The castle is believed to have been built in the mid-13th century, but could be older. Because of the high acclaim for Chianti wine, in 1716 the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Cosimo III, decreed that the 70,000 hectares known as the Chianti region would be dedicated solely to the production of wine and olive oil. Il Palagio has produced wine and oil for the past 300 years. 

After we all got a tour of the wine cellar (which used to be the dungeon), the couryard and the chapel, we all sat down and got to taste a table wine, a Chianti Clasico, and a SuperTuscan. They gave us delicious cheese and salami, and bread lathered with their famous olive oil. Happy Americans we were. At the end we each got a tiny bit of desert wine and some biscotti.

Part of the appeal of this trip is that most of the us would not be able to go on such a trip in the states because of our ages. The appeal was not because it was "forbidden," but rather, that we were considered mature enough to enjoy this sort of trip. It feels good to be acknowledged in this way.

In America, if you are under the age of 21 you are not considered to be mature enough to enjoy alcohol--you are expected to simply abuse it. Sadly, this is indeed true of American youth, which I believe is due to the fact many are not taught to enjoy alcohol and then abuse it.

It was very interesting to look around at the myriad of tables and see some people that were really focusing on trying to taste the wines, and then see those who were taking pictures of each other making funny faces and posing with the bottles. It was then that I realized the theme of this trip for me: we are all at a point in our lives where we can choose to mature or to postpone maturity.

One of my favorite movies is 'Sideways,' (I recommend it to any wine lover and any movie lover) and in it, the love interest of the main character (Paul Giamatti) is telling him why she likes wine, and she says that no two bottles are the same, that they are like people; like living, breathing things that constantly change--that have a story. When I saw this movie, I had only had a sip of wine here and there because I was curious, yet even though I was not a fan of wine yet, I loved this character's perspective. It made me understand the appeal of wine.

I consciously decided on this trip what type of American youth that I want to be. Lets all hope the other type change their minds one day.

8th Post: Whose Idea Was This? (Cinque Terre, Part 2)

Swimming in Vernazza (I am on the very right)

Friday-Day 1 All of us in Vernazza, post-swim. Friday

(Ana, me, Alex, Kim, Billy, Kelsey, Johanna, Matt) 7 of us outside Ostello Tramonti, Biassa.

Saturday Morning.

Billy, Kelsey, Johanna, me, Kim, Alex, Ana (Matt took the photo) Via dell' Amore: The Path to Manarola

Saturday Leaving Manarola, Town #2.

Saturday.

~

Ostello Tramonti is not near La Spezia in the truest sense of the word 'near.' The bus stop we need is in La Spezia. We need to get to Biassa. We wait. And wait. And wait in La Spezia.

We finally catch the bus and it fills with people. As we get further and further out of La Spezia, the bus empties. Now it is the 8 of us, 2 other American travelers, an old Italian man, and the bus driver. The bus chugs up a windy, tree-covered road, honking its happy horn on every turn. We go up. And up. And up.

"Ostello! A Biassa! Gli studenti sta vacendo--" The old man is getting off the bus, and is telling the bus driver where to take us. He knew that we had no clue. He must have seen our faces as we all watched the bus wind its way into the middle of nowhere. The driver smiles and thanks him, "Si, signore. Buona sera." The door swings shut and we go up some more. Finally--friendly Italians.

We reach Biassa, a small town perched on a hillside in a valley high above the city below, surrounded by thick, unadulterated forests. An ancient-looking, stone bell tower juts out of a cluster of pastel-colored homes. There is only one road in Biassa. The bus stops outside of a several-storied building at the highest point of the town. There is a gigantic mural of a blue man backpacking towards the sun on the wall beside the front door. I realize I am back-packing. Sweet.

We split into two rooms, attempt to air out and dry our wet and salty belongings, and then go in search of food. Let me tell you, Biassa has no night life. Luckily, someone has decided to stay open this late into the evening, probably figuring that they can make some money off of hungry, tired, smelly American travelers. We all decide that it's time to chow down. Most of us have been on tight budgets, and have not yet sat down in a restaurant for a meal while we have been in Italy. Humble Biassa, we agree, is the place to do this, so we do it full-force.

A whirlwind of pesto calzones, pesto pizzas, pesto pasta and beer hits our table. We are all feeling too full, yet adventurous, so we all order Limoncello. It is supposed to be a traditional Italian digestivo, so we figure we might as well give it a whack. 10 minutes later, we are all advocates of Limoncello in the fight against the consequences of over-eating.

We spend our evening playing cards and watching the Italian version of Wheel Of Fortune. My roommates and I share a room with our friend Billy. I take the cot. It turns out to be a death trap, but I am tired enough that I am willing to risk it. Some of us sleep well (I did) and some of us do not, because Billy Domanick is a master at the art of snoring. (I feel bad for the 14 people sharing a hostel dorm with us in Amsterdam in October...I might just bring 14 pairs of earplugs with me to pass out)

We rise early and hit the road. Some other travel groups arrived the night before, and there are at least 25 kids waiting to get on the bus. The short, short, short Biassa bus. We start wondering how this is going to work, and are worried because the next bus doesn't come for another 3 hours. WE are going to get on this bus no matter what.

It chugs up the hill and our group jogs beside the door as the bus makes a u-turn and stops. We get on. And then so does everyone else. Plus one old Italian lady. An American girl speaks to her in Italian, probably trying to distract the old woman from what we all know is going to be a difficult, obnoxious bus ride for her.

All that needs to be said about the next half hour on that bus is: FEAR.

We make it to the first town, Riomaggiore, and begin again. We immediately hike the path to town #2, Manarola, because we want to get ahead of the crowd of Americans that just got off of the bus with us. For breakfast I buy Foccacia con Acciughe...foccacia with anchovies. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have fresh anchovies. Tasty. Thank goodness someone had chewing gum.

We move on towards town #3, Corniglia. The path changes, and becomes an uneven, crumbling dirt path clinging to a cliffside. The fences are very wobbly. I have to wonder, Whose idea was this?! What genius said: "Hey! Let's build 5 towns in 5 different dangerous locations and then connect them with dangerous paths!"? (I am so glad they did.)

We climb 3 hundred something stairs and finally make it to Corniglia, where we all splurge on tasty treats: gelati e granita (granita is like an ice smoothie that comes in lemon and strawberry). We go in search of the path to the next town, Vernazza, where we swam the day before, but cannot find it. We learn that it is another monstrous hike. We go back down 3 hundred something stairs, passing the huge group of Americans that we rode the bus with, and find the train station. We all decide it's time to take it easy.

We hop off at the last town, Monterosso, and find the free beach. Surprisingly, most of the women are wearing their tops--Matt, Alex and Billy are clearly disappointed. We swim and lay on the beach for a few hours, building rock towers and reflecting on how lucky we are, and then we head home.

It takes forever.

That night, we all go our separate ways to clean up but we reconvene at Billy's with some other people soon after. The boys cook "Chicken Parm," as they call it, and it is surprisingly delicious. We can't stop talking about Cinque Terre to those who were not with us and the others tell their stories as well. It hits me--again--how lucky I am. I'm sorry to get mushy on you, but it was one of those moments.

We ended the evening down the street at the Dublin Pub, where we cheers'd to Cinque Terre and grappled with the idea of getting Fleur-de-lis's (Florence's symbol) tattoed on our hindquarters. Well, some of us did anyway. Some of us didn't. I'll be honest: I'm not so hot on the idea.

7th Post: I'm Hooked. (Cinque Terre, Part 1)

The New Section of Monterosso New Monterosso Getting further and further away from Monterosso

(Try to imagine the trail. Just try.) Home of the Singing Wine-Maker Me. Vernazza. One Goal.

The important thing for you to know is that I swam in the Mediterranean. But more about that later...we'll begin at what is not exactly the beginning.

If you recall my last post, you remember my saying that I am not the spontaneous type, but trying to be. Great strides are being made indeed. It began with "Let's go to Cinque Terre" and eight "Okay"s, and it ended with a whole lot of happy college students. We know two things: we have a place to sleep tonight and its somewhere NEAR La Spezia.

We all meet up at the train station and buy tickets for the 7:50 AM train to La Spezia, a town a little bit south of the southernmost "terre" (Cinque Terre means Five Lands), where we plan to catch a train to Monterosso, the northernmost "terre." A couple hours later, we are in Monterrosso...and so is the rain. Lets just say I was not prepared.

Because I have heard that pesto and foccaccia are specialties of the Cinque Terre region (the birthplace of pesto) and because I am HUNGRY I immediately seek out both: pesto on foccacia. It would be too painful for you if I were to describe how delicious it was, so I won't. 

The new section of Monterosso is the most "touristy" of the five towns. It's cove has sandy beaches lined with umbrellas and every wall is freshly painted (not usually the case). We forge on and try to ignore the squishing sounds coming from everyone's shoes. We reach the old section of Monterosso and find the trail head. We have heard that each town is connected by a path that is hikable in one day, so our plan is to do just this. We find the trail head just as the rain begins to lighten up.

"We could die at any minute! This would not exist in the US!" Matt, who also came on the Villa Demidoff trip, is not happy with the "path," which is actually a two-foot-wide trail of mud and slippery, dilapidated stone steps going up and down through vineyards perched dangerously on steep cliffs. I chime in: "Yeah, because stupid Americans like us would fall off of it." I don't really mean it, only a little bit. He continues, "Falling off of this would not be good." Billie, another Villa Demidoff-er, trips on a rock (he thought leather flip flops would be a good idea) and we all let out loud guttural sounds of pure terror--"OHGGG!". This group has amazing comedic timing.

One hour later we start wondering a) where we are, b) where we are going, c) who decided this trail was a good idea, and d) when we are going to GET THERE. We make a stop and strip layers--the rain has stopped and everyone's sweating profusely. The trip officially reaches the status of "backpacking." We finally run into some other American hikers, who tell us we have an hour and 15 minutes to go. More guttural sounds.

We all finally reach a point where we can't feel our bodies anymore, and we can't think about anything else other than how lucky we are to have literally stumbled into yet another amazing adventure. We hear singing as we round a bend, and we see an old man with white hair and a full beard working in his yard in the distance. The house is perched on the hillside. He is a wine-maker, and he is obviously very happy about it. His vineyard stretches below his house into a steep ravine. He sees us and keeps singing...loudly. THIS is Italy.

We run into some more hikers, who tell us that we are almost there. Just after that we stumble upon a campsite for cats. Two hobo cats emerge from tiny tents and meow loudly at us. They mill around empty bowls and a bucket with a note on it telling us to feed the cats with the food in the buckets. The bucket is empty. My roommate Kim finds some granola in her pack but the beggars decide to be choosers. We hang out and rest and the braver ones in the group give them good, loving rub-downs. I pass on disease. No rabies for me. 

We round a bend and the town of Vernazza comes into view below. The postcards are not photoshopped. We are all restraining ourselves from running down the trail, particularly Billie and I, who are dying to swim in the Mediterranean. We see kids jumping off of a pier. Billie passionately states, "I'M DOING THAT." I add, "It's happening. It's definitely happening." 

We find our way to the water and Billie, European-style, strips down to his skivvies and cannon balls into the water. So does Alex, the other Villa Demidoff-er, and Ana too--a new and welcome addition to the group. It's the most beautiful water I have ever seen. Crystal clear and a rich blue. Heaven exists on Earth...believe me: I swam in it. I try to keep it rated PG because there are lots of tourists and locals around the pier, some of them small children. I didn't bring a bathing suit with me to Italy and did not foresee this opportunity, so I anxiously dig through my backpack and find boxers (my pajamas) and wear one of my two shirts that I have for the 2-day trip. Oh well. Backpackers are supposed to smell bad--if they don't, something's not right.

I am pretty sure the sound I made as I ran off the pier sounded a bit like a rebel yell. I hear my roommates laughing as I plummet. It was definitely good entertainment for the non-swimmers. This marks my baptism as one of those "crazy American kids." This is spontaneous. Good work, Chelsea. Keep it up. ---  Thank you, I will.

We dry off, find the train station, and make our way towards La Spezia to check in at Ostello Tramonti. Billie, Alex, Ana and I are salty and loving it. I  can't believe it: "We just swam in the  f#*@!)n Mediterannean" (swearing has its place). I am HOOKED on travel, hooked on jumping into the metaphorical Mediterranean and hooked on jumping into the real Mediterranean.

Oh there's more...you just have to wait.

6th Post: Trip to Villa Demidoff, Pratolino

The 25 entering the town of Trespiano, 9/12 Waiting in Trespiano, 9/12 Gigante delle Appenines, 9/12 Me & Gigante, 9/12 Inside Gigante's Noggin, 9/12 (Notice support bars) I am not the spontaneous type, although I do like to experience new things. But I am the type that laboriously comes to a decision about which experiences I would like to have, and then when I spontaneously encounter something...I usually love it. Confusing, I know.

Today I learned that to be spontaneous is to allow life to show you things that you might never show yourself--or allow yourself to see. Something as minor as a day trip via bus to a small town outside of Florence has taught me these lessons.

I was skeptical. I had no information from my roommate Jo other than it's a villa, there's gardens, there's a big statue, and we have to take a bus out of the city. Nevertheless, I have been pushing myself to push myself so... I bought two bus tickets from the corner stand and followed Jo--with my 3 roommates and 3 male friends of ours--to the bus stop.

We see 25A pull away as we turn the corner into Piazza San Marco. We wait. We hop on bus 25 and right up and over brown and green Tuscan hills dotted with postcard images of Italian wineries and homes. Gasps. We all reach for our cameras. The bus shakes and bounces and winds its way down the skinny country roads, honking its horn at corners where it swerves into the other lane. I can't help but think of On The Road and the scene where Neal Cassady takes the wheel.

"No! No! 25 A! A!" The bus driver tells us to get off and wait because this particular 25 does not go to Pratolino, which is only the next town over. Shux. We wait and wait. I realize that, according to the bus schedule sign, we are in Trespiano: the Cemetery town. I turn around and see a long stretch of family tombs. This could be the beginning of a college student horror film, but I will never write that...don't worry.

The bus finally comes and the next thing we know, we are walking through the countryside. We have all seen images of this statue online--called "Gigante delle Appenines"--but when we accidentally stumble upon it...more gasps. Jo actually runs toward it.

Villa Demidoff was formerly owned by the Medici family (who basically ran Firenze for a time) half a millenium ago, and they used it to escape from Firenze during the hot summers. In the mid-1800s another family bought it, it became Villa Demidoff, and now it is a public park.

One of our male friends, Max, decided to take it upon himself to see if we could climb the giant. He found stairs, so we did. There was even a tunnel leading up into the giant's skull where we could see the bars holding it up. It was not until later that we noticed the fences had been pushed aside by the gardeners and we had wandered into forbidden territory. We had accidentally stumbled upon an amazing opportunity to go where many others have never been and will never go: where the artists' and workers' hands once worked laboriously (Our other male friend, Alex, has a teacher who helped restore this statue). A story for the grandkids.

Once we got back to Florence, gray clouds closed in on the city and giant raindrops began falling. Thunder boomed and bounced off of the stone walls. It felt like someone was hocking loogies at us. Soon the loogies became a steady downpour. I dreaded making the trip to where I am sitting right now, in the student computer center, typing...but I did it. For you.

5th Post: Classes begin

School is always school. You either look forward to it or you don't, but when it begins, you wish it were break again. I am experiencing school in a very different way now, because I am surrounded by constant stimulation calling me to do everything but schoolwork. Whereas in California I could easily hunker down, tune in, and do every assignment like my life depended on it (which it does in a way), here I am wondering how that is going to be possible. The good student's dillemma. Academia or adventure? I have decided it will have to be both, but that is going to take some serious effort--good thing it's worth it. So far I am looking forward to learning what my classes offer. On Monday evenings I go to "Peace Education" with a very humble and relaxed Italian Man named Giovanni Scotto. The Italian version of a Hippie professor. On Tuesdays I have Art History with Carlotta Fuhs, a half-Italian, half-German woman. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I have Intermediate Italian with Stefania, who is the epitome of the vivacious Italian woman seen in plenty of art films. She dresses cool, laughs a lot, and makes jokes about our mistakes. "No, no, no--you say fish juice! You want to say peach juice?! You say 'pes-kay' not 'pesh-ay'! FISH JUICE!" (In case you all just realized Joe Pesce's last name might mean fish in Italian, you are indeed correct). On wednesdays I have Creative Writing with an English woman named Kate Ann Bolton. There are two kids from LA in the class that are into film--lets just say I could instantly tell they were either from LA or SF. Hipsters. And on Thursday mornings I have Social Psychology with the school psychologist, Silia Passeri. She lives in Florence--I saw her riding her bike with her 5-year-old daughter on the back--but she is half-American, half-Italian. Her parents met when her mother came to Florence to study abroad. She fell in love with an Italian boy and they had two girls, Silia and her sister. The family would spend summers in America but they lived in Florence. Here's where it gets interesting. During our class break I ask, "Where is your family based in America?" She says, "California's Bay Area." I tell her I am from Sausalito and a huge smile smears across her face. "I love Sausalito!" I ask, "Have you seen the houseboats?" "Oh yes, it is my dream to have a houseboat in Sausalito!" I tell her that I grew up on a houseboat and she glows for a good 127 seconds. I have to say that I was glowing a little too. I will post again soon and I will include some of my favorite photos of the locals and the tourists. Photographing people here is almost more fun than photographing the architecture.

Fourth Post: The First Week (Wed 9/3-Sun 9/7)

I'm going to be much more brief now...don't worry. You won't have to keep doing this much reading for four months.

I have three roommates, all of which go to Endicott College in Massachusetts and major in Interior Design. (See first photo) Now I know that Lorenzo is actually an art institute, so now I can actually say that I went to art school.

They are all very sweet girls and we have been having an awesome time wandering around Firenze together. Johanna--or Jo--is from Philly, but originally from Romania. She has spent most of her life in America, but she does speak Romanian and it is very entertaining to listen to. It is always interesting when you find out that someone speaks another language fluently. (I have to wonder what she's saying to her parents about us though) Kim is from New Hampshire, but originally from Minnesota. From what I can tell, she did not like Minnesota ("Why would you go THERE?!). Kim also has an incredibly infectious laugh--painfully infectious. Kelsey is from Texas, and NO, she does not 1) own a gun, 2) make money off of family oil, or 3) like George W. Bush. So far we've had gelato, pizza and cappuccinos and have each taken somewhere upwards of 300 photos. So I suppose we've done the relaxed tourist-y thing. We will all be getting the "Amici degli Uffizi" pass soon (which grants us access to any of the state-owned buildings) so we can actually go inside the museums and churches without breaking the bank.

Our apartment is very cool. It is so much more spacious than I imagined. (See photos two and three: north and south views of Via Giraldi from my room) I am staying in the master bedroom, which is so fancy it's scary. (See photo four: view through our doorway; my roommate Kelsey's bed) (See photo five: View of my bed)

So far, the best thing to do has been to wander around. I keep a couple maps on me at all times (one of which is a pop out--very cool, I know) and we just walk all day long. Firenze is so small that it is easy to explore. There's something interesting around every corner. The past five days of exploration have really helped me to get comfortable.

Adjusting to life here is difficult and easy. Some things--like walking everywhere--are easy (I prefer it...I never want to drive again), but other things--like going to the supermarket and sleeping--are not. My roommates and I have made three or four grocery trips so far and each one has had its "special" moments.

Reading labels in Italian is harder than one might think. I'm still confused about a few things. Also, the big grocery stores make you pay for your plastic bags (which are not the least bit sturdy) and we have to walk all the way back to our apartments with whatever we bought. Lets just say we've lost quite a bit of pasta sauce to the cobblestones. Now we bring totes, but even then, the more we buy, the heavier our bags are and the more vulnerable we feel to thieves. So the tri-weekly trip to the store has become a reality.

Sleeping. Here's the biggie. Imagine trying to sleep while cars and vespas whir by, washing machines and dish washers tumble and squeak, ambulances go here and there constantly, car alarms go for hours, and people are yelling, screaming, laughing, talking, spitting and vomiting. People are on the streets until 5 or 6 AM, many of them returning from clubs. The street cleaners and garbage cleaners go by every morning between 6 and 7 AM, and then there's Giotto's Bell Tower, which rings hourly and sometimes half-hourly. On Sundays there's extra bells for the masses. And there's a little boy next door that does not like bedtime at all. I have to say that I agree with him.

In all honesty though, the hardest thing so far has been the limited amount of communication that I have had with home. I'm sure I'll tell all of you this many more times before these 4 months are over: I miss you all terribly.

So now that I have had 5 days to adjust and have some fun, classes begin today (Sep 8). My schedule isn't too demanding, but we'll see how the work load turns out. I am looking forward to going back to school...it's time. And it will be great to meet some new people.

Third Post: Hangin Out in Firenze, Waiting to Check In

My Room At the Plus Florence Hostel (Sep 2)

Attempted Self-Portrait: Me in the Piazza del Duomo (Sep 3)

Another Self-Portrait: In Front of the Bronze Doors of The Baptistery of San Giovanni, Pza. del Duomo (Sep 3)

My Apartment at Via Giraldi 8: Second Floor (Sep 3)

I arrived at the Amerigo Vespucci Airport (Amerigo gave America its name) around 2:30, after making all of my connections...barely. I waited by baggage claim for a half hour, until all the people from my flight had left and the new arrivals were filtering in. I was surrounded by young kids like myself. Americans. Most of them waited for two or even three bags to pass by. I realized then that what was inside my 30-pound duffel was indeed not too much. Either way, my meager piece of luggage did not make it.

The girl in line in front of me didn't have a forwarding address. Shit. I began to wonder if I knew the address that they gave me in the e-mail. It came into my mind...I had accidentally memorized (after filling out my luggage tags) the address: Via de Melarancio 6-r.  The clerk didn't tell me where it was, and I headed towards the exit bummed, tired, and scared. I didn't want to leave just yet. What lay outside the sliding glass doors was too much. I headed to the restroom.

Outside the heat was overwhelming. This is not what I expected. I found the bus stop. Volainbus. I sat down and decided to just sit and wait, rather than check the schedule. If it came--good. If it didn't--plan b. I was sick of itineraries. I tried to take it all in and feel that rush of excitement that the other students at baggage claim seemed to be feeling. But it wasn't happening. To my left, a young couple are passionately smooching. To my right, some Italian dude. Somehow the rush just didn't quite make it to the surface.

I got on the bus, paid, and then sat down up front. We passed through what sort of looked like Firenze, but not quite. I realized that not all of Firenze is preserved like what I had seen in travel guides. We soon entered the historical center and next thing I knew, we were stopped outside of a large building. I knew I wanted to get to Stazione Centrale della Santa Maria Novella, but I had no idea if this was it or not: it was time to whip out the Italian. "Santa Maria Novella?" "Ahh, Si, Santa Maria Novella." "Grazi." Not bad...just not very impressive.

I got off and pulled out my itinerary to get the directions to the hostel. I put on my sunglasses and headed across the busy street. Cars and Vespas whirred by as if Via degli Avelli were a 4-lane highway. The directions began with, "Head across the street towards the McDonald's." I think: Maybe I haven't left America after all.

I stopped in an Internet point. I desperately wanted to get into contact with home again. I wanted to let everyone know that I had actually made it. I had to go into the basement where a creepy guy watching Indian music videos on YouTube scanned my passport and charged me 1 euro for 15 minutes (I later learned what a rip off this was). Good enough for me. A sign on the way down warned me to watch my belongings. This did not help ease my paranoia. There were only a few other people in the basement. One man at the far end of the room, and three boys at the other end who were also watching YouTube. But instead of harmless, silly music videos, they were watching a video of an animal attacking another animal. This also did not help ease my paranoia.

I went back out onto the street and carried on with my journey towards shelter. My bag was feeling heavy, my shoulders and back sore, and my eyelids heavy. I saw a big, boxy black arch with the words "Hostel" up ahead. A sigh of relief. The young man at the counter spoke good English and handed me a room key, a towel, sheets, and a bag of toiletries. Because I had read somewhere that some hostels won't allow you in your room before a certain time (either because they don't want you getting too comfortable or because they want you to go out and experience the environment), I had to ask if there were any rules about when I could be in my room and when I couldn't. This was the biggie: I just wanted to feel comfortable for a bit. "No! No! Whenever you like!" Another sigh of relief.

I walked down a bright pink hallway looking for room 101. The girls' floor. There were strange paintings by the same artist all over the place. Whoever painted them has a fascination with city life and surrealism...obviously not related whatsoever. City life is of course very real. Maybe not for me right at that moment, but for someone somewhere, it is. All of them had a background of some sort of cityscape, and on top of these images the artist had painted swirls, graffiti-like markings, and text in both Italian and English. Very strange. So strange I almost liked them, but there was something about the neon pink walls that made them very, very ugly. This is not what I expected a hostel would look like.

I pushed the door open and said hello to the girl inside. She was sitting on one of the top bunks with her computer in her lap. She swung around, and in an English accent responded, "Hello there!" She was also a relief. Not intimidating in the least, and there was no way she was going to steal my stuff or avoid bathing and cause a stench.

The walls in the room were purple and the shades were magenta. This is definitely not a hostel.

I unpacked my stuff and paced around a bit while the English girl--whose name I cannot remember--and I had conversations about going abroad (which she had done in France once before), Facebook, and not being able to remember people's names. Sorry English girl.

My evening was lovely. I spent a couple hours flipping through my travel guides--now trying to induce the rush--and sewing up a shirt. I then had dinner and took a shower. An Australian girl came back to the room: Hillary--not Sheila. She has been traveling with her friend and they were just in from Venice and off to Croatia soon. I read a bit of an article in Rolling Stone about the Bush Administration, and then dozed off. When I woke up there were two Sheilas...one Hillary and one Lori. I realized then that staying in a hostel was a good idea. The Brit and the Sheilas were good company and kept me from feeling too lonely...or alone...not sure which. Maybe both.

My REI travel clock alarm beeped for the first time since its purchase at 7:30 AM, and I showered again. Freshness and comfort were the goals at that point. I packed up my stuff and went to breakfast downstairs. All you can eat for 3.50 euros. I now know the true value of money and food. Knowing that I am on a budget, all the Pasticcerie and snack shops do not look inviting. I worked all summer to have loads of my money taken away and I am not about to spend 3 euros on a croissant when I can get plenty of calories in the basement of the Plus Florence Hostel.

9 AM. Northern Firenze. I bid the Brit and the Sheilas arrivederci and set off again with my backpack and my nerdy pop-up map of Firenze. Check in was beginning now, but I figured I might as well try to enjoy getting there. Really not knowing where I was going, I accidentally stumbled upon the San Lorenzo Chapels. That was it for me: the rush. It finally came to the surface. I couldn't stop smiling. For someone who has never seen architecture more than two centuries old in real life, has never been to Europe, has never traveled this far alone, and who knows absolutely no one in Firenze, the San Lorenzo Chapels are a hard smack in the face. They tell you to wake up and smell the marble.

I was glowing and I knew it. I might as well have worn a shirt that said "I'm an American student!" on it. I found the student check-in point and waited in line. Two Japanese girls, Narisa and Akiko, struck up a conversation with me. "We are from Japan, we do not speak very good English! Hahahah!" They proceeded to ask me questions and I continued to glow. I was so grateful for these two girls and their warmth, that once again I felt like I had before when Ms. DeSilva and the Singapore Airlines attendants treated me so nicely...I am going to be alright. "You are from California?! Uhhhh...Dis...Disney...land?" I respond, "Oh yeah! My school is right next to it!" Narisa and Akiko loved that. "AHHHHH!!!!"

I get into my apartment--after trekking all the way there with my keys, not being able to open the door, trekking back to the check-in point for help, and trekking back to the apartment and fussing with the key again. Another bright side: even though I had to go back and forth between the check-in point and my apartment, I took several different routes and ended up finding Piazza del Duomo and seeing lots of the city. (See all three photos above)

As I finally hear the lock click and the door swings open, the rush hits me again even harder. I won't lie to you: I jumped up and down and talked to myself: "There's no way this is my apartment."

Second Post: Back to the Beginning...Getting to Florence

Amtrak, Train 712 to Bakersfield (Aug 31st)

Singapore Airlines, JFK Int'l Airport, NY (Sep 1)

My First Look At Europe: Flying Over Frankfurt, Germany (Sep 2)

I peed in a Starbucks and I took a look in the mirror. If it hadn't been for the cowlick I was trying to subdue, I might have actually realized that this was my moment to do that thing where the main character in the movie checks out their reflection and says, "here we go."

Zach and I walked across Drumm Street in San Francisco's Financial Center and stood at the Amtrak bus stop. There was only one other man waiting, and he was pacing back and forth and sipping nervously out of a Starbucks cup. He was a good distraction--I just tried to think of where this guy was going...not where I was going. It was  getting close to 7 AM when the bus was supposed to arrive, and my mom, Zach and I had been up since 4:30. It was definitely time to get on that bus and go, no matter how badly I wanted to just stand there on that street corner with Zach all day and watch that guy pace back and forth.

A white bus appears on Market Street and makes a turn towards us and we both know that the hardest moment of the past year--which merely consisted of planning for this trip--is finally here. This hurts. This hurts very, very badly. I sit down and I watch San Francisco get smaller and smaller, and the next thing I know, I'm at the station in Emeryville.

Train 712 to Bakersfield slides down the tracks and I step inside. (See first photo) This is the second time I have been on a train, and the first time alone. I do like the others do. The ticket taker--Ms. DeSilva--is so nice that I actually feel like I am going to be alright, and that the worst is over. Now I'm sitting at the end of the last car in the very last seat, occasionally glancing out the windows at the landscape outside that, since I have been going to Chapman University in Southern California, I now associate with leaving home. I decide to go through the photos that I have just put on my computer, all of which are from this past summer. The past three months click by in a half hour and now I don't feel like I'm going to be alright. I try to keep from "going there," but it's very hard.

The train ride is shaky, sometimes so much so that it's a bit frightening. We roll past large lots of cars that have been stripped for parts, and small towns of compact, boxy homes. Martinez. Antioch. They all seem the same: bad. Now I'm wishing I were in Italy. 

I'm tired, but sleeping seems nearly impossible. There's simply too much going through my head that just needs some time to swirl around. This past summer was so busy that I had no time to think about Italy and all that it meant: leaving California, my boyfriend, my parents and all my good friends behind for four solid months. It all comes flooding in. The bright side: I realize that this trip is undeniably building character by the minute, and I think of how many staunch Grandfathers in this world would appreciate that. 

This will be the longest period of time for which I will be away from home. During my freshman year at Chapman I returned several times during the first semester. Vocal communication will be much more rare because I won't have a cell phone, and I can already tell how much more I am going to appreciate hearing people's voices when I get back. This semester abroad is going to change me in many ways. It already has. Stockton. Now I can nap.

Cow country. I'm feeling comforted by the big black and white blobs zooming past. They eat, they sleep, they poop, and sometimes they tip over, but they never try to throw their babies in your arms so they can pick your pockets. Cows are not like gypsies. Cows are not like Italian men. Italian men oogle blond Americans--cows don't oogle...ever. (Forget what you've "learned" in the California Cheese commercials) I wish there was some way to imagine everyone in Europe as big cows so that I could walk down the street without constantly worrying about someone trying to steal something from me. In the end, there's only so much I can do to avoid getting mugged (or worse). The rest is chance.

3:30. Union Station, Los Angeles. I easily made the connection from the train to the bus in Bakersfield, and I slept during the ride into LA. Union Station is a grand, art-deco style building with tall ceilings and comfy lounge chairs. Its a Historical Landmark because it was built so long ago: another surprising shred of what remains from the past. Just as I am about to leave a country with barely any historical architecture--as compared to other countries/continents--I realize while walking through Union Station, that I am about to travel to and live in a country whose historical architecture remains. The people who pass through time and space in Firenze accept what has been there for so many centuries and merely move in and around it. They leave it be and use it as they are able. It defines them and they are proud of the richness of their environment. They are not governed by the past, but rather, are most likely inadvertently influenced by it. I know I am.

I wait out front to be picked up by my godfather. My godfather Farrell and his wife Diana are taking me in for the night, and are giving me a ride to LAX in the morning. They are both seasoned travelers. I figure that not only will they be able to give me some good advice, but they'll cheer me up as well. They're awesome, and they do.

3:30 AM, Labor Day. Farrell and I head to LAX, which is surprisingly close to their apartment. He drops me off and it all begins. "Where do I go? Then what? How do I...?" I pull it together and figure it all out. I get on the plane just as the sun rises. It's so metaphorical I can't stand it. I wait for the plane to get in the air and then I pass out.

3 PM, JFK Airport. I need to find terminal four. I am in terminal 7. I have never been to New York. I ask around and find out that the "AirTrain" will get me there. I find it, hop on, and wait. The car gets further and further away from the airport. I begin to see homes and basketball courts and I'm wondering what the hell I've done. The robot loudspeaker alleviates my worry by saying, "The AirrrrrrrTrain stops at ALLLLL terminals!" Another bright side: I saw a little bit of New York.

I purchase internet access so I can make some contact with home. I have a seven hour layover, but it goes by fast. I go upstairs to the international flight check-in area and I'm instantly convinced that this is the most interesting place that I have ever been. The diversity is amazing. There's so many stories crammed into this terminal that it overwhelms me in the best way possible. A screenwriter's delight. All of a sudden, I remember why I signed up for this program in the first place: stories.

9 PM. Singapore Airlines. (See second photo) I am headed for Frankfurt, Germany. I have never been to Europe. I am about to make a journey across the Atlantic ocean. This is the big leap. I'm tired but the flight attendants are so sweet that once again, I feel like I am going to be alright. They bring me food. I lean against the window and pass out.

I wake up and it is daytime. I take a look at the screen up front that is showing the course of the plain from NY to Frankfurt. The little white Airplane icon is hovering over some green splotches--I realize I am over Europe. I look to my left out the window and spring for my camera. (See third photo) Little villages surrounded by trees and patches of modern windmills pass by the window. I start getting nervous about making my connecting flight to Florence. I only have an hour and have absolutely no clue what I'm doing.

I mess up. I wrongly assume that I can just go to the gate and get on the plane. Not only am I unable to find the gate, but I learn that I have to go to "Transfer Check In." I wait in line so long that by the time my turn comes around, the clerk exclaims "Oh! You must go there right now! They have a check-in deadline! I can't give you a ticket!" The excrement hits the fan...I'm sure that I've just stranded myself in Germany.

I run.

I get through passport control and security and just as I am running up to the gate, I hear a German voice yelling, "Passengers to Florenz?!" I throw my arm in the air and say, "I am! I'm...going there!" I stop at the desk, breathing heavily, and he says, "I know, I know, you just got in from Denver and you're tired. Ticket please." That was not very nice.

I barely make it. I hop on a bus with a bunch of Germans, Italians and American students and we go. It pulls over and we all crowd into the tiny plane--all the Americans are wondering how this thing is even going to lift off. It does, and now I'm really nervous. What am I going to do once I get there? No more traveling--now I actually have to set up shop in a strange, unfamiliar place. In my head, all I hear is George Carlin telling me to "Take a f****n chance!" Thanks George, that helps.

The first post: there's too much to write

I only have 13 minutes to write this post because the librarian has decided to close two hours early. What a shame. There's so much to tell all of you about, but I will just have to begin by saying that I'm happy, healthy, and safe.

I will post in more detail at tomorrow (monday 9-8) but for now, here's a rundown:

On Sunday the 31st, I took Amtrak to LA. On Monday I flew to JFK, and then I went to Frankfurt, Germany, and then Florence. By the time I arrived it was Tuesday, Sep. 2nd. They lost my only bag (besides my backpack..which was fully stocked for this particualr situation), so I just hopped a bus into town from the airport and found the hostel I had planned to stay in. It was great. The next day I checked into my apartment and met my roommates, Johanna, Kelsey, and Kim.

The apartment is spectacular, my roommates are super friendly, and so far I haven't had any of my stuff stolen. For the past 3 days I have been wandering around Florence and have hundreds of pictures to show for it. I will post many of them here.

My feet and ankles are sore and its hard to sleep at night because Italians like to party until 4 AM and the street cleaners dont seem to want to stop, but I am loving every minute of it. I am adjusting well and although I would love to come home now, I am looking forward toughing it out. I miss all of you terribly.

love Chelsea