To Trust Its Lead

            At the age of 3, I donned my tap shoes for the first time, and here began my love and passion for dance.  I will forever be indebted to my mother for the countless dance competitions to which she traveled with me, the costume changes she facilitated with only one competitor between my routines, and the way that she didn't coach me from offstage like so many other "dance moms" but rather let me perform on stage whether I remembered my routine or not.  This is not, however, a post about my childhood as a competitive dancer.

            Fast forward through 13 years of competitions and I was still as in love with dance as the day that I pulled on my first pair of tights.  In ninth grade, I had more academic commitments and less time to spend at the studio, but I had also heard of this thing called "swing dancing" and my curiosity got the better of me.  I walked into my first Swing lesson not knowing what to expect, but for the first time in my life (besides of course when my grandfather had let me dance on his feet and at the middle school Halloween dance when I, dressed as a sock-hop girl, and my vampire-crush swayed awkwardly to Green Day) I was standing face to face with a dance partner who would be – GASP – the "lead."  I competed in dance for 13 years, all of which I had spent as a solo competitor.  When the curtains opened, I was always alone on the dance floor.  I had always been the one who decided how I would perform, which steps I would do when, and how far I would travel onstage.  Of course, I had the input of my dance teachers and my mom in the classes before a competition, but ultimately, I controlled my movements.  My weight would shift to my left foot when I decided it would, I would follow through with a move only if my mind let me… ME.  SOLO.  But this was not swing dancing.

            Social dancing is different.  After four years of infrequent social dancing in high school and now two years of actually learning these genres in college, I now know East Coast Swing, Lindy, West Coast, Blues, Salsa, and some ballroom (and others very vaguely).  I am not saying I know these well, but I know enough to get by at a social dance event. All of these styles of dance, however, challenge me because they demand that I rely on my partner. I have, out of choice, been the dancer who takes the cues of the one who is leading me.  I have learned to be a "follow," and I can say in all honesty that this is the first area in my life where I have willingly accepted that role.  For me, swing is scarier than I allow my leads to know.  I have to trust them to tell me what to do.  It is not up to me; rather, I take their cues, sometimes given strongly and other times lightly, sometimes clearly communicating exactly what step to do next and where to move and at other times only hinting at where I should go in the next 6-count.  Through this, I have learned to trust.  I have learned to be led by decisions that I am not making, to take the cue given by another and with that person, to create something beautiful.  As a soloist, a headstrong leader with bold opinions and confidence in directing my own life, I have learned through Swing dance to finally move with another person and to trust them as my lead and to trust the moment of the dance itself.

            When I began preparing for study abroad, I realized that dance is one thing I would miss greatly from home.  I would not have the Saturday night dances at Lancaster Swing, Blues dancing the Mullberry Arts Studio with Indigo Blues, or the occasional lessons at York Social Dance Studio to satisfy my craving for dance every week.  So I did what a dancer does and joined groups for Swing dancing in Perugia to find out where to dance here.  I sent messages to people in those groups, asked at my university here, and even turned to Google to see where I could dance.  (Needless to say, I have not yet found an actual event for Swing, but I have not stopped trying.)  Finally, after a few weeks without dancing, my friend and I ventured to Bologna a few weeks ago and happened upon a performance in the center square.  As pairs of Swing dancers danced to Frank Sinatra, I looked to Connie who knows that I am a dancer and who immediately gave me the all-knowing "Go ahead" look before I ran to watch them.  I couldn't stand still, so I asked a dancer if we could dance (or rather stumbled through a sentence in Italian that I think meant "Can we dance together?") and soon found myself among the other dancers.  He and I couldn't communicate because speaking Italian and not stepping on his feet took multi-tasking to a whole different level, but I still had to trust him.  I had to move with him and I had to follow his lead.  After the dance, I thanked him and walked away from the crowd only to realize that I had just casually walked into an actual studio performance, but I fit in and I'm sure nobody noticed.  I was beyond grateful for those four minutes of dancing and my craving for dance was – for the moment – satisfied.

(Excuse the poor quality.  I took a screenshot from a video that my friend captured.)

            After watching the performance for a few more moments, I left with my friend but began to think.  What is it about Swing dancing that I love so much?  Besides the obvious movements, the feeling of being connected to the music with my dance partner, and the expression that dance permits, it has been something more meaningful to me since I left for Italy.  After some reflection, I realized what I've shared with you above: Swing dancing has taught me to trust somebody else's lead.  It has taught me to be completely in the moment because on the dance floor, there is nowhere else I need to be.  It has taught me to take four potentially scary, unchoreographed minutes and to turn them into something beautiful.  I realized that Swing dance is so very similar to studying abroad, and nothing could have prepared me more.

            As I said before, I have always been comfortable taking the lead.  I have made my own decisions.  I have taken the advice of others but ultimately I have made the last call.  If you know me, you also know that I am a planner.  I prefer a concrete itinerary of what I will be doing and when I will be doing it.  I am most productive when at least seventeen sticky-notes dot my desk, and I like having a schedule.  I am not used to throwing my schedule in the air and saying "Let's just see what happens," but for the past 8 weeks, that is exactly what I have done.  That is exactly what making the most out of study abroad demands from me.  I have accepted, now, that scheduling a last minute trip to Bologna and making reservations for a place to stay an hour before arriving can lead to a fun and adventurous weekend.  I have swum in the Blue Grotto, tried foods I never would have imagined eating, jumped onto a train as the doors were closing while only being able to hope that it was the right one, and have found myself in countless situations where I have had to trust the kindness of a stranger because no matter how many months I spend here, I will never understand the Italian train system.  One common denominator I have found in all of my study abroad experiences has been that there is no other option than to trust the moment in which I have found myself.  I must trust it and I must savor it.

            Just as when a lead asks me to dance, study abroad has led me into an exciting and a whirlwind adventure.  I have followed the cues that it has been providing whether they are given strongly, lightly, well in advance, or at the very last moment.  In 8 short weeks, I will return home.  My study abroad experience will end, and I will no longer find myself in these exhilarating and life changing moments.  I will, however, return to Swing dance with a newfound appreciation for what it has taught me.  Much as in my four short minutes on the dance floor, I will have spent these four short months in Europe going wherever the moment takes me.  I have trusted and I have followed where it has led me.  Study abroad, just like Swing dance, has allowed me to take four potentially scary, unchoreographed months and to turn them into something beautiful.  

A Solo Journey to Assisi

          When you hear "Assisi," what comes to mind?  Do you think of gently rolling hills lined with perfectly manicured orchards in the Umbria region of Italy?  Do you think of monks in brown robes and sandals casually strolling with the faithful through the cobblestone streets of a hilltop town?  Perhaps if you attended parochial school as I did, you recall the day each year when families would bring their pets to school for a blessing as we prayed for peace and for God to bless all creatures, especially our beloved animals.  As I left Perugia alone in the middle of September for my solo journey to Assisi, these ideas were called to mind, albeit fleetingly because of how distracted I was by the daunting task of trying to understand Italian transportation.

            I arrived at the bus port earlier than was necessary, as I had originally planned to take the train but heeded the advice of the kind young woman at the ticket booth at Piazza Italia.  So instead of making my way to the train station, I soon found myself taking the six escalators that that led away from our hilltop town and to the lower part of town where is the bus port.  I think I must have forgotten to remove my "Hello, my name is CONFUSED" sticker from my forehead that morning, but thankfully this served me well, as a caring and motherly lady gladly answered my questions as I posed them with my limited Italian vocabulary.  She brought me with her to the next available ticket master and helped me to purchase the ticket I needed to get me to Assisi.  But when I left the ticket vendor, I searched for the sign saying "Assisi" and could not find it, so I returned on my own and asked where the bus would be.  Thinking I had missed it, I was reassured that the bus to Assisi was instead labeled "Filio."  Upon the bus's arrival, forty-five minutes later, I boarded with a man and an elderly couple and checked with the bus driver to make sure that this bus would indeed get me to Assisi.  It would, but not without having to change buses.  Immediately after sitting in one of the first seats on the otherwise empty bus, the elderly couple sat behind me and began speaking English!  Soon, they were asking me to ask the bus driver questions for them, assuming that my Italian was better than theirs.  They informed me that after hearing me speak when we boarded the bus, they thought I was fluent in Italian from my accent.  If only I could convince my Italian language teacher that I had mastered the language that well!

            The bus ride was about an hour in total to a town only twenty minutes away by car.  I was occupied, however, with the pleasant conversations that were had.  First, the bus's only other passenger, a French scientist named Nicola, detailed to me that he was in Perugia to sit on the review board for a student's doctoral thesis.  He then shared with me that he was returning to France where his students just don't appreciate science the way he does and where his red-headed son is trying to make a career out of acting.  Apparently, French directors are really seeking red-headed actors because he and his girlfriend have been hired for multiple movies for the sole reason of having red hair.  Calling all gingers... When he left the bus at the airport, the couple behind me started speaking with me.  If you know me, you know that I love listening to elderly people share with me their wisdom and experiences.  This time, that gift came wrapped in a British accent and delivered by Arch and his much quieter wife, Margaret. Arch teaches Russian and is currently translating Gorbachev's autobiography.  Margaret is a retired tax collector and a secretary from the University of Birmingham.  When I asked why they were in Perugia, he shared with me that they had adopted a new philosophy on life as their bones have become more decrepit.  They promised each other, for the sake of adventure, that every so often they would fly wherever a cheap flight would take them and would stay there for ten days.  Even if their destination did not provide much to do, they would make the most of it together. 

            Inspired by this couple to make the most of my day in Assisi, I disembarked the bus with them to wait for the next one which would take us to Assisi.  Not knowing how much time I had until the next bus came (because the schedule posted on the sign was most likely not correct since we are in Italy), I reluctantly entered the basilica that was near the stop.  To my surprise, I had walked into the famous Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli where the Porziuncola, a small chapel given to St. Francis for prayer, is located.  It was beautiful but very crowded, and I did not want to stay long for fear of missing my bus.  So I left and met Arch and Margaret again as we waited for the bus.  By this time they had made another English-speaking friend from California who would later prove a huge help to me in town.  But that comes later.  For now, I rode the bus to Assisi and struck up a conversation with the lady sitting next to me who spoke Spanish.  I tried to recall all 6 years of my Spanish studies, but it felt as if Italian had moved into those dusty corners of my brain and I could barely remember how to say "I want to see the church."  Nevertheless, she was patient and we tried to speak to each other.  She told me that she was from Mexico but that her son and his wife had moved to America and had studied English.  After introducing myself to her son and daughter-in-law, I learned that he had a friend who did his clinical at Hershey Medical Center, twenty minutes from my college, and that the man himself had once lived in Lebanon and has friends who live in Elizabethtown.  If you know Etown, you know that it is most likely the smallest college town that exists.  How very small our world is. 

           

            Arriving in Assisi, I was ready to make my small, self-guided pilgrimage.  I said goodbye to the elderly couple as we agreed to meet again in the evening.  I followed the crowds and the signs to the Basilica di San Francesco and was met in the square by another friendly couple, this time much younger and asking me to take their picture.  Of course I said, "yes," and they returned the favor with a very kind conversation.  They were very parental and wanted to make sure that I was okay with being alone for the day.  They asked if I was from Eastern Europe because apparently I look like I am.  They then told me that they had a relative who lives in Pennsylvania.  They were from the beautiful town of Puglia in southern Italy.  If you're not familiar with this town's beautiful houses, do yourself the favor of Googling it.  It really is unique.  After leaving Dino and Luciana, I entered the overwhelmingly large Basilica of St. Francis.  I cannot begin to describe the beauty that surrounded me as I tried to comprehend the architecture, the paintings, and the depth of each individual chapel that lined the perimeter of the basilica.  Frescoes and statues greeted me as I began my rosary at the side chapel, stopping at each chapel to say a decade, praying the way I had watched my grandparents pray and had learned from them.  I lit a candle at the tomb of St. Francis in the stereotypically Catholic fashion.  I finished my rosary at the chapel of the Sacred Heart and left the basilica only after attempting to capture its beauty in a few photographs.  Of course, I failed at this. 

View of the Basilica as I exited.
(Excuse my phone's poor photo quality.)

            Yes, I visited the gift shop, but I was happy to buy a small relic of St. Francis for my grandfather and one for me.  I call my grandfather "PaPa," but his name is William Francis.  Much like St. Francis after whom he is named, he is gentle and peaceful and loves animals more than anyone I know.  I admire his disposition and pray constantly for the gentleness that he has.  Although he can't be here with me, I wanted to take something home to him for him to have a piece of the experience I had in Assisi. 

            After this spiritual early afternoon, I decided to walk around town and explore the small shops.  I went into a free museum that had some rather strange-looking displays that were supposed to show how the Franciscan missionaries had helped the people of South America.  At least that's what I believe it was from the large plastic bugs and reptiles that were displayed with pictures of missionary towns.  I next found a shop in which a kind young woman was selling lavender and herbal sachets that she had made and embroidered by hand.  We talked for a bit which allowed me to practice my Italian.  She asked what I was studying and told me that her sister is a special education teacher.  After our warm conversation, she gave me a discount on a small sachet of lavender embroidered with red and tied with a red ribbon that I'm taking home for Christmas.  It's very festive.  I then decided it was time for lunch.

            I wanted pizza.  I had been in Italy for a month without having pizza (the struggle of having to eat gluten free), and so I decided that Google would have to tell me where a gluten free pizza place was in Assisi.  Google let me down, but thankfully a shop owner did not.  She pointed me toward two restaurants that she thought had gluten free pizza.  The first did not, but the next one did!  I followed the signs down some steps and into what I thought was the restaurant.  Alas, I was wrong, but I did share a lovely conversation with the young cook.  After this embarrassing exchange when I apologized profusely for ending up in his kitchen, he reassured me that it was indeed "va bene" (it's alright) and that he would make me gluten free pizza.  I followed his directions to the dining room and searched the menu.  I decided on a pizza made with brie, pumpkin spread, fontina, and truffle crumbles.  All I can say was that it was very content as I sat alone in the pizzeria, enjoying my pizza, surrounded by couples and families.  The first time I ate alone at a restaurant was during my internship in Nashville last summer.  Since then, I've learned that it isn't as awkward as one might think.  I didn't even have my phone out during my meal.  I just savored both my pizza and the moment and thought about all I was seeing in Assisi that day.

            I decided that I wanted to see the Temple of Minerva as my British friends had suggested, and in attempting to find it, I had to ask four people who all pointed in a general direction but couldn't tell me which building it was.  Confused by the lack of signs, I finally ran into the lady from earlier who was from California.  She asked me how my day was going and pointed me toward the building I wanted to see.  

          I next walked the entire length of the road toward the Cathedral of St. Claire, but the walk was worth it for the views of yet another beautiful church and the panoramic view outside of the church that overlooked the Assisi countryside.  After this, I attempted to find my way back to the bus stop on the other side of town.  I did manage to use the map and only stopped to ask for directions once when an elderly nun and a Scottish man put their brains together to try to point me in the right direction.  On my way back, I stopped in a few more shops and saw everything from painting to pottery to artisanal truffle sauce.  

          I was not at the bus stop for more than five minutes when I again found Arch and Margaret.  Arch asked me to come sit with him and his wife.  They offered to buy me gelato, which I declined, and I instead chose to look through the pictures they had taken as Arch explained to me what they did that day.  When there were no more pictures to see, the conversation turned to politics as they asked me who would win the election and voiced their opinions about Trump and Clinton.  They told me that they thought if Trump was so rich, he should spend more money on a better looking wig.  I'm only passing this along.

  

          Finally, our bus arrived and we boarded the bus with everyone else who was journeying back to Perugia.  The bus was only a bit more crowded this time, but I felt cozy sitting at the front of the bus near Arch and Margaret.  I watched as we passed through a few small towns and observed where the crops grew right up next to the walls of the elementary schools.  I watched young men speed by on Vespas past stores that were closed by now.  I saw the cornfields and the beautiful orchards paint a moving portrait on the canvas of a slowly setting sun.  As the bus made its ascent up the hills into Perugia, I was reminded of how very blessed I am to be here.  This day was a humbling a spiritual one that allowed me to grow in new friendships, my independence, and my faith.

Blessings and baci,
Sarah

Canned Tomatoes?

          I'm sure you can list the stereotypes about Italian food without my listing them here.  I want to share with you, however, my own experiences with Italians and their food, or at least their attitudes toward it from what I have seen.  I chose to do a homestay here in Perugia, and when I first arrived, I think the biggest culture shock came not from the way that Italians live as much as from their passion toward food.  I speak specifically of my host mom who, although our communication is only very slowly increasing, delivers her messages about the proper way to cook quite effectively.  The first day, we went shopping together, and Luciana helped me to navigate the grocery store which mostly consisted of her placing things into my cart.  (I blame my newly developed Ricotta addiction on her insisting that I buy it for breakfast.)  I must admit that at home, I am very passionate about eating healthy food that is cooked simply without unnecessarily added ingredients.  I do not enjoy eating overly-processed foods and cook almost everything from scratch.  When I buy something that is not fresh, I make sure that the ingredients are ones that will not affect my health (quite often out of necessity rather than "pickiness") and this often means just straying away from canned food.  I did, however, want to buy a jar of tomato sauce to keep in my pantry in case it's needed in a pinch.  When I picked the sauce up from the shelf, the horror that appeared on my host mom's face convinced me that the Rapture was occurring behind me.  Practically snatching the jar from my hand, she returned it to the shelf and, from what I could understand, insisted that the sauce be made by hand.  She hurriedly marched me to the fresh produce where I could buy tomatoes for that purpose.  I did return later to the aisle with the sauce and placed one jar into my cart to the tune of Luciana's "tsking." 

            Just as passionately, Luciana assisted with our recipe the other night when Connie and I began to cut tomatoes for the eggplant pizza we were making for class.  She shooed us from the stove, retrieved the pot from the drawer, and began to scoop the tomatoes into the pot.  I am able to understand her a bit better now, and from what I could gather, she wanted us to puree them after they were cooked.  She had already put a fresh onion into the sauce and was ripping the basil when I stopped her to explain that we didn't need a puree, just for the tomatoes to be slightly soft but still chunky.  Again, the wide eyes made me check over my shoulder before she exclaimed, "NON E UNA SALSA!!"(That's not a sauce!) I will take the blame for my little Italian being able to communicate that.  For Italians, I learned, a tomato sauce is a very specific thing cooked in a very specific way.  Here's to learning through mistakes!

            One of the classes I am taking in Perugia is a class on Italian food and culture.  (This was the reason that Connie was at my apartment making eggplant pizza.  It was an assignment; never would I have picked up an eggplant without my grade depending on it.)  In this class, we recently learned about Italian food psychosis that goes something like this:  Not only do Italians believe their food is the best in the world (my opinions on that will likely follow in a later post), but they refuse to accept any other view than this and will consider anyone who thinks differently as senile.  It is not a matter of opinion to them but rather fact, a fact which is not open to discussion nor to debate.  Take the movie An American in Rome as proof of this fact.  The main character, Nando, has tried to convince others that he is American in every way by adopting American habits.  When he rejects his interpretation of an American sandwich by spitting it out in exchange for Italian macaroni, it represents the Italian opinion that other cultures might be better than Italy in many ways but never in food.  Our professor encouraged us to test this theory of the food psychosis, by talking to Italians and see what they think.  In speaking with some younger Italians whom we've met through language exchanges and other events, they don't seem to really feel as strongly as we thought they would.  Some of them prefer Italian food but can understand why we like other foods, for example.  This weekend, however, we were returning from a brief trip to Barcelona and encountered an elderly gentleman who asked me and Connie if the approaching train was the one for Perugia.  "Lo spero!" I told him.  (I hope so!)  "Penso che si."  (I think it is.)  As we waited, Connie and I were given an opportunity to experience first-hand the Italian food psychosis.

          The gentleman began to speak to us about the two companies he owns that manufacture petrol valves and how he has been a businessman with those companies for fifty years.  He has traveled to the United States only for vacation but got a glimpse of American business practices which he could not stop praising as "straight and honest" as opposed to Italy's, whose, according to him, were just like Germany's business practices: broken and uncontrolled.  (These of course are his words, not mine.  As much as I'd love to know more about the culture of this country, I have not learned much about the business practices.  The only thing I have experienced to be broken thus far is the time schedule for the trains!)  To test our professor's theory, however, Connie and I said, "How about the food?"  His condemnation of his country immediately changed to a bright smile, incessant nodding, and "Certo! Certo! La migliore!"  Although he told us that from the food he had had in the United States, he thought we had good roast beef, there is simply no question for Italian food.  He proceeded to ramble off a list of his favorites – local names of which we only recognized a few dishes.  Although we did not understand everything, we could tell from his enthusiasm that this man was affected by the Italian food psychosis.  Of course, I'm enjoying the food quite a bit myself – I'm preparing to write a whole blog post on my rambling at the artisans' market – but I felt privileged in my conversation with this gentleman to be peering through the window straight into such a huge part of Italian culture.  I hope that through my writing, I am able to provide something similar to you.

Thanks for reading, my friends.  A presto.

Blessings,

Sarah 

Speechless

            There are the occasional moments when life offers us an experience so magnificent that it exceeds the boundaries of language – a site so beautiful, a moment so moving, an interaction so meaningful that we are left speechless.  It is in these moments that words escape us because the only words we have would diminish the experience.  It would be as if I drew a stick figure interpretation of the Pietà and expected those who saw only my drawing to be overwhelmed by its beauty. 

            I have not shared much about my town with you, and for that, I am sorry.  I will try my best to explain Perugia, but much to the point of this post, words cannot paint an accurate picture of this city.  Nonetheless… Perugia is a university town, in the words of the locals.  The other students, however, do not begin school until the end of September and for the primary and secondary school students, October.  This has left the study abroad students to explore without much help from local students.  There is a town center (il centro) where a beautiful fountain sits surrounded by stone buildings in which one finds the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, a retired town hall, a three-story art gallery, a museum (much to my chagrin, I couldn't tell you what is in the museum), and a variety of small shops and restaurants.  My school sits on the second and third floors of a building behind the fountain.  Its screenless windows offer a view below to the fountain and down the main street that is called Corso Vannucci.  This street runs from Piazza IV Novembre (where the fountain is found) to Piazza Italia with a small park, a bus loop, and government buildings that sit with colossal elegance near the edge of the cliff from which can be viewed the lower part of the city, the distant mountains and Cyprus tree ranges, and the small towns that dot the horizon, including Assisi.  Parallel to Corso Vannucci is a long street, whose name I would wager nobody knows, with many shops, small supermarkets, and cars that skillfully avoid the pedestrians and their leash-free dogs that meander through the street.  Connecting these two parallel streets are many small alleys with boutiques, gelaterie, and restaurants.  Surrounding these areas are countless streets that lead one away from the center with the reminder that to return, she will have to climb back UP the stairs.  Nonetheless, the climb is always worth it for the delicious Italian cuisine to be had or the breathtaking view to be admired at the end of the steps.

            Last evening, I decided to take a short detour on the way home from the supermarket.  As I neared the walls at the top of the hill, I looked out at the lower part of Perugia, the misty horizon, and the beautiful contrast of red roofs against the distant green mountains.  The clouds were thick and heavy but from one of them was a large ray of light that shone down at an angle toward the city.  In this ray was a small but thick band of a rainbow whose bright colors popped against the dark grey clouds.  I was speechless.  I was blessed with this view simply because I had taken a detour, and at that moment was overwhelmed with gratitude and a feeling of how small we are.

            Such has been my exploring of Perugia when class is not in session.  Most evenings I have spent walking the city a few times over with friends to find our favorite place for aperitivi, the best view of the sunset, the cutest bar (in Italy, "caffe" is solely the word for coffee and it is bought at a bar), or the cheapest supermarket to support my newly developed Ricotta addiction.  Many weekdays and most weekends there are small markets with all types of artisanal goods from fresh and aged pecorino to hand-painted pottery.  It is in these small stores and at these markets where I have had many conversations that have challenged, confused, and embarrassed me.

            I came to Perugia with the ability to say "Hello," "I don't speak Italian," and "I'm allergic to gluten," three phrases that I deemed most important to my initial survival.  I think, most inconveniently, that my ear for languages and my ability to pick up an Italian accent (Señor Sosa, I still can't roll my Rs), mistakenly convinced locals that I could understand them.  I have had to explain a few times that I do not speak Italian when the server looked to me to translate what she said for the rest of the table.  Although I can now understand more than when I first arrived, it is, of course, a process and I am by no means even at elementary proficiency in my Italian.  There is, however, one phrase that I said once and only once since arriving:  "Inglese, per favore?"  I did not make that mistake again.

            In a town where many locals speak only Italian, it was at first overwhelming (especially for someone who has to ask if everything has gluten in it) to order something to eat.  One of the first evenings, my friend and I stumbled upon a creperie where we found gluten-free crepes made with Italian meats, cheeses, and vegetables…but knowing what they were and ordering them felt impossible.  I approached the cashier and explained (at least I hope this is what I said) that we are students from America and don't speak Italian well.  I intended my next sentence to be, "Do you possibly speak English?" but I had no clue how to say this.  The only words I could find were "English please?"  Her smile widened but from kindness to pity and we received a curt, "NO. L'italiano, per favore."  In that moment, I realized how presumptuous it had been for me to ask a local Italian to speak English for us.  Although this was in no way my intention, these were the only words I had.  I was ashamed and embarrassed that I had seemed like I wanted something handed easily to me.  This is not what I wanted, but it was all that I could say.  Words eluded me.  I had no idea how to say anything more.  I quickly remembered the way to say "I'm sorry," and mustered the courage to speak again.  Everything I said to her from that moment forward was an attempt at Italian.  It was not perfect, and I'm sure most of it did not make sense.  I could say only very basic things, but nonetheless I was trying.

            I could tell by her smile that my "Grazie per la sua pazienza!" (Thank you for your patience!) meant so much more to her than being able to read the menu and order perfectly.  I was trying, and that was all that she wanted.  As someone who relishes meeting others and learning their stories, I was disappointed that I could not learn more about the shop owner.  I wanted to ask where she was from, if she had lived here for a long time, and if she had children.  I wanted to explain that we were students and were here for one semester studying Italian and other classes for our majors.  But in this moment, all I could say was thank you and walk away smiling at my embarrassment and the lesson that it taught me.  This moment was a gift.  The shop owner's demand that I speak Italian did not require that I understand her, nor did it require me to be fluent.  It did, however, demand that I try.  I had no words for what I wanted to say, but I had an understanding now of my place in this town.  I would be welcomed, and I would be helped, but I would not be coddled.  This challenge is exactly what I want.

            When a moment is wrapped in embarrassment and defeat, do not assume that it is devoid of a valuable lesson.  I have had many encounters since this first one where I could not explain what I wanted to say because I didn't have the words.  I have tried, however, and I have asked for help (in Italian) because "Non posso parlare l'italiano molto bene, ma voglio imparare."  I cannot speak Italian very well, but I want to learn.  These moments when I have been left speechless have each been a gift.  They didn't unfold as I admired the horizon from the end of Corso Vannucci nor did they leave me feeling blessed because I saw something rare.  They did, however, much like last night's beautiful sunset, remind me of my place and ground me in my humanity.  The world is larger than we are.  Certain moments exceed in significance the sum of our entire lives.  Our words are rarely enough, and our language is not superior.  It allows us at times to share with others what we have experienced and at other times prevents us from communicating our entire sentiment.  Despite disappointment, defeat, or embarrassment, language allows us to connect with others.  For connection's sake, I shall not stop trying.

Blessings,
Sarah 

If you look closely at the horizon behind the bell tower, there is a small segment of a rainbow,
but I couldn't capture it well with my camera.  Apparently, words and pictures sometimes both fail to capture a moment!

Sitting with Homesickness

Within a week I was sitting on my bed crying because I missed home, something I've never done before despite having been on my own.  It was a gentle cry, a soft yearning for something to which I had said goodbye just a week before.  It wasn't nostalgia, nor was it discomfort elicited by a lack of things from home. No, that day, I was simply lonely. So I did some chores, and I did my homework for the weekend, and I ignored the voice that told me to invite friends to go find something to do in town. Thankfully, I also ignored the voice telling me to call home and tell my family how much I missed them. That would have to wait because I just wasn't up for that conversation. As I finished up what I had to do around home, I dried my own tears and let my mind wander. I could have wasted time trying to figure out what was making me feel lonely, but I knew that that would lead only to me figuratively kicking myself for feeling that way when I am here. Instead, I embraced this feeling as a blessing and began to realize how seldom it is that we are fully cognizant of our emotions. Today, I was lonely. And today, I wouldn't ignore that feeling.

When I allowed myself to acknowledge and accept that I was lonely, I learned a lot about myself as much of a cliché as that might seem. First, I realized that loneliness didn't mean I was doing something wrong.  It wasn't this emotion against which I was supposed to guard myself but was unsuccessful because I was weak. No, loneliness, I learned, is a human emotion that I was feeling simply because I'm human.

When I allowed myself to acknowledge and accept that I was lonely, I learned also that I am completely and independently responsible for my happiness. There was no big event that day with which I could busy myself, no television that was playing in the background while I was doing my laundry (although that's rarely the case at home...), and my host mom had gone to a neighboring town for the day. I had a choice to make. I could stay in my apartment and think about what is making me lonely, or I could figure out what would make me happy and do it. And so I did. I worked out followed by a walk around the city and decided to go to the farmer's market in town without asking anyone to go along. I did run into a friend in town and she came with me, but I had been fine with being alone. Realizing that I was okay with being alone even when I was lonely was a surprisingly satisfying feeling.

On the way home, I stopped by the snack bar where I see Paulo, the elderly shop owner, everyday on my walk home from school. I never buy anything from his store but stop in everyday for a pat on the cheek, a warm smile, and a kind and patient conversation in which he helps me practice my Italian. Today, when he asked "How are you, Bellissima?" instead of the usual "Sto bene," I told him that I was homesick and missed my family. He gently smiled and told me that it wasn't so and that Perugia was here. Knowing that I have started to feel like I have a family here so quickly, even if it isn't the same as home, is rather comforting and beautiful. This helped me to realize that even though I was able to rely on myself, having support from others never hurts.

For brevity's sake, I won't create a list of the ten things I learned. I think the above sums it up well. I was lonely, and I embraced it, learned from it, and refused to ignore it. I am not weak for being lonely but rather strong for embracing it.  Sitting with loneliness taught me to sit even more comfortably with myself.

L'arrivo in Italia

          I'm sitting on the balcony of my host mom's apartment which overlooks an overgrown garden.  A cool breeze is blowing, whispering – if I listen closely – the first mention of autumn and bringing with it a much coveted respite from the unrelenting Italian sun.  In the garden of the neighboring apartment behind a small wall, a lady is doing laundry while her dogs lie beneath a table, their naps disturbed only when their ears twitch at the buzz of a fly.  Somewhere near, I hear the voices of three locals discussing whatever it is that gives their voices such an enthusiastic trill, but I am privy to neither who they are nor what they are saying.  I can presume from the clinking of utensils that their conversation is second in importance to the "pranzo" they are enjoying during the afternoon "pausa."  My classmates and I have quickly learned to embrace the time between 1:00 and 4:00 p.m. as a time to enjoy each other's company which in Italian translates into everything except restaurants and cafes or bars closing for a three hour break each afternoon.  I could get used to this… But before I enjoy a stroll or rather a hike through the hills of the city, I will let you all know how things have been since I arrived. 

           

            If time ever blurs the details of my travels to Perugia, I hope that I can recall – for memory's sake – the exhaustion that accompanied the first couple of days.  After a seven-and-a-half hour flight arriving in Rome at 9:30 a.m., I finally found others studying abroad.  Leaving the airport by bus an hour later was finally able to offer some rest.  The two-and-a-half hour bus ride proved to be a battle between my desire to sleep and my determination to see every part of the landscape that whizzed by the window, making my grand total of sleep in the first two days one hour.  We spent the night in Perugia's beautiful Hotel Gio (pronounced "Joe") where we were treated to our first four-course Italian dinner.  That evening, many of the other students went in pursuit of grocery stores where they could find cheap wine, but all I desperately wanted was water, and so the first euros I spent were on bottled water, although wine would have been surprisingly cheaper.  Having visited Italy before, the wine snob in me knew that the better wine would be worth the wait…

            The next morning, we traveled by taxis and shuttles to the center of Perugia, higher on the hill, where I met my host mom.  I will dedicate an entire other blog post to my adventures with Luciana, but for now I will summarize by saying she is absolutely wonderful.  With the help of her English-speaking friend, we were able to make a basic introduction.

            In terms of class, the first week was spent in orientations, information sessions, and intensive Italian classes.  I was reminded of my very first days as a middle-school student in Senor Sosa's Spanish class where only Spanish was spoken and we were forced to sink or swim. Thankfully, technology provides a bit of a safety net in that we can quickly muster a very rough translation if necessary when no other way of communicating is possible.  Our other classes began this past Monday, and I can already tell it will be an interesting semester.  With Intensive Elementary Italian every morning and countless opportunities to practice throughout the day and evening, I hope to have enough instruction to be able to carry a conversation by the end of my semester.  Besides learning the Italian language, I am also taking a class about the history and culture of food in Italy and a class on the politics of the European Union.  Instead of boring you with class material, I will instead share that the professor of the former is from England while the professor of my European Union class is from Italy.  Both have accents as thick as their enthusiasm for their areas of expertise.  I've had only two classes so far with both of them, but I am sure that I will be writing more on this topic soon.

            I see now that the lady has finished hanging her laundry and hear no longer the clink of dishes nor the excited voices of the elusive neighbors as the afternoon pausa nears its end.  This reminds me that even in Italy, rest must be balanced with work and that I have one more class before my weekend begins.  Before I meet my research advisor for my class, I will take a walk through town.  Mustering the desire to climb the hills of Perugia is easy on a beautiful day such as today.  A presto, miei amici!

Blessings,
Sarah

Benvenuto!

Ciao a tutti!

If you've made it to my blog, either the domain name "You Cannoli Live Once" enticed you or the idea of living in Italy for four months is as appealing to you as it is to me.  Either way, welcome!  I'm beyond excited to begin my semester abroad, and I cannot wait to share my experiences with you via this blog.  I will do my best to post regularly, but I can't guarantee that I'll limit the pictures of food that I share!  With that being said, I didn't choose to study in Italy because of the pasta, wine, and gelato.  So before I leave next week, I'll share a little bit about myself and why I'm studying in Italy.

My name is Sarah and I'm an Early Childhood/Special Education major at a small college in Pennsylvania.  I'm minoring in International Studies and am very interested in a career in international special education; hence, my thesis is on Italy's approach to special education.  Why Italy?  Well, their education system is inclusive, meaning that they include children with special needs in the general education classroom, much like in the United States only more inclusively.  So in addition to taking classes at the Umbra Institute, I'll be conducting interviews with people involved in the education system while I'm abroad and will be learning how Italy's approach to special education can be used as a model for other countries.

Although I'm going to Italy for research, I doubt that's why you're reading my blog, so I won't be sharing much about my research experiences here.  What I will be sharing are the stories of my travels, the challenges I face both in getting to Italy and in living in a foreign country, the wonderful experiences that my semester in Perugia will provide, and of course, a lot of pictures!  (And if you didn't guess from the name "You Cannoli Live Once," I adore puns, so expect some of those as well.)

Thanks for visiting my blog! Enjoy.

A presto,

Sarah