Coco fresco

The cost of fruit

Today Liz, Caitlin and I went to the beach. It was beautiful, sunny, not too hot. We managed to meet up with Laura and Elena, as well. The sand was hot on the soles of my feet. The water was cold. The breeze was salty. I went treasure hunting along the shore and left with a pocket full of clinking seashells. There is something so luring about the sea. I feel like all the grime is washed away when I wade into the salty blue water. The ebb and flow reminds me of the way it feels to be rocked to sleep by a loving mother, and there is very little so hypnotizing than the sound of the ocean meeting the shore.

I'm not sunburned, except for on my right shoulder. I noticed there were no seagulls, instead there were vendors, equally annoying. There were the usual men selling hats and jewelry, but there were also men selling coconut and beach blankets, and women offering a "nice oily massagi". No, No, and No. Thanks.

We're exhausted. The beach has a way of draining you, while leaving you completely rejuvenated at the same time. Tomorrow I think we'll head to the flea market and then perhaps a picnic with Becky and others. Last night we went to Mr. Brown's in Trestevere for awhile. The trip home left a bad taste in my mouth. We caught the N4 home, along with a bunch of overly intoxicated people, all of which looked as though they might possibly vomit all over the place at any moment. One man, perhaps 35, heavyset, got on and from across the bus was trying to get my attention by drunkenly grabbing my leg, touching my arm, groaning in Italian. The boys with us got defensive and decided it was their responsibility to be chivalrous by standing up to him. This did nothing but provoke him, and soon enough he was kicking and hitting the metal bars on the interior of the bus and becoming evermore aggressive. We got off the bus early, frustrated, and walked 20 minutes home, while the boys fed each others egos by saying things like, "We shoulda decked him. We woulda been justified. He would have gone down, man." I just wanted to get home.

So tonight we're staying in. I've learned my lesson about going out at night. Be home in time to take the metro.

In other news, I really love my roommates and I'm going to miss them a lot when we leave. Time has flown by. I can't believe we only have a month left of class.

Twenty second year.

I will write you the latest over my homemade rocket salad (complete with fresh basil, tomatoes, and mozzarella). Let's start with last Thursday night...

Our Italian classes went on a "field study" to see a new production called "In The Food For Love" at a theater on Via Nationale. I was under the hopeful impression that we would be eating, but Becky popped that bubble for me over coffee after our last midterm and suggested I eat dinner. And it's a good thing I did, too, because if you saw "In The Food For Love," and you weren't hungry when you got there, you would be when you left. In general, it's a love story narrated by the chopping of vegetables and erratic musical performance. We watch as the main character and five others cook on a full kitchen while a live band plays hip tunes on the other side of the stage. The other five actors are not only that, they're acrobats. As the story unfolded and the smells of onions grilling wafted through the theater, jugglers tossed bowling pins high into the air with impressive accuracy. One woman swung from a trapeze, provoking gasps from the audience as she quickly, unpredictably fell ten feet only to catch herself gracefully, somehow untangled from the ropes and hanging comfortably from them as they swayed from side to side. The show was an overload on the senses. The music was never dull, the food smelled increasingly enticing, the visual entertainment was superb and all you wanted to do was eat eat eat. Being bored wasn't an option, and I left not only hungry, but satisfied and happy.

Unfortunately, my mood was spoiled by an alarming encounter with a homeless man on the 64, who took it upon himself to explain, in an unforeseen burst of anger, how much he hates US citizens because our cars are too big, we're all mafiosi, and we're all associated with Berlusconi (the center-right PM candidate in Italy's elections). This man was screaming so loudly in our faces that I could see the veins in his forehead bulging. He was so angry for no apparent reason and indeed, the way he snapped took us off guard. The names he was calling us were of the most offensive category. He continued to yell and complain for the entirety of the bus ride to Termini, kicking the doors closed at each stop, scaring the hell out of me and my friends, making everyone just a little bit too uncomfortable. We were glad to get off the bus and go home.

Friday was a lazy day for me. Liz and Caitlin went on a day trip, while I slept in and spent the day working on a project I had hoped to finish before Sunday. Instead, I talked to Spencer and headed over to Margi's house for dinner where we made tortellini and salad and drank wine, sharing in good conversation and good company.

Saturday I again worked on my project but made little progress. It was Saturday that the most delightful part of my weekend revealed itself...two little bird eggs hidden in a nest on our porch. The mother, whom we have nicknamed "Lu Lu," was causing a ruckus, and it took me a while to catch on to the idea that she might have something on the patio worth sticking around for. She sits on the eggs, nuzzled between the patio wall and the cactus pot, all day and keeps a watchful, suspicious eye on the three of us when we make our presence known. Strangely enough, my mom discovered two eggs on her patio, also. It's really Springtime, and it's really great.

Saturday night Liz and I celebrated our birthdays (hers is tomorrow, mine was Sunday) by going out with a bunch of friends for sushi. We got a big room downstairs. The wine was a dry red, which I've decided is my favorite kind. After dinner, like I knew they would, Liz and Caitlin attacked me with silly string. Every year, my mom sees to it. Sigh.

We went back to the apartment and had a few drinks, played some card games, and ate some cake. Liz and Caitlin had me open one of my presents, bubbles! Then we went to Campo dei Fiori for the closest thing I was ever going to get to an American 21st birthday. Margi showed up with her friend Lisa and brought me a rose and a selection of pastries, which I didn't open until Sunday morning, after they had been properly handled (I mean dropped seven times). I had a good time. Sunday we lounged around the house and I made pancakes for the three of us. I watered my new basil plant, checked on Lu Lu and had a birthday conversation with Spencer.
I finally finished my project, which I presented today and got compliments for. It's nice to be done with midterms, done with my presentation, and be able to think clearly without feeling a million obligations tugging at my brain.

The Italian elections were today and yesterday. They read the news of Berlusconi's lead like they're reading the weather. No change in expression, no sign of interest. They chew on the inside of their lip and turn the page. No surprise, as they change government so often. I would have voted for Veltroni and the Democratic Party, by the way.

Always missing home, but always adapting further.

Recycle.

Food for thought...

Here I am, 11:23 pm, studying for two midterms, both of which are tomorrow and both of which I don't yet feel prepared for. The best part about it has got to be studying with my roommates and hardly being able to contain our crazy giggling (over nothing, really). I will miss them when we leave. Which is in 6 weeks, might I add.

The cocoa puffs here taste really strange. They're not called Cocoa Puffs, either, but I don't remember their official title. I took a big swig of milk that had gone bad yesterday and by some miracle managed not to gag and spit it all over Caitlin. Now I'm out of milk and decent cereal, but who wants to go grocery shopping? The Italians are slow, as it is. Imagine being in a small aisle with seven of them, all pulling their little rolling shopping baskets.

I got a great package in the mail from my mom today. Included were two types of excellent tea, a few candles, and some appropriate Gerber products. Happy Birthday to me! Only, my moment was ruined when another girl walked into my Italian class with a box twice the size of mine, filled to the brim with all the food you would find in a fully equipped pantry, goldfish and jelly included. Oh well. It's still almost my birthday, and my 21st at that. Bam.

Speaking of, I'm not sure what the plans are, but I know there will be some for our birthdays. I say "ours" because Liz's is two days after mine. So, we'll probably do sushi and head over to Campo de Fiori, the closest thing we'll get to an American 21st birthday celebration. This week is also Little 500 at home. What a great weekend it would be if I were there. Actually, I'd probably be working. Nevermind.

I do miss work though. Strangely enough. I had a dream last night that I was serving table 15 through 19 and kept getting double sat, which really shouldn't have been an issue, but I couldn't seem to remember the necessary skills I needed to properly serve the customers. I was frazzled, overwhelmed, forgetting drinks and how to abbreviate things legibly. I could feel them all glaring at me with disdain. They just wanted their damn coffee.

I got a letter from Chris yesterday. Delight!

So it's Spring (La Primavera) here and the trees are green and these incredible purple flowers are hanging on vines off of buildings. They're so beautiful, I want to eat them.

I'm really just putting off studying any longer, so I will get back to it. But I could really go for...say, a Snickers.




Recycle.

Future.

A lot of pressure. Bringing me down. I feel like I've got a weight on my chest.

Stay on Target.

Its raining in Rome again. I can hear the splatter of raindrops hitting the street below through the thin, uninsulated panes of my windows amidst the sputtering of little cars and scooter motors. It's been like this a lot this week, and the temperature has dropped substantially. I'm back to scarves and jackets. Luckily for me, I left my (crappy 5 Euro) umbrella at the restaurant my Grandma and my Dad and I ate at yesterday. Oh well. It isn't like there aren't street vendors at every corner, in ever Metro stairwell, suddenly holding armfuls of umbrellas at the first sight of a raincloud. Only thirty seconds ago they were selling sunglasses.

The same vendors (I'm convinced there are only five of them and they've all learned to teleport) were in Florence today. No thanks, we already have a leopard print umbrella and a nice rain repellent jacket to get us through this drizzle. We can always duck into the Baptistry, or perhaps the Duomo, where the floors are "slick as snot," as my Grandma so eloquently put it, and the ceiling is bare and all the better for it. It is rumored between the three of us that Michaelangelo is somewhere in this church, but we can't find him, and we are in a hurry to get to the train station, so we head back into the rain, but not before listening to a choir sing an unannounced solemn hymn before being shooed away by the security guards. What a shame. It was so beautiful.

Earlier in the day we waited in line for over an hour to see Michaelangelo's David. I made a trip to McDonald's for sinful French fries and a fragola (strawberry) milkshake. It was crowded. The mess of people mingling between one another and pushing against me, plus the clamor of cars and motorcycles trying to drive through already over crowded streets was enough to make me grit my teeth in angst. But upon entering the room where the David is kept, all the stress was gone with my breath as I caught site of the one thing that will never cease to make me stop dead in my tracks. He stands above everyone, placed high upon his pedestal but never appearing abrasive or overbearing, as he is so gently composed. His stance is relaxed and his stare soft but concentrated (the iris of his eyes are in the shape of hearts). One can't help but notice the incredible detail found on the back of his hands and the tops of his feet (both of which are too big for the body). The slightest hint of veins can be seen among the bones and muscles, each softly shadowed in the marble by the glowing lights above him. He is so real, he seems to breathe. None of us really know what he is thinking, but we pretend to.

Dinner at the Wild Boar left us with full stomachs. Getting there was my favorite part, though, following Grandma, our tour guide for the day, with Dad by my side. "The target is moving!" he says playfully, "Stay on target...stay on target..." I respond. It's an inside joke we've developed in reference to Star Wars. We've got a lot of those, I've discovered. The streets of Florence are adorable, and I'd like to go back for a long weekend on my own, I think. Although, I'm not sure it's as enjoyable without loved ones. The bridge that crosses the river offers incredible views of the rolling hills in the distance and the brightly colored, Oh-So-Italian buildings, one right after the other. I'd like to sit on that bridge at sunrise and not be bothered by a single soul.

One giant purple scarf and an unbelievably high priced Belgian waffle with Nutella later, we're back on the train, all tired but laughing until we cry about old Seinfeld episodes we've all seen while the Italians around us no doubt wonder what there is to be so happy about. Eventually we all close our eyes and dose in and out of sleep, frequently woken up by the pressure change that leaves our ears plugged as we speed through tunnels. We are all yawning and I am complaining.
We part ways for the evening. We'll meet tomorrow and explore the ancient parts of Rome, many of which I've seen but will enjoy once again. I have the apartment to myself tonight and it's so quiet. I can hear the family above me shuffling, moving chairs, even sneezing. There seems to be a child in the building with one of those wooden toys that makes a train sound when you blow into it. It goes off every twenty minutes or so. So, I suppose that's what I'll fall asleep to tonight... the neighbors, the rain, and the memories I've got in my head of the day's events which I hope to keep with me forever.

A surprise visit.

Today I walked around Termini for a while, trying to find the right McDonald's where I was supposed to meet my Grandma. I waited for 30 minutes (because I was early) at one of them, but when 4:30 rolled around and she didn't come, I decided to check for another. Two McDonald's later, there she was. I hugged her tight and sat down and I asked her how her flight was. "It was great! It was really great. But ever since I left Indianapolis there's been this guy following me around and making sure I get everywhere on time." I was trying to listen and understand but I was really confused as to who in the world would be following my Grandma around. Then, from the corner of my eye I see this guy walk up. He put what I assumed was some sort of flier down in front of me. As I turn to see who it is, I realize it's my dad! "What?! No!!!" And I leaped up to hug him and of course started bawling. I was so thrilled. I don't think it could have been a better surprise.
The thing he put down on the table in front of me was an old picture of the two of us that I sent him a while ago with a sticky note attached that said, "Missing you! Love, Jess." Next to it he had put today's date and written, "Me too. Love, Dad."


It's been such a nice day ever since then. I walked them to their hotel, which is incredible. I'm gonna have to be spending a lot of time there considering the view and the bath tub. Dad's staying until we leave for Vienna on Monday and I think it's going to be a really fun week.
It's a downer to have school all day tomorrow, but I'm meeting them between classes at Castel Sant'Angelo.

It feels different after seeing my family. I feel like this place is a little more like home. I feel a little more settled in. But it also makes me miss home a lot more. As Spencer said, "it's just a snack to hold you over until dinner."

Trying.

Dalai Lama


Melting Glaciers


Feeling a little low today. I guess the headlines I read when I wake up set the tone for the rest of my day. There is so much bad news. Everywhere. I love reading the news because it makes me feel informed, but it also has a tendency to make me very sad. I remember, on a daily basis, my own insignificance. I can't help but wonder if anything I could do would make a difference. I've decided that the best way to look at life, at least for me, is without a belief that you are guided. I spend too much time looking for the meaning in things, the truth, what's real. When you stop believing that everything is significant, you start seeing things in a more objective way. I feel my senses are heightened when I change my perspective like this. At the same time, the idea of being guided has always given me hope. Giving that up means accepting that I have no meaning in the grand scheme of things, and that my life is disposable.


But I read somewhere that true happiness is had when all hope is gone.