Finding Nimo, Remembering Giuseppe: Italian Dating and Me

Last summer, I returned to Rome for a brief, six day visit, which I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog. There are stereotypes about how Italian men react to American women, and while these stereotypes are far from universally true, they exist for a reason. There was one day when my traveling companion S and I did everything touristy. She had never been to Rome, and seeing the Coliseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, and the Spanish Steps is almost mandatory for a first-time visitor. It wasn't exactly taxing for me to see these things again, either. This also happened to be the day when it seemed like All The Men came out of the woodwork. Of course we were obviously American tourists. We weren’t pretending to be otherwise – that never works anyway. We had lunch right off of Piazza di Spagna, which is Tourist Central. That’s where we met Nimo (pronounced just like that rascally little fish in the Disney movie Finding Nemo). Nimo was our waiter. He was pretty cute, I have to admit. And I had forgotten just how little encouragement is necessary sometimes to cause one to be perceived as flirting. I had spent the past two weeks in France and Switzerland, where I didn’t speak the language, and I was just so happy to be somewhere I could speak the language a bit, that I was eager to use my long-dormant Italian skills, and use them I did. My vocabulary is limited, but my pronunciation, thanks to my undergraduate Italian professor drilling it into us, is impeccable even more than a decade later. The happiness my linguistic abilities seemed to provoke in Italian waiters seemed really out of proportion to any actual achievement on my part. Nimo seemed especially susceptible. 

So Nimo asked me to go on a date that night. He offered to bring a friend for S. I was seeing someone at the time and turned him down on those grounds.  Nimo didn’t give up. He kept coming back and asking several times as we were eating our spaghetti pomodoro, and even sent a friend to act as his emissary at one point. In America this would be considered harassment. In Italy, I remembered, it was to be expected and taken in stride. We continued to say “thanks but no thanks,” and Nimo seemed crushed when we left. I’m absolutely certain he got over it minutes, if not seconds, after we departed, and probably found a date for the evening before too long. Part of me felt a little bad for turning him down, but when I expressed as much to S, she responded: “Do you want to go find Nimo? We can go find Nimo if you want to.” I think I gave her an evil glare and that was the end of it. 

There were other, similar experiences on that particular trip – I had an almost-date with a man named Stefano, whom I met while wandering around the Aventine Hill by myself while S braved the summer crowds at the Vatican. Stefano and I explored some churches together. He showed me around, and I pretended I didn't know where I was going, since he seemed so pleased to show me. Stefano had a girlfriend from Japan, but proposed that it would do no one any harm if we made out for awhile. Again, faithful girlfriend that I was, I turned him down, but we parted on good terms. 

 One of the reasons I turned Nimo down, besides the fact that I was in theory at least seeing someone, was that the whole scenario had a “been there, done that” feeling to it. When I was studying in Rome in 1999, at the age of nineteen, I dated a 22-year-old Italian man named Giuseppe, who was doing his mandatory military service in Rome. Giuseppe and I met at a club. The first night we met, we ended up dancing – he had a lot of energy. Before I left, he told me he loved me, in English. I think it was the only English that he knew. Even at nineteen, I knew better than to believe it. But I didn’t quite know not to give him my contact information. So he would come to the Hotel Tiziano where I was living with my classmates, and he'd phone my room. Italian law, in its great wisdom, prevented him from coming upstairs, not being a registered guest at the hotel. So I would come down instead. Giuseppe didn’t speak a word of English, and my Italian was a work-in-progress, to put it mildly. Cue clichés about the language of love, etc. In actuality, most of our dates consisted in taking very long walks around Rome, occasionally stopping for coffee or hot chocolate, and making out by monuments. We would try to understand each other, but more often than not, kissing was more expedient. It was fun. Rome itself is intoxicatingly beautiful at night, the ruins silent and mysterious, the cobblestone streets reflecting the streetlamps, the smell of roasted corn and chestnuts in the autumn air. The whole thing felt like a wonderful adventure, and though some of my friends made disapproving remarks, I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong, and I still don’t. I think it was also the first time I saw myself as dating someone just for the fun of it, and knew it wouldn’t go anywhere – I’m sure he saw it the same way. In fact it died a natural, painless death when I left Rome for a month over the Christmas holidays to travel around Italy and visit London. My one regret is that I lost the only photo I had of him, taken of the two of us in a bar in Trastevere by a man who was selling flowers. I do sometimes wonder what Giuseppe is like now – if he’s still in Rome or if he went back to his town in Campania – if he is married – has kids – etc. I hope he’s doing well, whatever it is. 

So I could have said yes to Nimo and had a pleasant but ultimately meaningless date for the evening, and it would have been fine, and probably enjoyable. I like to think I’m now older and wiser. But in some ways, I think maybe my younger self had the better instinct. There is something to be said for being open to things, and to people. For dating being as easy as asking someone out in the joy of the moment, just because you want to. That doesn’t happen to me here. And I'd find it weird if I ran into a guy out of the blue and he offered to give me a tour of St. Patrick's. This kind of thing might happen to some people, but I am not one of them. Maybe I'm just a different, more relaxed person in general when I'm traveling, and hence more attuned to such opportunities. But I don't think that's all of it. For spontaneity and the absence of the anxiety, expectations, and pressure that seem to cling to the dating scene in NYC, maybe the Italian way is better.

Belle & Sebastian Concert: A Magical Evening in Prospect Park

The first time I ever heard Belle & Sebastian was in this scene from High Fidelity:

 

"Seymour Stein" is not the song that made me a fan. But neither is B&S "sad bastard music" as Barry (Jack Black) proclaims. Much of it is genuinely catchy, upbeat, smart pop music. I'm someone who needs songs to have good lyrics. It's odd that this realization only came to me in the last half-decade or so. I think it's because so much popular music is just so bland lyrically that clever lyrics always just seemed like a nice bonus if a song was otherwise pleasant to listen to. 

I hadn't been exposed to B&S's early work, growing up in Pittsburgh and attending college in Indiana in the days before iTunes. But somehow, gradually, from around 2003 onward, I started hearing them more. It's a bit sad to say, but the iTunes "genius" feature probably helped. "Piazza, New York Catcher" was the first B&S song I really got hooked on - in around 2005. I didn't know anything about the band at the time - just that this clever, lovely song had somehow found its way into my iPod and I really liked listening to it. It took until around 2009 for B&S to become one of my absolute favorite bands ever. It had to do, I think, with moving to Manhattan from the Bronx. I started making a habit of taking long walks around the Central Park Reservoir, and the soundtrack to those walks almost immediately became 2006's The Life Pursuit. It's still my favorite B&S album, followed by Dear Catastrophe Waitress and Write About Love, though I love the earlier records, too. I just got so drawn into the songs - I found the lyrics so engrossing and the music so beautiful that listening became addictive. Soon I had acquired quite a collection of B&S albums (now I'm working on acquiring the vinyl versions). And what is it about Stuart Murdoch? His voice is lovely and delicate, but there are stronger singers out there. I read his book, The Celestial Cafe recently, which was actually just a collection of blog posts from 2003-2006 (The Dear Catastrophe Waitress and Life Pursuit eras). I didn't think it would be the type of thing I'd find unputdownable, but somehow it really drew me in. He seems like such a down-to-earth guy - one with whom it would be fun to talk about music and politics and whatever else over a cup of tea.  Actually, I'd be way out of my depth talking about music with him. But he seems the type of guy to be interested in talking about pretty much anything.

On stage Stuart is a wonderfully energetic and charismatic performer (I've heard that wasn't always the case, but of course I never went to see B&S in the early days). Last night, I saw Belle & Sebastian perform in Brooklyn for the second time. The first was a fantastic show in Williamsburg in 2010, when they were promoting Write About Love. Last night's sold-out concert was at the Prospect Park Band Shell, and if I didn't have the same crazy-excitement of seeing them perform for the first time, this time I knew what to expect, and I knew it would be a great show. The opening act was Yo La Tengo, who came on at 7:00. I had arrived at a little after 6 and got a spot pretty close to the stage. My sister would join me later, but I was not about to miss out on being able to see everything, right down to the band's facial expressions. I enjoyed Yo La Tengo, a band I don't know that much about, though I'd heard of and I think I have some of their songs in my iTunes collection. They seemed pretty eclectic and fun, and got a great reception from the audience. That crowd had definitely come to see Belle & Sebastian, though.

At 8:30 on the dot, the main event began. The band came on stage. They started with the instrumental "Judy is a Dick Slap," and moved right into the lively and funny "I'm a Cuckoo." And they played so many of my favorites! "Funny Little Frog" was played. "Another Sunny Day," too. I must have played those songs hundreds of times over the past few years, but there is nothing like hearing them live. Between songs, Stuart, with his lovely Scottish accent, regaled the audience with his adventures on the High Line and with trying out Citi Bike and getting lost in Brooklyn (of course Stuart Murdoch would try Citi Bike. An of course he'd take it out of the area where Citi Bike is usually found). There was also banter with Stevie Jackson, and not just one but two forays into the audience. I was sooo sad that I didn't get to go on stage with a bunch of other people during "The Boy with the Arab Strap" and "Legal Man." I probably could have, but I'd have had to push past two rather large men to get over the railing separating audience from stage, and I didn't quite have that in me. But I enjoyed it anyway. They weren't promoting an album this time, and just played lots of stuff from all different eras of the band. Stuart did a lot of dancing. The whole audience had a great time, and sang along at various points - always a good sign. They played until a little after 10 PM, including an encore, but the whole evening just flew by. This is definitely one band I'll always make a point of going to see when they're in town, and if you can manage to get tickets for any of the shows left on this tour, I'd recommend it highly.

I managed to get some photos with my iPhone:

 

The stage before the show ...I was destined to peer around this guy's "Texas Tech" hat all night. 

Yo La Tengo

                           Yo La Tengo

                                                      Waiting for B&S to come on ...

    Stuart on the keyboard...he didn't keep that long-sleeved shirt very long. It was a muggy night.

                                               Stevie Jackson being awesome. 

                                              I love this shot, except for the guy's hand in front of me!

                

Money, Amnesia, and Responsibility: Or -some of what I learned from dating a finance guy

It's a cliche that money doesn't buy happiness. But I'm starting with a cliche. Too bad. I chose a career that means I'll never make a lot of money. That's OK. That's my choice, and I don't regret it. I still have a happy, fulfilled life with friends, travel, great books, and my necessities more than met. Of course a bit more money would make some things easier, but that's always the case. And I don't think anyone, anywhere should have to live in abject poverty, unable to obtain food, health care, or a roof over their head. There's no real reason that should be the case given how much wealth exists in the world - in New York City alone. There is also the fact that really wealthy people just tend to be less interesting overall. Yes, that's a generalization. But it's my experience. That's right. I'm saying too much money makes people boring. Just read the travel section of the New York Times for an example. There is a disproportionate emphasis on luxury travel. Some of it is to really cool destinations. But why would anyone want to go to Myanmar, for example, just to hang out on a private yacht the whole time? It sounds dull (and possibly exploitative, which is another issue). I had tons of fun in Europe last year staying in hostels and locally owned hotels, eating local cuisine, and seeing cultural and geographical sites.

For about a year, I dated a guy who could afford to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He would fly to another city or even country for a weekend just for a rock concert. He owned most of the products Apple put out (and when I mentioned needing a new battery for my 2006 MacBook, his response was "why don't you just get a new computer?"). He would take me out to dinners that cost approximately my monthly rent. We went to restaurants where they just brought foie gras to the table as an in-between-course snack. A trip to Las Vegas involved a 1200 dollar (for two people) helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. The views were fabulous. I got motion sickness and threw up.  I never asked to go to any of these places, and I certainly couldn't pay for them. It wasn't that I didn't have qualms about the lifestyle I got to enjoy when I was with him, and it wasn't why I was dating him (that would be because we had a great first date where it turned out we read the same SF novels, to our mutual surprise and delight). I just pushed all my qualms aside. I didn't really realize the league I was playing in until a few dates in, when I got a glimpse of how much the wine he ordered cost at the restaurant where we were eating. But I liked him, and I felt it wasn't my place to critique - and I was enjoying myself, in spite of feeling like a bit of a fraud when waiters behaved like the servants on Downton Abbey and acted as though we were the upstairs folks. I always, deep down, knew there was something wrong about it. That I couldn't drink 300 dollar wine one day and walk past the homeless guy in my neighborhood the next and really be OK with that. Every year I assign my students to read Peter Singer's controversial New York Times piece, The Singer Solution to World Poverty, in which Singer passionately, and controversially argues that not donating a significant percentage of one's income to charity renders one culpable for the millions of children dying of easily treatable diseases in the developing world. There are problems with Singer's rhetoric that I and the students discuss, but over the years I've come to agree with the nugget of his argument. And it nagged at me as I ate those beautiful, luxurious dinners and drank that ridiculously expensive wine. And then there was the simple fact that I always had just as much fun, if not more, going to a movie and hitting a diner or pub afterwards. Eventually, it became clearer to me that we didn't share all of the same values, though I don't think he was a bad person. We had our first fight about the Chicago teachers' strike. I'll not go into the details - it's probably easy to infer the positions we had on it. And even as I realized this stuff, I still liked him - and maybe I was getting a little hooked on the lifestyle.

But he really had no concept of certain things, and I think that's partly due to not really comprehending a need to worry about money or a need to budget and plan. And this seeped into other aspects of his character - a general carelessness or neglect about a need to take responsibility for things he'd said or offered to do. He offered to give me his old MacBook a couple of times (it was newer than mine). After refusing a few times, I eventually accepted, but it never happened. Not a huge deal, really. He didn't owe it to me. But why offer? And what if I'd counted on it? (I eventually learned never to count on offers like that - he'd make them frequently.) And then he'd just forget when we had plans, which was a bigger deal. Or he'd forget to tell me he couldn't make our date after all, and I'd be stuck home on Saturday night, unable to find new plans at the last minute because he didn't tell me in time. Eventually, he moved away for a better job and I didn't think long distance would be a good idea. I think in some ways I had a lucky escape. Because I don't want to start to value things like 300 dollar wine. And the other thing - we never seemed to talk about those SF novels or any of the cool stuff we had seemed to have in common. It was always about the food or the wine or ... I don't even recall really. He was always saying how money wasn't really important. And I don't think he'd always had it (he was a bit cagey about his childhood), but he certainly didn't seem to know how to live without it when I knew him.

And maybe it's not really so much that money makes people boring, but that it causes amnesia. Because it's so easy to turn a blind eye to those who have nothing when one is eating a $200 dollar five course tasting menu and getting drunk on champagne and lighting and being treated like royalty. I certainly was in some danger of forgetting, though I always returned to the real world at the end of the evening. I also told myself if I ended up with this guy, I would do some good with whatever I gained from it. But it's never really enough, is it? Giving to charity and forgetting about it? That doesn't make anyone a better person. It just eases a prickling conscience a bit, or serves as a nice tax write-off. But it also helps the amnesia along. I have respect for those people with means who actually go out into the world and do things hands on. When there are homeless people sitting outside when I'm on the way home from the Michelin star restaurant, it makes it hard to forget. And I'm not saying I have the solution to this dilemma, but I think some redistribution of wealth is probably necessary for us to live in a moral world (I can say that. I'm not running for office).

On a less extreme level, I've even noticed my friends who are making comfortable salaries of their own for the first time in their lives starting to forget. I had a friend suggest that my lifestyle was less than grown-up because I couldn't afford to do certain things - I can't splurge on Broadway tickets or trips to Hawaii. Not right now at least. A couple of years ago, this person couldn't either. Amnesia.

Finally - I really don't resent anyone for living a comfortable life, and I certainly enjoy buying things I don't need from time to time. I just think more people should be able to have the things they do need. And that it's easy to forget not only what it's like not to live that life, but that one also can get into a rut and become just a little bit dull as a result.

(I guess I have two theses here, which is not great writing, but hopefully my point was clear).

Why I love Hiking

I really miss hiking this summer. It drives me crazy that it's not an option for me right now. It's not that I'd call myself an expert hiker or even that I go all the time, but it's something I really like to do. I've gone on hiking vacations. I'm planning to go on more in the future. But this summer, because of the stupid sprained ankle (see elsewhere on this blog), I can't just take off and go to the Palisades or Ramapo Forest for a day, let alone plan anything further away. (The ankle is mostly better, but not totally yet, and it's just not worth the risk.) So for now I'm stuck not hiking.

I never thought of myself as remotely athletic until I discovered that I liked hiking. Team sports were never my thing. In elementary school, I played softball for three years, mostly because my friends were all doing it - which is usually the worst reason to do anything, but softball is a relatively innocent pastime. I was terrible, as I was at most sports. I spent almost all of my time standing in the outfield, drawing pictures in the dirt with my shoe. So even when something occasionally did come my way, I was usually unprepared. Once, I caught a fly ball because it landed in my glove. I didn't tell anyone that I hadn't been remotely expecting it! I wasn't great at hitting the ball, either. I would hit occasionally, probably by pure accident. Once I hit it really hard. It went flying out over the field, and I went running, elated, toward first base. Halfway there, I promptly fell flat on my face into the dirt. I cried, and they let me stay on first base, though I think I was technically out. I think I was around 7 or 8 at the time. In spite of my dragging them down, my team came in first place in our little league division the first year I played, and I still have the big trophy they gave to everyone, but I assure you it was not earned on my part.

They say that playing sports is supposed to be good for girls - that it helps them build confidence and practice things like cooperation and teamwork, and healthy competition. I would say that is true for some girls. For those not naturally athletic, who actually dread participating in team sports, being part of a team can be a nightmare. My first year playing softball was OK, despite my lack of natural ability. A bunch of my friends were on the team, and no one was seriously competitive yet. I did have moments of fun sitting on the bench with my schoolmates and going to Dairy Queen for ice cream after the game, or hitting the candy stand right before. But after that, my experiences on team sports were almost entirely negative. I was *always* picked last for things in gym class. Even things I didn't necessarily suck at, like kickball. It hurt. And I think now, if I'd been signed up for extracurricular things I may have done well at, like drawing or writing or language classes, I would have gotten that confidence boost that they say playing sports gives kids, and girls especially. As it was, team sports made an already shy kid even more self-conscious. It also didn't help that my gym teacher didn't like me. But - once we were told to run and walk a bunch of laps around the gym, and though I wasn't the fastest, I was one of the only students to complete the task. It was one of the only times I remember that teacher complimenting me on anything. But I didn't know walking was a viable sport back then.

In middle school, though, something good happened. I finally overcame my fear of deep water and learned to be a half-decent swimmer. I was so excited to pass my deep water test in seventh grade.  My gym teachers - two women who team-taught - didn't emphasize competition so much as developing fitness skills and learning proper techniques for whatever athletic pursuit we were trying. It's not a coincidence that I actually got good at certain things during those years. We did things like aerobics and jump-rope and climbing exercises. We learned how to stretch and breathe properly. I don't think we ever played a team sport. It was great! I still didn't love gym class, but I didn't mind it and sometimes I even enjoyed it. I even got involved in a temporary program that aimed to get girls interested in golf. I didn't especially excel at it, but it wasn't traumatizing, and I still know how to at least hold a golf club.

In high school, though, things regressed. My gym teacher was older than dirt. He had taught my dad at the same school decades before. He would have us do things that meant he didn't have to do much of anything but stand around and watch. I remember being forced to play volleyball, and classmates actually getting angry because I (admittedly) sucked at it. Fortunately, subsequent gym teachers were even less interested. My friend and I would go into the weight room and play Connect Four. Occasionally we played table tennis, which I kind of enjoyed. As long as we were doing something and stayed out of their way, we got A's. My senior year, I rather stupidly joined the team for the girl's "powder puff" football game (I can't even believe how offensive that name is, but we didn't think much about it at the time). We played one game, juniors versus seniors, during homecoming week. I probably shouldn't even count this as athletic involvement. It wasn't, really. It was a lot of running around, and once I fell during practice and got the wind completely knocked out of me. Our "coach," who was a social studies teacher, was angry when we lost and said he wasn't going to coach the following year because he didn't like losing. Nice.

So that was my life in sports for a long time. My college didn't have a phys ed requirement, and I certainly didn't miss it. But slowly, over the next couple of years, I discovered walking. I didn't think of it as a sport. It started out, probably, in just going on long walks around campus with a friend or two. The following year, when I studied in Rome, I would find myself walking around the city, semi-aimlessly, for hours and hours at a time. And then in 2001, I spent a month on an island off the west coast of Ireland. I was doing archaeological field work (looong story), but part of the program I was on involved excursions to archaeological sites around the island. So that was the first time I did real hiking. I loved it. It didn't even matter where we were headed. The fresh air, the boggy ground, occasionally getting rained on, and feeling every step in my legs at the end of the day over a pint of cider (I hadn't yet developed a taste for Guinness) - it felt good. Not to mention, the scenery was beyond breathtaking. Even so, I didn't do much more hiking after that for a few years, other than taking long walks in the park and around NYC. That changed in 2008, when I ended up going to the English Lake District for a conference. I went on some of the hiking excursions, and even took myself on a solo one, where I got lost and caught in the rain, and had a fantastic time.

Two years later, I planned one of the best trips of my life. A college friend and I hiked Scotland's West Highland Way - 96 miles over six days. It was tough, and we spent one entire day getting rained on, but by the end we felt so proud of ourselves! Since then, I've taken up hiking locally, mostly to trails I can reach by public transportation. Last summer, I scaled my first real mountain, Switzerland's Mt. Pilatus, at 7,000 feet. It's not massive as mountains go, but it felt like an accomplishment for me!

So why hiking? I like it because it's not a competition, though it is possible to set goals and strive to meet them. (And I actually do have something of a competitive nature that only comes out on occasion - but because I'm so terrible at team sports, it doesn't do well there). When I do meet a goal, it really does feel like I've done something worthwhile. My body is sore but happy. My head is clear. I get the confidence boost I never got from playing softball. It's a nice way to spend a day with a friend or two as well, if they're into it. I also love taking pictures, and so I often  combine hiking and photography, though this only works when it's not raining (the Lake District killed my camera). It's also a great way to get to know new places. My memories of Switzerland, Scotland, Ireland, and the Côte d'Azur are all richer from having walked there and having dealt with the landscape for good or ill. I even feel I know NYC and the surrounding area better for having walked through it. There are moments when I'm hiking up a steep hill and I'm absolutely miserable. I ask myself why I do it. What sane person puts herself through such torment? But when I reach the summit, I know why. And I know I'll be back for more.

Nine Things I Love about My Neighborhood

I have lived in four of the five boroughs of New York City. When I came here in 2003, I lived in Brooklyn's Park Slope with three other roommates and taught high school. We were in a fourth-floor walk-up on 3rd Street between 6th and 7th Ave,  a short walk to Prospect Park and tons of cool restaurants and used book stores (most of the bookstores are now closed). It was a safe, charming place and probably a great NYC starter neighborhood for my 23 year old self. A year later, I found myself in graduate school and living in the Bronx, right on the Grand Concourse at 175th Street. I had one roommate, and a huge, gorgeous art-deco apartment in a crumbling building. We were the only white chicks around for probably a 20 block radius. Which was absolutely fine, and I think good for me. I stayed there five years. Then, I spent two years in a miniscule apartment in Manhattan's east 90s, which I shared with my sister. I grew very attached to the UES. I still go back and eat at the Midnight Express Diner and drink at Auction House on 89th Street. Both of these are quality places and I recommend them highly. I so liked living on the UES that I was really not excited to move to my fourth borough in Astoria, Queens in August of 2011. But one does get more for one's money in Queens.

It did take some adjusting. I had a random Craigslist roommate, and the less said about her, the better. My commute time to work doubled. I suddenly found myself far away from all my friends, and in case you didn't already know this, people do not like to travel to the outer boroughs for a visit. They expect you to meet them in Manhattan. Fortunately, I have some very dear friends who will sometimes make the trek for me, but this was still an adjustment. Cabs, also, do not like to go to Queens. I have had many of them argue with me, and I've had to invoke  the "you're legally obligated to take me" line more than I should have. To top it all off, I found my allergies acting up almost immediately upon arrival. I decided that I was allergic to Queens, though it turns out I am probably just allergic to the tree outside my bedroom window for part of the year.

Almost two years later, though, I love it here and I don't think I'd go back to Manhattan even if I could. (Well OK - maybe if money was no object and I could live on 5th Ave or CPW near the park, I'd do it). I have a new Craigslist roommate who is working out well, and I've been able to do nice things with the apartment. But best of all, the neighborhood itself has really grown on me. I live east of Steinway, which is a little quieter than much of Astoria. But I like that. And there are some places and neighborhood quirks that I'll really miss when I eventually leave (though I have no plans of doing so soon).

So here are some things that I absolutely love about my little section of Astoria:

1. Gian Piero Bakery 
This is the place to go for quality, authentic southern-Italian pastries. I developed a problematic cannoli habit when I first moved here. Adding to the atmosphere of authenticity is the crowd. In spite of my Irish surname and resemblance to my Polish grandma, I'm actually half-Italian (Italian on the inside, I like to say) and let's just say I recognized these people without ever having met them before. They're the immigrants and first-generation crowd that sits and talks in a mix of Italian and English and were a fixture at every communion party I attended as a kid. Gian Piero's is where they hang out, sometimes sitting on the benches outside if it's warm, or crowded at the tables inside if it's cold. For me, it feels familiar and also nostalgic - a bit like visiting a slice of NYC that doesn't really exist anymore except maybe here and other isolated pockets, like the Bronx's Arthur Avenue.

2. Off the Vine 
This wine store is small but very nice, and they have regular Saturday tastings! I always find something good here, and the owner is knowledgeable and friendly, and happy to make a recommendation. There is also a very sweet dog there sometimes. I've stopped into Off the Vine countless times on my way home from work and picked up a bottle and exchanged some friendly words with whoever was working.

3. Via Trenta
When I first moved to Astoria, the only Italian restaurant near my was called Cara Bella, and it was fairly old-school - chicken parm and penne alla vodka. Not that that's a bad thing. I would go there and eat alone occasionally, since I didn't know anyone nearby and my roommate and I were not friends. Then, just as I was feeling a bit like a regular, like I had found a comfortable spot to go and eat when I didn't want to stay home, Cara Bella closed without warning. So sad! Now, it's a German restaurant called Max, which I have yet to try, but people seem to like it. In November of 2011, though, Via Trenta opened! And all was right with the world again. It has more modern Italian food - you won't find all the old staples like chicken parm on the menu. But everything is fresh and delicious (I highly recommend the Burrata Pizza. It has truffle oil on it. That should be all anyone ever needs), and there's a great wine list. My sister and I are regulars there now, and the owner and staff are great. It's definitely become a part of my life in Astoria, and I'm so glad it's there!

4. Brooklyn Bagel 
Another staple for me. It's actually a local chain, but I go to the one closest to me. On the days I work from home, I often venture there with my laptop. On weekend mornings it's packed, and it's easy to see why. They have a bacon-scallion cream cheese. Need I say more?

5. Wholesale Furniture
So far, this list has been all food and wine. So you can see my priorities! But the first day I moved in, I discovered the wholesale furniture places on Steinway. I needed a new bed, and was planning to spend the first week on my air mattress. But, when I went into the mattress place on the corner of Steinway and 30th Ave, I found a bed I liked right away, and learned that not only was the price negotiable, but that they could deliver the bed that very day! There are a number of these stores on Steinway, and this past January I bought my new futon from one of them, negotiating the price and everything. It sounds a little sketchy, but the service is actually really good in the little experience I've had.

6. Trade Fair
Yeah, I'm back to food. I live more or less next door to a Trade Fair supermarket, and it's open 24 hours. If I want to make cookies at 3 AM and need to buy eggs, I can do that. This particular store felt a bit disorganized and limited at first, and I found myself venturing a few blocks west to Key Foods. But that was only because I didn't fully grasp how Trade Fair worked. There is actually a huge selection of specialized ingredients, but they're divided up according to ethnicity! Once I figured out that I had to go to the Italian section for Arborio rice for my risotto, rather than the general "rice" section, for example, I was all set. A lot of the products there are like that. Once I figured out the system, I felt liked I'd cracked a code. Trade Fair suddenly felt like a much larger and richer place! Now, I rarely venture to Key Foods.

7. People's front yards. 
Nowhere else that I've lived in NYC have the buildings had little front yards with grass and trees or just gardens. My landlady keeps a garden in front of the building I live in (a two-family house - I live on the 2nd floor). I love coming home and seeing the flowers and vegetables in the spring and summer. And people do really interesting things with their yards. Sometimes there are neat little shrines to the Virgin Mary; sometimes there are overflowing lilac bushes - the smell hits you as you walk past, and it's lovely (lilac is one of my favorite smells).

8. Saint Michael's Cemetery
This huge cemetery is a couple of blocks from me. I once read that Astoria is the most ethnically diverse neighborhood in the country, and Saint Michael's really highlights this diversity. I've gone there with my camera or just to take  a walk several times. It's a peaceful place, and has old mausoleums and headstones going back to the mid-nineteenth century all the way up to the present. It's an interesting way to see how the populations have changed, and also the different ways people honor their loved ones. One of the most poignant memorials there is a statue of a WWI soldier who was killed in action.

9. My Apartment
My apartment is such a happy place! Ever since my roommate moved out in January and the new roommate came, it really feels like home. Our living room and kitchen overlook the street, and have my comfy futon, and the Ikea chair I've had ever since the Brooklyn apartment. I've got my slow-cooker in the kitchen and my record player and book shelves in the living room, and my roommate's TV is here, too. Nothing unusual or special, maybe, but it's fun to be here! It's a nice place to come home to at the end of the day, hang out with a friend or two (the ones who will venture to Astoria!), or curl up with a book and play a record on a rainy Saturday. Whenever I eventually leave Astoria, this is probably the place I'll miss most of all.

So there's my list of things I love about Astoria. There are definitely more things that I love, but these are the ones I thought of immediately - the little things that make this neighborhood unique. Check them out if you visit! (Maybe not my apartment, unless I know you already).

'Persuasion' and Communication

I've been thinking a bit about love lately. Well, relationships more specifically, and what makes them work or fail. And how one can sometimes completely misread people. In my most recent relationship, which lasted a year, communication just fell apart at some point. I don't want to get too detailed here, but essentially, my boyfriend of a year abandoned me for a Swiss hedge fund. But communication had been a mess before that, for all kinds of reasons. 

But it's OK. I've had a lot to throw myself into. And in a way it's just one of many stressful things that have happened lately, and once I got over the initial anger and sadness, I found that I wasn't too broken up about it, though I still feel angry and confused thinking about certain parts of it, in a way that I haven't for any other exes. I think with most break ups, I tend to feel like either both people played fairly, or it's just a tremendous relief to be out of the relationship. Not so when someone hasn't been communicative, though.  But life goes on. 

Of course these things always work out better in books. My favorite love scene in all of literature is in Jane Austen's Persuasion. It's the scene with the letter, near the end. Warning. If you keep reading this, there will be spoilers. The book is 200 years old, but maybe you haven't read it and don't want to be spoiled. In Persuasion, Anne Elliot is 27 years old, and "on the shelf." It was the nineteenth-century, so 27 was ancient to be unmarried. But Anne was once in love with a young sailor named Frederick Wentworth, who wanted to marry her years before. Anne's family and friends thought the match beneath her, though, and she doesn't marry him. There are also valid reasons she has for refusing him, but he goes away believing her to have been talked out of it. Through a series of events, Frederick comes back into Anne's life, now a captain, rich and successful, while Anne's family is in debt and must economize. And through the bulk of the novel, Anne and Frederick barely speak. But they gradually begin to soften towards one another again, and it becomes - very gradually - clear to the reader that they still have strong feelings for one another. But neither acknowledges it for a maddeningly long time. And then events conspire to keep them apart for awhile. I won't give away the whole plot. But! Anne has to go and join her family in Bath, and guess who turns up? And he's still trying to discern her feelings and intentions (will she marry her cousin everyone knows is bad news? Will Frederick face rejection yet again?). Social convention, pride, and fear keep them from declaring themselves. But the tension builds maddeningly toward the end of the novel, and though Austen's novels are known for their marital endings, one still worries that they won't just spit it out and get together already.

Until the scene with the letter. This scene is all about communicating the deepest possible feelings, and so much rides on this communication being successful. And it is, even though the two don't even speak to each other! They are in a room with other people, friends and acquaintances. There is no privacy. Frederick sits ostensibly writing a letter of business, and Anne talks to his friend Captain Harville about whether men or women get over lost love faster (Anne argues that men do). After a little while, Frederick gets up and leaves. But that's far from the end. I'll quote the scene below:

She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it: the work of an instant! 

The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with the direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E. - " was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: 
     
               "I can no longer listen in silence, I must speak to you by which means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constance among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in 
                           F.W. 
I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I hall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."


 So, obviously this ends well. But oh, the torture leading up to it. All the uncertainty and occasional miscommunication. I love that Frederick finally decides that enough is enough, and that some sort of direct communication is necessary. Even if it's done in the most indirect way possible. And I love that Anne has been subtly telling him that she's not over him. Even if she was doing it subconsciously. And he knows her well enough now to read all the signals she's been sending, and he is brave enough to just go for it (finally). Anne is also a heroine I like because, though very much of her time, doesn't lack a backbone. She stops letting her family silence her, and she chooses the future she wants at the end (and by that point it's far from her only option). Of course by the end of the novel things are still a little uncertain - Frederick might have to leave Anne again should there be another war. But in all the important ways, it's a happy ending. They're certain of how they feel and they are brave enough to seize a future together.

I think relationships need good communication, but also a certain amount of courage if they're going to last. At some point one just has to take a chance, even if it doesn't work out in the end. By the end of Persuasion, both Anne and Frederick have matured and grown enough to know this, and they're still young enough to want to do it. And I do know that one can't really read Austen as a relationship-guide for the 21st century, and this little post hasn't done justice to how rich and complex this novel is (it's really about so much more than a romance). But there are certainly some lessons to be learned here. And even if there aren't, it's a really good read.

A week on crutches - Some short observations and advice for bystanders

First - I am very fortunate that my injury (a sprained ankle) is very temporary. So I'll just say that to start off. I spent the past week hobbling around NYC on crutches (though admittedly I spent more time on my sofa with my leg propped up, watching episodes of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report). I don't claim to have any insight whatsoever into what it's like to deal with something like this on a long-term basis. But I have observed a few things just from being out and about in the city, trying to get from point A to B to C and back to A. So the following list of things to do and not to do for someone on crutches (or with some obvious mobility issue) pertains really only to my own experience. Other people might think differently about it. But it's something to think about. 

1. Do offer to help. I didn't always feel like asking for help, but when people offered to carry things for me in the grocery store, or get a drink for me at dinner, or in my roommate's case, run downstairs and get my seamless.com delivery, I really appreciated it. I also really appreciated not having to ask.

2. If help is refused, don't insist. The other night, I was slowly making my way up a short flight of stairs. A well-meaning man said he wanted to help me. I really didn't want help. I was very carefully balancing, and it took some concentration. He insisted, and in spite of my saying "no" repeatedly, came and took my arm anyway and more or less forcibly helped me up the stairs. I felt off-balance and a little panicked. I was actually glad when he let go and it was once more just me and my crutches.

3. Do offer your seat on the bus or subway. Seriously. This one should be obvious. It was always obvious to me before this happened, and it's even more obvious now. And most people get it. But there are a few that don't. Particularly on the Queens bound N train at 4:30 in the afternoon. (Likewise, if you are the one for whom someone gives up a seat, say "thank you." Those seats can be hard to come by, and the person giving it up might have been really tired and glad to have it).

4. Don't run ahead and grab the seat nearest the door when someone on crutches is right behind you. I am balancing on one foot and two metal poles. I want to sit down as soon as possible. I think some people do this without thinking, but it is really annoying.

5. It's OK to ask what happened, if you want to. Don't force someone to stand and talk to you forever, though, or try to use the person's injury to sell her something (so tacky). I met some nice people who were just curious and maybe had their own stories to share. I've had far more conversations with homeless people in the past week than I have had in the past decade, which is probably not a bad thing. The exception to all of this was the rep from the cable company who asked me what happened, and then proceeded to draw me into a long conversation in which she tried to get me to upgrade my cable subscription. Again - one foot, two metal poles. And it was cold out. Every time I said I had to go, she would draw me back in somehow. I know I should have just walked away and let her deal with it, but I'm not especially capable of doing that (too programmed to be polite, I think).

6. Finally ... DON'T STEAL SOMEONE'S CAB. Whereas some of these other things were merely annoying, this one filled me with rage. A deep, primal rage. It was done so blatantly, too. The people looked at me and ran for the cab and jumped in before I could get to it, even though I had hailed it.

7. Do offer to hail a cab for someone. A couple of people did this for me on the days I was having the most trouble. I really appreciated it.

So that's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of more, but these are some of the big ones I've noticed. And, I'm happy to say that as of today I am off the crutches and in an air-cast. I have to wear it for the next four weeks, but my mobility is drastically improved. Meanwhile, I learned a lot about getting around this city, and getting around in general, without full mobility. It hasn't been fun, but it certainly has given me more empathy for those who deal with these issues (and many much worse) on a daily basis.

Crutches are Not Fun, and New Yorkers are Nosy (in a mostly good way)

Last Friday, I had a terrible day. After having a not-so-great day at work, my friend and I decided to go and have a drink in the New York Botanical Gardens. It was a beautiful day, and we needed to unwind a little. My plan was to sit for an hour and then go home, where I had errands to run and other things to do.

The Garden Cafe was in sight. We had turned the corner onto the little sidewalk that leads up to it. And then ... my ankle bent and I fell over. That's right. I didn't even make it to the wine. I fell on the way to it. Not fair. At first I thought I'd be fine - that the pain would pass in a second - and then I saw a balloon forming on my ankle. And I think I screamed. It hurt - oh, so much.

People were very helpful. Some of the cafe customers, one of whom was a physical therapist, came over and brought a chair and got help. Security was called. Transportation was arranged ... but the ER was in my immediate future. Incidentally, we had to wait a bit for transportation, because the security person was otherwise occupied evicting someone from the gardens who had been publicly urinating. Lovely. Good old NYC.

So I got a (read this in a sarcastic tone) fun ambulance ride for the second time in my life, and got to spend the next four hours in the ER at Saint Barnabas in the Bronx. I will say this - that ER was surprisingly efficient, as ER's go, and I speak from some experience, both my emergencies and my trips keeping friends company. I was there for about four hours, and my friend was able to stay with me, for which I was very grateful. Things kept happening, though. I was checked in, examined, medicated (good old Motrin), x-rayed, etc. Not too much waiting in between things, for which I was pretty grateful. Someone did mistakenly check off on my chart that I was African American at one point, which does not inspire a great deal of confidence in that person's powers of observation, but the mistake was soon corrected.

The results of the x-rays came. It was a bad sprain, and I was not to put any weight on it for a week or so (and no hiking for a few months! And the weather is finally perfect for it!). I'm a little confused, actually, because the written instructions I was given say to wait until I see the podiatrist at my follow up appointment, but that isn't until May 7. Well over a week. But the doctor said a week. And it matters, because I have a busy weekend coming up and I REALLY hate crutches. Hate them. I know I'm really very lucky because this could have been much worse. Some people have to put up with crutches for weeks or even months, and some people have permanent difficulty walking. So in that way I'm very fortunate. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to complain about how much crutches suck in the meantime.

Crutches suck. First, my cab ride home after going to the hospital was ridiculously expensive. I'm almost sure I got the "crutches rate" - in other words, I had no choice about taking the cab because I wasn't about to attempt the subway five minutes after being given the things. Also - my upper body strength leaves a lot to be desired, so my arms have been killing me. They hurt worse than the ankle does. So this makes it really hard to go very far on the crutches. I've been taking a lot of cabs.

I didn't leave my apartment for the first two days. I live in a second-floor walk-up, and stairs are hard. I'm getting better at them, and down is easier than up, but I have to go really slowly and it's scary. I can't sweep my kitchen floor and it's driving me crazy. And I did manage to scrub out my bathtub (not that I can take a shower or anything) the other night, but I ended up covered in bleach stains (it was almost worth it, though - the tub looks so much better).

On Monday, I decided that I needed to wash my hair. I couldn't get in the shower and do this myself - I can't get water on the whole apparatus my ankle is wrapped in. So I called a car service to take me 12 blocks. I had lunch, and then hobbled another couple of blocks to the hair salon, where I got a cut and wash. Complete bliss.

So here's what I've noticed about being out on the street with crutches. New Yorkers, erroneously thought by many Americans to be unfriendly, will actually take any opportunity to talk to people. Also, New Yorkers love to give advice and share their opinions. The crutches made me an easy mark for this. They were a conversation piece. I had people stop and ask me what happened. People offered to help. People told me I was using them wrong. I ran into another woman on crutches and we bonded. This was all in about four blocks as I limped/hopped/hobbled down the street. One guy was particularly helpful - he told me the bar on the crutches I was gripping with my hands needed to be higher, which would make things a little easier on my arms. I suspected he was right, but I didn't want to take them apart on my own and not be able to fix them, so a colleague ended up helping me at work on Tuesday, and it is better.

Going to work on Tuesday was my first opportunity to use public transportation since I got hurt. I got a car service to the bus. The bus to the Metro North at 125th Street, and the Metro North to the Bronx. It was a huge pain, but I was happy I did it. I normally would take the subway to work, but there are no handicap accessible subway stations near me in Queens, or near my work in the Bronx. My best bet was bus and commuter rail, and those things did work out all right. But I have tremendous sympathy for those who are actually disabled and rely on public transportation - a lot of local subway stations simply don't cut it as far as accessibility. Also, while most people are really nice and want to help, some people are just plain clueless. On my return Metro North trip, a woman hurried to get onto the train in front of me (fine - I can't blame her for that) but then grabbed the seat nearest the door, that I had been eying for myself (it was one of the four-seater ones, where I'd have room to put my crutches). I was in a bad mood at that point, and my arms really hurt, so rather than asking nicely for her to move, I gave her a kind of evil look and said "Really? Thanks," and started to move past. She got up. It wasn't my finest moment, and she was probably just clueless, but I was not feeling super patient.

But most New Yorkers really do just want to help. The hair salon said I could come back just for a wash, which is awesome. I'll probably do that today.

This is also, in some ways, rather ironic for me. I am now the slowest person on the block, whereas I used to be the person who got impatient with people who strolled leisurely along and took up the entire sidewalk (to be fair, I made an exception for the elderly and people with crutches, canes, wheelchairs, etc. My impatience more had to do with people who were just merrily chatting away on their phones or with their friends and wouldn't let anyone else get by them). Anyway, now everyone is faster than I am, and it is super annoying. I think it also really irks my latent competitive streak - I have a compulsive need to move faster than everybody else when I'm out walking or even running for the train or whatever. I know it's weird. I think it's symptomatic of living in a large city and not wanting to get swallowed up by a crowd or something. I know other people with the same quirk.

But as long as all goes well, I won't be on the crutches much longer. And really, I don't have a lot to legitimately complain about (again, though - that won't stop me. New Yorkers like to complain, and I've been here for a decade, so I count myself amongst the ranks of New Yorkers). I have learned a lot from this experience though, and I'm still learning. But in the meantime - crutches are not fun, and I'm glad New Yorkers are nosy.

 

I can't carry stuff around for the most part, so I've had to be creative. I have my travel money-pouch for my money, phone, and keys. No purses for awhile!

Ciao, Tiziano, e Grazie! (A Tribute and Reflection)

Yesterday, I got some really sad news. But for most readers to understand why I'm sad, I have to explain some other things first. That requires going back in time fourteen years.

In the fall of 1999, I started my sophomore year at Saint Mary's College, Notre Dame, Indiana. Except I didn't spend that year in Indiana. I fulfilled a lifelong fantasy of going to live in Italy for awhile. I had partly chosen Saint Mary's because of its outstanding study abroad programs, and the Rome program in particular. Rome was nothing like I'd expected, but it gave me everything I hoped it would and so much more. Not a day goes by that I don't still think about it, if even briefly. I've written lots of stuff about Rome, much of it experimental, which I've never shared with anyone, and my time there informs so much of how I am and the choices I've made that I can't even begin to encapsulate it in one little post. But I do want to speak to a particular part of it.

The young women on the Rome program stayed in the four-star Hotel Tiziano in the Largo Argentina neighborhood of Rome. (The men, from the University of Notre Dame, stayed at the Hotel Arenula around the corner. No co-ed dorms for us, even in the eternal city!) The Tiziano was a very comfortable place. My friend Gina and I shared Room 309, the smallest of the rooms allotted to SMC students. We had bunk beds (I was on top due to a slightly irrational fear of sleeping underneath the top bunk and having it cave in on me in the middle of the night). We also had a bathroom with a bidet that we didn't quite know what to do with, so we used it for doing laundry by hand (yes, I know how gross that sounds. In our defense, the bathrooms had recently been remodeled and I like to think no one had yet used the bidet for its intended purpose, but I really couldn't say for sure). We also had maid service once a week. Our room had a lovely brick-colored carpet and warm golden-yellow walls. My desk was in a little nook near the doorway, and I would place miniature monuments I'd collect on my travels on top of it. I was certainly the less-organized of the two of us, and Gina always graciously put up with my clutter.

All of the SMC ladies were on the third and fourth floors of the Tiziano, and so we lived in pretty close quarters. There were forty-two of us, plus two Notre Dame men, the first semester, and a few more in the spring. We became quite close, living in such close quarters so far away from our homes, families, and other friends. Rome defined our lives, and we had it in common. We lived, traveled, studied, ate, and prayed together. Most of us took full advantage of being in Europe, and in Rome in particular, and didn't do a great deal of sitting around at home. But the Tiziano was home, and every day we'd gather in the dining room at the appointed time for lunch or dinner, joined by the program staff and faculty, as well as the deacons from the North American College who ran our campus ministry. I'll never forget those meals - a chance to gather and regroup after a long day of studying, site-seeing, or just exploring. I'll never forget having the Saint Joan of Arc medal I bought in Paris blessed by Deacon Paul at dinner. It was for me a very special moment. I'd never asked to have anything blessed before, and somehow it felt right that it should be there in the dining room with my friends, rather than in the busy hustle of Saint Peter's Square for the papal blessing.

The staff at the Tiziano were always kind, funny, and adamant about speaking to us in Italian in spite of their fluency in English. They helped to make the Tiziano a welcoming and safe place, and helped us to better acclimate to life in Rome.

 The lobby of the Tiziano

 When I would travel to various places, which I did quite often, I was always glad to come home to familiar faces and my little room on the third floor. Over the Christmas holidays, I spent a month traveling with a friend, and on the last day, in London, I decided to join my friend in flying back a day early. I phoned the Tiziano from Heathrow, and they kindly agreed to give me access to my room, though we weren't supposed to have returned yet. It was such a comfort to know I'd be returning there. I hadn't gone home to the U.S. for Christmas, because I couldn't afford it. I'd had a good Christmas with my friend and her family in Florence, and had traveled around Italy and visited the U.K. But when I returned to the Tiziano that night, I felt safe and at ease in a way I hadn't realized I'd been missing since I'd left for the break.

There are so many little memories I have of the Tiziano. Hosting a wine and cheese party in our tiny room with Gina; talking late into the night in friends' rooms; sitting with my classmates eating gelato in the hallway the night before we left Rome for good in the spring; dragging myself up the stairs for six weeks when I'd given up the elevator as a lenten sacrifice; calling home on the payphone in the lobby using a phone card I'd bought at Pascucci (across the street, where we'd take the meals we didn't take at the Tiziano). And that's just inside. Outside, we could walk to the Pantheon in less than five minutes, and I know it's still the favorite monument of lots of us who went to Rome. We could also walk to the Forum, Colosseum, and Vatican, but closer by were Piazza Navona, Campo de Fiori, and numerous churches, statues, and fountains. There were also the four temples dating from the Roman Republic, which would have been, interestingly, the last temples Julius Caesar ever saw as he walked to his death in Pompey's Theater, a stone's throw from where we were located. Today, there is a cat shelter there. There were also of course our classrooms, library, admin offices, and the little church of Saints Benedict and Scholastica where we attended Mass. We had an entire little world in the heart of Rome.

 

On my last night in Rome, I didn't really sleep. I lay on my bed, still wearing the dress I'd worn to our farewell banquet, and just waited. I was happy to be going home, but I spent my last hours in Rome in room 309 reflecting on my year there. 

In February 2004, I got to go back to Rome for a brief visit. I didn't stay at the Tiziano, but I did go and see it, and when I went into the dining room, it felt exactly the same. I'm generally a skeptic when it comes to things like psychic energy or anything of the kind, but that moment convinced me that places do hold on to memories and have an energy of their own, left behind perhaps from the people who lived and felt things there. I certainly sensed something good from that room when I returned, perhaps the build up of four decades of SMC students bringing all their joys and discoveries to share there.  The experience left me both a little shaken and a little reassured, somehow.


Last August, I returned to Rome again for the final stage of three weeks of travel in Europe. I booked a room at the Tiziano for the last two nights. I hadn't been back to stay there since I left in April of 2000, and I wasn't sure how it would be, or how I would feel. It was good. Some of the staff was the same, and they were happy to talk to me about my time in Rome, and even refused to give me a map at first, because I was expected to know my way around! Fortunately, I did remember my way around for the most part. They were more forgiving of my language lapses than they'd been the first time around! And I got to have a TV in my room this time. Otherwise, the Tiziano was exactly the same. I stayed on the fourth floor this time, in 408, almost exactly above my old room, overlooking the courtyard. The layout of the room was slightly different, but in essentials everything was the same. The marble staircase, the elevator, the dining room (now filled with tourists from everywhere), the carpets and wallpaper, down to the keys that only kind of worked in the locks. My TV broke, and there were jokes about how now it could be just like when I was a student! I felt at home. I had a college friend with me, but we had our own rooms, and she left a day before I did. So I spent my last morning walking around Largo Argentina, and came back to collect my suitcase at the Tiziano before hopping on the 64 Bus to Termini Station, where I'd catch the train to Fiumcino Airport. I said goodbye to Rome and to the Tiziano, sad to leave but sure that I'd be back, if not too soon then not too far in the future, either.

Well, I'm sure I will go back to Rome. I've said goodbye to Rome three times now, once in 2000, once in 2004, and once in 2012. I tell myself that Rome will be out of my system after this and that I can leave it and explore other places (and I go lots of other places, as often as I can), but almost as soon as I'm back home I think I ought to have stayed longer or that I ought to have done this or that, or that I'd just like to sit in the Piazza della Rotonda and look at the Pantheon in the moonlight again. No matter how much I change and grow, my time in Rome will always matter to me. So I know I'll go back to Rome. But I won't be going back to the Tiziano.

Every year since I returned from Rome, my parents have received a Christmas card in the mail from the Tiziano. Two, in fact. This past Christmas, they didn't get a card. Perhaps that was the first sign. Yesterday, I learned from a former classmate and fellow SMC Rome alum that the Tiziano, originally an eighteenth-century palazzo and even once the home of a future pope, and most importantly for so many of us, the home of the Saint Mary's Rome Program since its inception in 1970, had been sold, and would be gutted and remodeled (you can read about it in the ND/SMC Observer here).  Needless to say, "gutted" is more or less how I felt at hearing the news. So I had to write this piece, because I had to at least try to convey what the Tiziano, in its present incarnation, meant to me and to so many of us over the years. I know my classmates and friends will all have their individual stories and memories, too. So, I am sad.

But of course this is not the end. The Saint Mary's Rome Program will continue to flourish under the extremely capable and brilliant direction of Dr. Portia Prebys, the program director, whom I had the pleasure of running into in Pascucci last August. According to the article in The Observer that broke the news, the hotel that future students will call home will also be in Largo Argentina, and will even have in-house laundry. No more bidet-washing and bungee-cord drying, alas. And the new place will, I'm certain, be special for the new students. But I can't help but feel a little sad for them that they're going to miss the uniqueness of the Tiziano as we knew it. And it sounds as though the Tiziano will continue on, too, under new ownership, but it will look different, and it won't be the same, and I can't help wondering if it will lose something intangibly good in the process. But the building has had a long life, and I suppose it is simply moving on, as we all must. I'm glad I got to be there when I did.

I have lots of stories about my time in Rome - most of them aren't sad. I may post them from time to time.

Some photos of the Tiziano and Largo Argentina:

 

The area sacra at Largo Argentina, containing the ruins of four Republican era temples 

 

One of the temples up close 

 

Pascucci, another place I could write lots about. We took many of our meals here. 

 

Another of the area sacra 

The entrance to the Tiziano

Feltrinelli, bookstore located across the street from the Tiziano. Used to have a big selection of English books, though I didn't notice many when I was there recently. It is still a lot of fun, though.

The ceiling of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva

 Largo Argentina by night

Here are some scans from 1999-2000:

 Thankfully, this McDonald's facing the Pantheon no longer exists.

 

Tram 8 took us across the Tiber to Trastevere