Tuscany: The country is a beautiful thing

My hand clutched in a death grip to the passenger’s door, I glance nervously at my mother, who is attempting to navigate through the narrow and winding streets of the Tuscan countryside. I might be a little more at ease if we weren’t travelling in a pint-sized rented Kia Picanto, which shakes when we stop and has more than a few dents on the exterior. The Italians are certainly more daring that most Americans when it comes to driving. Few hesitate to pass slower
moving cars, even on the outside edge of curves. We turn an abrupt right followed almost immediately by a left turn, and enter into Casa bel Posto, the quaint villa we have rented for the weekend. Entering through the front gates, I let out a sigh of relief as I am greeted with the sight of a sparkling swimming pool, surrounded by the San Egidio Hills, and the smiling faces of Tania and Keith, who own and operate this little slice of paradise.

Time is almost non-existent here, which is a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of summer classes. Here, no one is expecting anything from you. I lie in a lounge chair by the pool and allow the enormous white clouds to pass slowly over me. To my right, the sprinkler clicks around in a circle, keeping the lush grass green, while Tania and Keith enjoy a relaxing lunch under the pavilion. Originally from California, the two always dreamt of living abroad. “I didn’t really care where we lived to be honest, I just wanted to get out of the States....I would’ve been just as happy in Germany,” Keith says. Tania explains, “My mother was Italian and when my father was stationed over here [in Italy] during the war, they met and married. That’s how we chose Italy, from my mom.” After living in the town of Cortona for the first few years, they traded their city life for the calm and quietude of the Chianti countryside. While it doesn’t offer the same social life as the town, living in the country certainly has its benefits. For instance, if I get too hot, I can always take a dip in the ready-and-waiting swimming pool, only about two feet from where I’m lying. Or, I could always travel into the town of Cortona.

Cortona sits nestled on the southern slope of San Egidio Hill, placed there to defend itself against foreign invaders. Today, remains of the medieval wall are incorporated into parts of the city. The setting of the popular novel and movie, Under The Tuscan Sun, the town is now a popular tourist destination. We park our car in one of the many lots on the side of the hill, and take the escalator (yes, an escalator) up the rest of the steep hill. From the top, we make our way lazily from shop to shop, and finish the evening with a trip to La Bucaccia, a small, family-run restaurant tucked in one of the many side streets of Cortona. When it comes to the menu, “everything is good!” Tania says. And she certainly isn’t lying. Run by an out-going and energetic Italian man named Romano Magi and his wife, Agostina (who also happens to be the chef), and a lot of help by their 13 year-old daughter Franceschina, La Bucaccia is a full experience from start to finish. Romano makes it his priority to keep his guests happy and entertained, while Agostina works wonders in the kitchen keeping everyone well fed. Franceschina, who is our waitress for the evening, explains that she has been working in the restaurant since she was a little girl. She speaks “some English,” while her father “speaks, speaks, speaks!” She works very hard and diligently making sure that all of our orders are correct before she runs the list back to her mother in the kitchen. From the first coarse of pasta in an alfredo sauce, to the second coarse of Chianti beef served over a bed of fresh olive oil, and finishing with home-made tiramisu, not a single bite disappoints.

While the town certainly has much to offer, Cortona is also surrounded by a number of other small towns, which are only about 45 minutes to an hour and a half away. The drives to each consist of one breathtaking view after another. As we speed along towards Montepulciano, a small town about 45 minutes away, I find myself literally hanging halfway out the window, snapping one picture after the next of the endless fields of olive trees, grape vines, and tobacco plants. But even after taking dozens of pictures, none can even begin to show the incredible beauty of the Tuscan countryside.

“Tuscany is an ancient, literary setting. It risks being perceived as a sort of Nativity scene, with statuettes of picturesque little Tuscans, busy doing this and that, and visitors, like the three kings, bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh” writes Beppe Severgnini in his best-seller, "La Bella Figura." While places like Florence are must-sees for all of the art history they contain, Cortona and the rest of the Tuscan countryside embody the true Italian culture. Here, the pace is a little slower, the people are a little kinder, and the food is a lot better.

And the Titanic Award goes to... (assignment 5)

I can feel myself getting nauseous as the stench of a dirty diaper hangs closely in the air. Using my hands as an impromptu gas mask, I try to breath slowly and calmly, hoping that the smell will soon fade. It doesn’t. I try for the window, but after tugging relentlessly for a few moments, I come to the conclusion that they are sealed shut. What kind of bus has windows that won’t open? This is not what I signed on for when I made reservations for a bus to take a friend and me from Florence to Pisa, a 70-minute drive. In fact, I was expecting an entirely different experience.

I thought that maybe I could relax, catch up on some sleep, maybe do a little reading, and all in the comfort of some nice air-conditioning (a luxury I had not been able to enjoy very often since arriving in Florence a few weeks before). Standing in the hot sun, waiting for the bus to arrive at the Florence train station, my friend and I both agreed the thought of a nice, cold bus sounded more than agreeable. As soon as we took the first few steps into the interior, however, we both knew we wouldn’t be getting our luxury ride after all. Without air-conditioning, and no open windows, the hot air sat on us like a heavy wool blanket in the middle of July.

And then came the dirty diaper stench. It crept upon us like a stealth invader: slowly and with growing pungency.

I am reminded of when I was in High School. For some reason, the Board of Education decided the school was better off with windows that wouldn’t open. So during the day, we always knew when a science class was dissecting some dead animal because the smell of ammonia (and the other chemicals they used to preserve the specimens) would fill the entire top floor of the school. And there was nothing we could do about it. We would get an ammonia-induced headache at least once a day; the kind that fills your entire head with pounding and throbbing aches that won’t go away for a few hours.

So here I am, stuck on a hot and humid bus for at least another half hour, with no fresh air, and odors so foul that I’m beginning to get dizzy. With hands clenched tightly over my nose and mouth, all I can think is, “I’m going to die.” While I understand that it is no more the parent’s fault than it is the poor baby’s, I can’t help but feel slightly resentful towards both. Lesson learned: call ahead to make sure the bus has windows that actually work (because apparently that’s not a certainty), and maybe bring a scented handkerchief (just in case).

Chatting with Marion (assignment 3)

Most 14 year-old girls dream of Robert Pattinson in Twilight, or the new Justin Bieber CD, but Marion Rohé dreams of the United States. Born and raised in Dijon, France, Marion has always wanted to study abroad in the U.S.A. Just last year, the Rohé family was host to American exchange student Rebecca Cassidy, from Ohio. Sitting cross-legged on her living room couch, Marion says that she would like to visit Cincinnati, Ohio, since that is where Rebecca is from. “And to study!” Marion’s mother, Sylvie, adds quickly. While she doesn’t know yet what she wants to study, she does have her sights set on one destination: The Statue of Liberty. “In France, we learn in [our] English classroom [about] the Statue of Liberty every year... France gave it to the United States.” It is this international bond that helps her to connect with a land her parents haven’t even visited. I ask her when she would like to go, and she quickly says “Right away! With you!” Grinning from ear to ear, she sits back against the couch, and leaves it at that.

Dictator's log: Monday. July 19. 12:31 A.M.

Dear Reader,
I am beginning to think that trying to conquer Italy in July was not the best idea. It is entirely too hot. While the food is excellent, the gelato divine, and the people hospitable, the heat is unbearable. I shower in the morning after I wake and in the evening before I sleep and neither make a bit of difference, I still smell. I start sweating before I can even get dressed. These are certainly not the ideal circumstances for victory. However, my recent trip to Munich, Germany has revived my spirits greatly and given me hope. Yes, Germany is much cooler than Florence, making conquest much easier, but I could never achieve success there. You see, it is entirely too westernized to be easily conquered, even by a mastermind like myself. So while I will have to stick with my original plan of occupying Italy, I was nevertheless amused by my short sabbatical with the Germans.

Upon my arrival, via train, I was greeted with the friendly sight of a Starbucks Coffee. I know that for me, and certainly for the rest of the group, this brightened our spirits tremendously. We all rushed into line to have a bit of American cravings satisfied. This was going to be a good trip. A very good trip. After downing our beverages and quickly dropping off our luggage at the hostel, we all boarded a train to Dachau concentration camp. I must preface this by saying this is not an enjoyable daytrip. Yes it is incredible to experience but no, it is certainly not fun. The horrors that so many experienced are difficult to imagine by simply reading a history book. There is no way that one can picture or even begin to understand what these people went through. For starters, the gate to the “camp” has the words “Work makes you free” written across the entryway. A slight the Germans found funny. The bunkhouses were beyond crowded, being built for 200 but stuffed with 2,000. Thankfully, the newly built crematorium was never put into use, since the camp was liberated shortly after it was finished.
That’s enough depressing content for one post... moving directly forward...

The rest of my visit was not nearly as depressing (thank goodness!). The very same night, our group paid a friendly (albeit, slightly embarrassing, due to the “authentic” German lederhosen and dirndls purchased and worn for the occasion) visit to the REAL Hofbräuhaus. My meal consisted of disgusting, mustard-like dressing on my salad, followed by the best, most delicious chicken I’ve ever had. I split it with my friend and co-conspirator, Amy, and together we picked the bones clean until there wasn’t a single morsel of meat left. So good. The evening ended with a mime picking me up, which caused my dress to fly up, and resulted in me flashing the entire square. Thankfully, a picture was not taken, much to the dismay of my friends, who were beside themselves with laughter.

My favorite part of the trip, however, was not the entirely too delicious poultry, or even the spectacle of men cracking whips in the air, which supposedly qualifies as a band? Apparently the Hofbräuhaus thinks so. No, it was neither of these things. After a long and very hot bike tour all over Munich, our group stopped at a local river for a swim. I know what you’re thinking and no, it is not like the lazy river around the Beach Waterpark in Cincinnati. The stream comes down from the Alps and is therefore very cold and very rapid. So fast that even though it is only three feet deep, the bottom is never reached because you are swept away before you have time to touch down. After a brisk first ride down the river, one of our group members thought it would be an excellent idea to take a picture with all of us holding on to a bridge that the river passed underneath. So we all jumped in and, when the time came, grabbed on to the bottom of the bridge. Unfortunately, we did not take into account the strength of the rushing water and were immediately pulled down underneath the bridge... along with the bottoms of our bathing suits. Thankfully, no trunks were lost (for long) and no bottomless swimmers emerged from the water.All-in-all, it was a splendid weekend and many of us were disappointed when we were forced to return to the hot and humid city of Florence, and the dreaded classes it contains.

And for your viewing pleasure:

Destination: BMW Museum (assignment 2)

The BMW museum is much what one would expect a modern, state-of-the-art car museum to be. Everything is completely sterile, neat, and over the top modern. As I sit in the strange, square-looking “chair,” I am surprised at how comfortable it actually is. The table, which is lit from the inside, is warm to the touch. There is no distinguishable smell in air, which means it must be clean. Looking around, the ceilings are high, which gives the entire place a sense of grandeur, albeit slightly drafty. The entire interior is silver and concrete, with the exception of one wall made entirely of glass. The whole place gives off the feeling that it was designed to impress. I can’t really distinguish individual voices; just the quiet and gentle humming of visitors. The vastness of the museum keeps all noises at a murmur. Visitors are mostly tourists with cameras and backpacks. One lady, however, is dressed for a banquet or gala of sorts. She is wearing a shimmery metallic dress that complements her silver hair. She is casually and elegantly sipping her glass of pomegranate juice. She is in no rush. Her serenity is almost mesmerizing amidst the hustle and bustle of the other guests. Over my left-hand shoulder, workers try to keep the cars clean as tourists excitedly leave fingerprints across the shiny exteriors. “Mamaaaa....” At the table next to me, a little girl complains as her mother scolds her for only eating parts of her sandwich. She whines as her mom takes the sandwich, wraps it all together, and hands it back. Even in other cultures kids are forced to eat all their food. I can’t understand what they say, but it is a familiar scene, especially coming from a large family myself. The girl quietly sobs into her glass of juice. Poor kid. I can sympathize with her plight. Various plants have been placed carefully around the room. Being all pruned and shaped, they offer absolutely no warmth to the hard decor. There is a couch in one end of the room, which is shaped like a serpentine river and looks just as uninviting. The dignified lady has left. Her meal has been placed and stacked carefully on her tray. The cool air-conditioning is a wonderful relief from the hot July climate. The little girl has stopped crying and is now dancing around the table. Just as in other countries, children are quick to forget their worries. Around the museum, people are coming, going, and trying to figure out their next destination on little folded maps. I guess this is what innovation looks like.

Dictator's log: Monday. July 5. 4:57 P.M. (assignment 1)

Dear Reader,

As you already know, I trekked over to Venice for three days, and while I quite agreed with Venice, Venice did not quite agree with me. I’m pretty sure it felt threatened by my visit and it’s impending defeat. This resulted in a rather pitiful display of my own human weakness. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was sick. But fear not, my ailment did not manage to keep me from getting a rather good feel for Venice. After arriving in Venice via boat after a 4-hour bus ride, we were marched directly to Saint Marc’s Square where we would have our tour of the Doge’s palace. Now, as you can imagine, Venice has many side streets and canals and bridges that all

intertwine and connect. All in all, it took our group two full, long, and rather arduous hours to finally make it to our destination, after being led by our fearless leader, Sandro. (He even waved a map in the air for us to follow... to make sure that everyone knew without a doubt that we were tourists). And if that wasn’t enough, we were then informed that our two-hour tour of the Doge’s palace and Saint Marc’s Church would begin shortly. I don’t think I am gifted enough to describe to you the pain and agony in all of our knees, feet, and minds. Not to mention it was the hottest day the Italians had seen all summer. I hate to admit it, but the Doge’s Palace was not nearly as incredible as I imagined it to be... but that could very well have been affected by my exhaustion and the extreme heat. I guess we’ll never know.

My favorite part of the stay actually took place the day I was the sickest. After the very nice doctor came and saw both myself and my fellow invalid, Kaitlin (she is unfortunately suffering from a rather infected and swollen foot), the two of us set out on an adventure to find the nearest pharmacy to fill our prescriptions. Just a short distance from our hotel was a .50 cent gondola ride that would take us to the directly opposite side of the canal. We paid the gondolier (is that what they’re called? I have no idea) and took our seats on the rocking boat. It was very hot. Not long after we sat down, a cute little British couple joined us. They were from Nottingham, England, and were on the last day of their week vacation to Venice. They couldn’t believe the heat either. They were smart and had a strategy though: They would go into every air-conditioned shop they passed, cool off, and then scurry into the next store. That is the kind of thinking I need on my side. I really should have gotten their names so that later I might recruit them to my crusade. Oh well... So the doctor failed to tell us, as she left at approximately two o’clock, that on Saturday most pharmacies either close at 2pm or aren’t open at all. Kaitlin and I walked to about four different locations until we finally asked a local. And then we had to walk twenty more minutes to the nearest open location. Never fear, we managed quite well and were able to get a more complete viewing of Venice.

Dear Reader, I must say that my view of Italy in general has greatly changed since my arrival about a week ago. Before coming, I imagined most Europeans to be very prim and proper, in contrast to the boisterous and annoying Americans I am used to. Now while it is true that most Italians (at least the ones I have met), tend to behave a little more ...calm... there have definitely been some surprises. Before dinner one night, our group chose to walk around a local square as we waited for our tables to be ready. As we rounded the corner to what I expected to be yet another beautiful Venetian square, filled with pretty terraces and doors, I was suddenly met with the view of a man in a speedo, bright pink shirt, and decorated with a full Christmas wreath, and a long-stemmed rose sticking precariously out of his headband.

He was surrounded by a group of other young adults, his ‘friends’ I suppose, who were jeering,chanting, and hitting him in the buttocks with some plastic rods. I immediately turned my face in utter disgust, but as it continued I have to admit I couldn’t help but watch. Apparently, when someone graduates school in Italy, their friends take them out and humiliate them in public. This unfortunate man had just become a doctor. So while the rest of the piazza was tranquil, the air calm (albeit hot and disgustingly sticky), and the sun gently setting behind the buildings, this poor young man was subjected to endless ridicule and bottom beatings. (He had the red marks streaked across his backside and legs to prove it). I must say that he handled his embarrassment quite well, even while my fellow teammates whacked him mercilessly with the rods. I could use him on my side. (but with some longer shorts)

I have decided, my dear Reader, that the fastest way to make myself known to the general public, would be to write a book. Just as Hitler and other dictators destroyed and banned books because of their overwhelming power and influence, I have also realized the great power of the written word. To document my crusade in actual print would be vital to my cause. I believe that the chapter on my Venice trip would begun thus: “Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.”* Without competency, no one could ever navigate Venice.

*Quote taken from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, act 1 scene 2*

Dictator's log: Wednesday. June 30. 5:18 P.M.

Dear Reader,

This will be my first post to you via Italy. After a long and rather frigid airplane trip, I finally arrived in Florence. My team and I were quickly hustled into a long line of taxis that were ready and waiting to deliver us to what would be our Italian homes for the next 7 weeks. As soon as the driver pulled away from the airport, however, she immediately begun asking dozens of questions. We all stared at her blankly. Note to self: when planning to conquer a country, be sure to learn the native language. After getting our little.. (i don't even want to call is a miscommunication, because there was no communicating happening whatsoever).. non-communication matter settled (thanks to another english speaking italian taxi driver who was summoned over for help), we were whisked away towards our humble abode. You know how in the States, pedestrians have the right of way, and cars are to yield unwaveringly to them? Yea, well that doesn't happen here. Cars plow through the streets like it's a racetrack, and pedestrians can either move or be made into pudding. Tapioca pudding. I digress...

Our rigid class schedule won't commence until next tuesday (6th of july). Until then, we have orientation, walking tours, and Friday the entire group leaves for Venice. Dear Reader, when planning to overtake a country, always go for the water. So naturally, this is an essential part of my Tour. Tonight we have a grand gala at a fancy nearby hotel (they say it's a welcome party for the entire group, but both of us know it's to welcome yours truly). While I am immune to many of the challenges that often befall the unprepared traveler, not even I can fight Jet Lag. Even after a two hour siesta this afternoon I still have yet to adjust to the time difference. This evening's festivities should conclusively take the last drop of energy out of me. But alas, such is the life of an aspiring world conqueror.

Countdown: T-6 hours.

Dear Reader,

The day has finally arrived. As I finalize my packing lists, carry-on, and other essentials, I can feel the excitement rising inside me. Yes, this is going to be good. Real good. I will not arrive in Florence until tomorrow (tuesday) around 5:30 p.m. Italian time (that's 11:30 a.m. in Ohio). This will give me plenty of time to not only rest, but to also plan and plot for my impending crusade of Italy. My travel companion? Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Let the games begin.

Countdown: 5 days.

Dear Reader,

As I sit with my back to an old wooden bench and stare across a lush green field, decorated with the occasional wildflower, and immediately followed by a rippling pond that is being gently caressed by a swaying willow tree, I am reminded of one thought:

I cannot write.

Or maybe I should say that I cannot write well enough to describe the magnificent landscape of our family farm that surrounds me. I could go on for pages and pages about the geese and their goslings peacefully floating around the pond, every now and then having to readjust after the wind has blown them slightly out of the way. But i would never be able to get you, my Reader, to see these animals exactly the way I do. So, I have come to the conclusion that I'm not even going to try. If you want scenes of my adventures, please refer to the appropriately named "photo albums." Besides, I have far better things to write about than trying and failing to describe all of God's creations.

This trip to our family farm marks my last official leave of absence before my Tour De Force. It is almost the calm before the storm, if you will. I had planned on a little R&R on my brief sabbatical, but as I sit here, with the gentle breeze blowing through my hair, the harsh and rather tone-deaf melodies of my siblings' singing reach me. Quickly followed by my brother tipping over the hammock and all it's occupants promptly dumped on the grassy terrain below. This is going to be a long day.

Countdown: 7 days.

Dear Reader,

This being my first official posting, i would like to first and foremost welcome you to the wonderful (albeit slightly crazy) world of Eliza's brain. Here you will be able to track my days in Italy and the many adventures that are sure to ensue (told by yours truly, of course). My countdown is rapidly diminishing, a thought that is both exciting beyond belief as well as nerve-wrecking, panic-inducing, and yes, slightly scary. Never fear though, I shall prevail. To quote Hitler, "Those who want to live, let them fight, and those who do not want to fight in this world of eternal struggle do not deserve to live." Okay not really, but you get the idea. Unfortunately, I am not nearly close to being ready for this trip and what's worse, I have no intention of doing anything about it. While my mother productively searched flight schedules, made hotel arrangements, planned out weekends, and prepared other details of her ten day visit to Italy in mid-July, I spent the majority of my day sleeping on the couch. I tell you, the life of an aspiring dictator and world-conqueror is hard work.