HOW DO YOU SAY

Wake up in the middle of the night to a loud wailing, think it must be wind but notice the shutters aren't banging.  Fall asleep, wake early, before everyone else, and drink yesterday's cold espresso before lacing up your running shoes and running all the way up the biggest hill, the one you never made it up all those other times, because this is your first and last chance.  Reach the top, feel your fists clenching.  Take your second to last shower and wonder when's the next time you'll count things like showers.  Visit the city and notice the visitor in you is gone.  Notice how the sun feels in your hair, your spine.  Buy stockings because the old one's holes have stretched too far.  Come home and hear someone mention the earthquake last night and inwardly say "oh."  Say "oh" about a lot of things.  About how mental landscapes change.  About how every place you've ever been has been breathtaking, when you think about it.  About how a strange

Was flipping through a cookbook and came across a photo of what I thought was a scrumptious-looking chocolate tart; scanned over to the recipe, found that the first ingredient is pig blood.  So I'm translating the recipe for y'all and the first person to make me a pig blood chocolate tart wins.  The three black circles next to "difficolta" indicate that this will be no easy feat, but then probably 2.5 of those circles represent the task of procuring pig blood.  Or maybe I'm a total ignoramus and pig blood is really out there, outside of pigs, in abundance?  Like, maybe at Whole Foods, next to the molasses?  Anyway, here you go.  Get on it.  You might have to go make friends with a butcher. Migliaccio alla romagnola   (a traditional dessert made for Carnival, according to the internet; migliaccio actually means pudding) Time: 3 hours Oven temperature: 180 C Ingredients: 300 gr pig blood - 200 gr honey - 100 gr almonds - 100 gr chocolate - 100 gr sugar - 50 g

So I found myself at the top of the world yesterday, lost in fields of yellow.  Nearly fell down the hill when I realized there were figs on the trees; nearly fell again, in a more tragic manner, when I realized they weren't ripe (tasted to make sure, flung the unripe fig carcass with appropriate drama).  Also to my dismay, I was writing feverishly in my head as it all whirled around me, the wind and the empty meadow and the blossoms, so I told myself to shut up and forgot all the pretty words that were bludgeoning me and just looked, breathed.  Blew the last of my camera battery on photos of yellow fields and my stupid face before I got to the fig orchard and the dark green slant of San Luca's hill and the dusty sunlight over it all.  Thus camera-less and thoughtless, was overcome with joy, sweat, clear air, and sunburn, and felt a smug pleasure that I didn't have to worry about documenting it anymore. I almost didn't even write this post.  Because it was mine, you k

Mussolini's Republic fell 68 years ago today.  What this means for me: Italy's probably less messed up than it could've been (?); work's out, school's out, allowing for sibling war in the morning in addition to afternoon and evening; more hotshot bikers and ladies with designer fanny packs (gold, with matching shoes) than usual on my morning run; decadent lunch at Nonna's, which, somewhere between rich pasta, red wine, and salame dolce al cioccolato (omg yum), made me serenely happy and brimming with love for the whole world, including my little family of weirdos as they shouted about the mafia and the TV remote and whatever else. Passed a monk on the street this afternoon, his white robes flowing and prayer beads in hand.  My initial reaction: "'sup."  And then, a bit later: wait, were you a monk?  What were you?  Too young to be a bishop.  Probably not the pope, by the same logic.  Oh, priests are a thing, right?  Just gonna call you a monk bec

I saw Bellini's "La Norma" last night, in a gorgeous old theater in downtown Bologna.  Nonna was glammed up like a movie star--sunglasses and big jewelry and elegant shawl--as were most of the other opera-goers.  We had a box all to ourselves, with a great view of the orchestra pit and close to the stage.  This opera is reputed to be one of the most difficult to perform, and as I spent a significant amount of time concerned that someone's vocal chords were going to snap, I'd say that sounds correct.  Favorite part was either the Roman soldiers battling in slow-motion behind a dream-like translucent screen, or the end with all its clashing and the gold curtain fluttering down, death-by-fire, which did, yes, bring tears to my eyes.  Or the moon-worship.  There were also, via the Romanesque costumes, several almost-but-not-quite wardrobe malfunctions involving breasts and long robes that get caught on things.  Nonna and I carried on light but cordial conversation bet

This afternoon Beppe asked if I wanted to go see some "Buddha relics" that were on display downtown.  I said sure, not knowing what that entailed but sticking to my "yes" policy.  We go by bike, he said.  Be careful, because I don't have insurance for you, and it's dangerous.  Yup, I said, attempting to suppress the death-visions that popped into my head at the thought of riding one of his vintage bikes over Roman-era cobblestones alongside Italian drivers. I got the bright red bike from Amsterdam which I'd date around 1975--a single-speed with questionable brakes, complete with red basket and a bell that rings like a church.  It rattled and groaned as we careened through throngs of people.  I was holding on to the handlebars for dear life.  Think my bones are still faintly vibrating, actually.  I was already lightheaded from a long run this morning, so I still don't understand how I didn't hit anyone, or how that bus didn't hit me, but we&

Apologies for my absence this past week...it's been a strange one. Went to the Museo della Storia di Bologna, which was rather fascinating and even at one point required 3D glasses.  Then got chocolate and hazelnut gelato and hung out in the piazza with my gals and my guy (Ginni, her friend, Franci, moi). Sun was playing hide and seek today, so I captured the blossoming fields but not the sunny hills, which reappeared as soon as my camera was safely tucked into my bag.  Was in a weird mood and no one was around, so sat on a bench and wrote things and took a selfie. Ginni just discovered that Google translate will talk if you ask it to, and this has provided hours of entertainment for her, me, and really anyone in the vicinity of her giggling.

Nonna knocked on my door this morning while I was drying my hair and asked if I'd like to see an opera with her later in April, so I hopped on that bus and went to buy my ticket.  Only 20 euro?  I'm not sure if I'm missing something there or if I'm just incredibly lucky to get an opera seat that cheap.  Hehe I'm going to see an opera in Italy!  Okay yes, I am lucky. On Sunday the sun poked its head out for the first time in a million years and created a morning so spectacular that I thought about Jesus for a minute.  Easter was a quiet affair in this family; a chocolate bunny or four circulated the house, the boys went off to the countryside to visit Beppe's mother, and the gals had lunch at Nonna's apartment.  Pasta alla bolognese, all manner of delicately fried delicacies, and a traditional Neapolitan cake called pasticcera (Nonna and Vale are from the south--this is why they shout a lot).  Afterward I wanted to curl up in the fetal position, fall into a

Welp, I have to hand it to the universe: I did not expect to ever hear "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore while thrift shopping.  But it happened, and it gave me distinct pleasure, and I may have had to suppress a little dance.  And I am listening to it again now because it's catchy and it's been awhile.  This afternoon, Vale and Ginni decided it was a good time for us to go try on some discount designer clothes, or more specifically, to find "vestiti belli e buffi" for "la Julia" (note: I will answer to "la Julia" upon my return), aka I was going to be their doll and be at the mercy of their fashionable whims.  And so I was.  I pulled some truly marvelous and horrifying creations over my head.  Was intimidated at first by shopping with real live Italian ladies who instinctively know what is hot and what is not, because there is no telling (if you're me) when their faces will contort with disgust as you pull it off the rack (and then immedia

Decided to read a passage from one of my books to F, and realized with horror that people use WAY too many adjectives, adverbs, and idioms.*  I can't translate this shit--and why should I?  Imma get me some Hemingway and read it to this boy!  Nouns and verbs, baby.  All we need. A typical stumbling block: I'm translating sentences with Ginni, and as I watch her wrinkle her nose at one of my beautiful sentences, I remember that the concept of "eating dinner" is nonsensical to Italians.  Facepalm.  Of course Italians don't "eat dinner."  That would be ridiculous.  No--Italians  dine . Beppe decided to take a photo of me and Ginni yesterday, and ACK, it is super cool to be photographed by a photographer, even if it is with an iPad.  He told us to look at him but not to smile, which is very legit and also very difficult, and also I tend to look like a deranged monster when I don't smile.  This photo made it onto Instagram with a caption like "Gi

I'm supposed to get out of my head when I feel like this but that's not what blogs are for so here's (some of) what's inside: Forgot that I rely on dryers for my clothes to fit.  Belts aren't good enough, people!  My pants are falling off, and I am not getting any thinner! Washing your underwear in the sink is not so bad.  You form a strong bond with your intimates. When you try and try to walk slow but find yourself again and again walking fast even though you aren't going anywhere--what is that?  I don't like it. Q: How many months does it take for a crap umbrella to break if you use it very carefully and are willing to say fuck it and get soaked when there's a little wind? A: Eleven. I get creeped out by the smiling strangers in America and I get creeped out by the stone-faced strangers in Italia.  Grass is always greener. Too much rain makes rain in my head, maybe. Foods I did not used to like at some point in my life but now eat with pleasu

On a whim decided to go to Palm Sunday mass with Beppe and Franci.  'Cause hey, when's the last time I went to mass?  Oh right: never.  Except that this didn't end up happening, exactly; we dropped Franci off at the local church, then headed downtown to another church for which Beppe feels more affinity, I guess.  On the way, Beppe asked if I wanted to go to confession, and my heart literally skipped a beat.  I think he was joking, but in those two seconds before my chosen response (nervous laughter): how do you...?  what would I even...?  where would I begin?  We got to the church just as the bell tolled noon, but we didn't stick around for mass, we just wandered through and got ourselves our olive tree branches, and I watched as Beppe crossed himself repeatedly while contemplating the falsity and insincerity of such a gesture were it ever performed by me and hoping that my blatant heathen-presence--dress too short? looks like I just went swimming due to umbrella prob

Some things that I think about:  1. Instead of saying "what" (in the sense of "hmm?") Italians say "how."  I like this.  In real life, the situation probably plays out the same in either language, but I think "how" is a word with much more depth and possibility.  2. Instead of saying that they love pizza, or they love a dress, or even that they love their friend, Italians don't.  They like these things.  Maybe they like them very much.  Trust me, they have no shortage of ways of saying how awesome or beautiful or delicious something is; men will greet each other with "ciao bello" and kiss each other on the face, so it's cool.  But love is its own realm, and pizza is not allowed in.  I would guess that this allows for less romantic confusion?  Maybe?  3. More than anything, the noises that Italians make are what make me feel like a stranger here.  Even if I reach poet-laureate levels of fluency some day, I will never shrug m

Yo, whaddup, St. Patrick's Day is not a thing in Italy.  Unless you're taking an English class, in which case it's an excuse for your teacher to make you have class on a Sunday. Lunch with the extended family today.  Lots of shouting, F1 racing on TV, pasta, quail, vino, profiteroles.  Passeggiata with Beppe and the dog through sleepy streets.  We ducked into a villa-turned-museum to see an exhibit about this dude , which was entertaining.  Also ran into aforementioned-factory-worker-guy in the park, which was awkward. Juventus won that soccer game, to nobody's surprise. I might've had too much coffee. That is all.

To the river, I went. To San Luca, I went. Also went on a long drive through the countryside with Beppe, to pick up F from some ancient church where he'd spent the night with his class.  It wasn't educational as far as I can tell, so....it was the Italian version of a camping trip, I guess?  The drive was alternately beautiful, enlightening (much WWII history was bestowed upon me), and terrifying, as the roads were...well, it's generous to call them roads.  Steep and twisty-turny.  B had a lover who died on these roads, he said.  So lots of emotions, white-knuckles, and stories of German slaughter.  We stopped at a cafe along the mountainside for a pick-me-up, and arrived back in Bologna in time for a raging thunderstorm.  This is the time of year when I start experiencing a deep longing for thunderstorms, so I was comforted by all the crashing and flashing and torrential rain. Watched the new pope play peek-a-boo at St.

"Fuck them off," says Beppe, about communists.  "Fuck them off," he says, about fascists, capitalists, the police, H&M.  There used to be an ancient, cool old bar where H&M now stands, flashing sparkly mannequins in its prominent windows.  Beppe (to whom I've been referring as G--now he's Beppe) takes a drag on his fourth cigarette of the afternoon as we wind through the Saturday crowd, everyone carrying dripping umbrellas.  What started as a sunny spring day morphed into a drizzly afternoon and then transformed into a mesmerizing, watercolor evening. I'll start with the morning, though: was so balmy that I could have my floor-to-ceiling windows open.  Doing that got me into my running clothes and out the door pronto.  I found a running path, I found the river, AND I found a running path ALONG the river.  (I am always either searching for or finding running paths and rivers...it's what I do.)  So that was a major score. Lunch was pasta co

Spent this rainy afternoon with an old friend. English lessons are becoming quite musical--Beatles, Bob Dylan, ubiquitous contemporary pop, and my favorite blues guys are nice teaching tools.  For Ginni, anyway. If anyone has any advice about 12 year old boys (going on 13), let me know.  My very presence appears to terrify him.  My only real experience with such creatures is my brother, and as I recall we spent most of that era trying to kill each other. To my Marylanders: happy snow day!  (Is there snow?) UPDATE: Spending the night with the men, drinking Castello Rosso (good Italian beer), eating crescente (local specialty, like focaccia but uber salty), listening to the Sex Pistols, and playing darts in the basement with the "Lebowski Darts Club."  Happy gal, me.

I went to Verona yesterday.  That happened because the mysterious phone lady turned out to be the person who placed me with my host family.  She admitted that she did not tell me this over the phone; what she did tell me is still a mystery.  But she came over just to chat, and then she invited me to go to Verona with her and some friends.  Verona does not equal hospice visits, but incidentally this lady would be awesome at hospice visits.  Those people would probably end up living. Here is me.  Savor this if you're interested in photos of me, because I dunno how many more of these there will be.   We went to a portrait exhibit in the Palazzo della Guardia which included many of the most famous portraits that have ever been done--the most spellbinding of which were those by Caravaggio and John Singer Sargent, imo.  Lunch at a nice little trattoria: formaggio, buon vino, coniglio con polenta, sorely needed espresso.  Spent the rest of the day exploring the city, taking p

But it's torture, you'll say.  I'd rather do  _______ (something personally horrendous that's still better than running), you'll say.  Yeah.  It is torture.  But it's one of the best kinds of torture.  I won't presume to know definitively what the best is, though several come to mind.  Anyway, today I ran up to San Luca--okay fine, I didn't run all the way up, I made it about halfway and then limped/panted the rest of the way--and then down the back roads which wind around and up and down Bologna's hills.  I had the whole countryside to myself, not a car or person in sight, just the snowy orchards and the steep hillsides and the panoramas and the dark pine trees and the occasional ancient building.  Every once in a while, San Luca popped into view and then disappeared.  The whole loop was about 7 miles, and it made me giddy, and I didn't need anybody else around for it to be a good experience.  Tonight Vale put me on the phone with her friend

I was going to write a senior project on solitude; one year ago, the proposal was completed and had enthusiastic approval from the department.  But then I went to Italy.  I got on the plane full of solitude, and a semester later I returned home full of love for a lot of people.  That summer I tried to return to the project and found that I'd lost touch with the word, tried to remember my connection to it but could not.  I could focus on little except how badly I needed to return to Italy and undergo more magical transformations.  So I finished college early and I bought a ticket. Here I am.  Funny how thoughts become actions, ain't it? Solitude and I are becoming reacquainted.  We had become strangers, have been strangers for some time now.  I have my host family here, of course, but solitude can flourish just as well admidst company as it does when one is truly alone.  The point is, this time I don't have a group of friends waiting for me in the kitchen with cheap wine

Election results are in and it looks as though....nothing has changed! How is this possible?  This awesome little op-ed deftly sums it up.  Illusion is the only reality, indeed. I would like to say, though, that this is the country that brought us the Renaissance, and thus a huge part of our own culture and history.  Just about everything it touches is beautiful, and though not always, there is often much depth under that beauty.  Also, it's hardly a country; it's a bunch of loosely cobbled together city-states, and the loose cobbling only happened in 1861.  Many people are born and die in the same city, and some never even travel to many other regions, let alone countries.  Italy is ancient and wise, but it's also a small, small child.  Ya know?  I am on its side. Come on, Italy.  Get it together.

Today (Sunday) and tomorrow: time for Italy to vote.  No one seems very eager about any of it, because it all generally sucks, but it looks like G is going to vote for Beppe Grillo, the comedian.  Which is a vote of protest--an anti-vote. Dinner at family friends' apartment on Saturday, where I consumed a satisfying amount of risotto and took part in a debate about Italian mothers.  A book materialized in the midst of this: "Mamma mia!: La figura della mamma come deterrente nello sviluppo culturale, sociale ed economico dell'Italiana moderna" by Fabrizio Blini.  The men were adamant that clinging, pampering mammas are the cause of Italy's stagnance; the mammas were shaking their heads solemnly.  Later, one of our hosts who is a surgeon treated me to photos of some of his surgeries, including but not limited to a woman who stabbed herself in the chest with a very large knife, and an umbilical hernia.  Cool stuff, man. Walked home late, wine-calmed and content,

I told Vale that I want to learn how to cook, and she said good!  I should join her in the kitchen.  And then she said, in a conspiratorial manner, that it's a "strategy" of Italian women to know how to cook well, because if a man is "goloso" (has lust for, is crazy for a food) and you can cook it well, then, well--you've got him.  So watch out, men :  Julia's about to learn some stuff.  Also, the reason I want to know Italian is that it has words like "goloso." I am golosa for pasta, chocolate, espresso, and salt.  In case you were wondering.  Clearly I am in the right place. English lessons are going swimmingly and our period of shyness is coming to an end.  Some of Ginni's particular favorite language activities are hangman (gioca dell'impiccato) and tongue-twisters (scioglilingua--melt, unravel, release the tongue! I am my own translator...).  "Trentatré Trentini entrarono a Trento, tutti e trentatré, trotterellando." 

This sign is right outside my front door. It's a joke, right? I don't know whether to feel stupid for thinking it's a joke or for thinking that it could be real. Either way I will not be venturing past that fence. Vale's cousin Roberto came over for dinner last night. He's a photographer and very cool person, teaches photography at the university here and also in New York. We had wine and good food--Roberto said this is the best kitchen in Bologna and I have no reason to doubt him--and then for the first time I got to hear a real, heated conversation about Italian politics. I was so happy that I was smiling widely despite their evident distress. G explained to me that Bersani, who's still leading in the polls, would be bad for his pharmacy because Bersani essentially wants to turn Italy into the U.S.--turn everything into shopping malls instead of Italy's traditional small family businesses. Any way you cut it though, his pharmacy is in danger like th

Saying yes to a dinner invitation on Saturday night took me on a long drive through the old city and into the hills above, to a beautiful house owned by some kind people who know how to eat.  After the initial pleasantries and meeting their pet squirrel (that's what I said), we got to feasting--all sitting or standing around the kitchen island with paper plates, helping ourselves to awesome formaggio and focaccia.  There was a fireplace casting soft light on everyone, lots of laughter, and rapid torrents of Italian coming from every direction all at once.  There was wine--oho, was there wine.  For primo we had pasta alla bolognese, and then more wine.  For secondo, wild boar, more wine.  For dessert, cake, cannoli, gelato on a stick.  (More wine.)  For a digestivo, the man of the house offered up amaro, whiskey, or grappa, and I jumped at the chance to have some grappa.  That stuff is seriously good and seriously strong.  I figure, ok, I may not be fluent in Italian, but loving gra

Was on my way to San Luca again, camera in hand, with the intention of taking a walk and getting some photos of the spectacular evening light; instead, ended up sipping a macchiato in a cafe with a factory worker.  Welp. I mean, free espresso is almost never a bad thing.  And it was good language practice.  And I guess there's always tomorrow for a walk. Ginni and I are becoming buds.  Same with the dog. Progress.

Finalmente, I procured all the necessary keys (3) to go in and out of the apartment as I please.  This morning I joyfully took advantage of my freedom. The Via di San Luca takes you up and up and up to the Santuario della Beata Vergine di San Luca.  It's a covered path, and you pass under 666 arches (methinks this is significant) on your way to the top.  I didn't notice any other non-natives; there were plenty of locals exercising, cell phone talking, dog walking, and church going.  Not too many though.  G warned me that it's a different story on weekend mornings.  It's supposed to take about 40 minutes to get to the top, and I didn't time myself but I did break a sweat and find myself breathing rather heavily because the path is relentlessly up and occasionally steep.  I'd love to be able to run it.  Every so often, there are painted domes with perching pigeons, and the walls are covered with decades worth of the fierce carvings of sentimental youngins.  

Nonna shows up at quarter to eleven.  She greets me and asks how it's going; I address her informally, which is probably a faux pas, but I haven't yet figured out how to navigate the vast world of formality and informality in the Italian language.  She does her cooking and bustles around the house, and by 11:30 we're out the door, on our way to the city center.  Nonna speaks no English, so this is full immersion.  I smile and nod as she insists that I tell her when I don't understand her (foreshadowing, folks).  Oh and by the way, no pictures yet, guys.  Spend 15 minutes with Nonna and you'll understand why that was impossible. Bologna is a warm city, full of reds and oranges.  You'd think that all those shady portici would make it dark and gloomy, but it ain't so; light filters through the arches, Piazza Maggiore is awash in sun and students, and someone's playing lively jazz nearby.  Our first stop is the Palazzo d'Accursio, which holds the Civic

I would just like to say that Italians buy pasta in the correct quantity.

So Vale took me into the center of town yesterday evening.  It was snowing like crazy so we took the bus, but it's about a 30 minute walk, I'm told.  From the bus stop we walked arm-in-arm through the slippery streets.  Bologna has about 40 km of porticos (the Italian plural is portici), or arcades.  I believe the first time I encountered this architectural phenomenon in Torino I referred to it as "walkways under arched-roof thingies."  They're not walkways under arched-roof thingies.  They're portici.  The more you know.  Portici are both beautiful and useful, especially on a snowy evening like this one.  Vale took me to the main piazza, with the Fountain of Neptune, and we stopped in the tourist office to get me a map, and then we went into the Basilica di Santa Stefano, which was dark, ancient, and quiet, with lovely snowy courtyards.  More strolling, more slipping, then we hit the panetteria for bread, the salumeria for meat, and the produce stand for lett

I am here.  It's snowing.  I slept for 14 hours last night, after pizza with my new Italian family.  Pizza was delivered, and it was late, and they had to call the place--some things don't change.  Franci gave the pizza a "7."  In America it would have been about an "11," assuming this is a 10 pt scale. I had the apartment to myself for a couple hours after my good sleep.  Everyone came home from work/school for lunch: pasta alla bolognese.  Delicious, delicious calories.  There was also salami and formaggio on offer.  The bambini (to whom I shall refer by their nicknames: Franci, the 12 year old boy, and Ginni, the 10 year old girl) and the mama (I shall make up a nickname for her: Vale) wolfed down their food, then kids bolted from the table and were promptly called back.  I said, apologetically, "mangio lentamente."  I eat slowly.  Vale said good, that's good for the digestion.  The dog got the leftover pasta. TV news interviewed Berlusc