oranges

In my kitchen, we have a white porcelain bowl brimming with oranges. It has been a very willing subject to our own still lives, and its presence has even graced the expance of Facebook.  Every few days we nearly finish the oranges, but even before the bowl is empty we replace them, purchasing new varieties at the market.  Today there are 3 different sizes – tiny clementines most with the stems and foliage still attached, medium sized average looking ones, and very large, slightly bulbous ones.

We usually buy several kinds in an attempt to represent a variety of flavors.  While at the market, we sample sweet baby clementines and tangy-tart blood oranges; vendors have sliced open bright red oranges and they wave their hands vigorously, thrusting a few sections at myself and my other confused American friends.  We nibble, reflect, and are repeatedly impressed, and in the end we tend to purchase at least a few of everything we taste.

We take them home, and over lunch, dinner, or afternoon snacking, we peel away the thick skin, revealing tender flesh with a poignant scent. They are the juiciest citrus I have ever tasted. We’ve begun ranking them on a “paper towels required” scale; most of them rate as 2 or 3 paper-towel fruit.

But the most interesting part about them is that every orange is different.  We began by purchasing oranges that appeared to be orange straight through – that yielded ones with flecks of red, almost blood oranges.  Next we sought out blood oranges and unpeeled to find plain old orange oranges.   Our attempts to determine and control the internal color and flavors of our oranges seem … fruitless?  no that’s not right…

or maybe that’s just it.  The funny thing is that, despite the various sizes of oranges, they are all – well – orange.  And round, and porous, and have green stems or the remainders of them.  From the outside they appear the same, but on the inside who can tell?   No one, not until you pull it apart and begin to taste the juicy sections …

you never know what you’re going to get.  but once you peel away the skin, whatever it is will reveal itself, and you’ll eat it.  maybe it’s as simple as that.  and if you let yourself, not dwelling on what you expected it to be, you’ll probably even like it.

“Happiness equals reality minus expectations.” – Tom Magliozzi

yours.Rachel

today I bought my first pair of shoes in Italia.  Black suede mid-calve boots with buckles, because everyone here wears boots this time of year.  Strangely enough, they slightly resemble cowboy boots.

I laughed a little at that…

lunedi

If you’ve taken French or Spanish, your cognates should serve you well enough. That means Monday.

Today, even in Rome, is still a Monday. I’d like to think that such days don’t exist here; perhaps the pope outlawed them in some amendment burried deep within Vatican II or something. Or that in a place this beautiful (and holy?) should have enough positive energy that the Monday demons should have no power.

Unfortunately, neither of these is the case. This morning I woke up sick again. I spent 45 minutes looking for towels (the ones I washed mysteriously disappeared), and then had to take a cold shower anyway. I walked all the way to the school to discover that my class was canceled (a mixed blessing), and then I lingered expectantly around the house for the rest of the afternoon. Doing nothing but thinking about all the things I should be doing. I left the house for class, and stumbled into my classroom fearing I was late, only to remember that my class tonight begins at 6:45, not 6:15. The full classroom seemed quite amused.

Even here, Mondays happen in full force.

on the bright side, I struck up conversation with a very attractive store clerk near my house. He asked me my name, and upon hearing it he smiled. “Ahhh…Raquel…that’s a beautiful name” in broken English with a heavy accent. I smiled, and said maybe I’d see him around. I’m not sure he understood exactly what I said, but it didn’t really matter.

definate silver lining.

yours.Rachel

Postcard from Italy #4

Dahhhhling,

How goes the adventure – Are you feeling your emotions charted on a graph yet? What a silly question…of course you are. I hope at least you find some comfort in the fact that you were somewhat emotionally prepared for this difficult time by a crazy (and slightly bitchy) lady with a think French-smoker’s accent. I know, to me, she is a great comfort. Haha. Anyway, I can’t wait until we meet again in Madrid and can exchange stories of epic proportions; also, I expect our travels together will spin even more tales of epic proportions. I have been well here, and I am loving Rome. It’s really beautiful, and I love going to the open-air markets or just walking through the streets and finding some random building that’s hundreds (or thousands) of year old and has some pivotal historical role. It’s humbling to be in a place that’s big across so many dimensions – especially coming from a place that’s so small in so many dimensions. I’m beginning to redefine my priorities, as I am realizing through what I miss and what I don’t what is really important to me – I expect you’re doing the same. Also, I’m beginning the amusing realization of what silly (or take for granted) things I miss… this includes but is not limited to hot water, a microwave, instant pancake mix (breakfast in GENERAL!), dryers, 9-5 (or longer) business hours, Costco, English, paved road to walk on, and regular trash collection. (and more to come I’m sure.) Things I will miss when I leave – legally being able to purchase and consume alcohol, long dinners, market fresh food, being able to walk out my front door and end up in the middle of history, the omni-presence of the Virgin, and well-dressed attractive straight males. When we return, I hope we can compare our lists, attempt to channel what we are missing, and fill the gaps (for eachother) that we can not fill with anything available in the USA. Can’t wait to see you

Love, luck, and adventure in AOT,

Rachel

Postcard from Italy #3

Happy Monday!

It was Monday when I wrote this, and maybe if I’m lucky you’ll receive this before too many Mondays have past.  I hope all is well with you; how are classes?  Mine are interesting, actually, but they are a bit of an hurdle in my plan to do nothing but bum around Europe for 4 moths.  Still, I’m taking advantage of everything I can.  I’ve been cooking a lot since I’ve been here, and I’ve been wishing I had your talents in the kitchen.  A few days ago I went to an incredible market; by night this is a haven for debauchery, and by day its filled with flowers and incredibly fresh food – definitely your kind of place.  hehe.  I had the most AMAZING clementines, and had quite an interesting exchange with the old Italian man who sold them (plus lots of other delectables) to me; the fact that I speak little to no Italian is at least amusing at points.  I’ve only had gelato once since I’ve been here, but I can assure you that I plan to consume much more before I return to the states.  If I could, I would bring some back for you, but unfortunately that seems like it would be a bit of a challenge.  Ahhh well, consider the next gelato I eat to be consumed in your honor.  I hope to see you sometime soon after I arrive back in the states, and until then I will be anxiously awaiting your additions to my musical library.  Have a fabulous semester! Ciao!

Rachel

Postcard from Italy #2

Hey you,

How are you?  Perhaps its silly to ask a question like that in the form of a letter, as there is an ocean and several days/weeks (depending on the efficiency – HA! – at the Italian post office) between its posing and the receipt of your answer.  But I suppose I’m as likely to get a response from that as from other mediums like email that you hate so well. (haha)  I bet you’ve never gotten a post card this obnoxious in your life.  Anyway, I hope you are well, and that the battle of the semester is raging on in your favor.  My semester seems to be a battle pitting me against my classes – or rather my classes against my education.  As always I can assure that my education is winning.  There is so much to learn here – so much to glean from the culture and the people that are so drastically different than anything in the States.  You’ll be happy to know that they are changing the way I look at time and its passing; I’m learning to take things more slowly and enjoy the moment.  Also, I’m learning to relax when it comes to little inefficiencies and things – I’d never get out alive otherwise.  Who knows, by the time I come home I may even be able to parallel park… haha not.  I’m beginning to fit into the groove of this place, and I’m building new networks of people I love to spend time and open up with.  (now that’s impressive) No epic Italian loves yet, but I’m not terribly concerned; as usual I’m doing too many exciting things to have time for guys.  <I miss the fact that you’re not here to immediately counter the phrase “doing too many things” with some sort of innuendo.)>  I miss having you around to make me laugh (usually at obscene things) and I would even go so far as to say that I miss your mischevious misadventures (although I would probably never admit that to your face).  Anyway, if you win the lottery I expect to see you arriving at my front door, and until then, I’ll looking forward to seeing you… sometime?  We shall see where the summer takes us … Good luck, dearest.  Keep in touch.  Take Care.

Rachel

Postcard from Italy #1

As you may have guessed, I’m listening to Beruit.

It has inspired me to take the time to write what should be sent with a stamp though the posteItaliane.  for now this will have to do…

Dear Sister,

I hope all is well with you and the sisterhood; I’m sure you’re working yourself into the ground, and I’ll feel incredibly special if you can find the time to read even these short sentences.  (while you’re at it, take this time to Breathe…in and out, in and out) I hope you’re still eating, sleeping, and breathing occassionally without instruction.  I’m trying to do a lot of each of those here – especially the breathing and the eating.  The breathing comes (is forced) when I need something during the afternoon siesta (when the city gorges and then sleeps) or generally when anyone around here tries to manage or run anything.  The “J” in me is crying, while the “P” is developing.  And eating… I’m in the land of pasta, pizza, and gelato for heaven sakes.  Eating is one of my favorite things to do here, not only because it’s delicious, but because there is so much fanfare that surrounds the actual consumption of a Roman meal.  There’s the cooking – chopping the fresh herbs and spices from the market and simmering them with sausage or spreading them over a freshly spiced crust.  Or in the event that one is eating out, the first stage is drooling over the extensive menu (which you may or may not be able to translate) and somehow selecting a meal for the evening.  Next the vino – Uncork the bottle and sip with good company.  Courses come and go, and a good Roman meal should last at least a couple hours (in the case of two evenings ago, our friends from Connecticut College threw us a dinner party where the meal lasted 4).  Even the neurotic mile-a-minute business-woman within me is hushed at times like these; I am beginning to be even further convinced that there is nothing real in this world beyond the time at hand – living in the moment through the spirit and passion shared over food and drink.  I love the life that I am falling into here, and all that is missing is you.  (That’s some Hallmark shit right there).  Seriously though.  I love this place – it’s personality as well as its elegant facade, and the only thing I could possibly wish for is to have you across the table sharing this moment and this Chianti.

So much love in AOT,

Rachel

on Mourning

in two days, two students at John Cabot University have died.

the second death was announced around 10:00 this morning by a cacuafony of confused and distressed students and faculty.  The courtyard and lobby buzzed with chaos and uncertainty; word of mouth carried faster even than the internet.  Classes for the day would be canceled, leaving time for “reflection, mourning, and solidarity with the friends and family of the students lost” <according to the registrar>

The first student, extremely involved and well-loved Junior Alessandro, was killed in a motorcycle accident two nights ago.  Last night a student whose name was not released (though rumored to be an American girl) also died (the cause has only been speculated by suspicious students at present).

“I’m really scared guys…Death comes in threes. It’s a fact” said my superstitious house-mate with great concern in her voice,  until someone reminded her of the death of Heath Ledger earlier this week.  “Oh, well then I guess I’m safe!” she retorted and returned to her computer.

I was sitting in my bedroom repeatedly refreshing my email in the hopes of receiving a name or other information from the president of the university,  and I could hear them cackling down the hallway.  They were listening to something laced with obscenities and a heavy beat, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit unsettled.  I’m not sure how exactly I am supposed to be dealing with this news, but I pursed my lips while folding scarves and shelving books,  feeling that at least some degree of silent reverence was due.

One of my cancelled classes for the day was “AH243: The Ancient Roman Art of Death and Dying.”  It seemed morbidly ironic, but it triggered me to reflect on the idea of death, and more specifically mourning.

Presumably, this course focuses on the rituals surrounding sacrificial death, common practices for purifying and making offerings to the dead, and the general occurances surrounding this part of Roman life. And as an art history course, surely it discusses these in the context of the glorified light of artistic interpretation.   Death as an idea.  I wonder what, if any, of the course deals with the idea of mourning.

Mourning is a complicated concept riddled with conditions, rights, and allowances.   Mourning is a priviligde, and standing here from the outside looking into a tragedy, I am not entirely certain if its a privilege to which I am entitled.  I believe in respecting the dead, regardless of the cause, even if only to pay respect to the severity and significance of the end of a human life.  I believe that, in the same way I think every life should be respected,  every end of life should be given the same courtesy.

Still, mourning is a privilege.  Those socially permitted to partake vary, beginning with mothers and widows/lovers (and fathers and widowers, but in the confines of society their mourning seems to be acceptable in a much more stone-faced way), and expanding to other family and close friends, and then acquaintances.  In this progression, these are the people who seem to be entitled to mourn – those for whom it is deemed acceptable and even encouraged to mourn.  For them, mourning is a right – the only justice, it seems, given to those who loose the life of one they love.  But for the rest of us?  We want to be respectful of the dead, but are we entitled?  Do we deserve it?  Are we allowed to be silenced and sorrowed, or is taking that stealing the only thing left to those who have already been robbed?

may their families and friends be comforted, and may they rest in peace.

yours.Rachel

everything you need to know you were supposed to learn in kindergarden

We’ve all seen the poster, the play, or the chain emails.  All the lessons we learned in Kindergarden are actally the answers to humanities most difficult problems.  If everyone politely shared their toys,  didn’t hit and said they were sorry, and took naps after snacking on goldfish crackers, we’d have world peace and heaven on Earth.  And while the idealist in me appreciates the simplistic truth to these ideas, I recognize that things on our little globe are a bit more complicated than the sandbox.

Recently, I’ve been finding myself struck by some simplistic truths of mine own.  Ones I thought I’d already learned, which struck me as very peculiar.  Not to toot my own horn, but I have always considered myself a relatively mature and well-adjusted individual.  Though slightly neurotic and intensely emotional, I am tend to be understanding, slow to anger, resilient, adaptable, and generally successful because I have the majority of my shit together.  So when grappling with embarrassingly obvious mantras, I find myself distressed at my inability to emotionally comprehend ideas my mind knows so clearly.  This seems to be a recurring problem for me.  I’ve always been great at learning lessons intellectually from instructions and by the experiences of others; this has kept me from frequently getting burned.  I don’t do hard drugs or drink excessively, I’ve never failed a class (that I haven’t dropped), and I plan early and thoroughly to prepare myself for positive experiences in the future.   I do or don’t do each of these because I am intellectually cognicent of the risks and rewards involved in each, and my behavior is in large part governed by my mind’s idea of what will be good for me.  But with personal realities – intrapersonal truths if you will – I just can’t seem to compel myself to feel the things I know I’m supposed to without putting my hand to the stove-burner.  Its as if my mind saves these mantras from the days of construction paper and naptime so that one day I can feel the heat on my hand and have the words to internally articulate the proper revelations.  Here’s what’s been burning me lately…

Real (emotional) learning actually does have to happen the hard way. (case and point)

I am not the center of the universe, and that’s ok: “It’s sort-of a coming of age thing you realize in college” my mother told me from a hotel in Ohio.  I feel like a brat admitting that I’m just coming to terms with this now, but the fact is that I just haven’t had to before now.  the hardest part to believe is that even my closest friends have lives totally beyond me and my existence.  Maybe they’re just as good at “not needing people” as I am, and now may be the time when I am a “people”.   That’s ok.  Real friends are not only needed, but they are wanted – chosen.  Being chosen is kinda neat. I’m trying to revel in that, and let them live like I do myself.

Share your feelings – it’s good for you. (Blogging does not count.):  Intense experiences yield intense feelings, but until yesterday I’d been afraid to open the can of worms that is my head.  But the other night I gave in and did, and she listened.  She actually understood (not just listened politely until having to leave) and she shared too.  We laughed, and it was refreshing and comforting.

Say thank you: Sometimes people do something that really does make you cry (in a good way).  Something that’s perfectly written, said, or timed.  Make that known.

No one is perfect:  Forgive them, and let yourself like the rest of them.  Maybe they do get smashed every night.  And they clamor around in heels, irritating the cranky neighbors.  And they never clean their dishes or anything else.  But they listen, understand, and laugh with you. They’re in your classes. Or they’re from the Midwest and they read David Sedaris too.  And they, also, are just trying to be 20 years old.  

Don’t Judge.  Judgment isn’t nice of course.  We’ve all been told darling little phrases like “You can’t judge a book by it’s cover” or “things aren’t always what they seem”. As a sap I believe in the beauty and goodness of these, but as a pragmatist I’m discovering the second half of this reality: you don’t have time to judge. the fact is that most of us are taking classes at challenging institutions, working to put ourselves through school, running sororities,  playing sports, saving Africa, organizing volunteer trips, looking for summer jobs, preparing for grad school, and generally navigating the seas of being a “20-something”.  I am applying to 25 different organizations for summer internships, taking 5 classes, living in the epicenter or ancient history, culture, and art, and generally being a 20 year old woman.   Realistically, I don’t have time to gossip or get bent out of shape.  Neither do you.

Flirt (if this were kindergarden, this would probably be “be nice”): I used to have this down to a science.  When college began, I got a lot of pleasure out of being the big smiling, eye-batting, chatty lady in red.  I discovered as time went on that this behavior strained actual friendships with males, and in an attempt to salvage relationships (or at least not to be a bitch), I did a complete 180.  By making a concerted effort not to give anyone anything he could possibly be led on by, I effectively isolated myself from almost anyone with a penis.  Which led to another mantra: middle ground is good.  Maybe it’s ok to bat my eyes a little.  I’m 20, single, and in Rome for a semester.  There’s hardly a better time than now.

__________________________________________

Maybe when you’re eating sand and picking your nose, you’re too young to really know what the words you are hearing mean.  and Maybe that’s what being in college is all about – finishing all the “kid lessons” so you can get ready to face what’s next.

“The day a child realizes that all adults are imperfect he becomes and adolescent; the day he forgives them he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself he becomes wise. ” – Alan Nowlan

yours.Rachel

on the cusp

Tomorrow begins reality.

We had finished yet another meal of pasta, and as we passed a jar of nutella and various substances to be slathered with it, and we lamented the inescapable.

It’s been just over a week since we arrived, and each of us agrees that it has seemed like an eternity. We’ve walked several miles a day and sampled a little of everything Rome has to offer – the majestic cathedrals and ruins, the charming cobblestone streets and twinkling cafes, and the delicious vices like shopping, food, and wine . The city’s glory begins to reveal itself as the thermometer climbs and the misty Roman sunlight begins to creep into once dim corners. The more we get lost and unlost, the more comfortable we become with this foreign labarynth.

I took the subway – the “Metro” here – for the first time today. I don’t believe you know any city (or anyone or anything, really) until you’ve been deep within its midst, buried under stone and concrete running your fingers across the graffiti on the walls. You hold on tight and turn your head to find its nuances – its people – existing independently but tied by the common thread of acceleration and forward movement. The introvert in me has been itching to take a sacred vow of silent observation, attempting to capture the essence of the place I’m in with pen or pad or picture. I’ve begun, but I’ve only scratched the surface…

Until now, this has been a vacation. A time without obligation or interruption. Days filled with ambitious exploration and pleasant unwinding. Making friends, getting lost, laughing, drinking wine. And every moment save the rare that sting with the venom of homesickness is filled with overwhelming amazement and humility. Anyone who doesn’t feel compelled to fall to their knees or to spread their arms wide with eyes closed to soak in the wonder must be afraid of their own emotions or suck a spoon more silver than the pendant around my own neck.

What I hope to keep is the bright eyes. the feeling that every day is a new leaf to be overturned and pressed in a book with gold pages and bound with red ribbon. The question is whether or not that book will become buried under textbooks and resumes or the jading tarnish of its own ever-presence.

Truth be told, I fear the moment when I realize this is not a dream; that my life must continue to move forward. The future must be fought for while the clothes in the closet may begin to overflow onto the floor upon which I stand. I’ll do more than lie in bed just before departing for dreams thinking about the way reality melts into paradise in a candle, a cup of tea, or a warm embrace.

and when I come to terms with the realization that my life will continue to move, I begin to see – so will everyone elses. I’d like to think that everything will remain the way I left it. I’d like to think that I left in pink and velvet black trim or satin and sequins, and that upon my return I will find my reality waiting for me with china, silver, and goblet in hand or beneath heather-gray jersey cotton. I’d like to feel that upon my return from my own Oddessy, I will find the faithful as I left them, and with the clearing of a few suitors, all will be the way it was when I said goodbye. But the truth is that my world will go on without me, and I will return with no choice but to sail back into the spaces I have been left. I can’t help but wonder where I’ll still belong. And how I, having sailed on my own through troubled waters, will be able to fit into shape I left that I am no longer.

“A different language is a different version of life.”

“You only exist in what you do.”

(Fredrico Fellini)

yours.Rachel