When in Rome, Part 2

My last night and day in Rome were monumental.

Kathleen and I returned from our walkabout thoroughly exhausted, with an hour or so to kill before our last dinner in Italy, and for the first time I appreciated having a room of my own. We each took showers, threw on shorts/a nightgown, lied down on our beds, ate from a bag of peperoncini-(peppers)- flavored potato chips, watched Will & Grace and Desperate Housewives dubbed in Italian, and felt thoroughly American. After a month without, even I needed a little slice of Americana in my life. Then we dressed up in our finest clothes (I hadn't worn my khakis all month and didn't want to have brought them for nothing) and went to Piazza di Spagna for dinner... at McDonald's.

In defense of choosing McDonald's for our last dinner in Italy, it was highly recommended to me by none other than Cinzia. And indeed, McDonald's (especially the one in Piazza di Spagna) is so strange here. There were two floors; the first featured a cafe/bar with all kinds of pastries and the standard Italian coffee drinks, as well as some McCafe specialties with decidedly "Italian" twists, such as pistachio- or hazelnut-flavors. The second floor was the restaurant, and by McDonald's standards, it was nice. The menu wasn't as different as Cinzia led me to believe, but I got a Peroni on tap, which was excellent and un-American. I also got a Crispy McBacon or something like that. Which was pretty American. And so good. It was a lot of fun, and it was definitely an experience, so I don't regret eating at a McDonald's abroad. All dressed up, we felt McClassy.

Next we went to have wine on the Spanish Steps. Kathleen had a bottle in her purse, along with my corkscrew and plastic cups we took from the maid's cart at the hotel, but we had no idea how amazing a last night it was going to be. I never found out why, but a pianist and four opera singers were unexpectedly performing in front of the fountain at the bottom of the steps. Despite the crowd, we found a step to sit on, uncorked our wine, and listened to opera for nearly an hour. I know little about opera, but we thought it was a pretty awesome way to spend our last night in Rome, and I really loved it.

I spent my last day in Rome on very diverse pursuits. First I ran some errands, bought my last jar of Nutella, (resulting in me leaving Rome with one empty, two unopened, and one in progress) and coffee to bring home, mailed my postcards from Catania (about a week late), and found an internet cafe to check my flight information. Then I decided I wanted one last Italian cappuccino, and my day got a little more interesting.

I decided to go to a bar near the Colosseum that I'd seen the day before. There were a few people at tables outside, but no one else was at the bar, so the barista smiled at me, asked me for just a moment while he ran a check to someone's table, and then, returning, asked me what I wanted. The remarkable thing about the interaction that followed is that I had the entire conversation in Italian. I've long been able to order food and drinks, pay for things, ask for help, and things like that, but social interaction requires more flexibility, a wider array of knowledge, vocabulary, and some colloquialisms. In short, it's a lot more difficult.

I ordered my cappuccino, which he brought to me a few minutes later. He said "you're American?", I said "the accent?", he laughed and said "yeah, I can hear it. A lot," and I laughed and said "damn." We talked a good bit. He asked where I learned Italian, where I studied, what I studied. I told him Political Science, and he gave me a look. I said, "you don't like Political Science?" And he said, "no, I just don't understand it." I said, "me neither." I asked him how the American accent sounded in Italian. He said, "very nice. I like it." I felt pretty successful. Eventually I finished my cappuccino, paid, and left. He said goodbye and good luck. I walked down the block and then kicked myself for like twenty minutes for not even getting his name. After another ten minutes or so, I decided to go back.

I wandered to Piazza di Spagna and took the metro back to the Colosseum, and then I walked back to the bar. He looked up and saw me, so I said, "I'm back." He said, "you're back." I ordered a coffee. It was busier than before, so he spent a lot of time walking back and forth, and he didn't say much, but he DID keep smiling at me, so I figured I hadn't weirded him out. My thinking was this: one, it'll be a long time before I have Italian coffee again; two, how could I write about my conversation on my blog without his name? (which I notice I've done up to this point anyway); and three, I really need people willing to practice Italian with, and I'd walked away from a perfectly good option. After a few minutes, I said, "you're not going to ask me why I'm back?" He said, "no," smiled, and told me to wait a minute while he took something outside. He came back and said, "I'm not going to ask why you came back, I'm just glad you did." So that shut me up, and I drank my coffee. Then I ordered another.

I talked to some American guys for a few minutes when they asked me what something on their wine bottle said. I hadn't talked to the barista much since I'd returned, but he was busy and I didn't want to be in his way. But I finally felt like I couldn't sit around much longer, so I took my empty cup up to pay. While he was looking for my change, I said, "I came back because I wanted a coffee." He laughed, so I asked him his name. He said Cristian (which isn't even Italian, although I'd assumed he was). I gave him my name, and I said I had to ask so that I could write about him on my blog without calling him "the barista." He asked if I was ever coming back to Rome, and I said sure, but I didn't know when. He told me to hold on a second, rummaged through a drawer, came up blank, and asked me for a pen. And then he gave me his name and e-mail address on the bar's business card. I said, "maybe you can hear my American accent sometime," and he said, "bravo." So now I have another person to practice Italian with.
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When in Rome, Part 1

I spent five nights in Rome this summer--two more than last year, three couchsurfing, one on the floor of a hotel, and the last in a hotel room and bed of my very own, making this year's adventure in Rome a much more diverse experience than the last.

Kathleen called me my first morning in Rome to let me know that my camera, which I formerly thought lost, had been in the apartment of two of the girls studying on the Perugia program all month, and the man checking the apartment after their departure brought it to Kathleen. Now I have my 8 gig memory card back, and I don't have to be so selective about taking pictures.

I called Riccardo and met up with the Perugia group during their tour. I hung out with them a bit, but then I split, found a supermarket next to the Pantheon, and bought myself Nutella and cookies to serve as my brunch. One thing about Nutella in Italy: it comes in these small glasses that everyone in Italy uses as beverage glasses after they're empty, and I decided, while dipping cookies into Nutella in front of the Pantheon, that a full set of Nutella glasses would be just the Italian souvenir that I could really use to spruce up my future apartment, and I committed myself to eating four jars of Nutella in Rome.

I found my way back to my couchsurfing hosts's apartment from the metro, which by all rights should have been closed down, around 12:30 AM, having walked between his apartment and the metro only once before, with him. It was a miracle and I was very proud of myself, although I did take a wrong turn and only via some trick of Italian streets stumbled back on the right way.

I did a bit more touring--a lot of things I've seen before--but enjoyed the company of the Perugia kids, and went on a late-night tour with Riccardo, Barrett, Megan, and Ashley, where we drank beers in front of the Vatican and took obscene pictures, and then we listened to an Italian band cover Aerosmith's "Eat the Rich" on the River Tiber. I doubt the singer actually spoke English, because he seemed to be singing a bit of gibberish here and there. We strolled through Piazza Navona, had drinks at the Campo dei Fiori, and had a chat in front of the Pantheon (much more impressive by night), in which Riccardo made me ponder more seriously than before moving to Italy. When they learned I was probably going to sleep in the train station that night (perfectly safe, parents, don't worry), Megan and Barrett snuck me into their hotel room. I got free breakfast the next morning, too.

I saw the Capuchin Crypt with a few of the Perugia guys the day after their official tour ended. Unlike the catacombs in Palermo, where the bodies were intact, the crypt was literally decorated with various assortments of bones. In one room, there were arched recesses constructed of skulls. In other rooms, chandeliers of human bones hung above the walkways. Those crazy Capuchins.

That night, my couchsurfing host picked me up on a scooter and gave me a small tour of Rome by scooter by night. It was moderately terrifying, but also very fun. I was KIND of disappointed not to ride around the Colosseum, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth, and we rode around plenty. The next morning, we separated relatively early, and I met Kathleen with some relief outside of our hotel for that night. We walked all over that damn city that day--down past the Vittoriano, across the river, through the Trastevere neighborhood, through a big park with some stunning views of the city sprawled below, down to the Vatican, and then we came back to the hotel to get ready for our last dinner in Italy.
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Catania

My last days in Palermo went by without a hitch, given that I didn't do much at all. Two days in a row I left the hostel in the morning with the intent to go to the beach at Mondello, and both days I changed my mind before I bought the bus ticket. The first day, I bought two pairs of underwear half-off at Intimissimi, because I love the underwear I bought there last year, but then I felt guilty about the €11, so I decided not to spend money on the beach. I sunbathed a bit down by the harbor of Palermo instead. By the second day, I'd come to the realization that Mondello was one of those resorty beaches that I disliked so much in Vernazza, Monterosso, and Capri, where there would be no space or peace, and I stayed again in Palermo. I went for a run for the first time here in Italy--it's just not practical or feasible to run in most places here--and read a bit. I bought two books, also half-off, at a used bookstore, and I'm officially buying NOTHING else to bring home from Italy except coffee. Packing my bag at the hostel, I finally realized that the evil underwear bastards from the first day took my yellow sweatshirt, and I hate them for it, but I left the negativity in Palermo and barely caught my bus to Catania.

Catania is beautiful. If I did Sicily again, I would have done two days in Palermo and six here. Everything (including the incredible duomo) is built of black lava stone, from Mt. Etna, and it's a very striking departure from the usual marbled palaces and cathedrals. It's less dirty than Palermo, prettier, and closer to more things I wanted to see.

I went with an American and two Brits from my hostel to Siracusa my first day here. We swam in the sea a bit, toured a bit, got gelato twice, and missed our bus home, so we waited an extra hour and a half at the bus stop with beer, pretzels, and cookies from a supermarket nearby. Exhausted and contented on the bus home, we passed the time mimicking each other's accents and laughing at the different words we use across the big old Atlantic. Hostel friends are cool. We all decided to go to Taormina yesterday, and we didn't have much time there, but we swam at the most beautiful beach I've ever been to. Both the Brits got stung by jellyfish, but we also jumped (and I dove) off of a rock some 25 feet above the sea into the clearest water I've ever seen, and it was such a rush that I don't mind that my time in the town was limited. I saw the Greek theatre, which was pretty, and I really liked a small church I passed with inexplicable skull-and-crossbones sculptures above the arch of the door. The other American left from Taormina for the next stop of his trip, so the Brits and I returned, got a drink, and I taught them how to play "Cheers to the Governor" until like 3:30 AM, and I got up at 9. There's evidently only one bus each day that goes to Mt. Etna, unless you do a 40-60 Euro guided tour, and I missed that bus (at 8:15), so I don't get to hike Etna. I was really looking forward to doing it, but I hung around Catania today and got my stuff in order instead. I ate a cannolo, a Sicilian pastry that is AMAZING, and a baba', a type of rum-pastry-thing. I'm going to learn to make cannoli at home. I decided in general that I'm going to become a more accomplished cook. I'm going to restart and relearn the basics, because I suspect my self-taught college culinary abilities are lacking in many aspects. I'm going to feed people all kinds of amazing pestos and pastries. I'm going to be amazing.

I failed to get into On the Road, and while I haven't given it up, I've turned my attention toward Harry Potter e l'ordine della fenice (the 5th book's Italian translation). I follow it pretty well in the overarching sense, and it's magically captivating even if it's slow and unsure comprehension of the details. I'm anxious to get to Rome. I want to go out, something I've done very little of so far, and dance to weird European house music. I leave Catania tomorrow, and I only have six nights left in Italy at all. I can hardly believe I've already been essentially homeless here for 26 days, and yet the remaining twenty-some days seem a lot like an eternity.
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Palermo

Palermo is NOT what I expected. It's chaotic, dirty, and it seems to lack focus.
I arrived at my hostel around 9 last night, and after taking my stuff up to my room, where some dude was sleeping in his underpants, I went out to take a look around.

Navigation in a new place is always fun. For example, I arrived at the airport with the intent to take a train to the city. I saw no such train, so I hopped a bus instead, assuming it would go to the station, which was the only place in Palermo I could locate my hostel from. ULtimately it did take me there, but first it started making stops all over the goddamned city, and I started to worry about the fact that I didn't know where the hell I was. I was too stubborn to ask for help, so I waited for the last stop, which turned out to be the station. Thank god.

But I got a map at my hostel, and I went out for a walk, a bit concerned that I might get mugged. Mostly that was paranoia due to the fact that I was carrying all of my money, my cards, my passport--basically everything that matters--because I forgot to bring a lock to Italy and I didn't trust the guy in his underpants in my room. But the walk was fine, and then I came back and crashed with all my valuables in my small backpack in my bed with me. Paranoid much?

Except good thing I WAS paranoid, because I carried all my valuables again all day today, and I discovered this evening that someone went through my bag. I'm like 98% sure. I don't think they took it out of the locker, but the two pockets that were accessible without moving the bag were definitely both rifled through. I know because my dress pants ended up on top of the rest of my clothing, all of which was rumpled, and I haven't worn my dress pants all month. Oh, and I don't fold my dress pants in half the way I fold my jeans. And they weren't even folded well, on top of all that. But I don't think anything is missing. I had all my documentation and electronics with me, so I guess the guy in underpants didn't like my clothes enough to steal any. He was checked out by the time I got back to the hostel this evening. Dirty bastard. Tomorrow I guess I have to figure out where the hell one buys a lock in Italy.

That said, not all hostel experiences are bad. A girl who checked in this evening came in while I was reading, about to take a power-nap. She's from Brazil, her name is... shit, what IS her name? Luziente? Anyway, she spoke in Italian when she came in and asked which beds were available, so I responded in Italian, and a few minutes later she said (in Italian), "So, you're Italian?" I said, "No, I'm American. Where are YOU from?" And she said Brazil. She never reverted to English, but Italian has worked well enough so far. We chatted a bit. Her Italian is better than mine, but she understood me, at least. I must have answered her first question REALLY well, or else she just has no idea what Italian is supposed to sound like.

So today I walked all over Creation. I started with the Cathedral of Palermo, which is very pretty but is the reason I call Palermo "unfocused." There is no clear FRONT of that church. It's just a big blob of architecture surrounded by palm trees. I walked past the Norman Palace without going in because there was a line and I didn't want to pay €8. I saw another church which was interesting from the outside but creepy inside. There were statues of priests and Jesus that looked like ventriloquist dummies, so I hauled ass out of that place and found Ballarò, an outdoor market district. It was... interesting... The whole street smells of dead fish (because they sell alllll kinds of fresh dead fish and seafood), and there are stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables, a lot of tacky junk stalls, and I didn't know what to do with it all. So I kept walking, got lost, couldn't find the church I was looking for, gave up, and went to the Vuccuria, another outdoor market, and at this one I bought a loaf of bread for 70 cents, since I hadn't eaten, and a chilo of bananas. It was a boring but cheap lunch. Then I regrouped at the hostel, walked way the hell back past the cathedral and the Norman Palace, and found the Catacombs of the Capuchin monks. I arrived around 2:15 and had to wait until 3 for the catacombs to reopen, so in the meantime I made friends with two girls, one from Austria and the other from Australia, who both used to live in England and both moved, and then we went into the catacombs together.

The catacombs are surreal. There are literally semi-mummified, skeletal corpses hanging off of the walls. Thousands of them. Pictures were forbidden, so I was only able to sneak two or three (oops...), but seriously Google the capuchin catacombs of Palermo. I've never walked through underground tunnels while being leered at by the corpses of Palermo's 16th-19th century noblemen and monks before, so that was a very new experience. It was eerie. Kinda gives you the heebie-jeebies. Then I went with Antonia and Sophie (the Austrian and Australian) to the Norman Palace, where we got in for only €5 with student IDs, which I didn't know would get me a discount there, and even though I don't love paying for tourist stuff, their guidebook said the Palatine Chapel (inside the Palace) was THE "premier tourist attraction of Palermo," and the Australian kept calling it THE premier tourist attraction of Palermo, and it was so hot, and we'd all walked so much, that the heat was definitely getting to our heads, and we laughed so much and built up so much expectation that I was surprised by how cool the Palatine Chapel actually was. I snapped some pics, and then we trekked back into the center of town, where we said our goodbyes and went to our separate hostels, but then I decided to go down to the seafront instead, so I walked around even more way down along the harbor, and then I finally turned around, came back, ate the entire rest of the loaf of bread and two bananas, and tried to take a nap. I was only moderately successful, but I read a bit and listened to music a bit and chatted with the Brazilian for a bit, and then I finally fell asleep for like 30 minutes and then I woke up and showered and thought about going out, but I am freaking tired and I might just go pass out. Yep, I think I will just go pass out.

casa Cinzia

Tonight is my last night with Cinzia and her family. As I mentioned
before, they live in Pordenone, a small city about an hour from
Venice, and Cinzia is here until August 20th, when she's returning to
Richmond. Anyhow, they've been incredibly hospitable. (Side note: the
Italians are some seriously hospitable people; looking back, Marco
didn't know me outside of like two e-mails before his family agreed to
host me, and yet they did SO much to make me comfortable--way more
than I needed, honestly! His parents invited me to Sardegna in August,
and Marco and Francesco won't even be going there with them. I
wouldn't impose again so soon regardless, but anyhow I already have
plans in Spain and Morocco. By the way, Carrie, when I said I would be
with a friend in Spain, they invited you too. Haha the Italians really
are some of the best people in the world.)

Anyhow, Pordenone is small, not particularly exceptional, but
comfortable and a bit quaint nonetheless. Cinzia doesn't think it's
anything exceptional either, so I'm not being ungrateful. And Cinzia's
family lives in a more rural area, outside the town itself. They have
a vegetable garden, some cows, and I believe they make the wine we've
been drinking with dinner every night from their own small vineyard.
During the weekdays, Cinzia's nephew, Pietro, has been here, as well.
Her parents watch him while her brother and sister-in-law work. He's
three years old, and while he isn't in the least bit quiet or timid,
he refuses to talk to me. He talks ABOUT me, though. I suppose I am
something of a big, strange foreigner. But I don't think he dislikes
me, because he told Cinzia where he wanted everyone to sit at lunch,
and he sat me across from him. He just doesn't want to TALK to me.

Cinzia took me to Venice Saturday (see my first post), and Sunday we
relaxed and took a bike ride around the Italian countryside. It was
beautiful, even though it made me miss my bike. Monday we went to
Trieste, and Trieste I REALLY liked. It's a beautiful city, but it's
not so touristy. It feels lived in. It's a port city, like Genova,
which I loved last year, and it has a pretty unique vibe, because it
hasn't always been under Italian dominion. It was part of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire until the end of World War I, if my history is
correct, and so it's more accurately "mitteleuropea"--central
European--than Italian. To those who visit Trieste, I recommend that
you dress fairly well. Trieste and its people are both well-taken care
of, and while I didn't look BAD, you might feel a bit more in sync
with the slow, comfortable, elegant pace of the city. Today Cinzia
showed me around a few small, local towns. I'm not going to go into
detail on them all, but suffice it to say that there are a lot of
beautiful things to be overlooked from the big city tours, and there
are also some places even in Italy that are somewhat anonymous.

Staying in Pordenone has been a bit strange for me, however, because
right on the route to and from town is Aviano--the first American
military base I've seen in Italy. The base is like a gated community.
They have housing complexes, a supermarket, and even (according to
Cinzia, but it isn't visible from the road), a Taco Bell. It seems to
me that most of the Americans here keep themselves pretty isolated,
and so the base makes me kind of uncomfortable. Cinzia told me that a
lot of the Americans used to live outside the base or leave the base
to interact a bit more with the community, but it doesn't seem like
they do all that much anymore. To me, it furthers the stereotype that
Americans have no interest in or respect for other cultures or
countries, which is a stereotype that negatively affects a lot of
American travelers. I haven't had any real problems myself--although I
once received a backhanded remark simultaneously complimenting my
Italian and insulting my nationality--but I know a lot of Americans
who claim to be Canadian when they go abroad to avoid scorn or an
unpleasant reception. However, there are exceptions. Some families
whose assignments are more permanent live off-base, and apparently
some of Pietro's classmates at preschool are American. He has an
American friend who speaks English, but he wouldn't tell me his
friend's name.

I'm almost done with Catch 22, which I positively love, and I'm
simultaneously reading a translation of one of my FAVORITE books, The
Great Gatsby (Il grande Gatsby), that I bought after much
deliberation--that is, I read the first page of three different
translations to decide which best preserved the tone and beauty of the
English original, and I'm happy with my selection. I'm halfway done,
and I'm becoming more comfortable with some of the
less-frequently-used Italian tenses, and I'm picking up some new
vocabulary to boot, and I have a pretty cool and unique souvenir to
bring home from Italy. That, and I'm going to buy some Italian coffee
for my moka pot.

Tomorrow I fly from Venice to Sicily, where I'm intending to see (in
eight days) Palermo, Catania, Taormina, Messina, the beach, Mt. Etna,
Siracusa, and maybe more. One step at a time: find my way from Palermo
airport to my hostel.

concerning beauty

I enjoyed my remaining days in Milan very much, and I found my visit
to be very interesting in one particularly interesting way. Gabriella
adores Milan, and I think with more time and familiarity I would, too.
But Marco, Francesco, and some of their friends didn't seem to have
quite such a high opinion. Marco, for example, emphasized the city's
aesthetic inferiority to Rome, Venice, or Florence. Withholding
nothing from Rome or Venice (I haven't been to Florence), I still
think Milan is an incredibly beautiful city. The Duomo di Milano, in
particular, easily ranks with the Cathedral of San Lorenzo in Genoa as
one of my favorite cathedrals in Italy--it's so extravagant that it
flirts with tackiness, passes completely beyond absurdity, and comes
full circle to achieve a stunning beauty. I've never been to Paris,
but the hundreds of statues, figures, and gargoyles decorating the
Duomo di Milano brought to mind my idea of Notre Dame (based as it is
on the Disney adaptation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame... have I ever
written something so disgustingly American on this blog before? That
said, it's one of absolute favorite Disney movies, so I mean no
disservice in its evocation! I'll have to go to confession and
repent--next time I'm at the Duomo di Milano, of course!).

But even Marco declared the Stazione Centrale in Milan the most
beautiful train station in Italy, and I have to agree. My word of
advice to visitors arriving in or leaving Milan by train: even if you
take the metro connection into or out of the station, take five
minutes to leave the station gaze up at it. And then, as you're
looking, realize that Mussolini had it built, and you'll have an
entirely new perspective on its beauty. In Marco's roughly translated
words, "Stazione Centrale is one of the only good things Mussolini
ever did."

Anyhow, while I clearly appreciate aesthetics, beauty alone is not
enough to enchant me. And what better way is there to segue (did you
know the English word segue comes from the Italian verb "seguire,"
which means "to follow"? "Segue" would mean "it follows") into my trip
to Venice?

I'm currently staying with a former professor, Cinzia, and her
family, outside of Venice (more to come on that in my next post). We
went to visit Venice yesterday, just for the day, and Cinzia showed me
some quieter, less touristy neighborhoods that we didn't have time to
see last year. In the morning, before the tourists come in, Venice is
less crowded. It really is a beautiful city, architecturally and
aesthetically. But unfortunately, that's not all it is. Venice is a
fucking zoo. Excuse the profanity, parents, if you're reading this,
but there's really no polite way to describe the throngs of tourists,
in groups of 20 or 30, following guides speaking into microphones in
Japanese, German, French, English; the men selling fake handbags, fake
sunglasses, and junk toys in blankets on the streets and bridges,
ready to snatch the blanket and their merchandise up at the first
sight of cops; the total chaos and confusion in the Piazza San Marco,
where I doubt you could find an actual Venetian if your life depended
on it, excepting those who are giving tours, and even most of the tour
guides are not, in fact, Venetian; and speaking of things that are not
Venetian, the ornate souvenir masks in every shop in the city that
don't actually resemble the tamer, classical Venetian masks in the
slightest. I could go on, but I won't. I know, I know, I'm a tourist,
too. But the least I can do is never, EVER again make the mistake of
being a tourist in Venice.

In sum: Milan, 1; Venice, 0-for-2.

Milan

If you haven't already read as much on Facebook, Twitter, or via personal text message, I love Milan. I'm so glad I came here this year. If only I'd known what I've been missing!

My hosts are great. Marco, the friend of Gabriella's daughters, is studying for exams, but he's been so helpful and hospitable. He speaks English, but not to me, because he knows I want to improve my Italian. His patience seems infinite. His brother, Francesco, took me out for a few beers at Milanese hot spots last night, and I met a few of his friends. He's trying to improve his English, although it's already quite good, so we've exchanged a lot of vocab and expressions. I taught him "jackass," but I forget the Italian equivalent. And their parents are awesome. Il signor Penza made a fantastic dinner last night--first a pasta with gamberetti (shrimp), vongole (clams), and cozze (mussels), then mozzarella di bufala (buffalo mozzarella) with tomatoes and basil. And he and la signora Penza talked a lot. She insisted on doing my laundry. And again, they seem to have infinite patience.

I walked around Milan for hours yesterday. I got a free map at tourist information, I looked around some bookstores, I got an incredible gelato with actual pieces of mango and coconut in it, and an old Italian man stopped me and asked me if I were Milanese. Magari. No, but I'd like to be. I ordered a marocchino (literally: little Moroccan), which is a drink with espresso, steamed milk, and powdered chocolate, at a bar called Princi that Gabriella recommended me. I explored a neighborhood called la Brera which was very charming, and I gazed at the gargoyles on the Duomo. I read a bit of Catch 22 in the piazza, because sometimes I really just need some English. And later Francesco took me to le colonne (the columns) of San Lorenzo and Corso Como, where the bar we went to was playing "Papa Don't Preach."

Today I explored some new areas. I successfully navigated the metro, which always makes me feel good. I bought the July/August issue of the Italian L'Uomo Vogue (Men's Vogue) because Beyonce is on the cover and I figure I can read a magazine on a train to practice some Italian more easily than buying a book. And I bought a camera. It was more expensive than I would have liked, but I wasn't happy not being able to take good pictures of some stuff. Anyone can Google the Duomo di Milan, but as strange as it may sound, I love taking pictures of interesting billboards, signs, cafes... Tomorrow I have to revisit a lot of places now that I can take some nice pictures.

Tonight I went to a barbecue with Marco and about a dozen of his friends. They were all very nice. I had trouble understanding them at times (12 Milanesi shouting at each other after a few glasses of wine? Please.) But after MY few glasses of wine, I felt more comfortable and think I spoke a lot better. Or maybe not. Who knows. But then they all got crazy and sprayed each other with the hose and threw buckets of water and, once, a glass of wine that I had the misfortune to be partially in the way of. But, all things considered, it was fun. Only in Italy.

Now I'm going to bed. Tomorrow is my last full day in Milan, and I want to wake up a bit earlier and get to the city. And then Thursday it's onwards, to Venezia. I feel like I'm living a crazy life right now.
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