Jenna Fugate • Italy
Growing up I always imagined myself living and working abroad. At different times in my adolescence I’ve dreamed of traveling around the world as a journalist, or an artist, or at one point a Spice Girl. Jenna Spice. I selfishly wanted to be independent and unencumbered, able to go to the millions of places I dreamed of going. Yet, after this semester-long Euro trip (accented with small intervals of studying, of course) I can’t imagine living that kind of solitary, albeit incredible, jet setting lifestyle. At least not in that same detached way I used to picture.
To everyone I care about: every amazing place I’ve been, I wished you could have been there with me. In Germany I wanted to drink giant liters of beer with you under those raucous Oktoberfest tents, taking in the scene of complete joy I was a part of. In Spain I wanted you there to see the intricately, trippily, impossibly beautiful interior of the Sagrada Familia. In Morocco I wanted you with me that night in the Sahara desert, lying on our backs in the softest sand, able to see the asteroid belt arching overhead. In Denmark I wanted to huddle with you in those cozy cafes, drinking hot chocolate when everything was just starting to feel like the holidays. In Austria I wanted you to hold my freezing hand as the snow fell on Salzburg and the Christmas choir was beginning to sing. In Switzerland I wanted you gliding down that beautiful Alp with me, looking down at all the snow-covered pines and gingerbread houses as the professional little Swiss kids skied past us. And in Italy I wanted you here always, eating handmade pasta, running into Renaissance masterpieces on every cobbled corner and discovering and loving Florence the way I have.
People always talk about how study abroad will change the way you view the world, but looking back, about to say goodbye to this whole unbelievable experience, I think it has done more for the way I view home, and the people I left there. Time away from my own country, my family and my friends has made me realize how important it is to me to have home. That permanent, familiar place filled with the best people in my life. I’ve realized that travel is all well and good, but it is nothing without knowing there is a home waiting for you somewhere, and people in it who will listen to all your silly Euro adventures. I still want to travel the world no matter what I do. Whether it’s as a British pop star or something more achievable doesn’t matter. The most important part of the dream is that the people I love will be there with me.
A few weeks ago I took a weekend trip to Copenhagen to visit friends and have a grand Scandinavian time. Wanting to experience all the culture the city has to offer, naturally I decided a trip to Denmark would be incomplete without experiencing the cultural new Harry Potter movie. I had signed up for a wholesome family film about witchcraft and vengeance, which I got, but Denmark also delivered something a little different before the movie.
One of the previews included a pretty graphic sex scene, something I did not at all expect before a film based on a children’s novel. It wasn’t particularly erotic, meant more as a comedic scene, but still the sight of two sizeable people porking before a PG-13 film is not something that would have ever been allowed in any American theater. Sex is obviously universal, but if Denmark’s openness taught me anything it’s that our cultural attitudes toward it are completely different.
Danish people clearly tend to be very liberal, and believe in an open discussion about sex, regardless of age. Americans land somewhere in the middle, with that old Puritanical prudishness at our country’s roots, mixed in with our progressive nature. Some things are allowed, like the dialogue about safety, and some things aren’t, like Janet Jackson’s right nipple. Italians, I’ve learned in my three months here, are at the other end of the spectrum.
This is a country of Catholics, and everything is necessarily kept conservative. Italians only talk about sex when it is about how many young girls Berlusconi is cavorting with, and it’s always derisive. The buttoned-up nature of things creates this undercurrent of tension that builds up with everything unspoken, and Italian men have nothing to do but let it out in the streets, catcalling and ogling. They’re not directly or openly talking about sex, but giving those appreciative stares and comments, perhaps trying to come as close as they can to that forbidden topic. Perhaps trying to satisfy themselves with all these negligible interactions, where real discussion and emotion are absent.
Sex has only recently been in the topic of conversation here because of the Pope’s new statements about certain cases when using condoms might be acceptable. Young Italians usually never hear about these things in such a formal way, and it can be detrimental, particularly regarding the lack of information they receive about safety. Americans of a certain age get “the talk” from their parents at one point or another, but most young Italians don’t even get parental guidance concerning sex, much less institutional learning, so it remains this scary, mysterious subject.
It may be the liberal college life I’m usually exposed to, constantly surrounded by horny students and their squeaky dorm beds, but as a young person, I much prefer that open atmosphere, the Denmark way of doing things. I’m not saying every Italian should immediately rip their clothes off in the streets and get busy, or even put previews with sex scenes before Harry Potter, but the complete absence of discussion seems unhealthy and repressed, even compared to my own country, which could stand for some more Sex Ed. The preview sex scene was a shock, but only because of the standards I’ve become accustomed to in America. The sooner my country and my study abroad country admit where babies come from, the better. What do you say, Italy, want to put on some Barry White and see what happens? All the cool countries are doing it.
It’s funny that I mentioned sprained ankles in my last post, and when I say funny I mean embarrassing and not funny at all (though I did not hurt myself tripping on those Italian cobblestone streets like I thought would happen.) Two weeks ago, I actually sprained my ankle in Africa. Putting it like that makes it sound way more interesting than it actually was, because instead of falling off of a camel or something equally as exotic I was essentially walking, and then suddenly I wasn’t. Down for the count with a giant, purple “cankle” all due to my own natural grace. Thankfully I had postponed my performance until the very last day of my fall break in Morocco, but a memorable part of the trip will always be that evening when I was carried home through the streets of Marrakech by our Moroccan guide, and the way I must have looked to those chaste Muslim women who stared at me the whole way.
I ordinarily have a pretty distinctive walk. With extra long strides and fast pace that only my sister seems to keep up with, I’m always being told to slow down because apparently my comfortable walking pace is the average person’s light jog. Last, week however, I could only achieve the pace of 70-year-old. And some of the more spry elderly had no problem outsripping me as I hobbled along. My injured ankle gave me the slowest, strangest limping step that moved my whole body in the most spastic ways. My walk was made even more distinctive, trying to accommodate the bloated mass that was formerly my right foot.
Since the injury I have improved to the point where I don’t walk like an arthritic thug, but that first week almost everyone I encountered gawked at me and my special stroll unabashedly. Just like the Italian male’s extended gaze that lasts for days following after a retreating woman, I was stared at for blocks. Except instead of approval it was with curiosity and probably repulsion by my newfound “swagger.” And instead of a solely male audience, every Italian person, no matter their sex or age, treated me like a carnival sideshow. It’s not like I can blame them because honestly I looked equally if not more ridiculous than a bearded lady, but coming from a country where staring is considered the epitome of impoliteness, it is something I wasn’t quite ready for.
What started in Morocco with those swaddled Muslim women quietly judging me, continued in Italy with the loud unfiltered looks of the Italian population. In America any sort of physical peculiarity would be met with quick, furtive glances and averted eyes, but Italians look where they want to look without bothering to mask their interest. If a guy wants to watch a woman walk all the way up the street he does it, and if an old lady wants to stare at a foreign girl with the gait of a drunken toddler, she will.
At first it seemed so rude to me and I wondered how awful it would feel if I actually had a permanent problem to be constantly on display. But after about the hundredth spectator I realized it is a much more honest reaction. I might not be used to such blatant unwanted attention, but I‘m not deluded about the odd way that I must have looked, and can appreciate the fact that instead of pretending to ignore me, these people were looking at me with open interest. I can see how directly addressing things like that would make a situation less hushed and awkward, even though my own culture has trained me to find it offensive.
Though the stares and comparisons to Frankenstein are beginning to decrease as my walk slowly returns to my normally abnormal speed, my accident abroad has managed to teach me a few things. Yes, I have learned more about cultural differences, but most importantly I have learned not to mention injuries in this blog. I never had to eat my words, but the pavement I ate was much worse.
Italy is aged.”Old” is not the right word. “Old” is a Walmart that will inevitably be demolished to build a shinier Walmart on top of it, but “aged” is a different kind of building, a building that does not have a department devoted to sport fishing. Aged is a building that has stood in the same spot collecting the stains and scuffs of life for hundreds of years. A building with the peeling color and texture of a warm, flaky piece of Italian bread. Aged is something that begins with a higher quality than your average “superstore,” and over time only becomes richer, and better, and imbued with all the layers of history that settle upon it.
I have visited a few of the big cities of Western Europe, like London, Paris and Barcelona, and they seem so old and beautiful compared to places in my own infant of a country, but even those great European cities look like adolescents before the ancient remnants of the Roman Empire. It’s amazing how an old, Parisian building can become such a modern sight compared to the crumbling pieces of B.C. life.
Italy understands the value of age. They know the best wines and cheeses are the ones that are left to soak in time, and they believe the best buildings are the ones a city began with. Because of this, Italy holds on to so many things for so long. At once it is beautiful to be surrounded by so much history, but I wonder about the oppressive weight all of it must have on a young Italian person. The newness of America means the freedom to change and to create, but here so much of who you are exists in the past.
How do you propose a new idea in a country that is still preoccupied with all the old ones, or better, a place that is so resistant to change? How do you create anything worthy surrounded by the work of Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci? How do you compete with the men who gave the world the Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa and half of a group of teenage mutant turtles who moonlight as ninjas? (Though to be fair I feel like this idea was conceived in Amsterdam, rather than Florence)
Italy has such a rich cultural history and it is something they are rightfully proud of. I’m often jealous that Italians have such a strong heritage compared to my own, but at the same time I don’t know if I would be able to deal with the all the pressure of so heavy a past, or the inconvenience of living my entire life in a place that was never intended for today’s way of living.
Yet while tripping through the tiny, ancient cobbled streets is not as easy as walking along a fresh cement sidewalk, there is something to be said for doing things the hard way if it means keeping life more beautiful and interesting, and connected to the past. You may sprain your ankle in an “aged” pothole, but at least you know you weren’t the first.
One of my biggest apprehensions about studying abroad in Italy was that I would return to America a Boticelli version of myself. One of those doughy Renaissance women he painted who’s pasty, pasta-filled bodies suggest he enjoyed some 15th century version of “cushion for the pushin.” Early on I was warned that spending three months here is essentially asking to gain at least 10 pounds. Not good news for someone known for her once-a-quarter trips to the gym, momentous occasions that they are. However, having spent a little over a month here, I can tell you that being a Boticelli is achievable, but you really have to work at it.
Although a typical Italian meal has three courses: antipasti (hors d’oeuvres), primi piatti (first course, usually pasta), and secondi piatti (second course, usually meat), a typical Italian woman shows no sign of having eaten three plates of food at dinnertime. Three courses should definitely not add up to one skinny person, but somehow each donna manages to fit into her size two designer outfit each morning.
Despite consuming quantities of carbs that would make Dr. Atkins shudder, Italians are on average much healthier than Americans. In the past month I’ve found that you can link that surprising fitness to certain cultural characteristics, and it is their bold outlook on food, and on life itself that keeps Italians from the mire of morbid obesity and miracle diets that the U.S. seems to have fallen into.
Though Italians generally share my own “working out” philosophy, (abstinence) that doesn’t mean they don’t get their exercise. Just watching them talk you can see they are always in motion, their hands moving with their words in emphasis. They use their bodies expressively and forcefully all day long just talking to people. When you add to that the fact that one of the most popular ways to get around in Florence is on foot, you can see why there is limited reason for anyone to waste time on a treadmill here.
And while they do consume more than I will ever be able to get used to, it is what they are consuming that makes all the difference. Everything is fresh and unprocessed. Italian cuisine is known for simple ingredients put together in beautiful, flavorful ways. The tomatoes taste so significantly better than any American tomato that you could eat them like apples. The peanut butter, though difficult to find, actually tastes more like peanuts than butter. The fruits and vegetables are seasonal, so you can’t find everything all year, but what you can find is of the best quality. They make use of what they have, and don’t need to add any chemicals or hormones, with a knowledge and love of quality food that is so much a part of Italy
A healthy appetite and a healthy lifestyle go hand in hand here, and no matter how much pumpkin ravioli, or bruschetta, or gelato that I swoon for, I’m sure I will never measure up to one of those big, beautiful Renaissance dames. What I actually should be worried about is putting on the pounds when I get back at home. There they are easier to gain because la dolce vita is sweetened with high fructose corn syrup.
Two weekends ago my friends and I went to a very cultural event in Munich. Oktoberfest is cultural and you can’t tell me otherwise because I know firsthand that even though people are knocking back biers by the liter, they are doing so in traditional Bavarian costumes. That’s pure culture right there. I think if people in Americans wore festive colonial outfits for their own glorified drinking festivals, we too would appear a lot more cultured and respectable when swilling our Sam Adams’s.
But young Germans don’t just appear a lot more respectable than Americans when it comes to alcohol, they actually are a lot more respectable. Whether we wear Levi’s or lederhosen, it is not going to change our mentality. Our relationship with alcohol is unhealthy and you can see the contrast so clearly at Oktoberfest, where the children’s fair rides sit happily next to tents overflowing with alcohol, something that would probably be protested in the United States.
Germans grow up knowing their limits. They are comfortable around alcohol because it isn’t something wrong and forbidden. Substitute beer with wine and you can say the same for Italians. We got to know some German guys who were seated next to us in a tent, and one mentioned that the first time he came to Oktoberfest he was probably 13-years-old. Can you imagine an American middle schooler being encouraged to spend the day in a beer tent?
Our German friends also mentioned that Americans are not always pleasant when inebriated. An example he gave was that bumping into a drunk American is like asking for a fight. Of course that is not the case with all Americans, but I have seen enough boozed-up belligerence to know there is some truth to it. Especially when I think about the fact that the word “raging” has become synonymous with “partying.”
So why are we Americans so drunk and angry all the time? It might have something to do with the uptight way our country perceives alcohol, or perhaps the way we perceive ourselves. Maybe it’s part of that competitive, American ego that pushes us to be the best and the biggest and the most. Such ambitiousness can be good, but not when the ambition is to be the best at blacking out, the biggest belligerent jerk, and the most covered in your own vomit.
Sometimes I am proud to carry a U.S. passport and what it represents, but there have also been times abroad when I feel obnoxious and uncultured just for living in a country that regularly announces itself so loudly, and so sloppily. The reputation young Americans have earned for boozing, brawling and barfing is pretty embarrassing, but as our new German friends reminded us when we were disparaging the motherland, we do have a pretty great place to call home. It is easy to forget that I am able to experience all these other countries because my own is so full of opportunity. Despite our many mistakes, America has done a lot of things right. We just have to stay sober enough to remember it.
These have to be the two most commonly used words in the Italian language. Every woman in every city hears them every day. And even if you don’t hear them, you see them. Though the words go unspoken, you know what these Italian men are thinking as their eyes follow after a woman for an uncomfortably long time…. Ciao bella.
“Ciao bella” can come in many forms. Given enough time and provided you are obviously equipped with what we will call “ladyparts,” you will come to hear them all and eventually gain an appreciation for the not so subtle differences between them. Having experienced only two weeks of Italian men and their catcalls I am in no way an expert yet, but I offer a few variations to explain some of the sights and sounds that will assail you when you step out on the streets of Florence:
The Never-Ending Eye Fuck: This is the aforementioned prolonged glance that is popular among Italian men of all ages for its ease. It is the most minimal of all forms I have encountered, involving a signature up and down motion of the eyes and head as a man takes a full minute to ogle each woman when she passes by. Men in other countries look at women in the same way, but Italians don’t make any effort to conceal their stares, and take their sweet time looking. Leonardo Da Vinci was from Florence and he spent 16 years looking at that single smiling woman. It all makes sense now.
The Oh My God: This is something you will only hear a younger Italian say. Out at night with your American friends, talking loudly in English and carrying around plastic cups of vino, it is not difficult to for a young Italian guy to figure out which brash, Solo Cup-loving country you are from. Out with his own friends, he will look straight at you and use the same language you may be slurring, saying, “Oh my God.” What? Does that mean, “Oh my God you look like a transvestite,” or “Oh my God you are the finest Americana I have ever seen.” It is funny that what they think is a compliment, could be interpreted completely differently by an American. In the U.S. an “Oh my God” is pretty ambiguous, but we are talking about Italian men here, so it is safe to assume it means they like what they see.
The Mobile Molestation: This is probably the second most common variation on “Ciao bella” and is characterized by an Italian man on any form of transportation honking or calling out to a woman on the street. Essentially it is like a sexual harassment hit and run, as they are made bold by the fact that they can motor away from you right after their failed attempts. Italian men probably use their car horns for women on the street 90 percent of the time even though Italian drivers are insane and should really be using them on each other.
The Classic: This is the old stand-by, the seduction technique that Italian fathers have passed down to their sons for generations. They teach them not to be afraid to enjoy women, whether that means simply sizing them up, or professing their love to a complete stranger. “Ciao bella,” they will say, trying to engage you with this age old phrase.
Though to an outsider the unwanted attention might seem rude or debasing, invested in that ubiquitous, classic, “Ciao bella” is a cultural appreciation of women. Italians appreciate women like they appreciate good food and wine and family. Sometimes their appreciation is a little too vocal (can I please just go to the supermarket without getting yelled at?) but then Italia wouldn’t be the same without it, and it is so beautiful the way that it is. At least I know what to say to this country when in December I have to leave it.
Ciao bella.
We simmered the apples on the stove, rolled the crust out on the counter and chilled the mascarpone in the fridge. My friend Chelsea and I were baking a Crostata di Mele alla Crema di Mascarpone, (Apple Pie with Mascarpone Cream) one of the many desserts my future country of residence has to offer.
This fall I will be studying art in Florentine studios, but my giant sweet tooth will be studying in the pasticcerias and gelaterias of the city. Come September 7, when I arrive in Italy for the start of what will be a little more than three months study there, you will probably find me facedown in gelato. Hopefully.
When the crostata was finished after an hour of baking, we could hardly wait to eat a warm piece of the Italian pastry. I imagine it doesn’t compare to the way a practiced Italian hand would make it, but it was delicious. It was light and fruity, not like our heavy, sticky American apple pies, and the Mascarpone cream on top made it decidedly Italian.
To be honest, Italian food is a little overwhelming to me. It all seems like huge carb-heavy meals, which is why the lightness of the crostata surprised me, and quelled some of my fears about being force-fed vats of pasta by a well-meaning nonna. Heavy meals covered in rich sauces may just be the Americanized version of Italian cuisine. I look forward to eating authentic Italian meals, and hopefully I will be able to bring back more recipes from the places I go and the people I meet. For now, baking and eating this American’s crostata will satisfy.
For me, art began in a laundry room in Florida. Listening to the rhythmic sounds of our washing machine, I spent hours in my makeshift studio. I loved all the time I spent there, working diligently with a fistful of crayons in a Little Mermaid coloring book, or making neon masterpieces out of dried pasta and glitter glue. As I got older and went off to kindergarten, I proclaimed I wanted to be an author and an illustrator, and carried some version of that desire with me all the way to Northwestern University. There I am a Journalism and Art Theory and Practice double major, and I tell people I study writing and coloring, which I think kindergarten me would approve of.
From my first memories of finger painting to college oil painting, art has always brought me the same contentment and enjoyment, which is why I chose to study studio arts in Florence this fall. Being able to study something I love in a stunning city known for its great works of art is something I could never have even dreamed of, sitting in that little laundry room so long ago. With one year of Italian and almost 20 years of art behind me, I am excited for Firenze and the beautiful adventures I hope to have there.
