Being away from people whom I am accustomed to seeing day in and day out, I find myself taking over their habits even if they are not my own. For instance, the other morning we were out of cereal. I am usually a scrambled eggs kind of girl when presented with the choice, but I found myself eating fried eggs for a few days in a row like my mom does, wiping the yoke off the plate with a slab of bread. Or when I had a craving for fresh walnuts and sat in front of the television with a white metal nutcracker in hand, eating the fleshy bits of nut like my grandpa does at Christmastime when they seem to have an endless supply of them on the coffee table. I realize that I will be returning to these people within only a few weeks, and I will begin to crave dried figs and thinly sliced salami, fresh bread and young, green olive oil for lunch. I will forget that I once missed the convenience of in-home wireless internet in exchange for cobbled, medieval streets. But I should wax poetic later on the things I will miss, and it will be interesting to see what I won’t miss upon my return.

I still can’t figure out Italian game shows. Really. This one, I believe it’s called Mezzogiorno in Famiglia, I caught a part of included true or false questions and the contestants would run up to someone else and pop the balloon that was in that person’s hands with a sharp tack of some sort and answer the true or false question. They received a medal if they answered correctly. I only saw a few minutes of it, so I don’t know how it started but somehow the yellow team won. Now, on the same show, a guy who is blindfolded has to try to catch a ball attached to a string, guided by a woman yelling instructions to him where the ball is and when he catches it, he has to try to hit these people standing in weird fat banana suits—presumably from the other team—and knock them down. While blindfolded. I guess the Italians and the Japanese just really love making people look like complete asses while on television. It was pretty amusing, though, to watch these people in banana suits hopping around on a bench across the room and then being hit and falling and being tended to by assistants of the show standing in white suits behind them.

Proof of expertise is so often exhibited when a difficult task is made to look easy. We were witnesses to that this morning in the workshop of the incredible Marino Morretti, a ceramic artist who has shown his work worldwide—no kidding. He also happens to live in Orvieto and have a workshop nearby, and we got to go this morning to see him work. In addition, we ate a lovely snack on the terrace of his family’s 9th century castle (seriously) that overlooked the valley, and then we got to paint some of our own tiles. Mine did not turn out like Mr. Morretti’s, but such is life. He heavily draws his influences from medieval and Renaissance designs, especially because his family had owned a vast collection of art from that period until recently. The style is decidedly grotesque in some ways—plates with a person morphing into some four-legged creature—but with a vibrant palette and a whimsical quality about it, too. In about forty minutes, Mr. Morretti had completed eight tiles before our eyes; what had been white glazed terracotta tiles became beautiful little pieces of art. He made the chunky black lines and details look so easy, even while simultaneously fielding questions and trying to prevent the kitten from jumping on his lap while he was painting.

Jeremy and I had decided to dine out this evening, and so we did. We went to the Antica Trattoria del’Orso, and probably had the best meals at a restaurant that either of us had had in Italy. The place is owned by a duo, one who cooks, the other who runs front of house, and the menu posted on the door is basically null and void. Being seated, you’re told the menu. Everything is fresh. So fresh that they don’t even refrigerate stuff overnight. All the pastas are made in-house. Our menu options tonight were a tagliatelle with either porcini mushrooms and truffles OR scamorza cheese and tomato sauce, crespelle stuffed with ricotta and spinach OR alla bolognese (beef), and we didn’t even hear the secondi because we were already so excited about the first parts. We had the tagliatelle (I the truffle, Jeremy the scamorza) and split the bolognese crespelle. The tagliatelle was so perfectly cooked, the mushroom and truffle sauce just the right creaminess without being too heavy. The meat in the crespelle had just a hint of nutmeg, so there was a wonderful sweetness to the savory meat. The smallest violin in the world played for us as we managed to split a piece of chocolate cake with almonds doused in a homemade English cream sauce or something like that. The owner made small talk with us and told us about his trip to the US last Thanksgiving—Albuquerque, the Grand Canyon, Phoenix, Santa Monica—and showed us a book that was published a few years ago featuring their restaurant. He was sure to point out to us, too, that they were cited in Frommer’s (do you know?) and Rick Steves (oh, how Rick Steves is appreciated here by the restaurateurs). We were both full and satisfied. We promised we would return before our departure, and I intend on keeping that promise. Sunday we’ll head back to Fabro for another weekend at Farnietino with Maddalena, Pompeo and the kids. I am looking forward to it immensely.

**For those interested: Via della Misericordia 18-20, a street right off Piazza Sant’Andrea. Closed Mondays and Tuesdays. Like I said, ignore the menu and, probably, the prices. Ciro and Gabriele speak some English, too.

There are lists of things that I’ve thought about while being in Italy that are examples of Italian weirdness from the American perspective. I will not start my blog about those. In fact, that may be a separate entry entirely. The following list, however, is a list of American weirdness from the Italian perspective. As a definitive non-Italian, I cannot explain why the following are so strange. I will just share what Italians seem to consider strange habits of Americans, things that I have noticed in passing (or while someone has commented while a friend or I has been passing, assuming we speak no Italian and therefore cannot understand).

We wear flip-flops. Everywhere, essentially. Not just to the beach, or around the house. Out.

Not only do we wear flip-flops, we dress very casually while out of the house. Sweatpants or leggings with sandals and a hoodie is not an outfit one would likely spot a real Italian in. Unless the sweatpants were matched with a paired zip-up jacket. Probably all velvet. Probably not without something shiny/metallic/bejewelled. Even going to the market or grocery store, the old women still wear stockings and a jacket.

We eat lots of weird/bad things. American cuisine, as a whole, doesn’t seem to be highly regarded (my English student, however, asserts his love of In-N-Out burger, which I fully support, and quite a few of our friends did enjoy the American pancake breakfast we made during the dig).

Not only do we eat lots of weird/bad things, we eat them totally in the wrong order! (Example: conversation at the dig table with La Professoressa. I have already finished dinner, am still hungry after a long day of manual labor—imagine that!–and grab some more bread and olive oil to snack on. Professoressa looks at me in disgust and says, “Sara, pane DOPPO frutta?! Che schiffo!” Bread after fruit is apparently NOT the correct culinary choice.

We tend to over-medicate. This is definitely true. Going into a pharmacy, I wanted some ibuprofen. I usually take 400 mg of ibuprofen if I need to take any at all. I am used to going to Walgreen’s and buying a huge bottle of pills for $4.99 or something similar. I ask for my ibuprofen, and it comes in a pack of 12. The pharmacist advises me to take one (that is, a 200 mg. Tablet) after a meal. I walked away wondering if it was some sort of super-ibuprofen, but then just realized that to Italians, to regularly down 2 of these for a headache or cramp may be a bit excessive. To their credit, though, the instructions for use did say that I could take 1-2 every 4-6 hours while symptoms persisted. That sounded a bit better to me.

We drink ice water. Not just cold water, ICE water. With ice! Our trench leader would shudder in horror to see Jeremy or I chugging a bottle full of mostly ice and little water. Why? We always asked. “Fa male!” He’d reply. It hurts! Our “proof” that ice water was the direct cause of horrible stomach pain when the architect’s assistant fell suddenly ill at the site after—wait for it—drinking ice water!

In general, we have issues with temperature. Not just ice water, but we use way too much air conditioning. The body’s shock in transitioning from heat to cool is nothing to be taken lightly here. I will take the liberty of using an example of something that happened to a friend. She was down south with her boyfriend (who is Puglian) and his family. His sister got out of an air-conditioned car, and after exiting, promptly threw up. Why? Definitely the air conditioning.

We are weird about dancing, especially males. This is something that I have already blogged about a little, this idea of dancing in public, often in couples. Here, it seems like everyone likes to dance whether or not they’re the next Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake. Everyone likes to have a good time, and music with a beat just naturally gives way to moving your body, which seems to be encouraged here. I will always remember the evenings during the festival over the bridge, in August. I danced with countless old Italian men who all knew how to dance—whether or not the steps were necessarily right is another story, but they all knew how to ask and how to lead and how to have a nice time doing it. Despite being so confident about so many things, Americans often seem to be very self-conscious about this whole “dancing” thing. As a random sidenote, I’d like to point out that it is for this reason that I love lindyhoppers. It is so much about the love of the dance, the music, the connection that it doesn’t matter what you look like when you dance, just that you’re having fun. And trust me, someone who looks like they’re enjoying him or herself while dancing sure as heck looks like a better dancer. (So, shout out to all my lindyhopping peeps!)

These are only a few things that I’ve thought about while being here, and surely discussed with some of you. Most of these can be turned around. I could phrase it that Italians are weird because they dress up to go to the market or think air conditioning and ice water can give stomach aches. But I have no way of knowing if one or the other way is right, just that they are different. I don’t get a stomach ache from drinking ice water, but then again, I’ve been drinking it all my life. Maybe if I hadn’t been, I would get a tummy ache from it, too. Who knows. In any case, these are just a few thoughts for you all. If you’re interested, I’d be curious to hear from those of you who’ve lived or traveled abroad what are quirks in other cultures.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the differences between the Italian idea of home and the American one. Here, it is more common than not to find someone who was born, raised, and is living and probably will die in the same town. People may move around sometimes for work, but even then, often will return to their hometowns to live. There is a pride in being a Something—Orvietano, Fiorentino, Romano, etc. Dialects vary from town to town, and being able to speak that dialect is even greater indication that one is accepted as part of that local culture. It is not unusual to hear of someone moving to another town not their own, even an Italian, and be considered “foreign.” (One of our guides, who was from a town near Siena, moved to Siena and they called her that, in fact.)

It seems that to be born, raised and die in one place is stigmatized on some level. Is it because, as a culture, ambition is praised and staying in one place forever indicates some lack of ambition or skill? Is it an issue of individuality? Our neighbor here works at an Agip station. His son does the same. Would American culture perceive doing the same thing as one’s father a matter of individuality? Is that young man not achieving his greatest potential because he chooses the same way his father did?

I was born and raised in Tucson. I am proud to say it, and I have felt in the past that there are many people who just can’t wait to get out of whatever town they’re from. Is the American spirit of adventure more deeply ingrained than that of Italians? Here, it is common for Italian youth to continue living at home until their late twenties, or marriage. If you met a guy at a bar, and he was almost 30 and lived with his parents, what would you think about him? What are the assumptions we make as Americans? Why?

To me, home can mean a lot of things. Tucson as my home is indeed where my heart is: my family mostly is there, friends are starting to disperse but not all, the streaking light of sunsets, warm Thanksgivings and familiarity are all still in Tucson. Here in Orvieto, our apartment is also my home, but I consider it more transient. Orvieto as a town is my European home—I can give directions, I know what bars to avoid because of the hiked tourist prices, I don’t feel like a tourist at all anymore. That doesn’t mean that I understand all the cultural nuances, but I am comfortable here. I imagine that I will have many more homes in my future. I wonder sometimes if Tucson will always be my true home, though. Will it depend on if my parents stay there? Will it depend on length of time alone in which one stays in a place?

Italy and the US are essentially incomparable in terms of cultural development and social patterns. Italy itself is a younger unified nation than we are, but a much older people, and I know that is a large factor in the divergent viewpoints. Our country was founded on the principles of unity. It’s in our name—the UNITED States. Not to say that the US doesn’t have its own regional cultures. It does. But not to the extent that Italy does.

At this point, I’d like to invite you, my readers (whoever you may be), to comment on your ideas of home. Do Americans hold prejudices (or not) against the “born and raised” thing? Does it matter? What does home mean to you?

This also can serve as a way for me to see who else is reading this, other than my parents and Jeremy’s. 🙂

The weather has improved greatly since last week, when it was rainy, gray and chilly enough to require all sorts of winter accessories. Sunshine now floods the streets again, and a light jacket is all that’s necessary to comfortably go around town. With such great weather, I couldn’t say no to my friend Bonnie’s invitation to go on a passeggio through town. First we wandered through the Palazzo dei Sette, where there was a bridal expo going on. I had never been able to go into the Palazzo, so it was interesting to see just how big it was. We were confounded by the contents of each room—what do comforters and bathrobes have to do with a wedding? I wondered if couples registered for gifts, like in the States. Photographers had displays of wedding shots they’d done, there were a couple rooms of gowns, and even a room where a bride and groom—ambiguous if they were really a coppia or not—sat and greeted entrants. We were handed tons of flyers, even though that day is far away. I felt bad taking some of the nicer ones, and at one table I sheepishly asked if I could give it back to them. “You’re not getting married?” they asked. “Non ancora,” I said, grinning. (Not yet.) There are certain things I think I want for a wedding, but I doubt I would have been able to purchase any of those things at the bridal expo…
Giggling, we left the palazzo and headed down Corso Cavour. Eventually we ended up on the east side of town, on the edge of the cliff where there’s a clear view of the hills, the Badia (an old monastery, now a hotel and restaurant), and homes sloping down toward Orvieto Scalo. A little public garden with benches, some flowers and trees sprouting red fruit that look like a cross between cherries and grapes is on that side of town, and I had never been inside. A map of the town and the route that goes around Orvieto that has small Etruscan sites of interest, and nearby where we stood was the Canicella Necropolis.
Orvieto has two necropoli, one of which is the Crocifisso del Tufo, excavated in great part by Mancini in the 19th century, and again by Dr. Mario Bizzarri, father of our own professor, in the 20th cenutry. The other necropolis is the Canicella Necropolis, where there is also a sanctuary. One of the more famous Etruscan figures in the Museo del Claudio Faina is a one-breasted Venus from the Canicella Sanctuary. Neither Bonnie nor I had ever been to either site, and they looked nearby on the map. So, although we were both dressed in nice clothes, I still in my church attire, and both in boots (mine heeled), we thought it would be nice to go explore where we hadn’t been before.
Down a long spiral staircase, we were spit out onto the lower side of the cliff. The only reference we had was the image of the dots on the map, which we had only looked at for a minute or so. After determining which direction in which to walk, we meandered down the slope. Soon, we did find the sanctuary, but it was locked. Further research confirmed that the gate was always locked, and the only one who had the key was Bengazino, who works for the Soprentendenza. We figured we might as well look for the necropolis, too, so we turned and continued down another dirt path. The rain from the previous week had reinforced the greens and yellows and reds of the plants and grasses. Some flowers were blooming, and we eventually realized the route we had chosen led us only to residential homes. An old man was working in his garden nearby. We were lost.
“Buon giorno, signore,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be terribly weirded out by the image of two blond American twenty-somethings in leather boots and sweat marks on their blouses.
“Buon giorno,” he said hesitantly.
“Lei sa dov’e il necropolo?” Not only were we two blond Americans who were sweating in the fall sunshine after an impromptu choice to go on a long walk, we were asking where the necropolis was. We wanted to see the dead people. He gave us directions, and we turned around. By then, though, we had been walking for an hour and my heeled, booted feet were getting sore. After another ten minutes of walking, we decided we could return on another day. Perhaps a day on which we were better prepared for the steep paths and the long climb back up.
I returned home sweaty, but glad I could get some cardio in after a week of no yoga, no exercise other than sitting on trains and walking the stony streets of Pavia. Next time we go, I’m looking forward to bringing my camera with me and showing you all what I’m talking about. Next time we go, I’m definitely looking forward to wearing my sneakers.

On a rainy Thursday morning, Jeremy and I left for the Orvieto station to catch the train to Milan. We had originally thought about going to France, but fall break’s time seemed to be running out, and I had heard that the duomo up there is not to be missed. Luckily, we also have some friends up north from the dig, so we were able to see them, too. More on that later. After a two-hour ride to Florence, we transferred to a Eurostar that was almost direct to Milan, and finally arrived around 3:30pm in Milan. The sky was gray, as we had left it in Orvieto. Apparently the entire country was having brutto tempo (bad weather), as we discovered. It had only just stopped raining before we arrived in Milan, and the newspaper said that Venice had, of course, started to flood, and even down in Naples they were having issues. So, we were pleased that the rain at least had stopped. Our friend Leo met us at the station and generously took our luggage from us so we could take a little jaunt to see the duomo and stroll around for a bit before dinner.
The Milan metro is super easy to use, and it made the city feel small enough to navigate easily. Milan’s duomo is one of the biggest in Europe (third biggest, perhaps?) and is a huge towering mass of spires and points. Very Gothic. Guards from the army were checking bags for security; somehow, Jeremy hadn’t realized he had brought a pocketknife with him and they turned him away. I was already past the door, but I saw him standing there. After a few moments of mouthing back and forth, “Just leave it somewhere!” (me) and “Where should I put it?!” (him), I turned to one of the young guards next to me.
“He didn’t realize he brought his knife with him. Can he leave it with you?” I asked. He looked at me for a moment, and said quietly, “You can’t leave it with me, but if you just put it somewhere around the corner, you can pick it up later.” As I had thought, but at least the esercito had confirmed that it would be safe. Safely propped up in a street-level grate, the knife found a temporary home and Jeremy was allowed into the building. It would have been ridiculous for him to have come all the way to Milan and then wait outside, all because of a silly pocketknife.
The inside is ornate, tons of stained glass, really too much to absorb in a short walk around. There were many side chapels with shrines and offertory candles, some people kneeling in prayer. I liked that the church made very clear where it was not okay for tourists to go—in the area where all the confessionals stood, a printed sign hung that forbade anyone not going to confession to enter. I was impressed with the cathedral’s size, but really the size of its organ. I tried to imagine Palestrina or Mozart being sung, and it made me miss choir.
One of my favorite sculptures of the church was one of St. Bartholomew. I’m sure I’ve seen him depicted before, but I had forgotten his fate: he was flayed alive. In this sculptural depiction, he stands boldly looking out at the viewer, his own skin draped across him like some sort of shawl of carnage. You can’t tell right away that that’s what it is, his skin. But then you notice that there’s a third leg in the scene, that his wrapping has toes and a face. It’s eerie and moving at the same time.
In the crypt (?), the remains of a saint lie, or so they say. Just like with the St. Catherine relic in Siena, I have a hard time buying it, but at least they had this guy’s whole body. His face had a gold mask covering it, and it looked like the rest of the exposed parts of his body did, too, so it was hard to tell how genuine it was. I’ll just have to take their word for it.
After the duomo, we decided to explore a bit more. Next to the Gothic is a lot of modern: Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton. Just looking in the store windows was enough to make me feel like I needed to take out a loan to go clothes shopping. Short dresses for almost 4,000 euro, sunglasses for 350. I break, lose or otherwise mistreat my sunglasses. I can’t imagine having paid that much for them. This area where all the shops are is called the Galeria, and along with designer clothes, it also has cafes facing the walkway where you can people watch (you can also pay 9 effing euro for a BOTTLE OF WATER at these places. I think not.) Jeremy and I had to drool over the window for an old pasticceria, and the photo should explain why. Cakes four inches in diameter, however, could cost 50 euro. We wondered what a 50 euro cake might taste like, but were absolutely not willing to indulge the curiosity.
We found La Scala, the opera house. The outside is nothing to speak of, but it was closed, so I didn’t find out on that trip what one of the world’s most famous theatres looks like inside. Next time. The Lonely Planet we had mentioned a place called Peck, a grocer, so to speak, that had been in operation since the late 19th century. Modernized, and with two of its own restaurants around the corner, it was the nicest grocer I’d ever seen. Although small, it would have put AJ’s to shame. They have 3000 types of cheese, and every meat or fish you can imagine. They even had pig feet AND pig snout. And pig ears. There were still little hairs on the pig snout. It was gross. There was also a bakery with chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, and you can order food to take away (pastas, etc). Knowing we were having dinner soon, we restrained ourselves. Next time I’m there, though, I want to buy a lunch.
Eventually we made our way to the metro and Leo picked us up from the stop. We are very lucky to have so many friends who, like Leo, are truly salt of the earth people: generous, kind, good company, the works. He took us to his home, which reminded me of somewhere my aunt, Helen, would have loved. Throughout the place were books about art and history, as well as interesting art and bits and pieces of things that could be found art. In the guest bathroom was one of the plastic bodies from the torso up that has the color coded organs and half a brain, that sort of thing. I guess it sounds weird, but it felt homey to me to be in a place like that. We were treated to an absolutely lovely evening, a home-made meal courtesy of his partner, and lots of interesting discussion that inevitably ended up at politics. By that time, though, it was getting late and our brains (especially Jeremy’s) were hurting from all the Italian. The next morning was the beginning of Fall Break, Part 4: Party in Pavia!