As People Tend To Do

So I’ve changed my mind, as people tend to do. Originally my plan was to live in Perugia, Italy for the entirety of the academic year—hoping to expand my mind and subsequently my body (this not getting fat thing hasn’t really worked out.) But now that I’ve reached the end of the first semester, I’ve decided to return home, to a wintry and impossibly cold Maine and then venture onto a similar feeling Vermont.

I took a city bus tour of Perugia yesterday. With the weather somewhat frigid, the beer in my hand warm, the city of Perugia glistening in the pale December sunlight, I felt my heartstrings tug a little. Like some decisions in our life, I’ve almost come to regret making this choice a little too hastily, for if there were ever a place to live in Italy, Perugia would walk over all other competitors.

Four months isn’t enough time to get to know a city. It isn’t enough time to learn a language. It isn’t enough time to try every restaurant, every dance club, to visit every church, to see every play, to meet every handsome, single man. But it does seem to be just enough time to fall in love with a city.

I’ve been trying to process how I’m feeling lately—why at times I feel like Italy was the wrong choice for me, while at other times I’m completely sick to my stomach with despair about having to depart from her oily clutches. Maybe I just need a certain amount of time to find myself attached to a place—to find the café that always serves coffee the way I like it, the bookstore that smells like the old leather in our living room, the women who remind me of my mother.

It has been a fleeting last few weeks here in Perugia, the time waning with the convivial autumnal sunshine. Stores are closing earlier, the grocers and bar tenders seem to know that the students are all returning to their respective homes, stories of Italy tucked securely into their pockets. The streets seem emptier, eerily lit with the sparkling Christmas lights, the nippy winter evenings chasing everyone inside to their bottles of Montenegro.

Last night I woke up in the night, sometime around 4 AM. Our apartment was exceptionally cold, for the heater doesn’t turn on until around 8 AM, initiating the day’s activities. I left my bedroom and sat on the communal couch that is our living room and looked around our austere apartment, trying to place what it is that has changed about me over the past few months.

Could it be the language that I’ve improved on, the people I’ve met, the copious amounts of food that I’ve consumed, the bottles of wine that sit empty in the recycling bin? I imagine that it could be all of these factors, blending into one big mass of change. But I also think a part of this big new love for Italy comes from me and my childhood storybooks and Fra Angelico’s “Annunciation” and tastes of panetonne and everything that has imbued my life with it’s characteristics, flaws, advantages, etc.

I’ve made 20 pies during my stay in Italy—and one might say that my pie making skills have certainly changed for the better. I make a pie dough in less than 10 minutes and roll it out with a used wine bottle. There have been numerous different types: peach, chocolate, apple, pear, butterscotch, caramel and dried fruit. There is something about the chemistry for me, the conversion of bland to sweet, from mundane everyday products to impossibly delectable outcomes—it makes me feel like life has that kind of potential too—to miraculously change from simple and routine to something inexplicably good. God that sounds corny, but this conversion to goodness and hopefulness seems to fit Perugia—and consequently, me.

I started this blog with little or no goal. The people who read these words are mostly my family, my friends, maybe people who think they’ve stumbled upon a weight loss website. I didn’t know what I wanted to write about and I still don’t—my posts evident of the random thoughts that Italy provoked in me. But somehow this mixture of these arbitrary, these unsystematic writings make me feel better—sure they are therapeutic, helpful when wanting to vent—but there is something about seeing them all clumped together, like a little family of experience.

I fly out of Italy Saturday morning, very early. I’m sad and hopeful and nervous and extremely happy and already homesick for the stark walls of my apartment, Via Deliziosa 12.

But just for my own benefit I think I shall keep this blog thing going—maybe I’ll change the title to “I’m Not Getting Fat In College”. Not as romantic and lilting sounding as the other title, but I guess that’s just where I am now.

I recently read a quote by Elenora Duse and it says “If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, Rejoice, for your soul is alive.” This is how I feel about Italy.

The Persistent Nose of Memory

This is a piece I had published in PineStraw Magazine. So here it is, with a few of my own edits:

Scent: One of the most producing of senses, it embodies the world of memory, the forgotten love notes and arguments, the precious moments we chose to remember, the ones we chose not to. Every so often a scent is so overwhelming that it feels as if the world has shifted and you are experiencing an elapsed moment of time—a rare gem of history. And it’s so surprising, this shift, that it seems to light you from within and seems to heal you in ways that you never even knew needed healing.

Italy has a distinct scent: the garlic that settles into the fleshy fingertips of our hands, the smell of cold stone in a hushed chiesa, the musty air that hovers over a family run augriturismo, the sliced sweetness of a melon. The scents of Italy linger above our heads like the strings of a puppet show, waiting to draw the curtain and reveal a memory. In one fluid motion, our minds are filled with the aromas of Italy and flooded with reminiscences.

~

On a recent trip to Todi, I was overwhelmed with a scent from my childhood. It began when I walked past an ancient gate, a gate that may once have been used to protect a small garden or foster a young love. The metallic makeup of the gate was enveloped in a lanky plant. Not having a background in botany, I couldn’t identify which plant encased the entrance. But despite my lack of botanical knowledge, I still took away a granule of insight from the plant. This granule of familiarity, this crumb of memory was produced by the scents of Italy.

The plant smelled like my father’s workshop. It is a complicated scent, a mixture of burnt leaves and sandalwood aftershave, of freshly laundered clothes and bold coffee. I remember watching my father haul a bag of mulch over his shoulder, bearing the weight against his body, the pungent scent of manure mixing with the brackish smell of sweat.

I can recall lying in the garden, this fragrant smell covering my body like a blanket. To simply pass the afternoons, drenched in this smell felt like heaven to me: watching the trees shift in the wind, the sky turning from pale to blue. We, my brother Jack and I, would while away the hours, re-enacting civil war battle scenes, dozing in the hammock, saturated in the scent of the workshop.

At this moment of recognition, I felt my eyes water: a familiar scent in Italy gave my weary foreigner heart a chance to rest. It soothed me to know that I was 4,000 miles away from home in Italy yet only mere seconds away in my memory.

~

Someone wise once told me that there exists in the human heart, a great propensity to hope in tandem with a voracious desire for the times gone by. They claimed that as human beings, we are presented with an immense amount of longing—an insatiable appetite for days of the past, the yesteryears, the golden moments of flimsy photo albums. These moments recapture instances we’ve lost, figments of history. They are rivulets of memories rushing lazily through the course of a lifetime.

Do we ever truly lose sight of the past? We may try our best to forget, move on, attempting to let go of our previous history, but the problem with letting go of anything is that theory rarely matches reality --life isn't lived on paper. It's lived in the day-to-day world of personal memory and unexpected emotion. Like a closet full of things, its jumbled and untidy. Nothing is ever really forgotten, and even if you “let go” of everything, it will eventually find it’s way back to you. It seems to me that with the world constantly presenting us with smells and fragrances, the past is simply sitting in the piazza just around the corner.

~

When I was a child, I used to think that Italy was God’s footprint. That like my father in the garden, with weeds intercepting his precious plants, he would get so angry he would stamp hard at the ground, angry dust circling his boots. I had figured that God was so fed up with Europe and their lackadaisical time system, their capricious artists, who tended to flee on the job, that he stamped his boot so forcefully on the European ground, thus creating Italy.

I used to imagine Leonardo da Vinci holding hands with Michelangelo, dancing through art galleries, singing praises to fellow artisans. I pictured heaping plates of pasta, spilling over cities, overtaking houses, like the pages of my favorite childhood book, Strega Nonna.

Fourteen years later, I’ve traversed many continents to be in Perugia, Italy, living in a large apartment for four months with the taste of last night’s wine still stinging my tongue. In my initial first few weeks here in Perugia, I had felt a little lost, a little weary of this country and it’s wonderful customs. The constant search for food other than Italian had started to grate on my nerves. The inconvenient transportation system that seems to only run when wanting to made me long for the simplicity and personal clutter of my own car.

My life at home has been so entwined with family and basic comforts, that it doesn’t seem all that shocking I had encountered the feared homesickness. But, as these past few months have worn on I feel as if I’ve found solace in the unanticipated uplifting moments of kindness or the granules of familiarity, the crumbs of memory that seem to sprout unexpectedly throughout this Umbrian hill city.

It is as if Italy has renewed my sense of the past—and for that I am hopeful. I am hopeful for those moments of pure nostalgia and pure reminiscence, because I know they will surface again. Italy is constantly inundating me with the fragrances of my life history, my own homemade powerpoint—the rich smell of espresso invokes the image of my father brewing coffee as we habitually watched the early morning news broadcast together. The sharp scent of gas, emitted from a Vespa summons a cool fall evening out on our boat, navigating the Maine Sea. The persistent culinary fragrances that drift through my neighborhood, escaping one window and floating into the next, remind me of my mother’s cooking; all of them soothing me.

James Salter once wrote, “Life is weather, life is meals.” The veracity of this statement is undeniable; meals are the prelude to love, the sorrow in a goodbye, the joy in a lifetime. They are the elastic that binds a meal, the glue that holds a day and the human life together. Without them, life would be but nothing, for our entire history has at times been conducted over a dining room table, across a cup of tea, through the steam of a rich Cassoulet.
Like the many before us and many that will ensue, the act of partaking in a meal will be ingrained in our culture for as long as we exist. Celebration is in our nature, and what better way to celebrate than to indulge in the fruitfulness of the earth—the sweet kernels of corn that only grow in the summer time, the bucolic, milky Mozzarella di Buffola, the acidic yet unreservedly sweet Maine blueberries.
It fascinates me how intricate meals are: The preparation for a meal alone is cumbersome: who to feed and what to feed them with, how to create and when to do it, our instinctive methods vs. instructional ones. But the art of dining together or of eating alone, the remnants of domestic family dinners, of raucous drunken evenings, of quiet solitary breakfasts give breath to ours lives.
I have found solace in the habitual Italian culinary lifestyle—meals are valued here. There is no sense of rushing, no sense of haste. To take the time to enjoy a mere morsel of truffles is to take the time to enjoy life. The simplicity of eating together, the intimacy of preparing a meal for others is not something to brush aside but instead something value deeply, for as Virginia Wolf once wrote “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well if one has not dined well.”

I recently threw another dinner party in my apartment at a table built for eight. We fit twenty-five of us around the old mahogany set-up, elbows squeezed into sides and knees careful not stray in the web of legs. A mixture of languages lingered liltingly through the kitchen as my roommates and I prepared multiple dishes. Our Italian friends mingled with our American friends, bridging the cultures together, both relating over a common cultural rite: eating.
The meal had been prepared with a great propensity of eagerness. As I chopped the red onions, sautéed the garlic in oil, bathed the mussels in white wine, questions plagued my mind. What if our newfound guests despised our take on the Italian classics such as Mussels Al Fresco or a Pasta Carbonara? What if the conversation came to an abrupt halt, the language barrier baring its true colors? Would they like the wine, the cheese? Would there be an immense amount of awkwardness that comes with the territory and reality of being a foreigner?

But as I simmered and stirred, I glanced out the kitchen door towards our guests and looked at their faces: The preparatory beginnings of the complex dinner trickled out of kitchen, adorning the table of the dining room. The scents danced puckishly around the hungry noses of each passerby, prying open eyelids, widening nostrils. The conversation had grown so loud that our older neighbor had “shushed” us, muttering something about “Polizia”. All of my fears had dissipated.

As soon as the food was placed in front of our guests, they dug in with the fervent enthusiasm and uninhibited joy, every cook hopes for. Of course it’s entirely plausible that in some dishes the sauce was too thin or too burnt, the vegetables too mushy, but no one seemed fazed. Voices echoed throughout our cozy, barren apartment, ricocheting off empty platters and bouncing about the room. Hands brushed reaching for more wine, conversations went from platonic to romantic in seconds, cheeks flushing with contentment.

It seemed and seems that here in our stark and cold Italian apartment, and thus in Italy, that life is more than the food that decorates our plates, more than the hunger that dictates our tummies. It is the conversations that stem from good company, the enjoyment of a rare bottle of wine, the purely delicious, briny mussels, the resolve of a fight, the makings of a future. Here in Italy, the meal is life. It is the most significant, vital part of the day, the epitome of existence, the love poem to living.

I have two dining room tables. Each one is fashioned out of wood. Each one embraces a family. One table sits in my mother’s house in Maine, the other traversing many states, is placed in my father’s home in North Carolina. Although the faces at their respective tables vary greatly, the climates wholly diverse, the food and it’s recipes hailing from separate regions on the world, there is one thread that ties each of these tables together, one theme that is a constant in these dining rooms: my family.

I love Thanksgiving for two reasons: The first one being that my family draws closer together on this holiday, our busy lives pausing for one day, one night, one meal. The other, much to my chagrin, is the canned cranberry sauce my parents so lovingly and possibly begrudgingly buy for me.

It seems to me that as I have gotten older, the concept of family has faded from lead actor on stage to extra in the background. The ties that were once strong between my siblings and me are replaced by tentative “Hello’s” as we timidly try to find common ground between us, the imaginative, inventive games that once dictated our relationships long since grayed with time.

But this isn’t a bad thing. I see it as a phase that will pass when we all reach similar life checkpoints—when our financial worries are paired with our relationship problems and the leak in our apartments that has still yet to be fixed by our lazy super.

Then we can talk. But in the mean time, the dining room tables and the annual holiday season seem to bring out our loquacious sides, the garrulous and happy mouths that harbor insatiable appetites, the family bond that can only stem from kitchen angst, hectic preparation and the excessive expenditure of money. It’s what I love most about Thanksgiving.

My roommates and I have resolved to have our own Thanksgiving feast. A newsletter was sent around to American students informing us of the limited ways to obtain a turkey in Perugia. With a turkey only costing 40 Euro, we’ve decided to buy a bird and shove it in our non-functioning oven and see what comes out.

I will admit that I am completely in love with Perugia, Italy. I adore the locals, the food, the sporadic bursts of sunlight in November, the exstatic exclamations of life. But part of me is impossibly sad to be missing my favorite holiday. Part of it is the food because truly, there is NOTHING better than salted, sage turkey topped with cider and shallot gravy. There is nothing comparable to the lolling lumps of garlicky mashed potatoes or the steaming butternut squash and parsnip puree.

But the other part is the family. So, I guess this post really has no point, as most of my post never do. But I just want my family to know that I will miss them and their laughter and their stories on Thanksgiving. Though I’ve got Italy and pretty shoes and good smelling perfume and delicious Italian food, there really isn’t anything that I love more than you all!

Sorry for the delay, I've been sick!

It’s funny how quickly you fall in love with a place, it’s rustic characteristics and it’s unusual quirks. I feel as if my heartstrings are completely attached to Perugia, they tug with adoration and loyalty.

I met a girl at the bar last night, who said, “Perugia is the drabbest and ugliest city” she’s ever been to, with the exception of Glasgow and New York. First of all, I was clearly the wrong person to be saying these things to for I love New York and I’m Scottish, most of my family originating from Glasgow. But beyond that, obviously this girl had absolutely no idea what she was taking about, no ground for this argument (weather doesn’t count) and I’m positive New Yorkers, the fine people of Glasgow and the gracious Perugian citizens would all agree.

I feel like it’s a slight against my quaint Perugia and me when I hear harsh words used to describe this sweet little Umbrian hill city. No one talks about my wobbly, cobblestone alleyways, the gloomy and somewhat unpromising clouds that seem to have settled down atop Perugia in winter, with disdain and detest.

It isn’t that I can’t relate to the annoyance at the constant damp weather pattern. Nor am I oblivious to the increasingly frustrating lackadaisical sense of time.

But I know the grocers by their names and vice versa. I can name all of the homeless dogs that wander the streets looking for abandoned scraps of food. I know what delicacies come from Umbria and what do not. I get complimented on my Italian.

When I first arrived here I was incredibly homesick, missing the United States and it’s simplicity—I felt like I had no connection to Perugia, that if I had to pack up all my things and return to Vermont, there would be no reservations. But it seems to me, that I’ve accidentally fallen in love with Perugia. As with many things in life, time and immersion tend to cure all hesitancies. I seem to have fallen head over Prada heels in love with this city.

In a country that respects the fundamental and simple pleasures of taking time to live life, it is inherently touching to experience the unanticipated audible drama of excitement that seems to explode from within the Italian people. The slowness of time, the indelible passage of it is respected here, but it is intrinsically clear that the Italians relish in the sweet and at many times poignant moments of life.
A few weeks ago, as I walked back home through the regaling streets of Perugia, lethargic from too much chocolate, I experienced one of these charming moments of life fully lived, a theatrical burst of joie de vivre.
Through the entrance of Via dei Priori, a crowd began to heave and mold into a circle, enclosing a band of musicians. It was as if the band of cheerful men had activated a magnet, for the crowd began to swell and draw nearer to these beguiling gentlemen, bedecked with cumber buns and disorderly tuxedos, their stately dress and boyish demeanors indicating a show for the record books.
With the abrupt pulse of a drum and the undeniable blasts of a trumpet, the mass yelled out with enthusiasm and sang

along with the liltingly raucous music. The band grew increasingly giddy as they passed around an unlabeled bottle of wine,

their lips stained burgundy with energized inebriation. The explosion of laughter from the crowd in tandem with the ebullient

music reverberated against stonewalls and arch ways of Via dei Priori. One cannot help but feel happy at these rare and bizarre

moments of sheer togetherness, of warm camaraderie.

I finally feel as if I’ve come to a peace agreement with Italy. We’ve both put down our wielding swords and reached a common ground, a shared notion of understanding.

In the previous few weeks I had begun to feel a little lost, a little weary of this country and it’s wonderful customs. The constant search for food other than Italian had started to grate on my nerves. The inconvenient transportation system that seems to only run when wanting to made me long for the simplicity and clutter of my own car. Our apartment, with its unpredictable water pressure instilled in me a negative outlook on the Italian plumbers guild.

My life at home has been so entwined with family and basic comforts, that it doesn’t seem all that shocking I was encountering the feared homesickness. But, as these past few days have worn on I feel as if I’ve found solace in the unanticipated uplifting moments of kindness or the granules of familiarity, the crumbs of memory that seem to sprout unexpectedly.

For example, the autumnal weather that has encapsulated the city reminds me so much of fall in New England. The crisp, burnt, woodsy scent, that smell of absolute stillness and cold, transported me home to my yard—a childhood memory of raking leaves replacing my thoughts. Every so often a scent is so overwhelming that it feels as if the world has shifted and you are experiencing an elapsed moment of time—a rare gem of history. The unforgettable scent of fall rushes through the pages of memory, eliminating my discomfort and my trivial complaints.

This past Friday I was walking home from Parma, a bottle of wine and some fruit inside a grocery bag slung over my shoulder. As I rounded the corner to my apartment I felt my feet slide out from under me, the bottle of wine slipping from the bag. With the abruptness of my fall and the unmistakable sound of broken glass I began to cry.

I’m not sure why the tears came so hastily, for I generally pride myself on being the type of girl who doesn’t cry over a stubbed toe or even a broken bottle of wine. It could have been a combination of the sharp pain and the overbearing weight of homesickness.

The warmth of the tears as they slid down my cheek only embarrassed me more, heightening my awareness—people had seen me fall and were now seeing me cry. I tried to be brave—but sometimes it is impossible. The thought of having to pick yourself up and brush yourself off seems to dissipate with the anguish of the moment.

Looking up from my pathetic state I saw that three old women had gathered around, looks of concern radiating from their faces. “Non pianga”, “Don’t cry”, they told me. Helping me to my feet and steadying my walk, they all wiped the tears from my cheeks. And it was in this moment, these perfect minutes of human goodness I felt happy to be here in Italy. The ancient, Italian women walked me home, each carrying a grocery bag, smoothing my hair from my face and telling me about the many people they have seen slip in the same spot.

And so, I’ve decided this: that wherever we are in the word, whatever outfit we chose to wear, person we fall in love with, decisions we make along the way, there will always be a moment of pure upset. A moment of “what was I thinking?” Of confusion, of self-consciousness. It’s undeniable, we can’t avoid these moments—it will happen to me and to you and to everyone else.

But what makes these instances bearable, what makes everything worth it are these rare moments that life seems to throw at us. A unnervingly serene sunset over Florence, the comfort of a good book, the unexpected help of others, the scents of our childhood. They all seem to shift the bad over and replace it with the good. And it’s so surprising, this shift, that it seems to light you from within and seems to heal you in ways that you never even knew needed healing.

Someone wise once told me that there exists in the human heart, a great propensity to hope. They claimed that as human beings, we are presented with an immense amount of longing—an insatiable appetite for days of the past, the yesteryears, the golden moments of flimsy photo albums. Those moments of the past and these moments of the present seem to recapture instances we’ve lost, figments of our lives that seem long gone. They are rivulets of hope rushing lazily through the course of a lifetime.

My favorite face in Italy.

His is my favorite face in all of Italy. The lines that crease his forehead, the light whisper of age that sprinkles his temples, the rugged handsomeness of his features all seem to illuminate the kindness and earnestness that undoubtedly reside within him.

His name is Francesco, and he owns Parma, a small but well stocked grocery store. The shelves are lined with an assortment of culinary treats, ranging from truffle sauce to cioccolata amara, dust collecting on their labels. The storefront boast a wide range of meats and cheeses, most hailing from Italy, others still encased in the wrapping of their former home countries. Walls intersect with stairways, aisles overlap with main walkways and the smell of pure, salty meat lingers overhead.

Francesco mostly stands behind the miniature checkout counter, engaging with locals and smiling at tidbits of gossip. His white apron is impeccable, never graced with a stain or blemish. He is never scurrilous nor is he bad tempered—he waves from the stoop to passersby and listens when one complains about the new cold front that has overtaken the city.

I like to think about his home life, his world outside of the hectic walls of Parma. Does he have a wife? A family? Are his shirts as impeccable at home as they are in the store? Does he eat the fresh and wholesome ingredients that Parma displays? I like to picture him, whistling softly under his breath, stirring a sauce for a daughter or son, commenting on their trivial yet exceedingly important troubles at school.

I’ve only seen him once in the outside world. I was walking home from the gym, my sneakers in hand, when I glanced further up the descending escalator to see Francesco and a very pretty woman conversing. As the opposing escalator reached my section I saw that the woman was yelling and gesturing loudly with her hands, throwing them up in disagreement. He saw me looking at them and smiled a broad smile. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, the argument ended and kisses ensued.

I like to think of Italy as a picture book of faces. Throughout the course of a day, one is constantly inundated with images by brief encounters with others. Stoic faces, aging smiles, exultant exclamations, line my thoughts and dreams of Italy, each circulating back to support a theory, or elucidating a pleasant or unpleasant experience.

It is as if the characters of Italy will forever inhabit my thoughts and reminiscences, changing the way that I view the world and people in it.

Like the snapshots from the pages it seems as if the aspects and characters from history have come to life. The old man who’s leathered hands grip a cane tightly as he makes his way through the heaving crowd. The strict faced, tight-lipped policemen who roam the alleys with their clubs bouncing sternly in their hands. The gypsies, although fearsome, gleam through the street with their eccentric colors and gaudy cups, musically jingling their cherished change.

~

To prove my loyalty to Francesco and his trendy store, I visit Parma everyday. Sometimes I purchase tomatoes and fresh Mozzarella di Buffola, for a quick Insalata Caprese. Other times I just buy some tea or chocolates, allowing myself to try and speak Italian with my favorite head grocer.

Our conversations don’t consist of much, seeing as how my Italian is rather limited. But we understand each other on an emotional level, and on a level of basic necessity: food. He flits through the store, loading his arms with crackers, sugar, flour, casually and discreetly adding to your shopping list.

The store is always swarming. Women with their babies attached to their hips, teenagers calling out for a panino, confused American students, aimlessly wandering the maze like aisles of the store.

But his face is never changing. Even when the harsh wind of Perugia seems to lock everyone inside, the rains casting a dreary spell over the city, Francesco always seems to be smiling.

Someone once wrote, “Diversity is not about how we differ. Diversity is about embracing one another's uniqueness.” Obviously this person has never taken an aerobics class in Italy.

Having just permanently lowered my self-esteem and forever branded myself with the label “loser”, I can ardently say that I will never embrace the innately strange movement and dance routines that embody the Italian aerobics class.

To begin with, I showed up to class somewhat nervous. I have never been proficient with any type sidestepping or touch-ball-changing. Nor am I very gifted when it comes to coordination. But putting those disadvantages aside, I do have a good sense of humor about me and generally don’t give up easily. But as they say, never speak too soon.

There were only 5 of us. Four Italian women and one awkward American. First let me elaborate on the dress code of the aerobics class, which I certainly didn’t know about and unquestionably don’t ever hope to reproduce on myself. The women all wore close to nothing: Sports bras with no support, shorts that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination (including underwear color) and pounds and pounds of makeup. I don’t mean to generalize here—I do not want to claim that all Italian women dress this way, but apparently my aerobics class attracted a special breed of ladies.

Now for the teacher--complete in spandex shorts that were so short it appeared as if he was wearing nothing under his t-shirt (maybe he was a Scot at heart). He was all that one could ever hope for in an aerobics instructor. You know, the energetic type that make you feel guilty for taking an extra sip of water, the type that sing the lyrics loudly into the microphone, the type that seem to carry out every task with ease and expect you to as well.

The class began easily enough—some arms raises and knee bends, nothing too out of the ordinary. But then the shit hit the fan. The instructor began by demonstrating this enthralling new dance he created (he’s speaking solely in Italian—another debilitating factor) and wanted everyone in the class to try it. It was rumored to have done wonders for the thighs.

Having blocked it from my memory, I can only recall tidbits of the intricate dance: spinning in circles, arms raised overhead, pausing midst motion sickness to salsa left and salsa right, marching up and down to the beat, smiling broadly. I made it about two spins before I began to feel ill and completely out of my element.

I gave the instructor a pained look, something along the lines of “Please help me” and got no sympathy. It was as if the shorts were cutting off the circulation to his heart, disabling him from feeling any type of empathy for this confused American. The only sign of recognition that I received from this stern little man was the phrase “Va Bene?” which means something like “Is it good?” “Going well?” He constantly and condescendingly shouted this across the room at me, already knowing the answer to his question. No, it wasn’t going well.

So after many unapologetic shrugs from my instructor and many stomach lurches from my tummy, I decided that I needed to leave and that I would never be coming back. I stacked my step loudly and ran out of there, never looking back at my shame that surely still resides in that dance studio.

I have found my future career. It’s not in writing, it’s surely not acting and it isn’t becoming the future apprentice of my girl, Ina Garten. Oh no, it’s none of those mid-level careers. Instead I have found my future calling in something much more elegant and complicated, something that requires true talent and devotion: the creation of dog food.

I was in the grocery store a few days ago and decided to try my hand at the challenge that I posed to myself—making a meal out of four main ingredients. At first I was very confident that I would be able to choose something monumental—that my creation would be worthy of the Food Network. That my trained hands (ha!) would be able to graze the shelves and shelves of food, carefully selecting ingredients that would make a veritable feast, worthy of Ina’s recognition.

Well. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I chose the following ingredients: Rice, Kidney Beans, Chicken Broth and Mushrooms. I think in my mind I was feeling sick of Italian food and nostalgic for my momma’s soup. But I’m not sure how that insatiable longing for soup translated into these incompatible ingredients. I should have stuck with pasta.

So, I trudged home, believing that what I held in my bag would create a delectable soup, something that would dissolve the cold front that has just settled into the hills of Perugia.

First things first. I could tell there was something off in my decision when I opened the can of beans. They smelled like the Alpo dog food and Meaty Bones that we used to feed to our dogs Amos and Bailey. I know this smell for two reasons: 1.) I liked to be the one to feed the dogs. 2.) I also liked to eat the Meaty Bones and sniff the Alpo dog food.

I know this is truly disturbing and disgusting for you to read, but think of how appalled I was when I realized that my nose, senses and memory unconsciously directed me back down dogfood lane. It was a disheartening moment for me.

I think at the time, the combination of my hungry belly and desire to create something inherently good overcame the niggling voice in the back of my mind—telling me to throw out the beans.

In another pan I sautéed the mushrooms in tandem with adding chicken broth to the simmering beans. I then poured the rice and water into the pot, threw in the mushroom and a bay leaf and left my Alpo to bake.

Despite my efforts to improve the dish (salt, pepper, rosemary, etc.), the meal reminded me of those shameful evenings in which I was caught behind my grandmother’s curtains, shoveling dog bones into my mouth.

With one taste of that hideous creation, it was swiftly tossed into the trash. I have no idea what I am doing in this complicated world of cooking.

Trial Two: Beer Battered Deep Fried Chicken. Wish me luck.

Problems with Pie

I constantly feel like I walk out of the Coop (Italian grocery stores) with nothing checked off my shopping list. I go in with elaborate lists, with dreams of roasted vegetables, of homemade Pommes Frites, of Boeuf Bourguignon, of Pesto Pea Soup. But, unsurprisingly, the stores seemed ill equipped for the American taste buds, the impoverished college bellies.

But I did manage to satiate my longing for autumnal charms by making a pie. The recipe comes from Gourmet (shit, do I have to now say “came from”? Sorry Ruth!) and was a Pear and Butterscotch Pie. In all honesty, the pie was relatively easy to make, even in the kitchen from hell, and it tasted very similar to apple pie.

When making anything I’ve never made before, I tend to get a little over zealous and misread the directions. Over the years I’ve added 3 tablespoons of baking soda as opposed to 3 teaspoons, or baked for 2 hours instead of 1. In this case, the case of the Pear and Butterscotch Pie, I needed to make a pie dough and opted for my favorite lady in cooking, INA. The recipe calls for 6-8 teaspoons of water and of course, being the culinary novitiate that I am, I read 6-8 cups.

For those of you that know pie dough—there really isn’t much water involved (thanks Mom for the clarification). I immediately felt skeptical about the copious amount of water after the third cup (it had started to look like the gruel from Oliver Twist) and reached for my phone to call my Alison Bennie.

“Honey no! It’s not 6 to 8 cups. It’s 6 to eight tablespoons.”—Oh. Oops. So, I remade the pie dough—possibly with a little more intensity, now that I felt foolish for thinking I could breeze through a recipe I’ve never made on my own. The pie turned out well—beautiful toasted and tasting of Shelburne Farms, my favorite apple orchard in Vermont.

Anyways—back to the barren grocery store. I can’t find anything. It must be that most of the vegetables that I am craving are seasonal (avacados, broccoli and carrots?) and that I still can’t read any of the names that are, of course, in Italian. So—I’ve decided to try and test my skills (as if trying to make a pie dough out of 6 cups of water wasn’t stimulating enough). The next time and every time after I go into the Coop, I will select four ingredients and make something out of them.

When I say four ingredients I’m excluding spices, butter, oil, etc. It seems impossible and honestly unappetizing to make something out of solely four ingredients (I’m not thinking sandwiches and appetizers). Although—I do remember seeing a book in some dirty college student house that boasted the fact that all the recipes were made with only four ingredients. Gross.

So yes. That’s the challenge for the next few weeks.

Experimental Writing with a hint of James Salter.

Morning light in Italy. The earliest light to sprinkle a sleeping face. The imprint of sleep is often caked upon a cheek, still hot from a dream. This daybreak radiance seems to erase each nocturnal fear, like the evaporation of one’s breath on a mirror.

The paleness of morning is comforting. The peeking face of sun, makes its way into the day, illuminating each shingle, every brass window lock, the minute and hour hands of a clock that sits on a bedside table. The world is entirely peaceful during these precious morning moments. An inexplicable calm seems to encapsulate the city for a few valuable minutes, as if allowing it time to plan an agenda for the day about to commence.

In Via Deliziosa 12, the corner window near the bell tower is the first to be struck by morning light. This window belongs to my bedroom. With the constant purr of the city and the never tiring garbage men who tend to raucously gather our bottles at five in the morning, I continually find myself awake early enough to catch the first dusting of dawn.

With the shutters open, the room expands. The surrounding buildings are old, sturdy and stunning in their rigidity. Laundry hangs limply from tired wires. Looking through the window past the aged rooftops, glimpses of Assisi wave from the distance.

The adjacent medieval homes are balanced precariously on the side of the Umbrian hill, slightly slanted, and seemingly magical. It is inherently strange, but a veritable truth that the rooftops neighboring Via Deliziosa are eerily similar to the set of Mary Poppins. It is as if at any moment, Mary, Bert and the children will whirl by the window, their dancing enthused chimney sweeps following close behind.

The widow itself isn’t very large. Two feet wide and six feet tall with exterior plantation shutters for the humid, summer evenings. It has become a perfect alcove for reading, an escape from the airless heat and is where I love Italy the most.

With the soft lightness of the morning and the stillness that settles within the first few hours of the morning, one cannot help adore Italy, for there is no pretension up here in the rooftops, nothing to complain about. A foreigner’s fears are erased with the silence of thought and the soundless voice of quiet.

And so, this window, with its serene morning light and its flawless dawn of calm, is my epitome of Italy: calm, still and unnervingly beautiful.

I started my morning in the National Gallery of Umbria. I must say that I felt very elegant traipsing around a museum at 10 AM--my roommates still lethargic, sleeping off last night’s amusing endeavors. But when I realized how little I knew about Etruscan art, how little I cared about Etruscan art and how absolutely stifling the museum was, my elegant status quickly reduced to sweaty tourist just keen to return home.

That isn’t to say that I don’t hold an appreciation for ancient artifacts, I’d just rather not look at a life size statue of the Crucifixion at 10 in the morning—something about it seems to make my insides turn upside down; it’s inexplicably nauseating. But of course, that might also be last night’s wine talking.

We had begun this past weekend with plans to take a trip to Elba. With the hope of sunning ourselves and enjoying some gorgeous Italian scenery, we called to make a reservation at a popular bungalow spot, only to be told curtly that there would be no space for the entire weekend. So, onto plan B: Cortona, Italy. By no means a beach or an island, Cortona is an ancient hill town over looking the Tuscan countryside.

Cortona is a thirty-five minute train ride away from Perugia. The scenery on the train ride is decent enough. Although I must say, doesn’t it seem like railroads attract the ugliest of structures and construction? I feel like all one does is look out the window, hoping for a beautiful Tuscan landscape and instead is blinded by the “Police R Pegs” (error intended) and “Make Knitting Not War” (I must take up knitting) spray painted buildings. But the breathtaking, panoramic view that Cortona offer’s, makes up for what the train ride lacks.

We arrived at the train station and found a sweet, endearing cab driver willing to take us up to the main piazza, Piazza Dell’Repubblica. Cortona is located on a very steep hill that has no main train station. There are less than 1,000 residents. Truly a tinsy, tiny town, teetering over Tuscany.

Cortona, for those of you who don’t know, is home to Frances Mayes, the author of Under The Tuscan Sun. At first a book, later rewritten for the silver screen into a production that my father wholeheartedly adores, Under The Tuscan Sun is truly everywhere in Cortona. Posters of Diane Lane cake the medieval walls, a veritable soothing endorphin. There is nothing more comforting than that beautiful woman’s face plastered across a small Italian town. I’m sure my father would agree.

After half an hour of walking uphill and dipping into precious little soap shops, we stopped for lunch at a place called Osteria Del Teatro. Greeted eagerly by the maitre’d, we were seated promptly in the mutedly lit dining room, leather-bound menus placed in our hands.

The menu was limited, due to the late hour at which we ate, so there were not as many choices to be had. But we made due and managed to order exceptionally: Cheese Fondue with Umbrian Truffles, Pasta Caramels with Radicchio, Bacon and Roasted Pine Nut Sauce, Mushroom Risotto with Saffron Sauce and Tagliatelle with Duck Ragu. To satisfy the collegiate hunger in all of us, we also ordered a liter of house red to accompany the meal.

“In Breve” (Italian for “In Short”), the meal was deeply and unaccountably satisfying. Practically waddling our way back through the streets made me extremely happy to have finally had a rewarding Italian meal.

What a fascinating country, Italy. With its lackadaisical time system, stubborn food politics and overwhelmingly rich culture, there seems to be never a dull moment. Whether in a museum, at a restaurant in Cortona or on the minimetro in Perugia, Italy seems to have imbued me with a sense of curiosity. The Italy that I imagined is vastly different from the Italy I am experiencing. After only having been in Perugia for one week, I cannot claim to know Italian culture and therefore cannot contest nor defend my initial imaginings. I trusted my imagination and to a certain extent, my hope, and was lead to Italy. But what I can say, what I have learned, is to accept the late arrival of all Italians, the inflexible views in relation to food and the blinding amount of beautiful culture that resides here on this hill in Umbria.

Life Is Meals...4 Tiresome Meals

We had 20 people at our dinner table last night. Seven Americans, one Polish girl, one Turkish girl and eleven animated Italian men.

Equipped with 15 bottles of wine, a bottle of gin and a bottle of vodka, it appeared that we would make it through the evening unscathed—or at the very least, drunk.

Wait, did you catch that? Eleven Italian men. Eleven! The first word that came to mind when briefing the guest-list was, shit. All of these men were born and raised in Italy, have been stuffed with delectable Italian food and are generally accustomed to eating three to four course meals. Shit, shit, shit. What does one make for an Italian crowd? Maybe a little French food or American food, possibly even Asian food? The answer is simple: No.

In a class I had earlier that day, my teacher stated that Italians only ever eat Italian food, and nothing else. So that rules out you, my beloved, my muse, my Hampton queen, Ina Garten. I guess all of the hours I spent photocopying (and most likely annoying more than half the Bowdoin Magazine staff) recipes from Barefoot In Paris, proved to be worthless.

Where were we? Oh yes, the dinner party for 20. Well as it so happens, I have 5 fabulous roommates who not only have the sweetest of demeanors—but they also come in quite handy in the kitchen (FYI—the kitchen has now been re-named HELL--just for future reference). And considering our appetites and guest requests, I needed all the help I could possibly get.

Fast forward past the excessive wine drinking and desperate cheese eating: Upon realizing that there was no way in HELL (so clever) that I was going to be able to produce four main course dishes and four appetizers, I enlisted Suzy, Chase, Alexis, Leah and Lindsey to assist me with this mammoth of a task.

Three hours later, after sweating it out and cursing at pots and pans, we produced what ended up being a very good meal. Four pasta dishes: Mussels Al Fresco, Tagliatelle with Roasted Red Pepper Sauce, Proscuitto, Mozzarella, Tomatoes and Toasted Pinenut Pasta, and Pasta Carbonara.

Within moments of setting the dishes on the table, the fuss and stress seemed to vanish. Watching the Italian boys (I repeat, boys, not men) delve into our food and drink our wine was so…pleasant. I can only assume that my stress level skyrocketed because I was cooking Italian food for Italians. Oh the judgment! The potential embarrassment! (If you know me at all, you’ll realize that a year ago, I couldn’t even make a piece of toast without burning it, so there is always plenty of room for error.)

When asked if he enjoyed his meal, Zaf, a local Italian DJ replied, “The best I’ve had in three years.” With only two weeks down, and multiple to go, we all seem to have distanced ourselves from the classic American stereotype. Instead we’ve cooked for eleven Italian men, conversed in the romantic language and generally accepted Italy for the strange (at times seriously inconvenient) yet glorious place it is.

Kitchen Complications/My Obsession with Rupie, The Pup Nextdoor.

Our kitchen is a hellhole. Besides the walls crackling at our touch and the rare presence of hot water, there are countless annoyances in the culinary department of Via Deliziosa 12.

To begin with, our fridge doesn't seem to comprehend the concept of keeping food cool. Instead it insists on melting whatever brand of Gorgonzola or Mozzarella that sits on the shelf. A true spawn of Satan, this refrigerator.

Mysteriously we also have no knives to speak of (nor obviously to cut with). It’s a bemusing subject to consider. Were there once knives that inhabited the drawers of this cataclysmic kitchen of ours? Was the last tenant a knife thief? I guess if I knew that Americans were coming to inhabit my Italian apartment, I would take all the knives with me, just to throw them a curveball. So to whoever stole all the knives from our apartment, thank you—slicing onions and mushrooms with forks has never been this stimulating.

But there is one redeeming characteristic to this malevolent kitchen: a large window that overlooks one of the many large Italian apartments in our neighborhood. The window spans quite far and allows the chef of the moment to take a peek into the world of una famiglia italiana. All of the issues that were once so frustrating seem to vanish and fall wayside to my obsession with our neighbors and their sweet pooch Rupie.

On one of the warmer evenings, Chase and I were chopping diligently and noticed a pair of brown eyes, peeking from below the windowsill of the apartment across the way. An older gentleman came through the library and into the room announcing that we were staring straight into the eyes of Rupie, the most adorable of Italian pooches. After this little occurrence, I take my stance at the stove every evening, blatantly staring into the library window hoping for another glance at Rupie and his kindhearted old owner.

Despite the faults of this hellish kitchen, we seem to be producing edible and yummy food—so at least we have that to look forward to. So far I’ve managed to turn out a Mushroom Risotto, Caramelized Onion, Gorgonzola and Prosciutto Pasta, Bruschetta, Sun Dried Tomato Pasta with Caper and Sun Dried Tomato Sauce, and Crab Cakes. I guess as my Mainers would say, “We done good.”

Merengue 101: It's in my nature

Via Deliziosa 12 is pressed between Via Dei Gatti (Street of Cats) and Via Priori (Street of High Ranking Orders). The neighborhood reminds me of a scene from Mary Poppins. It’s the scene where Bert and his fellow chimney sweeps are tap dancing between the sea of old cobblestone houses, leaping from slanted roof to slanted roof and clambering around the city of disfigured quarters.

We (there are 7 of us) live on the 4^th floor in a large and barren apartment that seems to be getting colder by the day. Our hot water doesn’t work, we don’t have a single knife in our kitchen and a lizard lives above my bed. I love it so much.

I have only lived in Perugia for three full days and I already feel as if I am ready to breach beyond the comfort zone that I have set up for myself. I seem to get nervous stepping outside of the streets that I already know and the shops that I’ve visited a few times before. I also feel somewhat tense around the Italians. Please don’t misread what I mean here because I truly find them to be absolutely lovely people. It’s their stress that I worry about—It’s as if one can feel their animosity towards loud, obnoxious Americans. I just don’t want to be stuck in a stereotype.

As for the nightlife, I do have a very interesting story to share. Our very first evening in Perugia was one of completely too many free drinks and much to many free “Merengue dance lessons” on my behalf. Just to specify—I do not know how to dance the Salsa, nor do the Merengue, so you can imagine the hilarity that ensued.

It was certainly one of the best nights I’ve had in a while. Arriving at Merlin’s Pub, only to realize that at 2AM the pub closes, was at first a disappointment, but Chase and I managed to meet some locals who guided us in the right direction--the right direction being Dumos, the underground dungeon-like club that provided us with 4 more hours of fabulous dancing and grooving.

It has been a very overwhelming first few days and nights, but also immensely satisfying. I feel as if I’ve been stuffed to the brim with food but it’s Italian and French food, so I’m very happy to be waddling home with a full belly. But of course, thank goodness for Perugia’s physical layout—the massive hills help burn off the extra calories that one consumed a pranzo.

An Intricate Beginning.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to conceive the perfect beginning to this blog. For the past three months I have had the most restricting of writers block, the kind that seems to diminish any hope one ever had of becoming a writer. I must admit that I haven’t had very much time to sit down with a pad and paper, jotting out ideas for this ambitious little web-log of mine.

Believe it or not, I come from a family of writers. I would imagine that these writers have also suffered from the infamous block, and alas all seemed to have prevailed. So there is hope for me yet.

What I am so stuck on, so timorous about is the basis of I’m Not Getting Fat In Italy. Is a blog simply supposed to be one’s diary, displayed for the entire world to read? If so, you all would be reading about my undying love for my 9^th grade math teacher, or how concerned I am about my dog Noah’s hot spot.

Or is a blog intended to be a source of information? In that case, this beginning would seem to be rather simple. I am spending a year abroad in Perugia, Italy. I am writing down what I see, hear, smell, taste, learn, etc. I am providing all of you that read this blog (Hi Mom, Hi Grandma!) of my whereabouts and general information about Italian and American relations. It sounds clear-cut enough.

But if we’re being honest here (I do believe we are, considering it is my blog) and honesty is a virtue, then I will admit I find comfort in being entertained. Shouldn’t a blog also incorporate humor, humility and other glorious sentiments, into it’s writing? One would hope so. Life can sometimes seem rather drab and at times we need funny little stories and anecdotes to make us feel better.

Having just reread what I’ve written here, it seems as if I’ve only just complicated my thought process even more. Now what was a simple straightforward fact blog is tainted with the expectancy of amusement.

Hmm. I guess the uncertainty comes with the reality that it’s my first time at this. I have never blogged before—I’ve been working it with journals since the 2^nd grade. But bear with me O.K.? I promise to write with my whole heart and to have my Grandmother spell/grammar check everything.

I obviously don’t know what I want this blog to be, nor do I know how I want to present it, BUT I do know the one thing that I feel ardently about: I am not getting fat in Italy.