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.