San Gimignano is Not, Repeat, NOT For the Faint-Hearted

Now, there are two reasons why I am giving such a warning. One, if shear, utter landscape-beauty hurts your eyes and makes you collapse upon the soft warm grassy knoll in fits of terrifying agony, then please, do not FORCE yourself to go to San Gimignano.

On the other hand, if you think landscapes are pretty groovy and are willing to commit at least 30 minutes to sitting right outside the wall, mostly keeping to yourself, and staring directly at the greenery in front of you, then by god with all your might, do not go to the torture museum.

It seems I have been dreaming of Tuscan landscapes,  though I don't think I ever knew that it was exactly what I was looking for. I'm not even sure if I knew it existed. You see, no matter what kind of photo I post, it is nothing like looking down over it, with your own two eyes. And even though my love of photography is indestructible, I believe with all my heart that there are things that simply cannot be photographed, and can only be seen and kept sacred through our memory. No worries though! I still tried:

So Saturday around 10:15 am, I boarded a bus headed for San Gimignano with about 13 other students, Fabio, our tour guide extraordinaire and Lisa, a woman working on developing The Siena School's art program. (You know I overheard something about a post-bac, but I don't want to spread any academic rumors.)

And of course, San Gimignano is wonderful. It's a lot smaller than Siena, but still has it's own unique charm. There was a quick second when I thought: "Well gosh! Why didn't I study here?"Don't worry though, no regrets coming from this ol' lady. 

Let me restate once again, though, that if you please, do not even think about entering the torture museum.

You can see me here, being photographed by my friend Jeanie (yes that is my new backpack), and yes, it's true, we left just a bit early. As we reached the basement level, where 10 of us in a very small space saw a cloaked figure in front of a noose, and two other hideous bloody fake people that I actually cannot remember the exact position of because I have obviously blocked it from my memory, I turned to dear Jean, and said  "Andiamo," she nodded and said "Thank you for 'andiamo-ing' that." Thank goodness we left, because, you see, after just witnessing the horrific truths of the past, you walk outside, and find a charming medieval city, where, gosh I don't know, fairy tales take place or something. It's as if torture never existed. Honestly, there was violin music filtering down the hill. So we moved quickly and got a slice of delicious pizza. 

Then, with the smell of the museum finally moving away, we walked towards a garden, where, among other things, a man with a deep vibrato recited from memory Dante's Inferno.  With all of my heart I could not be making this up. Either the residents of San G. knew exactly the kind of tourists a Saturday would bring, or Italy in the summertime is just a place of pure magic.

I'll spare you the details of the second torture museum (oh yes, oh yes). Well just a quick explanation. The first museum was overall torture. People who stole bread, committed adultery, or gosh who knows, smiled on the wrong day--that was the first torture museum. The second was just for witches. Witches, i.e. women, i.e. beyond grotesque. The only slightly amusing thing about all of this was the chain necklace of joker cards a man was forced to wear if he was caught smoking without the proper license. 

But never mind all that--walking past the one man show, we entered the garden at the top of San Gimignano. Covered in olive trees it was some kind of Eden, and of course, after climbing stairs on the edge of the medieval walls, one could once again see the entire Tuscan region before them. And from another little corner, every single famous tower of the small town were in magnificent perspective. Well, that and someone's laundry.

Finally, I leave you with this chuckle-a-minute masterpiece. San Gimignano also has claim to the best gelato in the world, or as Fabio dubbed it "Super Gelato". One thing I know I will severly miss when I leave Italy is nocciola. 'Dunkin Donuts Hazelnut Iced Coffee' just doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid. So here I am, chowing down on gelato: nocciola, tirimisu, and fragola. Weird combination, I know, but hey, it was all delicious. I'm still working on being able to finish a whole cone, though. I eventually had to turn this one over to a few friends to finish it off. My schoolmate and friend, Devin Daugherty was able to capture this image before that.

So to wrap it up, no I have not yet had nightmares about torture instruments, and I'm trying to keep it that way. I'm working my way through the last week of intensive Italian, and studying a little extra bit every night for the big test coming up on Friday. Then I'm free as a bird and the real classes start! 

My love to all, and I hope September is being reasonable to all of you!

Becca

Extra Photos, Small Update

So I know I'm "studying abroad" and I'm trying to get hip to all of this "language immersion" and actually "speaking italian" but honestly, it's really hard enough to know how to use a blog in my own birth language as well as having to work my way through Italian computer language, which in truth makes no sense. But I keep trying, and with two weeks down and one week remaining of intensive Italian, I am praying that I'll be able to communicate my way through this gosh darn website.

Last night there was a grand discussion at the dinner table about whether or not leather was made from cows. First, I tried to convey to them that "domani io compro (un sac, oh Hello French!) per me. Now, that really makes no sense. Tomorrow I buy a backpack for me. Okay whatever I tried, they got it. Then I tried to describe leather, because they didn't know that word. And the only way I could think of it was this way: cow. Tizie, from upstairs (she had run to get her dictionary/iPhone) and Rita sitting at the dinner table, at the same time screamed: MUCCA?! Well in Italian, cow is mucca, and my two sisters had no idea that leather (pelle) comes from cows.
I felt like such a jerk to be the first one to tell them. Well, the discussion went on, Rita gave me a short lecture on how they don't own much leather, and that if the clerk at a store ever said "This is cow leather", she would throw up her hands and refuse it. Suddenly Tizie perks up from her iPhone: "A COW HAS FOUR STOMACH!" And the laughter ensues.
Finally, we get to the answer. Leather as they knew it, yes, came from animals, but not specifically "cows"--and more specifically, they come from bovine!

I did not have the heart to tell them, though, exactly what bovines are.

Nevertheless, it all ended in laughter, and I promised to show them the bag the next day, so they could fully examine the "cow-leather-bag" I was treating myself to.

(read backwards) Italian: Espresso! (blue beginners version)

So hopefully with my new cow leather bag, I can give up any attempts at being true to animal activism, and I maybe even brush up on some more Italian.

So along with all these exciting adventures that make normal life in Italy extraordinary to the American abroad, I have some extra photos from the cooking class I took last Thursday, in which we made all kinds of pasta, pasta, pasta! (As seen in my last post)

Hands of the owner, who spoke no English--but luckily, folding tortelli is pretty straight forward.

And so it all comes together, gnocchi, tortelli, biscotti, and pici! It was really a delicious meal. 

Tomorrow I head with my school to the wonderful town of San Gimignano, so hopefully you'll seeing another post from me soon!

Greetings and Salutations,
(Re)Becca

One Week Down

This evening, when I asked my brother if he felt exhausted at first when he was abroad, he responded: "Oh yeah, for, like, the first two months." Well isn't that just grand.
I've heard it from every corner of the Siena School, though, that the first few weeks you will feel overly exhausted, and though you go to bed at 10 and wake up at 8 and get much more sleep than you ever would in any other circumstance, you'll still find yourself sitting in front of your Italian teacher Deborah, just on the brink of closing your eyes for good when suddenly, you need to introduce Caterina, using new vocab you should have just picked up on.
It's all coming together slowly, though. After just one week immersed in the culture, I can understand most of what my host sisters say, and work my way through the bank, farmacia and the tabbachi. And truth be told, it isn't the worst to be clueless in Italy, because people have such patience, and of course, everyone is great at playing charades.

My school is located at the (what feels like) the top of the tallest hill in Siena. It's a fifteen minute walk straight up from the bus station, and then a climb to the third floor. So, usually, by the time I get into the classroom, I've pretty much walked off my breakfast.

This is the view from the student lounge.

None of that matters, though---the view is worth every step you take.

Basically my day starts as such: I get up and find breakfast waiting for me on the kitchen table. Things seem to run very smoothly in an Italian household, and it is simply because my host sisters take control of every little thing. Any small offer to help with a chore is automatically shot down, and there is no way to argue around it.  My routine has become a yogurt with a banana, some tea, and though they always put out some sort of cake or cookie for me, I usually don't eat much of that. Tonight actually, I received my first comment about it all. 

Basically, to sum it up quickly, they think I hate their food because I can't pack away three plates of pasta. And this was one of the most frustrating moments, trying to explain how much I love the food, but how I just couldn't stomach so much pasta. And then the dreaded moment came. They offered to make me authentic American food. I guess I could regret this later, but motioning my hands as loud as I could, I threw my right hand in a lateral motion, and then lightly but firmly banged fist against the table saying: "No american food!"

Luckily, they laughed. I think they get it, though they are not shy about commenting on how "little" I eat, and how much they make for me. Even with all of those comments, though, I appreciate every thing they do for me, and how helpful they've been these first weeks. Friday night, as I left to go into the center of Siena, Tizie exclaimed: "Good! Go! Enjoy! Have fun!" And all it does is plaster a smile on to my face. 

So far, I think one of the highlights of my time here has been the cooking class that myself and all of the other 14 students took at a local restaurant. Here, we were taught by a very kind man who showed us how to fold perfect tortelli and tortellini, how to make biscotti by hand, and then served us every single piece of pasta that we made ourselves. 

I made some more photos of the process on another friends camera (mine was too bulky to carry around as I covered myself in flour and eggs), so hopefully I'll be able to add those soon. All in all, it was an amazing meal, though it was nonstop pasta. Slowly, I'm getting used to how meal time works. Breakfast just barely holds me until lunch, and though sometimes it feels like I'm begging for dinner to come, most nights my hunger doesn't lurch until I smell the delicious fumes twirling downstairs.

This is a dish that Rita, the younger sister, made on Saturday night. It's a tomato and cream sauce, with mushrooms and sausage. This is the first dish where I asked for seconds. I did regret it, though, when she pulled out the onion frittata.

And it's amazing that only a week ago I was scared about getting an authentic experience with my two sisters. I couldn't ask for better cooks, more patient people, and two women who are truly interested in my life. Sometimes it's hard to see if they like me enough, but I'm definitely on my way into their hearts---I've promised to make them pancakes.