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From Abroad

2 hours north of Milan is Trento. Its beautiful and its quant and cupped between the dolomite mountains. Once part of austria, its filled with its share of history, culture, winding streets and expansive piazzas. In the 5 months that I’ve been here, my most favorite is still the gorgeous and sprawling piazza duomo: there i have laughed whole heartedly with friends, ridden through on my bike, licked menta gelato from my fingers, purchased bouqets of flowers,gazed for hours at the differing merchants and artisans , and sat at one of the many outdoor cafe’s, wondering how life could get any better.

When first arriving in Trento, the first thing I noticed were the mountains, and the second thing, how far my dorm was from the center. In the end, this fear (or perhaps lazyness) was a gift in disguise because every day I was given yet another chance to stare outside at the beautiful scenery. It never once set in, (the snow capped mountains,trickling rivers and streams, medieval arches and alleyways)- I think up until the end, it seemed almost surreal. Each morning and afternoon I stared outside of the bus window (if i wasn’t reading from a textbook or chatting wityh friends/locals) and as packed, suffocatingly humid and unfortunately smelly, as it was at times, I loved those moments.

Even more fun was biking around Trento. First, I was a little nervious, I have to admit- the last time I rode a bike I was still shopping in the childrens section and instead of turning around a corner, ran into a mailbox. And then there was Trento- the city CREATED for bikes. There are not just sidewalks but “pistaciclabile”, which in the easiest way to explain them are wide sections of asphalt seperate from sidewalks and streets specially made for bicycle traffic. There, I saw everyone and their mother’s cousin riding a bike. One morning I saw an old man who looked like a mix between Al Pacino and Santa Claus, riding an old and seemingly rusty bike while managing to at the same time, smoke a ciggarette and weave around pedestrians walking near Piazza Fiera. I too decided to give bicycling a go and I loved it. The whole semester only one minor accident occured (minor is the keyword!) which ended in my tire in a man’s behind, him cursing in italian (which I unfortunately understood), me apologizing profusely in broken italian and a fast getaway.

(For the record- I had been going really slow and he jumped in front of me- there were witnesses!)

The strange thing about trento, or even italy in general, is you forget how old it is. In trento’s case, how medeival. It’s almost as if it takes tripping over a cobblestone for you you to realize, oh wait, isn’t that a 900 year old castle staring me in the face? Sure, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a United Colors of Benetton store, but its those random times when you stop to think about where you are when you come to realize you are walking amid history. Where landmark councils were held and wars were fought.

If the gorgeous scenery and history wasn’t enough, Trento has its own special something: its austrian-ness. Before WW1, beloved, beautiful trento was part of austria- and though i’m not an expert, sometimes you really can see the remnants all over the place. There are the “Alpini”, for example, Italy’s mountain military forces, with their green uniforms and hats with the long feather sticking out. (google it). Another aspect is the local dialect, which many times consists of cutting the end of words, as in “mezz pezz de pan” instead of “mezzo pezzo di pane” (half a piece of bread). I can recall one day when I was riding the bus a man continued to talk to me in ‘Trentino’ for at least 20 minutes, despite my “confused and boggled” facial expression and my completely irrelevant answers to his questions.

Then there’s the food! The sour krout, the canedeli, the doey struedels and of course wurstel (hot dogs). Sure, you can still find a great plate of pasta or an amazing slice (or 8) of pizza, but the local food is more characteristic. One of my favorite local dishes is called “strangola dei preti”or priest stranglers. Who knew that gnocchi( potato dumplings) with spinach could sounds so blasphemous…

In the end, to be openly bias my favorite thing about Trento was the fantastic people I met from all over the world and the amazing times we shared. Leaving aside my own personal memories and speaking just about Trento, I would say that, for me, one of the most memorable things about the area were the mountain top refuges. Its a strange pick, I know. Whether it was during the winter when it was so cold and foggy that we couldn’t see 5 feet before us or summer when the mountains were like a lush, green canvas, the refuges always remained. Its hard to explain but every time they came in sight it was as if admist the silent and inherently stark nothingness of nature, there was this wooden structure. Depending on the Refugio, you can rest your feet, eat a warm meal and some, even sleep the night. Their simplicity, beauty and sheer remoteness make them, for me, something you must see and almost certainly will never forget.

pictured above is the Alimonta Refuge, Dolomiti di Brenta, (2,580 meters)

Sitting at the end of the long rectangular dinner table, i rolled the jar of JIF peanut butter between my palms and waited to see their responses. The only two things I brought with me to represent my country, at least in a culinary sense, were smooth peanut butter and A1 steak sauce. For almost everyone, the former was something completely foreign, and suprisingly, they were a little confused by it. What would you eat this with? Why would you eat it? By the end of the taste test the general concensus on my beloved peanut butter or as they say in italian, burro di arachidi, was painfully clear: too sticky, too salty, too strong… disgusting.

In the end though, food is that one thing that brings us together, even if we don’t agree on it. And without a doubt, Italy, is the graceland for all things culinary.

In the memior, “Eat, Pray, Love”, Elizabeth Gilbert travels to Italy to do as she says, “rediscover pleasure”. And the vehicle for it all? Food.

Just like Gilbert, here in Italy, I too have stumbled upon an unexpected appreciation and passion for the subject. And through all of this, i have learned that its not just the taste that matters, but the ritual.

It sounds hokey, i know. In the beginning, it seems too simple, too cliche, too fleeting. You create, you consume, and then its over. And you get on with the rest of your day.

But if you allow yourself to slow it down a little, you can realize how enjoyable the mindless, necessary and inherantly normal act of cooking and eating can be. Those moments when you’re leaning over a plate of pasta fagoli at the dinner table or stirring a pot of sugo arrabbiata in the low lights of the kitchen… These moments, I’ve come to not only acknowledge, but savor.

Okay- perhaps its overly romanticized, all this, but so what? Food is king, here! And I, am its loyal servant.

Instead of bringing back replicas of Michaelangelo’s statue of David or a leaning tower of pisa wash-cloth, i will give my loved ones the highest quality of mementos: My recipes.

-from the arancini to the spaghetti alle cozze
-the ndjuya to the risotto alla salsiccia,
-the polenta to the parmigiana di melanzane,
-or the gnocchi to the scallopine

Like postcards, i have acquired these things, and will not only distribute them to my family and friends within the states, but take part in the process myself.

With all this eating, however, comes consequences..

Before I came here i was told i would most likely return with:

1) knockoff leather purses

2) useless souveneers and

3) tighter jeans.. MUCH tighter jeans (i’m talking about gaining weight here)

And, as hard as I’ve tried to eat in moderation, the concept just does’t exist here. I hate to generalize but it just is consistantly true, that within the home of an everyday italian, eating large portions is encouraged, if not pushed. Sittingly alongside an italian family at the dinner table, if you don’t finish your plate, let alone accept seconds (because there is no doubt you will be asked/told to have seconds) then you are in some way or another offending the host. Sure, there are tons of people out there who don’t shove a plate in your face or even get upset when you ‘throw in the towel’, but in general terms, everywhere you go, the greatest compliment you can give to a host is asking for more.

As you eat all of this wonderful food, naturally, you’ll have to loosen the belt a little. Don’t be alarmed. For some reason, within the borders of the stivallo, at least in my opinion, there is a general sentiment, a common belief, that once and a while you need to stuff yourself, treat yourself, and indulge in the goodwill and cooking of others. Here, at the end of the meal, if you are so full you can’t even stand up, you don’t lament the past hour of feasting and frantically begin counting carbs. Instead, there is a certain feeling of satisfaction, and confidence, gumption, and even allure of being full of good food. Plus, if you’re jeans don’t fit, just remember one thing: YOU’RE IN ITALY- what better place to go shopping?? at least now you have an excuse…

below are some of my favorites:

As inherently similar as we all are and as seemingly heterogeneous as we may appear at times, at the end of the day, we’re all so incredibly unique. sometimes these differences can be uncomfortable, daunting and confusing. for some, its easier to stay within a group of their own, to isolate themselves within a community where they neither have to speak another language not step out of their comfort zone.

eventually though, when in another country or in an environment of diversity, the lines mix and the paths of the groups eventually pass. people are eventually forced to interact.

My dorm is an example of this phenomenon. we are, in a sense, our very own united nations. My floor alone has representatives from countries like Brazil, Morocco, China, Ghana, Pakistan, Gaza, Ethiopia, Italy, Albania and the USA (thats me), all living side by side. Despite our differing schedules, we always seem to meet in the kitchen. One by one, the dining room is filled with exotic herbs and spices that both delight and disgust those not accustomed to their scent. Though i would have guessed other wise, living here I have discovered that the smell of curry, fried fish and Italian peperoncino isn’t the most “appetizing” mixture.

One night, after our dinner was over, we sat around the large rectangular table and taught each other the same phrase in each of our native languages. As cliche and perhaps, hallmark, as it sounds, it was fascinating. With eyes wide and tongue loose, i desperately attempted to make the “K” sound in Amharic. Despite the fact that it was a complete failure and still is to this day, the moment in which we tried to mimic the sounds of eachother’s languages ended in an even more satisfying result: honest and unfaltering laughter.

But its not all laughter and smiles and rainbows. (darn..) In reality, we disagree. A lot. I’ve found that sometimes if a person doesn’t know you, they don’t first judge you by your appearance or your manners but rather by your government. This, I understand completely and has led me to acquire a great sense of patience and tact. Despite the no politics rule, heated and impassioned discourse always eventually erupts.

Before coming here, i expected some people to have opinions about America yet i underestimated just how many people would want to talk about the past 8 years in American politics. With honest and open discussion we have covered topics i never even thought to question. I’ve come across some interesting arguments, a great deal of outright stereotypes and even some anger filled perspectives. People have told me about their encounters with paramilitary groups, fully functioning systems of universal health care, counter culture movements, and simple stories of local triumph and poverty.

Though i’ve only been here two weeks, I’ve often wondered if this is what its like to be fully immersed in the global community. If so, than i am all about it and among other things, i’m thrilled and honored to be the token American, even though at times i’m referred to as “la capitalista”.

Pittsburgh International Airport

Like a stubborn old neighbor who refuses to turn down the TV, i stood before the security checkpoint at the airport; hunched over from my over-sized carry-ons, legs refusing to move.

In a moment of desperation, i attempted to find an excuse. Too much snow… forgot something at home… diarrhea?! Even as i was saying them, i knew that my attempts at prolonging the inevitable were absurd and I quickly ran out of reasons to cancel.

Suddenly, the weight of the $1,000 plane ticket which was tucked securely into my jacket pocket grew heavier. And I quickly recalled that both of my suitcases, which had been packed with as many clothes as humanly possible, were already on their way to the plane.

I was going to leave.

period.

When the denial ended, the tears began to flow. And of course, whenever you_need_ a tissue, napkin, or soft and flexible surface, its never there! Soon, my cold feet turned into a cold sweat. My stomach clenched. My lungs felt like they were filled with water.

Someone important once said that saying goodbye is the hardest part. Whoever they were, they were right. Having to say goodbye to the people and places you love for the sake of an abstract, distant aspiration is inevitable at some point in life, but truly difficult to say the least. As the time to board the plane grew closer, i couldn’t stall any longer.

With all of my courage, I took a step forward. And then another. And another. And then amazingly there i was, staring at an incredibly stoic, robot of a woman who firmly demanded my shoes, jewelry and electronics.

With a final, tearful, wave i said goodbye to the America I love and walked forward down the corridor towards the unexpected.

Philadelphia International Airport: 3 Hours Later

After assuming i had found my gate, i stopped at a near by restaurant. Rock and roll themed and inherently tacky, the restaurant (which the name i cant recall) served stereotypical “american food”; food that i usually didn’t eat but soon would be devoid of.

Elvis’ “hound dog” played in the background and i fidgeted with my plane ticket.

And then suddenly it dawned on me. The gate which i had perceived to be correct, still empty and unadorned, was the wrong one and even worse, my actual plane was leaving in 20 minutes. The food came quickly and i got it to go.

Within seconds i was running down the hallways of the airport, backpack bouncing against the small of my back and my beloved cheeseburger in hand.

Gates passed. People stared. Finally a screen with the same flight number but different destination came up on my right. After three panicked sentences of the same question i discovered that yes, it was, in fact, the right gate. I ran on board.

Somehow, I managed to squeeze my bags into an overhead compartment and then sat back down next to my cheeseburger, consciously hidden beneath a complimentary blanket wrapped in plastic.

As the plane slowly ascended into the air and wobbled upward, i crouched beneath the chair in front of me. And like a fearful kiss goodbye, i took a bite into my last American hamburger.