Going to Venice during Carnevale was definitely one of those experiences that I had written off as something I would never get to do in my life…I don’t know if it’s just because of how renowned the event is around the world or the fact that it seemed nearly impossible to get there from wherever I was…needless to say, my expectations both for myself and for this trip were completely blown away, because, well, I went to Venice for Carnevale!
I kid you not, Venice during Carnevale is like one big party; imagine people going to somebody’s apartment, chilling and well, partying…Imagine how, if the party is good, the apartment gets crowded…sure enough, it gets difficult to walk around and you find yourself not trapped in the madness, but just aware that there is not easy exit…therefore you just… chill and maybe if all goes well and your enjoying yourself and maybe…dance? (remember all that chilling that Italians do?)
Now, imagine if, instead of an apartment, you multiply the scale to that of an entire CITY that is just chilling (key word for this exchange) and partying. There were people EVERYWHERE; Venice’s small medieval streets were filled to the brim with people (like my friends and I) just walking around, trying to make our way to Piazza San Marco, and exhibitionists in traditional Venetian, Carnevale costumes ready to take a picture with you because, well, they spent a lot of money on their freaking costumes and wanted damn well to show it off. You can imagine how stressful all of this was during the day (especially when you’re essentially walking in one big crowd of people) but how exciting and magical it is after the sun sets and you’ve had one or two…ok maybe three drinks (in my case it was a beer after only eating breakfast at nine that morning and a nasty bottle of white wine that our group split between the 8-13 of us on the way back to the train station…yeah that’s right…drinking in public… remember that Italian thing as well?)
However, like Dante’s journey through the underworld….we had to go through hell just to get to paradise (which, I guess, added to the magic of being in Venice in the end…)
Upon arriving to the train station and meeting up with some people at 9:30 to hop on a 9:55 train which would take about two and a half hours to get to Venice we noticed a big crowd of protestors outside the train station…but I mean, come on, everyone protests here…no big deal, right?
Wrong. This was a traveling protest getting on the very same train we needed to get on, not to go to Venice of course, but still…what should’ve been a relaxing train ride (I was thinking about how nice it would be to buy a newspaper) quickly turned into something….well, a lot more interesting we’ll say.
Smoking. Drinking wine. Anarchist graffiti. No seats. Seats available being filled by people and their dogs. Protest announcements over the loud speakers.
Are you sure we’re in Italy?
Did I mention that all of this was against American foreign policy and the building of bombs on a military base in Italy….uncomfortable? I think so. Feeling like a capitalist pig? I did for sure.
So there I was, standing while dogs were sitting in what should’ve been one of my seats with people around me smoking and drinking on the train…and as much as I should’ve been vexed… I just didn’t care (probably because I was in good company, meaning some of the people I’ve randomly met here through Erasmus events.) I mean, it made the train ride interesting…right? Besides, they got off about halfway through our trip, so by the time we arrived to Venice I did have a seat.
I guess Italy is starting to rub off one me. Drinking in public. Not caring. Chilling. This…is…the…life?
Walking around Venice after arriving was anything but easy, but here’s why it’s bearable: The city is gorgeous. I’ve been there before and I felt very lucky to be able to appreciate beauty of the city without having to rush from landmark to landmark to snap a photo.
After our group (keep in my twelve people navigating through a very crowded city was anything but easy) got somewhat divided but somehow, since everything and everyone seems to gravitate towards Venice’s main square, San Marco, we managed to find each other…and chill some more (chilling being sitting in a circle in the middle of thousands of people walking around as, many of whom were of course in costume).
Beer and food anyone? We all were hungry and need of some sustenance… and sure enough found a very much overpriced restaurant (in true Venetian fashion) on the way back to the train station. Like I said, after only eating breakfast, you can imagine how quickly that beer went to my head…Venice, after that, was a party.
We still had a good amount of time to kill before getting back to the train, so the plan, in the theme of the day, as to get a bottle of wine and just walk around. Six Euro and one and half liters of wine later, we were all ready to stay until midnight or whenever the train after we were supposed to take would leave…This was VENICE during CARNEVALE, people. Lights. People in costume. Music in the streets. Being silly stringed. Confetti. Food EVERYWHERE; I think we may have frequented nearly every place serving food on the long stroll back as well…it’s amazing how colors and smells get magnified after you’ve had a few drinks…and you’re still starving.
I didn’t want to leave.
The train back was anything but comfortable…it was more like round two of the train ride from that very same morning. Picture this:
People traveling back from Venice en masse going back to Bologna or their respective cities, all tourists from different countries, tired from walking and drinking like maniacs…Mix with that, Italians, people from Venice and those other Italian cities who are pissed by the crowds of tourists.
Take it to the bridge.
So we have, our group standing (the whole trip) in the train car, in the dark, flanked by a group of Spaniards who are refusing to let anyone else push their way in so that, at least they can sit down. Like I said, all of this in the dark….right by the bathoom (where consequently people were sitting just to have a seat…)
Enter, stage right, two American girls (dubbed Mary Kate and Ashleigh…) That’s right, that stereotypical, incredibly annoying image of what we Americans really are (the very same image that people like me work to dispel by moking the point that being a tool is universal…and can’t be confined to national boundaries).
“Wait did the train company really SELL all these tickets…? WATCH OUT… we bought glass! It’s delicate!!!” “NON C’È SPAZIONE…È IMPOSSBILAY PAHSARAY” (condescending English accent speaking to Italians, I was offended FOR the Italians.)
Needless to say, the people that pissed me off the most weren’t the Italians who pushed their way into our already crowded train car, the Spanish people sitting and refusing to let the Italians pass or anyone else, but the girls with the freaking Venetian glass.
“STUUUDIO A FIERAYZE. FACCIAHMO UNA FESTA QUI.” They say to the Italian guys….
AHH, you can imagine, I was going insane…for a bit. Luckily they, and their glass, found a freaking seat, so we didn’t have to hear them bitching anymore.
In the end we all lived happily ever after getting a little gelato then a beer at an Irish Pub near the university, arriving in Bologna, as expected, ten minutes late.
Was Venice during Carnevale totally worth all the shit we went through....?
ANY DAY.
Daily Life... the highs and the lows.
Imagine absolute and utter chaos…Ok back up just a bit…..STOP. Right there. That’s life in Bologna.
Here are some interesting things worth noting about life here:
-People in Italy just chill. That’s right, chill. Why write a paper when you can have cigarette and drink a beer at five in the afternoon…right? Rush on the sidewalk… no way, why not just stroll to class (see why below).
*Please note that this pace of life has frustrated me to no end as of late. WALK DAMN IT! At the same time, mad props go to the Italians for their evening strolls
or passeggiata…you should see the people out in the streets right before and after
dinner time; it’s like there’s a party and everyone is invited.
-You can drink in public…errr…enough said. You should see the people that just hang outside what would be the equivalent of a dépanneur just, once again, chilling and drinking a beer.
-One word. Apperitivi. All you can eat, deliciously prepared snack food at your local café/bar/disco (funny enough, the same place where you can get coffee in the morning is where you can get hammered and dance until four in the morning…This of course implies a problem that I’ll explain later.)
-15 minutes. That’s right, this amount of time is the codified “late start” of courses at the University of Bologna; you can, in short, plan on being 15 minutes late and not miss a word of lecture. Lectures are however two hours, and one of my profs has spent the last three of them describing the evolution of the development of the book from medieval manuscripts using phrases such as the “happy anarchy” of the monks who had no uniform style of copying such manuscripts comparable to that of the printing press…
When are apperitivi again?
-There is a conspicuous lack of the following conversation in student hangouts and bars:
“Hey how’s it going?”
` “OMG I HAVE FIVE 20 PAGE PAPERS DUE TOMORROW”
“Yeah well you’re lucky, THREE MIDTERMS etc…”
And so it goes ad infinitum (especially in the Architecture Café).
Needless to say the art of student life has been perfected here, I mean, they have only be practicing it for nearly a 1000 years. In a city where are third of the population is students, you can imagine how all the above mentioned factors evolve.
All that being said, there are times when life here gets very frustrating and I get that familiar “what the fuck am I doing here/ how is this going to work/ completely overwhelmed by everything” pang in my stomach that only people who are or who have been on exchange know to well. Here’s why:
The bureaucratic networks of these massive universities on both sides of the Atlantic have perfected the art of not only not caring and letting you figure out everything for yourself, but also passing you off to someone else when help is needed. Answers from either McGill or Bologna require an almost obsessive persistence and for you to fill up X advisors email box just for a quick, three line response. Bologna doesn’t care, McGill cares too much. It makes for an interesting double edge sword when, although I should be taking courses in a different Faculty, this very same Faculty offers nothing remotely close to a course equivalent at McGill…Talk about the bureaucratic embodiment of damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Not having internet or a phone in the apartment has been a huge adjustment, and if you come to Bologna you can probably find me walking around with my laptop open trying to nab any wireless signal I can (referring to the cafés above, there are no cafés with wireless here, hence my predicament; they make awesome coffee here, but man, [insert North American coffee chain] would have wireless!) Luckily the city has an awesome wireless network in the historic centre, which, unfortunately, is only available outside…I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat off of the main square trying to right emails with people looking at me like I’m a) a nerd or b) a freak.
Needless to say, sometimes I feel very removed from everything going on outside this city, which I mean, is fine, but like I said, a little overwhelming at times.
To close this, I have one question for Italy: Where’s the peanut butter?! (Talk about little things that make a huge difference, Italians DON’T eat peanut butter…therefore it is not sold ANYWHERE. Sorry, this is one thing where I have to assert my, as you all are so familiar with, reckless Americanism…)
Anyway, I hope all of this gives a more global and balanced perspective of life here; it’s fun, it’s stressful, and I often tread that fine line between delight and agitation, but it’s definitely one hell of an experience so far.
(This was specifically for all of you who think I'm living in a European fantasy world...it's definitely la dolce vita with a few interesting twists!)
Here are some interesting things worth noting about life here:
-People in Italy just chill. That’s right, chill. Why write a paper when you can have cigarette and drink a beer at five in the afternoon…right? Rush on the sidewalk… no way, why not just stroll to class (see why below).
*Please note that this pace of life has frustrated me to no end as of late. WALK DAMN IT! At the same time, mad props go to the Italians for their evening strolls
or passeggiata…you should see the people out in the streets right before and after
dinner time; it’s like there’s a party and everyone is invited.
-You can drink in public…errr…enough said. You should see the people that just hang outside what would be the equivalent of a dépanneur just, once again, chilling and drinking a beer.
-One word. Apperitivi. All you can eat, deliciously prepared snack food at your local café/bar/disco (funny enough, the same place where you can get coffee in the morning is where you can get hammered and dance until four in the morning…This of course implies a problem that I’ll explain later.)
-15 minutes. That’s right, this amount of time is the codified “late start” of courses at the University of Bologna; you can, in short, plan on being 15 minutes late and not miss a word of lecture. Lectures are however two hours, and one of my profs has spent the last three of them describing the evolution of the development of the book from medieval manuscripts using phrases such as the “happy anarchy” of the monks who had no uniform style of copying such manuscripts comparable to that of the printing press…
When are apperitivi again?
-There is a conspicuous lack of the following conversation in student hangouts and bars:
“Hey how’s it going?”
` “OMG I HAVE FIVE 20 PAGE PAPERS DUE TOMORROW”
“Yeah well you’re lucky, THREE MIDTERMS etc…”
And so it goes ad infinitum (especially in the Architecture Café).
Needless to say the art of student life has been perfected here, I mean, they have only be practicing it for nearly a 1000 years. In a city where are third of the population is students, you can imagine how all the above mentioned factors evolve.
All that being said, there are times when life here gets very frustrating and I get that familiar “what the fuck am I doing here/ how is this going to work/ completely overwhelmed by everything” pang in my stomach that only people who are or who have been on exchange know to well. Here’s why:
The bureaucratic networks of these massive universities on both sides of the Atlantic have perfected the art of not only not caring and letting you figure out everything for yourself, but also passing you off to someone else when help is needed. Answers from either McGill or Bologna require an almost obsessive persistence and for you to fill up X advisors email box just for a quick, three line response. Bologna doesn’t care, McGill cares too much. It makes for an interesting double edge sword when, although I should be taking courses in a different Faculty, this very same Faculty offers nothing remotely close to a course equivalent at McGill…Talk about the bureaucratic embodiment of damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Not having internet or a phone in the apartment has been a huge adjustment, and if you come to Bologna you can probably find me walking around with my laptop open trying to nab any wireless signal I can (referring to the cafés above, there are no cafés with wireless here, hence my predicament; they make awesome coffee here, but man, [insert North American coffee chain] would have wireless!) Luckily the city has an awesome wireless network in the historic centre, which, unfortunately, is only available outside…I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat off of the main square trying to right emails with people looking at me like I’m a) a nerd or b) a freak.
Needless to say, sometimes I feel very removed from everything going on outside this city, which I mean, is fine, but like I said, a little overwhelming at times.
To close this, I have one question for Italy: Where’s the peanut butter?! (Talk about little things that make a huge difference, Italians DON’T eat peanut butter…therefore it is not sold ANYWHERE. Sorry, this is one thing where I have to assert my, as you all are so familiar with, reckless Americanism…)
Anyway, I hope all of this gives a more global and balanced perspective of life here; it’s fun, it’s stressful, and I often tread that fine line between delight and agitation, but it’s definitely one hell of an experience so far.
(This was specifically for all of you who think I'm living in a European fantasy world...it's definitely la dolce vita with a few interesting twists!)
Paris.... one Starbucks at a time....
That’s right everyone, there are numerous Starbucks establishments in Paris…many of which I frequented during my stay.
Ok, judge me all you want, but when you see something from home that you haven’t seen for nearly two months, with a menu that, like it or not, you recognize, you would be happy too….ESPECIALLY after walking for hours on end and passing many a wonderful smelling and pricey food establishment along the way. I’ll enjoy a maple syrup scone and over-priced cappuccino if I want, thank you very much.
It’s really hard writing about the trip to Paris because it honestly felt like a trip composed of many small highlights rather than one continuous experience. Here’s why: Paris is huge, it’s monumental, and it has layers of history and culture that an outsider can’t begin to comprehend simply by going up in the Eiffel Tower, visiting Notre Dame or riding the Metro. You’d think that being from New York (well, not the center of the city, but at least being well versed in what it is like to be there) Paris would be just another big city and therefore, another big challenge. There were, however, many times where I found myself just walking around trying to take it all in…it’s that overwhelming.
It did, however, snow one morning. That was nice. Having the luxury of seeing the magic the city has to offer (as an outsider and a person obsessed with the movie, Amélie) was nice. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have my head in the sand with regard to the hell of finding an apartment, the social problems, and the often stressful existence in the city. I recognize this luxury that I had but also celebrate it. To really get a sense for the city, you have to really appreciate the small things: the smell of a fromagerie, the monumental architecture, people running errands in often chaotic sidewalks. That is Paris.
Aside from being overwhelming, Paris was incredibly fun.
The blessing of traveling with friends who enjoy having fun is something I’ll definitely take away from this trip. I often take myself seriously when traveling, making sure that I take the right photo and above all else, trying NOT to look like a tourist. Every now and then however, you need to have a sense of humor about who and where you are. Thanks to you know who you are, for helping me realize that.
The best way to sum up this whole trip is probably in my last day there. The previous days we (Elena, Paola and I) had: visited the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Montmartre, the Champs Élysées, the Quartier Latin, Sorbonne, the Pantheon, Rue de Rivoli (which earned mad props for the abundance of beautiful food shops which were all horribly out of the price range of a poor university student) Place des Vosges, La Défense…insert important Parisian landmark here. We had dined at a restaurant named Le Petit Prince where the host, upon seeing Elena and Arnaud show… signs of affection toward one another…pointed out that this kind of behavior, within the context of this establishment…would only be permitted between Arnaud and I…get the picture? Needless to say we had seen and done it all before the last day.
Ok, so anyway. Last day à la Parisienne. Get up, check out of our hotel (that advertised but did not provide free breakfast (shit) and that the day before actually owed Paola five Euro because they didn’t have sufficient change, prompting a multilingual and cultural throw down between Paola and the little old cleaning lady of the hotel who had to verify via phone with someone other than the man who had made this clandestine transaction that we were in fact owed this money… it’s the principal! Talk about differences between France and Italy.) Starbucks, for a very, very long time with some of Elena’s friends from exchange at Berkeley (this was, without fail, also a very random and incredibly international bunch…I was in heaven as I got to play the part of polyglot many of the evenings). Wandering toward Notre Dame from the Quartier Latin. More wandering toward the Pompidou Centre. Lunch with Sam, a friend of mine who studies on exchange in Paris and his friend from the University of Bologna who is also on exchange there (Again, so much fun…thanks guys. Imagine this conversation: two Americans one of which speaks French, the other speaks Italian and French and an Italian who speaks French. I was exhausted, you should be too just thinking about it.) Coffee at a REAL Parisian café. Exercising my geographic mind with Sam as we analyzed the urban planning stupidness that is the train station at Montparnasse (ok, we’ve written enough papers on this stuff now that we earned the right to call a place stupid and understand why.) Just lots of wandering.
Here’s the finale and the thing that I think best describes and sums up Paris as a place. On our way out I stopped at Rue Mouffetard (near Elena’s boyfriend’s apartment) to get some cheese. Ok. I like cheese a lot and definitely ODed a couple of times at meals in restaurants. That being said, I dropped ten Euros on two really good cheeses (and made sure they were vacuum sealed they wouldn’t smell on the plane.) After a trip to the airport of Beauvais that consisted of a very long subway ride and a very long bus ride, we made it. I had one carry on bag, the girls both checked what they had. In my bag I, amongst other things, had the cheese, a razor, two deodorants and a toothpaste. This list, although seemingly awkward, becomes relevant when put in the context of today’s security standards when flying. Elena passed security with flying colors with a bag of stinky cheese; I was worried about my razor.
Beep. Fuck, there’s the metal detector. Check. Clear.
“Can I open your bag?”
“Sure.”
Security guard moves my t-shirt, exposes my clandestine cheese (while not catching the toothpaste, deodorant, or…um….bonjour, my fucking razor.
CONFISCATED. No creamy substances allowed. Punto. Basta. Fine.
“But, it’s cheese, not cream”.
Done… the French security agents have a snack for later.
That’s the thing, Paris is like a big slap in the face that, unfortunately like my cheese, you can only enjoy while you’re there. The photos you take, the memories you have, the peoples whose company you enjoy, the words your write, never really capture what it’s like to be there. Enjoy it for what it is, while you there, and let it be. It’s big, it works, it’s monumental. In the end, Paris is like French cheese (my cheese in particular that is still waiting for me at Beauvais): it’s the product of centuries of delicate fermentation that have changed it’s flavor and made it slightly different and intricate from everywhere else in Europe of in the world, it smells (as a city should), it’s flavor is the subject of much controversy (you love it or you hate it) and you can only really enjoy it in it’s proper context, while you are there.
Ok, judge me all you want, but when you see something from home that you haven’t seen for nearly two months, with a menu that, like it or not, you recognize, you would be happy too….ESPECIALLY after walking for hours on end and passing many a wonderful smelling and pricey food establishment along the way. I’ll enjoy a maple syrup scone and over-priced cappuccino if I want, thank you very much.
It’s really hard writing about the trip to Paris because it honestly felt like a trip composed of many small highlights rather than one continuous experience. Here’s why: Paris is huge, it’s monumental, and it has layers of history and culture that an outsider can’t begin to comprehend simply by going up in the Eiffel Tower, visiting Notre Dame or riding the Metro. You’d think that being from New York (well, not the center of the city, but at least being well versed in what it is like to be there) Paris would be just another big city and therefore, another big challenge. There were, however, many times where I found myself just walking around trying to take it all in…it’s that overwhelming.
It did, however, snow one morning. That was nice. Having the luxury of seeing the magic the city has to offer (as an outsider and a person obsessed with the movie, Amélie) was nice. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have my head in the sand with regard to the hell of finding an apartment, the social problems, and the often stressful existence in the city. I recognize this luxury that I had but also celebrate it. To really get a sense for the city, you have to really appreciate the small things: the smell of a fromagerie, the monumental architecture, people running errands in often chaotic sidewalks. That is Paris.
Aside from being overwhelming, Paris was incredibly fun.
The blessing of traveling with friends who enjoy having fun is something I’ll definitely take away from this trip. I often take myself seriously when traveling, making sure that I take the right photo and above all else, trying NOT to look like a tourist. Every now and then however, you need to have a sense of humor about who and where you are. Thanks to you know who you are, for helping me realize that.
The best way to sum up this whole trip is probably in my last day there. The previous days we (Elena, Paola and I) had: visited the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Montmartre, the Champs Élysées, the Quartier Latin, Sorbonne, the Pantheon, Rue de Rivoli (which earned mad props for the abundance of beautiful food shops which were all horribly out of the price range of a poor university student) Place des Vosges, La Défense…insert important Parisian landmark here. We had dined at a restaurant named Le Petit Prince where the host, upon seeing Elena and Arnaud show… signs of affection toward one another…pointed out that this kind of behavior, within the context of this establishment…would only be permitted between Arnaud and I…get the picture? Needless to say we had seen and done it all before the last day.
Ok, so anyway. Last day à la Parisienne. Get up, check out of our hotel (that advertised but did not provide free breakfast (shit) and that the day before actually owed Paola five Euro because they didn’t have sufficient change, prompting a multilingual and cultural throw down between Paola and the little old cleaning lady of the hotel who had to verify via phone with someone other than the man who had made this clandestine transaction that we were in fact owed this money… it’s the principal! Talk about differences between France and Italy.) Starbucks, for a very, very long time with some of Elena’s friends from exchange at Berkeley (this was, without fail, also a very random and incredibly international bunch…I was in heaven as I got to play the part of polyglot many of the evenings). Wandering toward Notre Dame from the Quartier Latin. More wandering toward the Pompidou Centre. Lunch with Sam, a friend of mine who studies on exchange in Paris and his friend from the University of Bologna who is also on exchange there (Again, so much fun…thanks guys. Imagine this conversation: two Americans one of which speaks French, the other speaks Italian and French and an Italian who speaks French. I was exhausted, you should be too just thinking about it.) Coffee at a REAL Parisian café. Exercising my geographic mind with Sam as we analyzed the urban planning stupidness that is the train station at Montparnasse (ok, we’ve written enough papers on this stuff now that we earned the right to call a place stupid and understand why.) Just lots of wandering.
Here’s the finale and the thing that I think best describes and sums up Paris as a place. On our way out I stopped at Rue Mouffetard (near Elena’s boyfriend’s apartment) to get some cheese. Ok. I like cheese a lot and definitely ODed a couple of times at meals in restaurants. That being said, I dropped ten Euros on two really good cheeses (and made sure they were vacuum sealed they wouldn’t smell on the plane.) After a trip to the airport of Beauvais that consisted of a very long subway ride and a very long bus ride, we made it. I had one carry on bag, the girls both checked what they had. In my bag I, amongst other things, had the cheese, a razor, two deodorants and a toothpaste. This list, although seemingly awkward, becomes relevant when put in the context of today’s security standards when flying. Elena passed security with flying colors with a bag of stinky cheese; I was worried about my razor.
Beep. Fuck, there’s the metal detector. Check. Clear.
“Can I open your bag?”
“Sure.”
Security guard moves my t-shirt, exposes my clandestine cheese (while not catching the toothpaste, deodorant, or…um….bonjour, my fucking razor.
CONFISCATED. No creamy substances allowed. Punto. Basta. Fine.
“But, it’s cheese, not cream”.
Done… the French security agents have a snack for later.
That’s the thing, Paris is like a big slap in the face that, unfortunately like my cheese, you can only enjoy while you’re there. The photos you take, the memories you have, the peoples whose company you enjoy, the words your write, never really capture what it’s like to be there. Enjoy it for what it is, while you there, and let it be. It’s big, it works, it’s monumental. In the end, Paris is like French cheese (my cheese in particular that is still waiting for me at Beauvais): it’s the product of centuries of delicate fermentation that have changed it’s flavor and made it slightly different and intricate from everywhere else in Europe of in the world, it smells (as a city should), it’s flavor is the subject of much controversy (you love it or you hate it) and you can only really enjoy it in it’s proper context, while you are there.
Vita Bolognese
Ok so my apartment isn’t a palace. It’s huge, 8 students live there, and it’s falling a part…a bit. We don’t have internet or a landline, the fridge makes a weird squeaky noise, some of the tiles in the bathroom by the toilet are broken and the hot water can sometimes be, at best, sporadic. We have probably five coffee makers, two fridges, two bathrooms, a washer but no drier, and ONE shower. The doors from time to time when they open and close sound more like car crashes than squeaky doors. There was one light in my room and the rod in my closet broke the first time I hung my coat up on it.
Whatever. Here’s why I love it.
The people I live with are absolutely amazing, all masters students who have already studied law and are doing a sort of Law and Economics program that takes them two a number of European universities where they study for one or two semesters before moving on. Needless to say they are a pretty smart and tight knit bunch; it’s really nice landing somewhere where there is at least, a small sense of community. We are a pretty mixed bunch of guys and girls coming from, including me, the States, Sweden, Austrian, Italy and India. They are always really nice and have invited me out a couple of times with them and their friends, all of whom have always been very welcoming and interested in talking, of which there is an Irish guy who has become a fast friend (A quick tangent…and excuse me for writing as I think…but..I’m still getting used to partying European style, but rest assured guys, we’re better dancers on the other side of the Atlantic…and we know how to make drinks! Let’s just say that my Long Island Iced Tea that I had the other night was made with…iced tea.)
What I find the most hysterical is how, although English is by means none of these peoples’ mother tongue, they still come out saying some of the most random and absolutely hysterical things you could imagine.
For example.
Another guy from McGill and I were sitting at a table talking to a few of the Swedes around dinner time. It was pretty relaxed and we were enjoying our wine and whatever food I had managed to find at the supermarket that day. Out of nowhere, after kind of looking at my friend from McGill inquisitively for a few seconds, the Swedish guy asks him….
“Wait are you like… of the Fab 5?”
Come on!! So funny! Anyway, maybe not for you, but all their little quirks crack me up.
I find as well that there are some hidden treasures in our apartment, like, for example, the table in our…err.. dining room is actually a pasta making table, meaning that it has a special wood board that you can pull out from the middle and a very large rolling pin that you can use to make fresh pasta.
Another quick story, the same Swedish guy that identified my friend as one of the Fab 5 took a cooking course to make lasagna Bolognese from scratch. For one of our apartment mates birthday, another Swedish girl, he made it….everything from scratch. I helped him out a bit, making sure the kitchen was clean and doing little odd jobs as they came up. It was pretty cool to watch it all come together and see the care that he put into making something that, although you can buy it frozen and heat it up in 20 minutes, actually takes a lot of work.
So anyway, it was dinner time, time to put this thing together. I was hanging out in my room getting ready to brave putting together an Ikea lamp (after, of course, an incredibly overwhelming and stupefying trip to Ikea that day) with my roommate in the room. The Swedish guy knocks on the door.
“Hey, so I’m putting together the lasagna now.”
“Ok, so do you need help or anything.”
“Not really….but you guys could... keep me company...you know... if you wanted…”
All this stuff makes me smile so much, you have no idea.
Needless to say, the place may not be the best, but the people inside make it worthwhile. Hope this is a pretty good window into what life in the apartment is like. Little by little, everything is coming together.
Whatever. Here’s why I love it.
The people I live with are absolutely amazing, all masters students who have already studied law and are doing a sort of Law and Economics program that takes them two a number of European universities where they study for one or two semesters before moving on. Needless to say they are a pretty smart and tight knit bunch; it’s really nice landing somewhere where there is at least, a small sense of community. We are a pretty mixed bunch of guys and girls coming from, including me, the States, Sweden, Austrian, Italy and India. They are always really nice and have invited me out a couple of times with them and their friends, all of whom have always been very welcoming and interested in talking, of which there is an Irish guy who has become a fast friend (A quick tangent…and excuse me for writing as I think…but..I’m still getting used to partying European style, but rest assured guys, we’re better dancers on the other side of the Atlantic…and we know how to make drinks! Let’s just say that my Long Island Iced Tea that I had the other night was made with…iced tea.)
What I find the most hysterical is how, although English is by means none of these peoples’ mother tongue, they still come out saying some of the most random and absolutely hysterical things you could imagine.
For example.
Another guy from McGill and I were sitting at a table talking to a few of the Swedes around dinner time. It was pretty relaxed and we were enjoying our wine and whatever food I had managed to find at the supermarket that day. Out of nowhere, after kind of looking at my friend from McGill inquisitively for a few seconds, the Swedish guy asks him….
“Wait are you like… of the Fab 5?”
Come on!! So funny! Anyway, maybe not for you, but all their little quirks crack me up.
I find as well that there are some hidden treasures in our apartment, like, for example, the table in our…err.. dining room is actually a pasta making table, meaning that it has a special wood board that you can pull out from the middle and a very large rolling pin that you can use to make fresh pasta.
Another quick story, the same Swedish guy that identified my friend as one of the Fab 5 took a cooking course to make lasagna Bolognese from scratch. For one of our apartment mates birthday, another Swedish girl, he made it….everything from scratch. I helped him out a bit, making sure the kitchen was clean and doing little odd jobs as they came up. It was pretty cool to watch it all come together and see the care that he put into making something that, although you can buy it frozen and heat it up in 20 minutes, actually takes a lot of work.
So anyway, it was dinner time, time to put this thing together. I was hanging out in my room getting ready to brave putting together an Ikea lamp (after, of course, an incredibly overwhelming and stupefying trip to Ikea that day) with my roommate in the room. The Swedish guy knocks on the door.
“Hey, so I’m putting together the lasagna now.”
“Ok, so do you need help or anything.”
“Not really….but you guys could... keep me company...you know... if you wanted…”
All this stuff makes me smile so much, you have no idea.
Needless to say, the place may not be the best, but the people inside make it worthwhile. Hope this is a pretty good window into what life in the apartment is like. Little by little, everything is coming together.
Moving in
So this was it; I left Milan at eight in the morning (on a train that arrived and left surprisingly on time) after waking up at 6 in the morning to move into my apartment. The plan was to arrive by 10, haul my insanely heavy bags from the train station to my landlords office which, without baggage, was about a 20 minute walk from the train station…let’s just say that sometimes that the stubbornness and cheapness of a student doesn’t pay. My arms are still sore…two days later.
There I was, rent payment in hand, ready to sign the final contract and get my keys so I could drop off, what became at this time, my ridiculously heavy luggage and start to get settled in the city that I had only visited on frantic day trips filled with climbing bureaucratic ladders and visiting…interesting apartments.
“So you have the codice fiscale?” That being a nice long number used in Italian contracts which I believe serves no purpose but to confuse and piss off foreign students who have just arrived hauling 50 pounds of luggage and want desperately to be let into their apartment.
But this time I was prepared, as I had found the codice fiscale solely by chance on a University of Bologna website while I fiddling around with my email.
“Here it is!” (aka validate me because I followed through this time and actually have this ridiculous information).
Silence.
“That won’t do, we need the sheet of paper from the Ufficio d’entrata with the number written”.
Crushed again; Italian bureaucracy 5000, Matt 0.
All this to say that, I was still able to get my keys, sign the final contract for my apartment and move in without a problem, but I still needed to make a trip to this Ufficio d’entrata, which of course, is conveniently located 20 minutes outside the city by bus.
Life though, has a funny way of teaching you to be thankful for what you have. This was a little inconvenience.
Getting off the bus in the middle of nowhere, I noticed two older women who I had seen earlier on when I was pleading with the woman (total bitch) behind the counter of my landlords office to except the codice I had copied from the University of Bologna website. We had all been sent on the same ridiculous errand.
It turns out that these two women were immigrants from the Ukraine and Russia how had left their country in search of work. One spoke Italian perfectly and the other, none at all. We began to talk about the ridiculousness of Italian bureaucracy, the miracle of Italy functioning in the midst of seemingly absolute chaos and the differences and similarities of life for immigrants in Europe and North America.
One of the women worked in a retirement home in Bologna but was trained as a nuclear scientist in Russia. She speaks Russian, Ukrainian and picked up Italian very quickly because of the need for work. She loves to travel and wants badly to see Africa someday.
As you can imagine, I was amazed by her fortitude but also recognition of the need to adapt to whatever situation life hands to you. Talk about the power of the human spirit. She was always smiling even when talking about how much she had to work or how difficult it was being an immigrant in Italy.
We all made it to the office in time to get our codice fiscale, but unfortunately because of paper work problems (go figure) the two women had to leave and go to another office on the other side of the city before being issued the document. I got mine without much of a problem (maybe because I was one of the last people who would be served at the office before lunch hour started at 12:30 and ended… maybe).
Maybe I’m reading into all of this too much, or maybe I have to luxury to be a little more pensive and pay attention to such situations when they get thrown my way, but life is really funny; I’m happy I have a chance right now to really appreciate the little things.
There I was, rent payment in hand, ready to sign the final contract and get my keys so I could drop off, what became at this time, my ridiculously heavy luggage and start to get settled in the city that I had only visited on frantic day trips filled with climbing bureaucratic ladders and visiting…interesting apartments.
“So you have the codice fiscale?” That being a nice long number used in Italian contracts which I believe serves no purpose but to confuse and piss off foreign students who have just arrived hauling 50 pounds of luggage and want desperately to be let into their apartment.
But this time I was prepared, as I had found the codice fiscale solely by chance on a University of Bologna website while I fiddling around with my email.
“Here it is!” (aka validate me because I followed through this time and actually have this ridiculous information).
Silence.
“That won’t do, we need the sheet of paper from the Ufficio d’entrata with the number written”.
Crushed again; Italian bureaucracy 5000, Matt 0.
All this to say that, I was still able to get my keys, sign the final contract for my apartment and move in without a problem, but I still needed to make a trip to this Ufficio d’entrata, which of course, is conveniently located 20 minutes outside the city by bus.
Life though, has a funny way of teaching you to be thankful for what you have. This was a little inconvenience.
Getting off the bus in the middle of nowhere, I noticed two older women who I had seen earlier on when I was pleading with the woman (total bitch) behind the counter of my landlords office to except the codice I had copied from the University of Bologna website. We had all been sent on the same ridiculous errand.
It turns out that these two women were immigrants from the Ukraine and Russia how had left their country in search of work. One spoke Italian perfectly and the other, none at all. We began to talk about the ridiculousness of Italian bureaucracy, the miracle of Italy functioning in the midst of seemingly absolute chaos and the differences and similarities of life for immigrants in Europe and North America.
One of the women worked in a retirement home in Bologna but was trained as a nuclear scientist in Russia. She speaks Russian, Ukrainian and picked up Italian very quickly because of the need for work. She loves to travel and wants badly to see Africa someday.
As you can imagine, I was amazed by her fortitude but also recognition of the need to adapt to whatever situation life hands to you. Talk about the power of the human spirit. She was always smiling even when talking about how much she had to work or how difficult it was being an immigrant in Italy.
We all made it to the office in time to get our codice fiscale, but unfortunately because of paper work problems (go figure) the two women had to leave and go to another office on the other side of the city before being issued the document. I got mine without much of a problem (maybe because I was one of the last people who would be served at the office before lunch hour started at 12:30 and ended… maybe).
Maybe I’m reading into all of this too much, or maybe I have to luxury to be a little more pensive and pay attention to such situations when they get thrown my way, but life is really funny; I’m happy I have a chance right now to really appreciate the little things.
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