What's Next?

It's almost 2016 - this coming August, it will make two years of blogging here.

So my plan is to continue to blog.

For 2016, one of my resolutions is to complete a reading challenge - something that I attempted to do last year, but failed miserably at, because there were strict guidelines as to what I could and could not read.

This year, my reading challenge is to finish the books that I've already bought. And, for the most part, those are books that are sitting firmly in the nonfiction portion of my bookshelves.

So, in the next few months, expect a resurgence of my Van Gogh biography read through (which I had to put aside while I was in Europe because the book was too large to carry with me); a look at the biography that inspired the hit musical Hamilton; books on the French Revolution and the Glorious Revolution, on witch trials in Salem, Massachusetts and in France, on poets and authors. And also keep an eye out for stories of me reading classic novels, fantasy fiction (this will finally be the year I tackle Game of Thrones), and even some YA classics.

And all of it will be tied up with what I'm doing on campus and what I'm studying in classes.

Fingers crossed that I can keep this up.

Wish me luck!

Happy New Year, readers.

Reflections

It has been such a semester.

I felt that, in order to do it complete justice, I needed to step back and reflect on it for a while.

And, looking back on Bologna - after Christmas has passed, after being in America and returning to American culture for about three weeks - I have to say that I miss it terribly.

I miss the walking everywhere I went - because not only did it justify having gelato every week (if not once, then two or three times) - it brought me into contact with people that I wouldn't have had the chance to observe. I got to really see Bologna by walking through it, and got the chance to fall in love with its cobbled streets, its covered walkways, and its piazzas.

It also didn't hurt that, while I was overseas, the walking helped me shed an extra ten pounds.

I miss the food - although who wouldn't? I miss being able to walk out the door and know that there was quality pizza right across the street - and that I knew the guy who ran the restaurant, and he knew me, my order, and my preferences, and would stop by my table to chat and say hi. I miss knowing that I could pop into a coffee shop and grab a latte macchiato at any hour of the day and no one would question me. I miss pasta e fagioli, pasta carbonara, tagliatelle alla bolognese, and cotoletta alla Bolognese. I miss walking down to a small hole in the wall restaurant every week with my roommate, sitting down at our table, and eating what was recommended to us by staff that were enthusiastic both about their food and their customers.

I miss the travel. I had no idea that I was going to leave America and come back in three months having spent time in Greece, England, Spain, Poland, Germany, and (briefly) France. I treasure the chance to go to sites that I only dreamt of seeing - Delphi, Sagrada Familia, the Parthenon Museum, the city of Torun, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the David, the Duomo in Milan - and I know that next time I'm in Europe, I have to expand my horizons even more. Especially in Germany, because I only saw the airport in Germany, and I wish I'd had more time to see it properly.

Most of all, I miss the people. I miss the classmates with whom I spent practically every waking hour in Bologna, learning about environmental ethics, Italian language and Bolognese history, and art history. I miss bonding with them over meals in the mensa, and using what little Italian I knew to communicate with the staff and teaching them English in return. I miss traveling around Italy and Europe and meeting people who, no matter what, reminded me of why I came to Italy in the first place - from the students at Loyola who bonded over the American in Europe experience with us all at our farewell dinner in Torun to the woman in Stratford who helped me call a cab from the train station, their kindness and welcoming nature helped me to shed my nervous nature and open up to new experiences.

But every experience has its downsides.

I don't miss being away from everyone at home. In fact, being back stateside has made me even more grateful for cell service and wifi so that I can remain in contact with my friends and family in a way that wasn't possible in Europe.

I don't miss the fear. After Paris, everyone at home (and some people in Europe, although not the majority), began to panic about my being overseas. I didn't even know it, but over the holidays my family's first question about my trip wasn't, "What was your favorite part?" but "Were you afraid?" or "What happened in Europe? What was the climate like after...you know..." And I've already addressed this here, so I won't rehash it for you again, but I really don't miss personally being afraid while everyone else thought I was insane. And getting home and finding out that no one really understands what it's like? It doesn't make things any better.

However, I don't think these negatives outweigh the positives of my time overseas. I'm a different person now than I was when I left in September, and I think Italy has been a huge part of it.

Grazie, Bologna.

"Sweet Swan of Avon:" Rediscovering Stratford-upon-Avon

After our class trip to Paris was cancelled, I wasn't quite sure what to do with my Thanksgiving break. At first, I toyed with simply staying in Bologna for the weekend, hanging out with my classmates and spending my weekend traveling on day trips to cities in Italy - maybe even making it to Castel del Monte, my great-great-great grandfather's home town. But I realized that I probably wouldn't actually do any of those trips, and I would most likely just stay in my dorm for the entirety of the break - sometimes, I'm just too lazy to actually do anything.

My fears of another attack like the one in Paris also crippled my planning - the US State Department published warnings about Milan and Rome, telling Americans not to go to major sites in either city. And I was talking with my dad while trying to plan what I would do, and mentioned that I was afraid that I would wake up one day and be posting a comment that said, "I can't believe that saw the Duomo in Milan/St. Peter's Basilica/the Colosseum and now it's gone. So heartbreaking." to my Instagram, Facebook, tumblr, and even to this blog. My fears of each trip being my last started to get to me.

Finally, my mom called me and told me that she didn't really care where I went, as long as I went somewhere that wasn't Bologna. And she suggested Dublin. So that started my planning.

Dublin wasn't on my list of places to go, but the UK was - I've been to London before, but I went four years ago, as part of a school trip the summer before my senior year of high school. I've wanted to go back to that part of the world ever since I left.

My plans for Dublin were smashed as soon as I saw just how expensive the hotels were - and that didn't even start on the museums, meals, and flight costs.

So I thought I'd just give up.

And then I remembered my favorite part of my trip to England.

On my previous visit, we had spent a day in Stratford-upon-Avon, the home of William Shakespeare, touring his birthplace and visiting the home of his wife, Anne Hathaway. It was probably my favorite part of our trip - I think that moment, and our tour of the Globe Theatre, cemented my obsession with Shakespeare and his works.

After looking up how to get to Stratford - it's small enough that I couldn't fly directly there, but needed to take a plane to Birmingham and two trains to the center of town - I booked a bed and breakfast, and then began planning the dream trip of a lifetime.

And I was planning to do it alone.

On Thanksgiving, while the rest of my classmates were planning an epic Friendsgiving feast and playing football in the quad at Camplus, I was waiting at the airport in Bologna to print off my boarding passes and board my flight to Munich. Once in Munich, I had to pass through German customs (which earned me my first real stamp on my passport since I went through customs in Amsterdam on arriving in Europe in September), and then passed four and a half hours wandering the gates, eating lunch, and charging my phone. I then flew from Munich to Birmingham, England. When I landed in Birmingham, it was only 4:45 local time, but it was already completely black outside - something that I hadn't been prepared for.

After pulling some pounds from a machine (gotta love different monetary systems), I went to the train station via a quick inter station train between the airport and the train station. After talking to the gentleman at the counter, I bought tickets for my journey to and from Stratford, and then caught my first train, which took me to Leamington Spa. There, I bought a sandwich and some tea, and waited for my second train to come into the station.

Leamington Spa Station

Once I arrived in Stratford, I realized that the way that I had planned on walking to the station was blocked off by construction, so I looked for a taxi stand in order to get to my B&B. However, I saw no posted signs for a taxi stand, and so I had to look for a local to ask for directions. I stopped a woman who was walking up to catch a train, and asked if she knew of a taxi stand nearby. She stopped, thought about it, and handed me a card with a taxi company's phone number on it, and told me that she was going to go buy her ticket, but she would wait for me to get a cab before she left. It took calling four taxi companies, but I finally wound up with a cab, and only a 10-15 minute wait. The woman - whose name I never caught, but to whom I am eternally grateful - had to catch her train, but left me the card for future emergencies.

After my cab picked me up from the train station, I walked into the B&B and was taken up to my room. I had booked a single with private bath, and so was expecting a twin bed and a tiny little bathroom. What I got was a large, double bed, with a small but clean bathroom, and a beautiful view of Stratford. After a quick chat with my family to wish them a happy Thanksgiving and tell them that I had made it safe, I curled up in bed and went to sleep.

My first day in Stratford I spent visiting properties owned by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust. My day started at 8 AM with an English breakfast at my B&B, and I left at 9:15 to walk from the B&B to the town center. The walk was much shorter than I had expected - and my first visit, to the Shakespeare Birthplace, wasn't until 10 - so I wandered down one of the streets. As I walked, I found a bookstore, Waterstones, and popped in for a bit, to warm up and kill some time.

Waterstones is basically the British version of Barnes and Noble. However, they carry literally every special edition of every classic novel ever written - and in Stratford, they have an entire shelving unit devoted to William Shakespeare. As soon as I walked in, I spotted a pile of beautifully bound classics - one of which was Pride and Prejudice. The sign on the table said that the books were limited edition releases by Penguin for this Christmas, and only available at Waterstones.

Needless to say, I picked up a copy. What better way to memorialize a trip to the UK than Jane Austen?

I wandered upstairs and looked through the history and biography sections (sadly lacking in American history - and it was quite strange to see British history merely labeled "history"), and spent some time looking at different editions of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare and individual plays. On my way back down, I spotted a tote bag that said "I Love Darcy" and snagged it - if I was going to buy something Austen, I might as well go all the way.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an Austenite in search of Pride and Prejudice will always find more Pride and Prejudice things.

As I was checking out, my cashier remarked that she didn't even know that they carried that tote bag, and seeing it made her really want one. She also said that the Penguin editions were just absolutely gorgeous, and she had one also. She then pointed out the correct direction to the Birthplace, and I headed towards my first Shakespeare stop for the day.

The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust runs seven buildings in Stratford-upon-Avon. Five are within the town itself - the Birthplace, Harvard House, Hall's Croft,  and New Place and Nash's House. The others are outside of town - Anne Hathaway's Cottage, a 30 minute walk outside of town, and Mary Arden's Farm, two train stops away. New Place and Nash's House are being restored currently, and will reopen in the spring, and so Harvard House, which is not normally open, was open during my visit.

The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust

"And there is pansies, that's for thoughts." - Hamlet IV.v

The Shakespeare Birthplace

After purchasing my entrance ticket, I wandered through the brief Shakespeare exhibit the Birthplace Trust had out, and then entered the Birthplace - one of the first people to do so for the day. The rooms were exactly how I had remembered them from my visit four years before - but this time, I was able to spend as much time as I wanted to wandering and listening to the speakers. I learned about the obsession with long fingers on gloves in Tudor England, and the reason why boys were dressed in dresses until they turned 8. I also was told that new scholarship is suggesting that Shakespeare visited London on business for his father's glove making shop during his lost years, and wound up as a patron of a group of players before he joined the Lord Chamberlain's men. Finally, I walked into the last room of the house, and learned what happened after John Shakespeare, William's father, died.

Constantly leaving their mark on history - visitors used to carve their names into the windows (Henry Irving is the signature on the top left of the center pane)

Once his father died, Shakespeare no longer needed his childhood home - he had already purchased New Place, the nicest house in the town, for his own family. Instead, Shakespeare expanded the house, and turned most of it into a tavern. The tavern remained open until the 1700s, when its last owner died, and no one purchased the tavern. The building was closed, and lay in disarray until rumors came about that P.T. Barnum wanted to buy the house, ship it to the States, and make it part of his circus. Charles Dickens was having none of that, and so he put on productions of Shakespeare's plays in London, with the money going to the purchase of the Birthplace and the foundation of the organization today known as the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.

Inside the room were the in-house players, who offered to perform bits of Shakespeare's plays by request. One woman requested Antony and Cleopatra, and so I was privy to a performance of part of Cleopatra's death soliloquy:

"Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have

Immortal longings in me: now no more

The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:

Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear

Antony call; I see him rouse himself

To praise my noble act; I hear him mock

The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men

To excuse after their wrath: husband, I come:

Now to that name my courage prove my title!

I am fire and air; my other elements 

I give to baser life. So; have you done?

Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.

Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell."

 - Antony and Cleopatra, V.ii

After which point, Iras suddenly drops dead (as our actress noted), and the scene gets much harder to perform. I then requested Richard II, and got to see and hear part of my favorite Shakespeare soliloquy (which she admitted that she had only just started learning, but she would try, since I asked):

"No matter where; of comfort no man speak:

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;

Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let's choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?

Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown

That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humor'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!"
 - Richard II III.ii

At which point she said that she couldn't remember any more (it is rather a long soliloquy, and not an easy one) - but for a moment, I got to hear a speech that most people don't perform in the States, and done well.

It was a highlight of my day.

From the Birthplace (and its gift shop - the most wonderful shop in the world), I went into Starbucks and then to Harvard House. The house belonged to Thomas Rogers, a successful member of Stratford society. His daughter Katherine married Robert Harvard; their son John moved to Massachusetts with his wife and became the namesake and founder of Harvard University. The house belongs to Harvard University, and is cared for by the Birthplace Trust. 

Harvard House

So many tiny stairs, so little time for me to trip and bump my head

It is a small house, and not designed for tall people to walk through - I managed to bump my head twice on the way down and trip over my feet on the stairs. But the family was definitely wealthy - they had painted their walls and had stained glass in one of their windows. There were also Lancaster roses around the house, which I found particularly interesting, given the location of the town near Warwick - a stronghold of Yorkist support during the Wars of the Roses. 

Original painted walls in Harvard House

Stained glass windows

Harvard House's staff were especially excited to see an American tourist, and so we talked about Thanksgiving (which they had hosted the day before) and where I was from. I then walked on to Hall's Croft.

Hall's Croft was the home of Shakespeare's eldest daughter, Susannah, and her husband, Dr. John Hall. Susannah was the only one of Shakespeare's children to have a child who married - her first son-in-law, Thomas Nash, is buried in the family crypt in Trinity Church. The house is incredibly spacious, with high ceilings and large fireplaces. The Halls also had a large garden behind their house. Dr. Hall practiced medicine from their home, and earned enough money to purchase several paintings - both portraits and still lifes (although whether these images are from the Halls' time in the house or the time of those after, I'm not quite sure). Also on display was an exhibit on Shakespeare, Stratford, and the First World War - this is the second year of the 100th anniversary of World War I, and so the exhibit was appropriate.

Dining room in Hall's Croft

Dr. Hall's medical practice 

A view to the garden outside

After a full morning, I stopped for cream tea at the cafe downstairs, and had a pot of English Breakfast and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry preserves. It was absolutely delicious, and just what I needed to pick me up before I stopped for my last planned visit of the day - Trinity Church, the site of Shakespeare's grave.

Lesson learned: I'm not allowed near clotted cream...

I had seen the gravesite before, of course - but I had been sped past it last time, in order to get back on the bus. This time, I walked in, taking copious pictures of everything. Even after two minutes of pictures, I still managed to have enough time to stand alone in front of Shakespeare's tomb and talk to it.

Trinity Church 

The entrance to Shakespeare's grave 

"Good friend for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blest be he that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

A memorial to Shakespeare designed by his friends and family in 1623

The Shakespeare family graves

It might seem a little weird, talking to the grave of a long-dead poet. But without this poet, I've realized, a lot of what I love - the words that I enjoy working with so much, the books I love to read - they wouldn't be here. And so I stood there quoting from Shakespeare's plays to him for five minutes, and almost started on Ben Jonson's poem, before realizing that bidding a 400 year old corpse to rise was probably a bad idea. Instead, standing there, I began to tear up, and, softly, I murmured, "Thank you. For everything."

As I was walking out (and trying not to cry - it was kind of a big deal), I asked the woman at the ticket desk about the history of the church. We wound up having a chat for 10 minutes about the church's history, the formation of Anglicanism and Cromwell's effect on churches in England, and another church in Stratford that she suggested I visit (since I'm studying history and English). I really enjoyed her chat - and I'm also grateful that she didn't judge me in the least for asking questions about her history, her church, or area. Thank you.

"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
 Must give us pause." - Hamlet III.i

I wound up walking back towards that second church, the Guild Chapel, but it was locked - it contains partial frescoes preserved from Cromwell's attacks on churches. Trying to kill some more time - I was getting tired, but it was only 3:15, and I had at least another 45 minutes before the sun went down - I walked into a local bookstore called the Chaucer's Head. There, of all places, I found a book on Robespierre and the French Revolution (which I believe is out of print in the States). After purchasing the book, I walked to a Costa Coffee, bought a sandwich and a tea, and walked to my B&B for the evening.

The next day (after another English breakfast), I walked to the Royal Shakespeare Company, on the banks of the River Avon. I've been dreaming about seeing a show at the RSC since I was in high school - and this trip, I booked a ticket to their matinee performance of Wendy and Peter Pan. I also had booked a backstage tour of the theatre (since I've seen the backstage areas of the National Theatre in London, I felt it was only right that I should do a similar tour here, as well). 

The River Avon

I got to the theatre early (surprise surprise), and so I walked along the banks of the Avon, taking pictures of the swans and the RSC. Once I picked up my tickets, I waited for my tour inside the area just outside of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre - and was greeted by a large production photo of David Tennant (my favorite Doctor from Doctor Who) in his production of Richard II. 

Immediately, I felt at home.

They wouldn't let me take pictures inside for copyright reasons, so I took a photo of my ticket instead

My tour group was very small - just myself, the tour guide, and a married couple who had come because they had seen lots of shows from the RSC but never been on a tour before. I got to see the quick change areas (apparently, to keep the audience from hearing them, all quick change costumes are done with magnets - something I'd never considered before) and the back of the stage, where they were keeping the Jolly Roger for the matinee production. The original stage of the RSC Theatre was built in 1932 to house 1,000 people - but in the 1950s, it was expanded to hold 1,500. The stage was a traditional proscenium arch, behind which all the action took place. The new stage, built in 2007 and opened in 2010, is a thrust stage, maintaining the proscenium arch, but putting the action before it. Each production has a different stage, to accommodate the sets and entrances from underneath. It can now seat 1,045 people. 

From the RSC Theatre, we walked upstairs to the dressing rooms and the laundry, where costumes are kept. Every piece of fabric that touches the skin must be washed after each show - that means after the matinee and before the evening show, each actor's costume is cleaned. 

From there, we entered the Swan Theatre. The Swan is on the site of the original theatre built by Charles Flower, a brewer in Stratford who was determined to give Shakespeare a memorial in his hometown. The original building burned down to the ground in the 1920s in a mysterious fire that was spotted by locals at the Black Swan/Dirty Duck Pub down the road (which has delicious food - it's the place I ate at when I was in town four years before). The site was refurbished as a practice space, but eventually the company needed a second stage. The money for the project came from a Kansas billionaire, and the theatre opened in the 1980s. The exterior of the stage is currently undergoing restoration.

From the Swan, we walked into the light and sound booth, and then to the Rooftop restaurant, where we saw just how far back the furthest row of seats were from the stage in the original RSC Theatre - 25 meters from center stage to the back row.

"...can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?" - Henry V I.i

After the end of my tour, I walked into the gift shop to pick up gifts and souvenirs, and then to the cafe to grab a quick bite before my show began. 

Wendy and Peter Pan was amazing - the acting was spectacular, the sets were gorgeous, and I desperately want to wear the costumes. If anything, I wish that the show had been done with actual child actors, instead of actors my age playing Wendy and Peter and the Darling children. But the best part of the show was by far the Crocodile. He came out in a long, green leather trench coat, a Doctor Who scarf, and a top hat, and then slid into a split and crawled across the stage, moving his hips completely around and pulling himself forward. The terrifying cat's eye contact lenses and the bone-cracking noises playing as he moved didn't help to make him less scary. Although he had no lines, he perfectly embodied his character, and I was enthralled whenever he was on stage.

From the show, I left to stop by Starbucks for a hot chocolate and a sandwich, and picked up a last minute book on Shakespeare from Waterstones, before heading back to my B&B in the rain. Once I dried off, I packed up for the next morning, checked into my flights, and looked at the train schedule.

After catching my trains and my flight, I landed in Frankfurt and had another four and a half hour layover, spent much the same way. Once I got back to Bologna and my dorm, I was incredibly grateful to be back - and also sad that I couldn't stay longer.

I've never been somewhere where everyone was so friendly and ready to help me. All of the people that I stopped and talked to were incredibly cheerful and nice, and were willing to give me advice (and I was even mistaken for Canadian, which was a welcome surprise). I could definitely see myself living in a place like Stratford - maybe even in Stratford, if I had the chance.

Most importantly, I had the chance to relax before exams and get away from daily life. 

So thank you, Stratford, for one of the best experiences of my life. I can't wait to come back.

"Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise!"
 - Ben Jonson, "To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare"

Thinking Over Paris

On November 13, Paris was attacked by terrorists.

When it happened, I was out of Bologna, on the Iberian Peninsula. And I had two friends (and classmates) in the city.

So my reactions to what happened might be a little different than anyone else's.

But this is what I've been feeling for the past few weeks.

On my flight out to Spain, I felt like something was wrong. There was a knot in my stomach for the entire flight, and it didn't untwist until we were in our hotel and had eaten dinner. And then we got back, and everything came crashing back.

After we got up the next morning, everything seemed different. I had a wonderful time, but underneath all of it was a lingering sense of dread and fear - of wondering how long the buildings and historic sites I was seeing, the restaurants and cafes that my roommate and I were walking into, would last after we went to them - if, when I turned the corner, that corner would be the last thing I saw.

Getting on the airplane to Bologna, I had my bags searched because I had purchased soap and they thought it could be explosives.

In Bologna, I found out that they cancelled our school trip to Paris - at the time, I figured, because of all of the raids occurring and the issues of having students there when there could still be a viable attack.

Walking to classes in the town center that Monday was a nightmare. For the first time on the whole trip, I didn't feel like being an American gave me any protection at all. If anything, it put a giant red target on my back. And it made me nervous.

All I wanted to do was forget that anything had happened in Paris. My friends made it back safe, and so I wanted to ignore the fact that they had nearly died (and that Europe was beginning to embroil itself in what appears to be the beginnings of WWIII). But my professors insisted on discussing everything - the background of Islamic radicalism, the reasons for the bombings, and what Europe would do next. My friends were allowed to leave the room. I was not.

Tuesday, we had a group meeting that was supposed to be about why we had cancelled the Paris trip. What it turned into was a "let's share our feelings" meeting - which I'm not opposed to, but I had not signed up for a feelings session. I was there for strictly business. I wanted to get in and get out.

And then, our director informed us that he had cancelled the trip, not because he thought it wasn't safe to go to Paris (in fact, he encouraged us to still go if we wanted so that we wouldn't have to lose the tickets we had all bought), but because he didn't want to deal with getting all of us through the increased security in places like the Louvre (which already has some of the tightest security in the world for a museum, so that would've been a hassle anyway). And I was slightly upset - because of all the reasons to not go to Paris, that seemed like a horrible one.

And after Wednesday, it was like nothing had ever happened in Paris. Europeans haven't really done anything different - in fact, Italy said they would be stepping up their security measures, but I've been through the airport twice since they've said so, and I have yet to see it happen.

Yes, the events in Paris are and were terribly sad. And yes, I probably could've gone this weekend and been perfectly safe there (and probably safer than anywhere else in Europe).

But I chose not to.

Because I feel like Paris (and France together) are still in mourning. And I'm not sure that I would have enjoyed a visit to Paris right now, two weeks after the tragedy. Yes, I had classmates who went this weekend and had a wonderful time. But Paris is my dream - ever since I realized that I wanted to study French Rev, I've wanted to go there. And I want to enjoy my dream.

This just wasn't the time to do it.

If I've learned anything from my studies, though, it's that the French are the wrong people to mess with. Attack them - take away their rights, their bread, their land; destroy their cities, kill their people,  occupy their towns - and they unify and attack right back.

France will come out of this more unified than we have seen them in a long time.

I send prayers towards Paris, and the people who live in France. May your nation find peace again.

"Français, en guerriers magnanimes

Portez ou retenez vos coups!

Épargnez ces tristes victimes,

À regret s'armant contre nous."

 - La Marseillaise, French national anthem dating to the French Revolution

Searching for the Infinite

This past week was insane! Not only did I have my first art history test of the year (never have I been so grateful for AP Euro before in my life), but I had a major Italian test. I was ready to leave for my weekend trip on Friday when the time came.

First, however, I had Cultural Friday. This week, we discussed the Bologna Bombings in the 1980s, and their effects on the city. A suitcase was left in the second-class waiting room in Bologna Centrale, the train station in the center of the city, and exploded at 10:25, taking out the second and first class waiting rooms, the bar next door, and the postal offices above. It also destroyed the first platform, and blew debris outward, killing two taxi drivers and causing the area to cave in on itself. 85 people died, and 200 were wounded. The people of Bologna rallied to help, using taxis, buses, and other private vehicles to carry the wounded and dead to the hospital. The most famous of these buses is Bus 37, now a symbol of the events, along with the clock at the station, which was stopped when the explosion went off at 10:25. The case has never been solved, and, although suspicion lies on the right-wing parties and on the government (since Bologna is a traditionally left-wing city), no one has concrete evidence to suggest either party is guilty. 

The clock at Bologna Centrale

We visited the train station, looking at the memorial and viewing the names of those who had died. However, when we visited, we were told that the visiting professor had to speak quietly because we were discussing a terrorist attack and it was a high alert day. We went through the discussion as quickly as possible, and then the class left the station to meet an eyewitness while I met my roommate to go to the airport for our flight to Barcelona.

We flew out to Barcelona with no issues - nothing was happening, except for student protests in Rome and Naples. When we arrived in Barcelona, we were both surprised by how modern the airport was, in comparison to others in Europe (especially Bologna's). After waiting for almost an hour for the train, we managed to make it into the city center, using the metro to get into Barcelona proper. A five minute walk from Las Ramblas led us to our hotel, Hostal El-Jardi. It sits above Hemingway's favorite bar in the area, Bar del Pi (which I didn't know when we booked it, but made me very excited).

After a quick rest to recuperate from the plane and train, we wandered around the area near our hotel, popping into shops and buying gifts for friends and family. Around 8:30, we walked to our restaurant for the evening, which served traditional Catalan food and had been recommended by our concierge. Thanks to the card from the front desk, we were given free cava, a local sparkling wine, to go with our meal. After consulting with our waiter (who was from Sicily, and quite excited to talk about Italy with people), we chose an appetizer of grilled vegetables and goat cheese, and separate entrees. 

I kid you not when I say that we both agreed it was the best meal of the entire trip. 

Grilled vegetables, goat cheese, Catalan bread, and water

I have never once in my life tasted eggplant that has been grilled like that - so soft that it melts in your mouth. And the goat cheese was excellent. It was served with grilled onions, potatoes, and red peppers, and pieces of Catalan bread rubbed with garlic and tomato - perfect for putting everything together into one bite. Then came our entrees - and, let me tell you, I have never eaten such delicious sausage and white beans before in my life. I don't know how they did it, but I would happily eat that meal for the rest of my life. 

The most delicious sausage and white beans ever created (sorry, Dad)

We finished up with a Catalan pudding, and paid our bill (incredibly low, for the quality of food). We walked to the Starbucks we had seen on the way there, buying some coffee, and went back to our room. 

It was there that we found out about Paris. 

We had classmates in Paris - in fact, the first thing we heard about what was happening was a classmate asking on our GroupMe if we had heard from them. Once we had talked to them, my roommate rolled over and went to sleep. But I stayed up for another hour, fielding worried texts from my mother and messages from friends back home, checking to make sure I wasn't in Paris, too. 

I finally got to sleep that night, wondering if I would be able to sleep soundly at all.

Apparently, I did, because when my alarm went off early the next morning, I groaned and rolled over. My roommate and I grabbed a quick breakfast at our hotel, and then took the metro to visit the Basilica de la Sagrada Familia. Begun by Antoni Gaudi in 1882, the church was still incomplete at the time of his death in 1926. Today, the church is still being worked on; according to videos on the basilica's website, they hope to have it completed by 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi's death. 

Sagrada Familia, Nativity Facade 

Sagrada Familia from the plaza across the street

The church overwhelms the tiny plaza that it sits on - completely dwarfs it, in fact. My roommate and I walked all the way around both the plaza and the church, taking it all in, and still could not grasp how large it is. Walking inside, it's even more awe-inspiring. Gaudi took many of his inspirations from nature, and so the columns look like trees in a forest; the spiral stairs, like nautilus shells; and the roof is decorated with fruit. Everything is built on a grandiose scale, and yet still feels very intimate.

Passion Facade, Sagrada Familia

Columns of the church 

Interior panorama, Sagrada Familia

At the back of the church is a door with the Our Father in Catalan. Behind it is the same prayer, but in the languages of Europe, Africa, the Bible, and America. And this reminded me that, while the church might be dedicated to the Holy Family, it is also a church of unity - something that seemed even more important in the face of the attacks in Paris the day before. My roommate and I took a moment to pray among the stained glass and the high ceilings. And I don't know what my roommate was praying for, but I was asking for my friends to get home safely, and for Paris to unite together, and for everyone to be able to forgive what had happened, and for us to be able to come back to Bologna with no incident. 

The stained glass window

And I didn't ask for any sign that my prayer was heard, but as we were leaving, the stained glass window next to the door with the Passion on it lit up in a glorious display of light. And I couldn't not take that was a way of God telling me that he had heard my prayers.

The front facade - the one that we had entered through - is decorated with the Nativity story. The one that we exited through is called the Passion facade, because the doors are covered in the story of the Passion, and the statues show the Passion and death of Christ.

After we took a last look at the church, we grabbed a quick coffee, figured out where our next stop was, and checked in with our friends in Paris. Then we got back on the metro, and went back a few stops, traveling towards La Pedreda - what we in English (and Spanish) call Casa Mila. 

Unfortunately, we managed to come up on the wrong part of the street, and so we had to stop into a book shop and ask for directions. It turned out that, while we had stopped at the right metro, we had walked the wrong way after getting off. We speed walked to the building, down the Passseig de Gracia, and made it to La Pedrera panting. The guides laughed at us, and motioned us to the right entrance, where we were given free audioguides and sent on our merry way.

Casa Mila, also known as La Pedrera

The tour starts on the roof, where Gaudi used his architectural prowess to design the most beautiful chimneys, forming twisting sculptures out of clay and mosaics. Two actually form frames around churches in the distance: a church in the mountains, and Gaudi's own Sagrada Familia. From there, we descended into the attic, where we got to see the skeletal nature of Gaudi's design to keep the building warm in the winter. We also visited some of the apartments, where families lived in rooms lit naturally by the sun, no matter where in the building they were. The building, we were informed, is still used, and men and women live in it today. 

One of the chimneys 

Roof panorama, Casa Mila

One of the "frames," with Sagrada Familia in the distance 

The ceiling structure that makes the roof possible 

A reconstructed bedroom in Casa Mila's apartments

The view up from the courtyard where original residents would drive their cars in

From La Pedrera, we walked to lunch (where we had paella - something I can finally check off the bucket list), and then wandered down Passeig de Gracia for the afternoon, popping in and out of shops and drinking coffee. We walked back to the bookshop that we had visited earlier, and, in the midst of searching for a copy of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises (what better book to buy in Spain than Hemingway's ode to Spain?), I saw a copy of A Place of Greater Safety sitting on the shelf in front of me. I tried to walk past it (in fact, I walked all around the English language section trying to pretend it wasn't there), but the image of the tricolore on its cover kept coming back to haunt me. Eventually, I caved and bought it. Sometimes, there are feelings that are just too significant to ignore - and seeing a tricolore on this day was one of them.

We took the metro back to our hotel, where we did some more shopping and then stopped for dinner at a tapas bar recommended by our hotel. Again, we had free cava; this time, we followed the tasting menu recommended. The food was lackluster in comparison to the night before, and we both agreed that we needed to go back to the first restaurant the next evening. We walked back to the hotel and got ready for bed, ready for what the morning would bring.

Cava and tapas

Sunday morning dawned bright and early. I woke up, and my roommate and I walked to the Cathedral of Barcelona, five minutes from our hotel. I went in for Mass while she chose to wander around the city. When I got out, we went to Starbucks so that I could get breakfast and we could decide what to do. 

Cathedral of Barcelona

I wanted to find a copy of Sun Also Rises still, so we went up to the north of town to find the English language bookstore. Unfortunately, Google had lied to us, and it was closed. We wound up wandering the area for a little bit, and then took the Metro to Passeig de Gracia, hoping to find another one that might be open. 

It turns out Barcelona keeps everything closed on Sunday mornings. Except Starbucks.

So we took the Metro down to the beach, and my roommate and I laid on the sand for an hour and a half. It was long enough (and hot enough) that, despite my long sleeves and leggings, I have a sunburn.

Absolutely gorgeous day at Playa de la Barceloneta

Nothing like a little light beach reading

When we were ready to go, we walked to a small burger shack near the water (but far enough off it that the prices were still reasonable) and got some lunch. I had an amazing avocado smoothie (not something I ever thought I would say) and a chicken sandwich with pineapple. We walked from there to the Museu Picasso, which is free after 3 PM on Sundays, and waited in line to get in. Once inside, we polished off the one floor of artwork quickly - although my roommate's face when she realized that Picasso was modern art was rather priceless.

After touring the museum, we walked back to our hotel, and rested for a little while, before walking back to the restaurant from the first night. We ordered a completely different menu - chickpeas with ham for the appetizer, and grilled rabbit for the main course - but still had free cava. While the food was still good, we agreed that the meal from the first night was better, and both wished we'd ordered the same food again. However, I enjoyed the dessert I ordered much more the second time - chocolate cake - than I did the custard, and the cafe con leche I had was excellent. 

We packed up that evening, and, as we headed home the next day, I wondered about how my thoughts on Barcelona had changed.

Originally, I had wanted to go anywhere but Barcelona. In Spain, I wanted to go to Madrid, Toledo, or Seville - places that had always fascinated me as a student in Spanish class, places with strong cultural heritage and lots of museums. Instead, we went to Barcelona, a part of the country that doesn't primarily speak Spanish (the main language is Catalan), and whose main draw for tourists is football, followed closely by beaches and Gaudi. Never in a million years would I have thought that Barcelona changed me.

There was a video playing in Sagrada Familia that talked about Gaudi and his plans for the church, and in the video he talked about how he believed the church was a physical representation of man's search for the infinite. Barcelona has definitely shown me that I'm still on that search - searching for the things more powerful, greater, and longer lasting than I am. I think I saw it in Sagrada Familia - maybe I caught a glimpse of it too in that bookshop. But I'm going to keep looking for it everywhere, no matter where I am.

Muchas gracias, Barcelona, por ayudarme buscando il infinito.

City of Light and Water: Returning to Venice

After a second week of extreme testing and stress, nothing was more exciting to me than the prospect of visiting Venice again with my mother and grandfather. They had come into town on Thursday to visit Bologna, and so I was able to take them around town and show them my favorite spots (my gelatoria, my coffee shop, and my bookstore, among others). Friday morning, after Cultural Friday, we stopped for lunch at a Neapolitan pizza restaurant, Spaccanapoli, and grabbed some gelato before heading to the Bologna train station.

Venice, as expected, was gorgeous. Unexpectedly, it was not under high water, or acqua alta. We were able to move for most of the trip unencumbered.

We visited most of the same places that I had visited with my roommate a month before (in fact, thinking about it now, I believe we did the exact same trip), but this time I got to sit back and reflect on what I really love about Venice.

Piazza San Marco from the water

Venice has always had a siren's call to those who read and write, beckoning them with her Italian heritage mixed with her Islamic influences. Her architecture, her mysterious, sinuous canals, all lead to a sense of wonder and awe - a surprise that never quite disappears. You never know what will be around each corner, whether you're walking on land or traveling by vaporetto or gondola. And part of this is because Venice is still so in touch with its past.

The Bridge of Sighs from the water

One guidebook that I read (so many years ago that I'm not sure I still remember who wrote it) said that Venice is a sinking museum. And I think I might have to disagree with that now. Certainly, Venice is sinking. It's hard to ignore that when every floor you walk across is uneven and the cobblestones are popping out of the ground, when there are waves lapping up against everything and the evidence of the gentle persistence of water is everywhere. But I don't think the Venetians have abandoned their city to be simply a soulless place, with only empty buildings preserving the past. There's a liveliness to Venice that is unlike anywhere else in Italy - a life that has been built over generations, designed by people who were persistent enough to keep building on top of islands washed away slowly by water and time, who understood that what they created might not last for all time - but, no matter what, they would try their darnedest to build something that would survive them.

I may feel most at home in towns like Florence and Bologna, but there is something about Venice that will always call me back. It's as if I have unfinished business there.