Real Italians, Obama, and the Mafia

At this point in my studying abroad career, I have to say that hanging out with Italians is my favorite thing to do. I’m not talking about the quasi-Italians who go to my school for a semester or for all four years, I’m talking about the REAL Italians--born, raised, bred in the good ‘ole motherland. Thus far, I’ve had quite a few chances to just hang out with some, and you know what, I think, in time, we could be friends…maybe (has a back story, I swear).

Whether I’ve been spending the weekend with the very hospitable locals of the country or hanging out in the evening with them, I’ve enjoyed every moment. And, all but maybe one Italian I’ve encountered has been thrilled when they learn my local whereabouts back home. “Chicago? Obama! You like?” Ha ha, yeah. And you? (More of a formality than a question) “Si! Mi piace!” Silly Italians. One night a couple of us met a handful of local Romans (friends of our MU Ital prof’s son) in Piazza del Popolo. When we all were gathered in this piazza (only about 30 minutes later than planned—a lot can be said for Italian punctuality), we walked around aimlessly. Ok, the fact is, we were lost, which was hysterical considering they have lived in Rome for the majority, if not all of their lives. At one point, they started asking people for directions and when they said that we were trying to find Trastevere (the area where JCU is located), I knew exactly where to go and started leading the Romans around. They got a kick out of this!

That night, over my second dinner (hey, it’s needed sometimes), I learned that Italians are the best at three things (“Only three?” I asked). These three things are: 1) Soccer 2) Food 3) Mafia (they said it is one of their exports). After talking about Italian stuff (no one likes the prime minister here, that’s for certain) and showing off our ability to curse in the opposites’ native tongue (they won this battle), we loitered outside the restaurant. When the police drove by we could not have looked any more suspicious as we, in a line along the wall, just smiled and tried to look innocent. It was like something out of a movie, I swear. At the end of the night, I asked jokingly, “Can we be friends?” They totally missed the joke at first. When they caught on, “Sorry, the night is over. Maybe we can be friends another time.” HA! We get each other ;) Mi piace.

School is, well, a little more exciting...

So, I realize that after four weeks of writing (and slacking in that writing…yes, I realize it) I have yet to mention anything about my classes (kinda the whole reason I’m out here, or so I’m told). Well, classes are significantly different from Marquette U that much is sure. I started out the semester with six classes with the intention of dropping one so I didn’t have to worry about working too hard and not have a chance to enjoy life. We had until the end of the first week of classes to make up our minds on which classes we wanted to stay in. I was really happy that they gave us such a generous amount of time to make such an important decision, let me tell you. This disappointment was mainly due to the fact that one of my roommates would come home each day from class, sit down, and switch his schedule around, drop or add classes, or ask us what we thought he should do. Needless to say, by week’s end that form of entertainment was gone. I made fairly easy decisions when I dropped two of my classes: Italian (because let’s get serious, when am I ever going to need this?) and Christian and Byzantine Art (an on-site class that would have killed the idea of fun and sleep alike, however interesting and enjoyable it was). The four classes I’m taking this semester will all count for something back at MU and will finish all but the last few classes in my major up. So, in my four day week (no Friday classes), I wake up around 10 or 11 (sometimes noon), get some reading done and go to class sometime in the afternoon…I’m working on changing this habit and use the time to explore…

                As intriguing as classes are…I’m going to keep talking about them! (I swear, I’ll make this as quick as I can, I just want to give you an idea of what classes are like) My Lit and Criticism class is a class that I could have passed back in junior high, but I’ll admit, it’s a confidence booster compared to my theology class. Pathways of Faith is a theology class that is taught mainly for Notre Dame students (as a matter of fact, it was stressed that it was going to be that level of teaching and if you wanted to bail, right away would have been the time to do it). I LOVE THIS CLASS! I may not be able to hold as “intellectual” of a conversation with the teacher as the Notre Dame kids who all seem to be some kind of religious studies or whatnot majors, but what we’re learning is so fascinating. I’m learning things about the Catholic Church that I never knew and probably never would have had I never taken this class. From history and origins to beliefs, etc., I’m enthralled each class. The best part of it all is that my professor is a priest who holds a high position at the Vatican—he kinda knows the pope, just saying. As we’ve learned, having a teacher who works for the Vatican has its advantages, such as having no class when something goes down at the Vatican or getting into parts of churches/into places that people aren’t allowed usually, if ever. We had our first on-site visit this week to Santa Maria Maggiore (St. Mary Major), one of the four basilicas in Rome; this basilica claims such relics as parts of the manger…pretty sweet.      My Ancient Rome and Its Monuments class is also on-site (on a weekly basis), which means when we have class we go to the Roman Forum or other ancient roman sites. My teacher already likes me because I’m one of two guys in her Classical Mythology class on Mondays and Wednesdays too. Whenever she brings up an ancient myth, she either turns to me to explain (did I ever mention how little self-confidence I have when put on the spot?) or tells people if they have questions about the myth to talk to me—I would love to see how red my face probably gets. Long story short, we’re going to be friends by semester end, I just know it. Just today we were talking about jobs students could get out here (not seriously, of course, because students would never be hired during the school year). We decided that the rip-off centurions who try to rip-off tourists by taking their pictures would be a great job for me. Then we realized my scrawniness. I am now going to be a slave or someone that the gladiators killed. Eh, it’s a living…Photo anyone?

Among the Mountains and Stepping on Nuns

A couple of weeks ago (yeah, I’m slightly behind), I found myself back on an early train heading for Salerno. Now, why would he re-visit a place that he’s already visited before, you may ask. I say to you, a fine question! Well, friends, it just so happened that my good friend, Brighid, has family in San Gregorio—a small town placed among the mountains southeast of the Salerno Coast. As it turned out, the family we stayed with were distant cousins (though, I’m not sure how distant) of Brighid.

When we arrived in Salerno that morning, we were met on the platform by Giovanni . After happily being reunited with his family from America (Brighid), he drove us the hour or so to his home in San Gregorio. Once there, we met his wife and would later in the day meet his 18-year old daughter, Pamela. The feelings that I felt being able to stay with an Italian family, seeing how they live and interact, and being treated as one of the family, was nothing short of wonderful.

                I think Brighid would agree with me when I say that our first surprise and real good sense of being Italian came at lunch not long after we arrived. I thought Americans could eat! I nearly cried when the secondo and terzo piatti came along because when I was offered the seconds of the prima piatti I eagerly accepted. Lesson learned, but not helped (you’ll understand why in a moment).

After my delicious, but never-ending lunch, I rested a bit. Now, this may be punishment for finding ways to avoid eating my veggies when I was younger (and believe me, mom and dad, I did find ways), but after what seemed to be only about 30 minutes (ok, I’m definitely hyperbolating here, but just go with it), we were eating again! Three more courses anyone? Now, this may not seem so bad to most people (after all, a nice, large home-cooked meal is always welcome), BUT they would not stop feeding me! “Magra! Magra! You’re too skinny!” they would tell me as they put more food onto my plate. Despite my pleas of “Basta! Enough!” they would simply smile and add more. The sick thing is that I kept eating. I don’t know how I did it, but I did. After awhile, I was numb to the amount of food they gave me and could keep eating endlessly. That first night, as I rolled, quite literally, out of the kitchen, I eagerly looked forward to breakfast.

That weekend, we met a lot of Giovanni’s family, many of whom lived nearby. I tried homemade Limóncello and vowed never to again. AND, got to drive around in true Italian fashion—it’s much more fun to be in the car of an Italian, rather than outside around a moving one. One night, we went out to dinner with Pamela and her boyfriend, Nikola. They had observed her mother “strongly encouraging” me to eat more and thought it’d be funny to try to do the same to me. Good thing I don’t give into peer pressure (although, I did end up eating more than everyone anyway)! After the fun dinner of many smiles and plenty of laughter (on account of our lack of understanding each other), the four of us drove around for a bit rocking out to such Italian classics as Rhianna’s Disturbia, Brian Adams’ Everything I do, and my personal favorite, Beyonce’s If I were a boy, which was always accompanied by Nikola belting out the same line in a high-pitched voice, much to our amusement.  It was great!

When I arrived back in Rome that weekend, I attended the Papal Vespers at St. Paul Outside the Wall, thanks to a priest who I was put in touch with through a friend at MU. I’m still somewhat unclear on what exactly it was (a type of prayer service I think, only more important), but I do know it was a big deal because 1) the pope was there 2) you needed a ticket to get in 3) it was the feast day of the conversion of St. Paul (not a bad place to celebrate such an event). I don’t know how many nuns I had to step on or bite that day so that I wouldn’t lose my new friend in the crowd, but I figured there were plenty of priests around to confess my sins to…after I got safely inside, of course. This was such a thrilling event to attend on only my second week in the city and it was improved by being there with a Jesuit. For those of you who don’t know, Jesuits know A LOT. He pointed out so many things in or outside that basilica, details that I may have never noticed or details that I probably would never have even guessed the significance of. It was crazy! My favorite topic of conversation that evening involved my lack of attending mass since arriving in Rome. “Why haven’t you?” Fr. T asked me, curious. “Because I couldn’t find a church!” I replied. I don’t think he bought it.