Italy Was More Than Awesome

Photo credit: Karissa Venne

Everyone I know asks me how was Italy and I say it was wonderful, it was unbelievable, it was amazing, it was so worth it, it was awesome, but it’s actually been irritating me to use these bland answers, because really I cannot describe within a sentence what this trip meant to me, and that is all these question-askers are looking for. Even my pictures do not truly express the essence of Italy and that disappoints me. I guess this is why tourists are obsessed with photography and souvenirs. And I fell into that trap on this trip as well. We think that if we take 5,000 pictures and buy a magnet for every person we’ve ever talked to, we’ll somehow prove and showcase how wonderful our trip was. But for me, I cannot succinctly express the joy of travelling without dragging every loved one across the Atlantic and forcing them to touch the walls of a Venetian alley, to lose themselves in the busy Florentine streets and stumble upon statue after statue and painting after painting that are just sitting there, a part of the city instead of hung on a wall or placed in a forgotten room, to stand outside of the Coliseum and feel small and insufficient, to feel pizza juices rolling down their arms and creamy gelato on their tongues. The souvenirs and photos do not do the trip justice. A conversation does not. This paper does not. Only the trip itself, the click clacking of my sandals on cobblestone, the bitter taste of red wine at a restaurant overlooking orange roofs, the quiet surprise of finding a piazza with a fountain or birds or church or ancient ruin— this shudder of peace and realization that the world is bigger than the circle I’ve carved for myself, that is my trip. It is the eventual understanding that I am only a person, and not only are there millions of other people living in different countries, but that the dirt is lined with millions of other people from the past, ones that paved roads and prayed to different gods and carved rocks into gasping figures and painted dutifully and beautifully, and we are all the same. We are all dying, we are looking for an answer to why we are here, why we have been chained to this earth, and whether we find that answer in history or religion or art, it doesn’t matter as long as we’re all looking.


I could list all of the pieces of history that I saw or learned about or touched, but that list would be insufficient and empty. I discovered that travelling is the best way to discover. I learned that I’m on this planet with an expiration date and I can’t take anything with me, so I’m going to count my blessings not in things, not in dollars, but in experiences. I found that if after I die, if my portrait was to be painted like Saint Francis’s, on a wall in Assisi, mine would include a book and a photo of people: reading and writing, and my family and friends. This is what I live for. This is what makes me feel infinite. The people I write and read about and the people standing next to me in my best and worst moments. They are what I live for. They are what make me feel infinite.

Watch out for: my Italy journal that I have to create for class credit, which I will post in the next couple days.

You Cannot Take A Shot in Italy

Drinking in Italy compared to the U.S.

Photo credit: Deviant Art at http://tankphotography.deviantart.com/art/Wine-83351814

Italy uses a comma instead of a decimal point in their prices. Italy uses military time. Italy uses full walls to section off their bathroom stalls for privacy. Italy drinks espressos while we drink coffee water from Dunkin. Italy does not consume alcohol for fun, rather drinks culturally for taste in a subtle way and in a minimal amount. Italians do not drink to get drunk.


In the U.S., especially for young people, drinking is a major part of our collegiate culture, misplaced or not. Many teens at least try drinking in high school, and some drink regularly during those years. In college, drinking excessively is a sign of popularity, masculinity for men, a way for women and men to meet in an intoxicated and relaxed manner, and those who do not drink during these years are not necessarily peer pressured to drink, but in some cases, can be excluded from collegiate social activities, especially once students turn twenty-one. I didn’t try a sip of alcohol until college, but since turning twenty-one, my alcohol consumption has most definitely increased, as my circle of friends socialize with drinking, and have been in a constant celebration of graduation. I rarely just have one drink for the taste, and usually drink two to four drinks a night with the intention of feeling drunk. Though drinking excessively is looked down upon by parents, adults, public places, etc. drinking moderately is encouraged in the college atmosphere, at least in my experience.

In Italy, not only did bars have a different look and purpose, but they are less frequent. Bars in Italy typically serve alcohol along with coffee, sandwiches, and gelato. Bars are a center for socializing, not drinking heavily. The drinking age in Italy is sixteen, though wine is such a significant part of the Italian culture that most teens start drinking wine with dinner before they reach the legal drinking age. Wine is the equivalent of our consumption of water in Italy. Wine is the most common drink that accompanies both lunch and dinner. Italians drink for the taste, to compliment their meal, not with the intention to become drunk. Though I did not visit an Italian college, and it is probable that Italian college students drink excessively, but overall, a tourist does not see Italians stumbling through their cobblestone streets; if anything, a tourist could see another tourist stumbling through cobblestone streets, and therefore, being looked down upon by the Italian residents.

American culture overall is fast-paced, jam-packed with activities and appointments— we never do anything halfway or slowly. Since our downtime is limited and relaxation does not come easily, when the weekend hits, if an American is planning on drinking, I would assume that he or she would most likely drink to get drunk (there are of course exceptions to this generalization). Since we have limited time to relax, we access relaxation through alcohol as quickly as possible. We invented the fast-food industry and many families live on microwavable food. Most food traditions come from an American’s heritage, such as Greek, German, or Russian. We rush, we rarely sit and enjoy something, and most are constantly distracted by some sort of technology, whether it is an iPod, TV show, movie, or the Internet. Now I am not saying that all Europeans do not enjoy and/or are addicted to technology or drinking; I’m sure some are; nor am I saying that all Americans live out of microwaves, drink like fish, and have TVs glued to their faces. But for the sake of argument, Italians are rooted in their culture, for it surrounds them. Italian meals are three or four courses long, and therefore, much longer affairs than the typical American meal. This concept lends itself to the idea of relaxation in Italy: relaxing is much more ordinary, and usually involves great food and local wine. Italians do not drink to get drunk because they do not need to. They know how to relax without intoxication, and I would argue, though I like my fair share of alcohol, that their way of relaxation and drinking is the better option. Italian teens are not banned from alcohol like American teenagers, and come on, we all know that once you tell a teen that they can’t do something, they do it, just out of spite and curiosity and a wanting to discover the world on their own. For us, alcohol becomes something forbidden, something fun and dangerous, so we use it in a fun and dangerous way. Italians drink wine everyday; it’s regular; it’s part of their lives; it isn’t surprising. And that mentality differs greatly from ours, not only concerning drinking, but of our image of how to relax and socialize as a culture overall.

 

Reading Blog

My reading blog, which I have not had time to update: http://karissaaddictedtoreading.blogspot.com/

I plan on just using this blog from now on, but definitely visit my other one! I just will not be updating it.

I've written a lot lately, but I am really working on learning to edit, so this is the only one ready so far. More to come!

Rocking Back and Forth

If I had any tears

I would share them with the moon

                                    and you

you are the shadow behind me

caressing my movements with ease

like wine glasses

dripping from my head

slowly at first, until dust pours out of

                                    you and I

dropping quietly

like stilettos across ceiling

            a scattering of sounds

above this night’s conversation

where all I hear

is the glow of scarlet liquor

under the sink

where my shadow curls up

spouting blackened sand

from its mouth

rocking back and forth

holding your hand,        whispering

                        but I cannot speak

You are a moon

I split down the middle and sew back together

You spiral with my shadow

and I envelope the moon,

I hang upside down

like a spork on the wall

with its numbers clinking            backwards

counting to a place I don’t recognize                  inhaling tears.

burnish the petal & stare sharply

toward the bookstacks,

leaking slowly into a spiderweb on the floor.

you always

languish starry clothespins for me,

but I wish for you instead.

we both scream slowly,

pronouncing each swollen letter.

            these letters swirl inside us and we

            clone oysters in the park,

            which hold the pearled argument

            in their crackled hands.

we display this on the bookstack

and I wish for you again. but

you are role playing your iguana

with sweetened scales.

please,                      

    steal a juxtaposition.

                                               

please,                                  

    spool pigeons in a basket on my lap.

                                                                        the top hat glances in my direction.

            india,                                     

            croquet my whisper.

our motif is a soccer coach.

he fringes brandy glasses

with pacific spoons,

but he cannot spark me,

as I chat with a quiche

over threaded shackles.

my flower spinners

are on a pottery wheel, easing

graphite towards my hand,

as I explode nail polish

on your coffee table.

the spider crawls through the inky puddle,

carving your name in a bottle.

                                                                        I am a purple stereotype

                                                             breathing Artemis,

surely enough to ignite

the parlor’s breath,

and yours,

            of course,

is the coldest of them all.

I breathe grimy

clothespins that cling

to my shoulder, while

                                                you hand-craft the moon.

please,

      flock my voices.

                                                        no.

                                        I would rather you not

                                                breathe for me.

                                                                                                            please starlight,

                                                                                                                        spoon toward me.

                                                                                                                            

Black Sunflowers

I slurp your tombstone,

page 81, the buttery paper

slides like the homerun

of Derek Jeter, on September 25^th

1999, coaxed by the Mariners.

I find it (545-2690)

Scotch taped to your forehead;

Peel your filaments,

hang them on the wall,

next to the Eiffel Tower

road map that we

punctuate three years

later with garden shears,

while Enrique Iglesias

sings. But he can’t.

And you can’t. Our breath

is the stack of dusty

Atlantic Monthlies on Grandma

Ruth’s grave, we can’t

bring her back to life either.

I had licked your number

to important

places years ago: bumper

stickered to my hand, under

the easy button, scribbled

on the vegetable drawer, inscribed

in the Chicago Times

obituaries. But chanting

numerals ate my memories;

they are road kill

on Route 67. Now these mangled

remnants reclaim

their spot on my mantle,

where I sit by the fire

and count seven

numbers. They blur

with taunting scintillas.

They are afire, as the world

spirals two towers.

They regurgitate black sunflowers

on my lap and the smell of

meadows infects the

phonebook, making you

seem beautiful.

But you’re not. And we’re not.

To me you are a

            number.         

Maxi of Tragedy

leaves twirl on pavement;

I change colors with them

but never brown,

never brown like

chocolate intertwined

with your sneaker.

it mouths the words

of that same story.

this story haunts us

but Prince Charming

is a pickle.

he does not gallop

into this backdrop

of green leaves.

instead, boot prints

smolder in the field,

swords burp tragedies and

stolen opportunities

do not surface. it is

                             pickle’s lust.

his figure is muddied

in green juice- bumpy

ladybugs with fragile

scales. it is a

                      maxi of tragedy.

happy happy

                        ever after

            spirals

downward

et al.