The gang reunited in the rain!
I guess I lied when I said London was my last trip of the semester. It was originally supposed to be my last trip, but I ended up taking just a few more days outside of Bologna during my last week…but this time not nearly as far away—two hours on a train, and I was already in Milano.
With my exams finished, I had one weekend and about a week left in Bologna. I had originally intended to spend every last waking moment in Bologna before I had to say goodbye, but I realized that on this last weekend before I left, a good majority of my roommates and friends would be gone. Marta was going home for a few days; Viola was studying like a madwoman; quite a few people in our program were leaving early to return in time for things like graduation, family trips, etc.; and Lily—who I have talked about so much only because she has been such an amazing friend these past five months—was off to Brussels with a friend from school for a few days. I’m sure I could have found ways to amuse myself in Bologna, but the lovely Valeria Mazzucco invited me to come stay with her in Milano for the weekend so that we could finally be reunited and I impulsively jumped at the chance.
I have talked about Valeria a few times in my blogs, if only because she had such a profound effect on me last semester back at UMW. Although I had had some Italian interaction with my professors and the occasional passerby that I would accost on the street upon hearing them speak Italian in America, my contact with Italians my own age had been slim to none until this past year. Valeria, Francesca and Gianluca changed that when they came to Mary Washington and I became particularly close with Valeria, that sweet, introspective, motherly girl who would get frustrated when I used too many English idiomatic expressions when she cooked many Italian dinners for me. By spending so much time together at college (and then later inviting her to my house for Thanksgiving), I was able to give Valeria a small piece of the America that I knew, which I think was incredibly important. In a liberal arts college, it is easy to slip into cynical critiques of society; and rightly so—the world isn’t perfect and it needs improvement. College has been instrumental in teaching me this. But there are amazing things to life (and life in America) as well—things that get overlooked or forgotten as we argue endlessly on gender equality or increases in tuition costs. And so I made it my goal to show Valeria the pieces of America that I found to be special and important, which ended up being instrumental to the both of us.
Visiting Valeria at her home was a great experience because I really got to feel like a part of an Italian community. It can be difficult to integrate oneself into the Italian university system—it is not built like American colleges, in which the feel of community and school spirit is everywhere. In Italian universities, you are very much on your own and it is not always easy to make friends. So to be a part of an Italian community for a weekend—one with families and children and the elderly—was truly amazing.
I took an early train and made it to Milano where Valeria and a great deal of rain were waiting for me. It was so strange seeing her in Italy! I had her permanently fixed in my mind as an entity that would only exist in Fredericksburg, as strange as that sounds. I hadn’t been that excited to see someone in a very long time and what was even more strange was that I wasn’t really sure what language to speak. Back at Mary Washington, we probably would have spoken English for the most part, with just a few paragraphs of Italian here or there. Valeria, after all, had come to America not only to work, but also to learn English. However, after having spent five months in Italy, my immediate reaction was to speak to her in Italian, which I think we both found a little weird. Valeria also complained good-naturedly, saying that she missed English and wanted to speak it with me, but I insisted. I only had about a week left in Italy and I planned on speaking as much Italian as was possible
Valeria took me to the Universita’ Cattolica—the Catholic university of Milan, which is where Mary Washington’s Italy partner program is located. It was kind of strange to walk onto their campus (surprisingly, this university actually had a physical, cohesive campus), knowing that this was where I could have potentially studied for the semester. UMW’s Italian department certainly tried its hardest in convincing me go there but I was insistent on going somewhere different and, to be perfectly honest, I’m really glad I did.
The University was really beautiful though, even in the rain. It had a lot of history to it and Valeria, being the bookworm that she is, managed to charm her way with the librarians into a locked room filled with books that dated back to the 14th and 15th centuries. I was freaking out. Old books are kind of passion of mine and these were ancient. It’s so funny how Italians treat history—somewhat haphazardly, as if it were just another newspaper thrown on your front porch. Both Valeria and the librarian encouraged me to take down any and all ancient texts that I wanted, with free rein to flip through their molding, crumbling pages with my oiled fingers which could do who knows how much damage to a medieval text. At first I was so nervous that I kept my hands clasped behind my back, simply staring up at all of the bookshelves filled with leather-bound spines in a child-like amazement. That is, until Valeria made fun of me. And so I pulled down a few of the volumes and was careful not to rip any pages or breath too heavily, for fear of damaging an irreplaceable edition of the Decameron.
Inner courtyards of the university
Afterwards, Valeria took me on the metro to the outskirts of Milano, where her family lives. I was welcomed there like long-lost family and it was wonderful. Valeria’s fiancé, Filippo, was also there and it was nice to see another friendly face. I had met Filippo when he had come to visit Valeria at UMW in the fall and the two of them together are quite possibly the most adorable couple I have ever had the pleasure of creeping on. We all ate lunch together and I had a great time; Valeria’s family was so eager to try to speak English with me that, much to their daughter’s chagrin, they kept throwing out random English words or turning to Valeria and saying, “Explain this to Danielle…” apparently forgetting that I spoke Italian. I found this hilarious, though. Over these past few months I have found myself, admittedly, quite frustrated with Italians who attempt to speak English with me on the street, if only because I know that my level of Italian surpasses their ability to communicate in English. However, being around Valeria’s family and their uncontrollable excitement made me realize that a lot of Italians insist on trying to speak English with you mainly because they’re trying to be polite and reach out to you in your madrelingua—mother-tongue.
After spending a few hours with Valeria’s wonderful family, we bundled up and went to Bergamo, a little town just outside of Milano. This was ironic, seeing as Lily, Sami, Krystal and I had all gotten stuck in Bergamo that fateful night of our return from Greece, only to be saved by Paola. And who did we meet in Bergamo that afternoon after lunch? Paola! I love this girl and I am so incredibly excited for her to be at Mary Washington next year as the Italian language coordinator (she’ll be taking over Valeria’s job). Paola is one of the sweetest human beings I’ve ever met. It was a lot of fun, taking the funivia up the mountain to the medieval portion of Bergamo, which looked like a small Tuscan village (even in the rain), and seeing a much more charming version of the city than I had originally pictured, after having spent hours on delayed flights from Greece with obnoxious, drunk Italians on our plane.
Going up the mountain!
Valeria, me and Paola :)
Such a beautiful view
Valeria and Filippo...essentially, the cutest couple ever and my substitute parents
After our exploration of Bergamo, I was chauffeured over to a community dinner up in the mountains, outside of the actual city of Bergamo. There was a sort of fundraiser event in which different organizations in this countryside community each had a booth and they made food for people in the surrounding area to come and buy. All the money went towards their volunteer organization. Valeria, Paola and Filippo are all a part of a church-based organization that goes to Belarus to work with children in orphanages, so their group young Italian do-gooders were whipping up pizza’s in a wood-fire oven. It was surprisingly freezing up there in the mountains, which was quite a shock when compared to the sunny weather that I had left in Bologna. But it was really neat, being surrounded by such kind, curious people. Valeria had in fact only just returned from the States a few weeks before, so a lot of her friends still hadn’t seen her. To them, she was very much the returning hero, back from her grand adventure. Teenagers and young adults alike gathered around her with wide-eyes as she described her American university experience and it took a lot of self-control not to giggle as Valeria explained various differences between the two cultures, if only because I was usually the one giving out such explanations to my friends. It was so interesting (and somewhat strange) to hear Valeria describe a world that I was so familiar with to people who had no comprehension of it whatsoever.
Valeria’s friends were all very welcoming and were often intrigued by me—Valeria’s little pet American that she had brought back like a souvenir or proof of her adventures. I spent the night surrounded by the people from those surrounding mountains as they ate traditional pasta and too much pizza. Little children giggled and screeched as they played soccer in the empty tennis courts. Large, white tents filled the spaces around these games, lined inside with long picnic tables at which old men leaned forward, earnestly gossiping and swapping stories as their wives fussed over their plates. In the corner was a man calling out numbers…some sort of strange bingo or raffle, I think. And Valeria, Filippo, and Paola’s group of friends made beautiful balloon animals to give out to children as they all danced to Russian club music that I had never heard of before. By the end of the night, my fingers were numb and even my wool scarf couldn’t keep me warm, but the mountains and the lack of city glare meant that I could see all of the stars above me and my breath puffing out in the night air as Filippo and Valeria led the way back to the car.
The next morning, Filippo took us to his village’s church, which was small and filled to the brim with elderly people and sunshine pouring in from the windows. I felt extremely Italian then; and more specifically, I really felt that Milanese Catholicism. Milano and the area around it is notoriously Catholic and conservative, which I definitely got from the fact that I had so far been to two church-related events and that there were multiple chapels in Bergamo’s airport. After church, I was taken to the florist shop owned by Filippo’s parents, who were some of the kindest people I had ever met, after Valeria’s family. They gave me this magical rose, which I am calling magical because it reminds me a little bit of Beauty and the Beast. Because it’s been treated chemically, as long as I don’t water it, the flower should remain the same (appearing to be in full bloom) for FIVE YEARS. Flower, magic, my friends. In case this small fact doesn’t convince you, let me assure you that Italian florists are artists. The way they put together the simplest of bouquets is done with such flourish that it makes your little pot of daisies from Wal-Mart look like…well, a pot of daisies from Wal-Mart.
We said goodbye to Filippo, who had to stay home to work on his thesis, and Valeria and I took the train into Milano, talking about her future and jobs and other scary, grown-up things. Once we got into the city, we met Francesca, the other Italian girl who had been at Mary Washington, and we saw a historical castle and some beautiful gardens. We later ate out under another tent; this time the event was run by the Associazione Nazionale Alpini—a group of elderly men who used to fight in the troops of the Alpini, an “elite mountain warfare military corps of the Italian Army” (thanks Wikipedia). Still fiercely proud of their service, these old men tend to organize reunions throughout Northern Italy in the spring to celebrate, raise money, and sing old war songs. It’s not every day that you get to eat traditional northern Italian food on a side-street of Milano as men who probably fought in World War II bang their fists against wooden tables, starting up chants and winking flirtatiously at you as they clear off your plates. This was where we met Alessandra, who had stepped in as Italian language instructor and Italian professor my sophomore year at UMW, when the head of the department was on sabbatical. Alessandra was a wonderful professor and I had promised her that if I studied abroad in Italy, I would be sure to visit her in Milan. It seems crazy now, that it actually worked out! Now finally reunited with my three Italians, we walked around Milano in the sunshine, getting some delicious gelato and climbing to the top of the Duomo, which was spectacular.
Me, Valeria and Francesca!
Me and Alessandra, reunited
After about an hour at the top of the Duomo, looking out over Milano and the surrounding mountains, Valeria took me back to the train station and saw me off to Bologna. It was really odd, saying goodbye. When I had said goodbye to Valeria at the end of the fall semester at UMW, I had sobbed, completely convinced that I would never see her again even though I knew there would be every chance that we would both be in Italy at the same time in just a few short months. But as the train pulled away from the station and I watched Valeria walk back down the platform, I was strangely okay with saying goodbye. It was as if I knew somehow that I would see her again, regardless of the immeasurable distance between Italy and America. The world seems so much smaller, now. Living abroad used to seem like such a far-off dream but now it seems more and more attainable…so much so that these partings at train stations have become less of addio’s (“farewells”) and more of ci vediamo’s (“see you laters”).
Inside the Duomo
Whatta view!
Life talks up at the top of the Duomo
Fancy Milano
Love this girl
