shine down upon me

Olive Oil & Exuberance

2010-01-28T17:04:00.000-08:00

My eyes closed as soon as it hit my tongue and that taste -oh heavens, that taste - seeped through me. It was the taste of living, of joy...of savoring a moment, of enjoying the finer things in life because they make life worth living. I feel slightly absurd associating all of these things with olive oil, even a fine olive oil. Maybe it's because the taste of olive oil transports me back to Italy, to a lifestyle that was entirely about living.

Despite the fact that I can't eat bread, I confess I have no desire to eat bread in America (that's not entirely true, but mostly). I want to eat bread the way Europeans do. I want a baguette with butter, the airy inside flattening as it miraculously melts in my mouth, as the crust sustains the bite with its resilient crunch. I want bread beside a small plate of olive oil sprinkled with salt, the corner of every bite dripping with gold.

Really though, I want to eat bread like a European again so that I can live like a European again. If I eat olive oil like an Italian once a day, will I be able to sustain this mindset? I hope so. I hope I have it in me, and that it's not this location specific quality that I can only get back if I return to Italy. I'll let you know.

Stuff Beth Shreve Likes

2010-01-15T20:07:00.000-08:00

1. Goodwill

More than getting things cheaply, I like getting things that are vintage, which make me feel one of a kind and more chic than normal store shoppers. It is also possible that Goodwill enables me to continue a somewhat unhealthy form of therapy-shopping. Still, Goodwill helps me to appear a number of things that I like - chic, savvy, creative, and original.

Charlottesville boasts one of the best Goodwills: the Pantops Goodwill. Within its metal siding are the robes of centuries past. It requires some prayer, digging, and the grace of God, but I reguarly emerge bedecked in treasures. Some of the items are ready-to-wear, but others must be made attractive with scissors, the ubiquitous safety pin, and a belt.

However, the best thing about Goodwill/good-will and the reason it holds such a dominant role on the list of 'stuff beth shreve likes' is that good-will very much exists and very deeply affects my life. It is through good-will, others literally willing me to have goods as well as willing me good in life, that I have furnished an apartment almost entirely without personal expense. Good-will, a deep attitude of kindness and generosity, is something I like, appreciate, and hope to have; Goodwill is a chain of thriftstores which promotes a cycle of generosity - the giving of one man's trash so it can be a crafty girl's treasure. Long live Goodwill & good-will to all.

True Life: I'm post-grad.

2010-01-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

Andy is sitting beside me at the table doing homework. I'm online shopping, which should feel natural since I did that so often as a student while my peers studied. Tonight is different because I'm actually not procrastinating anything. I just don't have anything to do.

Even saying that, my mind rebels. 'Of course, you have things to do,' it argues, but then it grows silent. Sure, there are things I could do. I could write a novel, paint a ceiling, or attempt to become a master at something, but there is not a damn thing that I have to do, nothing I should be working on, no assignments that I've been putting off. True life - for the first time in approximately 16 years I am not enrolled in any form of an academic institution.

Is this what adult life feels like? I neatly shelved all the articles of work while I was at work, and I left burdenless. I can't decide if it's glorious or frightening. The type-A part of me (the part that I usually squash with my hefty creativity) likes that feeling of working on tasks, having goals to meet, and charts to make. Does my lack of school work mean that I can set goals for myself instead of assignments? Should I make myself a syllabus for this semester so that I do some of the reading I have always meant to do?

I might do that, just to take advantage of my goal oriented mindset while it lasts. Does it last? When does being a student wear off? I want to know.

Every person who sleeps alone needs...

2010-01-13T19:15:00.000-08:00

A heated mattress pad.

Thank heavens for mine.

Upholding Tradition

2010-01-13T08:41:00.000-08:00

Flashback to January 2009 - I lived in Italy. In January of last year, I met my now fiance, I became roommates with my now cosmic sister, and I discovered layers of my soul that I didn't know existed. For the next five months, I fell in love, over and over and over again, with Andy, with Rachel, with Italy, with life, with Florence, and with joy.

January 2010 - I live in Illinois, less than fifteen minutes away from my aforementioned fiance. Downstairs from my apartment is a bar called Throwbacks, currently shaking my floors with Coldplay (despite my landlord's mistaken assurance that the sound wouldn't travel up this far). My two-bedroom, maple floored apartment has been furnished solely through good will (for once, I don't mean the thrift store, but instead generosity). The opening of this chapter has been blessed, and I'm praying the same for the rest.

While Winter/Spring of 2010 may not be as earthshattering as 2009, I have this desire to pour my thoughts into outerspace just as I did last winter. I miss writing, sharing, and feeling like my thoughts are being chronicled somewhere. Readers or no readers, seeing my black text is refreshing like a hearty glass of sun-laced morning orange juice.

Schopenhauer & My Hippie Heart

2009-09-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

or, why I am not a philosopher.

I keep telling myself that I am a fun girl, despite having spent the past two and a half hours of my life discussing the philosophy of suffering. At least, in comparison to the philosopher Schopenhauer, who considers optimism a great cause of suffering and who sees suicide as a very attractive option, I really do consider myself a fun girl. However, here is what I'm mulling over tonight - my dear Schopenhauer says: A man can be himself only so long as he is alone. This man of Schopenhauer's appears to me like a page of an anatomy text. Diagrammed out are his traits - his intellect, his grand thoughts, his physical appearance, and ... little else. I don't see anything about his morals, his character, his convictions, or even his mannerisms - because these things cannot exist so long as man is alone.

The source of my current frustration is this - that Schopenhauer ignores what I consider the essence of life. The person I am, or even the person I want to be, has nothing to do with the predetermined aspects of my identity. When I am alone, my intellect, my thoughts, and my physical appearance simply are; they exist in my seclusion, but the things that I think actually matter are nowhere to be found. In the moment that Schopenhauer says I am myself, I am nothing that I want to be.

The things that matter to me are people - first, the ones that I love, then, the ones I know, followed by the ones that I can relate to, even if only through our ties of humanity. When I am alone, I don't see how I can have morals, how I can have a character, how anything that is truly me can exist at all.

All of this boils down to the following - I believe in Love - from God, for all, through God, to all. I see myself as part of this cosmic net where my living a life of love matters, where my finding joy in this life of love matters, and where I can only be what and who I want to be when I am in that net, when there is love in my life. I don't know what Schopenhauer would say - maybe that in the moment when I'm loving others, I'm just not truly myself. If that's the case, I hope to be myself less and less, and to find my identity in my relationships (to God, then to others) more and more.

why loving matters

2009-08-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

A brief synopsis of my world: housemates - gone, moved, flying on with life. Mother - California. Brother - busy. Andy - well, Illinois, per usual. Me...here. There is a very solitary aspect to my life right now. Part of it is related to my health and the extraordinary amount of self-absorbtion that has accompanied my dietary exclusion of gluten and dairy (which I can't say I blame myself for). Still, this solitary edge (ok, .... loneliness) is frolicking hand-in-hand with my self-absorbtion. This, I think, is common enough - when I (perhaps even we as humans) spend so much time focusing on the Self, on ME, on Mary Elizabeth Shreve, I am forming a shell around myself, narrowing my world view to one solitary individual, effectively shutting myself off from the world around me.

I suppose this is a simple enough idea, that it's even on the obvious side, but I find it surprisingly hard to deal with, despite its equally obvious solution. Clearly, if self-absorbtion and its extremely limited perspective leads to loneliness, one should stop being self-absorbed. Which isn't difficult at all. Here I find myself at an intersection of two thoughts: 1) really, I have learned a thousand times that too much inward energy is a bad thing and 2) there are real factors that make the inplementation of this lesson difficult. Simply put, I am missing a lot of loved ones right now. Along my roads, I have learned that I need people, that I need to be codependent to flourish, that I need love in my life as much and as intensely as I need food/water/shelter/oxygen. A sliver of me resents that after learning I lack any ability to be independent, I feel like I'm put in a situation where I need to be. So that sliver of me is giving God a miffed look.

As I'm writing this (thank heavens for epiphanies), I'm realizing I'm learning to lean on people...and that sometimes, I am going to be needy, but dammit, it's better to be needy and ask for (and receive) love than to be needy and alone. So I've been asking, accepting that I'm needy right now, and thanking the Lord for giving me people who I can trust, depend on, and who love me enough to meet my needs. This thread of love is the trail of crumbs out of the forest; if I follow it outside myself, I can start loving other people. Actually, by just putting effort into loving other people, the shrinking space capsule I built around myself starts to dissapate. I think it's easier to recognize our inherent need to be loved, but there is an equal need to love. Without actively loving, something is missing - the inhale/exhale, wax on/wax off is abruptly halted. I'm glad that I've asked for extra love this weekend, but even more that I expended some mental energy on loving today. You know, those care packages I started for my housemates might have given me more than their future recipients. Which is kind of beautiful.

may you walk in love.

I still have something to say.

2009-08-01T08:29:00.000-07:00

I may not be in Italy for this round, but I still have something to say, some obtrusive thought rearing it's bud green self through my cerebrum. Today the bud is called Rightness, the smooth slip of Cinderella's shoe or that the 'freckles in our eyes are mirror images, and when we kiss they're perfectly aligned' (thank you, Postal Service).

In the clarity of hindsight, I'm shocked at the amount of rightness that entered my life while across the pond. The girl who flew out of the Charlotte-Douglas Airport on January 6, 2009 lacked a great deal of things that she brought back with her. There are the clothes, obviously, the culture, the language, and the experiences, none of which are to be undervalued in anyway, but most unexpectedly, I came home with shiny new relationships that glistened with promise and overflowed with Rightness.

Primarily, I'm referring to Andy, the long-distance boyfriend, and Rachel, the underdog roommate turned best friend, neither of whom I was expecting. Ironically, upon my departure, my philosophy on relationships during Italy was this: Make casual friends because you need to, but don't build anything serious because a) this semester is only a semester and b) you have plenty of relationships back home that need to be maintained. Isn't that cute? I read that now and feel I should chuckle, or perhaps like God already is.

Italy was a relationship incubator for me. I suppose the ratio of free time to people I spent time with was at an all time high, but I feel very much like the unexpected bloom of these relationships had more to do with Rightness than a function of time. I remember two defining moments, early on, which made the outcome inevitable.

With Rachie, it was after my hellish voyage into Florence, after I'd spent those 12 extra hours in Germany, when I already felt comforted just knowing that I would be stumbling into an apartment with one familiar face. Rachel and I settled into our best friend beds that first night, which were already only four inches apart, and I swear, it was already done. Somewhere between Germany and Florence, Rachel and I were set on a trajectory that would lead us straight to being BFFs in the truest sense. I mean, jeeeeez, we peed into a hole at a Italian gay club called Crisco, which, really, is what friendshp is about. Rachel's entry into my life was a divine convergence. Doubtless.

Andy. See, with Rach, I feel like everyone will think it's cute that I think we're soul mates, but I feel like some will read my doe-eyed conveyance of my boyfriend and have an eye-rollling, 'she's young and in love and isn't it cute' moment. Still, I'm going to fiddle out my tune of Rightness. The first moment I felt like Andy and I were on our current trajectory is laughably trite. It was leaving a crowded bar, many moons ago, and somehow we grabbed hands. In my slightly altered state, I was completely absorbed by the way our hands glided against one another until our fingers interlocked. Perfectly. In the middle of this dark, crowded, 80s glamourista club, with chandeliers, black velvet couches, and the steady thump of heavy bass, our hands fit. Can I be more of a cheeseball? I was done for, hook, line and sinker.

There are things in my life I have trouble seeing come to fruition. I start to think about graduating, Andy and I finding jobs in the same city, and it scares me a little, because well, I have a degree in Religious Studies, the economy is bum awful, and I don't see how things are going to woorrrrrrrkkkkkk. I am the one of little faith. Despite the fact that I was led across an ocean, to a medium sized city, to a program of about 200 people, directly to two of the most important relationships I have, I have trouble seeing the next year of my life being orchestrated with the same cosmic overarching theme of Rightness. I hope this makes God chuckle, too, and that if I find peace in knowing that somehow it will all work out, He'll enjoy throwing beautiful, grandiose, massively Right curveballs into my life.

sweet

2009-04-10T13:55:00.000-07:00

Sail Away

2009-04-08T05:18:00.000-07:00

Things I would enjoy doing today:

-sailing, so I could laze on the deck and bronze myself, sundrenched and saltsprayed, surrounded by COLOR. sparkling blue sky and sea, diamond white sprockets of water, and the blinding white of the boat.

-going to an Enya concert in a huge field of clover, clouds darting along with the mellow streams of vocals. everyone there, obviously a vip invite list of those who are both chill and delightful, could bring their yoga mat and acapella voices, making it a jam session of epic proportions, also sundrenched and rosy. please prep for enya acapellooza this summer by absorbing 1:55 into your vocal cords.

THE WHOLE WORLD

2009-04-07T11:19:00.000-07:00

For the full extent of my life, the sphere of my life has been primarily concentrated in Virginia and the Carolinas. I have a few friends and some family outside of those states, but they are outliers, exceptions to my small-town, east coast rule. While there are more than a few loose ends about "what I've learned" in Italy this semester, one thing is certain: that narrow world view has been crushed, snuffed out like a cigarette ground into cement. I have friends in new places, old places, foreign places, and strange places, their steadily burning love offering up the simple flame of a friendship, despite the miles stretching in between.

In a dream I once had, I sat on the cold tile floor of my bathroom as tears stumbled down my face, dripping heavily onto the white, felty wool of my arms. After my eyes tired of feasting themselves on the coal-color of my hooves, they traced the line of the soft green print of the custard colored walls, a path broken by the cherry molding. Dreamscape expands, until my vision encases my family, emotions as tangible as my own, their body language, stance, and identity unquestionable, despite their incarnation as sheep. Another expansion, pulling farther away from the smallness of my own mind and the slightly bigger capsule of my home, showing me all those that I love, and widening the focus so that every mountain I've ever known is filled with a smooth white layer of sheep, all the world tucked into the fold of the same flock. We are all sheep, all God's children, sharing the same fundamentals, from streaming flaws to hearts that delight in loving.

In that dream, as I was pulled out of my selfishness to see those I love, my gaze was not pulled that far, geographically. Not that distance prevents loving, but it makes that love a bit bittersweet. Still, I know after I leave that I'm going to cherish the soft glow of the lights I've encountered here, that I will pray for the perseverence of those shining stars of Florence Gospel Fellowship and all those who have sounded the trumpet with the bright light of God's love, letting their love beacon boldly. When I put it like that, how can I be anything but thankful?

...children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life. [Philippians 2:14-16]

I like....

2009-04-06T01:42:00.000-07:00

-the word juxtapose

-boats

-the unexpected

-new music

-families

The Siblings Shreve

2009-04-04T12:30:00.000-07:00

The ever-so-cool Christopher and I are planning out a grand tour of Europe, a two week long sprint with stops in Scotland, Paris, Amsterdam, Athens, Switzerland, and Rome. I feel extra lucky to experience this with my brojah, especially since with the two of us, as with Forrest's box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get. Doubtless, there will be laughter, introspective conversations, musical collaboration, and word games, but it's something less definable that I'm excited about.

Back to my relationships theory (which states that every person brings out a different side of you and thus relationships are not about either one of you as separate entities, but instead the creation of a new, amorphous synergous thing that is person a + person b). Chris brings out my freshness - in originality, hipster points, and sassy humor. He trumpets out a perspective I love, a peace I sometimes envy, and a strength I deeply respect, all wrapped up in confidence and tied with a musical bow. The synergy of the Siblings Shreve can be deep, mellow, growing, and positive, but it is always, without fail, fun. Like Old Faithful, his laugh is going to erupt at least hourly, something like a dj scratching a record, a rhythm formed by a syncopated succession of abbreviated sounds, his eyes reducing to mere chinks. Europe's going to be a long way from Mouth of Wilson, but jeeeeez, I can't wait to see where it lands us. I would say we might do something crazy, like get matching tattoos, but we've already done that. Instead, we'll live true to that which is carved into our hearts and our skin, radiating positivity, peace, and love into the world, in a blinding swirl of faith and consciousness.

So there. Chris, this better knock your 90% sure up to a 100%. Love you.

Yessssss, back back back!

2009-04-03T14:29:00.000-07:00

My computer, and my blog, have both been resurrected. And it's not even a Sunday. To celebrate this joyous occasion, I would like to gush some love in the form of terms of endearments.

These are some of my favorites: babylove, angel, dearheart, precious, caro mio, heart of mine, boobear, boo, blueberry morning, sunshine, lovey, lovechild, lovedrop, sweetheart, bay, and finally, baby.

I have no idea why I like terms of endearments so much. Should I feel demeaned when people call me baby? Should someone rarely using my name and calling me lovey really sound so sweet? Should the way my favorite Italian man calls me 'cara' really make me feel adored and protected, even though he just says it when he hands me my daily cappucinno? I understand that there the heart has reasons which reason knows not of, but I think this one can basically be reduced to my love of love. I love love and I love words; ergo, I love words that express love.

Terms of endearment ascribe positive qualities where ever you apply them. For a brief verbal moment, I can be simply the traits associated with something else, an angel, sunshine or even blueberry morning - crunchy, sweet, swimming in milk, and a great way to start the day. I think that terms of endearment are brief eclipses from acknowledged faults. Call me baby, and I'm not going to feel like I trouble you, like I precariously balance a slew of problems, or like the deadweight of my acknowledged aversion to intimacy is about to crush the cautious bloom of a new relationship. So maybe that's it - that terms of endearments simply our feelings to something positive, and leave it there. There is no disclaimer, no acknowledgement and response, or a threefold argument, just a simple "dearheart" and a soft smile into the air.

So, those are some thoughts. More soon. Promise.

Real People

2009-03-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

The homeless man laying spread eagled on the cobblestone, the toothless gypsy at the train station, the old man sunbathing by the river in a speedo - these are people that I see around Florence and notice. I feel like its their absurdity that vibrates into me, but at the same time, they are just people, living their lives as I live mine. My eyes greeted the woman in white leaning against the door (below), we exchanged optical pleasantries, and as we simultaneously released timid smiles, I was washed with her humanity in an uncalculated, raw collision of sameness. Two worlds intersect somewhere along the trajectory of our irises - worlds which may have completely different value systems, standards of comparison, levels of expectation, but which likely have the same deepest desires. They probably just want to love and be loved, to be joyful, to feel peace and security, and to dance in a sunlit field with my brother, our hippy fellows, and all my loved ones. They might not share that last desire with me, but I'll chalk it up to lack of exposure as opposed to any real difference in opinion. Strangers though they may be, these people are so like me, and I pray that they have eyes like doves, fixed on Truth, and ever-healing hearts that are flooded with love. And yeah, I am quite the Jesus-loving little hippy these days.

Am I even in school?

2009-03-10T05:20:00.000-07:00

Rachel and I just had the following conversation:

Me: I don't want to go to class.
Rachel: That's not exactly a non-option.
Me: Yeah.
Rachel: Do we have show and tell in Italian today?

Are we even in school? I'm taking a mental health day because it's nice outside, but I'm actually going to go to Italian later, because I wouldn't want to miss show and tell.

Sadly, I have very little to show or tell. If I were in kindergarten, I might feel lame about it.

What has two thumbs and went to Paris without getting kidnapped and then rescued by Liam Neeson?

2009-03-09T06:23:00.001-07:00

This girl. No getting shot up with heroin and sold into the sex trade for me.

Paris was quite the emblematic journey. Along the seven legged trek there (train, train, bus, airport for 6 hours, flight, bus, taxi), I developed a theory on badges of travelerdom. Paris gave me some of the easiest ones, since the city itself is obviously home to some of the all-time, most easily recognizable buildings and art (Mona Lisa Badge, Top of the Tower Badge, etc), but the trip had some unexpected special treats.

(face)Booked by a policeman. Outside the Bergamo train station at 12am, there were four policemen, an empty parking lot, and two other civilians. I couldn't decide if I should feel ultra-safe or ultra-sketched out that these cops were necessary to being with. Amidst my indecision, Rachel and I sparked a conversation with one of them, a rather large, Italian man (approximately 6'0" and at least 280lbs) around the age of 45. We asked how he was doing, and he said he was ok, about to get off work, and excited that he could go home and get on facebook. During our stunned silence, he pulled out a pad of paper and wrote us his name so we could find him on facebook. This story could be better if he wrote his name on a ticket, but no such luck.

Spending the night in an airport with a herd of broke college students. Walking into the airport around 1:30am, I expected to see a sparsely populated, dimly lit, barely functional airport terminal, but I was surprised to find the room lined with slumberers. Nope, not homeless people, just chronically young and penniless wanderers. The other seasoned professionals squatting in the airport were way more prepared than we were, with sleeping bags and sunglasses to block out the light. I had a scarf. It was much less cool, but I got my badge anyway.

I got other badges on this trip, like traveling to the first country where I spoke absolutely none of the language (except mon frere; thanks, Chris), being the first customer at an airport cafe (yeah, 5:30am), and being so tired I mistook a language I speak for one I don't. Around 4:30am, I was hardcore hating on this group of newcomers to the airport (seriously, who comes in all freshfaced and brighteyed at almost 5 in the morning? why aren't you homeless like the rest of us?) and started drawing caricatures of various easily identifiable nationalities. My sketches of British face and Russian face are noteworthy, although probably less than politically correct.

Paris was lovely, especially seeing Kendall (love love 206 love!) and the Musee d'Orsay, but I'll have to write more on that.

all my love

In & Out (mayyybe the burger)

2009-03-01T00:40:00.000-08:00

If I could verbalize this picture, I would talk about how memories stream both into and out of our identities, how we share the color scheme and tone of our environment, but also are different (deeper, sharper, clearer) than the externals. If I could verbalize this photo, it would sound pensive, like I ought to be sitting on a rock in the middle of the river, crosslegged, holding a glass of wine. I like those moments, honest to goodness, but I don't want one right now.

More important news: I bought some boss shoes yesterday. Purple Converses. Yeah yeah yeah. When I told my brother about these, we discussed the Converse One Stars of his younger years, and it occurred to me that in the perfect world, I would have saved those gems so I could be ultra-vintage. Too bad only the memory of those One Stars streamed into my identity, and not the actual shoes.

My memories of the past few days have been sweet. Classes are finished, the weather is here, and I wish you were beautiful. I have had some of the best email and skype conversations I've had since my displacement to Italy. I've gotten to mock my brother for drowning his feelings in cookie dough, slide open a stateside envelope, share songs with my padre, and receive the glow of my mother's encouraging words. All from thousands of miles away.

I am thankful for the communication possibilities that I have at my finger tips, but I feel a little teased. The knowledge that I can't see someone, that I can't spontaneously decide to drive over to see them (be it 4 minutes or 4 hours) makes me want to so much more. I've never been good at being told no, and the delay of gratification is killing me. I am making a list a mile long of things that I want to do, places I want to go, and the people I want to do them with, despite the fact that they aren't even viable options for the next three months. If these future events were light blips in that picture above, the size of these potential memories would be increasing at a daily rate. I think when I get home I'm going to be in an overstimulated haze of sensory overload, too happy to function, akin to how I am when I'm in a store with too many articles of clothing that I like. Which makes me think about Ike's Underground. Which makes me too anticipative to verbalize anything else.

Speaking of men's underwear...

2009-02-24T13:16:00.001-08:00

Story from the plane to Scotland.

Raychee and I sat down on the plane amidst a crowd of Irish football fans who had traveled to San Marino for a game. They were quite a bit pissed - this doesn't mean angry, it means drunk. Particularly our dear friend Andrew "Port Rush" Porter, who plopped his cheerful self down at our feet with his bottle of peach vodka and an earnest desire to make friends. We were charmed by his easy smile and drunken slurs, while the three Italian guys (Luca with mile long hair, Fabio, and the Zohan - a heavyset man with aviators on) beside us were charmed by his generous hand with the bottle.

The Zohan gets up to go to the bathroom, and Andy, literally sitting on my feet, reaches over and yanks down his already sagging britches (that means pants). The Zohan was not to be ashamed, despite the fact that he was wearing a man thong. Yes. Man. Thong. (on. a. heavy. set. italian.) Then, the Zohan shimmied his scantily clad derriere at Andy.

This was all on a plane. This would not happen in the US. And I think it's far stranger than snakes on a plane.

Title is courtesy of my brojah.

<3

People who are people.

2009-02-22T04:41:00.000-08:00

Over my recent expedition to Scotland, I spent a lot of time thinking about people. There are people who can remain two-dimensional, magazine cutouts to me, despite prolonged interaction. While I know that these people have hopes, dreams, humor, and character, they remain completely intangible and inaccessible. The space between us is filled only with air, not with faintly touching tips of thought, the blurred edges of shared hopes, or even the gentle nuzzle of bemused affection. I would estimate that 80-87 percent (if not more) of the people I encounter stay in the realm of paper dolls. By no means am I saying that I think that the majority of people I meet are soulless, nor am I saying that I find 80-87 percent of my encounters with people to be negative; they can be positive, even uplifting, but somehow not raw or solid enough to feel like genuine contact. I find this lack of connection and dimension to be strange, at once bewildering and intriguing, because I can find no sensible basis for selection.

Furthermore, I don't actually think that the acquisition of dimension must happen at a certain point in a relationship. Yes, there are people who I have met and immediately experienced a sense of kinship, a full-bodied and well-rounded relational bloom. However, there are also people who I have interacted with regularly in a one-dimensional, flat sense until there is a shift and suddenly I can see them in all their vibrant, bodacious, and multicolored glory. This planar shift is a mysterious moment for me; does a moment of vulnerability toe open the door before the substance of their being can creep through? Do our interactions fill with latent vibrancy like a bathtub until the sides start to slop over?

In my life, I very often experience the opposite of the instant connection, 'love at first sight'-style phenomenon, in the most deep of my relationships. Maybe I only perceive it to be because these relationships progress more than I would expect. It's possible that the lack of full-bodied feeling I receive in most interactions is because that's all I expect, but I still find this shift from flat to full to be fascinating. With my Raychee, who I liked well enough in our interactions pre-departure, the shift occurred somewhere over the Atlantic. I left home feeling like she was a sweet girl who I would get along just fine with, but as I climbed in the taxi at Florence airport, I just wanted to see her, to be comforted and feel like I was home. Ever since that shift, Raychee and I have had a sleepover relationship: intimate, comfortable, and delightfully girly. Then there was Peter, our Polish lad from the hostel in Edinburgh. He was a person, despite the fact that we only interacted with him for maybe 40 minutes tops. The door to his world swung open softly and he ambled out to shake our hands, inviting Raychee and I to have a seat on his front porch while he whittled a toy for his daughter (proverbially speaking, of course).

I don't know what it is - why the timing is unknown, why the relationship dynamic is unknown, why it can't be forced, why it doesn't always happen when I want it to. I only know that sometimes I am caught unaware by the brush of feathered wings against my shoulder blade, the glide of silk beneath my fingers, or the supple comfort of leather along my arm. The intersection of two individuals and the vibe that emanates fascinates me. I'm grateful for these relationships, the distinct personality of each, and also for the surprise and satisfaction I experience at knowing people who are so clearly people, full of flesh and bone, prayers and laughter, radiating boldly from every facet of their being.

More on Scotland

2009-02-21T06:16:00.001-08:00

As noted by Sam and Stacey, in my last post I wrote an entire post about my trip to Scotland and somehow managed to say virtually nothing about it. So, here is a spattering of actual events.

On Thursday, Raychee and I spent a lazy day around our apartment before finally setting out for the Florence train station around 12. We shoveled a couple outfits into our school totes, taking utmost care to remember our cameras and our journals, but not particularly much else. This, in retrospect, was perhaps not the best decision.

At the train station, we booked our tickets for Pisa and found we had about 45 minutes to spare. Luckily, the train station boasts one of the cities most underrated attractions: McDonald's!! Honestly, I don't know the last time I went to McDonald's in the states, but I have never looked at those golden arches with more adoration. I had some fries and a chocolate shake, sitting in a McDonald's way too nice to be in the US, and felt blissfully proud of America.

We settled into our hostel in Edinburgh around 9:30pm, then set out to get dinner. Sadly, most restaurants had stopped serving food. In Italy, 9:30 is absolutely not too late for dinner. The one resetaurant still serving? Bella Italia, a taste of home. After dinner, Rachel and I were walking down Grassmarket square in hopes of finding an atm because we had absolutely no pounds. We were nicely ambushed by a cloud of Scottish men who invited us into a pub for a drink. We responded that we had absolutely no pounds, but they insisted; this is apparently a flawless way to get drinks.

The next day in Edinburgh, we discovered the best vintage shop of all time. Armstrong's. Sweet heavens. It was pleasure and sensory overload. I can't even formulate proper sentences about it. I've decided that Scotland is now my shopping Mecca. After our orgasmic shopping experience, Rachel and I ambled up to Edinburgh Castle after this, and then to The Castle Arms, a quaint and rather dark restaurant with delicious food. Our dinner at The Castle Arms will go down as one of my all time greats. Haggis, despite its peculiar, unappetizing ingredient, is delicious.

We went out that night with the two French boys who were sharing our room in the hostel. For complete strangers, we were strangely intimate, sharing bunk beds and picking out each other's clothes. They were sweet, and I was beyond pleased to have those two (French, fashion concious, throaty accents, snoring, and all) instead of the thirty year old man I brushed my teeth beside one morning. My first hostel experience was amazingly pleasant - clean, charming, and full of honest-to-goodness people with hearts, families, and character. Our French boys left us with an open invitation to Paris, and the darling Polish hostel employee (with a heart of gold, a wife named Stella, and three beautiful kids) said that we were two of his favorite Americans. I was honestly sad to leave.

The next three days, we spent in Inverness with a family friend of sorts. Despite the fact that we were virtually strangers, he was quite hospitable and opened his flat to us for our time in Inverness. With him, we watched an old firm football match - Rangers v Celtics. There was all the intensity, fervor, shouting, and pints that I expected (and more). Once, during a half-time smoking break outside the front door of the pub, a bus pulled to the side of the street, the bus driver popping his head out the side to ask the score.

The following day, Raychee and I explored Inverness, chilled a bit, and took stock of our lives via journal before setting out back towards Edinburgh the next morning. Scotland wasn't a jampacked, hectic tourist vacation; we might have soaked in the people more deeply than the sights, but I'm ok with it. I'll be back.

What exactly feels like home?

2009-02-18T13:00:00.000-08:00

I first became aware of how accustomed I am to Italy when I got off the plane in Scotland and walked up to passport control. I said, "Ciao." Passport control man said, "Hello," and proceeded to stamp. I said, "Grazie." He looked at me with his Scottish eyes, noting my non-Italian heritage and after stamping my clearly American passport, and said, "You're welcome." I walked away feeling like an idiot. For the past six weeks or so, I've been using my broken Italian as a desperate attempt to not be obviously American, or at the very least, a polite American. In Scotland, however, I'm just some mentally altered girl who thinks she's in the wrong country.

Somehow, Scotland's differences from both Italy and the US surprised me. Like my beloved countryland, Scotland is an English speaking, Starbucks owning, obesity struggling, and salty food consuming land. And most importantly, they have BOSS vintage stores. Like Italy, people honeslty don't have or use dryers for their clothes, the doors push instead of pull, and they have about 10 different coins in their currency system. Completely new to me: pounds and pence, driving on the wrong (I mean, different) side of the road, Scottish girl style (holler!), and all other aspects of a culture foreign to both of the ones that I feel like I know.

After this five day voyage to Scotland, I get why traveling is an altering experience - as you thrust yourself out of your routine and into unfamiliarity, you're forced to encounter new things, to accept or reject elements which previously were not even present in my known universe. A stranger in a strange land, I feel contained, as though I don't share any part of myself with my environment. Back home (at all of my homes), I feel like parts of me have grown into the ground; my feet are permanently stained deep purple from the mulberries that rain onto my front lawn, my arms are thoroughly entangled by bricks and columns like Jeffersonian threads, my hand print lies in white paint along the front steps of 206, and my legs are clad in the Florentine emblems of skinny-jeans and boots, at least temporarily. It's nice to feel attached, like these places I've lived have seeped into me, but the awareness of my personal boundaries, the borders of self and other that I experience while traveling, is uniquely intriguing. Sometime around Saturday, I felt a flutter of yearning for Florence - my cozy bed, shuttered windows, and soaring delicate yellow ceiling. Before I left, I wouldn't have considered Florence my home, but I confess, one of my favorite parts of leaving Florence was that it finally felt like my home when I returned.

My days in Scotland were numbered, but they were thickly slathered with fresh perspective and the tang of strangeness. Now I'm home, in my Florentine bedroom, thinking back on a foreign country that didn't have the time to stain me, but still left its imprint. It's too early to tell what that imprint resembles, but I hope to goodness that it lends its shape to my own version of Scottish girl style.

SCOTLAND!

2009-02-12T01:41:00.000-08:00

I'm headed to Scotland today!!! I am excited. Say a prayer for smooth travels. I'll be in Edinburgh for a couple nights, Inverness, and who knows where else? Maybe we'll see where the journey takes us. I'll write something reflective when I get home, but it won't be until Tuesday.

Sending my love,
Beth

Do you feel different?

2009-02-09T09:11:00.000-08:00

I saw the David yesterday, in all his finely veined glory. Raychee, as we left him (sad!), said, "Do you feel different? I feel different." Candidly, I don't think I have ever been quite so affected by a piece of art. He was at once resolute and vulnerable, both imposing and subtle. I hadn't expected him to be quite so large or impeccable. As I looked at him, I stared at his right hand, the bigger one, and wondered why Michelangelo, a master of subtlety, would make such an overt statement. Further, the sheer size of the David leads me to wonder just how big in comparison Goliath would have to be. I stared at his posture, his facial expression, and the veins along his hand, trying to place the magnanimity of the moment and the emotions and trying to picture him majestically posed atop the Duomo, the home Michaelangelo had intended for him. When we left, I felt emotionally exhausted; the same drained, empty feeling I have after crying or having a really intense conversation.

Do I feel different? I mean, yes. Then again, when don't I feel different? Day by day, moment to moment, life is new; I am exposed to an infinite width, breadth, and depth of the world around me to both macro and micro scales and I myself constantly made new in Christ. There is continuity, of course; I am who I am, I know what I know, I love what I love, I've been where I've been, but I think that the synergy of who I am can simultaneously be the same and different. I recognize that my words are vaguely incomprehensible, filled with the hippie hallucinogen-induced hazy wonder that is characteristic of my thought patterns, but I think there is some merit to exploring thoughts and letting them lead you where they will.

I see myself walking down Via de' Conti toward the Duomo, grey suede boots clicking bossily; around my ankle, bailing twine (a taste of the country - I am a southern girl) loops and trails behind me, it's length dotted with burlap bundles of varying sizes. When my eyes are caught by the purple velvet skirted Asian girl in red boots or the ivy and coral stones of the Cattedrale Santa Maria, another bundle emerges, attaching itself firmly to the motley parade scraping along behind me. As I follow this thought, I am unknotting one of these bundles, full of the moment: the crunch and dissolve of a croissant's layered flakes, the sweet sovereignty I feel overlooking the roofs of Florence sitting on the red brick ledge of my terrace, the rush of hilarity as I watch Raychee rage out our ring tone, or the initial flood of pleasure at hearing someone's voice across an ocean.

I think that all of these bundles have the potential to change me. The David, like some great works of art or music, ignite these bundles like a fuse, firing off reflections and introspection faster than a Roman candle. Thus, I would be willing to say that I was changed, that I am different, but also that if I would pay more attention to the thoughts that get left fraying and disentegrating in the rain, I might be changed more often.

The Israeli Encounter

2009-02-08T10:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at sundown, Raychee and I sat on the side of Ponte Vecchio as a guitarist's rendition of "Con te Partiro" seeped into us. We savored our gelato, shared more than one loving glance, and stared at the Arno in a blissed out haze. A group of guys walked past us, looked at us, lingered, but then left. We were vaguely unsettled by this, so we exerted our minds to lasso them back. Luckily, it worked. It turns out they are from Israel, studying here for a couple months, and learning Italian just like we are. Having someone to learn with instead of learning from was nice.

It occurred to me after I observed their habits of walking on the in-side of the sidewalk, opening my door, and treating me with delicacy in conversation that I may have more culturally in common with Israelis than most of the Northern boys in my program. Another interesting tidbit: at least four out of the five were Catholic, which is rare considering only 2.1% Israel is Christian. Frustratingly, language barriers prevented me from being able to discuss the matter with any thoroughness or delicacy.

Mi dispiace, I'm engaged.

2009-02-06T03:45:00.000-08:00

Only in Italy can I imagine feeling like I get way too much attention from men. It's sad to say, but I am too attractive to inhabit this country peacefully. (The same is true for Rachel - fact: Virginia knows how to make 'em.) For several weeks now, both Rachel and I have told those that we meet while out that we have boyfriends back in the states. However, this did little to deter the hoards, so my stateside loverboy (previously described as a 'ragazzo') has been promoted to a fiance (a 'fidanzato'), complete with delicious lefthand sparkles and a poignant love story. Congratulate me later.

Last night, Rachel and I gave our new security system a test run. We went to Astor, a small, classy establishment near our house, with our much loved apartmentmate Mica. Seconds after sliding onto our bar stools, we were conversationally contracted, me with a questionably French or Albanian man named Marino. Marino noticed my rock and questioned me about my fidanzato.

"Is he coming to visit?" Marino asked me. Up until this moment, I hadn't decided where this story was going to go. However, I've always enjoyed a good yarn (especially with a good drink), so I went for it. I am engaged to Ethan, a twenty-six year old third year law student. Between undergrad (at UVA, naturally) and law school (also UVA, surprise!), he spent a few years in Calcutta where his exposure to such abject poverty cultivated a passion for human rights law. He's smart and charming, with a heart the size of Mississipi underneath his aloof exterior. He's a good guy, my Ethan.

Apparently, Marino wasn't enough of a romantic to be completely sold on my gold-hearted suitor. He asked me how I would feel if I were to go home and find out that he had been with other girls (Ethan!). "You would regret not being more open...It's better to see what's here and then to return home and see," Marino said, gesturing massively to demonstrate open. I've encountered this philosophy here many times here, the "You are here, he is there, what else matters?" way of thinking. In terms of location, the statement can't be refuted, but as a steadfast advocate and believer of monogamy, I found this philosophy more than a little depressing.

So I decided to market love to him, to describe my relationship despite its inexistance in such a way that there could be no miscomprehension, no possible way to apply a 'here/there, no regrets' philosophy. This was my attempt, more or less. I asked if he had ever met someone whose very breathing makes you heartwrenchingly aware that you are smoothly compatible, that with every exhale somehow you're filled and with every inhale you draw more of them inside you, someone who notes the forgotten cobwebbed corners of neglect and somehow makes them feel softly inhabited again, someone whose pulse strums along the slim slope of your arm and hovers like a tattoo pen? After that, I said, you'd be branded, and heres and theres stop mattering.

Tonight, I will try out a new fiance. Sam, UVA med student and prolifically talented musician, has volunteered his identity for the occasion - thanks, Sam. Honestly, I don't even care that these relationships aren't real - I still believe in love, that it's integral and uniting, that God is love, that love never fails, and that everything beautiful in the world can be expressed in love. That's right, you better believe I'll champion love.

you + me = us?

2009-02-04T09:40:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about relationships a lot recently - what defines, creates, continues and nourishes them. I believe that in a sustainable relationship there must be elements of compatibility and commitment, but I feel that both of these elements are somewhat out of our control. This is most apparent with compatibility; as Gibran says, "Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment it will not be created for years or even generations." I find this to be a complex yet veritable way of saying that chemistry is an essential component for any relationship. Chemistry is immeasurable and mysterious, like how perfume smells different on different people. Somehow when two people interact, a separate entity is created, consisting of two equal halves that are codependently intertwined: the part of me that you bring out and the part of you that I bring out.

I think one of the most essential questions is whether the person brings out qualities you love about yourself or the things you find most fault in. To bring it back to the perfume analogy, do I smell sparkling, witty and inteligent on you? Or do I smell insecure and needy? It's too bad that we can't literally smell our relationships. I would love to be able to tell a friend that she and her bf smell delicious - a balanced medley of earthy and floral, with undertones of metallic, and a hint of Godly. Actually, a better way to evaluate a relationship: how would they sell you on Home Shopping Network? "Ohh, this scent literally transports you to the lake country of England. I am literally frolicking through a field of heather dusted in red-gold sunlight while streams of delicate piano trickle through my ears." That's a relationship I'd want to explore. Despite my qualms with HSN's lack of propriety in using the word 'literally,' I feel I would appreciate this input.

Apart from chemistry as the defining characteristic of a relationship (does you + me = Us, US, us, or uS?), the commitment of a relationship seems less obviously out of one's control. I never want to use this as an excuse for letting someone down, but I do feel as though some relationships proceed with much more ease. They are organic, if you will; free range, ecofriendly, and unpolluted. The relationships that I recognize as my most valuable seem to have just happened. In this economy, the value of my initial investment seems to be unrelated to the yeild. Actually, it would be more precise to say my percieved value of my initial investment. There is an x factor (I suppose x = the defining characteristics of us, which can be defined in infinite ways) with the potential to give an emotional or temporal investment an exponential value.

I am sorely tempted to attempt to formulate some equation for a relationship, but will resist. Feel free to attempt, if you are mathematically inclined.

Slow Rainy Days

2009-02-03T06:48:00.000-08:00

I feel unable to concoct coherent paragraphs. It is raining.

I am greatly enjoying the combination of a down comforter, hot tea, a rainy day, and slow jams.

I think the biggest culture shock of my Italian life has nothing to do with Italy. I am more out of my element among Northern boys than I am among Italians. This was unexpected.

I don't understand how no one in this country eats oatmeal.

Here is a song that I very much enjoy:

LOVE

2009-02-01T13:56:00.001-08:00

This makes me think of several things that I love:
1) My family, because a golden retriever is only one step away from a lion.
2) The affectionate and cuddly bears side of love, even across species.
3) How I am happily Stace's little lion, but would love for us both to have real ones.
4) Musical soundtracks.
5) Reunions! I can't wait to be back in the good ol' US of A and speaking to my brother in made up accents again.

<3

the arno from ponte vecchio

2009-02-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

It's so cheap here!

2009-02-01T05:24:00.000-08:00

A long awaited word on shopping in Italia.

Obviously, the big names of Italian fashion are the mostly highly praised and easily recognizable designers of the industry. True to form, I daily walk past Gucci, Fendi, Robert Cavalli, Dolce & Gabbana, Gianfranco Ferre, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Versace. I ogle these window displays on the way to school and for the first time in my life, have a running knowledge of their upcoming spring collections. My favorite bar here, Astor, constantly has a wall projection of fashion telelvision - all designers, all runway shows, all the time. Fact: fashion inundates Italian culture.

Of course, my finances don't allow for me to act upon these inclinations, nor do most Italians wear aforementioned designers all the time. I would like to submit that the fashion mindset of Italy infiltrates even their cheap stores. Stores like Promod, Zara, Numadie, and others are probably the Italian equivalents of Forever 21 and Charlotte Russe, but as a whole, I have been impressed with the styles and cuts I've seen. Plus, even with the conversion rate, these stores aren't pricey. I bought a bomber style fake leather jacket for 14 euro. I'm enthused that I'll have the pleasure of being able to say I bought it in Italy, but it didn't carry the high price tag one might expect.

Stylewise, I see tons of boots, bomber jackets, down coats with fur around the hood, and skinny jeans. I've also encountered a strange style that is a resurrection of the MC Hammer pant. I'm curious to see if I warm up to this style; I remember thinking that skinny jeans were going to crash and burn, which clearly was not very forward thinking of me.

Another Italian shopping tidbit: the blackmarket street vendors who unpile their wares onto a sheet in the middle of the street. Yesterday, on my way to get some gelato with Rachel, I saw a camel Prada bag on one of these sheets. I paused because I have a weak, materialistic feminine heart, and before I knew it, I had two Prada bags in my hand. Honestly, I'm not sure how the transaction happened, but I did only pay 10 euros for one of them. Rachel also bought a bag - hers is a bold royal blue and I have a serious crush on it. These street vendors are pretty sketch - they use the sheet so that if police come, they can just wrap it up and run, yet I run into these salesmen at least twice a day, so I'm pretty sure that doesn't say great things about Italian law enforcement.

My most missed shopping delight of the states: GOODWILL! There are a few vintage stores, but they fall into the category of one-of-a-kind vintage, which tends to be like Gucci and Chanel from ages past. Fun, definitely interesting, but not affordable with my present lifestyle. I very much miss 206 Goodwill runs where the girls and I return home with strange, experimental pieces that may or may not end up as wardrobe staples. Until then, I'll have to assuage my shopping whims with funky pieces from the Italian versions of Forever 21.

Things that I want to return home with: a sweet leather jacket, ankle boots, a handful of street vendor designer label bags, a enhanced collection of scarves, and a couple things that siren city-chic. I'm willing to bet that my sentiments towards the MC Hammer pants are immobile, but who knows?

On Thankfulness... Part I

2009-01-30T10:23:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me as I read a card from my mother that I may have fallen into a habit of presenting a glossy and slightly skewed view of my life here in the great city of Florence. Despite good intentions, I have yet to establish an equilibrium between a thankful heart and an honest soul. I think that optimally, when both are fully displayed, they are most magnified. By that, I mean that when I look at my circumstances most objectively and critically, I am able to be thankful in the most authentic ways.

As I examine my life here, I am confronted with a great many blessings, which are most clearly blessings when I recall how uncertain and afraid I was pre-departure. I had many concerns before I came here: Would I make solid friends? Would I feel disconnected from my friends back home? How would I adjust to being away from my family? Since so much of relationships is proximity and shared experiences, would having this life-altering experience serve only to separate me from those I love? Like many, I fear being an island unto myself - a fear which is certainly not allayed by the prospect of spending five months out of the country.

This experience so far has given me a breath of relational relief which has spanned the Atlantic. Stateside, I have been absurdly well taken care of by my family and friends. Email has been a saving grace, gChat a veritable charm, and skype a rare commodity. In my emotional economics, a skype conversation cheers me more than regular shopping (!) but slightly less than a fruitful trip to Goodwill. While I was aware pre-departure that I had good friends, I am so assured of this now. My family and I had previously dealt with separation when I came to UVa (also, we are related and they are forever tied to me by blood), but my college friends and I have had the pleasure of residing in varying degrees of close proximity. Despite the distance, my close relationships have remained blissfully constant, although the primary medium of communcation is necessarily internet-based. I feel like I have learned several life lessons here: relationships are as permanent and supportive as you want them to be, you're never too far away to experience love, and 'the little things that mean the most' are not prevented by a lack of proximity. For this, I am so thankful, and I have found it comforting in the most beautiful way to feel my heart pulled towards Virginia with every email, im, and comment I receive.

The new internet foundation of my relationships has given me a fresh appreciation for voices, faces, physical goods, and yes, even affection. I am so thankful that those I love have found the time to love me from across an ocean. It makes me appreciate and experience 1 John 4:13, 16-17 in an ever increasingly profound way.

...but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us. ... And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. In this way, love is made complete among us...

DECISIONS! decisions?

2009-01-29T10:18:00.000-08:00

It may comfort some of you to know that many things about my personality have remained steadfast despite my change of locale. I am still a picky eater, I get lost often, and I am terribly indecisive. Right now, Raychee and I are attempting to make two very large decisions.

1) Where should we eat dinner?
2) Where should we go this weekend?

Clearly, these questions are of the utmost importance. I am in charge of researching our dining options for the evening, while she is surveying potential destinations. We have picked Trattoria Sostanza for our dining pleasure this evening. However, our travel plans are a little more difficult.

Me: So, did we decide on Assisi?
Rachel: I think so. What do you think?

Feel free to decide for us. Options include Assisi, Pisa, Lucca, and Rome.

UPDATE: We have decided on Assisi. This is because Rachel and I both like religious things; additionally, Rachel has stated that she intends to buy a religious relic. Oh, good. I'll be sure to give a shout out to St. Francis while I'm there.

How do they know?

2009-01-28T12:56:00.000-08:00

While touring Monticello with a friend back home, he insightfully questioned the accuracy of the floor coverings. Our knowledgeable and feisty tour guide assured us that while they didn't exactly know if Thomas Jefferson covered his floors, he might have used carpets such as these. I might be remembering this occasion innacurately, but in any case, I found myself wondering the same thing today. Granted, the Palazzo Pitti is about a thousand years older than Monticello (false: only about 300 years, which only serves to increase my pride in the great state of Virginia). Still, in the living quarters of Palazzo Pitti, there were constantly carpets. I understand that carpets serve to keep feet warm and to silence the pitter-patter of servants, but I remain fairly convinced that certain rooms should not have carpeting. The chapel, for one. Also, the throne room - really, why would you want to make your inferiors more comfortable? Isn't part of the pomp of a throne room defining the separation between luxury and austerity, and what better way than to sit on an opulent throne while your visitors kneel on marble?

Despite my personal preferences, I find myself wondering how much we actually know about how people of times past kept their floors. One might think that somewhere in the deluge of correspondence left behind by TJ that he made mention of his floor coverings at Monticello. Or even his Christmas decorations, although our tour guide assured us that the decorations at Monticello were both chronologically and stylistically potentially Jeffersonian. This makes me wonder just how many things about our lives we don't chronicle. Did Jefferson really never mention holly berries, pine rope, carpets, or hardwood?

As a newfound blogger (or perhaps, one who shares her thoughts internationally via the interweb despite her distaste for the word blog), I find this hard to believe. I tell my devoted readers where I eat lunch, what I do in the morning, whether or not I'm skipping class, and what type of tea I drink. Granted, I use being abroad and sharing my travels as an excuse. (Secret: I just like to talk and have people listen.) Didn't TJ ever mention his floors in his letters? Really?

For the record, my floors here in Florence are tile.

Tour de Turtles?

2009-01-28T05:13:00.000-08:00

My painting class took a field trip to Palazzo Pitti today, home to the art collection of the Medicis, a few other minor collections, and Napoleon's very own bathtub. For some reason, I wasn't expecting phenomenal things from this museum, mostly because its fellows the Uffizi and the Galleria dell'Academia seem to garner more hype. However, Palazzo Pitti delivered great things today, including Rubens, Botacelli, Bertucci, Titian, Caravaggio, Fra Lippi, Van Dyk, and Raphael.

My artistically disinterested friend AK only recognized Raffaello Sanzio's name after I said, "Raphael. You know. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles." To which he responded, "Oh, right. The purple one." Actually, Raphael was the red one; Donatello was the purple one. Inaccuracy aside, this conversation led me to realize I only have yet to see a work of Michelangelo's in person before my lifetime Tour de Turtles is completed. Score!

The gallery of modern art did little to astound me today, and I was reminded that most of my favorite painters are French. It also endeared me to our very own National Gallery in DC. (Seriously, why don't I go there more often?) However, I was introduced to Plinio Nomellini. Neo-impressionist, reminded me of Seurat, had a lot of pink tones, and chromoluminosity. Sadly, the works I saw today are unfindable on google. What's with that?

Canto di Giorno

2009-01-27T02:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, Andrea Bocelli. I'd marry you.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off

2009-01-27T01:29:00.001-08:00

My two hour long photography class was canceled today. I only have one other class, so naturally, I'm skipping it and taking a mental health day. This is certainly not out of character for me, and I'm pretty sure that my mother would support the idea. It's GORG here. My post about rain must have goaded the sun into shining. I've decided to spend the day doing things that are Bethesque. I'm going to wear something fun, journal often, drink some coffee, read my book, photograph, wander, and most likely get lost.

A verse I'm reflecting on: So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught and overflowing with thankfulness. Col 2:6-8

The Finer Things Club

2009-01-26T11:39:00.000-08:00

I have been enjoying the finer things recently. Luckily, my compatriot Rachel is also a card-carrying member. Here is a small sampling of what we've been partaking:

Caviar, Rosemary Croccantina, & Brie. Definitely a finer thing. Rachel got me hooked on this. Caviar, both black and red, is sold at our grocery store for about 2 euros. That's right, $2.67ish. Rachel eats hers with cream cheese (which here, they just call Philadelphia), and I've been eating mine with brie. It's exceptionally delicious, slightly preposterous, and perhaps pretentious. This lifestyle choice will probably not be sustainable when I return to the states, but for now, it's a keeper.

Orologio & Pregiudizio. That's right, my fellow Jane Austen lovers, I have Pride & Prej in Italian. I have only made it to page four because the tenses are surprisingly difficult and my vocabulary here-to-fore had not included words like bachelor or carriage. Luckily for me, there were about forty pages of introduction, so to the unknowing observer, it looks like I'm making good progress.

Tortelli & Pesto. At our local grocery store, we buy these bags of tortelli (like tortellini, but bigger) for 1.85 euro. This only qualifies as being an element of the FTC because it's Italian food from Italy (and yes, it really is better). The things I buy in a store here are better than 95% of the Italian food I've ever had in the states. The pesto is fantastic; as a pesto connoisseur, I feel I have the right to say this. I have no complaints.

Proscuitto crudo. Why bother eating ham in the states ever again? Seriously? I don't really eat ham, mostly because of the depressing demise of my childhood pig who I wittily named Miss Piggy (Dad, if you're reading this, no hard feelings). I ate bacon when I was 15 and discovered it was quite the tasty treat, but other than that, I tend not to eat pig meat. Here, I daily devour the "aged, dry-cured spiced Italian ham that is usually sliced thin and served raw" (thanks, wikipedia). I usually eat it on foccacia with fresh mozzarella, heated. Delicious.

Tea & Bailey's. This technically here would be called un te corretto. Essentially, tea corrected with some alcohol. In any case, my English breakfast black tea tastes even more delicious this way, which certainly says something.

I Due Fratellini. This sandwich shop looks more like a cubby along the side of an alley. You walk up, order your sandwich, hand over your money, and they hand you a freshly made, warm fistful of love. They're cheap, they're fast, and there's no seating. This sandwich shop is definitely the best, but it's hearty fare that generally wouldn't merit FTC mention. It's location gives it that honor; before discovering I Due Fratellini, we would eat lunch near school at the convenient cafe that evvvvverrrryone goes to. However, our willingness to go the distance (not that far, but kind of far) cements both Rachel's and my membership in the Finer Things Club.

Italian clubs. First, you have to understand that Florence has an extremely large population of American students. They're a huge market - plenty of bars, clubs, and travel agencies target them. These American bars and clubs only attract American students and a scattering of sketchy older Italian men who are there to pick up the aforementioned American students. As members of the FTC, Rachel and I have set about making real Italian friends and going where they go, usually smaller, more interesting, and more mellifluously Italian speaking locales. So far, so good.

I'm sure we belong in this club for other reasons too. That we spend our time looking at art, listening to Gregorian chants, drinking Italian wine, and walking past world-renowned architecture, for some. Still, this is enough for now. Let it be known that I miss home terribly and that I have to say the finest thing is being around those you love.

<3

Rainy with a chance of clouds.

2009-01-26T05:09:00.000-08:00

Florence is a rainy city. While I know this to be true mostly because I am particularly attuned to my five senses, I also encounter pedestrian Moroccans selling umbrellas on the streets every day, despite the current status of the weather. As I exited school earlier, the sky was grey, but not ominously so. However, I knew it was about to start raining, because one of the brella men was unpacking his wares onto a sheet which he had laid on the sidewalk. Moments later, I felt a droplet. How did he know? Either he has a blackberry in his threadbare pocket, he's a weather prophet, or he has arthritic knees.

Another strangel brella man encounter: one of them said to me, "Jennifer! Brello!" In this particular man's defense, it was already drizzling. Is Jennifer really that common of an American name? Even if my name had been Jennifer, did he think this would be well-received? This too is a mystery.

Sadly, it looks like the umbrella men may be in for good business. Thursday is the brightest day in the forecast, which doesn't say much since it's calling for clouds. However, it's good weather for tea and snuggling under covers, both of which I happen to have. I also remembered to bring my umbrella, so I won't be answering to "Brella!" or "Jennifer!" anytime soon.

http://www.weather.com/outlook/travel/businesstraveler/tenday/ITXX0028?from=36hr_topnav_business

Who wants to talk about symbolism?

2009-01-25T11:31:00.000-08:00

There is a statue of a cross, what might be a ring of thorns, and a tree on the bottom. Why is the tree there? Is it a ring of thorns or is it a like...a compass? Is it an olive tree? Tell me. I want to know.

A brief word on Italian men...

2009-01-25T06:50:00.000-08:00

I have a theory on Italian men. It's pretty basic, but essentially I think that they like to appreciate beauty in all its forms. Men check out women; it's just what they do. If I were to walk down say, McCormick Road at UVA, it wouldn't be that out of the ordinary for me to feel like one guy checked me out overtly. I'll even round up and say 5% . Here, I'd be willing to say that it's more like 85% of men who visually grill you. It's completely socially acceptable. Women do it too, just to see what you're wearing. In the states, we do the same thing, but we put some effort into being covert at least. I digress.

Italian men are good for the ego, to some extent. It's nice to feel appreciated, like you're simply stunning just the way you are - no need to be thinner, more tan, have a bigger rack, or dress more provacatively. You stop traffic, just by existing. It's both refreshing and unnerving. Men literally approach you with roses, ask you to model for sculptures, propose marriage, and all but worship the ground you walk on. I don't really know what I think about this. I'm probably going to feel terribly unattractive when I come back to the US and stop recieving eloquent compliments from strangers, but for now, I'm just going to roll with it. Actually, I'm going to get dressed, go outside, and let myself absorb some more Italian admiration.

Un caffe delizioso. Finally.

2009-01-24T11:22:00.000-08:00

I know that Italy is renowned for its coffee. I understand this. Italy is the home of espresso. Starbucks and the whole concept of the American coffee shop originated from the Italian cafe. I know. However, I have become a subscriber to the Starbucks phenomenon. Charlottesville boasts a surprisingly strong number of great coffee shops - Para, Hotcakes, Cville Coffee, Shenendoah Joe's, Java Java, Mudhouse, Greenberry's, Barnes & Noble, and our very own Starbucks. I've spent a remarkable quantity of time throughout my college career sipping on lattes in various locales while studying. My absence from UVA has also led to a greatly decreased need for both caffeine and study spots, but I have a physical hankering for an American latte (Starbucks translation: grande nonfat latte, lite foam, extra hot, two splendas) and an emotional one to spend a day reading in a cozy chair.

Today, I decided to find an Italian substitute for my American obsession. A typical Italian caffe is an espresso shot; this is not my favorite. I've had a cappuccino here, which is similar to the ones back home, just way smaller; this is also not my favorite because I don't like foam. There is also the Caffe Americano, which is espresso with hot water added; I guess it's American because it's served in a bigger cup and because it's weaker than a normal caffe. Bigger, but weaker. Hm. The champion of today was the Caffe Macchiato - espresso stained with hot milk, but with no emphasis on foam. It was nothing short of divine, although small. Probably a fifth of the smallest size you can get from Starbucks. However, at only .85 euro cents, it doesn't carry the high price tag of a Starbucks addiction.

Italian cafes are not set up like American ones - particularly not like ones in a college town, which are specifically geared toward being a study area. Most Italians order their tiny caffes and drink them while standing at the bar. At many stores, there are two prices: one if you stand at the bar and the other for "il tavolo," if you sit at the table. This does makes sense entrepreneurially. I get that. Actually, after being here, I'm amazed that American coffee shops are so blase with table occupancy. It's genuinely not frowned upon in the states, as long as you bought a drink at some point. Americans are big on getting our money's worth. Like, the whole concept of a take out box, for example. Here, if you don't finish what you're served, you are a) being rude and insulting the chef and b) they don't do take out so you don't get the leftovers. The point of this being: I haven't found a place where I can chill and leisurely drink coffee while reading and occupying their table for a very long time. The caffe macchiato, however, was a delicious step in the right direction. I have a bookstore that I'm going to try tomorrow that might be a good place to chill. We'll see.

My houuuse

2009-01-24T08:03:00.000-08:00

This has definitely been a trip of pleasant surprises and exceeded expectations. Not entirely, considering that the plane ride here was terrrriiiiibbbbllllleeee, but since arriving in Firenze, I can honestly say that I've been pleased.

My apartment is darling. High ceilings, sparse furnishings, and a very Tuscan feel. We have long, narrow windows with wood shutters on the inside. By windows, I actually mean French doors which lead out onto our terrace. The terrace has a view of the Cattedrale Santa Maria del Fiore and the Duomo. If I had to design an ultimate Florentine view, I couldn't do a better job. I have a cork board beside my bed, which is covered in quotes and pictures. This is a nice taste of home too - each quote, picture, or tidbit makes me think of someone important to me. One of my favorites is a quote from my grandfather's desk - "The heart has reasons which reason knows not of."

I also have a rose on top of my cork board. It's from my first night out here. My apartments Mica, Rachel, and I were out at dinner together, and we were getting looks from some guys at the bar. This, as I have learned, is certainly not rare; Italian men love to give looks. In any case, I see one of them talking to a man trying to sell a dozen roses to him. I'm listening to them haggling (I'm American, but I understand Italian, come on) and I tell Mica and Rachel that I think they're about to give us roses. True enough, one of them walks over in a few moments, tells us we are "troppo bella" (translation: too beautiful) and hands us each a rose. This was my first night out. Way to make a good impression, Italy. Well played.