Erin Miller

It doesn’t snow in Sicily.
This Thursday it was snowing in Perugia (AGAIN) so we left and went to Sicily.
We got on the bus to the train station knowing only the time our train left for
Filigno, to go on to Rome, and then to Milazzo, a port town in the north of
Italy. Unfortunately Florence was getting 2 feet of snow (virtually unheard
of) so all the trains were late, and we got on our train in Perugia an hour
behind schedule. Luckily, they knew that everyone was going to Rome, and held
the train in Filigno. We got on the train in Filigno as it was pulling away. In
Rome, our train was delayed two hours due to the snow in the North so we went
to get dinner. We came back an hour later to learn that they had found a new
train and it was leaving, so we ran down to the tracks and just barely got on.
We arrived in Milazzo 14 hours after leaving Perugia.
Our destination was actually a small archipelago of off North Sicily. The
archipelago has several famous islands. Lipari, is the largest and most
developed. Vulcano is small, with a large ACTIVE volcano, a small village, and
hot springs in the ocean, and Stromboli is also the home of an active volcano,
which actually still has lava flowing from it that lights up the night. We had
to decide which island to go to, so we bought tickets to Vulcano. We boarded
the aliscarfi (boat with wings) with our hands full of corona, lemons (lemons
grow everywhere in Sicily so drinks are always paired with them, as opposed to
limes) and salt. One of the crew members, Guiseppe, was so impressed with our
provisions that he let us sit outside, on the back of the ship in “primo posto”
(first class). We were the only people allowed to sit outside, but we had to
duck so that the captain didn’t see us. Guiseppe asked where we were going and
when he heard Vulcano, he said, “why go there, there is nothing there, go to
lipari for the night life” He would let us ride the extra distance for free, so
we agreed. As it turned out, his mom conveniently rented an apartment on the
island. We took a look at the place and got to stay in the apartment with 8
beds (there were 5 of us) 2 full kitchens and two bathrooms for 15 Euro a
night.
We were told to take a 30 minute walk to check out the famous Spiegga Bianca
(white beach). All of the volcanic islands have black sand beaches, and you
forget that most beaches actually have tan colored sand. We walked for an hour
(Italians always underestimate walking times) and finally came across a
completely deserted beach full of black sand with a few white rocks, with a
large sign that read Spiegga Bianca. A few of us headed back to the nearest
town to get snacks, drinks and a lighter, and the others gathered firewood. The
next two evenings were spent facciamo un bagno (swimming) off a deserted beach in the Mediterranean and enjoying beverages around a fire. True freedom.
The second day we took a day trip to Vulcano intending to hike to the top of
the vulcano and swim in the aquacalda (hot water from the sulfer deposits in
the ocean). It rained all morning, and during the off-season they drain the
touristy pool that is filled with aquacalda during the summer, leaving only the
“aquacalda” ocean. We could see the steam rising from certain spots so we threw
our clothes on the beach and jumped in. Hot springs in an ocean don’t work as
well as one might think. There were spots where we burnt our feet on the hot
rocks, but generally the ocean was only mildly warmer than usual. We quickly
put our layers of clothing back on. Mine still smell like sulfer.
After warming up in the only open bar on the island we hiked to the top of the
volcano. Looking into the crator of an active volcano is quite an experience,
but requires holding one’s breath to avoid passing out from the gases that rise
from the center. They use to lead tours into the crater, but in the 70s it blew
again, and now there are some half-hearted Italian signs at the trail-head that
warn tourists to stay away from it.
The third day we rented scooters and a go-kart and toured Lipari looking for
the most amazing panoramas we could find, and there were plenty. The go-kart
was not much smaller than most of the European cars which passed us on the
mountain roads.
We returned to Perugia early Monday morning. And it has been sunny, if not
warm, the last couple of days. We anxiously await spring and the opening of the
home-made gelato store on corso venucci.

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We had our Italian friends over for dinner last week. We made them a
five-course dinner in an attempt to repay them for the five-course, five hour
dinner they cooked us a few weeks ago. It took me a full week of wandering the
city to find all of the necessary ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. The
Italians loved them though. There aren’t any cup measurers here(duh) so I just
sort of guessed, but when one of the Italians asked me for the recipe I said
that there was a problem because it used weird “parole americani”(american words.) He was convinced he could figure it out, so I copied the recipe for him
but when he looked at it he asked, “what’s a cup?.” Somehow, during dinner, we
Americans got on the topic of Smurfs. The Italians asked what we
were talking about so when we described them they said, “oh, si, i pufi. I pufi
sono communisti.” When we asked for an explanation as to why the smurfs were
communists they explained that there was one leading older man, only one girl
and she dressed in red, none of them ever used money, their enemies were the
capitalists and they ate their babies. I’m not sure how this rumor got started,
but it sounds like the result of a fascist government to me. When we asked another Italian about the communist pufi he said, “well, yes, but not all communists eat their young, only some of them, and only during this one time…” So, there you have it, I pufi sono communisti.
We had an interesting conversation with Willy Wonka this week, the man who owns the candy store by our house. The store sells only candy and alcohol so we go for gummy bears and beer about once a week. He asked us why we were learning Italian, when we said it was fun he didn’t understand. “so, you guys have how many states in the united states, 40 or 60?” We told him 50. “Well, you guys have 50 states and they all speak English. We have 25 states in the EU and we speak 23 languages.” Turns out that he was very bitter that the EU was agreeing on 4 governing languages and Italian wouldn’t be one of them. Even though it is the language “il piu bella”. He claims that if the
EU is going to refuse to use Italian, it should at least use Latin because it
is the language that everyone learned in school, and the language “degli arte e
medicina”. But alas, it looks like he will have to learn French, Spanish,
German or English.
Only other big event this week was going to a disco outside of town Saturday
night. We danced all night and took the bus back to Perugia at 5 in the
morning. I decided that we should stay up to watch the sunrise, so we wandered
around town and found some kids from Barcelona hanging out by the fountain.
They are studying in Perugia. My roommate asked what they had done that night
and one of the girls said that she had stayed in. Apparently, she had just come
out to dance and sing with her friends in the streets at 5:30 am. We got bored
waiting for the sun so we asked a garbage man, “Cuando arriva il sole?” he said
that we were crazy and still had an hour, so we should go home a take a nap. We went home to eat breakfast. When we went back outside a fog had settled on the city so we never even saw the sun come up, it just went from a dark cloud to a light one, but we did put in a good effort.

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My hands are red and swollen. A bank sign blinks a red -14˚, as if it is trying to rub it in. How cold is negative fourteen degrees Celsius in Fahrenheit? It’s really cold. I have gloves in my pack, but somehow it didn’t occur to me that I would want them en route and I buried them near the bottom. I think that I could stop on the side of the road and dig them out, but I have images of freezing to death here at the base of the Italian Alps. ‘A girl found frozen to death hunched over her pack, a pair of Burton gloves clenched in her right hand’. And, I can’t figure out what I would do with all of my clothing and gear as I emptied my pack searching for my gloves, the roads are wet and snow-covered. I do not even think that my fingers would obey my mental commands well enough to undue the plastic clips on the top of my pack. I just keep walking.

As I had stepped off the bus in the town center of Canazie I had noticed the familiar scent of grilling meat drifting through the thin mountain air; the scent was rare in Italy. I had glanced across the road and seen a man selling hot dogs and hamburgers at a small stand. The address of my hotel listed it in Canazie and I had thought that it must be close. I had figured that of all people, the vendor was likely familiar with it. I had showed him my piece of paper with the name and address of the hotel. ‘Oh sure,’ he had replied in Italian, ‘it’s about five kilometers up the road, but another bus will be coming soon, the stop is just over there.’ I had boarded the bus, crammed full of tired skiers making their way back to their hotels. My sense of kilometers is not very strong; I stayed on the bus until I saw the sign indicating that we were leaving Canazie. In Italy these signs are large rectangles with a white background and large black letters showing the name of the town, with a red circle and an X drawn through the name. I had panicked as I saw that sign through the frost covered window of the bus. It had not felt like we had gone five kilometers, but maybe we had, or maybe the hot dog man had been mistaken. The sign had made me acutely aware of being on the edge of town, far from where I assumed my hotel to be. Frantically I had looked for the button to push to indicate to the driver that I wanted the bus to stop so that I could get off. Clumsily, I had pushed my way to the open door, knocking the men in their ski boots off balance. I had spun a panicked circle in the light dusting of powder on the road and then seen the light of a café.

I had walked into the café with tears forming at the corners of my eyes. My fear of walking alone and lost through the freezing dark mountain valley, not even knowing if I was still headed in the direction of my hotel, had consumed me. I had lost all ability to think rationally about my situation. I was angry at myself for not having planned things out more completely, more carefully, for not having prevented being lost at night. I was angry that I could not fully communicate with, and get help from, the people around me.
My usual optimism had abandoned me. The lump in my throat swelled, making any sort of communication difficult, and I had found it impossible to speak Italian. ‘Does anyone speak English?’ There was not a single nod or comforting word in my native tongue from the clientele. As demoralizing as it was, I figured that this made a certain amount of sense. The Dolomites were originally part of Austria and given to Italy only after World War II, at the Paris Peace Conference in 1947, as a reward for Italy switching sides of the conflict and joining the allied forces in 1943. There is still a strong Germanic culture in the area. The people in that café had learned German as their second language. A few of the old men sitting at the bar were probably born speaking German, and learned Italian only after the war, and only ever to a minimal extent due to the resentment they must have felt as their homeland was handed over to the conquerors.

Once it had become clear no one would be able to help me in English, I had mustered my Italian. ‘Conosce Santa Maria e Nives?’ I had pulled out the sheet from the Internet that showed the hotel and its address. The woman behind the bar had been concerned and eager to help. She had questioned the men sitting at the bar. One of them had been familiar with the hotel. ‘Sí, diritto, due kilometri.’ He had motioned with his hands indicating straight up the road. My face had dropped; the man could read my disappointment. ‘Forse solo un e mezzo, facile, non é lontano.’ Only one and a half kilometers — easy.

I had smiled and said ‘grazie,’ as I hurried toward the door attempting not to allow the lump to explode which would have forced the tears out of my blinking eyes and down my cheeks. Now I am walking along the road, alone, in complete darkness in negative fourteen-degree weather with a forty-pound pack stuffed with ski gear strapped to my back. I try to recall my optimism, it is possible that I am just walking slow kilometers; I haven’t ever timed myself walking with this pack. Maybe the hotel will be just around this bend.

This is my present to myself for my twenty-first birthday, a chance to ski the Alps. I am studying in Perugia, the capital city of Umbria, located between Rome and Florence. I had planned to arrive in Canazie while it was still light, but several transportation delays, including one because the train tracks were ‘broken,’ had delayed my arrival by hours and the sun had set while the bus was on the highway.

When I made the reservations as the hotel, I had not asked the woman that answered the phone for directions. I was certain I would not have been able to understand them even if I had received them. Making the reservation alone had stretched my Italian capabilities. ‘Vorrei fare un prenotazione.’ The women responded in several fast Italian sentences; not understanding, I repeated what I had opened the conversation with, ‘Vorrei fare un prenotazione.’ By the end of our conversation, the woman had taken my first name and said she would see me Friday. I had already called a dozen other hotels in the area and none of them had had any availability, so I hoped that I had successfully made this reservation. My American cultural understanding prevented me from feeling secure in having made a reservation until I had given someone all of my bank account information, my social security number, and promised them my first-born son.

My fingers are dreadfully cold, I attempt to clench my hand into a fist, but my swollen fingers bend just slightly. Then, at last, a series of road signs stuck on a wooden post that leans with the weight of the snow appears on a corner. My heart races as I approach the signs, hoping that they list my hotel. My eyes rush down the long list of signs; I am holding my breath in anticipation. At last, the second slab of wood from the bottom displays the name of my hotel. It points up the hill on the side of the road. I begin to climb the steep, icy slope. I lean forward hard attempting to balance the weight of my pack. At last, the hotel appears before me. There are lights inside, people in sweatpants, their hair a mess, sweaty, having been covered by wool caps all day. I cannot find the entrance, just wall after wall with windows but no door. I just want in; desperately I want inside. I consider knocking on what is clearly only an emergency exit; I approach it but at the last minute change my mind, convinced that surely the front door is just around the next corner, it is. I walk in, overwhelmingly relieved.

‘You must be Erin, we’ve been waiting; dinner is ready.’ The woman at the counter greets me with some of the most beautiful Italian words I had ever heard. She suggests that I put my pack down in her office and go straight to dinner. I explain that I need to go to my room first; my Italian is insufficient to explain that I need to rub my hands under warm water for a few minutes to see if I can get them to work again. Once I explain I will be to dinner very quickly, she reluctantly agrees, and shows me to my room. I allow my hands to thaw. I put long underwear on under my jeans and slip on my wool socks. I am terrified of becoming that cold again, even though the warmth of the hotel attempts to convince me that the fear is unrealistic. I go down the stairs to dinner. Along one side of the dining room was a large table full of people speaking English, at least what seems to be English through their thick Irish accents. Never being much of one for dining alone, I ask if I can join them. A redheaded, fair-skinned, button-down-shirt-and-sweater clad twenty-something man glances up, meets my eyes, and replies, ‘of course.’

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Ciao,
Here is your weekly update from Perugia. The train strike did happen and
travel came to a complete halt all over Italy. Teachers cut their classes
short in order to get back to their homes in Florence etc. before the strike
began. Friday felt like a holiday. The labor unions had planned a 24 hour
strike, and seemingly held one, but the government maintained before and
during the strike that it would only last 8 hours. So, the trains were on
strike from 9pm Thursday to 9pm Friday, but the government still maintains
that the strike went only from 9am to 5pm Friday. It’s a cute system. The
government guarantees certain routes (Rome to Florence etc) even during a
strike, but it only maintains those routes during the 8 hour period of the 24
hour strike that it recognized. I was finally able to determine the reason for
the strike. Apparently, some months ago, two trains collided near Milan on a
one track transfer. The trains hit head on, as they were traveling different
directions on the same track. The train operators took this collision as a
sign of poor government oversight. They stroked in an attempt to negotiate for
greater oversight in order to guarantee the safety of themselves and their
passengers, and accordingly, asked for the public’s cooperation and
understanding. Sounds like a noble cause, especially considering our
National Hockey League is striking for an entire season in order to not have a
limit put on their multi-million dollar salaries.
Last weekend I traveled to Pisa and Lucca. In Pisa, someone built this medium
height, though very heavy tower, on ground that wasn’t stable and now the
tower leans over to the right (or left, if you come from the other direction).
They have done some construction to stabilize the tower. They did not,
however, fix it and put it upright, just stabilized it’s lean to the right. The
only reason that anyone ever goes to Pisa is to see this leaning tower and a
straight tower would have ruined the tourism industry in the city. Due to this
newfound stability, for the low price of 15 Euro, one may climb to the top of
this tower that still appears as if it might fall over. 15 Euro is enough for
a very nice 3-course dinner, so we declined the opportunity to climb the
tower. We were talking to some Australians on the way out of Pisa and the
Australian man said, “15 Euro, that’s like 40 Australian dollars, they can
take that 15 Euro and shove it up their arse.” But, if you’re a wealthy
European and enjoy climbing towers that lean to the right (or left) then Pisa
is the place for you.
We stopped by Lucca on the way back to town. I rented a cruiser bike (with a
bell) and rode several times around the city’s fully intact walls, which have
been made into a city park. It was a very pleasant little Italian town,
surrounded by green hills. On my way back to the train station, I saw 4 small
parades, each with 2-4 drummers and people dressed up in various outfits. I
never really understood the reason behind these parades, but it was clear that
the people in Lucca had a lot to celebrate.
Happy Giorno di San Valentino!
(the Italians never really enjoy hearing that the holiday was in fact adopted
from Roman paganism and was a festival in which highly powerful political men
were able to get inebriated and run around in the nude.)

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The big adventure for this week was a trip to Venice for the biggest party in
the world, Carnevale! Carnevale is Mardi Gras Italian style and Venice is the
New Orleans of Western Europe. Venice is an amazing city, the canals and
gondolas add a distinct charm to the place, though they also seem to make it
OK (it’s an Itlian phrase too) to charge 11 euros for a cup of coffee. We took
a ride in a gondola and the gondolier sang to us, very romantic. He also told
us that he took Julia Roberts and Matt Damon for a ride when they were in
Venice for the filming of Ocean’s 12. We were all quite impressed
with the story until I learned that the gondolier that took my little sister
on a ride in Venice last year told her the same thing. Venice is sinking
a little every year. While on the gondola I couldn’t help but wonder why
anyone thought that building a city on this town that is cut through with
canals and 417 bridges was a good idea.
On Saturday, the Venice train station exploded and the streets filled with people
wearing masks and costumes. That night Piazza San Marco was filled with disco
fever. A horrible band played American disco songs all night, and the place
was packed with people in costume. We ran around causing a general ruckus. Its
amazing how much one is able to get away with while wearing a mask. We are
pretty convinced that we were at the biggest party in the world. After the
disco, I went to a real discoteca in the city. I was nearly the only American in
the place and talked to and danced with people from Greece, South Africa, New
Zealand, Spain and Mexico. Not a person left the discoteca from the time I got
there around 1 to to when it closed at 4 in the morning, at which time I
walked back to the apartment we had rented in the city.
I have been learning some Italian history and culture since my English classes
started last week. Carnevale is derived from carne — the Italian word for
meat. Everyone tried to eat all of their meat stores during carnevale because
they would not eat it during lent. The only explanation I was able to get
about why the Italians gave up meat during lent came from my Italian teacher.
She explained that the Italians ate so much meat all year that carnevale
provided a “pausa” for the sake of one’s health.
Now, onto the sciopero — the Italian word for strike. Since the late 1800s
when trade unions formed all over Italy during the socialist movement, a
strike has been the laborer’s best bargaining tool. There is a train strike
planned for this Friday, to last 24 hours. My teacher explained that the
strike may happen and may not, but that if you are on a train when the strike
begins, they will leave you wherever the train is when it stops. Well, they do
take you to the nearest city, the don’t just leave you in the “compagna”
(country). Now, the government is concerned with the threat of a strike and is
attempting to negotiate in order to limit the strike to a mere 8 hours.
There’s an Italian solution for you. They are not attempting to advert the
strike altogether, but merely to limit the amount of time passengers are
stranded in random towns like Chiuso.

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Buona Sera!
Italians say buon giorno (good day) until about 6 in the evening when it
becomes buona sera (good evening) it remains good evening until midnight or 1
am when it changes to buona notte (good night). The entire day is shifted
later here. People finish dinner around 11, families perhaps closer to 9 or
10, but kids my age finish around 11. Classes start and stores open at 8 so
the entire country is rather dependent on the pausa (Italian siesta). Good
luck trying to buy shoes here between noon and 4. It is snowing in Perugia (nevica). It has been snowing in flurries for the
past couple of days and it is pretty darn cold, but at least our apartment,
unlike so many others, still has heat. The drifts sometimes reach depths of a
half inch, and everyone from high school kids to the bread delivery men and
construction workers are throwing snowballs, racing to gather the three
possible snow balls in each parking lot. Everyone would be smiling if you
could see their faces buried under their scarves and coats. Most Italians wear
these winter coats that look like sleeping bags covering from their head to
their knees, but they still manage to look stylish.
I read the newspaper this morning at the cafe that I always stop at for my
morning cappuccino. I arrive at the cafe every morning around 8, so that I can
be at my 8 o’clock class on time, just alittle before my professoressa, at
8:20. From my reading of the Italian paper, (which was less than precise, I’m
sure) several schools in the area were cancelled and traffic was a mess all
over Umbra due to this winter blizzard.
My big adventure for this week was a trip to Florence with my roommates. We
hit all of the major attractions: the Uffizi, which houses some of the best art
in the world, the Botecellis are particularly well noted, and the Academia
Gallery, which houses the David, which is big. We also
toured the Duomo, which was impressive, but like many things it was under
construction during the off-season. We also payed 6 euro to climb the 414 steps
to the top of the clock tower for a view of Florence — money well spent. We
all stayed in Florence Saturday night. Sunday night one of my roommates and I
went to the soccer game (partita del calcio) between Roma and Firenze. It was
some crazy fun despite the rain and cold, but from what I hear, the Perugia
fans are even crazier. Firenze managed to hold their own for the first half,
but in the second they went down 2-3 and pretty much gave up. They seemed to
have been surprised that they managed to last that long. The fans sensed the
lack of enthusiasm in the players and sat down or left. The final score was 2-
3, but it didn’t seem that close. My roommate and I spent the night enjoying
Florence, because the first train, after the end of the game, was not until 5
am. Luckily, the hostel we had stayed at was going to be renovated and they
allowed us to store our luggage in the hallway and sleep for a few hours Sunday night for free (without heat and on the floor.) I hope that you are all enjoying the weather wherever you are.

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