Hello.

Keeping in touch is a peculiar thing. The common realization for anyone who moves away and returns home is that things manage to stay almost exactly as they were before they left. Yet, despite this (and strangely so), you soon begin to realize how life has moved on in its usual way with surprising ease considering that you are no longer there. The truth is that this usual life has adapted to your absence, and no matter where you are, this is a heartbreaking concept.

So, on those odd days when an old friend reaches out from that removed place in life that used to be your own, well, thats a miraculous moment indeed. It’s one of those instances that defies the belief that life moves on without you, that your impact wasn’t ever more than fleeting. It’s true that once upon a time, I contributed to the faraway lives of others in positive ways - ways that, in the end, were worth remembering. This always has the ability to put my morning on a happier than usual note (either that or the generous cup of Italian coffee that is dancing through my bloodstream). Of course, for sentimental reasons, we’ll credit my bliss on friends in far places who have the time to say hello.

Porta Palazzo

Porto Palazzo is Europe's largest open-air food market, nestled right here in Turin. Despite being instantly overwhelming, it was easy to stumble into great finds, cheap prices and sudden mischief. Blood, guts, death and kisses were just a few things that were encountered on this day trip, and due to adventure overload, I probably won't be back for a while. Still, it was a great experience that was made so by the unexpected nature of the trip. 



(If you can not view the video, please click here).

REMEMBER TO WATCH IN HIGH QUALITY.

Also, special thanks to Ali who helped navigate me through the market, which is just as large (and larger) than it sounds. Without her, I would not have had some of the amazing footage that has made this video so wacky (ie. Random fish seller giving his love).

Easter in Italy

In a country full of devout Catholics, it's no surprise that Easter is a rather big deal. Schools have been closed since Thursday (which we will call Good Friday eve), Saturday is pre-Easter and Monday is something everyone here likes to call, "Little Easter." Nothing operates on that day either, though I'm not sure what's so special about it.

I spent today, (the official regular-sized Easter) cleaning up and piping chocolate eggs down my system. Trust me, it's an old Italian tradition that goes way back and I'm inviting you to join me in my quest for diabetes.

If the video doesn't appear, I will suggest you clickity here.

I spent lunch with my lovely Italian fam eating every kind of meat imaginable (although I heard you're not actually supposed to eat at all), then we cut open the Colomba which is a traditional Italian dessert saved specifically for Easter. It's shaped like a Dove to represent peace, though some people will say it actually just represents springtime. It's a sweet bread with dried fruit on the inside and sugar pellets, almonds and more dried fruit on top. It was rather scrumptious, and I found myself getting seconds.

Dinner was held in my apartment which was graced with a dozen and a half expats from around the city having no other family to spend the holiday with. There was cheese, wine and tiramisu, so naturally I now feel like a lump of cholesterol in a pretty brown cardigan.

All in all, it was an interesting day. A little too much sweets, but that just goes to show that Easter is basically the same no matter where you are. Buona Pasqua everyone.

Genova

I know I'm chronologically skipping around here, but this is a video I made of my trip to Genova on the 29th of March. 

"But Nix, it's almost Easter, where have you been?"

After a weekend in Brescia, I've worked every morning with students from the aerospace engineering department at Politecnico University here in Turin to make a video for an Airbus competition. Also, because the girls I teach English to were leaving for Paris on Thursday, I had to compress their weekly lessons into four straight nights, leaving me me exhausted by the end of each day and unable to work on the list of personal projects I had in mind. Alas, with the weekend bestowed upon me, I can sit on my orange couch and check things off my little post-it. Clean apartment, make video, write a blog, read a book, shop for stuff.

Now, without further ado, let me introduce Genova (and make sure you are watching in high quality).



Also, if you can not view the movie, please click here.

St. Patrick's and The Adventure Sunday

Well lovelies, happy Saint Patrick's Day from Northern Italy! Celebrated a birthday and then headed over to two local Irish pubs to drink away the festivities. How I was coerced into a few shots is beyond me, but it was done. Met loads of people and even ran in to two of my three friends here in this country. Small world indeed.

Last Sunday was something else entirely, and in place of a usual post, I have created a movie. It is an audio visual story, of sorts, for your enjoyment. 

Don't forget to watch in high quality, and click here if the video does not appear.

Falling in Love with a Season

I have come to associate Europe with the cold, the wet and the thickest coats for the weather has not deviated from frozen temperatures and constant drizzle since I've arrived. Next week marks the final days of winter and the start of my very first spring. I have been scrutinizing the trees, hoping to one day find new life on its branches. The weather has been getting steadily warmer and I spend my days out in the park expectant, anticipating the first trace of green.

And yet, despite the constant 50 degree weather (believe me, I would never before consider this to be warm) there has been no progress in the organic life around me. The landscape is still skeletal and I end each day with a mixed sense of disappointment and anticipation. "Perhaps tomorrow," I say, knowing full well that true growth takes time.

But... it must begin growing at some point, right?

It's this exact thought that prompts me to look closer, examine deeper. The branches that appear dead and gray reflect light at their tips in a peculiar way. Although not green, it is definitely something.

And before my eyes, the world changes. Buds so fresh and so there that it's a wonder I hadn't seen it before. Suddenly, it's not just the trees that are growing, but the bushes and the grass as well. The peculiar thing is that they are not so much green as they are... sparkly.  It made no sense at first until I realized that the waxy coat and spherical shape of the new growth reflects light in a way that bark and dirt never could. The contrasting result is magical. The act of the world rebirthing itself is so omnipotent, and yet so invisible that if you hold it to standard expectations you would never see it at all. Look closely next time, watch how the world glitters.

I have never been more in love with a season.

Of celebrating the Italian way.

Among weddings, first birthday parties and newborns in South Korea, I have now surpassed my own expectations in Europe by attending yet another foreign take on a common right of passage. I don’t know many people in Italy, but in one month I have managed to make a friend on the verge of graduating with his masters in Aerospace Engineering. If you haven’t already guessed it by now, I have indeed just borne witness to an authentic Italian graduation ceremony. Don’t get too excited, folks, as most of it was lost on me as I still “non caspico l'Italiano,” if you know what I mean. Regardless, my interpretation is of the following:

The girls and I snuck in to the auditorium which was severely less packed than I imagined it would be. There were no leis or balloons or even flowers for that matter, just family sitting next to family while we watched each student make a power-point presentation. The truth was that no one knew if they were graduating yet as no definite decision had been made. It would be this final speech that would demonstrate if they had learned and retained enough to be granted a diploma. Needless to say, tensions were high.

Daniele, my only Italian friend, spoke at the podium while the girls and I cheered inside. When he left the stage nobody clapped except for us, though very very softly so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Then, when all seven students had spoken, the professors stood up from their panel in the front of the room and exited to deliberate. We could see them in a little huddle through the glass porthole in the double doors. I had no idea what was going on at the time

After a few minutes, the professors reemerged and took their seats. The potential-graduates stood in a row before them, hands behind their backs, holding their breaths, wiggling their toes. One by one, the head professor would call out a name and pause one of those over-exaggerated drawn-out pauses. Like any good showman, he toyed with our suspense, leaving our breaths tucked inside our chests until we had reason to let it out. Finally, as we were just about to teeter over the edge, the professor would declare the fate of the student at hand. It went on like this until all seven graduates relaxed their shoulders and felt the relief that one standard cut of paper could bring. Oh, the instant magic of a diploma.

The Italian boys, so chic in their tuxedos, smiled so genuinely that for a moment, I was never happier than to be in Italy. The audience stood up, the graduates dispersed and the auditorium was filled with chatter that could only be translated as congratulations. The girls ran off to see their parents, two of the six professors, while I sat in the second row trying to soak it all in. 

Before we left, Daniele came over and invited me to a celebration dinner to be held later that night. Wanting, of course, to experience every angle of Italian culture, I agreed and headed home to get the girls ready. Following this decision, I have come to realize that not knowing what to expect is always an adventure.


My Italian family was invited too, so I tagged along and left myself open to their explanations. We arrived at a large restaurant on the outskirts of Turin, called Medusa, with a group of about twenty friends and family in tow. The table prepared for us was large and grand, clothed in red which is the color that represents graduation (I later came to find out that nearly every right of passage has a corresponding color in Italy. Some of the more commonly known associations that have carried over to the Western world are white for weddings, black for death/funerals, baby blue for giving birth to a boy and pink to a girl. 

Weirdly enough though, these colors are also represented by a sugar-coated almond candy called “confetti.” These are thick oval candies, hard as rock and not so delicious due to the fact that they are so difficult to eat. Still, at every celebration they are passed out in their respectful colors as part of an age old Italian tradition. So, in this instance, the confetti we received were all very red indeed).

The utensil setup was a nightmare for me, I didn’t know where to begin. Besides having four forks and a smattering of knives and spoons on all three sides of my plate, there were also two empty glasses and three bottles of liquid. One bottle was mineral water, the other was sparkling mineral water and the last was a bottle of room temperature red wine, precorked and waiting to be poured. Of course, I can guess that one glass is for water and the other for wine, but I didn’t realize that the slightly smaller cup is for wine while the larger one is for water. I got a reprimanding from my ten year old who caught my mistake (as I, of course, poured the water in the smaller glass and the wine in the larger) and had to quickly down my water in order to transfer over the wine. Very complicated. Rebecca had her eyes on my eating habits for the rest of the night, and I don’t blame her. I would be embarrassed to sit next to myself as well.

Soon came another glass filled with an orange soda concoction which I added to my menagerie of dinnerware.  After the bread baskets were in place, the first appetizer appeared.

It was pizza. I completely kid you not. It was a nice restaurant (as only nice restaurants have over seven utensils per person) and it was obvious that we were going to be treated to a multiple course dinner. So pizza, I concluded, was considered a bonifide and (dare I say) classy starter meal in Italy. What a riot of a realization! You can bet I was the only person in that whole restaurant taking pictures of the appetizer.



The next course was still considered to be an antipasto (appetizer) though I didn't anticipate the four dishes that followed it and prematurely consumed the whole thing. The truth is that I should have been rationing from pizza 1. By the end of the night I was as stuffed and stiff as taxidermy, uncomfortable to the point where I would never even wish that level of fullness on my enemies.

The worst part is that I kept eating, nonstop, insisting that I was having a cultural experience. I had to try everything even when those around me began to decline their portions. Give the tiny Asian girl more, more! MORE! They kept it coming as I nearly ate myself to death.

After Daniele opened his graduation gifts, we drank champagne and ordered more beverages (liqueur, espresso, wine). It was midnight by the time we left the table and headed home. I had calculated that we had just spent the last four hours feasting.

Still, I regret nothing. The experiences were memorable, the food divine and the company even more so. I had a great time immersed in another culture and 2 kilos around the waist is a small price to pay for that. Needless to say, I begin running again tomorrow morning.

Chronological and Numerical Form

I know this is a severely inadequate representation of the past two weeks, but due to the fact that I had no electricity for the first week, and no internet for the better half of the second, I think it's safe to say that I'm allowed such a hasty post.

The general rundown in chronological and numerical form is as follows:

1. I packed my things and left Germany.
2. I moved to Italy and unpacked my things where I experienced a five day blackout and three days of internet abstinence. I also made some friends, picked up on Italian, figured out public transportation, went shopping, bought a camera, had gelato (twice), got lost and was subsequently overwhelmed by the consistency of beautiful architecture that has come to define the country. Though I have seen only the mere hem of Italy, is has already swooned me every day that I have left my apartment.
   
3. My grandma had a stroke.
4. My grandma slipped into a coma.
5. I bought a ticket home and leave for Milan, New York, San Fransisco and then Hawaii tomorrow morning at 4am. It will be thirty hours thereafter before I arrive.
6. I will spend roughly a week with my family, mourning and remembering and loving, as we have all learned that we should do more of it while we have the time.

See you in Hawaii.

Of saying goodbye and entering new places.

I looked outside of my aerial porthole and the blackness of an early morning atmosphere looked back. I had lost sight of the country a long time ago, but I knew it was beneath me in the way I know it is within me. Germany has immortalized itself within my heart. The last twelve hours had happened so fast and I cried so often in the seclusion of my room that it's impossible to remember how I got myself to move forward. Have I survived the long string of goodbyes?

When the kids came home the day before, I ran upstairs and cried when they hugged me hello. Everything stood still, except for my heart which was slowly breaking apart. At night before bed, I hugged them goodbye trying not to look at their smiling faces. They didn't understand that I was leaving for good and it was that innocence that tore me apart. Like a dog, I ran away to my empty room and curled up in ball, nursing my wounds by letting out tears.

Saying goodbye to Hong was much more emotional. How do you part with the person who personifies your strength, your courage, your endurance and faith? My backbone, my fortune cookie, my mother figure, my foundation, it's been the one loss that I can't bear to relive.

The Dad hugged me goodbye and left me with three suggestions: "Practice, practice, practice."

It should have been harder to say goodbye to Kate - the very best friend I could have made abroad - but 2am wake up calls deter the heart from mourning. Instead, like the amazing person she is, she packed me a banana and a homemade muffin, hailed me a taxi and hugged me a hug that didn't feel like the last. We would meet again, and that was the only thing that made letting go of her possible.

Being a Western girl, I naturally packed half of what I owned when relocating to Germany. Being a Western girl, I naturally spent half of what I earned on clothes. The consequence of this is having to kart around three 50-pound suitcases and one large purse all by myself through empty train stations, bus stops and airports. I may be tiny, but I was determined to have every single skirt and panty by my side when I arrived in Italy. Unfortunately, the price of this is equal to 7€ per every kilo over the 23 kilo (50 lbs) limit. I ended up paying 182€ for the luxury of every skirt and panty, teaching me the hard lesson that Western mentality is an expensive one.

The upside to being robbed by the airlines is that my excess baggage had earned me a new friend - a German fashion model named Julia who helped to drag my luggage off the train. Coincidentally, we also had the same early flight into Milan where she was scheduled for a photo shoot. Being three hours early for a 6:45am flight, we naturally stuck together and wandered around the airport, talked over coffee (twice), dealt with complications during check-in, created our own two-person cafe right before security (as we both suddenly realized we had unconsumed food and beverages aboard), got patted down and searched after setting off the metal detectors, and discussed zoos, male models and exboyfriends before boarding. The early morning trek, and parting with Germany in general, was made that much more bearable with the gift of sudden friendship.

Once in Italy, we waited for each other as we exited the plane and helped the other fish for luggage as it came around the conveyor belt. Together, we navigated the new terminal, acting as a pillow of security in a time of sudden newness. Before we parted, we hugged and kissed goodbye in that endearing European way before rushing off in opposite directions for buses that were heading towards opposite towns. I continue to hope that she and I will meet again, and in a world full of wanderers, I wouldn't be surprised if we did.

My bus seemed to be waiting just for me as we pulled out the minute I stepped in. Nestled near a window seat, I polished off my first book of February while the Italian countryside sped by. The weather was dismal, but it was nice to know that I was arriving past winters midpoint. Spring would push its way through in sooner time than it would take for winter to leave. True to form, it was the last cloudy day I have seen.

As we entered the city, I stared in longing at the lengthy, shuttered windows and the elaborate metal fencing that enclosed roman balconies. Green and white stripped awnings jutted out and draped in semi-circle fringes, flapping in the drizzle. I imagined a balcony garden on summer days. I imagined old friends paying homage to a traveling comrade. Cafes and pasta, wine and gorgeous nights out in Italy, a country of possibilities.

I hold on to the faith that it all has happened for a reason. I have survived my first week in Torino.

The Shift

The sad news of the day is written within this post. Though daunting and sudden, we are all trying to be optimistic and supportive towards everyone's losses. Indeed, we all have lost something.

I am moving. Not now, not tomorrow, but soon. It's as unexpected as it is shocking, and our hearts are all the more broken for it. The news was delivered to us on Wednesday. I was in the kitchen eating raisins, waiting for The Mom to return home with the gift of promised pizza. The garage went up, her car pulled in, she opened the door and said, "Nicole, we have to talk."

The truth is that the economic crisis in the US has managed to indirectly affect me here in Germany. The Mom's sister lost her job last week, leaving her with no alternative to pay for her Manhattan apartment. With no one to work for and no other family to take her in, The Mom's sister phoned Wassenberg and asked for refuge.

When it comes to family, nothing else comes first. In essence, I've simply been displaced.

I cried. Not because I, too, was losing my job, but because I was leaving my family. Hong, my backbone; Kate, my best friend; Vincent and Gracie, the two souls that taught me patience and encouraged me to love. Just yesterday I was walking down the stairs thinking, "this is my home." I am leaving that as well.

But faith has never left, and when everything in front of me falls away, something larger comes into view from the debris. New experiences, valuable lessons, chances to grow in different directions. I am adopting a new setting, that's all. Chin up, heart strong, breath deeply.

Nix is moving again, and she's aiming for Italy