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.