Chapter Eleven: Le Squinzie

Have I introduced you to my Italian friends?

Well, there's Anna...

And Gloria (left)

Franci

Cristina

Clara

And Veronica

I knew we were going to become good friends when they started calling me their "American Pussy."

~

In the interest of time, I've left out some of the random fun things that I've been doing over the last couple of weeks with these guys, but now seems like a good time to catch everyone up! Rewind two weeks:

For some reason while I was at work, I spent the entire day battling a really bad stomach ache. Maybe all the gelato I'm eating is making my pants a little tight! But late in the day, one of my coworkers brought in some sweets, and my other coworker mentioned (in front of my manager) that I wasn't allowed to have anything because I wasn't feeling well. Five minutes later I was sent packing! After going home and resting for a bit, taking medicine, and enjoying some hot tea, I  finally felt better. Thank goodness for that because I had plans that evening to go up to the mountain for dinner. Although I had expected to go to a restaurant, I was taken by surprise when we pulled up to a large house set in in a clearing on the mountainside. There were about fifteen people outside, but tables set for more than forty. There was a large fire going, several men taking turns chopping wood, and two huge slabs of some type of meet slow roasting over the embers they pulled out of the fire. Right after I arrived, the truck with the wine pulled in...over fifty liters. Although I opted out of drinking for the sake of my still slightly sensitive stomach, I'm so happy I was able to go. With classical Italian music playing throughout the house, the smell of the burning fire and cooking food, and a cup of wine in the hand of nearly everyone over the age of (my best guess) twelve, it was probably the single most classical "Italian" night I've experienced since getting off the plane in Milan two months ago. What a great night with great friends!

The following weekend, we finally got a break in the weather! I haven't said much about it, because frankly it's depressing, but there were about three weeks of either solid rain, or cold and cloudy weather. Finally, finally, last weekend we got some sunshine! Anna and I went to the beach to get some much needed sun. After we finished goofing off and taking selfies galore, I laid down for a couple of minutes before I heard Anna yell, "Franci!!" I looked up, and there at the end of the dock was Franci, smiling at us from his boat, holding out his arm to help us on. We went out for a few hours, stopped for a while in front of the Villa Balbianello to swim, then went around the only island on the lake, and finally stopped in Lecco before heading back to Bellagio for aperitivo at Lido. 

A few days later Gloria and I meandered over to the Villa Melzi to see some of our friends (including her dad) sing in a concert for the Festival of Bellagio and Lake Como, where the choir arrived via decorated boat and sang a hefty repotoire including their own rendition of "Kumbaya"...

Then, the next day, Cristina and I decided to have dinner together at the Sporting Club. I had risotto with some type of weird and expensive mushroom, and Cristina ordered a pasta that looked like tiny little maggots. It may be no surprise that the better part of the meal came when two guys we know from Bellagio came and sat at the table next to us, and treated us each to a glass of wine. I think Christina drank hers a little too fast though, because she seemed a little confused when our desert arrived. We each ordered creme brûlée, and it came with some fresh fruit and a small dish of chocolate gelato.When she finished her gelato, she picked up the small black dish that it was served in and smelled it. "It's chocolate!" she said. So, we both proceeded to try biting into these little dark plates. Little, dark, plastic plates. 

Me: "Cristina, this is plastic." 

Cristina: "No, no no no. It's chocolate! I'm sure!" 

She figured it out eventually. Over the next few days I would periodically look at her and say, "It's chocolate! I swear!" and we would both break down in fits of laughter. Sometimes hanging out with her makes me feel like I'm in middle school again! She brings out the kid in me. I'm looking forward to her coming to Cleveland in February to spend some time with me!

But the highlight of the week, obviously, was my 21st birthday! Woot woot! Although a little less exciting since I was already legal here, I had a pretty fun day. Here are the details:

I woke up early (ok, so I didn't get off to the best start..) and took the bus to Como where I finally got to go to the market! I left with my pockets a little lighter, but enjoyed a morning of shopping and eating. My arms full of bags filled with clothing and jewelry, I took the 1 o'clock bus back to Bellagio, arriving in time to shower, do my hair, and get ready for aperitivo. We went to a Campari party (a type of liquor I had never even heard of before arriving here, and frankly I'm only now starting to like it...) for pre-dinner drinks, and then to Trattoria San Giacomo, a great local place, for dinner. I enjoyed some delicious ravioli, red wine, and the best chocolate cake I think I've ever had. Afterwards we went to the sporting for a while, then took a trip to the lake to try and escape some of the intense heat that wouldn't go away even long after the sun set. Although out of the eight of us at dinner (everyone pictured above went with me) I was the only one who made it into Lido, I was greeted by all of my American friends as well as many of my coworkers. It was a fun night!

Despite having fun, it really impressed upon me how much I missed home. I finally realized what I have there that I don't have here: the friends and family that make occasions like this truly special. Although it has been wonderful getting to know my Italian squinzie, it would have been really nice to spend this day with my family and friends in Ohio. At least now I know, after this amazing experience, that home isn't always where the heart is, but instead...."home is where your mom is." ...and dad, and dog, and best friends. 

22 days til home. Never in a million years did I think I'd be counting that down with even a hint of excitement. 

Chapter Ten: The "Handprint on my Heart"

Since beginning with the blogs about my travels and work experiences, I have received a lot of positive feedback about writing. The truth is, growing up, I was never a particularly talented writer. It was my brother, the literature major, who was constantly receiving praise for his writing abilities. Although I was always a huge lover of books, I just never seemed to be able to get a grasp on writing. I couldn't seem to find my voice.

The first time I ever received an "A" on a written assignment was my freshman year of college. Many of my friends have often heard me chastise my high school English teachers for being too hard on me, especially because since being in college I have not received anything but A's on written assignments, in any class. I have since learned that the difference in my grades had nothing to do with English teachers in high school being too hard on me. I still had to learn who I was as a writer. This, I think, is the most important thing. 

That first writing assignment was for a class called WRT 100, and the assignment was due within the first month of being at school, only two short months since The Day. Our task: compose a Literacy Narrative. We had to write about a time that reading or writing had affected us in one way or another. Little did I know then that this writing assignment would play a huge role in the literacy narrative of my life. 

Of course, I wrote about Grant. I had felt the urge for the two months prior to write, and that was exactly what the assignment was about. What made it easier was that I could see the accident happen in my mind every day since that morning. 

~

We met in the summer of 2010, after my best friend Nicole introduced us. The three of us spent a fun summer together, and I often look back on some great memories of those warm summer nights spent by a campfire, and a couple of Indians games we attended together. It was those two, Nicole and Grant, that I turned to when I greived over losing my first pet, tragically. We spent many nights together, growing closer as the summer went on. It wasn't long into the start of my senior year, when I became overwhelmed by my workload and my role in Phantom of the Opera, that he and I eventually stopped talking. Looking back, I can see the day that God entered our friendship. It was almost eight months later, on May 30th, 2011. I was driving to my friend Natalie's house on a Monday night. I remember because Natalie and I were getting together to get our weekly dose of Secret Life of the American Teenager (which I am more than slightly ashamed to admit). I drove past Blackbrook Golf Course, where Grant used to go golfing. I thought to myself as I passed how long it had been since we'd talked, and how I missed his goofy smile. 

I arrived at Natalie's house a few minutes later and sat down in front of the tv while Natalie made popcorn. My phone buzzed. I looked down, and couldn't believe my eyes. I handed the phone to Natalie and asked if she could please read the text out loud. She read, "Hey, what's up?" I asked who it was from, and she replied, 

"Grant." 

~

There is a lot that you learn from losing someone as young as I did. I know it can't be the same as losing a family member, or a lifelong friend, or a spouse. But at seventeen, it's a shock. For me, it inspired a rapid change that I am only now starting to recognize. I have known for a long time that I get along better with people who are older than me. I've been told by one of my family members that I understand things at my age that they did not understand until much later in life. Part of that was the the three days following his death. Part of it was going into my first year of college as the only person, seemingly, who understood the consequences of driving intoxicated. Of getting in a car without a seatbelt. One of the more complicated moments in my college life was when I stopped the car and had to ask my friend to get out and walk home if he would not put a seatbelt on. He thought I was kidding until I drove away. The friendship didn't recover, but the lesson was worth teaching. I don't ever want to lose another friend the way I lost Grant. 

~

After hearing from Grant after so much time had passed was a blessing. It led to some wonderful memories. That first conversation actually led to us going to an Indians game together. He loved baseball and my mom got us great tickets - right up front, between home and first. He was like a little kid, absolutely giddy, that day. Just remembering makes me smile!

~

In my Literacy Narrative, I told everything. I described the accident, the morning when I found out. I described what it felt like having to go to my senior piano recital that afternoon and perform in front of all of my family and friends...something for which I had been preparing for nearly three years. The next day was my graduation/birthday party, and then calling hours and a funeral the two days following my eighteenth birthday. People who read my story called me strong, but I wasn't strong then. Life keeps going, and strong doesn't just mean you didn't lock yourself in a room and shut the world out. Sometimes there is no other option than to keep going. But after that, when looking back, that is when strong comes. It comes with difficulties - being an outsider in college when you don't want to drink. Getting called "mom" condescendingly when you tell your friends to buckle their seatbelts. Strong is in the invisible scar I wear everyday. Strong is the woman I have grown to be, from the feeling of life that exploded within me after his death. As strange as it sounds, I never felt truly alive until I understood the fear of death; the fear I gained through that of my friend.

Being young is amazing. The opportunities presented to people while they are young are endless and incredible. But being responsible, a lot of people my age think, contradicts being young. Making smart decisions, making hard decisions, you can do those and be young. Young doesn't have to mean stupid. Sometimes young, and stupid, and irresponsible lead to things that young people refuse to think about. Sometimes young, and stupid, and irresponsible can turn those endless opportunities, like the chance to move to South Carolina to become a professional golfer at 21 years old, into ash.

The day after I turned eighteen I went to a closed casket funeral for a friend who died while driving drunk. 

Looking back, I know where I found my voice. I know where I found courage - and that may have been the most important thing. Moving to Mackinac, coming to Italy...before Grant, I don't think I could have ever done that. At some point, everyone will face a moment where their path is changed forever, for better or for worse. I have been praying, since that day, that during my lifetime I can impact someone's life for the better, in the way that Grant impacted and changed me forever. 

Who would have ever thought that one person or one event could change another's path so drastically as it changed mine. 

~

The morning of Grant's death, my friend Nicole opened her devotional bible. The first line of that day's passage read, "You learn more at a funeral than at a feast." 

I have carried those words with me for three years, and found a lot of truth in them. 

In loving memory of Joel Patrick "Grant" Furr. December 6, 1990 - July 16, 2011.

Chapter Nine: 27 Hours: The Story of Venice

For those of you who don't know, my time here in Italy is happening all thanks to my college, Niagara University. About fifteen years ago, our dean reached out to Luca Leone, the owner of the hotel DuLac, proposing this program where students from Niagara come to the Como area and work for the summer, and then students from the University of Insubria in Como come to Niagara to study in the fall. In exchange for working forty hours a week for ten weeks, we receive a semester worth of class credits. There was a hotel association in Como that decided to sponsor some trips for us while here, in addition to a private donor who gave us $15,000 to be used towards everyone's flights to and from Italy. All in all, for about $200, I got a roundtrip flight, a trip to Florence, and a trip to Venice. As if simply being able to come to Italy wasn't good enough!!

Because we went to Florence the first weekend we were here, we still had Professor Scarcelli, everyone's favorite teacher, to take us on a tour around the city. Because he was gone, the university had to provide someone to accompany us to Venice and make sure no one got lost, or fell in a canal. Our guide, Professor Arianna Grasso, was absolutely wonderful. More on her later...but first...

During my last seven weeks in Italy, I had heard two things about Venice: It is crowded with tourists, and smells awful.

Much to my surprise, I found that during the Fourth of July weekend in the US, Venice proved to be a calm and enjoyable getaway. The only fishy smell we encountered was on an occasional walk across some of the smaller canals. The streets and shops were all quite empty on Saturday and Sunday, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

So, you've all heard the popular saying "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." But, when in Venice, you go on a gondola ride. This was the one thing that everyone was set on doing. We actually found out that Professor Grasso, our guide, although having already visited Venice three times, had never been on a gondola. At an extra cost of about two euros for each of us, we decided to pay for her spot on the boat...partly because we found it hilarious that this native Italian, on her third trip to Venice, was going on her first gondola ride with a group of rowdy Americans.

The gondola itself was a lot more relaxing and photogenic than it was a thrill ride through the narrow canals of Venice. We had a lot of fun listening to the "drivers" for lack of a better word, speak in the Venetian dialect which none of us could understand, and watching them take the tight turns and ducking under the low bridges. When we laughed at the sight of it, our driver said,

"Duck or die."

That evening, after an exhausting and expensive shopping trip, we were ready for dinner. Although the majority of the group, on their first and perhaps only trip to Venice, chose to eat dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, my small group (Jeff, Emily, myself, and prof. Grasso) decided to find a good local restaurant and try some of the dishes native to Venice.

Now, I understood going in what I was getting myself into. Venice is right on the water. It's a fishing village. Dinner would most certainly be fish. But I'm brave and I will try anything.

Professor Grasso told us about this native Venice dish called Sarde in Saor. She explained what it was, but I didn't really listen because I had decided I was going to try it no matter what....the best way I could describe it to you would be this: the largest whole sardines I have ever laid eyes on, covered in sauerkraut. And holy vinegar! I'm still cringing just thinking about it. Luckily. Jeff and I split that as an appetizer, and I still had my entree coming. My entree, however, turned out to be a bunch of fried something's, mixed with fried fish, heads still attached, and plain polenta. After the sardine incident, I did not have a strong stomach for whole, tiny fish, and ate very little. How fortunate I was that there were free refills on bread and plenty of wine.

Probably the best part about dinner was that we were sitting at a table outside facing the canal, and a boat rode by, filled with musicians playing live music all the way down the canal. They weren't begging for money, or overly seeking attention. Honestly they just looked like they were having the time of their lives. We loved it, and, as Emily said, "I want to throw money at them!!"

The next day we had a walking tour guided by a very nice woman who knew a lot about the city and made our two hour hike to St. Marks square interesting and fun. My only complaint was that there were a lot of things that she started telling us about, like the shape of gondolas, that she said she would tell us more about later and never did. We did learn how they built the entire city on the water though! It had something to do with thick clay, wooden boards, and seven layers of really strong rocks. See, I was listening!

St. Marks square was without a doubt the single most crowded place in all of Venice. Very pretty, and very crazy.

We had a few hours left to shop and then it was time to go home. Although by the time we got on the train we had only been in the city for twenty seven hours, it was some of the most fun I've had so far. I probably say that a lot, but the great thing about being here is that every day brings a new adventure that is better than the one before it. How beautiful this life is! 

Anyway, after getting off the train in Milan, prof. Grasso left us, and I found out that everyone who lives in Bellagio was planning on foregoing their free train ticket to Como, and instead buying a ticket to Verenna, and taking a boat to Bellagio. Because it would have cost me more money, and because it meant another hour waiting at the Milan train station, I decided to take the route that was already paid for. The shitty part was that I had to take the hour and ten minute bus ride, fearing for my life the whole time, on my own. While riding into Bellagio, I heard from my Italian friends who were at the beach, San Giovanni, so I got of the bus one stop early and went to meet them. Upon arriving I realized that there was a full blown festival going on with hundreds of people, live music, and food everywhere. Turned out to be an amazing night with great friends. 

Who would have thought that one night without my American friends would have led to these amazing friendships and networks of Italians that I have been getting to know. I can hardly wait to tell you more about my adventures with these italian friends, but that will have to wait, in the interest of time!

That being said, with all of this time I've been spending with the Italians, my language skills have been getting better and better. Today at work I had a twenty minute conversation with the tennis instructor in only Italian. There is no better compliment than when I meet someone knew, and after talking for a while they ask me where I'm from and I say Ohio...their response is always the same. With a very quizzical look, they say "Ma...parli ben italiano!" With a question in their voice, it's easy to tell what they're really asking...why the hell does a girl from Ohio speak (near) fluent Italian?

The answer to that lies here.