Benno's blog

“Italian museums are astounding. They could put on five years’ worth of exhibitions in New York with what Florence’s Uffizi has in the basement. But there’s a downside to this good fortune,” (Severegnini, 87). The down side is getting burnt-out.  Seeing so much that it all begins to blend, become monotonous and drab. Not because the awesome paintings in the Uffizi or the rows of busts in the Academia aren’t special but because you hit, “roba da museo” or museum fodder as the Italian expression translates. When you hit the point of over load, things are taken for granted or as Severegnini says, “You’ve seen the duke and the lady has a familiar look,” (87).
            “Italy has most of the planet’s artistic heritage,” (88).  For the art history pundit, this is a playground. Frescoes are everywhere; we pass by famous statues in public squares everyday. For me however, I think I hit museum fodder around mid semester. I spent a good bit of fall break in Madrid and while I was there spent hours exploring the museums teeming with Picasso and Dalí paintings. They were wonderful and I’m so glad I visited.
Then, the day after fall break my mother began her visit to Florence. Somewhere around the mid point of our Florence touring I found myself dragging my feet.  Not wanting to rush my mom but also not enjoying myself the least bit I found myself waiting at the end of many halls on the large wooden benches. It was simply overwhelming, I had been to these places several times before and I had spent a majority of the past week wandering through the halls of museums in other cities. “If you have too much on the table, you lose your appetite,” (87). My eyes had been much bigger than my stomach. I had no chance of keeping anything down, let alone properly digesting it.
Now that I’m about to return home, I find myself rushing around town during my little breaks after or before class trying to cram in what I have yet to see in Florence. Cramming in last minute museum stops or visiting my favorite markets one last time. When things are in short supply I seem to want them more than when I have all I could ask for and more.
 
Source:
Severgnini, Beppe. La Bella Figura: An Insiders Guide to the Italian Mind. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2007. Print.
 
-Picture of a very blond “David” at the Reina Sofia in Madrid

Being put in a foreign (unfamiliar) setting will always force you to learn the hard way, and do so quickly! Florence was absolutely beautiful and fulfilled all of my hopes to be what I perceived as a picturesque Italian city that supports the ideal Italian lifestyle.
            In Florence, there are three choices for housing. You can live on-campus (although the majority of this space is reserved for freshman), you can live in an off campus apartment or you can live in a home stay. I don’t know enough to speak about living on campus but through my experience and talk with others, I am able to see a clear set of advantages and disadvantages between the other two.
            Living in an apartment has been awesome. I share my apartment with five other guys who are my closest friends here. Also in our building, there are two other apartments of NYU students mixed amongst several Italians. Living off campus gives us a lot of freedom. We can stay out as late as we please at night or leave super early to catch 4am trains without worrying about disturbing anyone. Our doors here are generally open. We frequently drop by each other’s apartments to visit or say hi. Off campus living provides an awesome social setting and great place to meet the people you live with.
Another thing I really appreciate about Via Ghibellina 57 (you cannot choose which off campus residence you have) is its proximity to the center without being directly in the center. We manage to avoid the hoards of tourists and the negative externalities that come with them.
Living in a home stay comes with a whole other set of variables. You take up residence in the home or apartment of a Florentine family. This forces you to integrate culturally and change your lifestyle. It also helps immensely with your language skills. The best part of all this, (and you can consider it a cultural experience too) is that they will cook for you every night!
Mmmm… food in Italy. Just back from a gelato run, I have to say that my favorite in the city is Vestri. It is most famous as a chocolate shop but the chocolate and red pepper gelato is amazing! My favorite dinner spot would have to be Teatro del Sale (here in an earlier post). Over the course of a meal, you will try more than ten of the chef’s imaginative twists on Italian cuisine.
My biggest regret of my study abroad experience is that I did not show up in Italy with any knowledge of Italian. In retrospect, it would be ideal to come to Florence after taking my elementary level Italian courses at home. Then, in Italy I could take the intermediate language classes. A basic knowledge upon arrival would have helped me to converse more and meet more locals. Also I would have learned at a faster pace. Without any Italian, during my first few weeks here, everything sounded like one big, garbled sound. 

-photo from Piazzale Michelangelo

Caro Firenze,
 
Today, I was sitting in the Library of Villa Ulivi on our NYU in Florence campus.  I had a table next to the window that allowed me an amazing view of the olive trees, the valley that is campus, and the Tuscan skyline beyond. It was quiet. The only noise was the background music I listen to in my headphones while studying. All of a sudden, lamenting the vicinity of my return to The States, I was overcome by an intense feeling of sadness. For the past couple of weeks the talk has been about missing home and longing to return. I have certainly been part of this conversation but this experience solidifies my knowledge that I will truly miss this place. The bella vista on its own is enough to make me long to return but it also reminded me of all the experiences I have had and the knowledge I have gained abroad.

I would love to understand this better. I can’t wait to get home. I am anxious to see family, friends and my girlfriend. I’m excited to see the snow. Excited to enjoy food and conversation nightly with my parents and brother. Also, I’m anxious to enjoy the carefree living that comes with the holiday season. I do long for home but simultaneously, I’m super disappointed to leave this experience behind knowing that it is unlikely I will ever have another like it. Stay or go? Whatever I do results in me feeling melancholy and the feeling of despair I’m certain will exist as my plane revs up Saturday morning on the runway in Milan.

This class has pushed me to analyze and understand phenomena like this that occur while traveling. I’ve gained a greater understanding of how and why I interact with my surroundings.           

Study abroad has also provided me with a whole new toolset of practical street-smart type things. When faced with the exchange rate and the option to eat out or cook every night (this is my semester without a meal plan) I became a much better cook. I’m more efficient in the kitchen and the final product is of better quality. I became a better navigator. Florence is the epitome of an ancient European city with a labrynth-like layout. Nothing in this continent is similar to the grid system of New York where the names of two intersecting streets are all you need to find your way. Here, dead reckoning or being within constant sight of a landmark are you best bets.

Beyond this I am sure I have learned a multitude of other things. Many of which will not become apparent until far into the future, when I recount an experience from Italy for application to a current situation. I’ve traveled to discover the unvisited corners of myself.  My experiences abroad are plenty and it will take time for them to fully sink in.
 
Con affetto,
Benno

-photo taken looking towards Vila Ulivi on the NYU in Florence campus

 A quarter till seven Sunday morning, Jerry and I are awoken by the familiar weekday sound of our cell phone alarm clock.  Rising easily, we climb from beneath the heat bubble of our blankets, place our feet on the cold tile floor and begin to prepare for the day. Jerry slips into short nylon running shorts and a skintight singlet designed to reduce both drag and weight. Following a check of the weather on my computer, I suit up, donning everything from long underwear to a thick wool jacket.
            Heading into the kitchen I prepare coffee in the stovetop percolator and a thick, steaming bowl of oatmeal. Meanwhile, Jerry allows himself half a banana and a small glass of water.
            After consuming glass upon glass of water for the past 72 hours, Jerry makes one of his frequent bathroom stops. I lace up my waterproof boots and grab my umbrella.
            A mix of anxiety, worry and happiness that the day has finally come, Jerry simply says, “I’m ready, let’s go,” but the slight smile indicates that more emotion exists. Out the ten-foot, grand wooden front door we go in the direction of Piazzale Michelangelo, the city’s ideal vantage point.
            No passerby would mistake today as an ordinary day. Barriers line many of the streets. The scenery at Piazza Santa Croce is dominated not by the marble façade but by large, bright-blue inflatable arches that create a path directly through the heart of the square.  As we reach the opening through the buildings created by The River Arno we see race trailers lining the street along its banks. Helicopters hover diligently above Piazzale Michelangelo. We are flanked by packs of others headed in the same direction.
            As we climb towards the Piazzale, the rain gains pace, making what is already a chilly morning downright bitter. Jerry seems unaffected as I pull tighter on my hood for warmth. We talk some, poking fun at the miserable weather and the task ahead but Jerry’s focus is unquestionably elsewhere.
            At the top, participants and workers flock in all directions, rushing to make last minute preparations. Following a final check of his shoelaces I wish Jerry good luck and tell him to run fast as he enters the corral and prepares himself for the starting shot. 

-picture of the 15 mile marker on our street

This being my first thanksgiving spent away from home, I had little idea of how to pull off the production of a big thanksgiving meal on my own. My friends and I had many ideas. First we planned to make a traditional thanksgiving dinner then, we realized turkey is hard to come by here. Second, we thought about picking ethnicities out of a hat and having an unusual potluck dinner with lots of variety.
            In the end, many of my roommate’s parents were in town to spend the holiday as a family. My roommate Jerry, our friend Katie and myself decided we to roast a chicken and make green beans and potatoes, other thanksgiving staples. In the spirit of holiday we wanted to decorate. We grabbed a white sheet for a tablecloth and ran across the street to the alimentari for candles.
            Our kitchen, with bleak, off-white cabinets and its plain, long table was transformed. The aromas from our oven permeated throughout our home. The candle flames danced, slowly dripping red wax onto the sleek white tablecloth. As we cut into the chicken both steam and smiles rose. Both the food and the company were perfect and provided reason to celebrate.
            After exhausting both our plates and glasses, we spent the rest of the evening huddled together near the radiator conversing and watching movies. Content with our efforts and happy after an evening of simple pleasures, we went to bed early with full bellies, easily entering an untroubled, tranquil sleep. 

-picture of our kitchen!
 

At a study abroad site, there is no meal plan and in Europe during a semester where the exchange rate has hovered between 1.38 and 1.40 (ouch!) eating out on a regular or even semi-regular basis is not a sustainable choice.  A plate of pasta in Florence costs between €8 and €10 and at most places you won’t see a main course for less than €10. Of course, from here, prices extend toward infinity. At Enoteca Pinchiorri, The Michelin Stared restaurant two blocks down, I could likely spend my life’s savings in an evening.
            The point: I do a lot of cooking and a good amount of grocery shopping. For this, I am very thankful of a place called Coop, an Italian grocery store chain.
The first week of the semester, NYU recommended us a small store named Billa. Billa is convenient; it is down the road from the Duomo, right in the center of the city. Coop, however, is about twice as far as Billa Here is the first comparison I can make between Coop and Italian living. Convenience and time efficiency do not seem to be high priorities for Italians. More, their concern is focused on living slow and enjoyment without the stress of having to rush.
Compared to Billa, coop is a Mecca of selection and high quality. The average Italian seems to posses a much higher level of food knowledge than your average American. They know where to get the best of everything: pesto and white wine in Liguria, balsamic vinegar in Emilia Romagna and Chianti in Tuscany. Not only this, but they are all food critics. An Italian who dines out knows what to order at which restaurant and has high expectations for their meal. Routine failure to meet these expectations means bad things for the restaurant. The coop has all specialty ingredients necessary to make any Italian dish. The staff has an excellent knowledge of culinary skills. A friend and I once asked the shelf-stocker which types of potatoes were best for the oven. He immediately responded that we needed dry potatoes, led us to the correct choice and explained what the other varieties would be good for in case we wanted to know for the future. They’re all foodies!
The final way Coop has enhanced my Italy experience is by becoming an inspiration for me too become a better cook and try making new things. Seeing strange ingredients different that we have at home spikes my curiosity. After a grocery run I frequently come home to frantically search Chow and other sites to find out what I saw and how to prepare it.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, visiting the grocery store of an unfamiliar culture is one of my favorite ways to explore it. Food is a huge part of life anywhere and a part with huge variances from region to region. The grocery store is a fun place to observe and learn something. Coop has been good to my wallet, my stomach and my cooking ability.

-picture taken in front of my local Coop

The last chapter of The Art of Travel serves as a good reminder of the disservice our routines can cause for us if we allow. De Botton discusses how, upon his return home from Barbados, he, “Felt there could be few worse places on earth than the one I had been fated to spend my existence in,” (243). This isn’t because London is a terrible place or somewhere not worth one’s time. This is because to him, Hammersmith London is a place dried out by labor and his unchanging day-to-day routine.
            Journey Around my Bedroom reminds us that even in familiar places, there is no shortage of new experiences to be had. There are two aspects to travel. One is physical: moving to new places, seeing sights or going to do new things. The Second is mental: travel is a mindset of which the foremost characteristic is receptivity. “Carry[ing] with us no rigid ideas about what I interesting. We… admire what [locals] take to be strange small details,” (246). For most people, this state of awe is created by the newness of being in a change in setting. De Botton claims that what we allow to happen far too often is, once we develop settled expectations of a place, we loose our sense of discovery and sense of adventure.
            At home in Connecticut, my girlfriend and I have done a good job of putting off reaching boredom by losing our sense of exploration. We continually add to a list of all the things in and around our town we have yet to see and want to explore. Sometimes they’re really simple things like taking a hike in the nearby state park early in the morning (instead of the afternoon, when we usually go). Sometimes our adventures are more complex, such as an hour northbound drive to Kent to see the beautiful countryside.  What I wonder is how we manage to maintain endearment for our small, rural hometown while some of our friends only offer that it is “boring.”
            Fall break seemed to be a hump here in Florence. Since everyone’s return from the break conversation is more often about the things missed at home and how much we can’t wait to return and less about all the things we still want to experience in Florence and in Italy. The workload is increasing as finals near and semester long projects come to a close. At this point what I must do, is learn to retain the receptivity that puts me in the traveling mindset for the final month of study abroad. 

-picture taken Autumn 2009 in Huntington Park, Redding, CT

 A few times around Florence I have run into advertisements or people handing out flyers for Pub Crawls. They’re often organized by a local hostel or an organization like FlorenceForFun. Well, last night NYU one-upped them with a much sweeter version based on my favorite Italian dessert: A Gelato Crawl.
 
We started on campus at 7:30pm and took the public bus towards the Duomo as a group. Our first stop was Grom. Grom is less traditional than other gelaterias in town. They are known for a menu of somewhat experimental flavors that changes monthly and only includes ingredients that are in season. Grom lies down a conspicuous alleyway just south of the Duomo. The easiest way to find it is by noticing the queue of sweet-toothed Italians waiting eagerly.
 
Gelato makes everyone smile- even lactose-intolerant roommates. The closer our group came to the large glass door the more this became apparent. Within minutes of being handed a cup containing both Persimmon and Nougat ice cream by the employee in her apparent state of aversion for out large group (which hindered not a single grin) was I staring at white cardboard and anxiously awaiting the announcement of our journey’s next leg.
 
On to Festival! This place comes complete with bright neon lights, colorful ceiling tiles and middle-aged women dressed for the ensuing party. My half-sized tongue depressor like spoon quickly catapulted me through another cup of dairy disgrace (500 calories per cup!). In search of sugar, we disembarked our disco ship in search of some more yum-yum.
 
Place number three was closed. No one worried, gelato shops are more frequent in Florence than Starbucks in New York City (or Washington D.C.). Usually getting a group this large— we were eighteen strong— to change direction, make decisions or otherwise be anything slightly resembling efficient is impossible. Not the case here, as Amaan pointed out, “I’ll run but only if it’s towards food.” Great, we all agreed and took off on an improvised stop on our food-coma-inducing crawl. Bring on the fat American stereotypes; we want ice cream!
 
The third place, whose name I can’t recall (I suppose this Gelato tour is affecting me much the same as a pub crawl might) had an awesome sesame flavor. I’m always looking for something new to stick in my mouth (ehhhhhh, flavors of ice cream) so I went for it: awesome decision. Without this place’s name the best I can do is to tell you that if you are ever south of the Arno and find yourself face-to-face with a seedy ice cream whose contents look better suited for the top of a bagel, eat it.
 
Finally, last stop La Carraia, known to be one of the best. I was comfortably full myself, even after skipping dinner, and one poor soul had already committed gastronomic suicide by tossing her half finished cone into a nearby dumpster. Every group has its stragglers but we pushed (maybe we rolled at this point) on. This place is a little out of the way if you are in Florence’s historic center. Otherwise, the longer walk along the river might make you feel better about the sin you are about to commit.
… still looking for takers to join next week’s Tripe Trudge.

- photo of the gelato crawl t-shirts
 
 

Lucy Honeychurch visits Florence, Italy after years of growing up in the English countryside. A Room With a View excellently depicts the clash of cultures that occurs on her visit as Lucy learns what exist beyond the conservative values she grew up with.

She arrives in Florence with Charlotte, her older cousin who acts as her chaperone. Charlotte’s treatment of Lucy immediately reveals the strictness of Lucy upbringing. She is never allowed out alone at any time of day and any sort of social contact with the opposite sex is a no-no, even with the polite young gentleman and his father who succeeded their nice hotel rooms to Lucy (referred to throughout formally as Miss Honeychurch) and Charlotte.

In Florence, Lucy struggles to break away from the coarseness of her upbringing and explore on her own. Her adventures start small but exposure to Italians and their way of life present her with something new that she finds attractive. In Italy, people of different classes mingle in the street, boys and girls visit without the need for an adult chaperone and she witnesses a young Italian couple displaying their love openly as they kiss along a countryside carriage ride.

Her emersion to this new set of values opens her mind. Upon her return to England and her marriage to a very dull and proper man, she longs for the beauty that she saw in the edginess of Italy.

This grit still exists today and is often in contrast with my own culture. In Europe, PDA seems to be acceptable, a little push in the grocery store isn’t atrocious but a kind reminder that you may be blocking the path of others and drivers often exit their cars and raise their voices to settle road-rage disputes. All of this would be marked faux pas in The States.

All cultures exist somewhere along this spectrum of values. Like Lucy, my trip to Florence has transplanted me into a culture whose point along the spectrum lies far from that of my own. Also like Lucy, I’ve have done my best to embrace Italy’s edge. 

 
All art is comprised of real elements.  The colors used in paintings are natural tones. The stone and tools used to create sculpture are made of materials taken from the ground. It is when these natural elements are manipulated that they become art and are transformed into something that may not exist in nature or at least, not in the form in which, through the artist’s mind and imagination, they are presented. This last step, the artist’s manipulation, is where something may be conveyed to the observer.
 
As De Botton explains, “The most effective way in which our sense of what to look for in a scene can be enriched through visual art,” (p. 187).  This is explained with Van Gogh’s paintings of French landscapes as example. These paintings are described as eye opening in the sense that they highlight certain elements of the terrain that might otherwise be overlooked or observed with less gravity. De Botton attributes his attention to the colors of Provence to Van Gogh’s work where he contrasts primary colors.
 
In Florence, art has been eye-opening in ways other than the way described by Botton. Rather than highlighting certain aspects of an already present landscape, changing the, “Hard wiring in our psyches,” The art and architecture has added elegance to the other simple, less magnificent things which they surround (p. 186).
 
The gardens behind Santa Croce contain a few potted flower plants, slender Cyprus trees and an expanse of green grass. They’re very simple but when surrounded by the beautiful marble and tile of the church, become grand.  Not only is the art of the church itself beautiful, but also it adds beauty and draws attention to that which it surrounds. A walk through the courtyard conjures a feeling of magnificence. The trees that are usually pretty on their own become regal alongside the other magnificent structures that make up the church. The simple potted rose plants, beautiful by themselves, become even more impressive in front of this backdrop.
 
Similarly, the Arno seems beautiful even though it is clearly not. The muddy Arno is constantly polluted by raw sewage from Florence and the surrounding towns.  Yet, the columns and arches that make up its surroundings allow us to ignore the facts and see the river as beautiful.
 
Art is a powerful force. It can lure us to destinations, alter our perceptions of its contents and surroundings or draw our interest to things to which we wouldn’t have otherwise noticed. This power becomes even more important when travelling. Art acts as a conduit through which travelers ingest their surroundings at a quicker pace and in different ways than they would in its absence

-picture taken inside the gardens of Santa Croce
 
 

After spending a couple months in Europe, my daily observations along with some knowledge of current events have led me to see a major difference in the work ethic and labor habits of Europeans as compared to those that exist at home in the states.

Since the beginning of the semester and my arrival in Italy the French government and its president, Nicolas Sarkozy, have been attempting to pass a bill that will raise the legal minimum retirement age by two years in France. The Government says the change is necessary to help reform the welfare state it one of many European countries with a poor old age dependency ratio (ratio of retirees who depend on welfare to the number of people in the workforce providing this welfare).

The French populous’ response to the change has been negative. Workers of all types have been striking and are expected to continue doing so until either the government retreats or the bill is passed.

The change is part of necessary reform to the welfare state in France. The current system cannot be sustained considering the current and future demographic strains of the country. A two-year change seems to be only a small step but has prompted a big reaction.

The French, however, are only joining in on what seems to be a big fad in Europe. Last month, the Spanish government made moves to pass legislation regarding labor and tax reform in an attempt to reduce its huge debt and budget deficit resulting in a huelga general, or general strike. Across the board, union workers protested the reform. On September 29th the country was commercially shut down.

In the U.S. there is no minimum legal retirement age. Workers begin to collect their social security savings at 65 but the age of retirement remains a personal decision made by an employee and an employer. Also in the U.S., an across the board general strike is unheard of. Never would workers from all industries agree to be docked a full days pay.

On a smaller scale, I see differences day to day. Three out of four class days, my first class begins at noon. This means that I leave my apartment around eleven or shortly before to begin my trek to school. What shocks me is that I am far from the only one starting my day at this lazy hour. Any given day, there is no shortage of suited business people heading to work toting briefcases.

This work ethic is also exemplified by retail shops, many of which are only opening or have opened within the past hour as I head to school.  Each morning the man at the leather store near the bus stop is only putting out his displays as I wait. In the afternoon, many shops close for an hour or two so the employees can simultaneously take a lunch break. A friend and I once waited two and half hours outside a Vodafone shop bearing no sign to advertise its hours waiting for the ladies who work there to return from lunch.

To me, this is sharply contrasted by my job at a bagel shop. Employees had to arrive at ungodly hours to begin preparation for the day, breaks were always scattered so as to avoid being short handed at any time and over the course of my 3 years there, I saw a gradual three hour lengthening of the store’s daily hours.

Differences in labor practices illustrate lifestyle differences between the U.S. and Europe. The attitude and work ethic here seems much more relaxed. Personal life takes precedent. Several European countries limit the work week to 35 hours specifically to allow workers more personal time to relax. Economic indicators like GDP and budget deficits might not encourage European style work ethic but people must manage to make it work because life here does go on. If the Europeans are happy, maybe they have it figured out while we, high-strung, work-centered Americans climbing out of bed before sunrise each morning, are left in the dark.

-Image of a gas station in France. Fuel supply runs low at gas stations and airports around the country. France's 12 oil refineries are shut down because of striking employees.
           
Source:
“Plenty in the Tank.” The Economist 18 Oct. 2010.
 

I wake to the sound of my roommates Wind ringtone as his alarm rings from his phone, reminding him of his 9:00am class. The next noise I become conscious of is the frequent buzzing of motorini (mopeds) as they whip by directly underneath our windows. I unlatch the glass pane to gain access to the wooden shudders. Swinging them open, I see the red tile roof of the apartment opposite ours and beyond that, blue sky. The streets are so narrow that the only view I am offered beyond this is seen by sticking my head out the window to look down the street.
 
Nights are cool in October and without the shudders in to block its way, the cold breeze rushes in. It’s pleasant. It helps to remove me from my fog and makes the room feel instantly fresh.
 
I walk across the entryway to the kitchen where I find the percolator in the cabinet. I unscrew the two pieces and fill the device with both water and Pellini Top coffee. Shortly after being placed on the stove, while I am pouring a bowl of Weetabix cereal, I hear coffee beginning to steam up and fill the room with aroma.
 
I don’t have class until noon. Usually, I fill my morning with homework or reading as I drink my coffee. If not, this provides the perfect time to head to the market to purchase groceries.  Only a few blocks away, the uneven cobblestone streets are calm in the morning until, I round the corner exposing the market. Swamped with customers filling the narrow isles between clothing and vegetable stands all peace is lost as I enter the covered area where vendors set up.  
 
I speak up to get a vegetable vendor’s attention and point to the bell peppers I would like. He smiles, places them in a bag and rings me up hurriedly, already on his way to the next customer. Just like in the supermarket, people gently push each other out of the way. Here, it isn’t considered rude, just necessary to get where you need to be.
 
On the walk home I’m careful of my footing on the cracked and uneven roads. Via Ghibellina, my street, still lies where it has since before the 13th century. I ponder what it must have looked like and what kind of vehicles (certainly not the bright orange electric buses of today) travelled its length. I open the ancient wooden door to my apartment and step over the high, marble threshold into the hallway marked by an arch bearing the Medici cross. An hour until class, I have just enough time to grab my books and head for the bus.

-picture of the market in the evening after vendors have packed up and the doors have been locked.