rajhanagelli's blog

Il Trip Per Tre. It’s a pub. It’s my natural Florentine habitat. I go alone. I wear black. I drink. I get stares. I go home.
 
They know me there now. A bartender recognized me on the street once. When I arrive Beppe the owner says hello and finds me a chair if it’s crowded.  They don’t know my name, but they know what I drink (cuba libre, almost every time).
 
Il Trip was the closest thing I could find to a metal bar. I really miss the scene in Madrid. Here they play rock, mostly older stuff, and sometimes metal. The walls are covered with rock n roll paraphernalia, and the regulars range from average people to bikers to goths (there’s one guy who legitimately looks like Marilyn Manson, make up and all). People sometimes take pity on me (or just want to hit on me), and they talk to me. I’ve actually spent time outside of the pub with some of the people I’ve met (details on one man to come in the ‘describe a person’ blog entry), but mostly I sit alone and keep to myself. It’s relaxing, relieving even, to not have to speak, just listening to music and having a drink in a good atmosphere. And, the best part—it’s not full of Americans. Sometimes there are a couple others, but usually it’s just me. It’s nice to be isolated.
 
Il Trip is a good place for me, a place where I can chill with my kind, the kind that likes to rock. I always need music, and sometimes I need people in dark clothes listening to music. It’s satisfying. It’s homey.
 
The only picture I have of Il Trip Per Tre is of the bathroom. Don’t ask me why I took a picture of the bathroom--I was drunk. Don’t ask me why the bathroom is decorated like the bedroom of an infant boy, either—it’s Italy.

I spent my Thanksgiving weekend in denial.
 
(Let’s rewind.)
 
I am not a high functioning student. I avoid my work and I procrastinate and sometimes I simply don’t get things done. I give up midway on difficult readings, my paper deadlines pass me by, and I rarely study for anything. On occasion I’m just too tired or afraid to attend my classes. Some teachers think I’m a delinquent, others worry about my wasted potential (I used to be the smart girl, ha.).
 
The problem, in large part, is my anxiety. Once I realize the extent of the work I have to do, once I realize it’s more than I want to do, I freeze. I can’t function, I can’t move. I hide from my responsibilities, and when I think about them I break down. I do anything but the homework I was worried about in the first place.
 
(Fast forward to Thanksgiving.)
 
I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me what I should have known: I have anxiety issues. So he started me on a Xanax regimen. I began the day after Thanksgiving (as I spent the rest of my Thanksgiving day with a debilitating migraine). But hours after my first dose I could already feel the pain of the stress melting away. I was fine. I was numb to the worry. I had not regained any semblance of motivation or concentration, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t anxious. So I enjoyed my weekend, I lived it stress-free for once, without those overpowering thoughts of the future or my impending failure.
 
The work is building up, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

Alone, it seemed almost pointless to leave the house, but maybe it was okay because the house would have been lonelier and emptier. There are always people looking at her, she can’t tell if they’re dirty looks or interested looks or lusting looks (she hopes it’s not this, she’s done with these men and that disgusting carnal attention). She’d leave the cover of the awning, but it’s pouring and there’s nothing back at the house, there never is any consolation there, is there. So she’s standing, leaning on the wall, looking up at rain. Dark and rain. Don’t you like it when it’s night and there are lights shining up at the rain, so it’s bright white and yellow rain, not just the dark.
 
But she’s just staring and not expecting, lips parted, arms limp at the sides. It’s cold and there’s thunder and she’s not adventurous enough to leave yet, but she supposes standing and waiting won’t stop the rain. While she’s empty and thinking only flitting thoughts, her isolation is interrupted. He says something, but she can’t understand him, it’s too fast (piano, piano!). She must look alarmed and he knows something’s not right. She tells him where she comes from and he understands. But he’s nice, well, he seems nice, and his attention is okay.
 
He tells her about himself, how he’s “dark,” which means only wearing black, and she thinks he looks a little silly, but she likes silly, even if she’s a little embarrassed to be in his company. He tells her about his little sister and what she wrote on his hand, he tells her about his pet that died, and he tells her what he thinks about rain. It’s like cleansing. It’s true. The rain makes her calm and renewed and the previous upset she felt is washing away.
 
They have a hard time understanding each other, neither speaks the other’s language very well, there are so many obstacles in the conversation. But it’s okay, they’re okay together, they have an understanding and they’re both (seemingly) nice people. She’s never kissed a man before with so much metal in his face, but she likes it, and it continues to pour and the rain cleanses all and she’s not alone.

Whenever I mention to someone that I live in Florence, I get excited responses about how wonderful and beautiful the city is. I have only once before been to Florence, a long time ago, and I don’t remember the trip very well. Upon my more recent arrival, I was expecting to be awed by the gorgeousness of the city. But day after day of living in Florence, whenever my friends back home pronounced their jealousy for my living here, it dawned on me that Florence isn’t really that pretty.
 
Now. Don’t get too upset here. Of course Florence is famous for its monuments and art galleries and all this. I walk past the Duomo every day, and it never ceases to amaze me. But overall the buildings of Florence are monochromatic, it seems like I rarely see trees until I get to campus, and Florence is simply not the gem that I was expecting. Even so my view of Florence is not currently so dismal. When I had my moment of realization that the city was not so stunning, I had not truly begun exploring. I had not started my hunt.
 
I started noticing small details. On the way to the Palazzo Pitti there’s a poster plastered to the wall of a running clown. Later, above it, a poster of a man wearing a strange hat appeared above it. On my route to school there’s a T-shaped traffic sign with Jesus hanging from it, as though from a cross. In the alleyway next to my apartment, on the outer wall of a restaurant, is a grand stenciled portrait. Now that I’ve experienced the city, I immediately recognize any works by Mimi the Clown, A.S.V.P., CLET, or Hogre. And I’ve realized I’m not satisfied with only seeing a few. I need to find all of them. I map out sites where I’ve heard there’s great graffiti and street art, and I go to great lengths to find them. I scour the city, and take in every detail of my surroundings in case I miss some graffito treasure. Several times I’ve seriously considered trying to visit every street in Florence, just to find some amazing works.
 
And I’ve found things, I’ve found so many beautiful things. The Centro Populare Autogestito is covered in amazing work. The underside of the Ponte Varlungo is dedicated to enormous and detailed pieces worthy of museums. Whenever I’m walking to a new destination, I constantly wander off onto side streets because I notice some bright spray painted color. And in this hunt for this wonderful street art, I’ve discovered other pretty things—landscapes, architecture, streets—things I would never have found if I hadn’t gone hunting.
 
The picture I’m posting is the one I mentioned before, the alleyway Hogre. I had been stalking this work for a long time. I needed the perfect photograph, but there were always heavy tables from the restaurant in the way. I took so many pictures, each only slightly better than the last, until one day, finally, the tables were gone. The precious Hogre was unobstructed. It was mine. And here it is for you.

Wednesday! A good day—the best school day. It directly follows my arch nemesis, Tuesday, and leads to a long, but decent Thursday. Usually on a Wednesday I get up at 10 or 11:30. I get dressed and navigate my labyrinthine apartment to find something for breakfast. When I leave the apartment I grab some bags of trash (even though I live with twelve other girls, most of them don’t seem to have any domestic sensibilities…they never clean their dishes or take out the trash, it’s a delight) and descend the stairs. These stairs deserve some mention. I live on the sixth floor of a sixth floor walk up (that’s the seventh floor to you Americans), meaning twelve flights up or down. Up is awful.
 
So down the stairs I go and into a sea of tourists. I walk through the Piazza della Repubblica (the center of Florence, and the home to a bright and shiny carousel) and circumnavigate the Duomo. I continue up the street, passing the Piazza San Marco, where saner NYU students opt to take the bus directly to campus. I, however, am too cool for the bus, so I keep walking. Eventually I get to the twin arches and giant traffic circle of Piazza della Libertà, then the quaint Ponte Rosso. Then! It’s the worst part of the journey. Via Bolognese. This street is a winding, uphill nightmare, and at number 106 sits the NYU campus. And when I get to Villa Natalia, after a total of forty-five minutes walking, there is one final task: cross the valley of death. Newcomers to NYU in Florence are constantly cautioned that injuries are highly possible on the trek from the campus entrance to the classroom building.
 
By the time I get to my Italian class, I’m most likely out of breath. Italian’s an okay class where I’m inevitably bored, but I get to show off my grammar skills. One day, even though the class is called Advanced Review, I’d like to get past the reviewing.
 
Now if it’s a particularly good Wednesday, this means I get to spend my time after class in a shed. This shed, dubbed the “music cottage,” has a piano in it and is therefore the best shed ever. Playing the piano is one of the most gratifying and wonderful things I do. I love it.
 
At last I walk home and up those godforsaken stairs. I make myself dinner, watch some TV, and wait for my boyfriend to wake up in his time zone so we can talk online. Then, because I’m going to be a renaissance master one day, I whip out my silverpoint and copy a drawing for my morning class on Thursday. Finally I shower and retire to my bed.
 
And thus is Wednesday.

(Note: All of the photographs I post--past, present, and future--are taken by me. This one is the view outside my living room window.)

In America I’ve always been the one who’s interested in everything multicultural. I grew up on Japanese cartoons, I read French literature in French, and my favorite music comes in a variety of Slavic languages. When I was younger, I always longed to go abroad. Trips around the U.S. were okay, but going to another country? Much more exciting. In a different country, there’s a whole new culture. Why do you think I’m a foreign language major today?
 
And yet I’ve never felt more American than when studying abroad. Not just American, but super duper obnoxious, stereotypical American. I try not to be the über tourist. I don’t wander aimlessly, looking amazed at everything I see. I pretend to know where I’m going at all times, hating the moments when I have to pull out a map. There have been times when I wanted to photograph monuments or particularly interesting graffiti, but have been too embarrassed, for fear of looking like a tourist.
 
But it all comes out in the end. I am that drunken American. I am loud and aggressive and I down liquor like it’s my job. I somehow forget all of that Italian or Spanish I was learning in class the day before, and any hopes of a foreigner understanding me are severely hampered. And God knows why, but I’m not really ashamed by my behavior. I find it amusing. It’s okay that I’m absolutely ridiculous and an embarrassment to my country, I don’t mind. I think in these moments I’m actually proud of being an American, albeit another statistic in one of those articles about “le americane ubriache.”
 
I have never loved America more than when I’m living abroad. As Beppe Severgnini says in La Bella Figura, “[Y]ou leave Italy to feel more Italian.” Severgnini explains that when abroad, Italians feel a certain national pride. They flock together and essentially express their Italianness to all that they meet. In the same regard, I have left America, and I feel pretty damn American. I’ve acquired a drunken American pride, and I can’t even drink in the States. It’s okay, I’ll be twenty-one when I get back, and I’ll celebrate my newfound love of my native country.
 
I miss you, America.

This entry is not about Florence. It’s about Madrid. Why? I’ve done hardly anything in Florence. On the other hand, Madrid was a madhouse of bizarre events. This is the story of one day of my life there (cue Law and Order music).
 
July 10, 2010. At about noon my most excellent friend and metal buddy, Ani, and I took the metro to Getafe, a suburb of Madrid. Never try to navigate Getafe with Google Maps. After about three points on my list of directions, Google Maps directed us into a field. Which in turn led to a power plant and the highway. After another train, a bus, and a walk into the middle of nowhere we arrived at our destination: an all-day metal festival, headliner Rammstein.
 
It was a little surreal. Between songs Alice in Chains congratulated Spain on how well they were doing in the World Cup and wished them luck for the upcoming championship game. In English. Since Spaniards aren’t really known for their English skills, Ani and I were the only ones in the crowd to cheer for the Spanish team. When Megadeth came on (people shouting “Mehadet!”, the phonetic pronunciation in Spanish), we located probably what were the only other two Americans at this concert. They were working for the Spanish government and wondered why we would ever choose to study in such a godforsaken place. I wonder this too, sometimes.
 
And Rammstein? One of the best fucking concerts I’ve ever seen in my life. I highly recommend seeing them, even if you have to go to Getafe. Ani and I took the complimentary shuttle bus back to Madrid and then a taxi to Argüelles, the neighborhood home to one of my favorite bars in the world, Lemmy Rock Bar.
 
This is the night I met Alejandro (this sounds like the opener to a cheesy Latin romance…). Ani and I were sitting at one end of the bar when some guy comes up to us. His name is Gabri, and he points over to where his friend is sitting. “This is my friend Alejandro, you like him?” he asks me. He drags Álex over. “He’s handsome, right? You like him. Dance with him.” This is a weird and very common phenomenon in Spain. The Spanish wingman basically pimps his friend to the girl. He demands to know whether or not you like him, even though you’ve never even spoken one word to him in your life. This is not really an opportunity to get to know the guy, it’s an awkward set-up.
 
Unfortunately (or fortunately) this was all cut short—Alejandro and Gabri had to take the last bus to their homes out of the city. Instead of hanging out with them, Ani and I ended up running into some fellow NYU students, some madrileños I had met before, and some new ones with whom Ani made new friends (including one who learned English by playing World of Warcraft…he spoke the best English of any Spaniard I met).
 
Ani and I were chilling outside in the courtyard when one madrileño decided to make obscene gestures at me. I, not being particularly sober, starting yelling all sorts of vulgarities at him in English and Spanish, which the people standing around him thought to be hilarious. One guy, Alfonso, was really excited that I was American. I told him I lived in New York, and he asked, “On Broadway??” Humoring him, I told him yes. He ran up to me, asking for kisses. I assumed this meant what I call ‘friend kisses,’ one on each cheek. So yes, we kissed on each cheek, then he grabbed me, kissed me on the mouth, and ran away giggling.
 
At about six in the morning, when the trains started running again, Ani and I left to our respective apartments. What a night. I told you Madrid was a madhouse.

I am hiding in Florence.
 
I don’t talk to people—neither Italians nor NYU students. I don’t have any real friends yet—the only person I’ve actually hung out with more than once is twenty-seven years my senior and has told me that I’m very exciting (in Italian this means sexually exciting…I don’t know if this friendship is going to work out). At home, when I’m not sleeping, I stay in a study room where no one else works. I go on long walks and to bars alone.
 
People don’t remember me. I was talking to a guy who was in my Italian class for two weeks this semester, but then transferred out. During the conversation he asked me what Italian class I was in. He didn’t remember that we had shared a class. He said, “Oh, well, I guess you’re quiet.”
 
I’m making myself sound like a sociopath here. I mean…I am, a little. But like Botton I’m also just falling into a certain loneliness, the sort you can lose yourself in when in a foreign place. It’s almost peaceful, being ignored and invisible.
 
But Florence isn’t really the ideal place for this kind of hiding. I feel a bit like Waldo here. Even though you might not see me at first, I’m still wearing a bright red and white striped shirt and a matching hat. I’m pretty obvious.
 
One: Half of the people here aren’t Italian. Florence is full of tourists. Everywhere. I live in the middle of the historical city center; it’s swarming with Americans and Germans and Japanese. It’s hard to hide when everyone suspects you of being an intruder. I look pretty Irish. I don’t speak Italian very well. I don’t belong. They know.
 
Two: It’s also rather difficult to conceal myself when everyone in this country stares. Not just a quick flit of the eyes, but like…full on staring. Looking you up and down and with their mouths hanging open (seriously, I’ve seen this quite a few times). I encountered this in Spain, too. There are no qualms here about flat-out gawking at a person. I was sick for a while and constantly had to blow my nose. There is no privacy on the streets of Florence—you’d think Florentines had never seen someone blowing his or her nose before. They are astonished, amazed, curious, disgusted. Why can’t I be invisible when I am at my least attractive?
 
Anyhow. I might stop hiding soon. I think I’m being found out.
 
So much for that peace. 

I met Blanca from Barcelona at JFK Airport. She had asked a staff member how to get to gate B29, but he spoke too quickly for her, and she couldn’t understand. She recognized me from the Swiss Air queue and followed me to our mutual gate. We talked for a while, and I mentioned that I had studied Spanish in Madrid over the summer, and of course she was excited by this news: “Say something in Spanish!”
 
Okay, first off, don’t you hate that? You say, “Oh, I studied German in high school,” and your acquaintance says, “Tell me something in German, then!” You try to be a good performing monkey, but what on earth are you supposed to say? You supposed s/he won’t know what you’re saying anyway, or if in fact you’ve completely botched it, so you respond in your best German accent: “Du bist einfach häßlich.” It doesn’t matter that you just insulted him/her, at least you said something.
 
But it’s even more mortifying when the language is your acquaintance’s native tongue, and you know you’re going to butcher it. So Blanca asks me to say something in Spanish, and I say, “Somos al aeropuerto!” Oh fuck, I think. “I mean, estamos al aeropuerto.” She at least looks vaguely mollified by my response, possibly covering disappointment rather than expressing true pleasure. At least I tried. I guess.
 
Part of the problem is that learning a language in the classroom is nothing like interacting with the actual people who speak it. At lessons I’m usually fairly eloquent, with a wonderful accent, moderate fluency… But as soon as I’m actually talking to a real, flesh and blood native, I speak haltingly, with a ridiculous Midwest accent. The other part of the problem, a personal problem of mine, is that I am painfully shy and awkward.
 
I mean, I can make do most of the time, but not necessarily comfortably. And sometimes, with the language barrier, it’s not as terrible. People mistake my shyness as a lack of language skills. But, for example, in Spain, unless a madrileño approached me first, I had to get pretty shitfaced to be courageous enough to speak with him/her. One night my NYU buddy Nolan and I drunkenly sat on a street corner and yelled “Hola!” at passersby until a group of people came and talked to us. I’m not saying these inebriated interviews are fruitless—I am Facebook friends with on Kike I met that night. This weekend in Florence I walked by myself to a biker bar (it was the closest I’ve found here so far to a metal bar), and I had to hide around the corner and wait a bit before I could grow the balls to just walk in. As I downed one rum and Coke after another, the forty-seven year old man sitting next to me began a conversation. I realize this sounds like the beginning of an abduction-abroad story, but it was fine. Andrea is a chill guy; I might see him play bass in one of his bands sometime.
 
It’s embarrassingly unfair, though, that Blanca can have a completely sober conversation with me and be only mildly upset when she doesn’t know the English word for ‘calcetinas’ (someone must have stolen them, they went missing from her carry-on), when I don’t even know the sociably acceptable way to carry on an extended (sober) conversation with a stranger in English, much less Spanish. A language major and I can barely communicate!

It displeases me to bore others, so I’ll try to skip a lot of hemming and hawing and general illusions of self-importance, and instead give you, my lovely reader, some fanciful an sparkly insights into my life and time abroad. Maybe I’ve already done myself in with that first sentence, but I aim to make this blog a magical experience for the both of us.
 
My name is Liza! I’m twenty-years-old, and I’m originally from Ohio (no, that does not mean my family home is in a corn field). I like: puppies, princesses, heavy metal, Maaza brand mango juice, run-on sentences, parentheses, and rambling on and on and on!
 
This semester I’m a third-year Gallatin student, but I still haven’t written my IAPC. Until now I was too busy worrying about potentially failing a class and maybe not being allowed to study abroad and about romantic drama (oh, PS, I’m a girl, so things like this are important to me).
 
Anyhow, I aim to title my concentration ‘Foreign Language and Culture.’ Over the years I’ve studied some French, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and Japanese. And of course, what you care about, fair audience: this semester I’m studying abroad in Florence, Italy. This summer I also spent six weeks studying in Madrid, Spain (prepare to hear a bit about it; it’s my favorite subject other than, perhaps, Rammstein). I was also accepted to attend a month-long Bulgarian language and culture seminar in Veliko-Turnovo in between the NYU programs, but I didn’t have the money. I have a fetish for Balkan and Slavic folk music, you see. One the plus side of my rejection, I got to come back stateside and see my wonderful, poodly boyfriend. He’s delightful, and he has a huge nose. He’s the best.
 
I’m not sure what to think about living in Florence yet. I wouldn’t say I’m excited. I know I ought to be, but I’m not. I don’t have a special attraction to Italy like I do to some other countries. Some countries are just special for you, you know? I’m actually only taking Italian because I dropped out of my last Japanese class due to scheduling issues. Plus I just got out of a love-hate relationship with Spain. It’s a beautiful country, but I don’t think I can take any more ham-ophiles with mullets. Finally, I am leaving that beautiful boyfriend I mentioned for an entire three and a half months. It was bad enough when I had to go to Spain for six weeks, but now I have to leave him again for this monster of a vacation. Er, excuse me, study abroad. Because this shit is serious. Or something like that.
 
But I digress. The NYU in Florence program offers the most appealing classes to me (and food—food here is crazy good). So I decided to take it easy this semester. I’m in Florence, for god’s sake, why stress myself out? I'm taking Advanced Review of Modern Italian, History of Italian Fashion, Introduction to Painting, and Renaissance Apprenticeship. And, of course, The Art of Travel. I’m taking this course because it’s a good way to satisfy those pesky, unfulfilled K-credits that are looming ahead of me, and also because taking an extra class will help me graduate a semester early. I actually have another blog, a more whimsical one that I think no one reads and which I rarely update, at poodlesinyarmulkes.tumblr.com . I think if someone does read it, s/he must think I’m bipolar. Which I’m not.

…the end.