6. Books (1)

A Room with a View truly encapsulates the true beauty of Florence. Forster's novel focuses on a British traveling group within a certainly less civilized Italian culture, and end up traveling with people like the Emersons, who are far more liberal than they are. I found it quite hilarious when the Brits are so horridly offended by what they think are the uncivilized Italians, who, for example, show a bit of public affection in the front seat of their car to Fiesole. The protagonist, Lucy, however, wants to stay in the room overlooking the Arno (a room with a view) enjoys playing Beethoven and Mozart (the key to her emotions), and she figures that the Italians in the front seat are the only ones actually having a good time on the trip, while the Brits sit in the back, scoffing at the incredulity of the situation. She has a love for beauty and people as well as a longing for love, while her companions want to stick to their British customs and not adapt to the Italian way of life. In some ways I have certainly remained in my American ways, such as the occasional trip to a Subway or taking my coffee to go (just because I'm in a rush, okay?!), but in many ways I have adapted to the Italian way of life. There are definitely times where I notice myself strolling along the streets slowly, admiring the beauty of the Italian spring rather than getting my New York walk on. At one point in the novel, Miss Lavish and Lucy are wandering around Florence, and Miss Lavish says, “Lost! Lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How these horrid Conservatives would jeer at us! What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what I call an adventure!” (21). This passage actually made me laugh out loud imagining myself and my friends saying that in the many times we have gotten turned around in Florence.

Lucy is also enamored with the beauty of Florence, wanting her room to have a view of the Arno, which I can definitely understand. My apartment, as I have said before, is up six flights of stairs, but the view from my room never ceases to amaze me. The view I have attached is the one from my living room. When I am doing my homework or eating dinner at the table, the Duomo comforts me and also reminds me of the intensely beautiful city I live in. Lucy longs for beauty in her life, and she finds it in the form of her room with a view and the romance that blossoms with George Emerson, which comes about through disowning her previous suppressive British lifestyle, and becoming more appreciative of the beauty in life.  

In the travelogue In Patagonia, Bruce Chatwin – an English writer and traveler that died in 1989 – drifts through the vast, windswept region of southern Argentina. His journey to Patagonia fulfills a lifelong dream that began at a tender age. In fact, the book starts with the moment when his desire to visit Patagonia first took hold of him. He describes a large wooden cabinet in his grandmother’s home that contained a variety of curious objects from all over the globe. He sees a leathery piece of skin inside, and finds out that it supposedly came from a brontosaurus in Patagonia. The way in which he represents Patagonia as a mysterious, almost magical, place is what makes his description stand out. Chatwin has the admirable ability to turn words into visceral experience, and this continues throughout the book.
 
However, this book focuses on Patagonia, and only a few of his short chapters are dedicated to Buenos Aires in particular, though they are small gems. His first sentence frames the city perfectly: “The history of Buenos Aires is written in its telephone directory” (4). This may seem insignificant, but Buenos Aires is a city essentially created and brought to life by all of the different immigrants that made new homes for themselves here. I knew this before reading the book, but his descriptions of these immigrants have helped me pay closer attention to the people that inhabit this city as well as their personal histories and how they contribute to this social dynamic.
 
These few vibrant descriptions of Argentina’s capital give way to Chatwin’s intriguing explanations and histories of the southern region, which seems to slightly puzzle him throughout his stay (18). Chatwin often focuses on the tense relationship between nature and the different people, mostly farmers, which inhabit Patagonia. He uses this technique to personify the alien, constantly shifting landscape that is as much a character as its gruff inhabitants. This representation of Patagonia is completely necessary to the reader’s understanding of Patagonia as a place and a concept; to travel to the region, one is forced to be truly to travel in it. The vast distances and small towns make the journey just as important to the experience as the various destinations.
 
By placing such importance on the landscape of the region and always describing its inhabitants in connection to it, the reader comes to better understand the pride that Argentines have for their country and their stubbornness to exist successfully within it. Chatwin’s book has not only expanded my understanding of the collective Argentine psyche in this way, but also made me want to travel through the region myself in order to really comprehend the significance that his words carry. Indeed, this book has made me so curious that I am going to travel through it during spring break, hoping to experience a little of what Chatwin did along the way.

Before coming here, when I looked over the booklist for Buenos Aires I couldn’t wait for my experience to begin. Kiss and Tango, In Patagonia, The Ministry of Special Cases, The History of Tango—wow! I was going to be learning about a whole different History, Culture, and Language.

The first book I went for was clearly Kiss and Tango by Marina Palmer. What more could a girl want? I must say, it wasn’t the most brilliant writing, however I found it so easy to relate to as the main character was an American girl from Manhattan who decided to leave her life there and live in Buenos Aires. I started reading the book only after I had arrived here and I as I read about her first expressions of the city I couldn’t help but smile in agreement with many things she said.  She talks about the friendly people on the streets when asking directions, her experience visiting Plaza de Mayo (the presidential square) for the first time, seeing the banners of the “Mothers of the Disappeared”, the surprise she had at the large café culture here, her experience at her first tango class, and the beautiful Argentine men. I knew exactly what she was talking about. On the other hand for me she left many other things out, what about the strange mix of architecture, what about the smog, what about the dog poo, the fashion, the food, the cat calls?

However more than anything else, this book concentrates on the Tango and the character’s experience in that world. For me this was especially interesting  because within the context of my class “Tango and Mass Culture”  it spoke a lot to the way tango exists and is represented in the modern world inside and outside Argentina. I am now learning about the beginning stages of the Tango and how it started in the very low class neighborhoods of Buenos Aires as well as in prostitution houses more than 100 years ago. In fact it wasn’t until the higher classes of Paris had begun dancing the Tango that it was accepted by the high class of Argentina. It is thus interesting for me to see where the tango has evolved to and how she represents the modern world of Tango here in Buenos Aires. Her world seems to be comprised of mostly upper middle class people, but I wonder if in reality it is still a dance of the people. It is really interesting to think about how this dance has evolved in popular culture over the years. The picture above is of  an African-Argentine couple dancing what they called "el tango" that appeared in an Argentine magazine in 1882. These Africans mixed with european immigrants had improvised this dance which eventually developed into the modern tango.

I attached a link to a scene from an american movie that I love with Antonio Banderas in which they dance Tango if anyone would like to check it out.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBp243Ub5wA

The first time I ever read any of Maya Angelou’s work was in 6th grade communication arts. Had I known then what I know now I might have appreciated it more. Angelou is a little deep for such an adolescent developing age. As I went back and read the fifth book in her autobiographical series I was able to relate to her beautiful words and understand them through my own personal journey here in Ghana. All God’s Children Need Travelling Shoes is about Angelou’s own time in Ghana and her every day struggles and accomplishments as she goes back to her African roots and begins learning about who she is. This was a book that not only fit in with what I am experiencing personally, but with my classes, trips, and every day interactions as well. The names of her friends, such as Kojo and Kwesi, sparked familiarity as they are common names that I sometimes hear every day, one thing I’ve noticed about Ghana is the repetition of names is incredibly common. This might be in part to their cultural naming system by what day of the week you were born. I was born on Friday so my Ghanaian name is Amma.

I have to admit the main reason why I chose the book was due to the familiarity I have with the author. Who doesn’t know of Maya Angelou? In the end I found that my familiarity may have started with only her name, but by the end of my read I felt that Angelou and I connected on a much deeper level, though her beautiful imagery and metaphors might have instigated that as well. A strong theme represented through Angelou’s work is the search for identity. I have seen this cultivated not only through me and my Native American ancestry, but through many of my peers on this trip as well. The tears that were shed as we entered Elmina Slave Castle and the fighting feeling of figuring out, “where did I come from?” is something that I feel everyone on this trip thinks about, no matter what race we are. On a more personal level I see the similarities of Native American customs and African customs everywhere I look. From something as simple as the stray dogs, goats, and chickens that roam the streets to the beautiful drumming and dancing, I did not realize the parallels my own culture shares with one that used to seem so distant. I think back to the few weeks I used to spend on the reservation every summer. My parents would ship my brother and me off and I would cry the entire time knowing that it wasn’t a place I wanted to spend my time. Angelou describes her personal journey of self-identity in a way that I was able to relate to. I think back to the days when I didn’t appreciate the rich cultural customs I was able to experience and how my own experiences in Ghana have led me back on the path to learning more about my heritage and appreciating the fact that I come from a special place, that we all do.
 
       

A Diamond in the Desert by Jo Tatchell was exactly what I wanted to get out of a book about Abu Dhabi.  It touched on all of the relevant issues: development, Islam, culture, money, women, migration, and more, and did so by combining anecdotes that juxtaposed the past with the present, as well as historicizing the changes that took place.  Tatchell grew up in Abu Dhabi as a British expat, and the book is about her journey back to “see what changed.”  She meets with old friends and gets a feel for the city’s vibrancy while reflecting on her memories of what once was.  Most poignantly, reading the text furthered my realization of Abu Dhabi’s complexities, and the role I play in it. 
 
Living in a city that is so focused on the future makes it easy to forget that a past ever existed. We all know that Abu Dhabi has changed insanely fast, that it was nothing only 50 years ago, but it was nice to be taken through the process from somebody who has had her foot in both eras.  It also gave a depth to the city beyond oil and skyscrapers, the book forced me to analyze all that is around me, the workers in my buildings, the expensive cars, the huge hotels, and the call to prayer five times a day.  Her stories gave me access to parts of the city and lives here that I will never know, but their presence in the atmosphere is surely part of my experience.
 
Of course, what the book most gave me a glimpse of was the wealthy expat community.  Yea, I work with some, am taught by others, and dine next to them too, but being a student in Abu Dhabi is a weird middle ground that only partially entitles me to the expat lifestyle.  I enjoyed her citing familiar restaurants, locations, and clubs, but it reminded me that it isn’t the life that I am living here.  We have a dorm, a dining hall, and a big majority of my social interactions are at NYU-AD. 
 
We live in a bubble, but it isn’t necessarily one that I want to pop.  Abu Dhabi allows for many cultures to take root and be formed here.  Of course there is the Emiratis, the expats, the migrants, the tourists, and they all grow and develop very quickly.  Now more than ever, I see that in addition to those Abu Dhabi experiences, there is also us, the students.  NYU-AD together with the couple other foreign universities here makes us number less than 1,000, but nevertheless we are carving our own lifestyle into the framework of this fascinating city, and it is letting us.
 
Realizing this makes me less upset about how hard it is to access certain parts of Abu Dhabi life, because I see that my abroad experience is not only about cultural exchange, but also cultural formation.

When it came to the choice of books on the Accra list, I read a few reviews and mostly went with my gut.  And while I didn’t enjoy the first book I tried, I moved on to the next in hope that I would find something relevant to my own experiences in Ghana.  What I found in The Village of Waiting was a narrative of another country, another experience entirely, but somehow the author put on paper many of the questions I had here in my isolated NYU Accra bubble, far away from village life in Togo.
NYU Accra is about as far from an assimilation into Ghanaian culture as you can manage in a program.  Behind thick barbed wire and electric fence topped wall, we live in compounds set back from the road, in self sufficient little communities with their own muliple internet networks on battery packs and generators that run constantly.  When Ghana faces rolling backouts, we have a flicker of power and then again stability, and when the worst happens, we go without running water for an evening, maybe without internet another evenng.  A Belgian student living with host parents came to visit and has begun referring to our dorm as “the palace’.  He comes to stay when he needs a dose of the obruni life.
I knew this the moment I stepped through the doorway of our dorm, that without a tie to the real world of Ghana, we would be in limbo.  Too American to assimilate, but so obviously in Ghana, in Africa, far from familiar people and places.  In reading George Packer’s story of transformation to a stranger to struggling aid worker and out the other side was to gain a glimpse into what the world around might be like if we had been able to experience it in a more organic, integrated way.
This is not to say that this integration is the easier or even better way.  To live alone as a stranger to a culture with only strangers to guide you can be lonely and terrifying.    And one is not given privileged view into a culture simply because of where you live but also because your attitudes about joining.  Packer’s unsentimental portrait of taking in Togo and being taken in by Togo is honest in a way I have felt in sorely lacking in the way many people fashion “Africa” and “Africans” in their mind.  A country of real people with complex problems concerns every bit as dear as anyone in the United States; not only a canvas on which we can project our hopes, fears and criticisms.  In truth, I have felt my semester, and its dialogues, is far more about American thoughts, ideas and conflicts that anything involving Ghana.  It is interesting to consider the post-colonial context of an aid worker through his own eyes, seeing honestly his position of “irrelevance, impotence and contradiction.” (xiii)


Photo credit goes to a friend, Mia, who took this photo of me on one of our NYU trips.

Berlin hits me as a city resonating with all the parts of life that sting the most: regret, loneliness, artistic recklessness, dark histories, love, hope, and indecisiveness. As I continue to explore, paying more attention as it gets warmer to the more memorialized pieces the city provides, I realize that this whole city is a reluctant museum. Here, a bomb went off in World War II and still nothing stands, there, a tower for holding Jewish families before shipment, and right below my feet the two rows of bricks that mark the path of the Berlin wall after, in a fury to forget and banish, the residents and city workers tore it down. The more I learn about the city through my classes, especially my historical walking tour course, my adventures, and now Brian Ladd's Ghosts of Berlin, the more I recognize that each parcel of land and building, as well as most native people's, are asserting themselves within Berlin's history-making.

This may sound fluffy and generalized, but something many outlanders may not recognize, and what took me a couple weeks and some dreary-eyed pages of Ladd's book to figure out, is that almost every historical building, every memorial, and every remnant of the past that has stood or still remains has had it continued existence here contested. Who does it appeal to? Offend? Should Berlin, and Germans, project an image of sorrow and remorse or brave hope and national pride? Monuments like the Neue Wache continue to change with each shift of power, of which there have been many in the last century, and with it the people- or at least their representatives- choose a new representation for themselves (223). It is really fascinating to me how Berliners are constantly updating, destroying, or rebuilding their history. One trite analogy (please, fellow lovers of literacy, don't shoot me for this) is that Berlin is much like a German Facebook: remove some of those silly photos, add some from your childhood, and you know that everyone knows you killed like 30 million Russians so you can't really delete that post without some hate mail.

Two of my favorite examples from this Berlin phenomenon is the Berlin wall and the Nikolai Quarter. In 1979 the Soviet rulers of East Berlin decided it would be a real morale-boost to be able to showcase a bit of Germany's destroyed history, so they reconstructed, with some tourist-y leniency, a historical center for Berlin (45). So just to be clear, the historical landmarks of Berlin are around 30 years old. On a similar vein, and I won't make fun of them this time, when the East and West unified in 1989, people were so elated that they quickly sought to destroy and remove the ultimate symbol of this new past- the wall. Fascinatingly, the wall was both a symbol of division but also of German solidarity. The wall was their plight, their post-war burden, and somewhat of a convenient border for Eastern and Western (read: capitalist) traits. In their fervent rush to destroy the wall, many ignored the ideas for memorialization, commemoration, and remembrance that preservation of some of it would provide. It is because of this that the bricks/stones were placed where the wall stood, and that some remnants have been moved to convenient locations for viewing, or even rebuilt in the '90s (15-39).

I get really excited about all of this, and the layers of meaning in a virtually uncountable number of things and places in this city overwhelm me when I sit and think about it. The history from Ladd's book and my walking tours are giving me another reason to think this city is beautiful despite its aesthetic shortcomings. I feel a mixture of confusion, sadness, excitement and solidarity with Berliners when I look at the state of their history and development. We all regret, feel hope, want to remember and at the same time long to forget! While my shared feelings are not due to the nation's involvement in almost a century of bloodshed, it's a liminal mind-space I can at least somewhat empathize with.
 

Ladd, Brian. Ghosts of Berlin. The University of Chicago Press. London. 1997.

The image, although obtained on google, is of a place we visited where original pieces of the wall have been put up near the original site, and the site of a recreated Soviet watch-tower, so that people may visit them. By the time I visited, there was more graffiti on them.

All of the courses offered at NYU in Buenos Aires are very site specific; I plan on receiving a minor in Latin American studies because everything I’m studying here is relevant.  And it’s so interesting to be learning about South American history, culture and politics in the context of location, of my physically being here.  I feel that as a foreigner, it is the only way to truly learn it all, by experiencing it despite my estadounidense view.  And with my classes and my encounters so far, I feel like I’ve learned so, so much.  And on the 7th of March, I will have only been here for a month (it doesn’t seem so).
 
“i am thus in each of these ways
spanish french indian who knows
warrior farmer merchant poet perhaps
rich poor of all classes and of none
and well i’m an argentine” (xi)
 
The above poem, entitled “Argentine to Death” written by César Fernández Moreno in 1963, expresses and delicately summarizes Argentine sentiment and reality for its entire history, a social and cultural image that prevails today.  It is a beautiful and simple illustration of what it is to be Argentine, a concept of confusion to both exteriors and interiors.  It can be found on the inside cover of the book The Argentina Reader: History, Culture, Politics edited by Gabriela Nouzeilles and Graciela Montaldo.
 
The Argentina Reader is a compilation of different essays, poems, paintings, song lyrics, photographs, articles and other forms of text (both written and visual) presented in chronological order and grouped according to important themes in history.  It is extensive in the amount of authors and figures’ views it provides, all together working to challenge the “schizophrenic view” (6) that the international public has for Argentina, and that Argentina perhaps has for itself.  This book will continue to be useful as a supplement for my studies here, as well as a book that can be read for pleasure, for it includes Borges, Cortázar, and so many more brilliant and renown Argentine authors.
 
I feel so much more aware of different facets of Argentine life that were only rumored to me before and upon my arrival.  Psychoanalysis is more than just a fad here, politics will forever be affected by the era of Perón and the subsequent military regime of the Dirty War, people are proud of their European descent in the city considered the “Paris of South America,” etc.  It is all evident in their everyday lives, and all embedded in their past.  And Argentines are proud to be Argentines.  Even if it is hard to say just exactly what it is to be Argentine.  In one essay within the book entitled “Argentina as Latin American Avant-Garde” by Nicaraguan poet Ruben Darío, we are given an outside view of the nation at the start of the twentieth century: a glorified and hopeful outlook.  Darío never explicitly labels Argentina as avant-garde as the title does, but it is evident that Argentina was the epicenter of all things experimental, mixed together, new and leading the way in art (especially literature), society, politics, and more.  The country is a mix of “all the qualities and defects of the conquistadors, together with a collection of new ingredients” (206), all that is traditional alongside all that is non-traditional, the avant-garde.
 
A foreigner’s view can so easily be blurred.  A foreigner’s view of Argentina via Buenos Aires is especially blurred.  Somehow “the postcolonial mirror is cracked” (3) and thus the capital city and the more prosperous eastern provinces hold the most population and wealth, while everywhere else is “backward and chronically poor” (4), an idea that started with the revolutionary leader Sarmiento during the rise to independence at the start of the nineteenth century.  So this “cultural and economic schism” (4) that cracks the mirror makes the reflection of the whole nation impossible to see genuinely.  Yet somehow the cracks make the image as genuine as it can be, because all the shattered pieces add together to make someone “spanish french indian” or all of the above, “of all classes and of none” and thus, with this eccentric mix and awareness of its presence, can be what one may call “an argentine” (xi).
 
(The photo above is one I took of the most famous bookstore in Argentina, called El Ateneo Grand Splendid that used to be a theater but was transformed into a beautiful and unique librería.  My camera had trouble focusing when attempting to take this shot, perhaps a sort of metaphor for my perspective of not only knowing, but also understanding Argentina.  And perhaps the best way to manually focus the camera is to delve into the writings that were in my vicinity of those that came before and struggled in finding yet reveled in having a unique national identity.)

Nouzeilles, Gabriela, and Graciela R. Montaldo, eds. The Argentina Reader: History, Culture, Politics. Durham: Duke UP, 2002. Print.

I am realizing, with some dismay, the extent of my true ignorance of the emotional trauma Germany had experienced. The realization of the history of Berlin has grown to be something that has brought much awe and humility into my day to day life in Berlin. It is as if my tour guides and academic advisors, all residents of this city for all their lives, have this collective past that they accept as common and is nonchalant topics of conversation. It is the same kind of discomfort that I feel when someone talks about suicide flippantly.  "This is your academic center!" they would say. "It was, at one point, a beer brewery, with a basement that extends two football fields long. Oh and by the way, Russian soldiers found the Nazis having an orgy in the basement and massacred  all of them. It is sealed off now, but there are rumors there are still bodies there." . The other day the resident counselor posed a thought: many of the people you see on the street on a daily basis had parents who were Nazis. Adding to this common German experience, there is the reminder that Checkpoint Charlie divided the city in the heat of the Cold War, scarring Berlin down its center. Pain is a universal language, and it is hard to know the true extent of my disconnection to the trials and problems these people must have experienced. It inspires a sort of reverence for each story Berlin's residents harbors as their own. Though they are happy, fun loving, friendly people bustling on with their lives, I have growing respect for the citizens of Berlin, as they must be haunted by their own ghosts from the past. 

In attempting to create a place of my own in my new city, it has been a virtual maelstrom of new experiences and feelings concerning my new place and, indeed, my place making skills. On top of this growing empathy for the traumatic nature of Berlin's past, I am also discovering an internal dialogue of my own. We students in Berlin are given each our own studio apartments. This is wonderful, do not get me wrong. However, it has given me the opportunity to be aware of the internal dialogue and ghosts that I bring of my own accord to my new space. It is interesting to note that the static of New York, of roommates, and of significant others, have diluted and masked my subtle internal workings that I only recently have become privvy to in living on my own. For example, I am afraid of the dark. I have problems avoiding the gigantic tubs of Nutella that happen to be in every grocery store and Spatkaufen in Berlin and make arguments with myself as to why I should or should not make a trip simply to get a jar of it. If I am alone for too long I start to become very anxious for no reason. And in the same token, I think way, way too much about my own history and how I fit into the broad picture, to the point were focusing on the present is hard to come by. It seems trivial, and it is, from a third-party perspective, as I have regarded Germany from for so long. But it is very important to understand these things about oneself, about maturing as an individual. And though these things do not, on the superficial level, have to do with ghosts, they have been haunting me, just as much as the history of Berlin haunts each citizen. And as much as each of us is attempting to look to the future, the introduction of modernity, of ourselves as "modern" beings in the literal sense, is a constant struggle to move past the internal dialogue that plagues us. 

In "The New Berlin: Memory, Politics, Place", Till mentions the policies and practices of "place making". She goes on to discuss "how particular places of memory narrate national pasts and futures through the spaces and times of a city that is itself a place of social memory" (17). Berlin is a place, similar now to my little studio apartment on Bulowstrasse, "haunted with landscapes that simultaneously embody presences and absences, voids and ruins, intentional forgetting and painful remembering", and in understanding that both on a large scale initiative and on personal discovery, the same truths are self evident (17). The truth in Berlin, as I have experienced thus far, is not in that one wallows in the pain of the past or the stress of the future, but in the sense that the act of place making synthesizes the whole of the picture. It lies in the acceptance of both the past and the future, and creates a concrete plan in the present, the ever important present, to create the place one or many reside in. 

In the words of Neal A Maxwell: "How merciful when our yesterdays no longer hold our tomorrows hostage". I am finding more and more that this is important to understand that the ghosts that plague me are holding me back from experiencing the things I need to at this time, while I am abroad. In a way, I have to learn from my academic advisors and tour guides in accepting the painful histories of the past, and simply keep moving forward. Their flippancy concerning the brutal acts against humanity is not because they do not care about it. On the contrary. It indicates a certain kind of healing, which is beautiful. I hope to follow their example, and learn the same wisdom during my time here.

I was so excited when I saw that we got to choose two books to read for this class because there are SO MANY books that I have always wanted to read but have never gotten around to it.   This book, A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke, is one that I have passed so many times in my bookstore wanderings and have always wondered about but never exactly had an occasion to buy it.  It’s got a lovely yellow cover with a little cartoon version of a map of France with a face, wearing a beret.  It looks a little stupid and it really doesn’t give you much insight into what the book could be about.  Nevertheless, I decided to dive into the stupid cover to find out how the main character’s (Paul) year in the merde compared to my four months in it.

The book is written from the perspective of a British man coming to live and work in Paris for a year.  He knows very little French and encounters many issues with being unable to understand the French people’s English accents (that leads to some funny orthographical moments such as “Yam bare narr, yam responsa bull ov communika syon” which is supposed to say “I am Bernard.  I am responsible of communication” but this is completely lost on poor Paul who can in no way understand the French speaking English) (13).  That has been one of my favorite things about being here though.  This inability to understand accents goes both ways here.  I have to make sure that I French-itize my name as I am introducing myself because if I just say Je m’appelle “Audrey” as all the Americans pronounce, I will often get a blank stare from my new French acquaintance.  However, when I then hesitantly pronounce my name “Oh-Dray” it is met with an “Ooooh! Oh-Dray!” and the rest of the handshake which had awkwardly lingered as the name confusion occurred. 
  
The book was mainly a bunch of French stereotypes played out in funny situations.  I imagine I might have been offended by it if I were actually French (which, alas, I am not).  It was fun to read it while I was in transit on the Paris métro and to sometimes discover some of the things he talked about in the book.   For example, he talks about how the French put paper fish on each other’s backs for April Fool’s Day (this is apparently their only trick though – Paul found it to be stupid and couldn’t believe how much the French enjoyed it!).  The same day that I read that, I saw a poster (it was actually in Brussels not France but they speak French there so this counts!) that had a picture of a little boy with a paper fish on his back!  It was an exciting moment to know that I understood a sort of random cultural reference.  (Well I had never heard of it).  Now I can’t wait to see this tradition actually occur next month! 

Alright, well I’m going to get a head start on cutting out my arsenal of “poisson d’avril.”  À Bientot!

The short story Aromatherapy, Italian Style in Italy, a Love Story: Women Write about the Italian Experience by Camille Cusumano represented my first impression of Florence. To the character Holly, Florence was "The city of David, the Ponte Vecchio, and the Duomo. I went looking for many things: the warmth of sun on my skin; the quiet dazzle of fading frescoes in crumbling churches; the cool strength of white marble; and the heat of steaming pasta, for which I relaxed my strict no carb rule” (Page 2). This interpretation is true, though I believe there is a lot more here. She came there to experience Tuscany (Chianti), while I am here to study the Italian language and culture. While our intentions were different, she and I shared the shock of Italian Aromatherapy. The smells in Florence are very pungent and different that what we are used to in America. The book accurately describes it as "clouds of exhaust; whiffs of urine wafting from hidden corner; the perfume of ripe cheeses poring out of shop doors" (3). While this could be a problem for some travelers, it is therapeutic for the cancer survivor Holly. 

I have noticed that throughout my stay, each individual smell can teach you something about Italian’s culture.  My first day in Florence, I was greeted by Marcos smoking a cigarette on the balcony. “Ciao!” He ran down the stairs, and proceeded to carry both bags with the cigarette in his mouth. The house was large enough that the smell didn’t bother me, however it was always around. The smell of stale cigarettes was everywhere I went in Florence. After getting used to it, I learned that smoking is a lot more common in Italy than in the US. There is no “designated smoking area.” Old men like Marcos have been smoking their whole lives. Holly experienced this when she “walked into the dark fog of cigar smoke emanating from the man sitting innocently behind the counter” (4).

This beautiful city comes with lots of body odor, trucks that emptiy septic tanks and car exhaust. Oh there are times that I need to hold my breath for minutes to get through the streets. However I have learned that deodorant is considered unnatural, older buildings do not have updated plumbing systems and that the smelly cars are only around my neighborhood and the outskirts of Florence, because the city center only allows electric cars and motorcycles. The Italian culture doesn’t follow the modern trends of other countries. For example, a new court house was built in Florence and there were protests against the architectural style because it didn't blend with the rest of the city. Yet they are really proud of their creations, and appreciate nature.

I notice every smell and become curious toward new odors. From differentiating wine to types of bread, there is always something to learn. After reading the stories from Italy, a Love Story: Women Write about the Italian Experience, I have developed new sensory perceptions of Italy including an appreciation of  its unique scents and sights.

Work Sited
Cusumano, Camille. Italy, a Love Story: Women Write about the Italian Experience. Emeryville, Cal.: Seal, 2005. Print.

“The Ministry of Special Cases” by Nathan Englander was a historical fiction novel about a Jewish family whose son was taken by the government during the Dirty War in the 1970s. The Jewish community shuns the Poznans because Kaddish, the father, was an hijo de puta and he vandalizes graves professionally to erase the pasts of other people’s shameful heritages. 
 
The book painted a really sad picture of Buenos Aires in its bleakest hour when the government was corrupt and detached from its citizens. Though technically the government here has been a democracy since the end of the war in 1983, the political culture of the citizenry here still projects the aura of depression from being under a military dictatorship. Last fall was their presidential election and people’s responses when asked about their support for the political parties, the overriding apathy and mistrust for politicians was the overwhelming reaction. Argentines see all politicians as the same distrustful people just with different names and faces.
 
It was really interesting to see how the people in the book felt towards the government during this truly awful time because they were jaded and wary already. The Poznans became divided after their son had been missing for some time, Lillian, the wife, trying to work within the government institutions to retrieve him and Kaddish giving up hope and feeling truly that he was dead. Though the end left the reader with an ambiguous answer, I felt the tone went from playful at the start to bleak by the end and I believe the son to be dead.
 
I’ve read a fair amount of Jewish historical fiction, my favorites being “Everything is Illuminated” by Jonathan Safran Foer and “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay” by Michael Chabon. Both of these books were about World War II, either tracing a family’s ancestries or their experiences during. I find this niche-genre interesting because there are definitely enough books written with Judaism intrinsic to the tone that it constitutes a sub-genre but I think people often don’t associate these books together. To read a piece of Jew-lit here did not really give me a deeper understanding to my Judaism in relation to my time here in Buenos Aires because the Poznans were outsiders from the Jewish community.
 
The description of the Recoleta cemetery was the part of the book I was able to associate strongest with my experience in Buenos Aires because I’ve been there a few times and it is a truly memorable place. Kaddish goes in to vandalize one of the mausoleums. The description of the cemetery having been there really enhanced the scene for me (the picture I included is an aerial view of the cemetery, a city within a city of sorts). The book also brought out my dislike for the bureaucracy of government agencies within Buenos Aires, which isn’t necessarily a feeling I like to remember. I did draw a deeper understanding of what everyday life was like during the Dirty War. 

As I boarded the plane, I immediately noticed that the Italian flight attendants seemed to be different. I was greeted with a smile that was friendly, but told me who was in charge. The flight attendants in the states were simple, polite, and attentive. However, it was obvious that, “the Italian flight attendant sometimes takes her job title literally—the plane flies, she just attends” (7)[1]. After settling into my seat, I put on my headphones and dozed off. I was exhausted. Two hours later I was awaken by what sounded like a mother, profusely apologizing for her daughter’s accident. In America, the annoyed flight attendant would have cleaned up the mess, while attempting to hide her disgust. I expected the same reaction from Guiliana, the Italian flight attendant, but was surprised that instead, what emerged was her, “inner mom, sister, confidante, friend, and lover. She [took] off her jacket and actually help[ed]” (8)[2]. She was ready to lend a hand, with a genuine smile on her face. I was amazed. Are all Italians this nice? I certainly hoped so and could not wait to find out.

The plane finally landed and I was ready for my adventure-filled semester to begin! I grabbed my bags and after waiting in line for what seemed like forever, I hopped into a cab. Overcome with exhaustion, I lay my head against the window hoping the ride would be quick. I was relieved that I would have a few moments to myself after the long flight. I was used to quietly sitting in the backseat, waiting for traffic to pass. In New York, it was rare for the driver to even acknowledge my existence. However, this ride was different. The driver began asking me questions in broken English, paying close attention to each of my answers: “Where you from? How old you are? English? Boyfriend?”  At first, I was shocked. Was this taxi driver actually trying to get to know me? Sure, he was being nosy, but I guess that meant that he was “thinking about [me]” (14)[3]. I had not even been in Florence for twenty-four hours and was amazed at how friendly the people were.

For the remainder of the ride, the cab driver continued to ask me questions about myself. Of course, he also attempted to teach me a few words in Italian. He explained that pronunciation and tone of voice is crucial. I also quickly realized that emotions are extremely important. When he spoke, he sounded excited and his words were filled with passion. It was as if everyone in Italy was excited to speak and share his or her ideas.
After being in Florence for a month, I realized that although Italian culture appears to be so different from America, we are all similar. No matter where we are from, “these spoken exchanges are the same ones that echo in a New York hotel or a street market in London” (5)[4]. Ultimately, Beppe Severgnini’s “La Bella Figura: A Field Guide Into the Italian Mind” explains this.