Ecco La Fine

I’m writing this from Malpensa airport, watching the last of the sun rise as I wait for my plane to board. It always makes me sad that airports are so uniform; I wish my last moments in Milan could be a bit more visually stimulating.

Leaving Milan, I can’t help but remember my last day in Florence. I had my last pizza at Il Pizzaiuolo, our favorite pizza spot, and had my last gelato (da tre euro, invece di uno e sessanta) at Vivoli. My departing flight from Florence was very early in the morning, so I chose not to sleep and instead spent my last night roaming the city with my friends, stealing one last glance at the Duomo and the Piazza Signoria before heading home, teary eyed, to pack.

I frequented some of my favorite spots yesterday as well, but not with the same gusto as I did in Florence. Of course, I haven’t had enough time nor the social life to establish regular spots. Instead I headed to my favorite bakery to grab some olive bread for the flight home, and sat outside, reading and people watching, taking in my last bit of la vita milanese. At night, I grabbed a last aperitivo with le ragazze di Smith, and then meandered home down Via Pagano. I can’t help but realize that seasonally, it’s the worst time to leave. After a perpetually grey winter, the spring in Milan is in full bloom. The city is alive and bustling. I milanesi are back out for the evening passeggiata. And walking home, surrounded by greenery and palazzi, I decided that Milano is definitely a beautiful city.

Both in Florence and Milan, I filled my last day with the experience that best represented my life in each place. But there’s definitely a difference in how I feel. I didn’t return to Florence during these three months, and it wasn’t because I didn’t have the opportunity. I love Florence, but it will forever be defined by my year abroad. I don’t know how I’d feel going back to Il Pizzaiuolo and Vivoli without my friends, or even walking down Via Ghibellina and approaching Piazza Santa Croce without the intention of meeting my friends on the steps of the chiesa. But I could return to Milan, and definitely will in the future. I like that my experience was mine, and mine alone. It was lonely and difficult at times, but absolutely worthwhile. And everything I learned, I learned because I discovered it myself. How often will I get to do that?

So now I am Brooklyn bound, where the other half of my heart awaits. I leave a bit of myself behind each time I leave Italy, and that’s why I have to keep coming back. The same is true for New York. It’s difficult to manage a dichotomy so defined by distance, but I’m hoping to ease the process by maintaining this blog (spoiler alert: it will probably be dominated by pictures of food). Summer awaits, as does the rest of life, and hopefully other adventures. I refuse to say Addio, which in Italian is “farewell”, and has a more permanent resonance. So I’ll settle for the classic ciao ciao! – and definitely ci vediamo.

my students!

Aren't they adorable?

accenti

amsterdam

eating panini at a flower garden

Marcella: "If these flowers could talk, they would say 'che casino di persone!'"

bffs



obligatory, corny picture among the tulips













buying tulipani









the beautiful Chiara Richichi

dam.

Again, a hiatus, but this time I have an excuse. I finally (read: another cancelled flight and much mental debate) made it to Amsterdam and have been wandering the city with Chiara and her Mom, Marcella, who I haven't seen in four years (oh my god how the time flies) and who is responsible for much of my obsession/dedication to the Italian stile di vita.

In other news? I come home in THREE DAYS. How do I feel, you ask? Conflicted, as usual. I'm ready to see my family, my cats, my Brooklyn (that's right, all mine), and my friends. As fulfilling as my time in Milan has been, it has been a bit lonely. I knew before I got here that it wouldn't be as enriching as the adventure I experienced in Firenze, nor as comfortable as my summers with the Richichi family in the paradiso that is Reggio Calabria in the summer. And, as it turns out, three months was an awkward amount of time. I'm just starting to feel at terms with my life here in Milan, and starting to feel comfortable enough to break out of my shell a bit. It was enough time to get some experience teaching, but not nearly enough time to live. But who knows how I would have felt after six months? It's a question I will always ask myself - do I leave having exhausted the experience, or do I abandon my experience prematurely? There is no correct answer, and as I have come to understand, the only way to decide is to keep challenging yourself. That's just the way the cookie crumbles - or in my case, the biscotto.

a normal day in Milan

The large picture of George Clooney that greets me at the entrance to my gym (random...)

beautiful wisteria that I pass on my way to the metropolitana

some thoughts on dialetti

During my first summer in Reggio Calabria, I suffered from my first bout of culture shock. I had been warned that it would happen, but when it finally hit me, it was not what I expected. I had imagined stunned silences, double-takes, and teary breakdowns fueled by frustration. Instead, I could never get over the feeling of being unsettled.
I even felt unsettled in my linguistic capabilities. At that point I had studied Italian for three years. I was the Italian language poster child at LaGuardia high school and beyond that, I was passionate and confident. So when I arrived in Reggio and realized I could not understand a word that my youngest host brother, Gabriele, said to me, I was shocked. I listened carefully. I would ask him to repeat. And still - nothing. It wasn't until Chiara yelled at him, "Per favore, parla in italiano!" ("Please, speak in Italian!"), that it hit me: he was speaking in dialetto calabrese.
Italy has more than thirty distinct dialects, each pertaining to a region or village. They are not just variations on Italian, nor are they exaggerated slang: they are completely different languages. As more and more of the younger generation moves away for college and leaves the home at an earlier age, the oral tradition of dialects is slowing wearing away. However, it is still a strong aspect of Italian identity. It represents how different each region is; depending on which European power conquered which city-state between the 11th and 19th century, the dialects can derive from different languages completely (there are composites of Spanish in Neopolitan dialect, and reflections of Portuguese and Arabic in Sicilian). Most importantly, it symbolizes the importance of the paese - a word that means both "town" and "country" in Italian, accurately portraying both the singularity and the collectivity of this nation's pride.
Allora, my Italian students are extremely interested in dialects in the USA. I know that dialects exist, but I don't know them well. How would I, when the country is so big, and I've traveled more outside the US than I have within? I attempt to explain this to my students, but my flaky descriptions of regional slang and unsatisfactory impersonations of different accents have left them hungry for more.
And so, I have decided to teach my last lesson on Ebonics. I'm starting with a brief historical background, followed by a selection from the song "Ebonics" by Big L, and then on to a more mainstream pop song, preferably one that they know and love (I'm thinking "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z, the Italians go crazy for it). This is the closest I can get to drawing a parallel on this topic between Italy and the USA, and hopefully they'll find it interesting. At least I'll go out with a bang.

cursed.

This weekend made it official: I am cursed.
It all started in China. My east-bound adventure last June was - well, let's just say it was eventful. Two car crashes, a down-to-the-bone finger wound and a stomach virus later, Vicki and I start to wonder why we were having such bad luck.
It turns out, it was me. And the bad luck has followed me to Italy.
Exhibit A: Friends come and visit from Paris. Return flight to Paris is canceled; friends wind up in Zurich.
Exhibit B: Nick's flight to visit me in Milan - canceled.
Exhibit C: Mom comes to visit me in Milan - British Air goes on strike; flight canceled.
and finally, Exhibit D: I plan a trip to visit Chiara in Amsterdam this weekend - volcano erupts in Iceland, shuts down all European airports - trip is canceled.
So, blogosphere - any hints on lifting curses?

scenes from around (london) town

That's right, Italy. Eggs. For breakfast. And they were delicious.

different ways of making coffee; pretty bowls



plums!

the best latte ever at Monmouth

stopping at a pub during our drive through the countryside





Afternoon tea at the V&A cafe

springtime snow

the best crumble, and the best rhubarb.

Baking adventure part two in the new London kitchen: Rhubarb Crumble, adapted from this Martha Stewart recipe.


The crumbles



Ingredients for crumble: light brown sugar, flour, butter, sugar and cardamom.

rhubarb

color coding



everything together

baked to perfection

gardens and cemeteries