Journal

I can’t keep a diary to save my life.

I think it may have something to do with the fact that if I am happy, I like to share the happiness with others, and if I am not, I try to ignore the fact. Boring day? Why bother writing about it? Great day? I try to enjoy it as much as possible, not to duck away from the festivities to write about it.

You all know this. I hardly ever blog.

However, I am fully aware of the usefulness of a touchstone, something that will remind me, something that will bring the memories flooding back, so I am desperately trying to keep a journal of this trip. Since I fail miserably at diaries, I am further trying to make it an art journal. Note the 'trying,' because although it has lasted much longer than any of my poor abandoned diaries, I still struggle to remember to add to it, and struggle with how. I think I just need practice, because I do like it.

This is my favorite spread so far.

To the left is a record of a very nice day that I spent just wandering around, the first day I visited the Piazza di Spagna, only a few days after touchdown. I think that the colors pretty accurately represent my feelings. The butterfly drawing as a still-life of the earrings that I was wearing, with the observation “I feel beautiful here,” which means quite a bit, actually.

To the right is a page that I painted to commemorate our first visit to the beach. Now, I would like to think that I would be one of the last people to deny the power of words, but I just don’t have the right ones to describe that day. The warmth of the sun and the sand, and the cool, careless power of the water, and the easy company of some great people that were only just getting to know each other…

-Maria

Nanowrimo

It stands for NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth.

This month is November, as you may have guessed, and is a month dedicated (for those brave enough to accept the challenge) to writing. Sometimes this means writing horribly, desperately, frantically, or despairingly, but it means writing. The principle of the things is that most of the actual crafting of a novel is in the revision process, but that too many would be authors (such as myself) are too discouraged by the horrible first draft prose, lack of support, time constraints or simple distractions that they stop in despair at the first step: Write.

Nanowrimo volunteers to guilt, encourage, pester and drive you to write 50,000 consecutive words over the course of 30 days, no matter how horrible they may be. (The words or the days. take your pick.)

Need encouragement? Pep talks from published authors such as Neil Gaiman.

Worried about your progress? Word count validations and a bar chart of your personal word count.

Want to talk to other authors? Forums

Need inspiration? Forums

Plot problems? Forums

Yes, I have accepted the challenge. Yes, I am in Rome. Yes, I am in college. Yes, I have papers to write and friends to not ignore and sights to see, but completing a novel is a real goal of mine, and after my abysmal failure last year (only 2,000 words? Really, Maria?) I feel the need for another go.

(Of course, it would be much easier if I had a plot in mind… but let’s not be picky.)

Wish me luck!

The Student's Guide to Food in Rome: Part 2

Since I am still a practically destitute college student, my experience with the Italian cuisine is chiefly through the little shops which line the roads of Rome.

My favorites, and the most common, are the pizzarias and gelaterias.

Inside any of the streetside pizzerias, you are confronted with a huge glass counter, behind which reside huge rectangular pizzas with everything from ham to egg-plant on them, the choices dictated by none but the cook. Voice your choice and the guy behind the counter will slice off a hunk and charge you by its weight. Take it porta via (to go) and he will cut it in half, press the pieces goodness-sides together, and fold a  wax paper envelope around it for you.

I am getting hungry telling you about it! Contrary to popular opinion, it is just as easy to get bad food in Rome as it is anywhere else, but I have emerged so many times with a messy sandwich of crunchy crust, mozzerrella and chunks of tomatos and basil, and I am not looking forward to leaving the experience behind.

Gelaterias are  another experience all together.

First of all, there is none of this "chocolate or vanilla" nonsense. Even the humblest gelateria, consisting of nothing but a counter, has at least eight flavors, and to ask for only one will get you a confused "Solo?"

The servings are smaller, but they are much denser. The servers scoop the gelato out with paddles, but it is still much softer than American hard ice cream. The shops have cones, real cones with pointed ends, but it is much more common to savor the experience in a cup with a plastic, brightly-colored gelato spoon.

The other day, I took a long walk across the city, bought some margherita pizza for dinner, ate it by the Fontana di Trevi, was chased off by the Italian police (no eating on fountains), treated myself to some stracciatella gelato, scrambled out of the way of a lady who wanted to open her shop (I was sitting on the ledge, leaning against the door), and then made my way home with the satisfaction of a day well spent.

-Maria

(Last Post Out-take)

Hehe
-Maria

The Student's Guide to Food in Rome: Part 1

This post is not about what you think it's about. This post is about my own cooking.

It's not awful. That's all I can say.

I am not a particularly discerning eater. Taste is my least cherished sense, and food is not particularly important to me (though I can certainly appreciate edible heaven when I swallow it) so I have been surviving on a monotonous regimen of supermarket supplies, the chief of which is (naturally) pasta. Until a few days ago, it was only ever garnished with butter and salt, but I got tired of that and splurged on some supplies.

Never underestimate the power of garlic.

Not only can it repel vampires, it can whisk your cooking into a whole new level. So far, I have soutéd the stuff with part of a bag of frozen vegtables and found myself with a fine new mixture with which to toss pasta, and I made a great stew with the rest of the bag, more garlic, noodles and ham bones.

The fact that this is exciting and makes me feel as if I am finally living on my own should probably concern me, but that topic is not flattering, so let me distract you with pictures of the supermarket:

Produce is sold on a very what-is-in-season basis. When we arrived, almost this entire side was covered in peaches. The next month, the smell of grapes (not the castrated grapes that we are used to, but real grapes, twice as big, with seeds) almost intoxicated you the moment you stepped into the supermarket.


You can't tell from the pictures, but this is a tiny, tiny store, and yet, the seafood ice shelf has the most incredible collection. There is everything from raw octopi to whole flouder in this pic, and once I saw a sturgeon's head, its pointed nose uselessly stabbing at the ceiling.



Keep in mind that the store in only four or five aisles wide, and marvel at the entire corner dedicated to alcohol. There is more on the other side of that wall.



 This is how we pay. There are two aisles with actual people that you can see behind the robot here, but they will stand and wait for ten minutes for you to dig out exact change, and are frustrated when you don't have it, so we feed our 50£ bills to our friend Robby as he chatters to us in an Italian voice, and he gives us back change with no problem.

Well, that's all for now! Tune in next time for Part 2: Street Food!

-Maria

PS. Notice how I didn't mention what the rest of the house is eating? It's because they're making German chocolate cake from scratch.
PPS. We make popcorn on the stove. It is awesome.

Assisi

Assisi is the most beautiful place I have ever been, so I am just going to display a  few pictures. Please savor them.

Here's the inside of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi, featured in the first picture:

Outside of the Basilica, there was a display of Mother Teresa's work.

It was a beautiful day, physically, and also spiritually, for me.

-Maria

Observation

The pigeons in this city don't fly much.

The closer you get, the more nervously they move, until they are running on their pink feet, heads bobbing frantically, but they don't take off. Eventually, once you have been perfectly capable of kicking or catching them for so long that they can no longer stand it, they will suddenly move much more messily and, finally, flappily and make it to the safety of the top of some wall or something. And then stop.

I'm sure that someone could make some deep poetic statement about this, or use these feathery things as devices for some poignant philosophical declarion about cities or something, but they just dissappoint me. Especially since pigeons are doves.

-Maria