Crumby Goodbyes

France exists so that you can drive to Italy – James May

In terms of cultural heritage, I am a slice of apple pie. A Big Mac. A Wonderbread and Kraft cheese sandwich, with the crusts cut off. I am an American, through and through. My ancestors on my mom’s side have been living in the States since the Revolutionary War. Although my dad’s grandparents all emigrated from Tuscany, they wanted to Americanize themselves and refused to teach their children Italian. Since my dad passed away four years ago, this tenuous connection has begun to fray. I’ve always been jealous of people with a connection to their heritage, who feel rooted in something bigger than themselves. My decision to study abroad with CET in Italy was partially derived from this nagging curiosity to see where I come from, however distantly.

In some ways I I feel like I am divvying up my heart and leaving a trail behind me throughout Florence, like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs. I left a scrap of myself at Volume, slipped with my song suggestion to the DJ of the live jukebox among the natives savoring aperitivo. A slice of me is with the bancarelle of the Sant’Ambrogio market – the woman who convinces me to buy more  vegetables than anyone could eat and the man who offers me tastes of parmigiano reggiano have joint custody. Part of me is in the squid-ink dyed risotto of Il Santo Bevitore, the decadent gelato of La Gelateria dei Neri, the pear and pecorino ravioli of La Giostra.

Last weekend, I went to visit one of my friends in Paris. As I waited in line for my plane, surrounded by the reassuring babble of Italian, I had the most bizarre feeling that I was coming home.  Was that legitimate?  There’s a saying that Florentines can count their friends on their fingers: they must disdain of the tourists that clog their streets and intrude on their daily lives. I still get lost sometimes in side streets, garble their language and embarrass myself on public transportation regularly. AMERICAN is basically tattooed on my forehead. As I prepare to leave, I can’t help but wonder if there’s any part of Florence that I can claim for myself.

Earlier this month, I went to get my library card from the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale. The man behind the desk only spoke Italian, but patiently guided me through the necessary forms. When he saw my passport, he asked about my last name. Cesarotti , to Americans, is pronounced SEE-zer-ahti, flat and brash, while Italians pronounce it che-zehr- ROH-ti, with a rich rolling of the r. I explained that my ancestors were from Italy, but I wasn’t sure exactly where they came from. He nodded complacently and printed my card. As I was about to leave, he turned around his computer screen to show me something: a map, plotting the locations of all the Cesarotti’s still remaining in Italy. See, he said, pointing at the little red dots, there are some in Lombardy, one or two in Tuscany. Once again, my Italian failed me – a simple grazie mille couldn’t convey the depth of my thanks. He made me feel like a slice of Italy, however small, belonged to me too.

We all know That Person. The girl who comes back from studying abroad program and never stops talking about it. The one who starts every sentence with “This one time in Florence…” Somehow against my best intentions I feel myself morphing into that person. I can picture myself in sixty years, gruff and wrinkled in my old lady sweaters, boring my grandchildren as I reminisce about my summer in Italy. To be honest, this doesn’t seem as bad of a fate as it used to. CET has given me an experience I will never forget and memories a camera could never accurately capture. To Florence, I can’t say addio. For now, I’ll leave it at ci vediamo – we will see each other again – and hope like Hansel and Gretel to find my way back.

Katy Cesarotti, Vanderbilt University
CET Florence, Summer '13

A Renaissance Snow Globe

“What is the fatal charm of Italy? What do we find there that can be found nowhere else? I believe it is a certain permission to be human, which other places, other countries, lost long ago.” –Erica Jong

Even after spending five weeks in the city of Florence, I still get starstruck sometimes by all the history. The rich heritage and history of Florence sometimes seems to stop the flow of daily life. The city is like a living museum, a Renaissance snowglobe bubbled off from the passage of time. Hordes of tourists shuffle around listening obliviously to their audioguides and zoom through the streets on Segways. Because of Florence’s pivotal role in the Renaissance, the city’s architecture is static: many Roman or medieval structures no longer survive, excluded from the city’s narrative, while new construction has to meet certain design requirements. Historical cafés, like Giubbe Rosse in the Piazza della Repubblica where men in crisp red tux jackets aggressively solicit you to come in for a caffè, are protected by law and are not allowed to close.

But I love the points where the contemporary and the historic intersect. The other day my roommates and I climbed up to the Forte Belvedere. After scaling a postcard-esque hill, framed by olive trees and beams of July sun, we emerged at the fort and an incredible vista over the city of Florence. The fort itself is five hundred years old; the façade is roughhewn stone, stark against the green of the surrounding rolling hills. The fort was hosting a contemporary art exhibit – Chinese artist Zhang Huan’s giant sculptures of Buddha, sprouts of contemporary sculpture cropping up between the ancient stones.

Our favorite pizza place, Gusta Pizza, is located on the Piazza Santo Spirito – we take our to-go boxes and perch on the steps of the church with the young locals. Melted mozzarella drips from our fingers as we lounge by a monument that houses works by famous Renaissance artists such as Brunelleschi and Michelangelo. In the Piazza della Signoria at night, orchestras hold outdoor concerts and the swell of music breathes life into the spectating marble statues. Street vendors fling tacky souvenirs into the air, flying light-up contraptions that drift down to the cobblestones like falling stars.

After this, it’s hard to imagine returning to suburban Naperville, Illinois. Our most important historical monument is Naper Settlement, a model of the town as it was in the 1800’s, where third grade classes often go on field trips to learn how to churn butter. I’m going to miss stubbing my toes on age-worn cobblestone, the secret churches that appear out of nowhere on every street, and the pink haze of sunset on the Arno, older than the history of man.

There’s No Place Like Home

           This week we adventured outside of Florence to explore our surroundings. Friday night we took a city bus up to Fiesole, It’s a small medieval town in the hills just north of Florence with beautiful sweeping views– we watched the sunset and ate dinner overlooking the city like we were in the midst of the stars.

             

           On Saturday we took the train to Cinque Terre, my first time attempting to navigate the TrenItalia schedules. Cinque Terre is a clutch of five towns on the Golfo dei Poeti, the Gulf of Poets. The name is appropriately romantic: houses in shades of yellow and pink and red dot the hills in the midst of vineyards and olive groves. Each town has its charms – I especially loved the views of Corniglia and the pebble beaches of Monterosso. I met up with some family friends whose daughter had visited Cinque Terre while she was studying abroad, fell in love, and never came home. Everyone took in the sun on the beach, savoring their vacation day before the baptism of the granddaughter. Both the Italian and American sides of the family joyously jumbled Spanish, Italian, English, and hand gestures with love that transcended language.

           Sunday we took a day trip to San Gimignano, a medieval town with stark stone towers that survey the Tuscan countryside. We sampled the “best gelato in the world” and paid a visit to the Vernaccia wine museum to learn about the locally grown product. The landscape almost didn’t seem real – Matt pointed out that it looked like a backdrop, like someone had painted the perfect rolling country hills.

           Tuesday we went to Siena to watch the Palio with our Italian Cultural History class. We met up with the CET Siena students and took a rambling tour of the city’s narrow streets as our guide told us about the centuries-old tradition. Twice a year, Siena holds a horse race in the central piazza, with ten of the seventeen contrada represented.  A contrada is like a neighborhood, but the English translation is inadequate: a contrada is a way of life. You have to be baptized into the contrada to be a true member – it takes outsiders years to be fully accepted. In Siena, the people live and die by their contrade, harboring ancient rivalries against their enemies. The atmosphere before the race goes off is electric –the horses dance in agitation, the contrade members crackle with fervor.  As our teacher phrased it, Palio is incomprehensible to anyone not born in Siena. The race lasts about 90 seconds, but the build-up spans hours of parades, and the victors celebrate for the rest of the summer. Palio is the life force of Siena, the embodiment of their ferocious devotion to their town.

             The heavy dose of nationalism made me a little homesick for America, so to celebrate the Fourth of July my roommates and I baked an apple crisp in our apartment. Although we didn’t have any measuring cups and we topped it with gelato di vaniglia, it was just the taste of home I needed. 

Katy Cesarotti

Vanderbilt University