Its Snowing!!!

All Roads Lead To...The Vatican?

This morning we went on another field trip/walk around parts of the city. We came to an enclosed, military protected compound, belonging to an exclusive order of Catholic monks. The main door was locked, so we peeped in the keyhole:

Its hard to see in the distance, but that's St. Peter's (I think) directly down a row of orange trees. I wasn't so interested because it was cold and rainy this morning, but it made a good photograph.

We ended up being let into the compound from a different point, and looking over the city from one of many scenic cliffs on the surrounding hills. While we were there, we met three nuns from the states spending a year abroad in Rome, as part of whatever schooling they were doing, and I realized that there are so many people in the world who would appreciate where I live-the former monastery of a Vatican-affiliated church-more than I do.

Meet Fabiana

Meet Fabiana, my new cactus (?) that I bought at the Illegal Pickpocketer's Haven (or "shouk") this past Sunday, quite possibly the only legit purchase that could be made:

Does anyone out there know if this truly is a cactus, and if so, what kind? I've been searching for it on cactophile sites, but it seems there are just too many species to go through.

[Update] So, apparently its a Jade plant. I guess I'll still have to get a real cactus from the sellers in the campus center.

The Carnival is in Town

[pronounced cahr-nee-vahl]

A week-long collection of free children's street performances began over the weekend, of course, starting yesterday MORNING, guess where?? That's right! Piazza Navona! They started off with a BAM!, jesters, a military marching band and what sounded like a full choir. By mid-day on Sunday, they were still at it. I watched jesters dancing in a circle with children dressed in animal-look-alike footie pajamas (or "costumes") and a man eating fire in a comic fashion. I never found out, though, where the kiddos get packages of confetti. Its not special to Carnival; they seem to be available at all major tourist piazze, but they're in over-abundance this week. I have yet to find myself a dealer. In a bout of frustration, I instead danced with the twirly paper ribbons that looked like super-sized versions of the kind that pop out of tiny plastic champagne bottles.

Its been raining here for the last few days, so its iffy if I'll be able to see any more of the Carnival, but it was fun while it was waking me up in the morning.

The Room

In our pre-departure information packets, we were told not to bring any decorations for our rooms here, as the Italian plaster is crap and will crack under the pressure of having something taped up. Needless to say, our room is pretty boring. Last night, we found this backed promotional poster for a comic book, and put it up above my bed.



It's already fallen down. Now its being propped up above the dressers.

We've got spirit, yes we do!

There have been various demonstrations outside my building recently. Apparently there's an important state building across the piazza, so people have been coming to protest recent teacher lay-offs, criminal executions, anything you can imagine, I hear about it. This past Sunday, I was hearing about it at 8 in the morning when some people with megaphones started yelling, marching and singing about it. Yesterday, though, they had shut down one of the smaller main streets of the city with cops redirecting traffic a mile around.

Personal Space

Before coming here, those more experienced had warned us of pickpocketing and even suggested wearing backpacks on the front. I thought this was a little extravagant at the time, but to my surprise, I've now seen many a Roman, not only good little tourists like me, wearing their bags pregnant-style. After almost a month of trying, I've finally photographed the elusive silly Roman:



As if this weren't enough proof that pickpocketing is, in reality, a widespread phenomenon, I recently went to an enormous outdoor market. Amongst the under-priced costco-sized boxes of watchbands, t-shirts, anything you could ever need, there were shoes, electronics and jewelry that were clearly well used, loved, and now missed. It makes you want to keep your hands in your pockets at all times.

Lack of personal space extends past belongings, though, to unwanted touch from people you don’t know. Nearly every time I see the housing director downstairs, he pats me on the shoulder and asks how I’m doing. I’ve gotten the same shoulder pats from professors, men and women, one of them the nut I photographed a few days ago. I’ve hit my head on a fence-pat on the head! Once, we were on a tour led by a priest, who wanted to play a practical joke on us. After telling a story, he asked a girl to tap him on the shoulder, barked, and scared us all. But it was a priest! A religious man! And that’s from people who grew up in the states!

The most invasive situation I’ve been in, though, was care of an Italian man working at a coffee bar. While unsuspectingly waiting for my espresso, the man offered us sample spoons of chocolate gelato. I refused. This, apparently, is not allowed in this country. First, he tried withholding my coffee, then saying something that was most likely condescending in Italian. Then, while unsuspectingly sipping my coffee, he comes out of nowhere to my side of the counter, puts one arm around me and tries feeding me the gelato.

This isn't a display of laid-back attitude. It's a show of power, self-righteousness, and being super-creepy. And it must be stopped. The next person who touches me will feel the result of that one krav maga lesson I had freshman year.

Nothing Like the Roman Imagination

Parking here is scary. Cars pile on top of each other, scooters are stuck into any tiny little crevice that will fit it. I heard an Italian say yesterday that "there's nothing like the Italian imagination, and the place where it is most expressed is in parking." Then we watched a car hit a parked scooter while driving in reverse.



These are the scooters parked outside my building. I thought the last one was pretty.

Apparently Tova Was Right

Not that I doubted her mad Italian skillz or anything.

This is from yesterday's Italian class:


Salvaggio [pl. Selvaggi] means wild. Though no one else knew my name, I felt the love.

In an effort to post more often, I'm starting a photo diary.

I'm going to try to post a picture every day, from the day before. This one is from yesterday's field trip to two small towns, called Ariccia and Albano on the edge of a lake in a volcanic crater, an hour to the south of Rome. This is my professor. He's a bit of a nut.