transition

In the hecticness that was my last half week in Spain, I oscillated constantly between feeling upset at my inability to find the time to write and frustrated that there were not more hours in the day for me simply to enjoy the city of Madrid. If I were smart, I probably would have written on the plane – in fact I think I spent the first twenty minutes of my flight from Madrid to Naples serenely thinking about the words I wanted to use to describe the past few days. Instead, I watched the sea pass beneath me and made friends with the two twenty-something’s sitting in my row. I spoke in Spanish and they attempted to answer me in English. An observation that I don’t think I’ve yet made known to you is a refute of the convention I’ve often heard in the US that everybody everywhere else speaks English. While this is largely true of the folks that deal directly with tourists, and while yes, it is also true that (at least in the various Spanish cities I’ve visited) your average Spaniard knows more individual English words than the inverse of that situation, the ability to effectively and comprehensively combine phrases is somewhat lacking. It’s more like everyone has completed at least the mandatory middle school level of the language and then say they speak it. My plane mate was slightly better – he spent two months one summer studying English, of all places, at the good old U of I. Now he and his friend (whose innate fear of flying provided me and my somewhat-English-speaking friend un monton of entertainment) work in investment consulting and he has dreams of one day returning to the student lifestyle to pursue a higher degree in economics. He did, however, make a point of acknowledging that for the time being it would be foolish of him to leave a relatively high-paying and stable job. Of the young people I’ve met and had such chance conversations with, I will admit that he is indeed the first I’ve met with the kind of job that most of us Blue Devils would consider not only normal but practically guaranteed after graduation.

Our finals for the program ended up taking the form of two comprehensive essays, a blessing which, if one managed time correctly, afforded us the opportunity to enjoy extensively the culture of the Spanish botellón. In the first couple of weeks of the program, nos disfrutamos de bar-hopping, taking full advantage of our “of-age” status, but much more Spanish is the botellón. Grab a bottle of something, maybe a deck of cards, a few empty water bottles and a group of friends. Toss the smaller items in a bag and head out to your nearest park or plaza. Find enough space where you can all caber, be it sitting or standing. Open bottle and enjoy loudly and happily, preferably in Spanish. As we reached the end of our program, our studies and our budgets, the simple botellón was a great way to enjoy each others’ company and the cool night air while also happening upon others our age. Many were students but many were also ni-ni’s, which I think I’ve previously defined but just in case I haven’t, for your reference is short for ni estudia, ni trabaja meaning “neither studies nor works” (or works very minimally in a job far below his or her abilities). The same held true for the friends I made playing pick-up. When asked previously about how I saw la crisis manifested in Spain, I’d answered that I experienced it more as a conversation topic than as an event to be witnessed. However, in meeting these well-to-do and vacationing young men, I realize how much more humbled were the ones I had previously met.

Anyway, to return to the botellón, the cops would walk around our favorite haunting, Plaza de España. At first, I’d thought they were ticketing, but as I observed more closely, mingling is a better word for their actions. They would joke with the regulars they recognized, charlar with some of the sketchier types, and politely smile and nod as they walked by our louder American group. I think, through casually interacting with everyone they were more just making sure that nobody had over-stepped their own limits.

I would love to fill you in as well about our last group excursion to Córdoba because it was by far my favorite of the many cities we visited (Madrid’s home-like feel aside, of course). As it is, I have lots of pictures from there and so I think I’ll save those stories and memories until their visual partners can chance to accompany them (aka I’m being lazy). We officially finished out the Duke in Spain program with a group dinner at a restaurant within walking distance from our university, followed by a night of innocent dancing to Argentine music at Club Orange. The use of random English words to make titles and names appear more exotic continues to fascinate me as much, if not more than, the Communist influenced overuse of the word “red” in their Chinese counterparts. And so it happens that I returned home around 3:30 (having pre-packed, of course), slept until 5:30 before waking, showering and sadly despidiéndome de mis anfitriones to head to the airport. I now sit (or I did as I wrote this by hand about nine hours ago) at the dining room table of Villa la Pietra. The start of my second grand adventure of the summer hath commenced.

Oh my goodness, there are too many thoughts traversing through my mind that I almost feel as if words will never be able to capture everything. But I’ll try. I’ll try to navigate the observations of the new experience, the constant nagging to compare this form of European life with what I have so far witnessed this summer, the desire to try to understand this language but feeling utterly lost (and grateful of the family members who do speak Italian)… After two days here, I think I’m kind of getting a feel for at least understanding things, but I have no confidence to try to say anything. In fact, the first phrase, in any language, that pops into my head when asked anything in Italian is, funnily enough, wo bu zhi dao, which is not even a response in any romance language. It’s Chinese for “I don’t know”, and one of my younger brother’s favorite phrases.

Back to attempting to describe… This. Is. Island. Life. … and I am so blessed and fortunate that I get to spend these ten days on the gorgeous island of Capri, not from the vista of a hotel room but the luxury of this simple and home-like villa. It is a house that has been in the family of my mom’s sister-in-law for as long as anyone can remember. Now she and my uncle (both retired) come every summer with her parents to live the simpler, carefree life and keep up the grounds. This year, they even brought Stella, their three year-old yellow lab who is loved by all of the locals (we’re even allowed to bring her to Il Ristaurante Barbarossa, the pizza place where we’ve eaten and watched the Eurocopa semifinals the past two nights!) and whose walking needs often dictate the course of the days events. Not that my time in Madrid would ever, by any previously existing standards of mine, be considered stressful, but “without stress” seems the most accurate way to describe life here on Capri. The biggest dilemmas we’ve had to face have been which fresh fruit to eat for breakfast and deciding which of the gorgeous ocean views to see first/next. My flight from Madrid left at 9a yesterday and arrived in Naples at about 11:40a, where not a soul asked to see my passport before I passed beneath the “customs” sign to find the grinning, exhausted and (surprisingly) mustached face of my cousin Johnny. He peered at me over a handmade sign: “Kugina (kousin)”. We took one of the most daring (but somehow also very calming after the crazy atmosphere of the Neopolitan baggage claim)taxi rides to the port, where we would ferry over to “The Island” with a bunch of day tourists. My aunt keeps commenting on her, not quite disdain but, pity for these daytime tourists that only get but a brief flavor of all the island has to offer. Before I crashed for a three and a half hour long riposa, my aunt and her mother served us lunch: bread, pomodores, fresh apricots and lentils (separate but both fresh), homegrown lettuce, the obligatory olive oil and balsamic vinegar, prosciutto, ham and salami. My aunt and uncle, who have been following this blog perhaps as my most avid readers, made a point to say that I was in no way required to eat any of the foods that did not please me. My aunt gestured to the tomatoes as this was mentioned. It was only then that I realized I have indeed come, not necessarily to enjoy, but to accept tomatoes as a part of my daily diet. My host family wasn’t exactly conscious of the balanced food group pyramid that I’ve grown up with and the abundance of fresh produce here has commenced now three feeding frenzies on my part. Though I loved Ángeles’s cooking, simple fruit and veggies are a welcome change from excessive oil, potatoes and pork. So then, post-naptime, my uncle took me to my first official Island View from the property of the Villa San Michele (pronounced, as I learned in my first Italian lesson from my aunt’s mother, as mee-keh-leh) before we headed to the aforementioned Ristaurante Barbarossa to watch Spain defeat Portugal in penalties while I enjoyed my first real Italian pizza. ¡Viva la Roja!

After a lazy and fruit-filled breakfast this morning, my aunt and Stella showed me the View from il migliara (the –gl- combination pronounced like the –ll- in million) and the Philosopher’s Park. But now, (or at least it was when I first wrote this by hand) it’s time for lunch! (Actually, I’m bedward bound now – buona note!)