Trieste Photo Contest

I've been back in VT for a week now, and though I am thrilled to be home, I find myself missing beautiful Trieste.  What better way to remember my favorite Italian city than by blowing up a photo and putting it on my wall.  The only problem is I am having trouble choosing just one. 

Above are my top five Trieste photos of the year, and I was hoping you all could help me choose the best (see poll in the top-right corner).

Thanks,

-Noah

Last Post?

It's been a while since my last post and with good reason...I've been busy.  After struggling with exams, I had the pleasure of hosting Mom and Dad for a week in Trieste followed by more than a few celebrations, the best of which involved sipping cocktails at eight in the morning with surprise pancakes with smuggled Vermont maple syrup (thanks Mom).   

I'm staring at a packed bag and looking for words as I head home after what seems like a lifetime in Europe. I'm not sure how I will adjust to returning to buffalo wings instead of buffalo mozzarella, shorts instead of speedos, and a 24 hour news cycle instead of no news at all.

The only conclusion I can possibly come to at the moment is the fact that it's not the places we go that make travel so fulfilling, but the people we meet along the way, so thank you to one and all that made this year unforgettable.  Goodbyes are difficult, so rather than get emotional, I am going to think about what Groucho Marx would say to me if he were here:

"Go, and never darken my towels again."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

TRL Awards in Trieste

Ah MTV...thank you so much for providing an unparalleled night of entertainment. Piazza Unitá d'Italia was full of live Italian pop music, snappily dressed VJs (Video Jockey's for anyone who grew up before Carson Daly was and then ceased to be a household name), thousands of screaming teenage girls, and a surprising amount of babies in strollers.

The performers performed, the crowd cheered, and jokes were made.  Being an MTV, pop-culture driven event there was a lot of English infused into the dialogue, and some of the performing artists didn't speak Italian themselves, which always made for a nice awkward moment when the Italian VJ would say to the Norwegian singer, "May I kiss you?!  I have to kiss you!" before leaning in for Baci on both cheeks.

As alway,s Italian idioms dominated, and I particularly enjoyed the frequent use of "Che bordello," which translates literally to "what a whorehouse," and was a great compliment to the screaming fans, in this sense meaning something to effect of "you guys are fucking crazy!"

My friends and I soon grew weary of bad Italian rap, commercial breaks, and award recognition for people like Hillary Duff over people like Beyoncé...an absolute travesty, so we moved out to the pier and shared some drinks and a full view of Piazza Unitá with other international students. When the ceremony and concert ended, we found an outdoor bar and made a bit of a bordello of our own.  Below is the intro to the awards and above is a shot I snapped from the pier.

That's For Women!

I bought quite the souvenir in Granada and just realized that I forgot to share the story so off we go...

I was walking around the squeaky clean cobble-stoned streets of the old city (tires and shoe soles literally chirp every time a person tries to change directions) and found myself in the Arab markets.  My friend Sarah, who studies in Granada, which like Trieste is marked by the footprint of many cultures, suggested I pick out something to remember my trip.

As I meandered through shops full of hookahs, tea sets, and tapestries I wondered what I could purchase that would be a unique reminder of my time in Granada, something that I would not be able to find anywhere else in Europe.  I was about to give up, when I was blinded by the bright blue and gold trim of an Arabian robe fit for a prince.

"Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick," I said before asking the smiley attendant if he could retrieve it for me from it's position on a high hook.  He handed it toward Sarah, but she told him the robe was for me. He quickly agreed and told us how handsome it was.  I tried the thing on, deciding that it's soft material and breathability would make it the perfect summer lounging garment; ideal for sitting in a Vermont backyard and arousing cockeyed looks from neighbors.  My three female American escorts congratulated me on the purchase and we headed to one of Sarah's favorite hookah bars to celebrate.

When we showed my souvenir to the bar's owner, he held it out in front of Sarah just as the man who sold it to me had, but she was quick to explain that the robe was for me.  

"For him, nooooooo," he said before doubling over with laughter.  "haha he bought this for himself!  It's for women!"  He was so delighted that he had to tell someone.  He shouted to the back of the bar and a waiter emerged to laugh with him, 

"Che guapa! That's for women you know," said the waiter as the owner put the apparent dress on over my head and then pulled at the material until it appeared that I had the right sized chest to fill it out.

He asked if I had a camera on me, and when I produced it, the bar owner stopped a man on the street to take a photo of the two of us.  The photographer removed his glasses, lined up the shot, and then paused and pulled his eye away from the viewfinder.

"That's for women you know," he said as a click sounded to produce the image above.

After bidding the hysterical group farewell, we continued down the street, but soon found that the heckling was not over.  A man on a pay-phone told his wife, boss, or bookie to hang on a sec, before covering the phone with his palm and shouting, 

"That's for women!"  I laughed and shot him a thumbs up and he returned the gesture.  

Though I am surely the laughing stock of the Arab markets, the good news is I do have a unique souvenir from Granada, and I can't think of a better way to confuse an old Vermonter than by asking him if he has the time while wearing a beautiful Moroccan dress.  Although with my luck, he'll probably say, "It's 9:30...you know that dress is for women right?"

An Italian Education

I've had a strange day.  I was abducted after lunch by a Spaniard and an Argentine guy who's name I can't pronounce.  They took me to a bar to have coffee and to do something they referred to as "selling each other to women."  I think they wanted to talk to Italian girls and pull the ol' wingman routine with the help of a smiley American, but unfortunately, the girls must have heard we were coming and completely avoided the aforementioned cafe. 

Though there were no females to be had, we found the next best thing: twenty rowdy Italian dudes celebrating the graduation of a friend by making him run shirtless through a gauntlet. We may not have been able to sell each other to women, but the three of us had quite the time drinking coffee and slapping a stranger until his back was red and covered in congratulatory welts.  I am less shocked by the abuse for graduates as I am by the fact that anyone can earn enough credit to reach the gauntlet stage at all. 

Upon returning from Spain, I tried to go to my comparative politics class and couldn't find it anywhere.  This lecture had been an elusive catch to begin with, meeting from 6-8 p.m. on Tuesdays, 11-1 p.m. on Wednesdays, and 9-11 a.m. on Thursdays (how anyone is supposed to make a schedule without classes conflicting is beyond me).  After trying desperately to find comparative politics for a week, even taking extreme measures such as looking for it in different environments, hunting early in the morning, and leaving bait and a rope-trap outside my room, I hung up my safari hat for the weekend and decided I would have to try to tackle my academic prey next week.

When I showed up at the original classroom at 5:45 on Tuesday, I found the door locked and the lights off.  A few students had gathered outside by 6:00 which convinced me to continue to wait and sure enough, at 6:15 a young woman arrived and unlocked the door.  I followed the students inside and took my normal seat in the back, but something seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Did the professor get a haircut? New shoes perhaps?  I knew he looked different somehow but...oh I know, he's twenty years younger and a woman now.

When I asked this new professor what happened she gave me a look that said, "who are you?" and I gave her a look that said, "who are you?"  It was awkward.  It turns out that some time during the mysterious week where I lost my class, I also lost a professor, and worst of all I lost an exam, as in I missed it.  There are only two tests during the semester so I thought my chances of passing the only class I need to transfer back to UVM had disappeared faster than an Italian university course.  However, the new professor kindly informed me that the tests are only one option for passing the course.

I will be taking an oral exam on June 3rd...that is, if I can find it.  Wish me luck.

Paella with the Family Gea

Gea (pronounced "Hey-Ya" with a bit of Chutzpah at the beginning) made good on his promise and drove us to his parents house in Orihuela, which has about as many gorgeous cathedrals as inhabitants.

Gea's family does not speak English, and my American companions and I do not speak Spanish. Oh what an awkwardly silent lunch we must have had you say, but no.  In another example of how people can always find a way to communicate, the lunch was full of conversation. Gea would sometimes interpret from Italian to Spanish and vice-versa, or hand signals and smiles proved to be enough.  

Mother Gea bopped into the kitchen throughout the meal, constantly returning with heaping plates of Paella, seafood platters, bowls piled high with fruits that I have never seen before, cakes, and even champagne famous in five continents. She seemed constantly disappointed with her own brilliant food.  "Not enough meat in the Paella," she complained, shaking her head.  I did my best to make her feel better by eating as much as possible and butchering the Spanish language, "es buena, esta me gusta."

Mother Gea seemed less upset by the food as by the information we gave her.  When she learned that my American friends and I had walked fifteen minutes from the Valencia bus station to Gea's apartment she was concerned.  When she found out that we would eventually be taking a twelve hour bus ride from Granada to Barcelona she was not pleased.  She was visibly upset by the fact that I am only twenty years old and so far away from my family, and when we told her how much the average American education costs I thought she might faint.

Thankfully there was no reason to worry in an emergency as all of the Geas work in medicine, except Fernando.  Because he studies engineering, the oldest son is the subject of constant jokes and ridicule, but he takes in good stride.  "I don't like medicine, they do, but it's not for me," he told me proudly.

Mother Gea pointed around the table and informed us that Father Gea was a doctor, she helped at the hospital sometimes, the middle son was a nurse, and her youngest was studying to be a dentist.  When we raised our champagne glasses we toasted to, what else?  Salud: health.

When I had eaten more Paella and Spanish fruit than any hungover individual should, Gea took us on a small tour of pristine Orihuela, and even drove us to the train station and waited on the platform, completing his role as super-host.   Next time I raise my glass in Spain, it will surely be accompanied by a toast to engineering.

Valencia

My good friend Fernando Gea proved to be an excellent host when I arrived in Valencia, frantically driving a couple of hours from his parents' house to show me the city and let my friends and I sleep in his apartment.  

Valencia has everything, including bumping nightlife, a medieval city center, the ultra-modern city of arts and sciences designed by native born Santiago Calatrava, a dry river full of palm trees, beautiful beaches, and even it's own language, (don't let anyone hear you calling Valencian a Catalan dialect).

My two American friends and I spent the days oversleeping and sight-seeing, Gea providing tours in Italian, which were informative and hilarious.  When we arrived at a nearby restaurant  around 10:30 p.m. it was deserted (too early for a Spanish dinner), but all of the tables were already claimed by parties arriving later.  The sympathetic host was so helpful that he called another restaurant on our behalf, and five minutes later, I found myself drinking endless sangria and eating like a king at a table that read "Fernando."  

The one thing missing from my Valencia visit was the real Paella.  Gea had warned me not to try the famous rice dish in Barcelona for, as he claimed, I would only be able to find the true version in his city where it was created. Unfortunately, all of the good Paella places were closed for Holy Week. "No problem," Gea insisted, his mother also makes a great Paella, and she only lives two hours from Valencia; conveniently enough, on the way to my next Spanish stop, Granada.

I snapped the picture above after a rainstorm, and it might be my favorite from Europe so far.