Le Segreterie Delle Studente

I woke up promptly at 8, made my way to the dining hall, which is called a mensa here and had an amazing cappuccino.  I love the coffee in Trieste, it is much sweeter than in the states and is a great way to start the day.  I headed in the direction of the main campus building, and when I saw it, I was astounded.  It's enormous, definitely one of the biggest single buildings I have ever seen.  It's not too tall, but it's wider than a football field and deeper than a major hospital.  It's all made out of white marble and has statues and an impressive set of steps in front.  When you get to the top there is again an incredible view of the sea.  It is fashioned in some sort of Byzantine style that I know I learned about in my art history class last year, but I can't really remember any relevant terminology or history of this type of architecture...I will include a picture when I take a good one.

I walked inside through a giant revolving door and was immediately the picture of a flustered foreigner.  There were Italian students all over the place, talking at a riduculously fast pace, sipping espressos.  A giant board was mounted in the corner of the lobby with different electronic letters and numbers that beeped every time a number changed.  I found a sign that said, "Segreterie Delle Studente," listing all of the different offices.  Letter I seemed good for me,

"I servizi per studenti stranieri"-"Services for foreign students."  

I tried to ask a girl in broken Italian where to find this office.  She showed me to a machine in and pushed a button.  A small, white ticket came out that read I-23 on it.  I had no idea at the time that this would be the first of many tickets I would have to take for various things in Italy.  She told me something in Italian and pointed over toward another revolving door.  I thanked her and headed through the door, which took me outside.  What the fuck?  This can't be right.

I came back in and noticed that there were cats strewn all about the building.  Some sunbathed in chairs that were located next to the windows, while others roamed the halls.  I wondered if somebody fed them here, or if they just came and went as they pleased.  Perhaps the cats owned the building and the University  leased it from them.  Either way, they seemed quite comfortable inside.  I asked somebody else where to find office I, and they showed me to the elevator and pointed down.  I had to hunch over to fit in l'ascensore, which was hardly big enough for two, and I noticed that there was a little sign that said that the elevator could take a maximum of four people.  Maybe they meant four cats.

I went downstairs and saw a giant hallway with another electronic board at the end of it, and some large glass doors that led into the segreterie delle studente.  I took a seat among some Italians and watched the board change.  There were a lot of letters and numbers, but never I.  I asked somebody and they assured me that I was in the right place for the office for foreign students.  After about forty-five minutes, my heart skipped a beat when I saw I-1.  I knew this was going to take awhile and decided to change seats, moving away from the intimidating doors and the giant board.

I noticed some interesting shirts as I watched the Italian students come and go.  Many of them said random things in English, my favorite being a hoodie that read, "Alcatraz Psycho Ward," in huge letters, worn by a guy drinking a coffee with comically large purple sunglasses, tight jeans, gelled hair, and tiny pink sneakers.  After another forty five minutes, when we had made it to I-10, an Italian student sat next to me and started a one-sided conversation that gave me a chance to practice my language skills.

Pretty much all I could manage was to tell him that there were too many people here and that Monday morning was a bad time to see the segreterie delle studente.  He agreed and kept elaborating in fast Italian, leaving me nodding and saying "Sí" a lot in that confused foreigner kind of way.  His number came up and he ran down the hallway and through the glass doors so that they wouldn't skip him.

In the next couple of hours, I took to watching the ticket machine crush people's dreams. Usually somebody would walk up to the machine in mid conversation, enjoying their morning. They would take a ticket, look at it and then up at the board, and then they would begin shouting and waving their hands around, knowing they would be waiting all morning.

My favorite ticket taker was an old man wearing a checkered shirt tucked into khaki pants, with reading glasses hung around his neck and a small, red book tucked under his arm.  He paced around talking to himself, shaking his head back and forth.  Every once in a while he would read one of the signs placed around the hallway while touching the wall with an extended index finger.  He would finish reading the sign, look back at his ticket, and then continue muttering angrily under his breath and pointing at people, trying to make them understand his pain.

Finally, at about 11:45, I saw I-22 appear on the screen and I made my way toward the glass doors.  A loud beep followed and I-23 was requested at window 14, it was my time.  I walked in confidently and a young girl stared back at me behind the desk, which was exactly the same as the other 19 desks inside.

"Prego," she said, and I began reciting the lines that I had carefully been practicing in my head for the last few hours.

"Sono un nuovo studente degli Stati Uniti, e ho bisogno un username per l'internet e ho bisogno scegliere i miei lezioni."  She said a few things very quickly that I could not understand. When she saw my look of confusion she asked me my name and I told her.  She disappeared for a moment and returned, again speaking rapid Italian.  She typed something into her computer screen and showed me some information about non-EU students who wanted to take a class at the university.  I think I told her something about being an exchange student, similar to Erasmus, the European version of my type of program that everybody knows about here.  She went back into the office for a bit and emerged with another woman who tried to talk to me. 

They asked me if I was looking for a masters degree, and when I told them I wasn't, they disagreed with me and handed me a bunch of paperwork about a masters program in international economics.  When I finally convinced them that I was only twenty and still an undergrad, they showed me a list and asked if I was any of the three students on there.  Two were from The Congo and one was from Iran.  I wanted to ask them if I looked like I was from either of those places, but I didn't know how.

After enough broken English and Italian to test anyone's patience, they told me that I should try some other office.  Fuck. I worried about taking another ticket and waiting for so long again, which would probably result in me breaking into tears.  The only word I remembered was "mobilitá," and I think they told me that it was on the second floor.  

I meandered around the giant building for a while looking for mobilitá, walking up many different sets of stairs and taking more small elevators, while running into a few more cats along the way.  At some point I took a set of stairs, and found a small sign that said something about a mobility office, and it also hadthe word Erasmus on it, which I took to be a good sign.  I found the office and saw a few people waiting there with tickets.  You have to be fucking kidding me. More tickets.  At least there were only about five people waiting here, but still, I didn't understand why the people in the office couldn't just ask who was there first.  

A nice guy with a pony tail showed me the ticket machine, but it stopped dispensing tickets at 11:30 and it was almost 1:oo now.  I saw a sign with the hours of the mobility office on it, and it was similar to how things worked at the Visa office in Boston, completely inefficiently.  This office is apparently only open for about two hours in the morning, two more on Monday and Thursday afternoons, and closed completely on Wednesdays.  I wondered how they could possibly deal with all of the international students if they were only open for 15 hours a week.  I suppose they can't, and that is exactly why I received no information about where I was supposed to go when I arrived and why there is no orientation for new students.

 

I watched each person wait until their number was called, some forcing their way in when it wasn't their turn, usually resulting in an argument with a lot of hand motion and ridiculous facial expressions.  When his number wasn't called, the guy with the ponytail, who was wearing red wind-pants yelled something that was probably profane and then threw his notebook against a file cabinet. After everybody had left, a blonde woman opened the door and I didn't have the energy to try to speak Italian.

"Parli ingese?" I asked.

"A little bit, yes."

"Thank God."  I told her who I was and once she knew that I had my room key and my meal card, she told me to return at 3:15 when the office reopened after a conveniently long lunch break.

"Don't worry," she told me.  "We will explain everything."  I hope so, I thought to myself, because I am fucking depressed.

Trieste

So after a stressful train ride, where I had to pay for my ticket with my emergency credit card (apparently my ATM card does not work in Europe), some small talk with an awkward Greek girl, and a lot of sleeping while clutching my fashionable messenger bag, I made it to Trieste. It's beautiful here.  The mountains and the scenery are incredible, almost like somebody moved Rome to Burlington, Vermont.  The bright greens and the wind remind me of home, but as with Italy in general, every piece of Trieste could be it's own museum, there is so much history here. I haven't really met anyone yet, which is incredibly depressing, but at least I managed to get into my room which is pretty standard but the bed is much more comfortable than any dorm room I have ever been in.  I ate in the cafeteria once, which has a beautiful view of the Adriatic Sea, but I only got a little bit of food and when I tried to get more and they refused to swipe my card again.  They told me I had to go get some sort of ticket or something, but I couldn't figure out what they were saying so I just left.  After two years of getting A's in Italian classes I am sort of surprised that I understand nothing here, not a word.  My Italian also gets worse when I'm flustered, which I usually am.  However, people are very patient with me and hopefully tomorrow I can figure out if there is any sort of orientation or anything, but I am guessing not.  The girl who let me sign on with her internet password told me to go see the Segreterie Delle Studente in the morning, which is in the main building on campus so wish me luck.

Dr. Miguel A. Guillén Alcalá

Soooooo traveling here by myself was a bit of an ordeal, although I did meet a lovely Dutch couple on my flight from Amsterdam to Rome who gave me puzzles to do and candy that tasted like Jagermeister...I know what you are thinking.  But really, the candies tasted like Jager and not like licorice, it was different.  When we landed in Rome and I got onto the shuttle, I spotted a very short man with dark skin and tiny, perfectly round glasses covered from head to toe in Chicago Bears apparel.

"They looked good week one," I said, gesturing toward his matching jacket and hat that read "Monsters of the Midway,"  The Bears had unexpectedly beaten the Colts the previous Sunday.  He looked down at the jacket and then up at me.

"Yeah."

"I'm from New England so we were hurting week one, it was tough."  Tom Brady's torn ACL and MCL fresh in my mind. 

"Yeah," he replied again with a big smile and nodding this time.

"I think Matt Cassel will be ok though. I mean, he has been there for a few years so he should know the offense."

"Yeah."  Same big smile and complete lack of comprehension.  Something is amiss here...perhaps this Superfan is not from the States. Lets try Italian.

"Sei di Roma?"

"No, no, no, sono di Mexico."  Definitely not the response I expected, but few are when one travels.  He asked me if I spoke Spanish and unfortunately I don't, so I spoke to this Mexican Chicago Bears fan in broken Italian for about 5 minutes until we arrived at the next terminal to get our luggage.  It turns out he is a doctor who is in Rome for "Doctor Things."  As the shuttle came to a stop he handed me his business card and shouted,

"Email me!  You have to Email me!"  I don't know exactly what I will write to Dr. Miguel A. Guillén Alcalá, but I don't think it could hurt to know a doctor in Mexico city.

Amsterdamnit

So I've been in the Amsterdam airport for far too long, and I noticed a few things.

There are no baseball fields in Europe.

I could have told you this before I looked out an airplane window at 30,000 feet, but the thing I always notice when flying over the United States is how many freaking baseball fields we have.

Last time I few to Europe I was listening to a Discman.

I believe at the time I was raving about how it was way better than a Walkman.  Now I can listen to whatever the fuck I want on my Ipod, and if technology continues to advance at this rate, then next time I fly to Europe, I will most likely be listening to a live robot band that fits in my pocket and can be taken out to entertain my entire row at any given time during the flight.

There are a lot of Connecticut fans in Holland.

Both of the guys on the tar-mac who taxied my plane up to its gate were wearing Uconn hats.

Men's rooms in Amsterdam are called "Men Toilets."

As in "This Men Toilet is out of order.  Please proceed to the next Men Toilet."

Dutch children are adorable.

Ok before I get to this point, an entire team of attractive Dutch flight attendants just sat right next to me and I can't stop staring at them.  What was I saying?  Oh yeah...

Dutch children are adorable.

I think that their appeal is mostly due to the fact that when they talk I can't tell if it's baby talk, or if it's Dutch, or some sort of combination of the two.  When I hear people speak Dutch it makes me laugh...I can't help it.  Earlier there was a little Dutch girl running around and clapping with everyone waiting at my gate. Two old Scottish ladies took to her and while they were playing patty cake, the well-dressed, elderly gentleman they were with struck up a conversation with the little girl's father.  They were speaking English to each other, the Scottsman and the Dutchman, and I couldn't understand a word of it.  I knew it was English but I couldn't tell you what the conversation was about, although they seemed to be on exactly the same page.

At some point a small Indian boy entered the picture, holding hands with his mother who was wearing a multicolored sari and sporting a red jewel between her eyes.  He gave the little Dutch girl a death stare as if to say,

"Yeah you're cute.  I'm cute too.  All little kids are cute.  Get over yourself."  Her bright smile dissolved for the first time.  She looked up at her dad and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb at the Indian boy as if to say,

"Who the fuck does that Indian kid think he is?  This is my gate, this is my crowd, and I have those Scottish ladies in the palm of my hand, so he can sit here over my dead body."

Then a few things happened very quickly.  The Indian boy seemed to wink at the Dutch girl, but I don't think he did it on purpose, and then the Dutch girl started laughing, and then it was more like cackling, until it progressed to shrieking.  She took off with a wobbly sort of sprint toward the Indian boy who ducked for cover behind his mother.  Just before the cross-continental collision, the Dutch Daddy swooped in a grabbed his daughter preventing an international incident that I was sort of hoping for, but the Indian boy and his mother retreated.  By my tally it's the Netherlands-1, India-0...but something tells me this isn't over.  However, this blog post is over.  I'm going to go drink a beer.  Why you ask?  Because I can.

My Mom Called Me a Metrosexual

So my mom called me a metrosexual today.  It's actually a longer story than you would think. Last night I tried packing, and my plan was to put everything in my giant hiking backpack, leaving enough room to fit my little backpack and laptop in there once I got off the plane.  After rolling clothes into vacuum bags and shoving pairs of socks and random electronic cords into all the nooks and crannies, I realized there was no way I was fitting my school bag with a laptop in there. Fuck.

Thank God for my mom, who came to the rescue with the brilliant idea of buying one of those messenger bags with just the one strap.  I could carry that on the plane and then keep it over one shoulder with the backpack on and my travel guitar in one hand.  This set-up would make sure my big backpack stays under fifty pounds and would give me a free hand for waving, itching, slapping, or whatever else becomes necessary while traveling from Rome's airport to the train station and then all the way up to Trieste.

I returned home triumphant with my purchase, ready to tackle Europe in a classy way. My dad greeted me when I got there.

"Hey what did you end up with?" He asked.

"Check it out."  I took the bag out and put it over my shoulder so he could see, just as my mom came inside.

"My God Noah, you look just like a..."

"Metrosexual," my mom blurted out.  I didn't even know she had ever heard that word before.

"I was going to say lawyer," finished my dad.  "What's a metrosexual?"  After a lengthy explanation that left my father still scratching his head, I placed the bag in my room and chuckled to myself.  Definitely did not see that one coming...but she does have a point. 

She Calls me Goliath...

I just got back from my last night at UVM for a while. I'm glad I got to walk around campus and see some people before I left, including my favorite professor who is helping me with my thesis project.  We'll see if I still want to do it after a year in Europe.  I saw so many officers with badges, I feel like Burlington has become a police state.  There are usually cops everywhere the first couple weekends of school, but I have never seen it this bad.  Last weekend my buddies received a $200.00 noise violation when their TV was on really loud and the windows were open, no party or anything.  A lot of underage kids have gotten drinking tickets, and I'm really glad I don't have to deal with another year of dodging cops and trying not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  It was really interesting to see how when we were down by the bars, there were drunken idiots everywhere, but no cops to be seen.  As if they were all saying..."Oh those kids are 21...it's fine."  Because it was assumed that I was 21, I could stumble around as much as I want, but the second I got a couple of blocks uptown I had to have eyes in the back of my head, because every other car is a cop.  It just seems so arbitrary.  

At about 10pm I tucked in my friend Dave who had started and finished the night early, loudly playing the first verse of Cumbersome by Seven Mary Three on his computer over and over again.  Then I headed downtown with some people where my recently expired ID was surprisingly effective.  After having a few drinks at RJ's, and escaping from a girl who kept inappropriately rubbing my inner thigh and buying me tequila shots, my friends Indy, Glenn and I moved over to What Ales You, and despite the issues we had getting in, it was a great time.  The bouncer grabbed Glenn's ID and began bending it back and forth like the home-made, poorly laminated piece of shit that it is.

"This is fake," he informed us.  Indy was about to step in and try to say something helpful when Glenn through his arm up in the air to stop him and said the most unconvincing thing I've ever heard. 

"No it's not...that's my ID...I come here all the time."  He sounded like a little kid with crumbs all over him, claiming that he hadn't stolen the cookies from the cookie jar.  Then, for some inexplicable reason they let him in, and the three of us had a few shots, I managed to get bumped into and spill a drink on myself, and somebody bought me a Jager bomb that made me throw my arms into the air and yell "Done."  After some pizza and a failed attempt by Indy to take home the coach of the women's lacrosse team, we really were done, and made our way back to Indy's house for some late night Mario Tennis and passing out.  All in all, an excellent night, and though I couldn't imagine spending this entire year in Burlington, I will miss a lot of the people.

Hepatitis

I went to the doctor's office today to get a check-up, and my doctor, who is the man by the way, told me that I was perfectly healthy and there was no real need to have a physical.  Once he found out I was going to Italy we ended up talking for over forty-five minutes (he is very proud of the fact that his ancestry is 100% Italian) about everything from books I should read, to wine and vineyards, to how I should wear a condom when I am over there.  He did end up giving me a Hepatitis-A vaccination which has given me a serious dead arm, but it reminded me of that old saying...

"I'd rather have a dead arm today than get Hepatitis-A."

I also just bought a sick rain jacket, my new camera and my visa came in the mail, and I found out that I will be living on Via Fabio Severo, one of the main streets in Trieste, so things are coming together...10 days people.