We're on our last full day in Prague. It snuck up on me because I can't keep track of days-of-the-week when we're just touring around everyday (I know, I know, tough life).
Yesterday we went to the Prague Zoo. We actually intended just to go to the nearby botanical gardens for a lazy day with our books, but I stumbled across the zoo in my attempts to find directions to the gardens. It's rated one of the top ten in Europe, so we HAD to go. It was actually an excellent zoo! Wayyyyy better than the Rome zoo. AND, the food and beverage there is wicked cheap. That made Penn happy. We ate well and had half a litre of beer for only about $6!
So, we've been trying to see anything we can and eat whatever we can. Tonight we're going to try to get to an opera at the famed opera house in the Old Town. I hope they have seats left and that they are surprisingly cheap. Wouldn't that be nice?
Well, we have to get our lazy bums going. Time for another fabulous breakfast out. Check out our pictures on facebook...there are a TON. Love and miss you all. (Happy Fathers' Day to our papas, again! Sorry we can't be with you...we'll enjoy a beer in your honor!!)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Praha at Last!
We are safe and happy as clams in Prague. We've arrived and already done the preliminary sweep of the Old Town. Now we're in our hostel (which rules) getting settled and trying to plan out our six days in this wonderful place! We've already had a traditional Czech meal (mine of beef and dumplings, Penn's of pork and spaetzle) and a wonderful lager at a local microbrewery. I think we're going to like it here...it couldn't be more different from Orvieto, so it's a nice change! Kit has helped us with a few suggestions to fill up our time here, but further suggestions are welcome. Though, it seems like one could just walk and walk here and never get tired of staring at the architecture...
The only goal I have is to drink a Pilsner for each and every one of you (just kidding, mostly). We'll keep updating you on the goings-on. I'll try to get up-to-date with facebook pictures so that I can start posting Prague ones. We can also try to Skype with people if you want to email/comment with a good time for you. Let us know!
The only goal I have is to drink a Pilsner for each and every one of you (just kidding, mostly). We'll keep updating you on the goings-on. I'll try to get up-to-date with facebook pictures so that I can start posting Prague ones. We can also try to Skype with people if you want to email/comment with a good time for you. Let us know!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Weird Beard
So, I'm sitting by the sea in Fiumicino missing all our friends from Orvieto. I can't wait to get to Prague so that we can occupy our minds with something else! Though, today we saw the archeological dig at Osta Antica and that was pretty amazing.
I'll let everyone know when we're safe in Prague!
I'll let everyone know when we're safe in Prague!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Full Piece
I'm going to post the full piece here now that I'm done with it. I'm reading it tonight for the sort of closing ceremonies thing we're doing. Enjoy it.
La Passeggiata
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto's citizens observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling and eating again. This phenomenon remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitable pressures of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I had walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, all the townspeople have emerged en masse to admire one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this more vertical vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cup holders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form a bedtime preamble that is also her induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from the nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of inveterate meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her passeggiata.
The nonna in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers . I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the later portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity.
She models a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels—always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jawline used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be assembling by her doors any minute now.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
Caught somewhere in the purgatory between youth and wisdom, one Orvietano generation takes its place behind the gelato cases and bar counters. They are an intriguing collection of beautiful faces and as-yet unpolished ambitions. They are the dreamers of this town-set-in-stone whose discontent flashes on their faces only when they think no one is looking.
My spritz server tonight lives in this limbo. He embodies Italian trendiness with his narrow jeans, metallic sneakers and hawked hair. He seems too young to be so adept with a tray full of prosecco flutes, but he whirls them past me with ease. His confident, practiced strut takes him smoothly between tables. He flashes his shining smile to any willing swooner. He is attentive to his customers and to potential customers streaming down the corso.
It is in these flickers of connection with those beyond the umbrellas of Caffe Cavour that I sense his regret. He blends with the crowd whenever he can, finding quick escapes from the inevitable refill request. Pride in full glasses and crisp crostini for his patrons can't fully satisfy him tonight. Could a stroller filled with his own heir and pushed by his own inamorata be the answer? Perhaps an affair with one of the new American girls in town who will sweep him off to a new life? Or maybe this young man just wants a fast-forward button to bring him closer to a time when he has nothing more to worry about than finding an empty bench on which he can rest. Yes, he covets his neighbor's spot in the corso parade and the tourist's transient time in his small town. Yet, in and instant, his tray is full again and his smile is vibrant. He'll find another moment to dream before the night is over. For now, his must do his part to fuel our passeggiata.
La Passeggiata
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto's citizens observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling and eating again. This phenomenon remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitable pressures of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I had walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, all the townspeople have emerged en masse to admire one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this more vertical vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cup holders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form a bedtime preamble that is also her induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from the nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of inveterate meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her passeggiata.
The nonna in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers . I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the later portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity.
She models a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels—always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jawline used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be assembling by her doors any minute now.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
Caught somewhere in the purgatory between youth and wisdom, one Orvietano generation takes its place behind the gelato cases and bar counters. They are an intriguing collection of beautiful faces and as-yet unpolished ambitions. They are the dreamers of this town-set-in-stone whose discontent flashes on their faces only when they think no one is looking.
My spritz server tonight lives in this limbo. He embodies Italian trendiness with his narrow jeans, metallic sneakers and hawked hair. He seems too young to be so adept with a tray full of prosecco flutes, but he whirls them past me with ease. His confident, practiced strut takes him smoothly between tables. He flashes his shining smile to any willing swooner. He is attentive to his customers and to potential customers streaming down the corso.
It is in these flickers of connection with those beyond the umbrellas of Caffe Cavour that I sense his regret. He blends with the crowd whenever he can, finding quick escapes from the inevitable refill request. Pride in full glasses and crisp crostini for his patrons can't fully satisfy him tonight. Could a stroller filled with his own heir and pushed by his own inamorata be the answer? Perhaps an affair with one of the new American girls in town who will sweep him off to a new life? Or maybe this young man just wants a fast-forward button to bring him closer to a time when he has nothing more to worry about than finding an empty bench on which he can rest. Yes, he covets his neighbor's spot in the corso parade and the tourist's transient time in his small town. Yet, in and instant, his tray is full again and his smile is vibrant. He'll find another moment to dream before the night is over. For now, his must do his part to fuel our passeggiata.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Last Week
We're all freaking out about only having one week left together. Penn and I have decided to go on the bus that is bringing everyone to the airport so that we can say goodbye adequately. Then, he and I are killing time in Fiumicino, on the coast and very near the airport, until we leave for Prague! Those two days will be a good time for us to recuperate and clear our brains to leave Italy.
In the mean time, I am singing in the show that's being held at the monastery as part of the Art & Faith program in town. It's been fun and distracting from panic. Penn has been busily laying out the 40 page "A Guide to Orvieto" we've compiled as part of our Travel Writing class. Allyson did all the illustrations and Penn has been put in charge of making it printable before we do a reading from it on Thursday. He is wonderful and is almost done already!
Anyway, I have to focus my brain on finding a flight for the last leg of our trip and organizing our bags for travel. Can't wait to see you all in just a short while!
In the mean time, I am singing in the show that's being held at the monastery as part of the Art & Faith program in town. It's been fun and distracting from panic. Penn has been busily laying out the 40 page "A
Anyway, I have to focus my brain on finding a flight for the last leg of our trip and organizing our bags for travel. Can't wait to see you all in just a short while!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
First Travel Piece
The following is the final draft of the first half of the piece I'm preparing in Travel Writing class. The second half is due on Monday, so I'll share it when I have it completed! The second half is going to be about the generation stuck between the two I've observed below. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
La Passeggiata
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto's tenants observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling and eating again. It's a phenomenon that remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitabilities of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I had walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, these people have emerged en masse to appreciate one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages now rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cupholders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form her bedtime preamble and induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from this nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her Passeggiata.
The woman in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers . I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the later portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
She dons a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels. Always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jawline used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be congregating by her doors any minute now.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
La Passeggiata
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto's tenants observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling and eating again. It's a phenomenon that remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitabilities of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I had walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, these people have emerged en masse to appreciate one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages now rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cupholders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form her bedtime preamble and induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from this nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her Passeggiata.
The woman in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers . I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the later portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
She dons a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels. Always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jawline used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be congregating by her doors any minute now.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
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