Natale a Napoli

Christmas with the Gambardella family is loud.  Really, really loud.  On more than one occassion both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day before asking me to translate, my mother asked me if people were fighting.  They weren't, though.  It's just how they talk.  ...just how we talk.  (Excluding myself from that description would be incredibly dishonest).  

The alcohol probably doesn't help to keep the volume in check, though.  On the 23rd my dad went on what might actually be the world's longest liquor run, and came back with a gazillion (an actual, scientific number) bottles of wine and a number of after dinner drinks that although intended to be slowly sipped ended up in shot glass after shot glass.  After doing the math Christmas morning, given the number of empty wine bottles and number of people drinking, it came down to about a bottle per drinker at dinner on Christmas Eve.  Because we are a family of CHAMPS.

Food, and the process of cooking and eating it with the people you love, is an important part of Italian culture.  I don't need to tell you that.  So, the fact that my holiday involved eating like royalty probably isn't much of a surprise.  The phenomenal, delicious, easily restuarant quality food that we ate two days in a row was more than my inner foodie could handle.  I can assure you though that I left the table with my heart as full as my stomach.

Christmas Eve dinner, as per tradition, consists of fish and seafood.  A lot of Italian-American families in the states have kept this tradition alive, too.  But we do it better.  Forget the shrimp cocktail you buy in bulk at Costco, we ate those beautiful, giant shrimps with the heads and legs still on them.  And prawns.  And octopus.  And squid and anchovies and sea bass and seafood salad and lobster and scallops and spaghetti with clam sauce and clams and oysters on the half shell.  And caviar.  Does your family eat caviar?  I didn't think so. 

The next day, we ate meat.  And NOT a turkey.  (I have never understood why so many people choose to eat the most overrated meat so soon after Thanksgiving).  We ate steak.  Delicious, pink steak.  And lamb.  And cinghiale.  Do you know what that is?  It's wild boar.  Because, as I previously stated, we are a family of CHAMPS.

I saved the most important part of the holiday for last, however, because the most important part of Christmas year was not tangible.  Or edible.  (Or drinkable).  The most important, most moving, and most beautiful part of my holiday this year was the fact that for the first time in almost twenty years, my father celebrated Christmas with his sibilings and his dad.  You could see the joy in everyone's eyes, you could feel it in the air and in your bones.  I don't think I ever really realized what a sacrifice my dad makes every single year at this time, and how hard it must be for him.  As if I don't already have a million reasons to appreciate the man, this Christmas I found another one.  One that I really should have found a while ago.

Despite all the joy of Christmastime, especially this year, holidays are always bittersweet.  Yes, it is nice, and important, to appreciate the new faces at the table, but you can't celebrate a holiday as important as this without also remembering the faces who aren't here anymore, and without wondering whether or not the table will look the same next year.  Life is fragile, and there is no way of knowing what is to come.  Luckily for me, I'm a Gambardella, and the Gambardellas combat this fragility and uncertainty with laughter, togetherness, faith, unshakeable optimism, and a whole lot of love.          

Paris

I don't even know where to begin, really.  We saw so much, ate so much, drank so much and did so many things that I think it would be impossible to talk about them all.  We did the necessary touristy things, of course.  Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe.  I could write about these things, but a gazillion other travel writers/bloggers already have, and so I feel like it would be useless.   

I will, however, talk about Versailles.  Ever since first learning about the French monarchy in AP European History my sohpomore year of high school, I've wanted to go to the Palace.  And I am so happy I did.  We arrived in the modern day town of Versailles (which is a lot like a nicer, more upscale and French Huntington Village) via public transportation.  I'm not sure mere mortals can come up with words to describe it- I refuse to believe that mere mortals built it- but I will do my best.

Pick up a thesaurus.  Go to the word "big".  Read all of the words that are more eloquent and that are usually used for things that are bigger than big.  Then say all of those words out loud in a row, as if it were a sentence.  That is my description of Versailles.  It would take days, maybe weeks, to go through it and look at every single thing there is to see, and in detail.  If you've ever taken a White House tour in D.C., imagine that, but a million times better.  Not only is the Palace filled with big, beautiful and grandiose things, but its own physical construction and decoration is in and of itself big, beautiful and grandiose.  I'm not so sure that anyone other than French royalty could have ever pulled it off.  The whole complex is pretty ballsy in its size, decoration, and sheer grandeur.  It pretty much screams "Look how rich and powerful I am!".  It really put the anger of the hungry French peasantry I'd learned about in school into context. 

  

A rare winter visit to my summer home.

Yes, the museums and historical sight seeing are interesting.  And they are important, because they put all of the other things you experience in Paris into context.  And the same is true for any city one visits, really.  I think travelers, and no offense but especially American travelers, forget the importance of context.  How can you really develop an appreciation of a city and its people without knowing at least a little bit of how they developed into the present?  Every potential conversation, whether with a waiter or bartender, hotel concierge, taxi driver or local you ask for directions, becomes so much  more meaningful when it isn't a question and answer session.  So as much as I enjoyed Versailles (both the Palace and the modern day town surrounding it), and the other famous sights we saw during our stay, I think my favorite part of our time in Paris was the walking we did to get to these places, and the destinationless meandering we made time for, because it allowed us to put what we had learned and seen into context.  It's also how we found some really great food.  Speaking of which...

Eating in Paris is dangerous.  Because it is SO good.  If you are dieting, or a light or picky eater, pick a different city to visit.  Paris is not for you.  I was especially pleased because apart from the high quality of the food which we consistently encountered, I was eating what I don't eat in Florence: red meat.  I should remind you all that my host mom is a fabulous cook, but sadly she has some kind of inexplicable and unrelatable opposition to red meat, and by the time I arrived in Paris my inner carnivore was going mad.  My diet for the trip consisted predominantly of paté, some kind of potato, red meat and red wine.  I had missed steak, and I was getting my fix.  And, I ordered all of my steaks rare.  Because I was in Paris, and I figured if anyone knows how to properly cook a rare steak it's the Parisians.  I was never disappointed.     

One thing about eating in Paris which (pleasantly) surprised me is that even the more touristy restaurants we ate at managed to remain much more true and authentic to the cuisine, which is a lot more than comparable places in Florence can say.

Almost every night we took advantage of the mild winter weather the city was experiencing during our stay to have a drink (or a few), at one of the numerous bars and cafès that feature outdoor seating.  Most of them are enclosed in a kind of heavy duty plastic curtian, and have outdoor heaters, and I was happy to see that the weather doesn't kill the vibe.

This  This post really does't do the city of Paris or my trip there justice.  But it was too intense, emotionally, spiritually, gastronomically, to accurately describe.  The one thing that I feel I have to say is that I have absolutely no clue where the stereotype of rude, nasty, unwelcoming Parisians comes from.  I was greeted with more welcoming smiles, patience, kindness and laughter than I've ever received in Florence.  And the baguette was better than the schiacciata.  

   

Mandatory Eiffel Tower selfie.

Milan

I imagined that one of the major fashion capitals of the world would be quite glamorous, but it reminded me a little bit of Forest Hills. 

We arrived in Milan just in time for the snow, for which I was grateful.  We haven't seen snow in Florence yet, but I've seen plenty of pictures on Facebook of a snowy Smith campus, and I was missing the white stuff.  The snow also helped Milan to look beautiful- something it otherwise struggles to do.  Milan is grey.  The city is known for being cloudy, foggy, and cold.  The same is true of the people.  Luckily, Ellen and I found the Neapolitans.

Actually, they found us.  My dad has a childhood friend, Salvatore, who now lives in Milan with his wife and son.  Before arriving the two of them spoke, and then him and I spoke, and we made plans to meet up with each other during our visit.  I thought this would entail maybe stopping by his home for an espresso, but Salvatore had other ideas.  This man takes southern Italian hospitality to a whole new, wonderful level.

He met us, with his son Simone, at the train station.  I was greeted with a big hug, like we were old friends.  Salvatore is a big, round man, and he exudes joy.  He's positive, seemingly always, which after hearing about the hard times he's fallen on in the last couple of years, I'd imagine is not so easy.  From the train station, we went to his home where we had something to drink and chatted for a bit.  He asked us about our program, how we were enjoying it, and the like.  Small talk, really.  But small talk with Neapolitans isn't so small.  Yes, the conversation might be about simple, general things, but it's never just for the sake of killing time or avoiding silence.  Neapolitans, or at least all the ones I've ever known, genuinely want to hear what you have to sa.  They want to hear your story, and they will share theirs with you as well.  Salvatore is so open, so honest.  He is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, and he's prepared to hand it right to you.  After a little bit at his house, Salvatore drove us to where we were staying, and let me know (repeatedly) that I could call him at any time of day for whatever reason during the course of our stay in Milan.  Here is a man who hasn't seen my dad- the person who serves as the connection between us- for maybe 30 years, and he didn't hesitate once to act like a protecting, concerned father figure.  I don't know what's in the air or in the water in southern Italy that makes the people there this way, but whatever it is I hope it never changes. 

Sight seeing in Milan was minimal, as there isn't really that much to see.  We went to the Duomo, which was breathtaking.  It is a big, gothic cathedral that stands as the focal point of a large, central piazza.  Entrance was free (unlike the Duomo in Florence), but you must pay to take pictures, which we happily did.  As is often the case in today's Italy, this old, historic sight is now surrounded flashing lights, advertisements, and fast food restaurants.  It's an incredibly odd contrast, one that leaves me uneasy and confused, and it saddens me that so few people ever really stop to think about it.

Not far from Piazza del Duomo is the Museo del Novecento, or Museum of the 1900s, an art museum featuring works by Italian artists from that time period.  I found a new favorite, Umberto Boccioni.  He uses a lot of color, bright and bold, and a number of different artistic styles/techniques.  There was one piece called "Corpo Umano" (Human Body).  I thought the head was in one place, Ellen thought it was in another, and neither of us could really decipher the rest.  We walked through the museum talking about what we saw, comparing and contrasting.  I felt oddly sophisticated.  I've always liked to look at art, but after spending a year with Alfonso, I actually use more than just my eyes.

On Saturday we spent the afternoon with Simone.  He showed us some parts of the city we never would have found on our own, which was nice.  He's a very funny person.  Energetic, talkative, feisty.  We ended up just sitting in a cafè, talking about a bunch of different things.  He wanted to hear all about America, New York especially.  He speaks English pretty well, and would really love to come to the States- a desire which pulls at my hearstrings.  Just listening to him talk, both what he said and how he said it helped me to see him there, doing a variety of different things.  I instantly wanted to find a way to make it possible.  Unfortunately, the fact that I have little to no idea of what to do with my own life and my general lack of financial independence makes it impossible for me to do so.

That night Salvatore took Ellen and I out to dinner with his family.  Of course, he's managed to find a pizzeria in Milan owned and operated by Neapolitans.  He is clearly a regular at this place, because he was greeted with a big hug by the proprieter and treated like a king the entire time we were there.  We had a conversation about comparative politics, about family and the upcoming holiday. 

On Sunday, we hung out with Simone again for a few hours before having (a delicious) lunch at his house and heading to the airport.  I feel very lucky to have met the Varlese family.  Their hospitality was really the highlight of my time in Milan.  The city itself, at least for me, offers very little.  Perhaps I'll have to plan my next visit during Fashion Week.                  

general goings on and updates

On Friday, the director of the magazine I am interning for while here in Florence sent me to a Vintage exhibit at il Museo del Tessuto (the Textile Museum) in Prato, a small city not far from Florence.  The city is famous for textiles, and has been for an incredibly long time.  I was originally supposed to go on a press bus with professional journalists...but I missed it.  Luckily I was near Santa Maria Novella, so I bought a train ticket and got there on my own.  When I got to the museum I met up with the group I was supposed to have started the day with- this group was made of up almost entirely of middle aged journalists who looked quite confused by my presence.  The exhibit was small, but gorgeous.  It was tasteful, artistic, and at the end they set up a small vintage shop for anyone interested in making a purchase.  (Well not anyone, rich people.  Stuff was EXPENSIVE).  Despite my morning mishaps, I had a pleasant afternoon at the museum.  An afternoon spent with vintage Valentino is an afternoon well spent in my book.

 

In other news, I only have three more days of classes until my FABULOUS winter break.  I have a little more work and a lot of Christmas shopping to do before I leave, but whether or not I get it all done I am arriving in Milan (with the beautiful and lovely Ellen Pizzuto) at 2:40 pm Thursday afternoon!  I'll be there until Sunday the 16th, and that night Ellen and I fly to PARIS.  Then, on the 22nd, I am flying to Naples for the holidays.  My parents and sisters are meeting me there, and it will be the first time we are in Italy for Christmas with my dad's family in (I think) sixteen years.  We'll be there until January 5th, at which point my parents and sisters will go back to the states, and I will go visit some cousins in northern Italy for a few days before coming back to Florence.  Needless to say, I am very excited!  I will try to update this blog with happenings from my trip, but I can't make any promises.  I might be too busy doing something fabulous.  I will keep my journal with me though, and I will eventually share everything with you!

chi sono? (who am i?)

PER FAVORE, PERDONATEMI! PLEASE, FORGIVE ME!

I know I haven't written in a while, or at least it feels like a while, and I apologize.  Even though I'm away from Smith, the bulk of my coursework is still assigned for the last two weeks before winter break.  Some things never change, I suppose!  

Despite my being busy with school work, I've not been too busy to do the the thinking and reflecting that this blog has (unexpectedly) come to embody.  In fact, it has kept me from getting work done on a few occasions.  I'm not sure whether you're reading this because you're interested in what I have to say or because it is a convenient way to kill time, or for some other reason, but regardless of your reasons for reading you are going to get the openness and honesty that I've promised.

Ever since arriving in Florence, but especially recently, I've been thinking about identity.  It's not the most straightforward or obvious thought process I've ever had, so allow me to give you some context.

The last time I was in Italy alone I was fourteen.  I had been studying Italian for three years, and I knew nothing about Italian history.  This time, however, I have more education- in a formal sense of the word but also in terms of experience and knowledge.  I'm not saying that I have tons of life experience and that I know really well what I'm doing on this planet or that I'm wise beyond my years.  I'm saying simply that my intellectual arsenal, if you will, is better equipped than it was the last time around.  As it should be.

Another thing that is different about my current experience in Italy is that it's the first time I'm here without being in Naples and without being with my family.  I've been to other parts of the country, yes, but always with my family.

These two differences go hand in hand, and are very much relevant to the thinking and reflecting I've been doing ever since my arrival, even though I might not have been immediately aware of it.

During my last year of high school I didn't really know where I wanted to go to college, I knew only that I wanted to study abroad, specifically in Italy.  I felt as though any other country wouldn't have really been useful, even though it might have been fun.  "I have to go to Italy", I though.  "I study and speak Italian, my father is Italian, I have Italian relatives, and have very strong ties with my background.  I am Italian".

In the months before I left, my friends and I would joke that this year in Italy was my return to the motherland.  Even though we were kidding around, I really felt that way.  Now, though, I'm not so sure.

In the years since spending that summer in Naples when I was fourteen, I have learned much more Italian history, and my language skills have dramatically improved.  So when I went back to Naples the summer after freshman year of college, my aunt spoke to me, in depth for the first time, about Naples and its language and its people.  We talked about the history, the dialect, and campanilismo a term that refers to the fact that people in Italy tend to identify first with their region or city rather than with the nation.  These are all things I'd heard of before, whether from professors or from listening to the conversations of my relatives, but that summer for the first time I was part of the conversation.  I listened attentively.  I asked questions.  I learned.  I reflected on everything, I never stopped thinking about it. 

Now that I am in Florence, I couldn't stop thinking about it if I tried.  I don't feel like I've come back to the motherland.  I feel like a foreigner.  Yes, those conversations with my aunt were incredibly important, but I was in Naples, talking about Naples, with Neapolitans.  I had to go somewhere else to really understand.  I had to come here, to Florence, to see for myself just how prominent this idea of campanilismo is, and to realize how many diverse cultures exist in this country.  All my life I've identified as Italian.  But now, I need to rethink.  Am I Italian, or Neapolitan?  Can I be both, or do I have to choose one?  If I can be both, does one identity have to come before the other, or can they be equal?  If I can't choose both, which one am I supposed to choose?  I speak Italian. I don't speak Neapolitan. But Neapolitan is what my family identifies with.  Can I be a part of a culture whose language I don't understand?  Do I even get to choose how to identify, or is the identity chosen for me in the way I am viewed by others?

This is a question of identity.  A part of me wants to call it an identity crisis.  I don't have an answer.  At least not yet.  Maybe I never will, or maybe these questions are unanswerable.    The only thing I know for sure is that I need to learn more.

I have so much more I could say, but it's only indirectly related, and I think this is enough for one post.  If you've managed to make it this far, I appreciate your time.