Spring Cleaning

Note to reader: Think of this post as a spring cleaning of my brain.

In Italian, there are two different ways to say "you".  If you're talking to a friends or family, or other people you're on good terms with, you use the word "tu".  But if you're talking with a stranger, especially someone older, or to someone who holds some kind of important position, you'd use the word "Lei".  It is, in a way, a sign of respect.  But that's not the only thing it is.

Back in the sixth grade when I learned this for the first time, eleven year old me was told the Lei was a thing of respect.  But the other day I watched a film called Buongiorno, Notte, which tells the true story of an extreme left wing group who in 1978 kidnapped and killed the then Prime Minister of Italy, Aldo Moro.  Throughout the film the kidnappers, when talking to Moro, always use the Lei form.  To me this seemed odd.  If they Lei is about respect, why would they use it?  In my mind, the kinds of people the characters were based on wouldn't have any respect for Moro.  

Naturally, I emailed Alfonso about my linguistic predicament, and he explained to me that the Lei is actually a lot more than just a sign of respect.

Firstly, and most simply, it sometimes just comes naturally, as Italian children are taught from very early ages to use it.  But more than that it's about space.  In a conversation between two people, if the Lei is used, there is a metaphorical space between them, regardless of their physical proximity.  There is a distance.  Think, for example, of a job interview.  The interviewer is on one side of the desk, the interviewee on the other.  Desks are not that large.  There are only a few feet between these two people.  But when the interviewee addresses the interviewer with the Lei, that desk becomes the table in the board room.  Thus there is not only an acknowledgement of the figurative space between the two people, but there is also the recognition that this space represents the dependency of the interviewee on the interviewer.  All under the veneer of being polite.  Going back to the film, the kidnappers in real life probably didn't have any respect for Aldo Moro.  But addressing him with the Lei form helped to create a figurative but very important space between them.  Given that these conversations took place in an incredibly tiny secret room built behind a bookshelf (where Moro was kept for over fifty days before before being assassinated), the figurative space provided by the Lei is even more significant.   

I then started to think about the relationship between space and respect.  In some instances, and not just conversational ones, keeping ones distance could be interpreted as a sign of respect.  Perhaps you're at a museum and you don't get too close to the paintings.  Perhaps someone you know wants to be alone and you respect his or her wishes.  Or, to give a linguistic example, using the Lei, that space could provide for a recognition of status.  If you ever met, I don't know, the President of the US or the Queen of England, that respect via distance would be warranted.  

There are moments, though, when distance can be quite have very strong, negative implications.  Distance can demonstrate a number of things, both in conversational circumstances and otherwise.  For one thing, it's an effective way of showing dislike for a person, or showing that you think you're superior.  It can also imply the lack of desire to interact with, or even to acknowledge, something or someone else.   

I find it almost peculiar that the Italian language allows for such creation and acknowledgement of space, because Italian people don't appear to be actively thinking about it.  When Italians talk to you, regardless of what form of the word "you" is being used, they're usually taking up more of your personal space than Americans would in the same situation.  Additionally, the concept of privacy is virtually nonexistent in Italian culture.  The language, in fact, doesn't even have a word for it.  It's only within the last number of years that they've adopted the English word.  If  the people in your life aren't trying to be in your business, or if you're not letting them in on it, then they're busy trying to find out about it from someone else  If you ever have any sort of embarrassing experience while with a friend or family member, chances are at the next big gathering or function, he or she will tell everyone about it at the dinner table.  The issue of space manifests itself in other ways as well.  Almost all Italians live in apartment buildings.  Two story houses are rare, and even when you do see them they are often still in some way connected to another home, or another home is found in very close proximity.  In Italy you will find two-way streets that are only wide enough for one car, and drivers continually find ways to fit said cars into unthinkably small parking spaces.  That being said, traffic jams due to misjudged parking spaces can and do occur.  (You can watch an amusing example of it here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/video/2013/feb/06/naples-parking-fiasco-holdup-video ).

All these things, even though at times a little difficult to get used to, only add to the love I have for this place.  So what if your aunts and cousins are putting their noses in your business?  They want to know everything about you because they love you more than you could possibly imagine.  Who cares if they tell your embarrassing stories at the dinner table?  Those stories are funny.  Laugh!  That Italian ability to laugh things off and find joy in nearly any situation is, in my totally unscientific opinion, directly related to their impressive life expectancy.  Being here as opened me up to laughing at myself- something I desperately needed.  (I'm sure my sisters will say that I still have a lot of work to do, and they're probably right, but it's a process).  Being here has given me the chance to see how I can connect the intellectual and academic parts of my life with the simpler ones.  People are born to think.  We're not supposed to do it only when we're being graded.   Since arriving in Italy I have felt more intellectually worthwhile than ever, I am in touch with myself in a way that I've never been, and I am so happy.  I get stressed here (I'm still a Smith student, after all), but the stress doesn't consume me like it does at home, especially on campus.  I've also figured out what I want to do after graduation.  If any of my friends who have held me through my (many) emotional "I don't know what to do with my life" breakdowns are reading this, they'll know what an amazing feat that is.  I want to teach Italian not just because I enjoy the language and the literature, but because I want to share these concepts with people.  Especially students.  I needed to learn how to balance my intellectual self with the part of myself that is and therefore should behave twenty years old.  I do not have to, and should not, turn one part off to use the other.  Sure, there will be moments when I'm concentrating on one part, but they should always be working together.  And that is something I wish I would have learned freshman year.    

I realize that I've strayed quite far from the the ideas I started this post with, but rambling is quite Italian.  That's because, as Alfonso has told me many times before and as I'm sure he'll tell me again, all ideas connected.  Everything is relevant.  Nothing is too big of a stretch.

In a way, though, I'm still right on point.  I've created a distance.  A distance between an initial thought and a final one.  This time, the distance represents thought.  Or better, a thought process.  Reflection.  Reflection requires space.  And reflection is everything.  Learning, and thus living, can't happen without it.  

If you've made it to the end of this, I am rewarding your time and patience with pictures of the Tuscan country side for you to fantasize over.  I took these pictures yesterday in Colle di Val d'Elsa, a town that I seriously considered spending the rest of my life in.

      
      

An Unexpectedly Wonderful Afternoon

A few weeks ago, my boss mentioned that she'd been invited to a blogger meet up.  She asked me if I'd like to go.  I said sure.

I never imagined that this morning would involve a bus ride up a windy, mountain road somewhere in the Tuscan country side.  I never thought about a villa.  And the possibility of eating wild boar for lunch never crossed my mind.

The event was put on by Tuscany Now, a company that offers luxury villa rentals in Tuscany.  They invited bloggers from the area to come and enjoy a lavish lunch, stunning views, and incredible hospitality- for free.  All they asked was that we'd come home and blog about it.  I was the youngest one there, with the least visited blog, eating wild boar and drinking wine.  And I didn't have to pay for the food or the networking.  Essentially, it was a classy college student's dream.

In addition to the food, there was live Tuscan folk music provided by a bunch that was just as much a comedy troupe as they were a band.  I also go the chance to meet some American women living in Florence, all of whom are at the other end of their 20s.  They all have incomes and fulfilling personal lives- which was immensely reassuring.

Today, everything clicked.  Introducing ourselves wasn't awkward.  There was no small talk.  There were people sharing their thoughts and their stories.  Sharing themselves.

An event like this would never happen at home.  It would be too formal, too uptight.  There would be condescending people and fake people.  There would be a lot of small talk.  And there wouldn't be wild boar.

 Time moves more slowly when the bottles are

Uncorked.  Have a glass.  Have another.  Here we diet for our

Souls, not our waistlines.  This is the land of Chianti

Classico, after all.  And whether you've come from far

Away, or just down the street, there is a journey to be had.  I can only

Narrate my journey.  I implore you to make the most of

Your own.  And bring a corkscrew. 

(If you're interested: http://www.tuscanynow.com/?gclid=CNP4n97sgbYCFYKN3godcCcAbg )

(Also- this blog isn't the only place I'm on the internet! http://www.magentaflorence.com/magenta/week-by-week/free-historic-art-show/ )

Sunday Sensibilities- Fiesole

Sunday, after what seemed like endless rain, (not a metaphor), we saw the sun (also not a metaphor- the weather here sucks).  So, like any good Smithie, I took all of my homework and a granola bar to a bench under a tree on a hill.  The hill being Fiesole, a town whose altitude allows for a stunning view of Florence.  

I did some reading for my classes, of course, but I felt the need to write.  I hadn't written in so long- not just for this blog but for myself.  Things haven't been coming to me, and I've been tired and stressed and worried about things that shouldn't make me tired and stressed and worried.  (Story of my life).  I did all my writing just outside the church of San Francesco.  A friar walked by me with an understanding look on his face as he watched me write.  It was encouraging.  

So, as I've done in past Sunday Sensibilities posts, what comes after this is what I wrote, just as I wrote it.
    
The church was built here however many hundred years ago because it was outside the city, way up on a hill, on its own.  Most of the monasteries built at the time were built in comparable locations, because it was believed that in order to be as close to God as friars and nuns need to be, they had to escape the evils and distractions of city life.  Today, all it takes to get here is a bus ride.  I wonder what San Francesco would have to say about it.  I think he'd be really annoyed with us, honestly.  Especially with Italy.  It's a little ironic that he's the patron saint of the country.  The man took a vow of poverty and made every effort to use and have as few material possessions as possible, and he is now the patron saint of a country whose people are known for high fashion, who are obsessed with aesthetics and incredibly concerned with appearances and impressions.     

I have learned so much here.  And i don't mean in the classroom, however important and shaping that part of my experience has been and continues to be.  I am so much more in touch with myself than I've ever been before.  The benefits of taking the tiem for serious self reflection and self analysis have been immense.  I arrived confused and unsure, and now I have goals and objectives.  I am newly aware of myself.

It's sad to think how fast time has gone by here.  In some ways I still feel like I've just arrived, and in other ways I feel like an expert.  I do wish I had more time (though I am trying to stay for the summer!).  The thought of going back to Smith- a place where I spent so long studying things that weren't right for me and where I was never able to realize it- terrifies me.  I don't want to backtrack on all of the personal progress I've made.  I'm worried that I will lose myself in anxiety like I've done so many times there.  Don't get me wrong, I loved my time at Smith and the people I shared it with.  I'm grateful for it and better person because of it.  But it was, is, a love-hate relationship.  Education should not incorporate stress and anxiety at levels so high that it reduces people to tears.  Yet I've sat with a number of Smithies as they cry while looking over their to do lists and planners and assignments- and a number of Smithies have sat with  me as I did the same.  Education should not incorporate fear and worry.  How can you learn like that?  These things do nothing good for your brain, and they do serious damage to your heart.  

And I guess it's not odd that I had to come here to make this progress.  Italians in general are much more relaxed.  They don't believe in stress.  I'm still more high strung and stiff than your average 20 year old, but less so than before I arrived.  Much less so.  And letting go of some of that is what has hallowed me to make the emotional progress that I've made here.  It's allowed me to realize what I want to do, both in terms of a career and in other ways as well.  I guess I'm just growing up.  Something I've always been rather apprehensive about.   

   

Sicilia

Part of me feels that I should probably go through all of the places we visited and what I did and saw at each of them and what a wonderful time I had and blah blah blah but I’m not going to do that mostly because for me it’s rather boring but also because we did so much and saw so much.  It’d be a ten page blog post and I don’t want to write that any more than you want to read it.  That, and I don’t even know where to begin, really.  Maybe that’s because it’s hard to tell where the island begins.  It has been ruled by so many different peoples over the course of its history, and each of these rulers have left their influences, their marks and their scars.  

I also have no real segues for the things I'm going to talk about in this post so I beg your forgiveness in advance.

We arrived at the airport in Catania, and by bus we then traveled to Palermo, which served as our home base for the first three days of the trip.  Palermo is kind of similar to Naples: lots of Baroque, of course (which is growing on me) and colorful.  However, it’s easily twice the size and overall to me it felt much more…sad.  On the one hand, it’s pretty cool to see art and architecture from so many different time periods next to or sometimes literally on top of each other, but on the other hand it seems that it is quite a heavy burden to bear.  Walking down the streets of the Palermo, it was clear that history is not easily forgotten, and moving on is a time consuming process.  There was something in the air that served as a constant reminder of something that prevents belonging, at least completely, to Italy.  But can you really blame these people?  They have thousands of years of difficult, unforgiving and powerful history that other Italians, not even other southern Italians, can really relate to or sympathize with.  So when you hear these people identify first and foremost with Sicily rather than with Italy- can you really blame them?  There is no way it’s easy to legally be bound to a nation when you have two different histories.  And I felt the weight of this intellectual, spiritual burden most in Palermo.  In the smaller places we visited you could definitely feel how old they were, but the feeling wasn’t as overbearing.  Though I think those picturesque windy, cobblestone streets with ocean views and cannoli probably help. 

Italy, as I've mentioned before when talking about Naples, has its own brand of Southern Hospitality, and the Sicilians are some of the friendliest, most hospitable and most generous people you will ever meet.  Perhaps they feel a duty to make up for their islands’ problems (like, you know, the mafia), but these are southern Italian characteristics that have existed for generations.  At one restaurant the proprietor talked with us for almost our whole meal, about Sicily and about Italy, about himself and about us, and then treated us to almond wine made on premises.  (We asked about ingredients and process, but he was unwilling to give up the secret).  At a small restaurant in Erice, two men who were sitting at a bigger table got up and sat at a smaller one when I walked in with a larger group of girls.  These are things that don’t happen just anywhere.

We saw a lot of Greek ruins in Sicily, and believe me there is something really humbling about looking up at giant, ancient temples.  It’s also sort of depressing.  Because I don’t think we (we meaning currently living human beings) are really doing anything as amazing these days.  Ok, a few individuals are, sure, and maybe some companies…but entire societies?  No.  Not really.  Are we building things that are going to last?  And by “things that are going to last”, I don’t just mean things that won’t fall down.  Are we building anything these days that people from all over the world will flock to thousands of years from now just to look up at and go “Wow”?  I don’t think so.  I don’t know if it’s because we aren’t capable or if it’s because we just don’t care to- that’s a whole other conversation in and of itself- but looking at the temples in Segesta and  Selinunte just made me feel kind of like we as a race are doing a serious disservice to, and seriously insulting, the people who came before us.  Myself included.  In fact, I put myself at the top of the list.  I am the worst.  Here I am, receiving this phenomenal (and phenomenally expensive) education, I am being exposed to some of the oldest and truest forms of culture there have ever been and will ever be, literally walking in the footsteps of those who created it, and yet I don’t change myself.  I guess I could be even worse, I could get absolutely nothing out of all of this, and that would be bad.  I get a lot out of it.  I spent every night in Sicily before going to sleep deep inside my own head having these intellectual conversations with myself (I’m not even giving you guys the half of it).  And what have I done since getting home?  Sleep, upload my pictures to Facebook, and listen to “All Night Longer” by Sammy Adams maybe a hundred times.  (If you're curious: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOmvUVDeO0I).  And this is why I’m the problem- because I recognize all of this and I question, but I don’t react accordingly.  It’s not that I’m not capable of thinking deeply- all I ever do is think.  That’s why I don’t sleep.  But I don’t do.  I don’t act.  I could pick up a book, hell even read some damn Wikipedia articles, on literally ANYTHING, and it would be a better use of my time not  just for my own personal intellectual upkeep but for the sake of, you know, preparing myself to be a meaningful member of society.  But what do I do?  I sit on my ass in front of my computer refreshing my Twitter feed.  Young people, even smart ones like me who know how to think, who have amazing professors like the ones in the Smith College Italian Department and who have so many resources available to them, are intellectually lazy.  And regular lazy, too.  What’s really bad is that most of the time when I’m sitting there refreshing my Twitter feed, I’m either thinking about really interesting, meaningful things (that I should probably write about), or I’m thinking about all of the other more intellectually useful things I could be doing.  For crying out loud I could even just go for a jog.  At least then when I came back to wallowing in my intellectual inadequacy I would take up less space doing so.   

All in all, Sicily is the most amazing, most beautiful and most unforgettable place I’ve ever been.  I was consistently made speechless, at times almost brought to tears, by the sheer natural beauty of the island.  That beauty is enhanced by a people whose generosity and sincerity are unrivaled, whose cuisine is unbeatable, and whose passion for life and living, despite their history, cannot be eroded.    

  

What do you do to live?

My host dad, to make a living, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.  

The beginning parts of these two sentences are quite similar.  The lack of a tiny, one letter word in the second one makes the difference.  The second half of these two sentences, however, are quite different.  Why did I put it like that? What am I trying to say?  

Let's start over.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.

My host dad is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.

Do you get where I'm going with this?  Let me try again.  This time I'll be more explicit.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.  Selling copy machines is what he does to make money to pay his bills.  

My host dad, despite his (what many people would consider humble) profession, is incredibly well educated and aware, especially when it comes to history, politics and philosophy.

I sat at the dinner table for about two hours today, talking with and listening to- mostly listening to- my host dad.  The conversation, in I don't remember anymore what order, ranged from the Second World War, German philosophers, Greek philosophers, current day Italian politics, language, laws, and the political theories, ideologies, and cultures behind them.  And it wasn't just  a conversation that mentioned general aspects about these topics.  My host dad went through a number of both German and Greek philosophers, by name, and knew what their ideas were, their theories, when they were written and what inspired them.  My host dad knows important dates and historical figures from all over the world.  These are things that, at least at home, I only talk about with my fellow college students, professors, and adults who were at one point college students like me.  Intellectuals, you might say.    

In Italy it's different.  I'm sure it's partially due to the differences in high school education (no public high school in the States that I know of requires four years of philosophy class), but it's more than that.  Italians, at least the ones I've been fortunate enough to meet thus far, separate their jobs from their lives.  That's because Italians do their jobs to pay their bills, not to live.  To live, they think.  They talk.  They share and discuss and reflect.  Living in Italy is not synonymous with paying bills the way it so often- too often- is in the US.  In Italy, being an intellectual is not a profession.  It is not a title attributed to a certain class or group of people.  To be an intellectual in Italy, you don't have to be a college professor or a politician or a lawyer.  You can be, of course.  Or, you can sell copy machines.        

Why do we ask people "What do you do for a living?" Why do we use the expression "to make a living"? Have we really reduced the act of being alive to merely what we do in order to earn money?  

Had you ever even thought about it before reading this?  Will you ever think about it again afterwards?  I hope you will.  In fact, I implore you to do so.  The next time you meet someone new, instead of asking him  "What do you do for a living?" ask "What do you do to live?".  The words might be similar, but the meanings are completely different.  By all means, if you are actually curious as to what this person's job is, then just ask what his job is.  But if you're curious about the person, about who he is and what he believes and how he thinks, then ask him what he does to live.   

And while you're at it, ask yourself.  Look in the mirror and ask the question aloud.  What do I do to live?

It's a little scary how hard it is to answer, right?  Scary, and sad, and quite telling. 

My host dad, to make a living, as they say, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.   

    

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

This morning, after my iPad alarm clock rang, I used the same device to check Facebook (I am a product of my generation, I beg you not to judge me).  Something good came out of it, though.  Liz had put up photos from her winter break (she went all over the place), and she titled the album "Buses Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet".  I liked the way it sounded so I picked up my journal, which is permanently on my nightstand, and wrote the following, all before getting out of bed.  This one is for you, cara Lisetta.

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

Buses, trains, planes,

Ferries and feet,

Unaware of the things

And of the people I will meet. 

Planes, feet and ferries,

Buses and trains,

Each step of this journey

I am breaking free of the chains

Of ignorance, of motionlessness, and of fear.

I feel with my heart as well as with my hands,

I see with my soul as well as with my eyes,

And with my head I think, I learn, I wonder, I fly.

Because flights do not only leave from airports.

I took a bus to a city nearby

And a plane to one far away

I took a train to somewhere in the middle

I've gotten lost, but I've never gone astray.

I've got a journey bug, now.

Wanderlust, I think it's usually called.

But for me, to wander is to be aimless,

And I have very clear intentions.

This world is so big.  There are

So many places to see,

Infinite things to learn,

And new people I'd like to greet. 

I'm thankful to my heart and to my mind for pushing me out the door,

And I am grateful for the buses, trains and planes,

For the ferries, and for my feet. 

Padova

My time in Naples ended bittersweetly on January fifth, when my parents went back to the States.  I however, couldn't come back to Florence until today, so Zio Mauro arranged for Noa and I to spend a few days in Padova  (or Padua, as it's referred to at home) with cousins of mine...whom I'd never met.  Actually, I didn't even know they existed.  To start, I've always been closer with and known more about my grandfather's side of the family than my grandmother's, and these cousins are on my grandmother's side.  Furthermore, given the fact that both family trees together amount to what is a figurative familial redwood forest, it's not all that surprising that I don't know all of my cousins.  I've always been curious, though, and have often wished that my older relatives would organize some kind of gathering or reunion.  I'd do it myself if I knew enough about my family tree, but sadly I don't.  

Zia Franca and my cousin Salvatore met Noa and I at the train station.  We had never met before, but we had studied each other's photos on Facebook the night before so that we could recognize each other at the train station.  Luckily, and happily, we found each other right away.  Zia Franca did not hesitate to inform me that despite living up north for many years she is still very much Neapolitan, proudly so, and that I need not worry.  She is a very small woman, maybe about my height, and so I was taken  aback when she told me that she has EIGHT children.  (She had the first when she was my age, which is frightening).  All eight of them were born in Naples.  When the youngest was just a few months old, Zia Franca's husband (who passed away quite a few years ago), got a job in Padova, and up they went.  

When we arrived at Zia Franca's home on Saturday afternoon, she immediately made us something to eat.  Too much to eat.  (Every meal for the entire trip was the same, really).  After lunch I took a nap.  My parents left for the airport around 4:30 am on Saturday, and so we just didn't sleep.  Needless to say, I was exhausted.  

Later that evening my cousin Lello (maybe the billionth cousin of that name from either side of the family), his wife Patrizia, and Zia Franca took us for a walk around the centro storico of Padova.  Although it is smaller than Florence, it didn't feel that way because the streets are much more...open.  Often in Florence I feel very closed in, and I was surprised that I didn't feel that way in a much smaller city.  The Christmas decorations were still up, and so was holiday spirit.  The streets were packed with people strolling along, looking at the tents and tables that are set up in Italian cities at this time of year.  It was lively and fun, and I enjoyed the overall vibe. 

Sunday was pleasantly overwhelming.  At first, it was Noa and I, Zia Franca, Lello and Patrizia, as well as Salvatore with his girlfriend and one of his sons.  I honestly felt like I'd known them forever.  Talking with them was so effortless, so natural.  It didn't matter that we had never met before, it was clear that the idea of me being a stranger had never once crossed their minds.  It doesn't, matter how we're related or how distantly.  All that matters is the fact that we are related, we are family, and we treat each other as such, no questions asked.  Over the course of the evening, more of Zia Franca's eight children (my cousins) came over.  Many of them brought their children, and one of them brought her daughter.  To think that I have this many cousins just from one family alone is a little mind boggling, and I had to keep asking who was who to fill in the picture.  We sat at the table for hours, I'm not even sure how many.  More hours than we didn't, let's say.  We then went with my cousin Patrizia (one of the eight) and her boyfriend and daughter for an aperitivo, and then to her house where we were (overly) fed (again).  We, again,  had a really great conversation, and it was nice to know that what I felt at the big table surrounded by people translated to a smaller, more intimate setting.  In a way, it made it seem more real.  

The next day Zia Franca took us to the University of Padova, where her son Carmine works, and he gave us a little tour.  Founded in 1222, the university of Padova the second oldest in Italy and one of the oldest in Europe.  It has long been known for its programs in law and medicine, and is also where in 1678 a woman named Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia became the first woman in history to earn a college degree  (obviously my favorite fact I learned that day).  Afterwards, we walked to Prato della Valle, which I was told is the largest piazza in Europe (though the Google search I did now as I'm writing this post told me otherwise).  Regardless, it is one of the biggest piazzas and Europe, and it's the largest in Italy.  We then went to the church of Santa Giustina and the church of Sant'Antonio, both of which were incredibly beautiful.                     

Zia Franca is proof that age is but a number.  She lives alone, and does just about everything for herself.  She's visited often by her children, but more for company than for assistance.  She is funny and quick, and always has something to say.  Her Neapolitan accent was a pleasant contrast with that of the Padovani, and I was thankful for a familiar sound in an unfamiliar place.  She almost exclusively uses the imperfect past in place of the present conditional.  I'm not sure whether that stems from dialect or upbringing,  but regardless I'm sure that there's a metaphor in there that I'm simply too tired to look for.  (I'll leave that to you).  My favorite part of the weekend was talking with her, especially about my grandmother, whom I unfortunately never knew very well.  I loved hearing stories about the two of them, what they did together as girls and later as adults.  My grandparents visited Zia Franca often after she moved to Padova, and every time  she mentioned that she smiled.        

Despite having faced a lot of difficulty, both as individuals and as a family, all of the family members I met in Padova were happy.  It's clear that they have remained very close, despite the big age differences between siblings and despite the death of their father, and I think it was their closeness that helped me to feel at home.  That and Zia Franca's heart.  She is one of the most warm and welcoming people I've ever known.  She made me promise to come back before returning home, and it is a promise that I will happily fulfill.  

My days in Padova, although not many, were intense.  In a good way, though.  I got to put another piece of my family puzzle into place, I got to see another part of Italy, and I shared the experience with a very important friend.  Days like this lead to thinking.  They lead to pondering and reflecting, all of which, eventually, lead to growth.  I feel so grateful that the journey I'm on this year, studying abroad, is being accompanied by a much less literal journey- one that takes place in my head.  I'm luckier still that every smaller journey within the big one, every trip to a new city, is partnered with it's own journey through my mind as well.  Padova is a small city, yet it is home to the Italy's largest piazza.  Zia Franca is a small lady, yet she has the biggest heart.  I am a small lady, too, and have returned to Florence today trying to decide what is big about me.