A Thanksgiving Feast

I was pretty bummed about being stuck in stupid Italy for Thanksgiving. But then I remembered that what I love most about Thanksgiving is the food, and there is plenty of food to be found in this country. In fact, there is plenty of food to be found at the convenience store right around the corner from my home stay. As illustrated in the photo below, that convenience store is now frantically restocking their cookie shelves (or as I like to call them, "The shelves with merchandise targeted at lonely, single women").

That bundt cake thingy is about the size of my head.

Truly a Thanksgiving feast. Ahead of me lies a night of internet T.V. and slowly eating my way to euphoria.
Thank God for that.

Intellectualityism

Tonight I had to interview a young Italian writer for a new article about, well, young Italian writers. He was late though, but he made up for it with a great excuse: "I was at the bar and after two glasses of wine I briefly forgot about our appointment." And when he leaned in for that kiss-on-each-cheek thing (omg, Italians actually do that?!), I got a pleasant whiff of wine and cigarettes. Also, he was wearing a red handkerchief as a headpiece. Oh these writers; will this be me in a few years? Sounds awesome.
Our topics of discussion included dialectics and the literary canon. Two years ago I would've thought that "literary canon" referred to a heavy piece of artillery that fired all those extra copies of War and Peace at enemies. Ah ha ha, not anymore. That Davidson education is paying for itself.
And when he made a passing reference to graffiti-artist Banksy I was able to nod along in recognition of that name, even if I only know who he was because of my familiarity with the website "Stuff White People Like."
So as we were chatting over espresso in the Guibbe Rose, this smarty-pants writer was telling me all about how the big shots of futurism would come here and write manifestos on the napkins. But not so much anymore -- now it's just a tourist haven. A sly smile from Smart Guy as he confides,"You and I are probably the only intellectuals in here."
Me? An intellectual? Well I guess you're right. I did solve a brain teaser yesterday in less than three minutes.
Now can we please discuss the latest episode of Gossip Girl? This whole Chuck-and-Blair thing has got me in the mulligrubs.



Bonus post on my host brother's views on theology:
"I believe in God, just a different god. I believe that I am a god."

"What if God was gay? I think God and Jesus Christ were boyfriends."

Freshly Pressed Olive Oil

Served at our table in a wine bottle, cause that's what they handed over to be filled up at the olive oil-filling up place. Just thought you should know.

Sh** My Host Family Says

I don't really feel like writing "Eurotrip Part 2," in which I was going to complain about all the rain we encountered in Verona. I know you'd love to hear me wax poetic on the sub-par weather patterns of northern Italy, so I apologize.
Instead, here's a round-up of recent quotable quotes from the dinner table:

Host mother Judith on growing up on a farm: "Around afternoon, I would go get the eggs just laid by the chickens. I would watch them come out of the chickens, and then I'd take an egg from one of them and poke a hole in it and suck out the insides. And the insides would still be warm."

Host mother Judith on table manners: "In Italy, you never put your hand in your lap, because your hand can do other things."

Host brother Tommaso on a positive self-image: "Look at me. I am perfect. I am not joking."

Politics as Usual

In honor of all the voting I didn't take part in today (yes, I know, I'm a bad American), here's a run down on the current Italian political situation, as told by my host brother, Giacomo:
1) Prime Minister Berlusconi was recently caught hanging with prostitutes, one of them underage.
2) My host brother Tommaso wants to be Berlusconi.
3) When Berlusconi was asked about being found in said compromising situation, he basically told the press: "Sure I like to have fun. I love life. They're just prostitutes; at least I'm not gay."
4) Predictably, the Italian leader of the democratic party, who just so happens to be gay, took offense to this. His response to Berlusconi? "You may be beautiful, Berlusconi, but at least I'm intelligent."
5) My political insight of the day: they're like four-year-olds!
6) A recent article in a respected news magazine rated countries on their level of corruption, with one being the least corrupted. Italy came in third from last. This might be related to the fact that Berlusconi owns three of the seven national television stations and one newspaper.
And finally, number 7) My host brother asked me about Marco Rubio today over dinner. How, and why, does he even know who Marco Rubio is? All I could tell him was that Marco looked rather handsome in his television adds.

Euro-trip Part 1

Ah, Venice. It's even better than in the movies. I'm only postulating here, because I haven't seen any movies set in Venice. And if there aren't any movies set in Venice there should be, because it looks like this:

Oh yeah, and this too:

Never mind that our one-star hotel only had one shower. Never mind that I've literally subsisted solely on pizza for the past five days (and here I'm using "literally" in the literal sense of the word). Venice was wonderful. A decaying Disneyland.*
Venice glittered in the sunlight, beckoning to the jaded traveller who's seen too much plain old brick and stone. Venice put on airs of mystery beneath the moonlight. Then it glittered some more.
I spent the first three days of Fall break eating gelato underneath the blazing sun beating down on the 170 canals that make up the lagooned-locked island of Venezia. At one point while walking through Piazza San Marco, one of the mini-orchestras employed by a piazza-straddling café began to play a familiar show tune, and I just closed my eyes, savoring the moment -- and smacked right into my friend's back while she stopped to take a picture. Oops.
Pardon all my waxing poetic, but no amount of clichés can capture the beauty of the floating city. But perhaps Longfellow put it best in his poem that went a little like:
Something something "Swan of cities"
something something "illuminated spires"
And then something about "illusions."
So what I'm trying to say is that when the pigeons stole my bread crust right from my pizza box it was a-okay, because my bread crust was stolen while in Venice.

*I'd love to claim credit for this nifty turn of phrase, but I think I stole it from Rick Steves.