To Trust Its Lead

            At the age of 3, I donned my tap shoes for the first time, and here began my love and passion for dance.  I will forever be indebted to my mother for the countless dance competitions to which she traveled with me, the costume changes she facilitated with only one competitor between my routines, and the way that she didn't coach me from offstage like so many other "dance moms" but rather let me perform on stage whether I remembered my routine or not.  This is not, however, a post about my childhood as a competitive dancer.

            Fast forward through 13 years of competitions and I was still as in love with dance as the day that I pulled on my first pair of tights.  In ninth grade, I had more academic commitments and less time to spend at the studio, but I had also heard of this thing called "swing dancing" and my curiosity got the better of me.  I walked into my first Swing lesson not knowing what to expect, but for the first time in my life (besides of course when my grandfather had let me dance on his feet and at the middle school Halloween dance when I, dressed as a sock-hop girl, and my vampire-crush swayed awkwardly to Green Day) I was standing face to face with a dance partner who would be – GASP – the "lead."  I competed in dance for 13 years, all of which I had spent as a solo competitor.  When the curtains opened, I was always alone on the dance floor.  I had always been the one who decided how I would perform, which steps I would do when, and how far I would travel onstage.  Of course, I had the input of my dance teachers and my mom in the classes before a competition, but ultimately, I controlled my movements.  My weight would shift to my left foot when I decided it would, I would follow through with a move only if my mind let me… ME.  SOLO.  But this was not swing dancing.

            Social dancing is different.  After four years of infrequent social dancing in high school and now two years of actually learning these genres in college, I now know East Coast Swing, Lindy, West Coast, Blues, Salsa, and some ballroom (and others very vaguely).  I am not saying I know these well, but I know enough to get by at a social dance event. All of these styles of dance, however, challenge me because they demand that I rely on my partner. I have, out of choice, been the dancer who takes the cues of the one who is leading me.  I have learned to be a "follow," and I can say in all honesty that this is the first area in my life where I have willingly accepted that role.  For me, swing is scarier than I allow my leads to know.  I have to trust them to tell me what to do.  It is not up to me; rather, I take their cues, sometimes given strongly and other times lightly, sometimes clearly communicating exactly what step to do next and where to move and at other times only hinting at where I should go in the next 6-count.  Through this, I have learned to trust.  I have learned to be led by decisions that I am not making, to take the cue given by another and with that person, to create something beautiful.  As a soloist, a headstrong leader with bold opinions and confidence in directing my own life, I have learned through Swing dance to finally move with another person and to trust them as my lead and to trust the moment of the dance itself.

            When I began preparing for study abroad, I realized that dance is one thing I would miss greatly from home.  I would not have the Saturday night dances at Lancaster Swing, Blues dancing the Mullberry Arts Studio with Indigo Blues, or the occasional lessons at York Social Dance Studio to satisfy my craving for dance every week.  So I did what a dancer does and joined groups for Swing dancing in Perugia to find out where to dance here.  I sent messages to people in those groups, asked at my university here, and even turned to Google to see where I could dance.  (Needless to say, I have not yet found an actual event for Swing, but I have not stopped trying.)  Finally, after a few weeks without dancing, my friend and I ventured to Bologna a few weeks ago and happened upon a performance in the center square.  As pairs of Swing dancers danced to Frank Sinatra, I looked to Connie who knows that I am a dancer and who immediately gave me the all-knowing "Go ahead" look before I ran to watch them.  I couldn't stand still, so I asked a dancer if we could dance (or rather stumbled through a sentence in Italian that I think meant "Can we dance together?") and soon found myself among the other dancers.  He and I couldn't communicate because speaking Italian and not stepping on his feet took multi-tasking to a whole different level, but I still had to trust him.  I had to move with him and I had to follow his lead.  After the dance, I thanked him and walked away from the crowd only to realize that I had just casually walked into an actual studio performance, but I fit in and I'm sure nobody noticed.  I was beyond grateful for those four minutes of dancing and my craving for dance was – for the moment – satisfied.

(Excuse the poor quality.  I took a screenshot from a video that my friend captured.)

            After watching the performance for a few more moments, I left with my friend but began to think.  What is it about Swing dancing that I love so much?  Besides the obvious movements, the feeling of being connected to the music with my dance partner, and the expression that dance permits, it has been something more meaningful to me since I left for Italy.  After some reflection, I realized what I've shared with you above: Swing dancing has taught me to trust somebody else's lead.  It has taught me to be completely in the moment because on the dance floor, there is nowhere else I need to be.  It has taught me to take four potentially scary, unchoreographed minutes and to turn them into something beautiful.  I realized that Swing dance is so very similar to studying abroad, and nothing could have prepared me more.

            As I said before, I have always been comfortable taking the lead.  I have made my own decisions.  I have taken the advice of others but ultimately I have made the last call.  If you know me, you also know that I am a planner.  I prefer a concrete itinerary of what I will be doing and when I will be doing it.  I am most productive when at least seventeen sticky-notes dot my desk, and I like having a schedule.  I am not used to throwing my schedule in the air and saying "Let's just see what happens," but for the past 8 weeks, that is exactly what I have done.  That is exactly what making the most out of study abroad demands from me.  I have accepted, now, that scheduling a last minute trip to Bologna and making reservations for a place to stay an hour before arriving can lead to a fun and adventurous weekend.  I have swum in the Blue Grotto, tried foods I never would have imagined eating, jumped onto a train as the doors were closing while only being able to hope that it was the right one, and have found myself in countless situations where I have had to trust the kindness of a stranger because no matter how many months I spend here, I will never understand the Italian train system.  One common denominator I have found in all of my study abroad experiences has been that there is no other option than to trust the moment in which I have found myself.  I must trust it and I must savor it.

            Just as when a lead asks me to dance, study abroad has led me into an exciting and a whirlwind adventure.  I have followed the cues that it has been providing whether they are given strongly, lightly, well in advance, or at the very last moment.  In 8 short weeks, I will return home.  My study abroad experience will end, and I will no longer find myself in these exhilarating and life changing moments.  I will, however, return to Swing dance with a newfound appreciation for what it has taught me.  Much as in my four short minutes on the dance floor, I will have spent these four short months in Europe going wherever the moment takes me.  I have trusted and I have followed where it has led me.  Study abroad, just like Swing dance, has allowed me to take four potentially scary, unchoreographed months and to turn them into something beautiful.  

A Solo Journey to Assisi

          When you hear "Assisi," what comes to mind?  Do you think of gently rolling hills lined with perfectly manicured orchards in the Umbria region of Italy?  Do you think of monks in brown robes and sandals casually strolling with the faithful through the cobblestone streets of a hilltop town?  Perhaps if you attended parochial school as I did, you recall the day each year when families would bring their pets to school for a blessing as we prayed for peace and for God to bless all creatures, especially our beloved animals.  As I left Perugia alone in the middle of September for my solo journey to Assisi, these ideas were called to mind, albeit fleetingly because of how distracted I was by the daunting task of trying to understand Italian transportation.

            I arrived at the bus port earlier than was necessary, as I had originally planned to take the train but heeded the advice of the kind young woman at the ticket booth at Piazza Italia.  So instead of making my way to the train station, I soon found myself taking the six escalators that that led away from our hilltop town and to the lower part of town where is the bus port.  I think I must have forgotten to remove my "Hello, my name is CONFUSED" sticker from my forehead that morning, but thankfully this served me well, as a caring and motherly lady gladly answered my questions as I posed them with my limited Italian vocabulary.  She brought me with her to the next available ticket master and helped me to purchase the ticket I needed to get me to Assisi.  But when I left the ticket vendor, I searched for the sign saying "Assisi" and could not find it, so I returned on my own and asked where the bus would be.  Thinking I had missed it, I was reassured that the bus to Assisi was instead labeled "Filio."  Upon the bus's arrival, forty-five minutes later, I boarded with a man and an elderly couple and checked with the bus driver to make sure that this bus would indeed get me to Assisi.  It would, but not without having to change buses.  Immediately after sitting in one of the first seats on the otherwise empty bus, the elderly couple sat behind me and began speaking English!  Soon, they were asking me to ask the bus driver questions for them, assuming that my Italian was better than theirs.  They informed me that after hearing me speak when we boarded the bus, they thought I was fluent in Italian from my accent.  If only I could convince my Italian language teacher that I had mastered the language that well!

            The bus ride was about an hour in total to a town only twenty minutes away by car.  I was occupied, however, with the pleasant conversations that were had.  First, the bus's only other passenger, a French scientist named Nicola, detailed to me that he was in Perugia to sit on the review board for a student's doctoral thesis.  He then shared with me that he was returning to France where his students just don't appreciate science the way he does and where his red-headed son is trying to make a career out of acting.  Apparently, French directors are really seeking red-headed actors because he and his girlfriend have been hired for multiple movies for the sole reason of having red hair.  Calling all gingers... When he left the bus at the airport, the couple behind me started speaking with me.  If you know me, you know that I love listening to elderly people share with me their wisdom and experiences.  This time, that gift came wrapped in a British accent and delivered by Arch and his much quieter wife, Margaret. Arch teaches Russian and is currently translating Gorbachev's autobiography.  Margaret is a retired tax collector and a secretary from the University of Birmingham.  When I asked why they were in Perugia, he shared with me that they had adopted a new philosophy on life as their bones have become more decrepit.  They promised each other, for the sake of adventure, that every so often they would fly wherever a cheap flight would take them and would stay there for ten days.  Even if their destination did not provide much to do, they would make the most of it together. 

            Inspired by this couple to make the most of my day in Assisi, I disembarked the bus with them to wait for the next one which would take us to Assisi.  Not knowing how much time I had until the next bus came (because the schedule posted on the sign was most likely not correct since we are in Italy), I reluctantly entered the basilica that was near the stop.  To my surprise, I had walked into the famous Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli where the Porziuncola, a small chapel given to St. Francis for prayer, is located.  It was beautiful but very crowded, and I did not want to stay long for fear of missing my bus.  So I left and met Arch and Margaret again as we waited for the bus.  By this time they had made another English-speaking friend from California who would later prove a huge help to me in town.  But that comes later.  For now, I rode the bus to Assisi and struck up a conversation with the lady sitting next to me who spoke Spanish.  I tried to recall all 6 years of my Spanish studies, but it felt as if Italian had moved into those dusty corners of my brain and I could barely remember how to say "I want to see the church."  Nevertheless, she was patient and we tried to speak to each other.  She told me that she was from Mexico but that her son and his wife had moved to America and had studied English.  After introducing myself to her son and daughter-in-law, I learned that he had a friend who did his clinical at Hershey Medical Center, twenty minutes from my college, and that the man himself had once lived in Lebanon and has friends who live in Elizabethtown.  If you know Etown, you know that it is most likely the smallest college town that exists.  How very small our world is. 

           

            Arriving in Assisi, I was ready to make my small, self-guided pilgrimage.  I said goodbye to the elderly couple as we agreed to meet again in the evening.  I followed the crowds and the signs to the Basilica di San Francesco and was met in the square by another friendly couple, this time much younger and asking me to take their picture.  Of course I said, "yes," and they returned the favor with a very kind conversation.  They were very parental and wanted to make sure that I was okay with being alone for the day.  They asked if I was from Eastern Europe because apparently I look like I am.  They then told me that they had a relative who lives in Pennsylvania.  They were from the beautiful town of Puglia in southern Italy.  If you're not familiar with this town's beautiful houses, do yourself the favor of Googling it.  It really is unique.  After leaving Dino and Luciana, I entered the overwhelmingly large Basilica of St. Francis.  I cannot begin to describe the beauty that surrounded me as I tried to comprehend the architecture, the paintings, and the depth of each individual chapel that lined the perimeter of the basilica.  Frescoes and statues greeted me as I began my rosary at the side chapel, stopping at each chapel to say a decade, praying the way I had watched my grandparents pray and had learned from them.  I lit a candle at the tomb of St. Francis in the stereotypically Catholic fashion.  I finished my rosary at the chapel of the Sacred Heart and left the basilica only after attempting to capture its beauty in a few photographs.  Of course, I failed at this. 

View of the Basilica as I exited.
(Excuse my phone's poor photo quality.)

            Yes, I visited the gift shop, but I was happy to buy a small relic of St. Francis for my grandfather and one for me.  I call my grandfather "PaPa," but his name is William Francis.  Much like St. Francis after whom he is named, he is gentle and peaceful and loves animals more than anyone I know.  I admire his disposition and pray constantly for the gentleness that he has.  Although he can't be here with me, I wanted to take something home to him for him to have a piece of the experience I had in Assisi. 

            After this spiritual early afternoon, I decided to walk around town and explore the small shops.  I went into a free museum that had some rather strange-looking displays that were supposed to show how the Franciscan missionaries had helped the people of South America.  At least that's what I believe it was from the large plastic bugs and reptiles that were displayed with pictures of missionary towns.  I next found a shop in which a kind young woman was selling lavender and herbal sachets that she had made and embroidered by hand.  We talked for a bit which allowed me to practice my Italian.  She asked what I was studying and told me that her sister is a special education teacher.  After our warm conversation, she gave me a discount on a small sachet of lavender embroidered with red and tied with a red ribbon that I'm taking home for Christmas.  It's very festive.  I then decided it was time for lunch.

            I wanted pizza.  I had been in Italy for a month without having pizza (the struggle of having to eat gluten free), and so I decided that Google would have to tell me where a gluten free pizza place was in Assisi.  Google let me down, but thankfully a shop owner did not.  She pointed me toward two restaurants that she thought had gluten free pizza.  The first did not, but the next one did!  I followed the signs down some steps and into what I thought was the restaurant.  Alas, I was wrong, but I did share a lovely conversation with the young cook.  After this embarrassing exchange when I apologized profusely for ending up in his kitchen, he reassured me that it was indeed "va bene" (it's alright) and that he would make me gluten free pizza.  I followed his directions to the dining room and searched the menu.  I decided on a pizza made with brie, pumpkin spread, fontina, and truffle crumbles.  All I can say was that it was very content as I sat alone in the pizzeria, enjoying my pizza, surrounded by couples and families.  The first time I ate alone at a restaurant was during my internship in Nashville last summer.  Since then, I've learned that it isn't as awkward as one might think.  I didn't even have my phone out during my meal.  I just savored both my pizza and the moment and thought about all I was seeing in Assisi that day.

            I decided that I wanted to see the Temple of Minerva as my British friends had suggested, and in attempting to find it, I had to ask four people who all pointed in a general direction but couldn't tell me which building it was.  Confused by the lack of signs, I finally ran into the lady from earlier who was from California.  She asked me how my day was going and pointed me toward the building I wanted to see.  

          I next walked the entire length of the road toward the Cathedral of St. Claire, but the walk was worth it for the views of yet another beautiful church and the panoramic view outside of the church that overlooked the Assisi countryside.  After this, I attempted to find my way back to the bus stop on the other side of town.  I did manage to use the map and only stopped to ask for directions once when an elderly nun and a Scottish man put their brains together to try to point me in the right direction.  On my way back, I stopped in a few more shops and saw everything from painting to pottery to artisanal truffle sauce.  

          I was not at the bus stop for more than five minutes when I again found Arch and Margaret.  Arch asked me to come sit with him and his wife.  They offered to buy me gelato, which I declined, and I instead chose to look through the pictures they had taken as Arch explained to me what they did that day.  When there were no more pictures to see, the conversation turned to politics as they asked me who would win the election and voiced their opinions about Trump and Clinton.  They told me that they thought if Trump was so rich, he should spend more money on a better looking wig.  I'm only passing this along.

  

          Finally, our bus arrived and we boarded the bus with everyone else who was journeying back to Perugia.  The bus was only a bit more crowded this time, but I felt cozy sitting at the front of the bus near Arch and Margaret.  I watched as we passed through a few small towns and observed where the crops grew right up next to the walls of the elementary schools.  I watched young men speed by on Vespas past stores that were closed by now.  I saw the cornfields and the beautiful orchards paint a moving portrait on the canvas of a slowly setting sun.  As the bus made its ascent up the hills into Perugia, I was reminded of how very blessed I am to be here.  This day was a humbling a spiritual one that allowed me to grow in new friendships, my independence, and my faith.

Blessings and baci,
Sarah

Canned Tomatoes?

          I'm sure you can list the stereotypes about Italian food without my listing them here.  I want to share with you, however, my own experiences with Italians and their food, or at least their attitudes toward it from what I have seen.  I chose to do a homestay here in Perugia, and when I first arrived, I think the biggest culture shock came not from the way that Italians live as much as from their passion toward food.  I speak specifically of my host mom who, although our communication is only very slowly increasing, delivers her messages about the proper way to cook quite effectively.  The first day, we went shopping together, and Luciana helped me to navigate the grocery store which mostly consisted of her placing things into my cart.  (I blame my newly developed Ricotta addiction on her insisting that I buy it for breakfast.)  I must admit that at home, I am very passionate about eating healthy food that is cooked simply without unnecessarily added ingredients.  I do not enjoy eating overly-processed foods and cook almost everything from scratch.  When I buy something that is not fresh, I make sure that the ingredients are ones that will not affect my health (quite often out of necessity rather than "pickiness") and this often means just straying away from canned food.  I did, however, want to buy a jar of tomato sauce to keep in my pantry in case it's needed in a pinch.  When I picked the sauce up from the shelf, the horror that appeared on my host mom's face convinced me that the Rapture was occurring behind me.  Practically snatching the jar from my hand, she returned it to the shelf and, from what I could understand, insisted that the sauce be made by hand.  She hurriedly marched me to the fresh produce where I could buy tomatoes for that purpose.  I did return later to the aisle with the sauce and placed one jar into my cart to the tune of Luciana's "tsking." 

            Just as passionately, Luciana assisted with our recipe the other night when Connie and I began to cut tomatoes for the eggplant pizza we were making for class.  She shooed us from the stove, retrieved the pot from the drawer, and began to scoop the tomatoes into the pot.  I am able to understand her a bit better now, and from what I could gather, she wanted us to puree them after they were cooked.  She had already put a fresh onion into the sauce and was ripping the basil when I stopped her to explain that we didn't need a puree, just for the tomatoes to be slightly soft but still chunky.  Again, the wide eyes made me check over my shoulder before she exclaimed, "NON E UNA SALSA!!"(That's not a sauce!) I will take the blame for my little Italian being able to communicate that.  For Italians, I learned, a tomato sauce is a very specific thing cooked in a very specific way.  Here's to learning through mistakes!

            One of the classes I am taking in Perugia is a class on Italian food and culture.  (This was the reason that Connie was at my apartment making eggplant pizza.  It was an assignment; never would I have picked up an eggplant without my grade depending on it.)  In this class, we recently learned about Italian food psychosis that goes something like this:  Not only do Italians believe their food is the best in the world (my opinions on that will likely follow in a later post), but they refuse to accept any other view than this and will consider anyone who thinks differently as senile.  It is not a matter of opinion to them but rather fact, a fact which is not open to discussion nor to debate.  Take the movie An American in Rome as proof of this fact.  The main character, Nando, has tried to convince others that he is American in every way by adopting American habits.  When he rejects his interpretation of an American sandwich by spitting it out in exchange for Italian macaroni, it represents the Italian opinion that other cultures might be better than Italy in many ways but never in food.  Our professor encouraged us to test this theory of the food psychosis, by talking to Italians and see what they think.  In speaking with some younger Italians whom we've met through language exchanges and other events, they don't seem to really feel as strongly as we thought they would.  Some of them prefer Italian food but can understand why we like other foods, for example.  This weekend, however, we were returning from a brief trip to Barcelona and encountered an elderly gentleman who asked me and Connie if the approaching train was the one for Perugia.  "Lo spero!" I told him.  (I hope so!)  "Penso che si."  (I think it is.)  As we waited, Connie and I were given an opportunity to experience first-hand the Italian food psychosis.

          The gentleman began to speak to us about the two companies he owns that manufacture petrol valves and how he has been a businessman with those companies for fifty years.  He has traveled to the United States only for vacation but got a glimpse of American business practices which he could not stop praising as "straight and honest" as opposed to Italy's, whose, according to him, were just like Germany's business practices: broken and uncontrolled.  (These of course are his words, not mine.  As much as I'd love to know more about the culture of this country, I have not learned much about the business practices.  The only thing I have experienced to be broken thus far is the time schedule for the trains!)  To test our professor's theory, however, Connie and I said, "How about the food?"  His condemnation of his country immediately changed to a bright smile, incessant nodding, and "Certo! Certo! La migliore!"  Although he told us that from the food he had had in the United States, he thought we had good roast beef, there is simply no question for Italian food.  He proceeded to ramble off a list of his favorites – local names of which we only recognized a few dishes.  Although we did not understand everything, we could tell from his enthusiasm that this man was affected by the Italian food psychosis.  Of course, I'm enjoying the food quite a bit myself – I'm preparing to write a whole blog post on my rambling at the artisans' market – but I felt privileged in my conversation with this gentleman to be peering through the window straight into such a huge part of Italian culture.  I hope that through my writing, I am able to provide something similar to you.

Thanks for reading, my friends.  A presto.

Blessings,

Sarah