Natural Is Always Best

A couple of days ago I woke up, went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and realized that something was completely different about my face. I hadn't lost weight or injured myself, nor was there some grotesque growth on my face - it was actually quite the opposite, my skin was completely clear. In the past I've admittedly struggled with this. Face soaps and other products had helped, but there always seemed to be the odd cluster of pimples or blackheads that made their way to the surface. I hadn't really changed anything though, my hygiene habits and routines were exactly as they've always been, so why the sudden change? Then it came to me; the only thing that had really changed was my diet. But even that hadn't changed too much, as I was still - for the most part - on my token college diet (pizza and pasta.) The only thing I could think of was that the quality of food was vastly different to what I was accustomed to in the States.

Of course, I had realized this long before that morning. Food tastes better in Italy, more natural. From cheese, to milk, to bread, to vegetables, nothing I've had so far has tasted processed in the slightest. When asked, a waiter at a restaurant I frequent had told me that everything they got was grown locally. This makes me wonder how true that is for all the other restaurants. Though, if I were to go off taste alone, I would say it's very likely the case for most others as well. When you order pizza it isn't drowning in oil and processed cheese, when you want a good sandwich on the fly there's no Subway around, and if you're really on a budget there's no need to scrape your change together in order to get something off the one dollar menu at McDonald's, since pastries, sandwiches, and beverages are all incredibly cheap (here in Prato.) Italy is a country where carbs are the norm, yet there hardly seems to be any overweight people around. I find this very interesting, and very telling.

Living in Italy has reminded me of the importance of paying attention to the quality of food we ingest. Unfortunately, where I'm from, it seems like the healthier it is, the more expensive it's bound to be. But perhaps that's a small price to pay in the long-run.

Mother Prato

So I, admittedly, haven't done much this week. Life has fallen into a kind of routine that has had very little deviation these last few days. I know where I'm going to eat everyday and when, I diligently do my laundry on laundry days, I end every other day at the same bar, and I always close my window five minutes before every obnoxious ring of the bell in the tower next to my room. I've even begun to run into locals (around my age) that I've previously hung out with, drank with, or friended on facebook, on a daily basis. The past week, however, has given me plenty of time to reflect on the trip as a whole.

I would say that, judging by the way people treat us (the students from Beacon College), we've definitely made a good impression on the community as a whole, which is always nice to know. Here in Prato, especially, there seems to be no end to people's kindness. The hospitality thus-far has truly been heartwarming. It's interesting to find that many people seem to know we're not Italian even before we speak.  Perhaps our fashion sense just isn't quite as evolved, or maybe the racial diversity in our little groups is uncommon. Regardless of the reason, it's amazing that they always feel compelled to approach us and welcome us to their country/city. This is probably - in part - due to the fact that they rarely get any Americans to begin with. I don't think I'll ever get tired of the looks on peoples' faces when they find out we're studying here in Prato and not Florence or Rome or Venice, nor the friendly debates that follow where I argue for the pros and they argue for the cons of living here. 

This city, in its entirety, has embraced me and made me comfortable enough to roam its streets at any hour, and approach almost anyone when I need help. I've traveled to many, many different countries and these are not things I could say so easily for most of them. I am a lucky man indeed, and grateful for the opportunity to eat and do laundry in such a warm, friendly, beautiful place.   

The Never Ending Past

We had begun our four hour pilgrimage bright and early. The only thing I knew was that we (the class) would be spending the day in Florence, which, of course, was good enough for me. Like many foreigners who visit the breathtaking city of Florence, I was content to hang around the main parts (namely, the area surrounding the Duomo.) Already, there is so much to see there. The city is full of interesting things to do, so I was, admittedly, a bit disappointed to learn that our actual destination would be a nice, long, sweaty, uphill hike to a place I knew - and had heard - nothing about.

The city changed a lot as we got farther from the center. Flowers and trees began to claim their territory, old stone stairways eventually became our roads, and every backward glance offered an entirely new surprise. I had chosen a horrible day to wear jeans, it was true, but it had all been worth it once we reached our destination. Miniato al Monte, an 11th century church, sat solitary in a courtyard, overlooking what seemed to be the entire city of Florence.

It's difficult to describe the feeling that comes over me when I come across structures of such antiquity, especially those that, at some point (if not still,) held a great amount of spiritual significance for the locals. I am not religious, but have always been fascinated by the symbolic similarities one can find between such establishments, despite the differences in culture, location, and beliefs. So it was truly a treat to find that the church I stood in possessed so many symbols that would have been common-place in the ancient, pagan world. In fact, in my experience, it is rare to find so many within, what one would call, a Christian establishment.

Human nature does not change easily, if at all. As Carl G. Jung had so successfully proven, the unconscious mind produces and communicates through symbols, independent of our will or conscious intent. Dreams are a good example of this. So I was not all that surprised to find the plethora of mandalas that littered the walls, nor the large zodiac on the floor, nor the symbol that, long ago, was used to represent the union between solar and lunar forces - the circle squared, then circled again - scattered around the room. I was reminded of the story about the Egyptian Neophyte who, upon returning from a journey to Rome, departed to his fellow initiates that the barbaric Christians worshiped animals. An understandable misconception that could likely be made when looking at the symbolism of many cultures and religions. Buildings such as the one I stood in never fail to inspire a sense of longing inside of me; the desire to understand myself and the psychology of man as a whole. They hold within their walls an unfathomable number of stories, some of which have been told for ages, and others that have yet to be heard. Structures like Miniato al Monte, which (seemingly) drew their inspiration from a variety of cultural sources, remind us to pay close attention to the universality of internal experiences and the symbols that such experiences -always have, and always will - produce. Try as we might, we can never rid ourselves of what we are and what it is that grips us, no matter where we're from.

The Other Side

After accidentally buying a 72 euro business class ticket (it's a long story) I traveled - very comfortably - by train to a small town called Trevisio, where I had decided to spend the weekend with my older brother. I had been to Trevisio before but I was very young, and had failed to really let my surroundings sink in. After being picked up from the station I found myself amazed by what I saw: so much of the town - at least where we were -  had a lot of old architecture incorporated into the modern city. Like Prato, the old city was surrounded by a wall, but a canal made its way through the buildings and there was definitely more nature to be found. Essentially, it was very clear that the inhabitants of Trevisio were quite well-off.

My brother had decided to take me out that night and, upon talking to the young people around the bars, I came to learn that a good number of people in Trevisio - perhaps even the majority - are of a right-wing conservative political stance, and have little tolerance for immigrants and the liberal youth. I was told that many of the younger people did not share this view and saw the issue of immigration, for example, as a symptom of a greater problem and not the problem itself. "If we in the West were not destroying their countries for resources they would not be here. But they are a convenient excuse for economic decline, which brings even greater support from the people to invade their lands," one girl had passionately expressed to me. I certainly have my own thoughts on the matter but, since the nature of this blog is not political, I'm content to keep my thoughts to myself. Still, I was surprised to hear her say this - and others echo it. It seemed to me that many of the people that I talked to were concerned about, not only the political tension, but the growing racial tension as well. This was something that people of Prato had never expressed to me - at least not quite to this extent.

Later that night, when the streets had filled with a variety of youths, a large group of older, well-dressed, and definitely wealthier  people made their way, in a long line, through the crowd. They held their belongings close and glanced around in unfeigned distaste. It seemed likely that they were on their way home from some kind of dinner or social event. The atmosphere in the area had immediately and undeniable changed; the result of two worlds that were ideologically opposed colliding. When they had all passed, I brought it up to my brother to make sure that what I had just seen wasn't in my head. "Those were the right-winged conservatives my friends were telling you about earlier," he explained. "They don't get along with this crowd at all." I had never seen anything like that in Prato. The resentment was so palpable you could taste it. What was most disturbing, however, was the way they had looked at my brother and me. It was a look that I was very used to getting, growing up in South Africa, a kind of disgust, a poorly concealed contempt for that which is different. With their eyes alone, they had said "Leave, you've done enough damage to our country, and all because you are too incompetent to run your own." If only the problem was so simple, I would have liked to say, but there was no point. I was content to let the situation amuse me. 

Once the bars had all closed, my brother and I headed home. As soon as we arrived at the front steps of the apartment building, we were comically stopped by the police, who had driven obnoxiously fast onto the side walk before coming to a screeching halt.  One of them stepped out of the car, chest out like a gorilla, and rushed towards us with his flashlight in my brother's eyes (apparently ignorant of the fact that the area was already well-lit) shouting "Papers?" as he made his way towards us. It was like something out of a WWII movie, I honestly couldn't believe my ears and eyes. The man was clearly very used to harassing and intimidating immigrants (or people who looked like they might be immigrants.) Most would say he was simply doing his job, but I knew he enjoyed it, and he had made no attempt at hiding his total lack of respect for us on a human to human level. Instead of handing him his Italian I.D., my brother politely asked him to remove the light from his eyes, and asked if we had done anything to receive such a hostile introduction. This, of course, only fed the officers superiority complex and his only response was "I'm the police and you'll do as I say," before turning to his partner, who had joined us, to spout ugly, racist comments (obviously unaware that my brother was fluent in Italian.) Amusingly, it was clear that they didn't really know how to deal with people who didn't immediately tuck their tail between their legs at the sight of their uniform. Still, it couldn't go on forever and, however disrespectful the encounter had been, I really had to pee and go to bed at some point, so I handed them my passport, and my brother followed with his I.D. After having us empty our pockets of all contents, they got into their car - documents still in hand - and decided to make us wait for almost an hour (a childish attempt - that they made no effort to hide - at making us pay for our heresy.) At one point, they even threatened to use physical force on my brother, who had taken his phone out to capture the licence plate number. I can't say how long we would have waited had my Italian sister-in-law not come down from the apartment to see what was happening. The officers' demeanor immediately changed, and our I.D.s were promptly returned to us, upon seeing her. Of course, I would never advise anyone to handle an encounter with the police in this, or any country, like we did, and although I did take great pleasure in seeing their faces when they found out who my brother's father-in-law was - a very influential and highly respected member of the community - it all would have been much simpler had we acquiesced.

At the end of the day, I was very surprised by the contrast I saw between Trevisio and Prato, a city where immigrants, college students, businessmen, international visitors, and police all seem to tolerate one another for the most part. And while I certainly enjoyed my overall trip to Trevisio it also, in a strange way, served to increase my love for Tuscany. Though, I don't think I should be surprised, as Tuscany has always had -and continues to have - a reputation for forward and progressive thinkers, and their constant attempts at pushing the cultural boundaries that threaten to suffocate us. A comforting thought, indeed.