To Pisa!

Our trip began with an early bus ride to Lucca. The way provided a wonderful view of the countryside with rolling green hills and plots of farmland. It's a shame that I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. When we arrived, we met up with our rent-a-guide; a friendly Italian man who clearly had a passion for the history of his town. He took us from place to place, pointing out significant land marks. I wouldn't have known it by just looking at the town, but it actually had quite a rich history. Lucca was officially established in the 2nd century B.C.E. Since then, it has seen its fair share of war, pilgrims, revolutionaries, and artists. Our tour was limited to the Old City (within the walls), where, at one point, there used to stand about 100 churches. There are now only 20. The walls we were looking at were actually recently rebuilt (15th to 16th century) due to a war with Lucca's long time rival, Pisa.

We proceeded to walk through the rest of the town, and I was struck by the realization that the atmosphere was quite different from Prato, in that there were almost no immigrants to speak of. The few that I had seen were comfortably mingling with the locals, which is something you definitely don't see everywhere. It was a beautiful - and well-off - with a plethora of local myths and legends. We got to see many of its most famous churches, and aristocratic houses, and there seemed to be a lot of stores selling random, miscellaneous items like samurai swords and and cos-play gimmicks, which makes sense considering the fact that there's a really large, 5-day comic con that takes place there every year between the end of October and the beginning of November.

When we has seen everything our rent-a-guide had to show us we made our way to Pisa. Before arriving at the the Square of Miracles, where the leaning tower, Pisa Cathedral, and the Baptistery sit, we made our way through a very interesting market that sold all kinds of tapestries, strange gadgets, souvenirs, and umbrellas (on a bright sunny day.) We passed through the hoards of people and under an archway that finally brought us to the Square of Miracles. It's literally exactly like what it looks like on television: people sitting on the grass, in the midst of three colossal structures, and taking "leaning pictures" beside the Leaning Tower. The whole area was, apparently, dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and was once very close to the sea side. The water has long since receded, but hundreds of years ago, ships would be able to find their way to shore using the reflective surface of the baptistery's roof, which I found quite interesting. The three structures - with the tower being the most obvious - I later learned, were not originally leaning. It was, in fact, a design flaw in the the structural layout. The foundation of each building, at some point, began to sink into the ground causing them all to tilt. A rather successful mistake. We were given time to walk around for a bit before heading up the tower together. For some reason, security was very, very strict upon entering the Leaning Tower, more so than anywhere we've been so far. Military guards, with automatic guns made sure no weapons of mass destruction made it into the holy tower. Something must have happened in the past to make this necessary, I imagine.

The climb was brutal - perhaps more so since I'd only had an hour of sleep - but it couldn't have been more worth it. Of all the heights we've scaled so far, this one was by far my favorite. I couldn't even tell you why. Perhaps because I was imagining what it must have been like to be a priest, in my long flowing robes, standing on a tower with no railing whatsoever, looking out at the world from a tower that symbolized man's attempt to reach the heavens, with the soothing backdrop of the ocean with its salty smell and humid breeze. I was, admittedly, not terribly excited to make the trip to Pisa. My general attitude towards famous monuments in general (probably due to my past experiences with excruciating family outings) was that I could pretty much just google it, and it would be more or less the same thing. This trip to Italy has definitely made me re-think this bleak outlook on sightseeing. 

Rome, on purpose this time!

This week's excursion took us to the wonderful city of Rome. As soon as we had left the station and stepped out into the streets it was clear that Rome was an entirely different kind of city, different to the "kinds" I had been to already. It didn't take long for me to realize that within this holy city lies the best and the worst that Italy has to offer. The monumental churches and and statues were a stark contrast to the prostitutes and the number of times I was offered drugs. The people were different too - all kinds of people, of different color, nationality, and certainly fashion sense. This, I suppose, is to be expected in any large city. 

I had gone to Rome with a particular interest in its history. Namely, its ancient history. Surprised isn't the word - maybe disappointed - I'd use to describe how I felt about most of the ancient relics and structures being long gone. It was, after all, the center of Christendom in the ancient world. I suppose the church saw little reason the maintain its pagan roots. This aside, there was still much to see, and much that was worthy of awe.

One of the few ancient relics that remained was perhaps one of Rome's most famous: the Colosseum. Built in 70 A.D. by Emperor Vespasian, this Flavian Amphitheater was initially a gift to the people of Rome, a means of making amends after the reign of the terrible Emperor Nero , who had initially burned down a village, where the Colosseum currently stands, in favor of a grand house and a giant bronze statue in his likeness. This ancient building would be the center of Romes entertainment for hundreds of years to come. All were welcome (unless you were an actor, former gladiator, or a grave robber), and entry was free. It was almost chilling to think of what people must have seen there, but at least many of the people who died were criminals (I guess.) A gruesome means for entertainment, to be sure, and some might argue that it was almost barbaric (and they would be right) but I couldn't help but wonder if we - the people - had changed all that much. Still, it was a sight to behold, and I'll probably be kicking my self for the rest of my life for being too cheap to go inside. 

There are many churches in Rome - truly you will find no end to them - but not all are equal. Some will leave you reeling with wonder, asking yourself how such grandiose dreams were ever conceived of in the first place. This, for me, was Romes most revered Jesuit church. St. Ignatius founded the Jesuit order somewhere around the 1500's. Ignatius claimed to have had a vision in which God had ordered him to become a soldier for Christ. So he founded an order that would go on to spread knowledge as well as the Word of God through the far corners of the earth. And that they did, and as they did so, they happened to gain a good amount of power and influence. Currently, one of the most famous Jesuits is none other that Pope Francis himself. When I went inside I was struck by the odd sensation of a rolling wave (not really, but... it was something.) Such is the power of artwork done in the baroque period. It was as though everything in the church was moving from one corner to another. Everything inside was alive. It was a little creepy actually. It was no wonder that this church had set the standard for all Jesuit churches to follow. I am not a religious man, but in that moment I was reminded that if there is a god, surely he/she is creativity its self. No matter ones spiritual disposition, it would be a mistake to visit Rome and not visit the church. [name pending!]  

Would that I could list all the monuments that stole my breath, but I will have to limit it to three (for now.) The oldest, and perhaps most important, relic of Rome's ancient world still standing: the Pantheon. Its survival is due solely to the fact that it was at some point converted to a church. Had this not been the case, it would have been used as a quarry, like the rest of its kind. Unfortunately what we had seen was not what it had been once. The bronze plating had been relocated, it's gods and goddesses torn down. It ached me to imagine what it once must have been. However, it still retained much of its former glory. The single cut marble pillars imported from Egypt, its hidden dome that inspired and aided visionaries like Brunelleschi in the pursuit of architectural perfection, its towering presence, all of these things do nothing short of amaze. It was, in fact, my favorite building out of (what felt like) hundreds. 

There is much that Rome contains. Its past is a blend of holy water and blood, it's people an accurate reflection. My only regret is not having more time to spend there (and not bringing a second jacket!) But I will definitely return, because I do not think a person can  truly absorb everything that it holds in one lifetime. 

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.   

Loitering Explained

A few nights ago, some friends and I had been walking back from a bar when we bumped into the two Italian lads we had met on our first night out. Once the initial excitement and surprise had passed, they invited us to join them, which we were more than happy to do. We walked a couple of blocks until reaching a kind of hole-in-the-wall type bar that we had failed to notice until now, and it was packed with people... well, outside anyway. When the time came for the bar to close, I assumed we'd all be going our separate ways but, instead, we just continued to stand outside, chatting. At this point, a few others had joined our our merry band - all locals - and the amount of noise we were making subsequently increased. It wasn't, necessarily, that we were being unreasonably loud, only that we were being too loud for the people sleeping in the apartments above - who, in hindsight, really shouldn't be living right above a bar anyway, and who, I can only assume, were the ones who called the police. We didn't get in trouble or anything, they simply asked us to go elsewhere. And elsewhere we went, gathering more and more people as we made our way. 

It was very strange, and was something I had been thinking about for a while: why did there always seem to be an endless number of youths at night, standing on street corners, seemingly doing nothing at all? Were they all just bored? Did they hate being home? The answer was given to me by the ring leader of yet another group we had joined. It was her birthday, so her group of loiterers was particularly large. She explained to me that it was probably because of the fraternities and sororities. Apparently, the system for these groups is a little different in Italy than it is for us in the United States. Here, there is only one fraternity and one sorority for each city, though there are some cities - like Florence - that only have one big co-ed group. These groups have social events at east once a week, and since their numbers are far too large to fit in any one building, at least here in Prato, they prefer to mingle in the streets. She went on to explain that, maybe for younger people and those not in a fraternity/sorority, hanging outside is also just a convenient way to meet new people and socialize, but, for the most part, many of the people we see are probably in one of these groups. At one point she had mentioned that Prato never used to have any bars until recently, only... pubs. You know, those places where old people exchange war stories and drown their sorrows. This, to me, seems like a likely cause for the mass loitering culture for young people here in the old city of Prato - since, what else would they do with their time?  

I was, admittedly, a little envious of this. Where I come from people tend to be a lot more distrusting of others, and standing on street corners all night in large groups means you're probably up to no good. The social environment here definitely seems very healthy, which, I assume, only serves to better the community as a whole.  

Wait, Did She Say Rome?

I had fallen in love; the leather jacket I had been searching for my whole life had finally revealed itself! There was just one problem - I had no money left, but I could definitely get my hands on some more. After explaining my situation to the store owner, he eagerly assured me that if I were to come back for it tomorrow I could make a small deposit and he would hold it for me, which was great news seeing as it was the last one in stock; but I would only have one day. Determined get my hands on the jacket, I handed him a twenty without a second thought and raced off to join the rest of my group, who were preparing to depart the breathtaking city of Florence. Later that night, a friend of mine - who, for the sake of anonymity, shall be named El Toro - had offered  to join me on my next excursion to Florence. I suppose we both saw it as a great chance to test our knowledge of the Italian transit system - specifically, the train. Had we known that it would be more a test of resolve than anything, we probably would have taken a taxi.

We set out right after class, keeping the fact that we only had two hours before the store closed in the fore of our minds. We started strong - and by strong I meant entirely confused by the ticketing system, but we were determined to figure it out ourselves (or too embarrassed to ask for help). It had only taken about ten minutes so we still had plenty of time. The hard part was over. After confirming which platform our train was leaving from we took our seats and waited patiently. The rest of the journey was simple; everyone had assured us that once you boarded the train in Prato, Florence was the last stop, so when the train arrived we casually took our seats, content to play the waiting game.

We passed the time with light conversation and stares of naked wonder as the train made its way through the countryside. Wait... countryside?? When I thought about it, it had been about thirty-five minutes since we left, but wasn't Florence only twenty-five minutes from Prato? A couple of old ladies had taken the seats next to us at our previous stop, so I leaned over and asked "The last stop for this train is the Florence main station, right?" The woman closest looked at me with confusion, and, at first, I thought it was because she didn't speak English, but then she said, "No, we just left Florence, this train is headed to Rome." For as long as I live, I will never forget the look that appeared on El Toro's face, nor the sinking feeling in my chest, upon hearing her words. "But we were told Florence was the last stop for this train." I explained. "No," she replied, "If you wanted Florence main station you were supposed to change trains a few stops ago." I wanted to die. It was all supposed to be so simple! "But you're lucky," the woman continued, "usually the next stop for this train would be Rome,  but we'll be making one more stop in about ten minutes." We were saved! Kind of.. "Unfortunately," she said with her phone in her hand "the next train to where you want to go will be leaving one minute after we arrive, from platform two. The one after that is an hour and a half from now." An hour and a half was much too long. El Toro and I decided we'd try our luck with the next train. We wouldn't have time to pay for the ticket but, then again, when did they ever check for tickets? And in the event that we did get caught, we'd just play the 'dumb-American card.' The plan was full-proof.

When the train stopped we thanked the old ladies a thousand times before sprinting off to catch our train. When we got to the platform, the beeping sound that indicated that the doors were closing started going off, but there was no way in hell I was missing that train, for I had a date with the mother of all jackets, and this was my last day to collect it. Before I knew it, I had rushed through the closing doors, but El Toro, thinking there was no way he could make it in time, had stopped dead in his tracks, resigned to his fate of being tragically left behind. But we had already come this far together, and I was determined to make sure it stayed that way, so I shoved my arm between the - now - narrow space and shouted for him to hurry. He made it, and we spent the better part of five minutes laughing like little school girls about the whole thing. Our laughter, however, came to a dead stop, almost as fast as the train did. We weren't at a station in Florence, we had stopped in the middle of a field for no apparent reason! Our first guess was that the conductor had caught wind of a couple of stowaways aboard his vessel, but an announcement was made, and it seemed like it was just a maintenance issue. With half an hour to go before the store closed, my nerves were running high. To make matters worse, the ticket collector - as if because he head decided he had nothing better to do during the intermission -  decided to start checking tickets. We found out quickly that he had little to no sympathy for 'dumb Americans' and our options (I can only assume) were between paying the hundred and thirty Euro fine and jail. Needless to say, we begrudgingly payed the fine.

Somehow, despite everything that stood in our way, we ended up making it to the store in time and acquired, what can now be called, the most expensive jacket I've ever bought. Of course, upon leaving the market place I spied about 3 jackets I would have rather gotten instead (and probably for a better price) but I guess that's just life. El Toro, in a spirit of awe-inspiring maturity (and probably catching wind of the defeated state I found myself in) assured me that the trip was not a total loss, as we now had invaluable intel on the ins-and-outs of the train system. Our mistake can, ultimately, be chalked up to a fatal lack of vigilance - a tool that should never be left behind when making your way through the unknown. Lesson learned. But at least it made for an interesting adventure...  

The Silent City

Like most young people do, when given the chance to roam the streets of a foreign city, I set out to discover how it was young adults chose to spend their time once the sun went down. Initially, I found what was to be expected; hoards of youths making their way from bar to bar, chatting on street corners, and eating in restaurants. As ordinary as the scene may have appeared, it didn't take long for me to realize that there was something quite alien about what was happening.

Once my senses had successfully acclimated to the strange and wonderful overflow of external stimuli that permeated the old city of nighttime Prato, the oddities began to appear. I first realized, whilst sitting in the outdoor plaza, that, considering the sheer volume of people that were out and about, the city center was entirely too quiet. Sure, the music emanating from the various venues - which really wasn't all that loud to begin with - probably drowned out some of the chatter, but it certainly wasn't enough to lessen what should have been an ocean of fairly audible conversations (inability to understand Italian aside.) The shouts, screams, and obnoxious laughter that usually accompanies a boys/girls-night-out, when coupled with alcohol (of which there was plenty) was nowhere to be heard. I mean, we're talking about 100+ university students (I assume) within a half a mile square radius, making about as much noise as you would expect to find in a nice restaurant. It was, in fact, hard to tell if anyone had been drinking at all. In any case, I had decided to pass it off as a sign that the youthful inhabitants of Prato resigned themselves to getting drunk very quietly - whatever their reasons.  

Eventually, the group I was with decided it was time to change bars. As everyone stood up to leave, I raised concern over the bottles that were still in our hands. The response, to what I though was a fairly reasonable comment, was a couple of scoffs and a "Dude, look around." They were right; A good number of the people that made their way through the streets shamelessly held their bottles in their hands. This, for me, was a strange sight, if for no other reason than the fact that there were no bottles to be found on the ground anywhere - but, like the rest of my group, I wanted to leave (without having to down my drink) so I didn't push the matter any farther.

As we made our way to our next destination, a conversation was stuck with a couple of English-speaking locals when someone in our group had asked for directions to the nearest ATM. To our surprise (and delight) the conversation ended up lasting a couple of hours. Our new friends were amazingly receptive to all of our questions about the Italian way of life, and equally curious about what America was like.The conversation had inevitably shed light on many of the strange things I had observed during my night out. As it happens, Italians are very confused about the American propensity for binge-drinking - which, personally, I found surprising since, in my mind, the European lifestyle had always gone hand in hand with a... "liberal" approach to alcohol consumption (a gross generalization, I know), and while this might be true to some extent depending on where in Europe you are, I am ashamed to admit that I had never considered the possibility that, in some European cultures, drinking did not mean getting drunk - for us youths who like to have a good time every now and then. 

"How can Americans binge-drink the way they do? and so often!" Our new Italian friend had asked, wide-eyed with both hands shaking wildly at his sides - as per the Italian way - to accentuate the depth of his confusion. He explained to us how, for Italians, drinking is a social event and nothing more. They prefer to sip slowly while riding a "steady buzz," and have little patience for loud drunken bigotry and self-desecration. We were reminded that while things might be a bit different when partying in  Florence, that is only because Florence has become a much more "international" city but that, for the most part, the rest of Italy prefers a more "chilled out" affair - as do the women, when it comes to interacting with men, a point he dutifully expressed, in case any of us were willing try our luck with some of the local women. It wasn't that Italians felt them selves above getting drunk from time to time, but that even when they did, they ensured it didn't become a problem for others - which is something we Americans have a hard time putting in practice. Because of the casual nature of Pratos night life, we were told, the police had much better things to do than harassing people for walking through the streets with bottles (which seemed to always find themselves in the trashcan anyway.) 

At the end of the night, I decided that the adjustment to this foreign drinking/social culture would be of little inconvenience to me. I've never been much of a drinker, and have always preferred more laid-back settings. However, I have certainly not always been this way, so I think it says much of the maturity of the general youth for them to prefer  this setting over the loud, anxious, bustling mess many of us have grown accustom to, elsewhere. Saluti, Prato.