Assignment #7/8: Napoli and Immigrants

Welcome to Naples, the land of the lost. The place where people come on their way to somewhere else. Welcome, watch your pockets and keep your purse close, all hands and legs inside the car please. Welcome, have your passport available, it will be checked and open your eyes WIDE a car might hit you. Welcome, I hope your not uncomfortable if I kiss your cheek or yell at you, both might happen within the next few moments. Welcome to Naples.

I was terrified when I first arrived in Naples. All I could manage to do was hold my belongings as close to my body as possible, check behind me every five minutes and stare. Stare at the honking cars, the yelling women, the signs on every corner, the car that almost hit me, the motorcycle that almost hit the car or the pizza steaming out of the store fronts. I was so scared of everything around me. The impression I had prior to arriving was that I would be coming to the Compton of Italy. That every move I made had to be calculated, well thought-out and monitored. My purse was always zipped and my hands would constantly graze the back of my bag to make sure no one else's hands managed to come near it. I was aware, maybe to aware.

Two days later I loved Naples, I would walk the streets buying horned necklaces and not think twice about my bag. I would talk to the man behind the counter at the bakery because I simply COULD. I would tell him about Seattle, my family and anything else he was willing to know about. I was at home in a city that I had spent only days in. I felt more comfortable in Naples in two days then what took me a month to feel in Rome. The people were so willing to know me. They wanted to participate in the going-on's of my day. They were loud, but I loved it. They were nosy, but I wanted to tell them everything, it was the perfect city for me.

Naples was also the first time that I had ever felt I was seeing the truth. We are so fortunate to be living in the circumstance that we do in the incredible city that is Rome. But do we recognize this blessing at all? I don't think I realized how fortunate I was until Naples. The excursion we took with Alexander Valentino (whom I will discuss later) was the most eye opening, revolutionary moments I have had in Italy thus far. I saw something besides the life of the rich and famous in churches and museums. And please, don't misunderstand me, there is an importance in seeing what has occured in the past and learning why it happened at all but there is something so refreshing about witnessing something so honest in the present. while with Alex we were able to explore and learn about a squating zone, a temporary living space for people who don't have another option.

The space was completely obsqure, the shapes were wrong, the execution was incorrect and above all nothing really worked. Lives had even been lost because of the poor effort that had gone into this building that at one time stored 1,500 lives. This number to me is even more unbearable considering the circumstances that these people were living in. The building had never been cleaned in the nearly 10 years it had been standing. The garbage piled in the lower level for years in closed off rooms. It was disgusting, but it was honest and apparently right in the mist of what was considered the 'suburbs'.

Gianni, a man simply walking by who happened to have had knowledge on the building asked what we were studying. One thing then led to another and we had a second tour guide who knew everything there was to know about these Canadian disasters. This is just one of the many examples of the people I came across in Naples. People kindly wanting to be involved, participate in another person's life. He didn't know us, he wasn't getting paid and yet he spent the next 30 minutes of his life sharing information with a mostly interested group of students. He received no benefit to the time he spent, but we received everything! I learned about the creation of the building, it's inhabitants and the plan the city has for it's future...he only learned my name.

For a city that is to be so feared, I fell in love with it.

During our walks from one place to another I was fortunate enough to talk with Alexander (alex). He told me about what he does and his family that lived close by (his aunt who is near 80 years old but still active) and his girlfriend who lived in rome whom we visits often. He told me that Naples was his base, his true love above all else. I was lucky enough to even squeeze a little bit of information for my independent study out of him.

I had mentioned how much I loved Naples and how the people seem to be so much kinder here and much more willing to help/communicate. He immediately assumed I had heard otherwise (which I had) and explained himself in a very interesting way. He told me that often immigrants come to Naples on their way to Rome. That they learn the Neopolitian language and continue their journey to Rome claiming to be from Naples. These immigrants, he said, are the reason that Naples has such a negative stereotype. The immigrants create this Neopolitian impression that is completely false. interesting. I didn't know whether to think that was a negative dig at immigrants or whether he was defending his home and indifferent to the immigration issues. Either way, it was quite eye opening information.

Beyond this food. My opinion on food has changed completely as well, cheap, thick, delicious food. Fried potatoes, pizza, seafood and everything else was available by mass amounts and always ready for my consumption at any time of the day. Perfection.

The castle that we were able to visit on the second half of our tour was something that was well worth the wait, time, and sweat it took to arrive there. High above everything in the city you were able to see the gentle rolls of the water at the edge of town, colorful buildings drizzled over an uneven landscape. A barely visible setting sun laying behind rain clad clouds, it was incredible. I love visiting places like this, it makes me feel like I'm standing amongst history. I stood where people before me have stood and done things, accomplished things or maybe even solved problems that affected millions.

Coming back to Rome, after my short but beautiful stay in Amalfi, was bitter sweet. Besides dealing with my own personal issues I was exhausted. I recognized the feeling as what I had felt when returning from florence. It felt good to come back to a safe haven, a place of my own with my belongings and familiarity. But I noticed things that I had noticed when I first arrived in Rome but have, over time, forgotten and failed to appreciate. Rome is glorious and Rome is beautiful. While I feel that it lacks the life that flows so passionately through the people of Naples, it has such a sophistication. It has a dignified beauty that is untouched and unchangeable.

I mentioned this in my Florence entry but, it is even more obvious in my experience in Naples, how it takes being away from home or familiarity to realize how much you love, appreciate and care about a place. I love Rome, but I have learned about the country as a whole. Rome may not be my favorite place I have been to but it is the only place that I feel confident in calling home. The only place that I have had enough experience with to truly admit rightfully how I feel.

Assignment #6: Trastevere

I love Trestevere, but really what isnt there to love about this country side town. I wouldn't exactly describe it as country side anymore but maybe back in the day. Now I look as see elaborately colored buildings, yellows, browns, reds, bricks, its such a beautiful area. I took a few twists and turns earlier this week and found myself a bit lost amongst the tall, colorful buildings. The roads, in the familiar cobblestone seem a bit more straight and flat compared to the Campo. The people seem to move a bit slower and smile more often. The food seemed to even taste better and the drinks seemed bigger. Ok, at this point I think it might just be my imagination grabbing me and convincing me of things to justify my love for this neighborhood.

The Campo to me seems like city living whereas Trestevere seems to be where someone would raise a family, have a small home that was comfortable and cute. Have a narrow backyard with tall trees. Granted this is the case for the entire area, but a bit deeper into the city I saw what I imagined to be homes, there is a small chance that it was a business with a home exterior but who am I to judge? With color, churches on every corner, and enough fountains to satisfy anyone, what's not to love about Trestevere.

Multicultural Reading Notes

Multi-cultural readings

The Egyptian Lover

I don’t quite know what the true meaning to this tall tale might be. It began from the perspective of a young Cleopatra from Egypt but quickly changed to the man she was meeting in Italy. He told of his life with Cleopatra and the struggles he had with his wife. Wanting to leave her but not wanting to really be without her. An accidental mix-up of love letters caused his to lose both women. So what is the moral of the story then? He mentions one quote that seems to tie each characters struggles together though, “what life do we lead, and above all, what life do we learn.” This man made many mistakes over and over yet never learned from them. Both of the women seemed to know of these problems with his fidelity yet allowed it to happen over and over again. Therefore I believe that the idea that the author is trying to get across is that we must learn from the life we lead as to live a better one. Or in other words we can have a wonderful, full and beautiful life but we must learn from our mistakes in order to live it.

Home…Sickness

I loved this story. It seems to relate so much to one of our older writing assignments. It talks about feeling so far from home, missing all the simple luxuries that we take for granted and barely realize we have. But it also discusses the opposing argument, what it is like to return home and miss all the small pleasures that we learned and gained while in our ‘new’ home. In the end the author talks about the feelings you get when you finally return home and you aren’t the same, the things your thought you missed you don’t care about and you begin to noticed what your missing there. This characters entire perspective changed from Africa to Italy and back. I imagine that this is the same sensation that we will experience, the same feelings of happiness and lose when we return home. I think everyone should read this story because I honestly LOVED it.

Independent Project Outline

Natalia Valle

Independent Research Project

I am planning to explore the life of immigrants through Italian eyes. I want to know how an Irish immigrant feels stereotyped by Italians or if he doesn’t feel any stereotypes. I want to know if a Romania immigrant feels forced to work at the market because of his background or if that seems to be his only option. I would like to research if certain immigrant nations are looked down upon more then others. Lastly, I would like to see if language, skin color, accent etc plans a part in these stereotypes and which one is judged more. These are all things that I plan to look deep into through people I find and meet within the Esquilino Market.

Outline:

• Interview Sean (Irish immigrant bartender) works in the Campo, fluent in English and Italian.
• Interview a market vendor (Find out nation, how they feel integrated/stereotyped and what their impression of Italians are).
• Interview a native Italian (Find out impression of immigration in Italy and/or immigrants in general vs English speaking immigrants).

Assignment #5: Venice, Florence and Back Home a remix

Home: 1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. any place of residence or refuge: a heavenly home.

Home. When I think of home I think of my mom, I think of curling up in her bed on sundays when my dad makes us the most delicious eggs and we sit for hours watching our DVR shows together. That to me is the most basic sense of home. My grandmother bringing Havana over to accompany Chico, giving everyone in sight warm hugs and kisses all over our faces. My brother head locking me and laughing hysterically as my little sister tries to pry him off of me. This is home, my home, no one else's impression or description would be the same.

Since coming to Rome my description of home is different. I look toward my home here for inspiration, I think of the Campo market, the vendors, the one Euro case of eggs and my pocka-dot sheets. I think of opening the door/windows and letting the cool air in and allowing the warm sun to fall across my face as I lye in bed. I think of long walks in the cold and cappuccini that warm me to my bones. This is my current home and this is what makes me feel comfortable, feel safe, feel at ease. It's funny how you don't understand the importance of these things until your away from them. You can't describe the things that you consider home in Rome until your AWAY from Rome.

Florence was incredible, but florence was far and cold. Far meaning far from home, from Rome. Cold because its northern and cold because you don't know anything. You don't know what street your on when your late for class or which left it was to the vendor that gave you the great deal on scarves. Its new and new can be great but new gets old. It gets old fast and you can't decide whether you want more new or if you want home. I wanted home.

My mom always tells me I'm the home-body in the family. Wow, was she right. I would much rather sit cozy on a coach with a book or some online TV then go out and explore. But I'm trying, I'm trying to get the most out of this trip without killing myself over it.

When we were in florence things were so different from Rome. The people were much more excited about Americans. But maybe excited is the wrong word, maybe understanding of American's in better. With so may English speakers and even more American universities it makes sense that they are used to "our kind." The vendors at the street shops were pushy, much more then the Roman vendors, they even got mad a few times when I looked at something but decided against it. It was sometimes even uncomfortable to glance at something to long as you walked past it.

After a few days of easing (as much as thats possible) into Florence, we made a quick day trip to Prato. Prato is a darker city, smaller, and a bit sad. It was a gloomy day out, granted, but I found the area sad. Everything was dark, no street lamps, no beautifully paved streets, a lot of larger, unexciting buildings and fewer people. The shopping was good if you had some money to spend, which of course I didn't after my amazing leather jacket purchase. But the moment we stepped off the train the atmosphere around me changed. The feelings I had in Florence melted away as Prato took over me. It was an immediate difference and immediate change.

Skipping forward a bit I find myself on a weekend trip to Venice. Oh, Venice the city that is sinking and the city that screams romance and beauty. But it was wet and raining and it was a familiar seaside town, and it was an older version of Seattle. How I seemed to forget what rain for hours felt like. It rained and it rained, the wind blew in my face until I was perminently shivering down to my bones. But this feeling, unlike in Florence was at least familiar. I could remember how to react to a bus riding by about to hit a puddle or what to wear in a what can only be described as hurricane rains. I was finally, since December, in familiar circumstances.

So while Venice may have been more of home it still wasn't Seattle and it wasn't Rome. It was an hour on a plane, 30 on a bus, and 40 on a boat until we were even within in a 15 walk of the hotel. A restaurant was always a boat trip away and Saint Marc's was separated by bridges and alleys from every direction. It was the most confusing city I had ever seen. It had cobble stone roads that were covered in green algae from years of being covered in water, the stairs to the stream would be covered to nearly street level within and hour and half of raining. It wasn't home and even though for a brief moment it may have been confused for such, it simply wasn't in the end. I loved Venice, even more then Florence but home had become Rome since arriving here in January.

It was odd that when I was in Rome all I wanted was to escape to Florence. Then when in Florence, all I wanted was to return home to Rome. Prato was an even more extreme feeling. I not only was desperate to return to Florence but I was mentally exhausted from everything outside of Rome. Venice, while it was in the race, slowly faded out into a wet abyss. My home had shifted. I NEEDED Rome. I even cancelled my trip to Cinque Terre in order to return to Rome sooner.

After a long 3 and half days and a few delays I arrived on the train headed to Rome. It was around 4:45 and I was excited for my return and my mind was jumping from plan to plan for the rest of night. With a bit of confusion we realized that our train was certainly not an express. It would be a four hour trip with frequent stops in between Florence and Rome. I pushed away my sadness and realized it didn't matter because I was going home and I was with, what I could imagine to be, the perfect traveling companions. Here we go.

After some games of Moxie, reading of the The Time Travelers Wife, some iphone games in which Marisa plastered lips and goggly-eyes on my photo, I was a bit anxious to arrive. I wanted my stiff bed and my 39 cent pasta. I was sweating a little, the train was a little bit to warm and everyone was getting tired of traveling. We heard the word Roma sing over the intercom and all of our faces turned red with happiness. We were here, we were home. I could take a hot shower for as long as I felt like!

We were wrong though. We jumped off as soon as the train pulled to a halt. Our luggage was already in our hands and jackets zipped up. We began to walk to our right as soon as our feet hit the pavement. Within the next 30 seconds the train pulled away and my mind felt lost. Where were the bright lights of Termini? Where were the people running to catch trains, the McDonald's that served breakfast?

It was the wrong stop, we had jumped off one stop to early. No. No. No. It couldn't be. I was tired and all I wanted was to go home. Julie with her soothing motherly voice calmed everyone done. She smiled sweetly and just as any mother would do took care of us. She got us home. We took a metro to Termini and then a car from Termini to the house. Thank God she was there because Mick would have had to deal wth my tears and stress and he already knows by now that that is normally unavoidable.

After the long trek with our bags up the many flights of stairs, I was home. It smelled of dust and stale air, but I didn't care at all. I opened some windows and sat on the couch with nothing unpacked, listening to the guitar player in the Campo playing his familiar song. Here I was finally and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sit here, not even move an inch. I wanted to relish this smell, this feeling, this utter relaxation. I was in Rome and until I left I didn't know how important it was to me. I didn't know that Florence was great until Prato was lonely. I am now in my bed writing about Rome, I am warm under my covers and I am full of pasta in my belly, I am happy.

I miss my real home a bit though. I guess now that I am back in my current home I miss my old home. But I know that I am only weeks away from my moms bed and DVR with my dads eggs. I can probably do without the headlock but I don't think I want to do without it. Funny how that works.

Assignment #4: Home Away From Home

Home : 1. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

2. any place of residence or refuge: a heavenly home.

Home. When I think of home I think of my mom, I think of curling up in her bed on sundays when my dad makes us the most delicious eggs and we sit for hours watching our DVR shows together. That to me is the most basic sense on home. My grandmother bringing Havana over to accompany Chico, giving everyone in sight warm hugs and kisses all over our faces. My brother head locking me and laughing hysterically and my little sister trying to pry him off of me. This is home, my home, no one else's impression or description would be the same.

Since coming to Rome my description of home is different. I look toward my home here for inspiration, I think of the Campo market, the vendors, the one Euro case of eggs and my pocka-dot sheets. I think of opening the door/windows and letting the cool air in and allow the warm sun to fall across my face as I lye in bed. I think of long walks in the cold and cappuccinos that warm me to my bones. This is my current home and this is what makes me feel comfortable, feel safe, feel at ease. It funny how you don't understand the importance of these things until your away from them. You can't describe the things that you consider home in Rome until your AWAY from Rome.

Florence was incredible, but florence was far and cold. Far meaning far from home, from Rome. Cold because its northern and cold because you don't know anything. You don't know what street your on when your late for class or which left it was to the vendor that gave you the great deal on scarfs. Its new and new can be great but new gets old. It gets old fast and you can't decide whether you want more new or if you want home. I wanted home.

My mom always tells me I'm the home-body in the family. Wow, was she right. I would much rather sit cozy on a coach with a book or some online TV then go out and explore. But I'm trying, I'm trying to get the most out of this trip without killing myself over it.

When we were in florence things were so different from Rome. The people were much more excited about Americans. But maybe excited is the wrong word, maybe understanding of American's in better. With so may English speakers and even more American universities it makes sense that they are used to "our kind." The vendors at the street shops were pushy, much more then the Roman vendors, they even got mad a few times when I looked at something but decided against it. It was sometimes even uncomfortable to look at something to long as you walked past it.

After a few days of easing (as much as thats possible) into Florence, we made a quick day trip to Prato. Prata is a darker city, smaller, and a bit sad. It was a bit of gloomy day out, granted, but I found the area sad. Everything was dark, no street lamps no beautifully paved streets, a lot of larger, unexciting buildings and fewer people. The shopping was good if you had some money to spend, which of course I didn't after my amazing leather jacket purchase. But the moment we stepped off the train the atmosphere around me changed. The feelings I had in Florence melted away as Prato took of me. It was an immediate difference, and immediate change.

It was odd that when I was in Rome all I wanted was to escape to Florence. Then when in Florence, all I wanted was to return home to Rome. Prato was an even more extreme feeling. I not only was desperate to return to Florence but I was mentally exhausted from everything outside of Rome. My home had shifted. I NEEDED Rome. I even cancelled my trip to Cinque Terre in order to return to Rome sooner.

After a long 3 and half days and a few delays I arrived on the train headed to Rome. It was around 4:45 and I was excited for my return and my mind was jumping from plan to plan for the rest of night. With a bit of confusion we realized that our train was certainly not an express. It would be a four hour trip with frequent stops in between Florence and Rome. I pushed away my sadness and realized it didn't matter because I was going home and I was with, what I could imagine to be, the perfect traveling companions. Here we go.

After some games of Moxie, reading of the The Time Travelers Wife, some iphone games in which Marisa plastered lips and goggly-eyes on my photo, I was a bit anxious to arrive. I wanted my stiff bed and my 39 cent pasta. I was sweating a little, the train was a little bit to warm and everyone was getting a bit tired of traveling. We heard the word Roma sing over the intercom and all f our faces turned white from happiness. We were here, we were home. I could take a hot shower for as long as I felt like!

We were wrong though. We jumped off as soon as the train pulled to a halt. Our luggage was already in our hands and jackets zipped up. We began to walk to our right as soon as our feet hit the pavement. Within the next 30 seconds the train pulled away and my mind felt lost. Where were the bright lights of Termini? Where were the people running to catch trains, the McDonald's that served breakfast?

It was the wrong stop, we had jumped off one stop to early. No. No. No. It couldn't be. I was tired and all I wanted was to go home. Julie with her soothing motherly voice calmed everyone done. She smiled sweetly and just as any mother would do took care of us. She got us home. We took a metro to Termini and then a car from Termini to the House. Thank God she was there because Mick would have had to deal wth my tears and stress and he already knows by now that that is normally unavoidable.

After the long trek with our bags up the many flights of stairs, I was home. It smelled of dust and stale air, but I didn't care at all. I opened some windows and sat on the couch with nothing unpacked, listening to the guitar player in the Campo playing his familiar song. Here I was finally and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sit here, not move even an inch. I wanted to relish this smell, this feeling, this utter relaxation. I was in Rome and until I left I didn't know how important it was to me. I didn't know the Florence was great until Prato was lonely. I am now in my bed writing about Rome, I am warm under my covers and I am full of pasta in my belly, I am happy.

I miss my real home a bit though. I guess now that I am back in my current home I miss my old home. But I know that I am only weeks away from my moms bed and DVR with my dads eggs. I can probably do without the headlock but I don't think I want to do without it. Funny how that works.