The First Weekend: I Have Many Parents In New York
For the longest leg of my flight (Chicago to London), British Airways upgraded me to something called, I believe, “World Traveler Plus,” which allowed me extra legroom, a sort of leg-elevator and a tv screen that I could pull out of my armrest. When the flight attendant offered me a little bottle of wine, I asked if there was an additional cost, and he laughed at me and responded, °You’re on British Airways now, ma’am.” Which apparently means, absolutely not. I love Europe.
Upon arrival in Rome, my new friend Meghan and I grabbed our luggage and joined the trek toward customs… only to find ourselves outside. As it turns out, Italy doesn’t exactly do customs, and unlike the London Heathrow, in which one must go through intense, unfriendly security screenings even between terminals, Roma Fiumicino just kind of lets you walk in and out. After stamping our passports, no one even looked at us. Now, after spending a few weeks in the land of 3 hour meals and police officers that ask you for massages (more on that later), this seems perfectly natural, but after 2 sleepless days of traveling, Meghan and I started to panic, worrying that we’d somehow missed a part of the process and would be arrested the second we walked outside. We were not.
On the train from Rome to Orvieto, which takes about an hour, Meghan and I sat in a compartment with a man named Massimo, who I soon learned was sort of a cop, sort of a musician, and plays clarinet in the symphony. I managed to speak to him in Italian for almost the entire time, which was a great feeling, as I’d never really had the opportunity to practice outside of the classroom, and had been worried that I wouldn’t be able to function in conversation. Massimo lives in Rome during the week, but hates the crowds and tourists, so he lives with his girlfriend in the country during the weekend. He said he’d been to New York once, and I told him I had many parents in New York (genitori=parents, parenti=relatives), but as far as I’m aware, I believe that was the only time I blatantly misspoke.
Right as we stepped off the train, we were greeted by the famously wonderful Alba, who is in charge of the program here, and taken to our respective apartments. Mine, which I share with three girls, is cute and relatively spacious (two flights of stairs, a large dining room), and our landlady had adorably left us a homemade pie on the kitchen table. Meghan’s is shared between six girls, and is the most outrageously beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen. It has a wine cellar, stone archways dividing the rooms, high ceilings, and curiously enough, comes with a sombrero (Alba admitted that this usually becomes the “party house”).
Despite its small size (approx. 1 km by 2 km), the town of upper Orvieto proved very difficult to navigate the first few days. We learned pretty quickly that the town was set up in no way like a grid, and that the lack of gaps between buildings means that you actually have to know where you’re going, not just a general direction. I got lost, alone, for about an hour trying to walk from Meghan’s apartment to mine, and at one point realized I’d walked in a full circle around town. Luckily, when you reach the edge of town in any direction, you know it, as a large cliff separates you from the rest of the landscape. This also means that getting lost provides some pretty outstanding views.
I bought a cell phone from an old man named Rondolfo my second day, and then stepped onto the main street, Corso Cavour, only to find my path blocked by a parade of people dressed in Renaissance garb. As I stood watching, Rondolfo handed me a bag full of cherries, and told me they were from his cherry tree at home. What a town.
