Week 4 Reportage 1

Josh, Tyler, Sydney, and I sit outside the small pub that promised loud parties, beer, and plenty of English. So far we had seen one other customer and a street vendor enter the Lion's Den. The bartender comes out and tells us we can't be outside with glasses this late and we walk back inside and to the back of the pub. In the back corner of the pub is a door that leads into the Lion's Fountain, it's filled with American college students. We all groan once we see we didn't move far enough back in the pub when we first entered. American music blasts from the speakers, drowning out all other noise. I start to think the place might be a bit too American as another group of sorority girls makes their way in, more orange skin and bleached hair. Sydney finds a sharpie and leaves our mark on the ceiling, UWG joins the hundreds of other messages that are plastered on the walls of the establishment.

Week 4 Image Junkyard 2

I await the return of my companions outside Dante's tomb. It starts to rain and Shaunna and I run to the side of the cathedral to avoid the downpour. We have a friendly conversation with an older English couple who disappear when the rain stops.

Week 4 Image Junkyard 1

Pigeons dart nervously back and forth in front of the church next to the market in Florence. A single Sparrow bounces along with the pack of pigeons. Tyler holds out his hand as if to feed the tiny bird and he nervously hops forward and pecks at his fingers.

Week 5 Image Junkyard 2

Spoleto's orange night lights shine on the sides of the buildings surrounding Bar Duelle. As I marvel at the scene I can't believe the trip is finally ending. I was sitting on the same creaky bench weeks ago amazed that the trip was finally beginning.

Week 5 Reportage 1

I'm still holding Cortney's hand as we walk into the Varsity, I haven't been able to let go of her since we collided in the airport. Dirty tables holding up plates of grease guide us to the counter of yelling cashiers and impatient customers. This is exactly what I wanted, the opposite of an Italian establishment to remind me just how much I'll miss Italy. The young woman at the counter yells at me to come over.
"What'll ya have, what'll ya have?"
I order two bacon cheeseburgers and their famously greasy onion rings. She disappears into the crowd of workers and comes back with our meal on a bright red plastic tray.
"Grazie," I say, it's purely out of reaction.
She raises an eyebrow and hands us our meal. Why do I feel like I'll now be foreign in my own home?

Week 5 Image Junkyard 1

My native tongue fill the Varsity like grease on their onion rings. The cashier raises an eyebrow as I thank her in Italian and apologize in English.

Week 3 Reportage 1

I wake up for the second time this morning and step off the bus onto Gubbio stones. I feel drowsy and slow, the weather seems to mirror me as the rain makes walking on the cobblestones a dangerous endeavor. An espresso and friendly conversations wake me up and prepare me for the tours of holy places. Saint Francis sits with his wolf, watching over the entrance to the basilica, his eyes are on God but I feel his gaze burning into me. The Gothic Cathedral is made up of huge rows of pillars, forming pointed arches that hold up the church. Our group moves further up into Gubbio, cobblestones digging into our already sore feet. Danela leads us to a fountain and starts to tell us about it's crazy history. The crossbow museum holds my attention, there's a display of empty archer gear and a worn wooden crossbow. I walk away with my companions, disappointed that the museum wasn't on the tour.

Week 3 Reportage 2

I down the last of my water, washing away the dry bread from the bland sandwich I had just purchased. I stash the Cherry X-plosion in my pocket and hurry out the door and onto the streets of Gubbio. Like a child I run back down to the shops filled with replica crossbows, suits of armor, and swords; like a child once again I turn away disappointed as all the shops have closed for their afternoon breaks. I stroll back up to the open square in front of a cathedral turned museum and await the arrival of my fellow travelers. Once we've regrouped we head to the lift that will take us up the mountain. The lift is painted a dark green and each small "birdcage" is so small only two regular sized people or one Viking can ride in it. When it's my turn to glide up the mountain in the terrifying lift there's no time to think because the cages never stop, I have to jump into it as it's still moving. It seems I can't grip the thin iron supports tight enough but if the steel cable above my head snaps it would make no difference. All I can do is hold on tight and hope I can reach the top of the mountain and devour my Cherry X-plosion with my feet safely on the ground.

Week 3 Image Junkyard 4

The streets of Gubbio are lined with crossbows. Every shop has crossbows, swords, and miniature knights for sale, baiting travelers into pottery shops and restaurants.

Week 3 Image Junkyard 3

Tourists and pilgrims fill the Vatican, money stuffed in their pockets like gold and priceless art stuffed in the museum. Just outside people lay in the streets, some missing arms, some unable to walk due to deformities, and some with boils the size of eggs covering their faces. Their moans and cries for money are lost among the endless stream of voices that fill the streets.

Week 3 Image Junkyard 2

American, German, Japanese, French, English, and Chinese people fill the Italian capital. For every Italian there seems to be four tourists.

Week 3 mage Junkyard 1

Ancient manuscripts line the walls of the Capuchin museum, monks slaved for year to get the text just right. Tourists glance at half the exhibits, only interested in the dead monks in the crypt.

Week 2 Image Junkyard 4

An old man sits outside Bar Duelle, book in hand and empty espresso mug on the table in front of him. He dresses well, a nice, wide brimmed hat rests snugly on his head and a brown suit coat adorns his body. He gets up to leave and I see the title of the book: “The Tale of Genji.”

Week 2 Image Junkyard 3

The smell of curry fills my nostrils even before the Indian Restaurant comes into view. Window shoppers peruse the various goods in shop windows nearby, and an older Italian beggar approaches me with a bird and a chest filled with lottery tickets. I do my best to be firm in my refusal to participate and I leave him awkwardly with regret and embarrassment flooding my belly.

Week 2 Image Junkyard 2

The square is filled with drunken yells and throbbing music as we try to make our way through the crowd. I stay behind, finding a semi-comfortable perch to message my fiancée. No place is safe tonight as every few minutes another youth makes their way out of the bar and stumbles loudly down the road.

Week 2 Memory 1

Rounding the corner in the Capuchin Basilica, I nearly stumble backwards as nothing could have prepared me for the sight that now fills my field of vision. Bones. Bones of monks, now dead for centuries, decorate an otherwise plain chamber. Mummies propped up onto their dried, half preserved feet stand watch over the piles of femurs and skulls that are piled high against the walls. Death watches over the tomb, hanging from the ceiling, scythe and scales gripped firmly in his skinless hand. Jawbones and hipbones, nailed to the walls and ceilings, create beautiful patterns and spirals inches above my head.

When my great grandmother passed away I was still struggling with the Christian concept of death. Held in my father’s arms I looked down on the body that I once affectionately called “Maw Maw.” My dad tried explaining to me that what I saw was no longer Maw Maw but she had a new body now. Expecting her to walk in, younger and healthier, I kept my eyes trained on the door to the sanctuary. Maybe the pastor would wheel it in on a cart and boot her up like some sort of android in front of the audience. The Capuchin Order’s wonderful display of mortality bewilders me even now. Even if they believed they had new bodies waiting for them in heaven it will still disturb and fascinate me for the rest of my life.

Week 2 Image Junkyard 1

Tourists gather around the Trevi fountain, it’s beautiful white form polluted by hundreds of human bodies restricting movement and preventing any clear view of the marvelous sculpture. Gawking at the sight of the fountain people huddle around, taking pictures so much that anyone within one hundred yards is preventing someone from snapping a photo. A single seagull rests upon Poseidon’s head, unaware of the history and meaning of its perch.

Week 2 Reportage 1

Boarding the train from Rome to Spoleto at the last second, I move from car to car in search of a seat. In one car stand two nuns, baby blue habits covering most of their bodies. At the next stop I continue my search, squeezing myself between the rows of people already comfortably seated. In the small compartment past the seats is a group of Italian high schoolers. They speak in much softer voices upon my arrival and glance at me with raised eyebrows. Their clothing is distinctly different from the nuns I had seen earlier, the young men dressed in polos and shorts while the women are wearing skirts with skin-tight leggings and tops that show off their bronze shoulders. I become self conscious as I realize I'm an American lugging around a large McDonald's bag with the remnants of my lunch. Deciding not to ride with such nosy passengers I move even further down the train once we reach yet another station. Frustrated and tired from searching for an open seat I give up once I reach the next compartment and decide to ride out the rest of the trip with an Italian mechanic, still in his work clothes, and a quiet Italian woman content with watching the scenery and listening to her music through headphones that disappear beneath her raven black hair. At the next stop both the young woman and the mechanic disembark the train and leave me the small fold-out chair to myself. After the train had reached full speed I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible on the inadequately cushioned seat and enjoy the rest of the train ride. Several minutes had passed since the train had left the last station and two girls in their early teens enter the compartment. I hastily remove my headphones once I realize they're trying to talk to me but removing the earbuds does not help as they're shooting Italian at me so fast I can't keep up. I tell them, blushing with embarrassment at my inability to speak the language, that I'll try to work with them in English if they speak it. They decide to attempt to communicate with the oversized foreigner and we converse in an odd mixture of terrible English and even worse Italian. Slightly annoyed they tell me they'll ask someone else and walk through to the next car with a friendly "hello." I'm both embarrassed at my lack of language skills and amused at the fact they just bid me farewell with a word that can only be used in greeting.