Rain, Rain, Rain

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. -Langston Hughes

Rain in Italy makes everything seem even more majestic than it already appeared to be. The pitter patter of rain drips woke me up this morning as they tapped a rhythm on my bedroom window. One of the first nights I slept in my Italian bedroom, the thundering of rain woke me up. In a fright I looked around to figure out the culprit of my disturbance. Not being accustomed to having a skylight in my bedroom back home, it took me several moments in the foreign darkness to understand that what I was hearing was only the rain. That night I cursed the rain in my exhaustion, still handling the nine hour time difference of Italy. When the rain did not return after that night, I felt I had offended one of my dearest friends.

Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept and tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky. -Arna Botemps

In high school, my friends and I used to stand in the parking lot dancing to the music blasting from our cars, moving about in a manner we labeled “our rain dance.” When the rain would pour from the sky, our rain boots would once again skid over the concrete, tapping along to Queen and the Beatles performing “our snow dance.” We were always dancing for something, and last night I danced for rain.

 At six this morning, before the church bells outside my window began to ring, I was woken by the soft comfort of rain.

 We finally were able to figure out how the skylight windows in our apartment open and this morning I nearly climbed out the one in the kitchen to take these photos. Beautiful, beautiful Viterbo!

The Italians act as if the sky were falling upon them the way they bundle up in shiny black jacket after shiny black jacket, bulky scarves wrapped up to their noses. I received more stares than usual this morning on my walk to school with only a light jacket separating me from the wind that whips through the streets blowing over displays of fresh flowers and knocking little old ladies back into their homes when they come outside for their hourly smoke. No umbrella for me, I made my way to school with just the grey, wool cap I knitted from locally purchased Italian yarn to keep my hair dry. Many of the American students that arrived with me have already become “Italianized” with her long black coats, leggings, and boots. The idea of walking on wet cobblestones in the rain wearing boots is beyond my own capability. I can barely walk along the cobblestones in sneakers without slipping once in awhile, especially when attempting to avoid the speeding little cars that scrape against the sides of buildings in their hurry but continue on their way, leaving stripes of paint and exhaust in their wake.

 An example of the crazy driving in Viterbo, this car almost backed into another car, and then almost ran me over as I continued to walk up this hill to the city walls (which my school is right on the other side of).

Yesterday I attended my first Italian Cuisine course. Really it was only a brief meeting to give us an introduction to the world of Italian cooking. I can tell you right now that besides my travel writing course, cuisine very well may become my favorite course. We are going to be cooking many of the traditional meals of Italy, as well as learning the history behind the recipes. I feel like a shorter, Italian version of Julia Child! I’m excited to be able to cook something other than pasta and scrambled eggs in my apartment’s small kitchen. The instructor will also teach us how to go about purchasing the best, and cheapest, ingredients from the local markets. This skill will definitely come in handy in the coming months.

Today, besides my Italian lesson, I am going to sit in on the first class meeting of Italian Art History. Originally I was enrolled in this course, but because of the number of courses I am already taking, I dropped it.  After strolling through some of the ancient areas of Viterbo, and Rome, I feel that I need to know some of the history behind the structures and the art I am seeing to fully appreciate it all. So, I am going to this class and am hoping that it will not be as dry as my art history course was at Columbia, which was the equivalent to a slideshow of badly photographed paintings.

I love the rain!

                                    Looking out the window where I am perched with my computer.

Ciao Ciao!

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
-Pablo Neruda