Germ Wars June 11, 2009

For the past couple of weeks, the trains, buses and trams have been the most convenient modes of transportation for us. We get to our destinations quickly and easily, but not without some disdain.

I’m no stranger to public transportation. I rode the MARTA at home when I worked at the top of the perimeter, and it’s efficient when there are games and concerts downtown if I don’t want to pay to park. But the Metro in Rome is a slightly different story. I’m gonna use the word “overcrowded” because my vocabulary is on a break right now. It’s as if the entire population of the city has to cram into one train car. And no, I’m not exagerrating. I don’t necessarily mind the mass of people, but I’m a towering 5’2. That means I get a whiff right in the nostrils each time someone reaches up to hold on to the rails. To add, summers in Rome are stifling (though we’re lucky to catch the June heat, I’m sure August heat feels like death). Once the body heat is paired with the temperature, the public transporation rides, though short, can feel like torture.

Moreover, journalists shake a lot of hands. Yes, even when the person I’m interviewing sneezes into their hand or digs through the garbage can while I’m talking to them, I still shake it upon greeting ang departing. It’s a small gesture, but I think it means so much.

Our days are full of germs…and each evening, when get back to our hotel, I jump with glee at the sight of soap and hot water.

Ciao,

Ang.

Thrill of the Hunt June 11, 2009

Journalism is hard work. I realized that yesterday as I ventured around a highly immigrant-populated area, Vittorio Emanuale. The dirty looks (most people don’t undersand journalists’ goals), the constant “Nos,” and especailly the struggle of communicating with people who speak other languages can be dicouraging. But it makes me a stronger reporter and I don’t think I would have it any other way.

My group and I were seeking immigrants to interview for a feature story. I can’t say that I had a solid plan. I just knew, after observing so many people here from other countries, that I wanted to share their voices. We took the Metro to Vittorio Emanuale after several people recommeded the area. Once we were there, it was up to us to be creative. And with the diversity of nationalities there, I was sure that would be easy. There were people from Togo, Egypt, Moracco, Senegal, Tunisia, Eritrea, Pakistan, Bangledesh, Sri Lanka, China, Japan, Ecuador…you get my point).

I could tell that my teammates were slightly flustered by my lack of direction. But journalism is all about the hunt. It’s like being dropped off in the woods with nothing and seeing if you can come back with a masterpiece. Features are not breaking news. And to produce a good one, a journalist has to do the leg work. Feature writing is about engaging in the people and letting them dictate the angle of the story, not finding people to fit the story I want to tell. It’s important to talk to as many people as possible; you can neve have too much. Though the language barrier was more than I prepared for (not just Italian, but Chinese, Swahili, French, Arabic, the list goes on), we had a few very insightful interviews.

Despite the long hours of searching for people, interviewing, fact-checking, editing, (capturing, editing and uploading on the broadcaster’s part), I love my job. It’s not easy and it’s often stressful, but the reward of giving a voice to those who don’t always know they have one, is consistenly worth the effort.

Ciao,

Ang.

Money Talks…Traveler’s Checks are kind of quiet, though. June 11, 2009

Sectogenarian (or older) Itlaian people get really fiesty when they have to wait in a bank too long…especially if they have to stand. In their defense, it really shouldn’t take an hour to see six clients; BNL, I’m calling you out! I think since our precious senior citizens have paid their dues in life, they get to slide with their attitudes. Of course, I couldn’t understand their words, but tones and facial expressions are easy to decipher in any language.

I ventured to four banks looking to exchange my traveler’s checks today. No luck — I told my Mom, who came to Europe in college that a heck of a lot has changed since 1976! So the waiting only to be told “No, sorry” four times was less than fun…but the silver-haired cane-toters in the lobby? Pure comedy.

Ciao,

Ang.

“Be color-blind…Don’t be so shallow” June 10, 2009

I saw the Pope this morning! We were a part of the papal audience he has every Wednesday and since Lee and I stood on the edge of the lanes that the Pope parades around, we were right up in his proverbial grill. He’s so tiny and cute. The tour of the Vatican was amazing. The art was breathtaking and our guide was very witty and informative. The crowds got to be a tad bit bothersome and the concept of personal space was thrown out of the window, but the 3-hour tour (*singing*3-hour-tour) was worth it.

Then came the big one…

After a few walks up and down stairways, hallways and random art galleries, which all seemed to be a teaser as they boasted arrows and signs reading: Sistine Chapel, we finally made it. There were announcements and signs all over asking people not to take pictures of the paintings and to be silent. But of course, as we entered, we were greeted by a mass of people steadily holding their cameras in the air and emitting a low hum in the room. And I was no different. But do the security guards really expect people who travel thousands of miles to marvel at such artwork not to take a piece back with them?

As I stood toward the back of the room to get a longer shot, a frowning woman (also a tourist) approached me and said, “You’re not supposed to take pictures. It ruins it.”

I was confused by her statement, not because of her bad grammar. But because I had no clue why she felt the need to tell me, in such a stern voice, that I shouldn’t disobey the rules. Especially since I was standing among dozens of others who were doing the exact same thing, including the man she was with who had his Canon in hand. I didn’t know if she thought I couldn’t understand the English announcement or if she thought I was illiterate. I just knew that I was annoyed. I was so bewildered, I could only respond with “Yeah, I know, thanks.”

As I watched her walk toward the exit without saying a word to any of my melanin-deficient counterparts, (smiling at them, even) I became even more annoyed. There were very few people in the room who looked like me. And that wasn’t even an issue in my mind until that moment. Maybe I misjudged. Maybe she was a staunch Catholic with a high respect for the Chapel and its guidelines…but I doubt it.

I love all people and I try to avoid playing “that” card by having faith in people’s intentions. But I’m from the South, so I’d be naive to think it was irrelevant, even today. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. And it’s saddening to know that even thousands of miles across the Atlantic, I still can’t escape it.

Ciao,

Ang.

(Gotta give EnVogue credit for the title, a lyric from their hit “Free Your Mind”…and Lee credit for crankin’ it on his iPod as I was writing this )

Sleep is good…sometimes. June 9, 2009

So…my mother called me the night before last; 12:30 Rome time, 6:30 Atlanta time. I was completely out of it. Anyway, one of my cousins had Sunday dinner at her house and basically my whole family was there.  Usually, 12:30 is my prime time, but I used Sunday night to play sleep catch-up, especially since we had to be up and running at 8 a.m. Monday. My mom knows that I’m a night owl; it’s one of the MANY traits I get from her. She thought I’d still be up, so she chose to call me a play the Angie-is-overseas-so-let’s-pass-the-phone-around-while-we’re-all-here-to-be-efficient game. Little did she know, I was over at 10:26 p.m.

“Hey Angie! Are the men atrractive there?” My cousin asked.

“Hey Rene, yeah,” I mumbled.

“Angie? Aww, we woke you up? Y’all she sounds like she can hardly talk.” She said to the rest of my fam.

And she was right. I was two hours in with no thought of coming out. I guess this is just a note to my fam: I wasn’t trying to be rude, I was just exhausted! And my roommate was asleep, too, so I didn’t want to wake her up.

Y’all know I love ya! See you soon!

Ciao,

Ang.

P.S.: I know my mom gave out the links so you all better be reading my blogs!

Random thought June 9, 2009

You know…energy commercials in Italy have the best background music. And I finally got to use the SongID on my BlackJack!

Check out “Far Far” by Yael Naim.

That is all.

Ciao,

Ang.

“A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum…” June 9, 2009

…not really.

But I saw that spoof movie in my 10th-grade drama class and at the time, I didn’t think I would actully get to visit the ruins of the place the movie was based on. The movie made me a laugh so when I found out that the Forum tour, along with the Colosseum and Palatine ruins was a part of our schedule, I was excited. As we walked through, I constantly tried to imagine what the marketplace was like back in the day; flashbacks of the movie scenes looped in my mind. Now I’ll have to visit my high school when I get home to tell Ms. Willoughby that something I learned in her class, even if tiny and purely entertaining, has stuck with me.

Ciao,

Ang.

Man Up June 7, 2009

It’s a clear rule of thumb: If you don’t want anyone to find out, DON’T DO IT! Don’t say it, don’t write it, and just to be safe from Big Brother, you might not even want to think it.

 

In a time where information can spread to millions in just seconds with the click of a mouse, it is hard to be elusive once an action has taken place. And if you’re a public official, it’s virtually impossible.

 

Recently, Itlaian Prime Minsiter Silvio Berlusconi was busted as several publications, including Spain’s daily newspaper, El Pais, printed photos of Berlusconi’s private party at his villa on the island of Sardinia. The photos featured a naked man, who later identified himself as Mirek Topolanek, a former Czech Prime Minister, and Berlusconi surrounded by at least five young, scantily clad or topless women beside a whirlpool jacuzzi. Berlusconi was infuriated and is taking legal action against El Pais to prevent further photos from being pulished. The photos were taken by a paparrazi photographer, Antonella Zappadu. According to The Times Online (The London Times), the newspaper insisted that Berlusconi’s behavior was “not only a subject for concern for Italians but for all Europeans.” And I agree.

 

Sure, Berlusconi is an adult. And since the party was on his property, he had every right to prance around with half-naked women and old chums. But he is a billionaire media and real estate tycoon and a politician, so he’s not an idiot. He was fresh off a divorce threat tabloid frenzy from his wife, still in the midst of speculation about his relationship with a minor (whose 18th birthday he attended, fueling his wife’s claims), and just ahead of Italian Parliament elections this week. He should have known better.

 

I’m not saying people in high places shouldn’t enjoy themselves. Have a ball. But when such a position as prime minister or president (which is more symbolic) is hanging in the balance, they should have fun responsibly. By running for president to avoid being prosecuted for his actions (the top four offices cannot be punished), Berlusconi is taking the easy way out. It’s not favorable among many liberal Italians and I can see why they’d be upset about such behavior from a man who is supposed to represent their country. Berlusconi should accept his consequences and do what’s right for the citizens that he has said he cares so much about.

 

Besides, billionaires usually have this tricky way of making their court sentences disappear. 

Ciao,

Ang.

 

Sources: www.nytimes.com, www.msnbc.com, www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/

  http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30546907/

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/04/world/europe/04italy.html?_r=1&scp=2&sq=berlusconi&st=cse

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/europe/article6440499.ece

Say What? June 5, 2009

Italian is a romantic language…and apparently a tricky one, too.

We visited John Cabot University and the American University of Rome yesterday. As Mr. Lynch, the dean of students who moved to Rome from Memphis, Tenn. six years ago, talked to us about the cultural standards here, he elaborated on the popular phrase, “Ciao bella!” While I’m sure we all thought that translated to “Hello beautiful!” we laughed (amidst our confusion) that it was a slang equivalent for … well, I won’t quote Mr. Lynch, but, let’s just say it’s not something any woman would accept–if she were sober.

Italy is known for wine. And Italians love to drink; the drinking age here, much like most other countries, is lower than that of the U.S. Mr. Lynch reminded us that Italians are social drinkers. In other words, drunkenness is not the goal, and whenever it occurs, it is highly frowned upon. Especially toward women. Surely, he didn’t mean that Italians never get drunk, but it’s a safe bet that it happens less often than on any college campus in America.

His point was that if a man approaches a woman by saying “Ciao bella!” he is either non-Italian or he is aiming at said woman because he knows she’s inebriated, and thus has no respect for herself. Getting drunk is unladylike. I’m all for moderation, but I’ve never been a drinker. Even the fruity margarita I had for my 21st birthday gave me a headache. Beside the awful taste, I never comprehended why so many people found joy in getting drunk to a state of not being able to control themselves, acting wildly, vomiting, passing out then waking up with a hangover and no memory of what happened the night before. But hey, whatever floats your boat or finds your lost remote (Outkast plug). And I don’t mean to be preachy, but there are other ways to have fun, safely.

Once an intoxicated woman’s guard is down and an Italian man, or a man of any nationality, sees fit to take advantage of her, the thrill is gone. She’ll be categorized and stereotyped in two countries…and when she wakes up, she likely won’t even remember it at all.

Ciao,

Ang.

And I thought Atlanta drivers were the worst June 3, 2009

Each time I exit any automobile in Capri, I feel like I have cheated death.

The narrow cars, taxis and buses accommodate the uncomfortably narrow streets. Every day, we cram into the 6-seat or less buses, our most effective mode of transportation. As the driver takes off, the riders suffer a collective jerk back, often slipping and losing their balance, then grabbing the rails and holding on for dear life. And the adventure begins.

As the buses gas it up the steep roads, the drivers take advantage of the size of their vehicles, boldly jutting out in front of other smaller ones and ruling the road. But the tiny Fiats, three-wheel one-seaters and especially the motor scooters seem to be unfazed by the buses. They fight back and the scooter drivers weave between any inch (or metric system equivalent) of space they can find. Observing the streets of Rome, Naples, Capri and Sorrento, I soon understood a few things: In Italy, lanes are for suckers; if you don’t assert yourself behind the wheel, you’ll never get anywhere; pedestrians are an afterthought; and stop signs do not exist. If there were an aerial view of Italy’s roads, it would be as if the vehicles (and people) were being poured into the tiniest funnel, squeezing through, and exploding to the other side.

Upon arrival, I judged. I immediately put all Italian drivers in a box,  noting their disorganization, impatience and aggression on the road. Then I thought about myself. I admit; I suffer from a slight bit of road rage. I despise people who cut me off, I drive faster than I should and I use my horn waaay more than I use my turn signal. But I learned to drive in Atlanta where traffic is a daily battle and seemingly no one follows the rules of the road, so I tell myself I have to drive just as crazily as everyone else to avoid being preyed upon (I might also suffer from the car version of the Napoleon Complex; I drive a Honda Civic, but in my mind, it’s a Humvee and I never have a problem proving it.) And while I’m comfortable behind the wheel in the States, I’ve been saying to myself, along with my classmates, that I could never drive here.

The thing is, once I look at Italian drivers in another perspective, crazy doesn’t seem to be the right word. Confident, maybe. Brave, too. Since I’m used to calmer streets, driving in Italy would scare me. But every driver and pedestrian here seems to have an unspoken respect for the other vehicles on the road. They yield to down traffic if they’re on a hill, they honk their horns to let others know when they’re driving around a blind curve, they know precisely how much space another vehicle needs to pass, and it all works. And according to one of LeTourneau’s friends on Capri, the accident rate is significantly low.

So maybe they don’t need signs and lines and signals to tell them how to navigate. They only need the understanding of another type of courtesy. A courtesy that includes just going for it.  Compared to Italians, Atlantans are whiny punks with no clue of how intense driving really could be. Merging onto the Grady Curve? Easy. Rush hour traffic on North Avenue and Spring Street? Not even close. Atlantans have it easy and I’ll remember that next time I’m riding down I-285 and complaining about those speeding around me.

Ciao,

Ang.