As many of you know, I’m back in the UP! I came in without announcing it in order to surprise my mom, who turns 50 today. Happy Birthday, Mom. 
Of course, I’m not done with the Finland stories, but in the meantime, here are the rest of my photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Finland2
Album URL: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Finland1
One of my favorite ways to entertain myself while traveling alone is to pick out people in the local culture that look like people I know back home. (Many of you reading this have Nepali, Thai, Arab, and Italian look-alikes.) Here in Finland, I can’t walk ten feet without spotting someone who’s a dead ringer for a friend or relative. My cousin Kim has about 20 Finnish identical twins in Kuopio alone. The game loses its novelty here but retains all of the entertainment by virtue of sheer numbers.
I couldn’t have chosen a better place for the final leg of my quarter-life crisis travels. Finland is the least foreign foreign country I’ve ever visited–an excellent place to begin the (not quite welcome) transition back to real life. Travelers talk about coming to a country and feeling a sense of coming home. I’ve always wanted to feel that, and now I have…but I’m not sure if it’s a deep, mystic connection or the fact that Finland is basically the UP, with more trees and people.
I couldn’t love it more.
We happened to be in Kuopio during Wappu (or Vappu, however you spell it), a celebration of…well, I’m not sure what. Independence day, maybe? From what I could see, it seemed to be three days of Finns coming out into the beautiful spring weather, and drinking heavily while wearing their high school graduation caps (which resemble some kind of sailor/golf hat hybrid). Great fun, and lovely to see these reserved people out enjoying themselves in the sun.
All right, back into the sun–what’s this I hear about a snow storm at home? That’s it, I’m not coming back!
Photo URL: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/CiaoItalia
Hello from the motherland!
After a whirlwind couple of days in Italy and Germany, we’ve finally arrived in Finland. (!!) The Cinque Terre were lovely, though stormy weather prevented us from seeing them in their full glory. We stayed in Riomaggiore on Tuesday, “hiked” (walked) to Manarola, and met our (British) male counterparts in the hostel. Yesterday, we had a three-hour tour of Pisa, got separated, and I got lost for the first time on this trip. (And in Pisa, the smallest city ever!) The leaning tower was lovely, and the flight to Frankfurt was short. Once there, we decided that we couldn’t deal with sleeping in the airport (Frankfurt-Hahn is in the middle of nowhere and the bus connections are long), so after exploring the German countryside we checked into the hotel across the street. A comfortable night’s sleep was more than worth the euros.
After a painless flight this afternoon, we arrived in Tampere. Catherine is under the weather, so I went out to explore (e.g., shop) by myself…and the most exciting thing happened. For the first time since January, I didn’t stand out. No one gave me a second glance on the street. No one looked at or commented on my hair or my eyes, and no one spoke English to me automatically.
I couldn’t be happier! The only disarming thing is that since I don’t look terribly foreign, everyone speaks Finnish to me…and since I remember about 10 of the words from my high school Finnish class, I can’t reply properly. But no matter–I’m here, finally, and it’s just like coming home. Off to Jordan’s in Kuopio tomorrow!
After a delightful (and productive) day of shopping in Bologna, Catherine and I are all packed and ready to depart from my beloved Tuscany. Has it really been two months? It seems that spring is finally here to stay, and I leave behind riotous green hills and early blooms washed in the famous Tuscan light. Though I’ll miss the peace of these hills, I go without sadness, but with gratitude for the experience and excitement for adventures to come.
I end my volunteer work with many things: new friends, excellent olive oil, a greater understanding of Italian, and the ability to make hospital corners…to name just a few. Not least of all, I’ve learned an important lesson: during your next hotel stay, appreciate the housekeeping staff. Just as being a waitress made me appreciate the hard work of servers in restaurants everywhere, helping with housekeeping has given me new respect for people who clean for a living. (Not that I didn’t respect them before, but you never KNOW until you know…you know?) When there were big groups here, I helped the housekeeping volunteers–making beds, cleaning rooms, cleaning toilets–it is seriously hard work. And disgusting, most of the time. I’ll spare you the details, but imagine 60 German teenagers, no parents, a low drinking age, and endless beer. So, the next time you’re at a hotel, don’t puke in the sink…or if you do, clean it up.
Tomorrow–well, in about three hours (can’t sleep)–Catherine and I are off to Riomaggiore in the Cinque Terre on the coast of Italy. (!!) To see a photo of the town, go to: http://www.tessinpapa.ch/liguria/photo/manabv.jpg On Wednesday we’ll do the obligatory photos with the leaning tower of Pisa before flying to Frankfurt, and on Thursday, we fly into Tampere in Finland to begin the final (and much-anticipated) leg of my quarter-life crisis travels.
I’ll write next from the motherland!
Catherine is in Italy! Some photos of our first day and a half of European adventuring:
Photo URL: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Tuscany
Photo URL: http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/Cortona
Yesterday, after weeks of failed attempts, I finally made it to Cortona. One of the other volunteers (Susanne from Germany) came along, and we braved the cold, driving rain, and a 7am bus/train combo to get to the Camucia station. With the next bus to Cortona two hours away, we decided to walk the 5k up the hill and take advantage of the break in the clouds. Naturally, the rain resumed halfway through the hike, and we raced up the hill on my slippery “shortcut” of Italian alleyways and deserted two-track roads.
Thankfully, Susanne has a well-developed sense of humor.
Cortona is the perfect little Italian town perched on the top of a hill just south of Arezzo. Because of the hilltop location, all of the streets are angled and steep, with exciting staircases built into tunnels and endless hidden passages. Unlike the modern houses that litter (literally, they’re gross) the valley below, the buildings in Cortona are all beautiful ancient stone creations built in an eclectic mix of architectural styles. Unavoidable, I suppose, in a town that’s around 3000 years old. Stone seems to me to hold more history than any other material, and Cortona radiates with the feeling of past occupants. And I love that an Italian teenager with skinny jeans and enormous sunglasses could be sitting in the very same spot where, 3000 years ago, an Etruscan dried pottery. Or, you know, whatever Etruscans did.
As you may know, author Frances Mayes bought and renovated a villa outside of Cortona and wrote “Under the Tuscan Sun” about the experience–which, of course, was turned into a movie. I am only slightly embarrassed to admit that I liked the movie more than the book, and was hoping to recognize a place or two from the film. We climbed to the top of the hill, chatting along the way in broken Italian with an old woman on her way to the market, and wandered around the rather uninspiring church at the top. The weather kept all but the hardiest tourists away, and we had the place to ourselves. On the way down, we found the Piazza della Repubblica, which was immediately recognizable as the location for several scenes in the movie. A few photos satisfied my interest in movie locations and we went back to exploring–the rain deterred us from walking out to the real Bramasole, Mayes’ house.
Cortona is a ridiculously pleasant place to be–even in the rain, and even for Italy, which is filled with pleasant places. It’s like something out of an idealistic movie. Women call to each other through open doors and windows across the narrow cobblestone streets, the mailman makes cheerful conversation with everyone on his route, and shopkeepers display their fruit and flowers outside of the stores. The town seems to be populated with an odd mix of delightfully stereotypical Italian old men, British business owners, and the aforementioned hardy tourists, who, oddly enough, all seemed to be American. Nice, respectful, Americans. No fanny packs or white Nikes in sight!
If it had been sunny, I’d have been tempted to stay forever. As it was, though, the rain and cold drove us away after an amazing lunch at a tiny trattoria, but the next time I’m in Italy, Cortona will be one of my first stops. And some day, perhaps Frances Mayes and I will be neighbors.
Sara reminded me last night that I haven’t added any photos recently…mostly because I haven’t taken many. I’ve uploaded the ones that I have taken, and I’m trying the Picasa slideshow feature. Let me know if it doesn’t work! Just in case, and to see larger versions of the photos, the album URL is:
http://picasaweb.google.com/eekauppi/WanderingItaly
It is my belief that the town of San Gimignano does not exist. It is fictional, Tuscany’s answer to Avalon (or was that an island?), or Atlantis, or El Dorado.
Or if it does exist, I certainly couldn’t find it. Inspired by the lovely weather (and the fact that I overslept and miss the early train for Cortona), I hopped on a train for Siena, got off at the San Gimignano stop…and no San Gimignano. (Thanks to Google images, I knew what to expect.) Not to be deterred, I climbed the nearest hill for a 360 view…and no San Gimignano. At that point, I lost my determination (and interest) and decided to explore a town that does exist. It turned out to be lovely, and I discovered hiking trails and an Etruscan excavation site at the top of the hill. A thoroughly enjoyable day despite the change in plans. (I imagine San Gimignano requires a bus ride.)
Life at the villa is lovely, as always, but growing a bit stale. I crave adventure and routine in equal measure, and I believe that my tolerance for the latter is coming to an end. As such, I am planning an Italian excursion for later this week–Cortona, Venice, and Verona, perhaps. If only the French Riviera was a bit warmer at this time of year…
I spent the afternoon sitting on the steps of an Italian villa in the sun, listening to a classical guitarist who was practicing a few feet away. Very idyllic–like something out of a movie.
Earlier today, our new Brazilian volunteer asked me if I miss the US. At the time, I told him that I miss family and friends, but not the States in particular. But you know what I really miss? Native English speakers.
For the past three months, I’ve been speaking a weird, ever-changing pidgin language that consists of English, various words from the country I’m in, and leftover words from the previous country–accompanied by wild gesturing and exaggerated facial expressions. And, of course, the slow, pared-down language that’s require to communicate with someone who knows just enough English to get by. Nothing like, “I would like to go to Kathmandu on the earliest bus, please.” Oh, no. A more successful phrase is, “I go Kathmandu. Bus.” Or, even better, “Bus Kathmandu?” accompanied by waving arms in what might be the direction of Kathmandu…or the bus station…or the road. The bare minimum of words, spoken slowly and clearly–the exact opposite of my normal speech.
In Italy, there’s a role reversal–people speak to me in simple nouns and verbs, and I struggle to respond with as much Italian as possible. Luca and I have the same kind of exchange every day:
“Ciao bella”"Buon giorno, Luca!” (Good so far.)
“Come sta?”"Uh…buono? bene?” (Never know which one to use.)
“Si, bene. Bennissimo, signorina Erin! Cosa mangi per pranzo?”
“Vorrei…ummm (searching frantically for Italian food names)…penne con pomodoro e…uh, insalata e pane con…queso–no, that’s Spanish…uh, cheese?”
“Cheeze…ah, formaggi.”
“Si, si. Pane con formaggi.”
Do I want penne with tomato or salad and bread with cheese? Probably not, but I panic when people speak to me in Italian when I’m not expecting it.
Or, I’ll be all excited to be able to use a phrase I know for sure (”Vorrei un litro di vino rosso della casa, per favore,” for example), and the person I’m speaking to responds with a string of rapid Italian…at which point I stare blankly and stutter, “Uh…My Italian is muy male (damn, Spanish again)…uh, I don’t speak…non parlo…parla? Italiano?” Thankfully, most people appreciate the effort, and have patience. After four weeks here, I understand about 40% of what’s spoken directly to me–up from about 5% when I arrived. I might have to respond in English, but there’s progress.
Bologna tomorrow…Ciao!
A German high school choir is on their annual retreat at the villa, and it’s lovely to hear music all day. Funny, though, how different it is from my high school choir field trips–these kids have gone through massive amounts of beer and tobacco in two days. Can you imagine American high schoolers casually drinking beer and smoking hookah with their teachers? Instead, we had Mr. Veale in the hall reading his Bible. (Anyone remember that? Love it.)
The other night, Adriana (one of the villa’s staff) and I went to Reggello, where a new association was sponsoring a series of events to celebrate their inaugural season. From what I gathered from the event poster (in Italian, of course), there would be a movie, a dinner, a mystery event (couldn’t translate), and then a concert. We arrived at a place that looked like any other Italian cafe–a selection of pastries behind a glass counter and countless strange kitschy gift baskets. The requisite ragtag bunch of teenagers hung out by casino-esque video games, looking vaguely threatening in their enormous sunglasses, leather jackets, and ultra-skinny pants. How young Italians manage to look completely stylish and completely unappealing at the same time, I’ll never know. Adri and I went upstairs to a nondescript meeting room, where three men were struggling to make the projector work. (Funny how technological problems are universal.)
I was introduced to person after person, struggling to follow the Italian greetings and questions about my nationality–thankfully, the double-cheek kiss requires no language skills and I know how to say “No, I’m not German” in Italian. (German, really?) It was a strange group of people–older, conservative characters mixed with the stereotypical hippies sporting long dreads and corduroy jackets with sandals. Apparently, the earthy-crunchy look is also universal.
No one seemed to be able to tell me what this new “association” did, but when “An Inconvenient Truth” started to play, I assumed it was something environmental. After it finished, there was applause (and no small amount of laughter at Al Gore’s little “America rocks” speech near the end), and a discussion. I couldn’t follow most of the conversation, but “comunista” came up several times. When we left, I asked Adri, and imagine my excitement to learn that we’d been chilling with Italian Communists all evening. Communists!
Somehow, I would have thought a Communist gathering would be more dramatic. You know, hiding away in a bare room lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling… (And to think, all of my good “commie” comments were wasted.)
Traveling around Asia (Hong Kong, Macau, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal, India...and Finland) during the spring of 2008.