Vivere: Staff writers from Summer 2014 explore life within Italy's walls

I’m Reena and I am from Reno, Ne-
vada. I am a self-ordained artist and
mountain advocate, a reader of books,
a lover of beauty, and a most enthu-
siastic eater of food. I am currently
studying art and English literature
at the University of Nevada, Reno. I
aspire to be an educator and a happy
person for the rest of my days.
Hello, my name is Virginia Pedigo and
I am a 20-year-old pre-medical student
from Jacksonville, Florida. I am a fairly
simple person with simple desires –
gelato, pasta and adventure.
I’m Emma Lynge, 21 years old, from
Pittsford, N.Y. In my life, I’ve been
swimming with sharks, camping in the
mountains, and hiking around Cos-
ta Rica. The most exciting thing I’ve
ever done, though, is this USAC trip
to Viterbo, Italy. I’m an adventurous
English major and art history minor
from Goucher College. I’m addicted
to scribbling down stories and reading
big, chunky, fantasy books, as well as
updating my blog. Hopefully, one day
I’ll get something published.
Hi! I’m Morgan Lauer, a 20-year-old
student from Pleasantville, Iowa. I
attend the University of Iowa where I
study health and human physiology. I
love to be outdoors, and I enjoy run-
ning and any type of adventure. This
is my first visit to Italy and I can’t say
enough about Italian gelato.
Ciao, mi chiamo Trevor. I study po-
litical science and economics at the
University of Cincinnati. If you didn’t
know, that’s on the southern border of
Ohio. In my spare time, when I’m not
saving the world, I’m juggling a million
other hobbies like student government
and residential life.
My name is Jaclyn Tourin, but I often
go by Jackie. I am a 20-year-old stu-
dent from the University of Nevada,
Reno. I am a speech pathology major
hoping to build my career to work
with children with disabilities. I have
a thirst for travel and adventure and I
plan to quench this thirst throughout
my life.
Ciao! My name is Natalie Sprigg
and I am 20 years old. I live in Reno,
Nevada. I am majoring in commu-
nity health science while prepping
for my doctorate in physical therapy
and minoring in nutrition. I love the
outdoors, mainly skiing, swimming,
camping and hiking.
I’m Danielle Starkey and I was born in
Los Angeles. I have a B.A. in English
from U.C. Berkeley and a master’s
in journalism from Northwestern. I
love to travel; favorite places so far are
Buenos Aires and the Dolomites. I also
love hiking, snowboarding, and tennis
but am capable of being content while
sedentary, especially while enjoying
good food, theater and conversation.
I’m Lauren Matheny, a BFA acting
major and English minor at Oklahoma
City University. I will be entering my
senior year this fall. I am the web ed-
itor at OCU campus publications and
an editor of The Scarab, OCU’s literary
publication. When not writing up a
storm, I enjoy playing outside, reading,
practicing hot yoga and baking gour-
met desserts.
Ciao, my name is Noah Gass and I am
from Knoxville, Tennessee. I study
journalism at Middle Tennessee State
University. After I graduate, I plan on
getting a job traveling and writing for
publication.
I’m Tyler Mahannah, 24, from Reno,
Nevada. I’m a history student at the
University of Nevada, Reno, who’s
interested in Italian history and lan-
guage. This is my first time in Italy or
Europe.
Ciao! My name is Giovanna Nebbio.
I am from Monterey Bay, California
but was born and raised in the heart
of California’s Central Valley. I am a
third year writing and rhetoric major,
minoring in American Sign Language.
I am easygoing and love dogs!
Vivere -- Within the Walls
Staff writers from Summer 2014 -- Italy
Vivere: Within the Walls 28 giugno 2014

By Virginia Pedigo
BAM!! Someone has kicked me in
the gut, straight on, no thoughts of
“To kick or not to kick?” entering
their mind. I kneel over to try to ease
the pain, but it persists. It twists my
already knotted stomach and I force
myself to breath, to try to relax. But
my attacker is relentless. He leaves
and then reappears out of nowhere, as
if Floo Powder is his primary means of
travel. However, I am in Florence and
I have no time for him. I am here only
for the weekend before I return back
to Viterbo, a small Italian town about
three hours south of where I currently
stand. If I miss seeing the Duomo or
the David or the gelato because of
him, there will be consequences.
I do not know how food poisoning,
my obstinate foe, found me this week-
end. All I understand is that I want to
get back home, where I’m studying
abroad in central Italy. I want to lie
on my brick of a bed and eat my bran
cereal and attempt conversation with
my perfectly lovely Italian roommate,
Valentina. This may sound unglam-
orous to most, but to me it represents
peace and comfort.
Home has not always been Viterbo.
In fact, I have only been in Italy for
about three weeks, with three more to
go until I fly over the Atlantic pond
back to the reality of my life. And yet,
during this long weekend away, first
in Siena and then in Florence, I do not
crave for my bed in the U.S. or the
oatmeal I religiously consume every
morning there. I simply want Viterbo.
How is it that this alien small town
feels like home already, after only
three very short weeks?
Viterbo is not like Rome or Florence
or Venice; it is another Italy altogether.
It does not have the GO! GO! GO!
attitude that larger cities tend to pos-
sess. The central portion of the town is
enclosed within medieval walls, walls
that have experienced more than the
most audacious explorer could dream
of. The streets are cobblestoned and
hilly. They lend themselves to getting
lost, one of my favorite features. Many
times I have found myself thinking
I should have eaten a bigger lunch
because I may well be stuck out on
this long forgotten Etruscan pathway
for at least two days, minimum. But
then I wander some more, going in
and out of homey piazzas, passing by
fountains gushing cool, clear, arsenic
laden water, and as I blink I am back
in familiar territory. Viterbo lets you
get lost, but it also lets you get back. It
is a sympathetic labyrinth.
I think that falling in love with
Viterbo is easy. The walls hug you
upon arrival, wait for you when you
leave, and kiss you when you return.
For example, group of students from
my study abroad program experienced
a particularly stressful yet wonderful
weekend adventure, filled with train
stop drama, hostel miscommunica-
tions, and the threat of sleeping on the
streets looming too close for comfort.
The group went from one disaster to
the next, taking it all in stride, but
exhausting themselves in the process.
At the end of their weekend, all they
wanted was to be back in Viterbo,
where they felt safe. They wanted to
know that they were not going to be
kicked out of their beds in the middle
of the night and interrogated. There
is no one to question them about why
they are here and what they are doing.
Falling in love with Viterbo
Photo by Virginia Pedigo

It is this automatic comfort and the
feeling of safety that make a tempo-
rary place feel like a permanent home.
And yet, what always gets me is how
quickly it happens. One minute you
are in the airport crying, thinking to
yourself, “Why in the world did I do
this? Stupid, stupid, stupid.” And then
before you know it, a creamy cannoli
is in your mouth and you never want
to leave. A person can spend their
entire life trying to fit in and belong
in one place. But when our situation
changes we adapt right along with it,
as if we were chameleons as oppose
to the stubborn two-legged creatures
we quite evidently are. I think this is a
strength of humanity: move locations,
find a new home, feel safe, be happy.
This is the procession we strive for.
Traveling while traveling is a unique
opportunity to have. It is a special
experience to explore unchartered
territory while still having a home
base in a foreign land. Home is not an
easy word. It is not as easily defined
as “mac and cheese” or “clown” or
“bed.” It is not always tangible, not
lending itself to be felt and probed. It
is elusive and it is particular. I would
say that a person often does not find
her home until she leaves it, but that
would be cliché. This summer I have
been thinking on the idea of finding a
home away from home. What happens
when you are displaced, detached,
disconnected? Your world is kicked off
kilter and you are forced to find a new,
albeit temporary, home. Humans make
a new home because they have to. We
feel an intrinsic pull and sequentially
attach a piece of ourselves to a place.
By this act, we feel centered, we feel
still. This act is not out of choice, but
of necessity.
So this summer, why not tilt your
world? Travel to Antarctica, hike your
way up Mt. Everest, take a chance on
a new experience and embrace every
minute of it. It is okay to leave your
bubble for a while and explore some-
place new. Be home, but above all, be
alive.
By Reena Spansail
The pads of my feet were blistering,
my neck was sticky with mid-day
heat, and my sandpaper lips rubbed
together painfully as I mumbled
“Water…Vino…birra. God, any-
thing.” Tyler, my companion on this
trudge, nodded meekly, and then his
face and spine brightened. “Look! A
bar!! We are saved!”
We stumbled into Il Bar Mediovelo,
the only place open during the dol-
drums of pauso pranzo on a Tuesday,
and immediately asked for water.
When asked if that was all, I began
to nod, but then shook my head.
Why not treat myself after such a
climb? I scanned the menu, and went
out on a whim-limb and confident-
ly ordered a “cappuccino freddo”
(a cold cappuccino). The barkeep
cocked her head like a small quizzi-
cal dog, and looked at me as if I was
a particularly exotic bird with horns
and furry feet. “Che cosa?”
It’s on the menu! I gesticulated
madly, but, clearly, no Italian in their
right mind would ever order such
sacrilegious drink. Eventually, she
understood my strange request and
gave me exactly what I had asked
for: an espresso with cold milk on
top of it, doctored up with some
nutmeg and cinnamon, which she
had added at the last minute in a kind
attempt to educate me on the proper
way to consume coffee. My partner,
a more sensible person, had ordered
cheep and cheerful wine, which I
took a drag of as we sat down to
wipe the sweat from our bodies and
regain our strength. Or not.
“Parlez-vous francais?” A mangled
and giggly voice drifted over to us
from the corner of the bar, where
a slumped man struggled to stand.
I hadn’t even noticed this mass in
my attempt to obtain cold coffee,
but I certainly noticed him now. No,
no we didn’t speak French. We are
American, sorry. Nothing to see here.
I soon learned that there was noth-
ing quite as persistent as a drunk
Frenchman, for he proceeded to have
a very one-sided conversation with
us about the merits of Cleine Dion,
who was crooning behind him on a
flickering screen. Celine Dion is the
very best! The most sexy! Oh yes, si,
oui, Celine can sing! We awkwardly
heaped praises upon the Canadian
stick insect as we went to pay our
bill. Alas! The language barriers had
sprung up once again, and this time
they had spikes, a moat, and a fire-
breathing dragon.
We attempted to pay the €11.60 that
we owed (according to the small
green numbers on the cash register)
but our bar tender was having none
of it. She kept jabbing at our coins,
and then at the door, urging us to
leave. We apologized profusely and
walked out the door with our heads
hung and our tails low. I took out my
Italian phrasebook as I walked to-
ward downtown, determined to learn
what the word was that she had kept
repeating. Sconto. Sconto means…
discount. The poor, wonderful wom-
an had attempted to show us pity and
Italian hospitality but we hadn’t the
knowledge, or grace to accept them.
For the nth time on this trip, I was
thrown by the goodwill of others,
which ran contrary to my pessimistic
views regarding the state of human-
ity. So, next time you feel despair
for our species, go order a drink in a
foreign language. It will be the best
antidote to the poison of pessimism.
Celine Dion & una
bevanda Italiana

By Reena Spansail
I gasped as Mani flipped the vodka
bottle behind his shoulder and caught
it at the very last second to control the
flow of liquid into the blender. Two
short electric bursts, a slice of pineap-
ple, and one strawberry later, there it
was: the pink-olada (not to be confused
with its creamy and more boring cous-
in, the piña colada). I stammer out an
imperfectly pronounced “grazie mille,”
too which Mani replies in nearly per-
fect English; “It’s no problem. I love
making the new drinks.”
Mani is everything a bartender should
be, and his theatre – Due Righe Bar*
(known to locals as Book Bar) -- is
everything and more you could ask
of a thirst parlor. Mani looks like a
character conjured up by a struggling
screen writer: long, lion-like red hair,
mischievous eyes, tattoos aplenty, and
a wardrobe consisting of several Amer-
ican rock band concert t-shirts paired
with wrinkled waistcoats. The bar is
equally as charming and hip, with the
famed ‘books” arranged sporadically
on milk-carton shelves, the drinks
display gleaming with blue neon, and
the outside patio drooping under the
weight of 50 shades of green.
Now, lest you think otherwise, this is
no American hipster bar. Perhaps its
atmosphere and creative “mixologist”
had you thinking it was the newest
youthful sin parlor, but no. Book Bar
is located in the heart of Viterbo’s
medieval district (Via Macel Major,
3) in central Italy. This is no spot on
a pub-crawl route, but rather a star in
Viterbo’s night scene. It caters not to
disenfranchised young men with full
beards, but rather to grannies, couples,
friends, dogs and even its own scraggly
bar cat, who will lap out of unattended
glasses. This bar is a typical Italian
third space, where anyone and every-
one can graze the impressive aperitivo
spread, listen to great American dance
music, and watch their fellows eat,
drink, and be merry.
What truly sets Book Bar apart from
its peers here in Viterbo is not its
aperitivo, though, with meats, risotto,
grilled veggies, and penne salad, it’s
nothing to sneeze at.
It is not the bar’s fabulous local,
domestic, and international beers on
tap, nor even Mani’s “special” drinks
that he will conjure up upon request.
No, what makes Book Bar an absolute
must-visit place in Viterbo is its open
arms. It takes the Italian hospitality
mantra of good food, good wine, and
many merry friends and practices it
every single night. Whether you are
American, Bangladeshi, Martiniquais,
or Brazilian, your order will be taken,
your drink served promptly and prop-
erly, and over the course of the eve-
ning, your story will be heard. Book
Bar gathers those who are wandering
in mind or body and gives them a
home, if only for a night, in the heart
of a city over 3,000 years old.
Come for the wine, come for Mani’s
tattoos, and come for the opportunity
to linger for hours and hours without
pressure to pay the bill or find a date.
Come to experience the Viterboesse
way of life: slow, savored, and color-
ful, just like a pink-ocolada.
Book Bar -- +39 0761 330831
DeRigheBooksBar@libero.it
Book Bar turns new pages

By Emma Lynge
The Spaghetteria looks unassuming
and small from the front door. It
has hardly any window space, and
seems squeezed between boutiques
in the shopping district, easily
overlooked. Once you pass into the
restaurant you realize how roomy
this little gem is. It tunnels cozily
into the depths of the building, and
you realize just how many people it
can seat.
After being greeted by a waitress in
singsong, bubbly Italian, a group of
five friends and I were ushered to a
table in the main dining room. The
lighting in the main dining room
is soft and low, falling over the
shoulders of the people seated from
the twinkling lights entwined in the
decorative branches overhead. It
gives the entire atmosphere a some-
what floating feel.
If you’ve heard the words “La
Spaghetteria” in Viterbo, they have
probably been followed closely by
the phrase “300 different types of
pasta,” or “Guiness Book of World
Records.” Despite having such a
claim, this restaurant has none of
the trappings of a tourist’s den—
there are no showy pictures adorn-
ing the window outside, no glossy
photographs inside the menus
depicting carefully arranged dishes.
It’s much homier than it has any
right to be.
The menu is overwhelming, it’s
true: clocking in at, yes, over 300
types of delicious and exciting pasta
dishes, you almost need to create
a running list in your head of your
top picks before narrowing it down.
Among the many ingredients mixed
into our plates of pasta were the
likes of caviar, asparagus, several
different kinds of meat, whiskey,
pumpkin flowers, and more tradi-
tional elements like red sauce and
cream. It’s not often that being over-
whelmed by food is a good thing,
but here, it definitely is. I have been
to the Spaghetteria twice, and each
time ordered a plate of pasta that I
loved for only 9 euros. The portions
are much more manageable here
than in an American restaurant—it
won’t leave you swimming in noo-
dles, but you will most definitely
get your fill. Somehow each visit
I seemed to eat the last possible
bite I could manage, and found my
plate empty of noodles—the perfect
portion. My friends and I ordered a
bottle of their Pietra Luna red wine,
which you should be sure to try
should you ever spend an evening
there. Though no wine aficiona-
do, I was extremely pleased by its
warmth and richness, fruity and yet
not too tart. It is the perfect com-
plement to a hearty plate of creamy,
saucy carbs.
For the bold and gutsy foodies out
there, the menu also has several
“surprise dishes” secreted away on
random pages. It is just another way
to add spice to your already flavor-
ful evening. Buon appetito!
La Spaghetteria
Via Saffi 61, 01100 Viterbo, Italy
+39 (0)761 346053
https://www.facebook.com/
pages/Spaghetteria-La-Cantinel-
la/60384263593
12:30-2:45 p.m.; 7:30-11 p.m.

Noodle novelties in
perfect proportions
Why I travel
By Danielle Starkey
Rarely is anything as soul-killing as
routine. When we operate with our
senses numb we don’t hear, see, smell
or taste our world.
Travel puts us on edge: we are alert
to our surroundings, we learn how
other people are different from us,
and we learn how other places are dif-
ferent from our familiar setting. Our
bodies are alert and therefore most
alive. We aren’t already at “B” on a
trip from A to B, just waiting as time
passes. We may as well be sitting still
then.
When we travel we experience
risk — sometimes manageable, but
sometimes with real danger attached.
Nothing forces us to feel more alive
than when we are faced with choic-
es and what lies behind all doors is
unknown.
Mostly we travel to be most alive
and to learn about ourselves as we
experience wonder. The truest joy
comes when we open ourselves to life
and nothing does that more than trav-
el except, perhaps, falling in love.

By Danielle Starkey
The wines of Tuscany -- especially
those made from the Sangiovese grape
-- are renowned throughout the world.
Tuscany itself, with its gently rolling
hills cloaked with silvery-green olive
trees, regal cypress trees rising like
church spires, medieval hilltop villag-
es made of caramel-colored stone and,
of course, acres of vineyards, offers a
nearly ideal wine-tasting experience.
Napa Valley may have its Castello di
Amorosa, a winery styled after 13th
century castles but built a quarter cen-
tury ago, but Tuscany has real castles
and many other buildings constructed
in the Middle Ages. One is the Abbey
of Sant’Antimo, a Romanesque church
dating from the 12th century, which
welcomes visitors and is a meeting
point for hikers.
The three of us -- Deidre and I from
California and Judy from Michigan
-- were taking a weekend break from
our studies in Viterbo and had rent-
ed a car to avoid navigating bus and
train schedules which ultimately will
get you from here to there but with as
much as a day between connections
with a bit of walking thrown in. Hav-
ing the flexibility of a car also allowed
us to stay at one of the many agrituris-
mi (working farms that offer lodging
ranging from the rustic to divine) that
would be impossible to get to other-
wise without a bicycle or lots of time.
Travelers willing to part with more
cash can sign up for group or custom
tours.
Driving in Italy was far less daunt-
ing than we at first thought it would
be. Drivers are generally careful and
courteous and the only real challenges
we encountered were finding our way
out of Viterbo (for which we ultimate-
ly relied upon voice-directed GPS
because the city’s budget apparently
stops short of providing street signs)
and staying alert to take the correct
turns on the spidery, two-lane coun-
try roads to get to our destination of
Montalcino, which is 20 miles south
of Siena. Because the roads have no
shoulder, a small number of bicyclists
and joggers shared the road with us
and I envied their slower mode of
travel that allowed them to drink in the
views and pause for photos.
There was no such thing as a scenic
overlook pull-out for cars; in fact, if
we ever missed a turn, we often had
to go 3 or 4 minutes down the road
before we saw a place to turn around.
Three miles shy of Montalcino, the
medieval hilltop village that is in the
heart of this region, we spied a winery
with several cars in the parking lot. We
found some workers and in stuttering
Italian asked about doing a tasting.
A woman replied in clear English
that the winery was closed, as would
be most wineries on Saturdays and
Sundays. Our enthusiasm was only
Tasting Tuscany – a bit of
brunello in Montalcino
Winemaker Roberto Nannetti from the Croce di Mezzo winery in Montalcino, Tuscany,
Italy, turns his sangiovese grapes into the rare and beloved Brunello di Montalcino.

briefly diminished: we were already
enthralled by the scenery and felt
confident that our wine-tasting adven-
ture would continue when we found
another, perhaps larger, winery that
would be open.
We hadn’t called ahead or planned a
specific route. Instead, we all favored
heading in the general direction of
Montalcino and stopping wherever we
fancied. This seemed reasonable as
there are upwards of 200 wineries in
the vicinity of Montalcino and more in
the Chianti region, which is the wine
zone just to the north between Siena
and Florence. In any case, we’d all
been much too busy to do any serious
planning although Deidre was very
knowledgeable about wines and taught
us about the Brunello di Montalcino,
the region’s specialty.
Unlike in Napa Valley, where some
400 wineries produce about 110 mil-
lion bottles from more than three doz-
en wine grape varieties (with Cabernet
Sauvignon and Chardonnay grapes the
most widely planted), in this region of
Tuscany the principal wine produced
is made exclusively from Sangiovese
grapes, specifically the Sangiovese
Grosso.
It wasn’t always this way: Ferruccio
Biondi-Santi (whose family name still
is associated with one of Montalcino’s
best Brunello-producing estates) star-
tled the local populace some 130 years
ago when he began producing wine
only from the Sangiovese grape, a de-
parture from fermenting several grape
varieties at the same time, including
even whites. Today, to retain the clas-
sification Brunello di Montalcino, the
wine must be 100% Sangiovese grapes
(unlike Chianti, which requires 80%
Sangiovese grapes). The grapes can be
grown no higher than 600 meters in el-
evation (1968 feet). Also, the Brunello
di Montalcino must be aged at least
four years and spend at least half that
time in oak. (Chianti is generally aged
4-7 months, although the Riservo
is aged 38 months or more). In the
1990s, a new classification -- Rosso
di Montalcino -- was introduced to
let vintners in the Montalcino region
release their wines after just one year
of aging; consequently, the Rosso is
less expensive than the Brunello di
Montalcino.
Fortunately, not all wineries are
closed on weekends as we would soon
learn and for anyone who doesn’t have
a car, many enotecas in the village of
Montalcino are open in the morning
and late afternoon, closing -- as does
much of the rest of Italy -- during the
pausa pranzo, or extended lunch that
lasts from about 1 to 5 pm.
We got back in the car and climbed
to the top of the hill to Montalcino,
which is visible for many miles be-
cause of its fortress, built in 1361 and
free to enter (but 3.5 euros to climb
and walk the ramparts). We parked on
a narrow, cobbled street in the tiny city
center (warning: unless you are willing
to pay $117 for a parking ticket, figure
out the parking signs), and didn’t have
to go far to find the first of at least two
dozen enotecas in town.
The tasting rooms are clearly geared to
the tourist trade, even if they close for
most of the afternoon. The server is
behind a counter at which there might
be 3 or 4 open bottles of wine to taste.
Tasting is free and there is no pressure
to buy anything.
Not everyone spoke English, but that
is not an impediment if you want to
simply try the wine. If you seek more
complex information they will try to
answer your questions with body lan-
guage supplementing the spoken word.
Happy with our purchases (we didn’t
buy the most delicious Brunello di
Montalcino we tried because at 100
euros, it was well over anyone’s
budget), we headed to our agritur-
ismo located just a couple of miles
from Montalcino and, after taking an
evening swim to cool off and a walk
on the country roads nearby to delight
in the fireflies in the fields, we went
to bed looking forward to a second
day of learning about Italy’s heritage
and culture through its garnet colored
beverage and the people who share our
love of it.

By Lauren Matheny
The journey to Burano, a tiny island
in the Venetian lagoon, is not for the
faint of heart nor stomach. I arrived
at Stazione Roma, the Venetian bus
station, fresh-faced and camera-laden,
but quickly realized that a direct trip to
Burano is a pleasant fiction from the
guidebooks.
The Burano water bus first tooled
slowly through the Venetian lagoon,
wandering around the edges as motor
boats and water taxis sped through the
open water. I looked at them jealously
as we pulled up to our first stop, half
an hour into the trip, on the island of
Murano. The renowned glass furnac-
es of this island were packed with
tourists; most of our fellow passengers
wandered off as my group waited for
our next boat in the sweltering sun.
I began to wonder if this trip could
possibly be worthwhile, but before we
could dip into the port-side café for a
sip of cool vino, our boat had arrived.
This second water bus carried us
through more lagoon, now dotted by
reedy little inlets. Forty five minutes
were spent wafting my face with a
guidemap and gazing back at the Ve-
netian horizon. I was looking behind
when suddenly, up ahead, color began
to emerge from the lagoon: ochre, ver-
milion, magenta, apricot, cerise, and
azure grew more vibrant the closer we
got to the quay. Burano is a city of col-
or, its claim to fame: each of the tiny
houses is stuccoed in a different shade,
with contrasting doors and lintels and
shutters, so the entire island seems like
a child went after it with a paint set.
The little town wraps itself around a
canal, which flows as a lifeline to the
center of the city. Where Venice had
been swimming with tourists, Burano
was most assuredly a lived-in city:
after disembarking, I dodged hosiery
and tiny toddler t-shirts hanging out
to dry on clotheslines which hung
between windows.
We made our way to the center of
town, a wide cobblestone street called
the Via Baldassarre Galuppi. Shops
stood in a charming mess, all over-
flowing with the main Buranese ex-
port: lace. The lace trade purportedly
became an art on the island in the early
1500s, but the locals tell a more deli-
cious tale of a beautiful siren who tried
to ensnare a handsome (and loyally be-
trothed) sailor while he was stranded
in the lagoon. The siren was impressed
by his faithfulness, and offered him a
gift for his beloved bride—with a slap
of her tail, she created a fantastically
delicate netting of lace on the side of
his boat, which became a wedding
veil. Lace has been made on the island
ever since, and, picking up a delicately
woven handkerchief that was more air
than fabric, I could almost believe the
local legend.
At a tiny boutique called Emelia, I
was assisted by Anna Maria, the shop-
keeper and life-long Burano resident.
I passed over scarves and shawls. “I
want something that I can hang on my
wall,” I tell Anna Maria, “a bit of Bu-
rano magic.” She nods, “si,” as if she
knows just what I mean, and points up,
where a rosy Venetian Carnival mask,
painstakingly woven in lace, glitters. I
barely breathe as I place the mask over
my face and see a siren where once
there was only a footsore traveler who
was moaning about boat delays.
Each piece of lace here is made
lovingly, whether it be woven on the
island’s looms (the closest Burano
gets to machine-made), or stitched by
the artisans who practice their care-
fully maintained form. I can’t help
but finger the offerings at every store,
intoxicated by the artistry and the
minuteness of the pieces.
It comes to me in an instant of clar-
ity: the patience required for making
the trip to Burano is mirrored in this
most intimate form of stitchery. It
takes time, care, and good faith, but in
the end, isn’t it worth the trip? In the
case of Burano, absolutely.

Burano: Worth the wait

By Trevor Smith
Globalization: the process of devel-
oping to make possible international
influence or operation. A nasty thought
in pop culture, the act of franchising,
to make a six-figure profit, littering
other cultures with the White Star
Bursts (Wal-Marts), the Green Mer-
maids (Starbucks), and the Golden
Arches (McDonalds). However, as a
traveler, globalization isn’t too ter-
rible. Whether you are backpacking
across Europe, climbing the ruins of
Egypt, or studying the environment in
a medieval village, it’s nice to find a
reminder of home.
At each end of Viterbo, you will find
two landmarks that might spark some
interest, two McDonalds equipped
with a McCafe, mouth-watering
burgers, and fries golden to perfection.
Now, McDonalds may not be your
mother’s homemade peach cobbler,
but it sure is a simple cure to the com-
mon culture shock. I got my craving
for McDonalds on a late Monday
night, stressed from the burdens of
the day. I decided I’d try out an Italian
McDonalds, to compare the chain to
my own, and to get a nice reminder
that this new place wasn’t as different
as I imagined.
First off, I’ve always heard that the
major differences between the two
types of McDonalds were the portion
sizes; America’s being much larger.
Second, I had also heard that by re-
gion, different locations sell different
foods. Lastly, I had heard that there
was a higher quality of ingredients
used in the food. Eager to conduct my
research, I ordered big, a No. 5, which
was a double bacon cheeseburger,
Las Vegas fries, and a coke. As I ate
my food, I noticed the burger to be
comparatively smaller than any other
McDonalds burger. Under further
inspection, the large coke seemed me-
dium, at best, and the Las Vegas fries
were seasoned waffle fries. In just my
first few bites everything I had already
known about international McDonalds
had become fact. (Not the best way
to cure culture shock, but hey, it’s a
start.) Satisfied yet not convinced, I
knew I needed to come back for round
two: Breakfast.
Another similarity I found within the
Italian McDonalds was the breakfast.
Unlike breakfast culture in America
filled with eggs, bacon, grits, ham and
toast, many Italians settle for a crois-
sant and café. I found myself with a
craving for a hot and ready American
breakfast. In the Viterbo McDonalds, I
ordered a “uova strappazzate e bacon
con pane” (scrambled eggs, bacon and
bread), hash brown, and “cremoso allo
yogurt con frutta e cereali” (yogurt
with fruit and cereal). Incredibly
enough, the Italian culture may survive
off only a piece of bread for breakfast
yet the classic American breakfast is
preserved in the franchise.
In a comparison of restaurants, the
Italian McDonalds have a relatively
smaller portion chart in relation to
American McDonalds. These include
the burger sizes and the drink sizes.
In Italian McDonalds, you can order
“Las Vegas” fries, which are simply
waffle fries. Moreover, in the Viterbo
McDonalds, there are four sauces to
choose from: Salsa Agrodolce, Salsa
Barbeque, Mayonnaise, and Ketchup,
each costing 0.25 €. While you finish
your food and prepare to toss out your
remains, there are automated trashcans
ready to consume the waste.
As I mentioned before, pop culture
labels globalization as a terrible idea
however, us travelers rely on those
pieces of home that seemed scattered
across the world. They remind us that
We’re Lovin’ It.
Familiar fries far from home --
we’re lovin’ it at Viterbo McD’s
Photo by Trevor Smith

By Tyler Mahannah
If you find yourself roaming the
streets of Viterbo, Italy, on a Sun-
day afternoon with no motivation or
direction to venture outside of the
city walls to a winery, 3DC Gradi
(pronounced tray-dee-chee) has got
you covered. The selection of wine
is all from the Lazio region and the
range of varietals improves with each
taste. 3DC is located on Via Cardinal
la Fontaine 28 in the medieval district
of downtown Viterbo. A short walk
from the Porta Romana train station,
3DC is not hard to find. It is instantly
recognizable by the beautiful outside
seating that wraps around two sides
of the restaurant. When you walk up
to the entrance a friendly waiter will
great you and wait for you to specify
where you would like to sit. Outside
is the obvious choice for the Italian
evening, and the sun will gently fall
as you enjoy the atmosphere.
My company and I did not take a
menu, but made an effort to speak
with the waiter and begin tasting the
wines in ways unfamiliar to a person
used to wine tasting practices in the
United States. We would politely
ask to try a couple wines at first and
expected to get a flight of glasses with
only a sip of wine, but instead when
we asked to try their wine, the waiter
come over to our table with the full
bottle and three glasses, uncorked,
and generously poured our first white
wine. The server waited for us to
taste, while he stood close, for what I
assume was to answer questions, but
probably because he wanted to know
if we wanted a full glass. We did not.
A couple sips of a fruity, sour wine
similar to green apple then on to the
next wine. The next was a chardonnay
that had a more complex flavor and
subtle tones of butter. However, I pre-
ferred the sour wine we had before.
As we made our way through two
white wines I could feel our waiter
getting slightly agitated by me taking
notes and pretending to know some-
thing about wine. Of course its best to
be forward about what one is doing,
so I apologized and said I was doing
a project for a class. This was well
received as we moved onto the reds.
The first red was a blend of San-
giovese and Merlot that was sweet
and full-bodied. I would say it had
a smooth texture but not quite silky,
very good but not good enough. Next
was a blend of Sangiovese and Antico
that differed from the sweet merlot
and had a peppery spice and darker
color. This wine was better than the
first for me, but it was the last wine
that has not left my memory.
Simply Sangiovese from 2010 that
was very peppery and even a bit
cherry like, this was the wine I needed
to order a glass of. That wine, that
restaurant, and the people are exactly
the reason I traveled to Italy.
3DC Gradi can become a favorite lo-
cation for just about anybody, wino or
foodie, but for me on that night it was
the wine I decided to experience.
Italian
wine at
3DC Gradi
Why I travel
By Giovanna Nebbio
My love for traveling began with a
few flights a year to see my parents.
I was put on a plane and shipped off.
I began to feel like a package on a
Fedex truck until I decided to have
some fun with it. I began to break
out of my shell, which wasn’t hard.
Who wouldn’t want to talk to a cute
7-year-old girl.
As one could imagine a seven year
old would get pretty antsy on a plane
and that was a perfect way to de-
scribe me. I began to talk and meet a
whole new variety of people, people
from all around the world. One gen-
tleman I will never forget, because
he is the reason why my passion for
traveling blossomed, was traveling to
his home in India.
I immediately became amazed as
I heard him talking and he taught
me a phrase “sausi di gauh” (hello).
However no matter what interesting
information he told me I was in-
trigued with the thought of meeting
Princess Jasmine.
I spent the summer between fourth
and fifth grade doing research about
different counties and their cultures.
I fell in love and decided that I want-
ed to see the world. I wanted to see
what the world could offer me other
than what the small town of Living-
ston, California, or Mesa, Arizona,
could offer me.
Traveling offers a new insight to
who we are. It helps us grow as
individuals to better understand
ourselves and the world. Allowing us
to take a minute to walk in another’s
shoes for once.

By Virginia Pedigo
Sweat was dripping down the small
of my back. Scratch that; sweat was
dripping everywhere. People had
warned me that Rome in the summer
was akin to the surface of the sun just
about anytime. But I am from Florida,
so I ignored them as any good Floridi-
an would. I wiped the thoughts of heat
and thirst from my mind and focused
on other, more pressing matters. My
friends and I ventured by train down to
Rome today to see the Sistine Chapel.
We just had to see it, to see the build-
ing that has made people drop down to
their knees and convert to Catholicism
on the spot. But, to our sweaty dismay,
it was closed on this sunny Saturday
afternoon. Downtrodden, we decided
to walk through Vatican City on our
way to get some last licks of gelato
before we headed back to Viterbo.
As we made our way closer to the
square, we noticed throngs of peo-
ple. Not simply the usual crowds, but
literal swarms and swarms of people.
Children were laughing and running
everywhere, in and out of the metal
detectors that now surrounded the
square. I employed my broken Italian
and asked someone what was go-
ing on. What was everyone waiting
for? He smiled at me and his answer
required no translation: Papa. I rushed
to tell my friends and we could not be-
lieve it. The Sistine Chapel will likely
wait for us, but seeing the Pope is a
here and now opportunity.
We passed through the detectors and
entered the crowd. It hit me that all
of these thousands of people, each
one different from the next, are all
gathered for the same reason. They all
adore the Pope, their Papa. Because, as
is evident by the banners, shirts, and
face paint, these folks may worship
Jesus Christ, but they adore the Pope.
People in general gather for a myriad
of reasons, and adoration is at the root
of many of them. Whether it is rev-
erence of food, a person, an activity,
or what have you. Common love can
bring together people whom usually
would have nothing to discuss.
A makeshift stage had been placed in
front of the Basilica. St. Peter’s Square
is, of course, mammoth in size. In a
stroke of thoughtfulness, there were
projection screens throughout the
area for those not close to the front.
The event today was a celebration of
children’s athletic activities. Different
groups of kids preform, with every-
thing from karate to soccer to gymnas-
tics being represented. The Pope spoke
to encourage these children to play for
a higher power and to further integrate
their spirituality with their games. He
noted that sports aid in keeping youth
away from drugs, alcohol, and other
harmful pursuits.
I think that the event as a whole was
very much a success. The sport and
musical performances entertained the
crowd well, leading up to the moment
that their Captain came out to speak.
Even as a person not at all fluent in
Italian, I could tell that the words spo-
ken were powerful and emotional. You
do not have to know the language to
understand eyes tearing up as a mother
holds her jersey-clad son.
Whether you are Catholic, Jewish, or
Buddhist, seeing the Pope is a unique
and special event. But what is perhaps
an even more particular sighting is
standing amidst thousands as they col-
lectively adore someone, letting go of
their differences, if only for the length
of a soccer match.
A day with Il Papa
Photo by Virginia Pedigo

By Noah Gass
When you think of hamburgers most
people think of a big greasy juicy
burgers being grilled on a smoky char
griller in the back yard of an all Amer-
ican home. But tucked in the corner of
an alleyway on the cobblestone streets
of Viterbo, Italy is a man that will
prove to you that burgers are not so all
American.
Tony Crock is the master chef and
owner of Street Food da Tony Crock.
Tony, with his wife Julia, run and
operate this burger joint in downtown
Viterbo next to Piazza San Carluccio.
There you can get a handmade burger
with your choice of toppings all for
under 4 euro. However these are not
your frozen store bought burgers. You
can have your choice of a pepper and
onion mixed burger infused with an
array of spices, to an old fashion or
even a turkey burger. You can ask for
formaggio, cheese in Italian, to which
Julia will then ask you if you want
a slice of American cheese wrapped
in plastic or if you would like a hand
sliced piece Italian mozzarella. Per-
sonally, I prefer the latter. Then your
burger is placed on a toasted bun and
you have your choice of toppings
ranging anywhere from ketchup, mus-
tard, and mayonnaise to sautéed toma-
toes, onions, and even sour croute.
Now if you’re one of those people
that don’t like to try new things, all of
this may sounds a little foreign. Well,
it is. But don’t be afraid to try new
things. Street Food would not be so
popular if it was not good. And if you
are afraid to try new things and you’d
rather stick to bland pizza or even
McDonalds, then good more burgers
for the rest of us.
In my many experiences at Street
Food the couple have always been
friendly and helpful. If you ask them
how to say something in Italian they
are happy to help you out. The food
has always been perfection. Never
once in my many meals have I gotten
a bad burger, or hair in my food, or
anything that you would expect bad to
happen at a burger joint in America.
The only down side I could possibly
think of about Street Food’s burgers is
that you don’t get to choose how you
want your burger cooked. Tony cooks
it the same way every time. But hon-
estly, I’ve never tried. These burgers
have been so good every time that I
don’t want to try anything different.
So if you’re ever traveling through
Viterbo, say on your way to Rome,
get off of your train at Porta Romana
head straight down Garibaldi take a
left at Piazza Pueblacita, and keep
going until you hit the labyrinth. Take
the next left and Street Food will be
waiting for you with open arms. It is
the place to go if you are looking for
hardier alternative to pizza and pasta.
It’s a filling and unique experience that
alone should put Viterbo on the map.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/
Tony-Crock-Street-Food
U.S.
food,
Italian
style
Photo by Noah Gass

By Morgan Lauer
It is nearly 8 p.m. and a glimpse of an
orange glow seeping behind the terra-
cotta rooftops of Viterbo appears from
my third story apartment window. It is
time for dinner. No matter a “casa”, a
countryside “osteria” or a “ristorante”,
dinner in Italy is structured in a similar
fashion. Tonight, this dinnertime struc-
ture is observed with my newly found
Italian family: Sabina, my homestay
“mother,” her son Ludovico, and Mar-
co, a cousin just arrived from Naples.
This dining experience begins within
the narrow cove of Sabina’s galley
style kitchen as I perch myself in the
corner for the best view of the meal
prepared by Marco. Meaty slices of
deep red tomatoes fall onto a wooden
cupboard and a compact, volleyball
sized mozzarella di bufala sets in
a glass bowl of brine waiting to be
carved. Later the stove is lit and inter-
esting techniques become apparent.
For instance, olive oil is generously
poured out, like sauce over a bed of
pasta, and slivers of garlic release an
aromatic flavor with a sizzle, only
to be removed from the pan. Beside
the aroma of garlic, handfuls of salt
are the only seasonings added. The
combination of simple seasonings and
fresh produce allows the flavors and
textures of the local products to be the
main exhibit.
However, this main exhibit must be
displayed within the proper context- a
well-set table. Tonight our wooden top
is the framework in which napkins,
silverware, glasses, and plates align in
a precise, yet functional arrangement
beneath a smooth linen tablecloth.
Forks always on the right and used in
a progression towards the main plate.
Knives on the left, placed near the
proper operating hand. Usually two
glasses: one for water, one for wine.
Around that well framed table, peo-
ple gather and converse. Meanwhile,
my stomach grumbles and rumbles as
it remembers the 5 o’clock dinner hour
it is accustomed to in the States. Soon
I am satisfied with an antipasto, or an
appetizer, called “caponata”. Napoli-
tano caponata is comprised of toma-
toes and mozzarella doused in extra
virgin olive oil, and uses thickly sliced
bread as an additional utensil soaking
up the juices from the dish. During
formal occasions insalata, then primo
and scondo piatti would be served, but
for our more informal dinner, thick,
cheesy pasta centers itself on my plate.
This delicious procession is eat-
en slowly allowing room for much
conversation. Like around many other
tables, we examine the daily grind of
life. Work, education, relationships,
popular culture, and politics are the
main topics of discussion, which
usually prompt either tears of laugh-
ter or heated debates. Nevertheless,
dinnertime here is a place for friends
and family to reconnect and recharge.
Meanwhile, forks are shared and dried
up glasses are soon refilled by a neigh-
bor, no waiter needed. These kind,
habitual gestures along with conversa-
tion express a sense of community by
which good food and willing tables are
only portals.
Even when my Italian speaking skills
do not allow me to play an active role
in conversation, I feel a kind of attach-
ment to that Italian table and those
that encompass it. Furthermore, my
experience around a “tavola Italiana”
has been more than a way to eat local
cuisine, it has been a means to under-
stand and bond oneself to the culture
of Italy.
Tavola Italiana
Photo by Morgan Lauer

By Lauren Matheny
The piece of loose-leaf paper on
which I’d detailed all the sights I
wanted to see in Siena, so pristine
and folded just this morning, was
now a sodden crumple of paper in
my hand. The ink was illegible, the
sights blurred, and the paper itself was
tearing to fine pieces. The poet inside
me began to think, morosely, that the
disintegration of the paper was an apt
metaphor for my grand plans for a day
in the medieval city: once perfect, now
tumbling into disarray.
I have always been a trip planner. My
father will still produce with pride the
notebooks that I filled with entries on
our trips to Disneyland: rides that must
be ridden, food that must be eaten, fun
facts that I could repeat, should the
need arise. I’ve grown more flexible
over the years, condensing my plan-
ning formula from notebooks to single
sheets of paper, carefully labeled
“Must-See’s!”
I’d begun the morning in Siena en-
chanted. The twisting, turning medi-
eval streets beckon wanderers up the
long, narrow cobblestone hills, layered
with tiny tourist shops and cafes, only
to send them around a corner and
back down again. But I was not free
to roam these streets, finding my own
way to the more prolific sights on my
list. Instead, I was hemmed in by a
touring group. “Group” was a strong
word: we were more a chaotic mass of
students and adults, led by a frazzled
and much-harassed guide, plodding
our way through the city. I could only
follow along, ushered by the mass
of tourists, as we passed my “Must-
Sees!” without stopping to explore. We
passed through the Piazzo del Campo,
home to the Siena political machine
and a motley crew of pigeons, with
barely a word. I gazed in longing up
at the campanile tower, the Torre del
Mangia, which had was surrounded by
purple-ink stars on my list, stating its
status as V.I.S—Very Important Site. I
could have let slip bits of fascinating
information about the grand medieval
tower (“Say, did you know that it’s the
third highest secular tower in Italy?
Actually, the name means ‘Tower of
the Eater,’ in reference to the name of
its first bell ringer. He was apparently
a well-known spend-thrift and glutton!
Go figure!”). Instead, we marched
wearily onwards into a main shopping
street while our tour guide prattled on
about the annual horse race.
As I let myself be carried along by
the crowd, I wondered at the disparity
of my emotions: how can a planner
by nature like me become annoyed
by too much direction? I have always
been in slight awe of those travelers
who can wander with no reservations,
no plan of arrival, not a train ticket to
their name, and still walk away with a
smile. How do they live sans plan?
I was about to find out: our tour end-
ed abruptly mid-day, and I realized,
with a sinking sensation, that we’d
passed by most of the “Must-See’s!”
on my list. I stood in the square
outside of the bustling Siena Duomo,
thick with tourists using newly pur-
chased T-shirts as sweat towels and
sunshades; I swept a trickle of sweat
off my sunglasses.
Time was short; I would not be able
to tour the places I had so wanted to
see. I put the paper back into my bag,
where it had its own special front
pocket, and turned right off the main
plaza—at least I was free now to walk
as I would. A few thick drops of rain
began to fall on the marble near me,
mimicking my cloudy attitude.
I decided to forego the restaurants
that had made it onto my list, Tri-
pAdvisor recommended; they were
all on the other side of the side of
the city and I was famished. I let the
throng of sightseers carry me along
to a quiet side street, where a cheerful
hand-painted sign chalked out “Oste-
ria Aperto!”, Italy’s answer to “We’re
Open!”
Osteria are the simplest option
amongst the Italian restaurant vari-
eties, with smaller menus than their
trattoria counterparts. What they lack
in options they make up for in the
localized selection of their items. This
A new path in an ancient city

particular restaurant offered only five
options of pasta, all sounding fresh. I
ordered the pappardelle alla carne: a
simple peasant dish of long, thick pas-
ta layered with a rich, salty pork sauce.
The owner of the restaurant himself
served at my table, asking solicitously
about the food and the drink (would
I like more water? More oil?), and
discussing the proclivity of the Sienese
to put wild boar in most of their pasta
sauces.
I realized, somewhere between the
last bite of my pasta (pappardelle
translates as “to gobble,” and gobble
I did) and laying out the surprising-
ly small change I owed, that I had
wandered in to something beautiful.
Instead of a bustling, over-priced
restaurant, thick with tourists and
swarming with homogenized offer-
ings, I’d somehow found my way
into an authentic dining room at three
o’clock in the afternoon, and indulged
in a true local favorite.
I had thought to spend the afternoon
at a café, several of which were listed
on my “Must-See,” but after seeing
the fine patisseries and coffee bars
over-run with tourists dripping ge-
lato I changed my mind. I wandered
instead down the via dei Rossi, a quiet
street free of tourists, where I passed a
clothing cleaners, with dresses framed
in the window—perhaps to advertise
how well they were washed and dried
and pressed? Locals sipped beers in
the neon-lit cafeterias, staring out
the window at the empty street. Most
stores were closed, with hand-drawn
signs on cardboard declaring they’d
open “dopo,” later.
Near the bottom of the street, I
caught a twinkle out of the corner of
my eye, through the slight opening
of a wooden door. I had to search the
plain façade for a moment before I
noted the cross that revealed it was a
neighborhood chiesa, a tiny church.
There was no sign or label, simply an
open door. The raindrops were falling
thick on my head now, so I decided to
duck in.
The only other occupant of the chiesa
was a tiny suora, a nun all clothed in
white, but she caught my attention
only for a moment before the beauty
of the church pulled my eye away. The
stiff stucco exterior gave no hint to the
stained glass windows glittered from
the back of the apse, in front of which
lay a full-sized memorial reliquary
entombing a female saint, or the high
vaulted gallery that made my mouth
pop open in surprise. How did they
hide all this medieval glory from the
guidebooks? I began to walk down the
nave, in between deep brown pews
polished to a high shine, before the
suora’s surprisingly rich voice came
from behind me.
“Buonasera, ragazza,” she said,
cheerfully, pulling herself up from her
stool with a little groan. “Di dove sei?”
Where are you from? She began walk-
ing up the aisle now, and I followed,
not quite sure where she was headed
and thinking maybe I was intruding.
I told her I was Americana, and she
clapped her hands and complemented
my fundamental Italian.
Instead of disappearing into a side
door, as I half expected, the nun
led me to the front altar, where she
took my hand and began to give me
a history of the church, her church.
She filled in her historical details (the
church was dedicated to Sant’Eliseb-
etta della Visitazione, a local girl who
made good) with anecdotes about the
lives of the sisters who worshiped here
daily. Pointing up at the gallery, high
above the nave, she described how her
and her sisters lined the three sides of
the chapel to sing with the congrega-
tion at the prime and vespers hours.
She noted with pride, pointing at the
ensconced body of the Sant’Elisabetta,
that it was one of the few whole holy
reliquaries in Siena—the saint’s whole
body was present, not just a finger
or skull. She pointed out her favorite
fresco, a painting of San Giuseppe
cradling a smiling toddler Jesus. You
could almost imagine Jesus tweaking
his earthly father’s beard in the next
frame. It became my favorite fresco as
well.
On I walked, understanding the flow-
ing Italian speech, pulled in somehow
by the suora’s passion for her home
church and the lives lived within.
At the altar, I gave a silent thanks
for the blessing of unexpected ram-
bles. For the first time in my travel-
ing history, I had let go of any form
of planning and had stumbled upon
something spectacular. As I waved
goodbye to the tiny suora, who pressed
my hands between hers as she bless-
ed me, I realized what had made my
Siena afternoon special-- I had visited
people in their homes. The ostler in his
osteria, the nun in her church, both had
taken the time to let me into their lives
when I had opened up mine. Sudden-
ly, I didn’t regret the absence of my
list. With a smile, I crumpled up my
well-worn travel itinerary and tossed
it in a nearby trash can. It was time to
wander and enjoy the view.

By Giovanna Nebbio
When one plans to visit Italy every-
one is happy to share advice. The peo-
ple tell you about the cute handbags
you will see, the attractive Italian men,
and the stylish clothes. However, they
leave out a vital piece of information:
how adorable and friendly Italian dogs
are, not only that but also how much
the Italians love their dogs.
I was taken away by the lack of infor-
mation people were willing to offer me
about dogs in Italy, especially con-
sidering the fact that I love dogs. The
idea of not being around dogs was go-
ing to be hard concept for me to grasp
when I came because I did not expect
to see any and then when I arrived all
I saw were dogs. I was amazed, I was
in dog heaven. However, a couple
details seem to stick out to me. Back
in the states people are fascinated with
the thought of having it all and when
walking down the streets especially in
a town like Monterey all you see our
purebred, pedigree dogs. However,
this concept does not apply in Viterbo.
The dogs appear to all be mix breeds
and, although some are purebred dogs,
they are not pampered babies. They
are allowed to lie in the streets, pee on
the wall, and sometimes even poop in
the mall.
VENIRE! SEDERSI! SOGGIORNO!
These commands are just a few you
can hear while walking through the
streets of Viterbo. The people love
their dogs. Sitting in a café you can
see at least three people walk by in an
hour with their dogs. Wherever you
see a person you can be sure to see
man’s best friend shortly behind.
Furthermore, the dogs of Viterbo
are somewhat of a different breed
compared to that of Monterey, a dog
friendly town. From experience and
with my own dog, the dogs are loyal to
their owners but are always excited to
meet other people and play. However,
“Viterbese” dogs LOVE their owners.
One night I had a strong craving for
gelato. As we sat outside eating our
gelato a lady walked up with a giant
ball of fluff, a Bernese mountain dog.
Although dogs are allowed to go into
most places here in Viterbo, she left
him outside. She seemed to have no
concern of leaving him untied with a
stranger, complete trust.
This was the moment I got to prac-
tice the most important phrase I have
learned, “posso accarezzare il tuo
cane?” The lady was so pleased that
I asked, especially because I asked in
Italian, and graciously allowed me to
pet her giant ball of fluff. Although
he loved the attention of getting his
ears scratched he kept his eyes on his
owner completely memorized with her
movements as she ordered her gelato.
My transition into Italy has not been
easy. Becoming homesick within the
second week and the culture shock has
been a continuous struggle. However
with the help of man’s best friend I
have been able to conquer this obsta-
cle and enjoy Viterbo and all of its
furry friends.
Viterbo
loves its
pooches

By Natalie Sprigg
Food is an essential part to
life. Without it, no living creature
would function. Food is all derived
from the earth, it is what us as hu-
mans do with that food that make it
cultural. In America, people love to
eat burgers, chicken dishes, any form
of potato (mashed, fried, baked),
and other sorts of fruits and vegeta-
bles. Americans commonly accept
other countries foods and “American-
ize” it. Examples of this include pasta,
pizza, tacos, burritos, Chinese food,
sushi, and more.
One thing that differs from many
other countries is America is one of
the largest processed food suppliers
in the world. Processed foods often
contain a high amount of sugar, trans
fat, saturated fat, and sodium. The
number one cause of death in the
United States is cardiovascular disease
which is directly linked to ones diet or
genetics. People need to be informed
of the effects of the food that they
consume, or else America will never
make headway in the health outcome
of its people.
Italy has a variety of fresh foods to
offer to the community. All types
of bread, pasta, vegetables, fruits,
meats, cheeses, olive oil, wine, and
more. The Mediterranean Diet is
one of the most healthy diets in the
world. It contains every macronutrient
in a balanced form with no overdosage
of processed foods. In fact, the closest
Italy comes to processed foods is those
croissants and other sorts of pas-
tries. The number one cause of death
in Italy could not be that of the diet
but perhaps vehicle accidents from the
way that these Italians drive.
For myself, I cannot seem to get
enough of pasta in Italy. Something
about it tastes so much different than
pasta in America. My roommates and
I cook up a big pasta dish almost every
night and whatever we do not finish
at dinner, we heat up the next day for
lunch.
My favorite combination meal that
we have made is our fettucine noo-
dles doused in a red wine tomato
basil sauce mixed with authentic and
fresh Italian sausage. For the side we
simmered fresh cut vegetables like
asparagus, red bell peppers, carrots,
and zucchini in olive oil topped with
basil leaves and a dash of salt. For
drinks we have one cup of water and
one cup of red wine to accompany
our meal. As for dessert, we like to
have fresh fruit like a mix of peach-
es, kiwi, banana, strawberries, and
cherries. This meal alone provides an
immense amount of nutrients that are
essential to the body.
Comparing this Italian dish to
something made in America, it is
very different. In Italy, everything is
fresh. There are no preservatives in
their fruits or vegetables and their food
is not processed in factories across the
country and then shipped to Viterbo.
Everything is grown locally and that is
amazing. A person can honestly taste
the difference.
The noodles are so tender, the meat
is full of zesty flavors, the wine in
the sauce makes for a sweet yet sassy
taste, the vegetables are crisp and
bursting with deliciousness, the olive
oil is magnificently pure, and the fruits
are delightfully satisfying with their
fruity sensation. The pricing of this
entire meal is 15 euros, depending
where a person buys their produce
from, and the location of this “dining
experience” is on Via Orologio Vec-
chio in the medieval palace of Natalie,
Jackie, & Rachel’s apartment!
Making pasta in Italy

It’s all about gelato
I’m ordering a gelato limone on a whim in the lit-
tle gelateria because I’m hot and it’s sweet and one
of the few flavors I can puzzle out the name of.
The first bite is a revelation, like someone took the
idea of Italian ice and spun it through a gourmet
test kitchen, a million-dollar ice cream chain and
then sent it back to this hole-in-the-wall. It’s sweet
but pucker-inducing … these are lemons not “Fla-
vor Syrup 2BG4.” The texture is icy but creamy
as a dream, melting into nothing as it touches the
tongue … The lemon lingers on my tongue, fresh
as mint, soft and sharp, the quintessential taste of a
Viterbo summer night.
--Lauren Matheny
“…beside Nutella and vanilla cream is the le tre
maraviglia. The taste comes from an off-white tex-
ture that mocks a chocolate ganache. Maybe this is
my favorite because of its similarities to sweetened
condensed milk and memories … of licking the lid
of a tin can, for the adventure – not to get cut.”
-- Morgan Lauer
Photo by Tyler Mahannah
Photo by
Trevor Smith
Photo by Giovanna Nebbio

“Dry and chewy like beef jerky but
with a subtle ham flavor. Salted, but
not overly so. Prosciutto is so far
my flavor in Italy. It was served at
the welcome dinner at USAC. My
landlord served it when she invited
me to dine with her. Row upon row
of it at the supermarket confounded
me.”
--Danielle Starkey
“Pasta and men. That’s what I was
told to look for here. So many
confused but well-intentioned
Americans. … What all of these
kind, well-intentioned Americans
and tourist information sites don’t
tell you to look for are the apples or
mele …Only now do I understand
that Eden must have been some-
where in Italy for the apples of this
region are plump, crisp and seduc-
tive enough to make any woman
relinquish men and paradise.”
--Reena Spansail
“… a flavor tucked away into small
cafes and pizzerias … will be
shocking and revolutionary to my
tastebuds. My life will be lacking
and a piece of it empty after I leave
and return to Nevada. … In order
for me to find the perfect bite, I
cannot order anything twice. There
is always another slice of pizza and
a different spaghetti sauce.”
--Tyler Mahannah
“Specifically the pizza with French
fries. The thin crust, unlike the taste
of chain pizza, the salt in the dough
that gives it the perfect zest. The
freshness of the tomato … to top
it off with French fries. Two mas-
terpieces combined to make some-
thing unimaginable.”
--Giovanna Nebbio
“Italy has far more to offer aside
from a pepperoni pizza or a pesto
pasta. My first Italian flavor was a
mixture of amarena and limone,
twisted into one. As I spooned into
the gelato, I was taken on a ride of
fruitful sensations crashing into a
sweet and sour limone blend while
twirling into a rich and creamy
amarena delight.”
--Trevor Smith
“Honestly, I’m not a fan of cof-
fee-flavored ice cream from back
home but something about this
flavor got to me. Perhaps it reminds
me of the somewhat bitter taste
found in Italian espressos of caffe
macchiatos. I realize I will not have
authentic Italian gelato when I re-
turn to the states so this flavor will
remain will sacred to Viterbo, Italy.”
--Natalie Sprigg
“The taste is so dark, it is almost
evil. Bold and fierce, like a warrior.
… I always find myself wanting
more and more. I am a willing slave
to it … but this description rep-
resents only one side of my Italian
flavor. The other side is soft and
conniving. It smoothes effortlessly
over my tongue, a blanket of silk. It
calms me and reminds me to relax.
“Why be so tense? You are in Italy,”
it whispers softly. The flavor that
crosses the bridge between evil and
good, rich and delicate, is none oth-
er than fondente. Dark chocolate
gelato is a flawless taste of the Italy I
experience.”
--Virginia Pedigo
It is sweltering in the kebab shop,
the air stirred softly by a ceiling fan
overhead. When I ask for my kebab,
sensing my language difficulties, the
man behind the counter cups his
hands into a loose clam shape. This
is his way of asking me whether I
want my kebab meat stuffed into a
toasted pita pocket. I nod.
The greasy gyro meat crackles on
its spit as it turns and he goes to
slice me off a generous pile of lamb,
shaved thin and piping hot. He
layers the inside of the toasted pita
lovingly with creamy tzatziki sauce,
tomatoes, crisp lettuce, pickled veg-
etables and a savory smoky barbe-
cue sauce the color of dark ketchup.
He spoons the lamb meat inside
carefully, packing it in so the edges
don’t burst out of the wrapper. He
drizzles a last sprinkling of the
tzatziki over the top, and hands me
the sandwich. It’s almost too hot to
hold, even with the greasy wrapper.
--Emma Lynge
In Viterbo, caffes are on every cor-
ner. You go in expecting to order a
grande caramel macchiato in a cup
suitable for walking around town.
But what you get is a teenie tiny cup
similar to those found in a child’s
tea set. Although the cup is small,
the flavor is intense. It’s bitter, dry
and takes some getting used to. But
here in Italy, espresso is a way of
life.
--Jackie Tourin
Tasting Viterbo
Unforgettable flavors from Central Italy

By Jackie Tourin
It reeked, but I was desperate. After
nine hours on a plane anyone would
desperate enough to use a restroom
even in the worst conditions. To my
utter discomfort I walked into the stall
only to find there were no seat cov-
ers; this was the definition of culture
shock.
“Expectations lead to disappoint-
ment” wise words said by Stefano
Pizzetti, the director of the Viterbo,
Italy study aboard program. It was our
first full day in Italy, all thirty eight
students were gathered in the Balleti
Hotel meeting room for orientation.
We were getting to know each other
and making our first connections; each
of us anxious to embark on this once
in a lifetime journey.
Unfortunately Stefano’s advice came
a few months too late for me. The
moment I turned in my online appli-
cation to USAC, University Study
Abroad Consortium, I began stewing
over what I would see and experience
during my trip. This is my fist trip
abroad so al of my thoughts of Italy
were solely based on scenes from
movies and pictures in magazines.
I spent weeks planning, packing,
researching areas to visit and focus-
ing my attention more toward what
could happen rather than awaiting the
unexpected.
It was the beginning of my spring
semester at UNR, the University of
Nevada, Reno, when I applied for
this program. It was the most difficult
semester of my college career thus
far and dreams of Italy were the light
at the end of the tunnel. The weeks,
fortunately, passed quickly; mostly
impart because I was bombarded with
homework, projects, and tests on a
daily basis. At last May twenty third
arrived in the blink of an eye and I
knew it was finally time to set forth
on my greatest adventure yet. Board-
ing the plane at eight in the morning,
waiting to depart from the Reno-Tahoe
International Airport was an exhilarat-
ing moment. It had not become clear,
yet, that I would be in a foreign coun-
try, thousands of miles away from my
little bubble of home, in a mere matter
of hours. The reality would only set
in once I stepped foot of the plane and
breathed in that Italian air.
Well, that air was not what I had
expected; the first incidence of my
expectations not being the reality.
I knew Italy would be humid, but
my lungs felt like they were filling
with water and my body felt as if it
was being covered in a warm, moist
blanket. Coming from the desert,
with nice dry air, is something I was
going to have to get used to. Walking
through the cloud of condensation I
made my way to the back of the line
to have my passport stamped. The
man behind the glass window looked
like he had not smiled in ages, with
a permanent frown on his stone cold
face. I slipped my passport under the
window, he gave it a quick once over
and then stamped it with such force it
made me jump. He slid it back without
a word and I took that as my “stamp of
approval”. So off to baggage claim I
went to find my monster of a suitcase.
Slowly, but surely, the massive purple
and orange bag rode the carousal
making its way towards me. Tired and
weary from the plane ride, I could
hardly muster the strength to grab it.
It felt ten times heavier than I initially
packed, but at least I had it.
In a state of complete bewilderment
and amazement by all that surrounded
me, I was eager to find the rest of the
group and Simone, the person said to
be meeting us all to take us to Viterbo.
Towards the exit doors of the airport
stood a young, stocky man holding a
small paper sign that read USAC. Me
and a few other students who had been
walking in proximity to me all stopped
in front of him and he said, “lets go”.
So off we went to our bus for another
two hours of sitting, but the ride was
gorgeous. The country side was just
like a picture from a scenic maga-
zine. Lush green hills covered in wild
flowers and little farm houses speckled
in the distance. Before I knew it I had
dozed off and woke up to the see the
giant walls of Viterbo in front of the
bus. Tiny streets, tiny cars, and beauti-
ful architecture is all I see around me.
“This is amazing,” I thought to myself,
“this is my new home.”
Finally it was time to move into our
apartments. Simone was there to
guide my roommates Natalie, Rachel,
and I to our humble abode.
“You guys live in a Medieval palace”
Simone said. “So we are princesses!” I
exclaimed.
Ecstatic about our new royal status
we made our trek toward Via Orologio
Vecchio, or “Old Clock”. The streets
were confusing; mostly because they
all look similar, and cars whizzing past
made it feel like a game of Frogger
trying to dodge getting hit. Without
Simone, we may have never been able
to find our giant, wooden, sea-blue,
door that lead to our quarters. Once
inside the door we enter the dungeon;
we call it that because it is dark and
eerie and not a place you want t spend
a lot of time in. Past the dungeon is the
beginning of the three flight staircase,
talk about a bun blaster. And once into
our apartment we let out a few huffing
breaths and look around in amaze-
ment that we get to live in the heart of
Viterbo such a quaint little home away
from home.
Once we were all settled in, we
met up again with Simone, as well
as our other advisor Luisa, to go to
the mall to get groceries and set up
phone plans. I, for one, am extremely
close to my family and I need to be
in contact with them everyday, so I
wanted to purchase a phone plan in
order to do that. After discussing a
few options with the staff at the TIM
station, I decided to spend thirty euros
on an italian SIM card, not realizing
my phone needed to be “unlocked”.
Once I learned my phone could not
be unlocked, and after I purchased the
Out of my comfort zone

card with no return option, I began to
feel a sense of homesickness for the
fact I could not contact my family at
my leisure. I was overwhelmed by the
difference in culture at this point and I
was fearful because I didn’t know how
to go about assimilating into this new,
yet temporary, life. That evening, and
the majority of the days that week, I
took refuge in cafes to use their wifi
just to communicate back home.
By day five I still had feelings of
homesickness; I missed everything
from the people back home, to foods
that I hardly eat, to the luxuries of
silly things like a dishwasher. I even
made lists of movies and foods that
I wanted to see and eat when I get
home! This went on for a couple more
days until I went to bed on the sev-
enth night and had a sudden moment
of complete bliss and awakening. I
realized how completely blessed I was
to be where I am at, especially be-
cause I know there are so many people
who would love to be in my shoes. To
be ethnocentric is to think that ones
own culture is better than any other;
I do not believe in ethnocentrism so
laying in my cozy, little bed that night
I decided to accept and appreciate all
of the differences I had been presented
with, even the differences in toilets
without seat covers. Needless to say
that was the most restful night of sleep
I had, I slipped off into dream land
with a smile on my face.
In the days that followed that mo-
ment of realization, I opened my mind
and my eyes to take in everything this
country has to offer. I tried new foods,
like rabbit which I’ve come to find
is quite delicious and I even eat eggs
that aren’t refrigerated. This change
in attitude was the key to having the
best time possible and I’m grateful I
had it sooner rather than later. I refer
to Viterbo as home now, even though
I have only been here a short month,
it has a piece of my heart and I am
forever thankful for this trip. I have a
new found freedom, independence,
and especially an appreciation for all
that I have back home and all that I
have learned and experienced here.
By Jackie Tourin
Pasta; Fusilli, Ziti, Spaghetti, Gemelli,
Creste di galli, however you prefer
it, these funky little clumps of dough
are a gift from the heavens. There
are hundreds of different options to
choose from and just as many sauce
choices to go along with it. You can
find your perfect match of pasta and
sauce almost anywhere in Italy, and
the best place in Viterbo is the Spa-
ghetteria.
Growing up every Thursday was
“Spaghetti Thursday” at my house.
My mom, who is full blooded Mex-
ican, with no Italian in her at all,
makes the best spaghetti I have ever
eaten. She always says that her dad
made the best spaghetti and it was
her favorite meal when she was little
so she carried on the tradition. Every
time I saw her take out her giant, blue
pot, I knew we would be feasting on
noodles and her famous meat sauce.
In my opinion, the sauce is the
key to what makes or breaks the pasta
dish. Anyone can pour a jar of sauce
over some boiled noodles and call it
done, but the time and ingredients put
into homemade sauce is unbeatable.
My mom spends hours on her sauce,
made with garlic, onions, ground tur-
key and pork, mushrooms, tomatoes,
tomato paste, a jar of Traditional Clas-
sico sauce for substance, and the best,
most important ingredient, red wine. I
always have to steal a spoonful when
she leaves the kitchen and majority of
the time I get caught, but it’s worth it.
There is so much flavor and love in
her sauce I don’t think I’ll ever find
one that will trump hers.
Now that I said I will never find a
spaghetti dish better than my mothers,
I have found a very close second at
the Spaghettaria. They are located on
Via Saffi, and are famous for their 300
different pasta options making their
way into the Guinness Book of World
Records. After reading all 300 options
I finally ordered the Paellti. A rich and
filling seafood and saffron dish that is
to die for. There were mussels, clams,
cuttlefish, shrimp, bacon, chicken,
peas, and the most lovely saffron I
have ever tasted. There was a light ol-
ive oil drizzle over the top that didn’t
take away from any of the intense
flavors and everything worked so well
together. The atmosphere and the staff
were extremely welcoming and they
even had a separate menu for non
Italian speakers. The prices were fair,
my dish was one of the more pricier
ones, but eleven euros is not bad for
the quality and amount of food given.
The Paellati dish is much different
compared to my mother’s spaghetti,
it didn’t taste like home, but it was a
nice change of flavor. I would abso-
lutely suggest this dish to seafood
lovers like me for the simple fact that
everything was undeniably fresh and
cooked to perfection. Even if you
are not a seafood lover I would still
recommend the Spaghetteria because
you will surely find a dish that suits
you, and you will want to come back
for more.
Spaghetti in Viterbo

By Giovanna Nebbio
“Venti, quad shot, soy, caramel ma-
chiatto, with extra caramel on the cup,
iced” is a common drink one can en-
counter when venturing into the long
line of the United States beloved Star-
bucks. In Italy these tongue twisters do
not exist. Italy and its many variations
of coffee had made its impression on
me and now I cannot start my day
without my daily cappuccino.
Coffee to the Italian culture is some-
thing to be treasured. Do not expect
any warm, sugary, syrup drinks from a
café. Italians treasure their coffee and
enjoy it rather than taking it on the go,
no Joe-on-the-go for Italy.
Unsure what to order? The basic
order that no one can screw up is
a cappuccino (the universal cup of
coffee). This has become known as the
basic American drink when we visit
Italy; it is the only drink we can’t mess
up ordering.
Being a coffee drinker I knew I was
soon going to need my daily dose of
energy while studying abroad in Vit-
erbo, Italy. Not seeing any Starbucks
around I knew I was no longer in the
States. Being in one of the coffee cap-
itols of the world I was a little intimi-
dated about ordering so I just stuck to
a basic cappuccino and when I felt a
little adventurous “cappuccino e soy-
ia” (cappuccino made with soymilk).
Soon my latte craving kicked in, I
needed my latte or Italy was going to
witness a zombie.
Going into our beloved Starbucks
and ordering a latte, we can expect to
be given a decent size drink varying
in size from tall, grande, and venti
and have it be caffeinated. The barista
will hand us our warm cup of liquid
livation pumped with sugar and syrups
to make them fit America’s addiction
to everything being sugary. When
going to Italy, one will have a surprise
waiting for them at the counter if they
decide to order a latte.
I walked up to the counter of the stu-
dent hot spot, Caffe San Sisto. When
I walked up Riccardo (the owner and
barista) asked me what I would like to
drink this morning. Bravely I ordered
a “latte e soyia.” He looked at me a lit-
tle confused, “a latte e soyia?” he said
and I answered back “si,” thinking,
“How hard is ordering a latte?” Then
it got a little confusing when he asked
“caldo or freddo?” – hot or cold?
Not thinking anything of it, I quickly
replied “caldo.” As Riccardo handed
me my latte, I was surprised to find no
tan color or swirls of coffee and milk.
I looked over at my friend puzzled,
as he looked back at me laughing. He
burst out, “You just ordered steamed
soymilk.” As I was about to just leave
my steamed milk on the counter my
friend yelled, “You better drink that.”
Confused and a little disappointed, I
choked down my steamed soymilk.
This tragedy left me scared to leave
the comfort of my cappuccino bubble.
However, with the help of friends the
process of ordering, becomes a lot
easier and worthwhile. As the summer
here in Viterbo gets hot we still need
our caffeine to get through our day. An
espresso is truly needed if one would
like to maintain the Italian schedule of
late dinners and walking through the
street of Viterbo at midnight.
Some days drinking a hot cappuccino
when it is 90 degrees is not comfort-
ing. The heat makes us quickly adjust
to get our caffeine fix while maintain-
ing cool. Eventually I was able to find
a solution to this for myself and the
answer was two simple words: café
freddo. It took me awhile to order but
eventually I managed to get the proper
words out and I successfully ordered
a “café freddo” (an iced coffee). The
process of making a café freddo is
elaborate and much care goes into it
Photos by Giovanna Nebbio
Want milk? Order a latte

compared to our Starbucks iced coffee, which is
just coffee with ice poured on top. First, Riccardo
brews the espresso while he is doing that he gets a
cocktail shaker (strange right?), throws a few ice
cubes and asks how sweet you would like your
coffee. For me it is one package of raw sugar. Next
came something I was not expecting. He poured
my espresso in the shaker and began shaking it, as
he is shaking it you can see the container begin-
ning to cool as its exterior begins to fog. Then he
serves you your caffé freddo in the most elegant
way possible…in a champagne flute.
As I was finally successful in ordering an exotic
coffee my adventurous side decided to come back
to me. I was ready to try to order a latte again,
hopefully correctly this time. The weather had
finally cooled down as it poured rain for three days
straight. I wanted a hot drink. I went up to the
counter looked Riccardo in the eyes and bravely
said caffé latte. He looked at me and smiled and
then proceeded to make my delicious latte. I had
finally conquered the art of ordering Italian coffee.
My love for Italy has grown while being in this
country of food, romance, and most importantly
caffé. I can truly say that Italy has spoiled me
with its rich coffee and espressos that Starbucks is
no longer going to cut it when I get back. I have
become accustomed to strong espressos, authen-
tic cappuccinos, and caffé lattes. Sugary, syrup
pumped lattes and frappuccinos are no longer
going to cut my caffeine craving. The habit I tried
so hard to break in the States has now found me
again in Europe and I cannot imagine my life with-
out it again. They say it is true love when you set
it free and it comes back, and I have found my true
love-coffee. First thing to do when arriving back
home in Monterey, California -- find an authentic
Italian coffee shop.
Why we travel
By Morgan Lauer
Whether a foot outside my doorstep or miles away from home,
traveling is an adventure. My desire for travel is framed on
my bedroom wall, in the topic of my books, written inside my
planner, and has taken root in my dreams. Travel to me is an
ever-evolving madness that is fueled by curiosity and a thirst
to gain perspective. Who are they and who am I. Not matter
what place, similarities and differences can be compared to
personal experiences and this comparison helps me to create a
clearer picture of others as well as myself.Clarity is difficult to
find and an adventure all its own. Clarity may be the simplest
reason to why I travel.
By Reena Spansail
I travel because my eyes get hungry. I am not a restless soul —
on the contrary, I meditate fiercely in order to achieve a state
of restfulness. In other words, my soul does not ache for the
unknown. It does, however, ache for unseen beauty. Aesthetics
govern my movement, my daily patterns, my studies, and my
life trajectory. If it makes my eyes ache and my heart glow, I
will search for it, go to it, and drink it in.
I travel because I am a lustful consumer of beautiful sights,
smells, tastes, and feelings. I am in luck, because everything is
beautiful. So, no matter where I go, I will always eat and drink
my fill of beauty.”

By Trevor Smith
Pizza, pasta, and gelato, the Ital-
ian creations that most people lunge
towards to satisfy their primal instincts
for hunger. On the other hand, pizza,
pasta, and gelato scream fats, calories,
and sugars in the fitness world. In
regards to international travel, most
concern themselves with finances,
homesickness, and culture shock while
I stress over lifestyle maintenance,
nutrition, and anxiety over separation
-- from my personal trainer. I am
someone who attempts to eat correctly
and keep a routine fitness regiment.
Therefore, studying aboard in Italy
could only mean sacrificing all of
my hard work for an authentic Italian
experience. Wrong.
Although going aboard resonates
change and a new way of thinking,
it should not have to compromise or
alter a healthy and fit lifestyle. No
one wants to travel aboard or in my
case study aboard and come back with
extra pounds as a souvenir. Finding
ways to stay in shape across the pond
is an excellent idea, and not just for
the physical results. I have found that
joining the local gym in Viterbo, Italy
a great way to meet local residents,
experience more in the town, and
provide an emotional outlet for when
the culture shock set in. However, a
gym might not be the best option for
all travelers, and there are a number of
alternatives that are just as effective.
To begin, remember, time is not
on your side. Going aboard means
experiencing an entirely new world
and you will want to pack your stay
with as much as possible. Finding the
time to commit to your workouts will
most likely be the hardest part. It’s
safe to say most of those days you skip
at home because you have a million
and one things to do, will be every
day during your time aboard. One of
the easiest ways to stay on top of your
workouts is to recruit someone, or
meet a local friend to keep you moti-
vated. For the gym-goers, committing
to a standard time, like early in the
morning, might help since that is how
I survived. During my five-week stay
in Italy, I found early morning work-
outs to be extremely beneficial for two
reasons. 1) I was able to meet local
fitness enthusiasts who were commit-
ted to their early morning workouts,
and 2) I was able to stay on track with
my own fitness routine.
In Viterbo, I joined a gym called
Larus. It is a simple place with a lot to
offer. Unlike the States, you could tell
they did not share the same passion for
power racks, squat racks, and barbells.
I came up with a training strategy
that worked for what they had, which
suited my fitness goals. As a note,
remember, most of the free-weights in
aboard countries will not be in pounds.
Larus used kilograms, which is almost
double a pound (i.e., 3 kilograms
equals 6.5 pounds.) Another notewor-
thy tip to remember is that gym culture
varies in different nations. At Larus,
the fitness staff dedicate themselves
to amplifying your workout and try to
give you an extra push. They also have
a tendency to interrupt your work-
outs to correct, comment, or change
your form. (Something I found a tad
annoying.) Once, while on a bicycle
machine, a fitness floor coordinator,
in broken English, readjusted my seat
and repositioned my knees, which
left me uncomfortable, confused, and
unable to figure out how he wanted me
to move.
If you choose the gym path, I cannot
stress enough finding a consistent time
that works for you. The more reoccur-
ring you become, the more recogniz-
able you will be, and then the fitness
doors start opening from there.
However, if gyms just are not your
thing, walking, running, and biking
can always keep the extra pounds from
creeping up on you. Going outside is
a great alternative to anything you can
find in doors. There will be a ton of
things to discovered right outside your
backdoor. Jason, one of my apartment
mates during my time in Italy, found
that going on long runs outside the city
was his way to stay fit.
“The country side in Italy is one I
knew I could not pass up,” he told me.
“Once out there, I can run for miles on
end and still find something interesting
to look at. Viterbo is known for it’s hot
springs about 2 kilometers from the
city walls so it’s really convenient for
me to run there. ”
If you’re like Jason, or me, commit-
ting yourself to a gym or enjoying
In shape, in Italia
Photos by Trevor Smith

the country side out doors, traveling aboard
does not have to lead you down a path of
unhealthy life choices.
Subsequently, nutrition aboard is anoth-
er battle you will have to overcome while
maintaining your healthy lifestyle. One of
the best parts about living in another country
is becoming well versed in the local cui-
sines. Luckily enough, Viterbo has a number
of open-air markets with organic produce,
meats, and dairy. Some of us tend to travel
or study aboard on a budget so eating out is
not the best option. Cook for yourself.
Reena, a fellow study aboard student, had
this to share about her experience with the
open-air market: “Well, I had just learned
the Italian word for nectarine which was
nettarine. I went to the open-air market, and
asked the man, Verrei comprare nettarine
(I would like to buy nectarines). Naturally
the man spoke back to me in English, ‘Oh
nectarines, of course, but what about these
peaches, you can leave without these peach-
es.’ Va bene (okay), I replied, due pesche
(two peaches). Then in quick succession, he
listed ‘strawberries, blueberries, zucchini,
greenbeens.’ Basta (stop) I spoke, I’ll take
the green beans. It was a blast interacting
with the local merchant at the open-air
market, I was able to utilize my Italian and
purchase high quality, nutritious produce for
less than 7 euro. I was a tad nervous about
my finances while studying in Italy but the
markets are so reasonable, it’s ridiculous.”
For Reena, Italian culture, finances, and
open-air markets worked jointly together all
while staying consistent with health foods.
Her aboard experience did not have to give
into unhealthy or super saturated fats.
While studying or traveling aboard, making
the effort to stay healthy can improve your
experience in a multitude of ways. Your
efforts can give you much needed energy,
enable you to sleeping better, boost your im-
mune system, encourage you to meet people
and acquaint you to the area. If you are a
health nut at home, like me, staying that way
aboard does not have to be difficult. You
should not concern yourself with the thought
to not expand you mindset. Take the first
step, and break out of your comfort zone. I
encourage you to accept the challenge. “Selfies” in Italy by Trevor Smith

By Reena Spansail
My eyes strayed like hungry alley
cats to the lump of pink rubber at
my feet. One swift movement, and
I could fix it all. One furtive snatch,
and I could make it right. But no, my
drawing teacher had made his stance
on erasers very clear. Erasers were
crutches for cowardly, unconfident,
and frustrated doodlers who got overly
attached to “correctness.” So I told
my ego to take a hike and hunkered
down to draw the tower in front of me,
trying desperately to ignore the wrong
angle of the gothic window that had
given me such grief.
I stepped back from myself, and ex-
amined the drawing and my hunched,
angry person with critical eyes trained
by the best art historians and artists my
university could offer me. It wasn’t
half bad. In fact, it was definitely an
improvement on yesterday’s baroque
church. However, there was a certain
dullness to the lines and lackluster
in the shading. I shook my head at
myself, finally understanding why I
was so frustrated. I was bored, and
boredom is to art what subdivisions
are to frolicsome, fertile hill coun-
try: slow death by whitewash. I grew
petulant once more. How, how could I
be bored with art in Italy, the country
that had spent millennium defining the
standard? If the museums, architec-
ture, and sculpted busts of a thousand
heroes and gods could not inspire me,
then what was my fate when I returned
to the Nevada desert? I was ruined
forever, surely; an artist broken before
she had even begun.
It was with this attitude that I ap-
proached our first field trip as a study
abroad group comprised of U.S. stu-
dents taking classes in Viterbo, Italy.
Rome, the eternal city, was calling my
name, but I replied weakly, unsure if
even Rome in all its glittering finery
could awaken the petulant beast of
inspiration within my breast. Our first
stop was St. Peter’s Basilica. As our
guide led us through the dull bronze
doors, my heart leapt into my ears,
drowning out the garbled sounds of
praise and awe my throat was mak-
ing. What should I be looking at? The
ceiling? Yes, but only for a moment,
because look, there was the floor with
the piece of inlaid red marble that had
been here before the church was even
built! Marble that St. Peter surely must
have stepped on! Wait, no, I must look
at all the statues…good grief, was that
bronze? It looked exactly like sweep-
ing golden drapery falling from an an-
gles wing. The kind guide herded us,
her little lost lambs, into a side chapel.
“This is one you aren’t going to
want to miss: Michelangelo’s Pietà,
the only work he ever signed. I stared
at the carved-milk depiction of the
newly dead Christ, spread across his
mother’s knees. The virgin’s face was
so young and so fragile. The guide
was pointing out the perfect triangle
composition and the brilliant drapery
What makes a masterpiece?
Photos by Reena Spansail

that covered the Virgin’s anatomically
impossible lap. These were things that
I, as a practicing artist, should listen to
and learn. But I was too swept up into
the emotion of the piece. Christ was
dead. How could I care about perfect
proportions and marble-smoothing
techniques when there, in front of me,
was sorrow incarnate?
Later, after my revelry had fallen, I
began once again to itch. The beautiful
slabs of marble and bronze depicting
papal lives, deaths, and dismember-
ments started to blur together into one
great twelve ton mass of ego, pomp,
and money. I began to think about all
the hungry mouths a single statue’s
cost could have fed. Beauty was all
around me, and yet I felt cold and
slightly angry and the opulence. As
I exited the basilica, I turned around
for one last look at the dome, tower-
ing high above all of Christendom,
and sent up a silent prayer to the
patron saint of artists, St. Catherine of
Bologna. Maybe she could help me
understand how such beauty and talent
could make me feel so frustrated.
Surely, I would have no problems
in Florence. Florence was not full
of twisted baroque or flat medieval
mosaics. Florence was the heart of the
Renaissance, and the Uffizi Galley its
soul. Now you’ve heard of the Lou-
vre, with tits famed smiling lady, and
the Vatican Museum’s Sistine chapel,
but the Uffizi gallery was the altar
towards which I had been progressing
during my art pilgrimage in Italy. It
was everything I had dreamed of, but
also with baggage, because three hours
in, I had a hard time getting excited
about Titian’s Venus of Urbino and
Parmigiano’s Madonna of the Long
Neck. These were just another couple
of masterpieces, in a city that boasted
over 10,000. What chance did they
have among the rest? Coming out of
the Uffizi was like waking up from
a particularly pleasant yet repetitive
dream, and just as you try to recall the
details of who, when, where and why,
they slip through the
cracks like water. I al-
ready felt like I had seen
nothing but shadows of
greatness, not the great-
ness itself. As I walked
away, I held my heart
tightly, telling myself
that all art is ephemeral
in relation to its audi-
ence, and that nothing
gold can last.
Vatican City, part two.
I was prepared for disap-
pointment and ephemer-
ality this time. I would
go in, see the Sistine
Chapel, let my being
ache and break with
beauty for five minutes,
and then I would come
back to earth, feeling
just as uninspired and
overwhelmed as before.
I took my place in the
throng of a thousand
fellow art lovers and
waited to be ushered
into the dimly lit hall
of wonders. There was
God, separating light
from dark. There was Adam, being
made. There was Eve, damning them
to nakedness and pain forever. My
eyes danced from one end of the great
expanse to the next, taking it all in.
Sighing, I began to follow the small
grandmother in a kerchief in front of
me. But then I stopped, and looked up
again. As a painter, I always struggle
with keeping a consistent, perfect light
source. What had Michelangelo done?
I followed shadows on drapery, faces,
arms and legs until I came to the spark
that illuminated Adam’s face. I broke
into a smile, marveling at Michelan-
gelo’s brilliance. I kept searching for
light; just to be sure I had not missed
some other source. Sure enough,
from the north side of the chapel, on
the wall with the fresco of the Last
Judgment, a halo of painted light sur-
rounded Christ’s risen face. The light
carried until it met with Adam’s spark,
and grew brighter as it bathed the rest
of the painted figures in soft yellow,
causing blue shadows to blossom
beneath their arms, underneath their
feet, and in the intimate folds of their
clothing.
As I boarded my train back to Viter-
bo, my new home in this foreign land,
I could not rub the smile from my face
that the light had planted there. At last,
I understood what it took to separate a
masterpiece from its brethren. Finally
I could breathe in art and not ex-
hale, but rather let the oxygen fill my
bloodstream and stay there. I had been
trying so hard to be inspired by the
Italy that I had forgotten to stop, wait,
and let it bathe me in its own warm,
soft, rose-colored light.

Vivere: Staff writers from Summer 2014 explore life within Italy's walls

Vivere: Staff writers from Summer 2014 explore life within Italy's walls

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Vivere: Staff writers from Summer 2014 explore life within Italy's walls