The two days between my last post and this one have been fairly uneventful. In the absence of any new stories to share with you, I want to share instead what I have learned about the Italians’ opinions on America. Through a series of unconnected conversations and various stray comments, I’ve actually learned quite a bit about what “the beautiful country” thinks of “the land of the free.”
First, on a bus from Positano (a town very similar to Amalfi) I sat next to an Italian woman who works as a housekeeper in one of Positano’s many hotels. I struck up a conversation to practice my Italian. In the course of our conversation, I said, “Yes, America is…” then paused to think of the right word in Italian. Without missing a beat she inserted her own adjective: “rich.”
My professor, as I said in my last post, likes the way the United States is organized, being many states united by one central government. However, he is frustrated by President Trump’s recent decisions to isolate America from the EU. He wants Europe and America to be close allies.
The woman with whom I meet to practice Italian has been to New York much more than I have. She sees New York as “her city.” I believe this is related to the fact that she herself wants to be a “global citizen.”
The guide who gave us a tour of Amalfi said, half-jokingly, that we American students are too accustomed to the luxury of our home country to survive in Italy, a place where no one uses air conditioning and where walking up 600 stairs in a day is a matter of course. (Incidentally, the griping of some of my peers when they learned these facts may have proved him right.)
During our orientation at Sant’Anna, we were shown this comparison about Italian drinking habits versus American drinking habits (Keep in mind that this was a presentation given to college-aged students):
AMERICA: Drinking age “21”. Preferred alcohol: beer. Limit: what limit? Ever been drunk? Ha!
Finally, on my flight from Denver to Germany, I happened to sit next to an Italian couple, and we had a lovely conversation. They were flying back to Italy after a vacation to the U.S., and had many interesting observations to share. First, they were astonished by the sheer size of America. (America, a single country, is almost as large as all of Europe.) They were appalled by what passes for “Italian” cuisine (our pizza and pasta, for example). However, the husband professed his love for American steak and beef jerky. They were confused by the American sense of individuality. They were also confused by a phenomenon which I would call “commercial extroversion.” The salesmen with big smiles and enthusiastic handshakes, the store clerks and waiters hovering to make sure you have a great experience, the companies sending you surveys to rate your quality of service: all this was strange to them. (It is interesting that I have definitely experienced some of this, especially the hovering store clerks, in the stores in Sorrento.) They said that the Americans are “a young people” and the Italians are “an old people,” perhaps even too stuck in the past.
These conversations were all disconnected from one another, but putting them together paints an interesting picture. If I were to attempt a summary of Italians’ views toward America (truly a bold attempt, since I have been here for less than a month) this is what I would say: Italians see America as a wealthy country, a powerful country, and a country focused on the future. They see it as very different from their own country, which is almost drowning (or, like Venice, quite literally drowning) in history and tradition. And yet, many of them don’t want to be American. Even though their own country drives them crazy sometimes, they love it, and they are proud of its quirks.
And now, pictures! These are some miscellaneous ones that haven’t quite fit in any other post but which I think are interesting.
Our Fourth of July “BBQ” was macaroni salad and chips. It was strange being abroad on Independence Day, because for Italy, it was business as normal.
A highly detailed Nativity scene set in a medieval Italian village. Impromptu Nativity scenes and Marian shrines are incredibly common all over Italy.
A wood-inlay, showing Sorrento visited by a saint. Wood inlay is a very traditional form of art in Sorrento. The bell tower in the background is the same one that stands by the Cathedral today.
Kyrgyzstan is one of only a few countries in which bride kidnapping is practiced. In Russian, the practice is called ‘кража невести’ (krazha nevesti), which literally means ‘theft of the bride.’ The following are summaries of five semi-casual conversations that I conducted with Kyrgyz natives on the topic of bride kidnapping.
I had heard about and read up on bride kidnapping before coming to Kyrgyzstan, but had been avoiding the topic because it made me uncomfortable. However, after hearing some of the other American students in my program discuss the topic, my interest was piqued and I decided to do my own research and converse with some native Kyrgyz people on the topic. The following is the result of my conversations, along with a few casual conversations with other college-age Kyrgyz young people. It completely changed my understanding of bride kidnapping to hear personal accounts of the practice from Kyrgyz natives. It was difficult to converse face-to-face in Russian, since I am more confident in my reading skills than in my conversation skills, but because of that I was able to hear and understand these narratives firsthand instead of through an article that someone else had written.
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If you look up ‘Kyrgyzstan’ on Google or Youtube, chances are that one of the first results will be a video that went viral a few years ago (now it has 6.8 million views) depicting groups of men grabbing women off of the streets and forcing them into cars. That action is part of the practice of bride kidnapping, a practice with a very long history in Kyrgyzstan but which has been making news in the country in recent years.
The explanation of bride kidnapping is that it began as a way for lovers to get married in a society where going against one’s parents’ wishes was forbidden. The woman and the man both agreed to the action, and the ‘kidnapping’ was only necessary because the woman’s parents would not allow the marriage otherwise. However, since the Soviet era, and especially afterwards, the practice has become horribly twisted. It is common now for a woman to be kidnapped without her consent, and sometimes she has never even met the man who is kidnapping her. But bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan, or “кража невести” (krazha nevesti – literally “theft of the bride”) is more complicated than just kidnapping. The woman is grabbed off the streets by a group of the kidnapper’s friends and taken to the kidnapper’s house. There, she is locked in a room with the kidnapper’s female relatives who try to put a white scarf on her head and coerce her to agree to the marriage. If the white scarf is placed on her head, then they consider that she has agreed to the marriage and soon after the couple is publicly and officially married. It is not a completely barbaric practice. However, some bride kidnappings do involve rape and some even end with the kidnapped woman ending her own life.
This is probably the sketchiest house that I’ve seen in Kyrgyzstan. I put it here to show how poor some parts of rural Kyrgyzstan are. This photo was taken at Aalam Ordo in the Tong region by the shore of Lake Issyk-Kyl.
“She was stolen”
I told two female Kyrgyz acquaintances about my interest in learning more about bride kidnapping, which lead to two interesting conversations. Both wholeheartedly condemned the practice. The first, who was married, pointed out that the kidnapped woman has no choice and is often in her late teens. The woman is without any university education, leaving her completely dependent on her new husband afterward. She said that in the villages there is an enormous stigma after a woman has been kidnapped, so that she will be shamed for the rest of her life if she does not agree to marry the man. She said that regardless of how the girl cries, screams, and fights, if the mother of the kidnapper can place a white scarf on her head, then she is considered married, and once she spends one night in her kidnapper’s house, she will not be considered for marriage by any other man anymore.
Both acquaintances told me about a recent event that was all over the news a few months ago in Kyrgyzstan, in which a 20-year-old woman was killed by her kidnapper. She was a university student in Bishkek, but her family lived in a village. She had been kidnapped by this man before but had managed to escape. When she went to visit her family again for a holiday, he kidnapped her again. Her parents called the police and the police intervened and they were both taken to the police station. In the police station, he stabbed her to death with a knife. And he didn’t just kill her, he also defaced her body, carving up her chest with his initial and the initial of her fiancé, as well as a large cross. How did he get the knife? How was he able to kill her and carve her up in the police station? What kept the police from arriving in time to save her? And no investigation has been made into how this was possible.
Apparently, even when parents call the police asking them to rescue their daughter, the police either ignore the request, telling the families to solve it among themselves, or retrieve the girl but let off the kidnapper. The police in Kyrgyzstan are easily bribed. Often, the father has to gather a group of other male relatives and friends and go to the kidnapper’s house and forcefully take his daughter back; if he goes alone, the kidnappers friends will stop him from taking back his daughter. These happenings show that the government of Kyrgyzstan is not taking the problem of bride kidnapping seriously.
These two conversations were easy because the married woman was fluent in English and the other woman had studied in America, although her English was rusty. If there was something that I did not understand, they could explain it to me with hand motions, different vocabulary, or in English. In order to make sure that I understood my language partner correctly, I would repeat back to her in my own words what she told me, which also helped me to remember the material and practice my own Russian communication skills. I was surprised that she spoke about bride kidnapping so openly that she was willing to repeat herself and explain herself. At first I was apprehensive about talking about such a touchy subject, but it seems that in Kyrgyzstan it is a less controversial topic than it would be in the West.
Another photo of the Kyrgyz countryside. This photo was taken near Ala Archa, approximately 40km south of the capital city, Bishkek.
“My sister was stolen”
One night several of us students, together with some of our Kyrgyz friends, watched the soviet comedy “Кавказская пленница“ (‘Kavkazskaya Plennitsa’), ‘Kidnapping, Caucasian style’ (literally, ‘The Caucasian Captive’), which centers around a plot to force a young woman into marriage by kidnapping her and holding her hostage until she consents to the marriage. Despite the serious subject matter, it is a very lighthearted and funny comedy and I recommend watching it (the official version with English subtitles is available on Youtube for free.
After the movie, one of the Kyrgyz young women mentioned to the girl next to her that her sister had been kidnapped (note: the Russian word for ‘female cousin’ is ‘двоюродная сестра ’ (dvoyurodnaya sestra), and the Russian word for sister is ‘сестра’ (sestra); throughout the conversation she referred to the kidnapped bride as her ‘sister,’ but, given context clues, I assume that she used ‘sister’ as shorthand for ‘cousin’). She was 20 years old when she was kidnapped. The man who kidnapped her had only met her twice before. He kidnapped her and brought her back to his parent’s house, where his female relatives pressured the kidnapped girl into consenting to marry her kidnapper.
At this point, she paused to explain to me how this could happen. If a kidnapped woman leaves the house of her kidnapper after she has been kidnapped, it is taboo and she cannot get married in the future. That was how it was in the past; now, it is possible for the police or the woman’s family to rescue her and she can return to her life, but in the past, if a woman was kidnapped, she either married her kidnapper or never married. Faced with the possibility of never marrying, her sister caved in to the pressure and consented to marry her kidnapper. It’s been five years and they have two children. “Are they happy?” I asked. “Наверное (navernoye – probably),” she replied. “I have not asked her.”
She told me that when she learned that her sister had been kidnapped, she was furious (she used the Russian word ‘зла’, which means ‘angry’ but also ‘evil’ and ‘wicked’). When I asked her what she would do if she were kidnapped, she said that she would refuse to marry and leave, definitely. She is not afraid of the taboo. When I asked her about the capability of the police, she admitted that they often do not help, accepting bribes and trying to make the families solve it between themselves. If the woman’s family had enough men, they could go and take her back, but if they did not, and the police did not help, then there was not really anything that they could do. She left it at that.
This second conversation was both easier and harder than the first. It was harder because this woman more quickly and did not leave me as much time to ask questions. However, when I realized that I was not completely sure that I understood her narrative, I was able to ask her a second time and she patiently explained her story to me another time and this time I made sure to ask all the clarifying questions that I needed to.
After conducting the first three conversations and settling my thoughts on the uneasy subject matter, I considered how the conversations had helped my language skills. I was surprised at how little specialized vocabulary was needed to talk about the subject. For example, I do not know the Russian word for ‘to kidnap,’ but that did not matter because the Kyrgyz use the word ‘to steal’ when talking about bride kidnapping, and I had learned that word a while ago. Speaking about bride kidnapping allowed me to use words that I already knew in contexts that I would never have imagined using them before.
Sunset on lake Issyk-Kul, the vacation spot of choice for almost all Kyrgyz. According to one legend, the salty water of Lake Issyk-Kul comes from the tears of a girl whose parents forbade her to marry the man that she loved. This photo was taken at the shore of Lake Issyk Kul in Bar-Bulak village in the Tong region.
“My mother was stolen”
“This was during the time of the Soviet Union. My father served in the military near Moscow for two years. Soon after his returned home, he went on vacation with his friends to lake Issyk-Kyl. There, he saw a girl who caught his eye and he asked his friends about her. ‘She’s a local girl,’ they answered, ‘She’s good.’ And the next day he told his parents his plans and then kidnapped her. Soon after, they married. And now they are very happy. They had four children and I am the youngest. They love each other.”
That was the story that a 28-year-old Kyrgyz male acquaintance of mine told me when I asked him for his opinion on bride kidnapping. Overall, his stance seemed to be that bride kidnapping is not the big deal that people make it out to be. He said that the practice is downright stupid: why kidnap someone that you’ve just met and who doesn’t even like you? (Or he could have been saying that it’s ‘rude’ or ‘offensive’; the words for stupid (глупый – glupii) and rude (грубый – grubii) are very similar to me.) He also cleared up another question for me: when a man kidnaps a woman, he can call his friends to kidnap her for him, or he can kidnap her himself; both variations are practiced.
However, he approved of the practice when the two loved each other and mutually consented to the kidnapping. In Kyrgyzstan, honoring one’s parents is very important, and it is forbidden to go against one’s parents’ wishes regarding marriage. Therefore, if a woman’s parents do not consent to her marriage to a man, then the only way for them to be married is for the man to ‘kidnap’ the woman. He framed it as ‘going against the system,’ which is something that we really like in America. Interestingly, none of the younger women that I spoke with brought up this situation, focusing only on the incorrect practice of bride kidnapping as it occurs today and not the original tradition. A 22-year-old man that I spoke with only told me about this original tradition, and then admitted that the tradition became twisted, but then denied that it is a problem now. It doesn’t happen anymore, he said.
When I asked him (the 28-year-old) about whether or not bride kidnapping is ‘right,’ he replied that, maybe it was right in the past, but it is no longer right. This is because it is forbidden now; therefore it is wrong. In the past, people were more religious and followed the traditional culture more closely. Women did not have a say and were under the control of the men in their lives, and bride kidnapping was an extension of that. Also, he pointed out that, traditionally, bride kidnapping was only practiced in those situations when the bride’s parents disapproved of the marriage, and never happened between people who did not know each other or did not both consent. Kidnapping a bride without her consent is stupid, he explained, because you am going to live with her for the rest of your life, so why would you kidnap someone that did not love you or even know you? (Yes, sometimes the conversation became interesting as we used “I” and “you” to refer to a stand-in theoretical kidnapper and kidnapped person.)
In response to the question of whether or not bride kidnapping is a big problem in Kyrgyzstan, he said that it is not. Becoming a bit impassioned, he said that the western media loves to find something strange and make a big deal about it, painting Kyrgyzstan in a bad light just to get a good story. And bride kidnapping does make a very interesting story. But it is not as though every bride in Kyrgyzstan is kidnapped against her consent (as we talked a wedding cortege passed by and he pointed to the bride and said, “Look, do you think that she was kidnapped? No!”). There are much bigger problems in Kyrgyzstan that deserve more attention, he said. Regarding the police, he responded that often they can be bribed by the kidnapper’s parents (the police bribery problem is one that extends beyond bride kidnapping) and that it is difficult for the police to know how to solve the situation. They do not know if the bride consented or not, nor do they know if the man and woman know each other and can solve it between themselves without police intervention.
The previous conversations were all the result of a first, spontaneous conversation, which I believe deserves it’s own blog post, which I will post immediately after this one. During that initial conversation, I made sure to remember all of the words which I was not sure of and look them up. This helped me to create a list of words related to bride kidnapping so that the next conversations could be conducted more easily. Above all, that first conversation showed me that cultural problems in a foreign country are not something that is foreign to the people living there. It seemed to me that bride kidnapping was something that happened to nameless, faceless, Kyrgyz women, something that I could blissfully ignore as a foreigner. But once that bride was given a name and a face and I looked inter her eyes, I realized that there is no ‘us’ and ‘them,’ no progressive Americans and backwards Kyrgyz, only people.
I have finished my third week in Spain and am officially halfway done with the program here. Which means midterms! But at week three I am feeling much more comfortable living in a foreign country where I need half of what is being said to me repeated three times. ¡No pasa nada! I feel less nervous about asking for help or having someone slow down to talk to me. Instead of slightly dreading difficult conversations, I have started looking forward to the challenge and the learning experience they provide. When I tell people I am a student here for the summer to learn Spanish they are often sympathetic and I have finally “perfected” how to order food and drinks, although gaining the attention of the waiter with a well-placed “PERDON” remains a bit of a mystery.
This past weekend I visited Madrid, the capitol of Spain. I managed the public transportation system much better this trip, than when coming from the airport the first time. I had a lot to pack into one weekend, and tried to fit in as many activities as possible. I started with a lot of art, and visited the Prado and the Reina Sofia. I saw Pablo Picasso’s famous “Guernica”; the painting was much bigger than I had been expecting, along with some interesting Dali creations, the Last Supper, and the Garden of Earthly Delights. I visited el Palacio, which is apparently bigger than Buckingham Palace, and the beautiful gardens next to it.
View of the Palace
We also visited Temple de Debod, an Egyptian temple that was brought from Egypt and reassembled in Madrid for its preservation.
My roommates and I walked around some of the neighborhoods within the city, including Malasaña and La Latina. We checked out different vintage shops and the markets and stands that took up every corner. We also made it a priority to eat a lot of incredible food. We ate outside at the Plaza in addition to an indoor market that had tapas ranging from olive kabobs to giant macaroons to burrata with fig and Iberian ham.
El Mercado San Miguel y un ejemplo de los tapas
I tried Paella, a traditional Spanish dish with rice, vegetables, and seafood, for the first time, and although I had not been expecting to like it that much, I thought it was delicious. I also ate a meal at Botin, which is known as the oldest operating restaurant in the world. It was an incredible building, with the tables on different levels down the stairs in small brick-laid rooms. We spent some time at a rooftop bar, Azotea del Circulo, which had amazing views overlooking the entire city.
Rooftop Bar
I loved Madrid, in the sense that there was so much to experience and observe. However, almost everyone spoke English, and when I would speak in Spanish they would almost always respond in English, even if I continued to use Spanish. I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel about that, but it made me think studying in Salamanca, which is much smaller than Madrid was a good decision, since less locals speak English or are inclined to do so.
Who knew you could meet up with your grade school best friend after 10 years apart on another continent?! Although Augusta and I were only in school together for the fourth grade, we were inseparable. Unfortunately, we lost touch after fourth grade as both of our families moved from South Bend to Minnesota and Tennessee. But earlier this summer, I saw on Facebook that she was going to be in France for the summer doing a similar language immersion program for Pennsylvania State University. So, I messaged her to see if she would like to get together and I am so glad she said yes!
She came to visit me in Schwäbisch Hall for three days and we had a blast! I signed us up for a walking tour of town. The tour was all in German, so I translated for her. With only having one year of German language study completed, I was surprised by how much I could understand about complex historical events! Gus also loved experiencing the authentic, German tour of the town.
Gus and I on a bridge above River Kocher in Schwäbisch Hall
After our tour, we went to the town farmer’s market in the main square, Marktplatz. And you will never guess what we found! (see photo)
Notre Dame fan at the Schwäbisch Hall farmer’s market!
This was extra special for both of us because the last time we saw each other was in South Bend ten years ago!
KLOSTER COMBURG
We also walked to the local Kloster Großcomburg or “Big Kloster Comburg”, which is about 2.5 km from Schwäbisch Hall. Großcomburg was founded in 1078 as a Benedictine monastery. Between 1802 and 1947 it served as the headquarters for the Royal Württemberg Honorary Corps of Invalids. Since 1947, Großcomburg has remained a place of academic training for teachers working at schools in Baden-Württemburg.
View of Kloster Großcomburg from valley below
As we walked the large wall that surrounds Kloster Großcomburg, we were able to see the smaller Kloster or “Kleincomburg” on the other side of the valley. Kleincomburg is approximately 20 years younger than Großcomburg and has been used as a convent, hospital, and a center for persons against the Protestant Reformation. In 1877, Kleincombug was bought by Baden-Württemburg and has since been used as an administrative branch for the Prison of Schwäbisch Hall.
Inside Kloster GroßcomburgAugusta and I walked this wall around Kloster Großcomburg. We were able to see Kleincomburg through the lookout windows.
HOHENLOHER FREILAND MUSEUM
We also ventured into the German countryside to explore the Hohenloher Freiland Museum that showcases rural life in Germany! The small village of Wackershofen was transformed into a museum because of its rich history and culture.
Entering Hohenloher Freiland MuseumVisiting the Hohenloher Freiland Museum — the Museum of Rural Life in Germany!
The structure of the rural homes in Wackershofen were fascinating to us. The horses, pigs, and other animals were kept in stables on the ground floor and the living quarters for family was above. How convenient!
Village home in Wackershofen. Animal stables are located on the ground floor and the house above.Another village home in Wackershofen.Found the bathroom!
The museum extended to a house at the top a large hill called Käshof. During the mid 1900s, Käshof was owned by Wilhelmine and Gottlieb Kaiser of whom in the fall of 1944 had courageously welcomed into their home three persons who had been wandering throughout Germany seeking safety. These three persons were Jewish father Max Rosenfelder and his daughter Ilse, as well as Nazi Wermacht deserter Willi Bruchhausen. Max, Ilse, and Willi spent most of their time in the house in hiding. However, Max and Willi were forced to flee to woods nearby when Nazi Wehrmacht soldiers invaded Wackershofen. Ilse remained in hiding the house until a sister of the Red Cross reported her and she had to flee to Augsburg. But thanks to the unbelievable courage of the Kaiser family, all three survived the war. This museum opened my eyes to the harrowing reality of the Holocaust. But people like the Kaisers serve as a continual reminder that even in the darkest of times, hope remains and can overcome.
Road to KäshofKäshof home where the Kaiser family housed two Jews and one Nazi Wehrmacht deserter during WWII.View of Wackershofen village from Käshof
This Saturday I went to my first Korean concert/music festival. I went on a field trip hosted by my program to Genie Music Festival, and the artist line-up was amazing! The artists were: Haon, Villain and Moti, Soma, OLNL, Saay, Jooyoung, Black Nine, Junoflo, Heize, DPR Live, Crush, Ambition Musik (Changmo, Hash Swan, Keem Hyo Eun), Dok2 and The Quiett, and Simon Dominic. Although I did not know all of the artists, I did know most of them.
The festival was split up into sitting and standing sections, but you were free to move between the two sections whenever you felt like it. My friends and I started in the seated section because we did not know most of the opening acts. However, after we got some dinner (the entire festival was from 3 to 9:30), we we went to the standing section to watch the more popular artists. Even though we were inside and the A/C was on, we were sweating from all the body heat and jumping up and down to the music.
This was definetly the most exciting day that I have had in Korea so far, and I am so happy and thankful that I had the opportunity to see some of my favorite artists live. Even if I had the chance to watch the same artists live in the states, I think that the experience would have been completely different.
Here are some picture I took on Saturday. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to upload any videos as the files are too large.
This week was a long one. I had three very distinct “cultural experiences”. Two were very enjoyable ones, and one not so enjoyable one.
We’ll start with the unenjoyable one, since it happened first. If you read last week’s content, you probably know about my recent travels to Egypt. One thing that Egypt is famed for is horrendous kitchen cleanliness. While we did our best to only eat at clean, reputable restaurants, something – probably mangoes – got the best of many of us. I got pretty sick while watching the World Cup Final, and after I found out that some people had been diagnosed with parasites, I realized I had to get myself checked out.
I promptly headed to the Specialty Hospital (مستشفى التخصصي) nearby my apartment to get checked out. They prompted me into the ER, and after a brief evaluation took me into a room with about 10 little nooks to receive care. The hospital was clean and the doctors all spoke English (although it took a little extra explaining to make sure I wasn’t given Penicillin as I am allergic). The nurses put me on an IV (not really sure why but oh well), although their English was pretty much nonexistent. I had to ask little things like “kul shay kwais?” (everything is fine?) to make sure I knew what was going on. After my test for parasites came back negative (hamd’illeh) the doctor went Jordanian on me and gave me five prescriptions (the doctors here are infamous for giving too much medicine). Thankfully, a week after my trip I am finishing up my final antibiotic and I think I am all better (inshah allah)!
After a long week of catching up, hospital visits, and midterm exams, my friends and I sought to relax a bit. We figured there was only one way to destress like a Jordanian: by hitting up a Turkish bath (حمامات تركية). Turkish baths are originally from Turkey (obviously) and spread throughout the Ottoman Empire. Today, you can still find many in operation around the Arab world – particularly in Jordan. Although several of the dozen or so baths in Amman serve as tourist spas and charge fairly high prices, my friends and I needed to go cheap, so we went to one located on the outskirts of the city.
When we arrived, we entered a changing room with lockers to place our clothes and changed into basically a disposable bathing suit. We then entered a big, circus like room filled with men (and only men at a traditional establishment like the one we went to) wearing the same disposable bathing suit at different stations of the bathing process. We were directed to begin by showering, and then to enter the hot tub. While sitting in the hot tub, we were brought a sort of sweet cleansing juice/tea. After sitting for about ten minutes enjoying the warm water, we were directed to a man who covered our face in a cream, who then pointed us to the steam room. We spent only five minutes sweating in the steam room (we’re wimps, I know), allowing the pore cleansing cream to enter.
After another shower, we were instructed to lay down on a marble table. A man with an exfoliating loofa-like glove proceeded to rub down every inch of your body, removing a plethora of dead skin. After shower number three, we went to be scrubbed down – quite literally a man using a scrubbing device with soap to clean you. It felt a little like being a six year old taking getting a bath from your mother, but it also felt pampering. After being washed down, we each received a deep tissue message – something I needed after the stress of midterm studying! Rising up from the table after one last shower, I felt pretty incredible and cleaner than ever. After being dried off and handed two towels, I was able to bask in my new found cleanliness. We were stunned at the low price of 10 JD for the entire treatment. While I would not recommend a Turkish Bath for the faint of heart (there’s a lot of men, and women are generally not allowed unless there’s a separate room), for those up for an interesting time it is a great way to chill out with some friends and get a wonderful little spa treatment.
Drying off post Turkish bath with a soda
My final cultural experience led me to a group that has quickly become a significant minority in Jordan: Syrians. Historically, Syria was the most powerful and peaceful nation in the Shams; but in 2011, that changed with the attempts to oust President Bashar al-Assad and the outbreak of the Syrian Civil War. It is estimated that since the start of the Syrian civil war, roughly 1.2 million Syrians have fled to Jordan, with Jordan housing more refugees than any other country except for Lebanon and Turkey.
As you walk around Amman, you can sense that Jordan’s northern neighbor has had its cultural impact on the city. For instance, you can regularly find booza(بوظة) – a Syrian-style ice cream enriched with gum to be more malleable and less prone to melting. The best way to eat it is covered in pistachios. At a recent trip to Bakdesh – a Syrian transplant ice cream parlor that has become Amman’s preferred place for booza – I saw the staff member quite literally roll a cylindrical thing of ice cream in pistachios. The treat is not very sweet because of the nuts and is a excellent way to finish a meal.
A number of people in the city have Syrian roots. We met a shopkeeper from Syria who mentioned he learned English back in school (Syria’s were the best in the region). Adding a bit of comedy, his coworker jarred in, “Yeah Bashar al-Assad taught him English, you believe it?” This little interaction seems to sum up Syrians in Jordan: they live normal lives like most Jordanians and acknowledge the many downfalls of their country; yet they are proud of their heritage and truly yearn to return to their homes up north.
While you can certainly find traces of Syria in Amman, I wanted to really explore the conflict. So when the opportunity to teach English to a group of refugees in Irbid came up, I jumped on the opportunity.
Irbid is Jordan’s second largest city, yet it feels a world away from Amman. Nestled in the forested mountains up north, the streets are tree-lined and the town feels more like bustling suburb that anything. Irbid sits twelve miles away from the Syrian border and roughly twenty miles away from Daraa – the birthplace of the revolt. As a result, many of the Syrians who relocated to Jordan chose Irbid – a Syrian-esque city close to the border.
Professor Mark back at it again teaching English
After arriving with my group of volunteers, we were handed a group of forty refugees. Some spoke English well enough to understand NPR podcasts; others couldn’t even read the alphabet. Our challenge was to group them so they could get something out of our short English lesson. I was in charge of a group of “intermediate” speakers who ranged drastically in quality. I spoke predominantly in Arabic – something I was surprised I was able to do – in order to teach things about writing and grammar. After having them write mini stories, I helped them edit their writing, and I am sure that learned at least the word “to keep”! The experience was incredibly fruitful for the kids and even helped me improve my Arabic.
While teaching, we asked everyone to say their names and where they were from. Most of the group identified as from Irbid. However, one student said he was from Homs in Syria. After the lesson while we were feasting on a meal of mansef, I asked him a little about his life. He had been living in Jordan for seven years, and he very much seemed at home. However, when I asked him which he preferred, he gave a big smile and responded, “Syria, of course!”
Jordan has plenty of experience with refugees in the past, as hundreds of Palestinians have been absorbed into Jordanian society. Because of the welcoming nature of Jordan, Syrians are treated well; but they very much miss their home and would return if they had the chance.
View from the JETT bus: out in the distance you can see Syria
On the bus back from Irbid, you can see the Syria very clearly. As I took in the scenic view, I thought about how beautiful a country it must be, and how wonderful its people are. It truly is sad to see how war can tear apart such a lovely place, especially given the comfort and safe feel of Irbid. I hope in the future that Syria can regain its glory and welcome visitors – and its own people – back into the land.
¡Hola! The summer is really flying by now. I’m writing at the end of week four but it feels like I’ve been here my whole life. I have definitely gotten over any initial culture shocks that I felt when I first got here. My sleep schedule and eating schedule, the two things I struggled with most, are now completely adapted to Spanish life. This makes all the other cultural aspects easier to handle because it’s much more fun to try and speak another language when you’re not falling asleep in the middle of the day.
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned about the Spanish language is how to apply synonyms to different situations. For example, the words “rincón” and “esquina” both mean corner. However, “rincón” refers more to a nook while “esquina” usually refers to street corners. There are many examples of Spanish words literally translating to the same thing in English but are actually used in different ways. This is what I find so valuable about studying abroad. Learning these sorts of differences is very hard from a dictionary or textbook. Immersing myself in the language allows me to pick up the differences every day. In the example I gave above, I figured out the distinction between the two words when I heard my mama use “rincón” a few times around the house. These interactions are vital to truly learning a language.
Alec and I at IceBarcelona
In my travel plans, I spent the last weekend in the amazing city of Barcelona. I took a flight over on Thursday afternoon and met my friend from high school for a great weekend. Friday was absolutely packed with activities as we had to hit every major landmark in a day and a half. On Friday, we started in the aquarium which boasts an 80-meter tunnel you can walk through with fish swimming all around you. After that, we had lunch in a 250-year-old restaurant and finished up the afternoon by spending a few hours relaxing on the beach. Later, we had dinner in an old bullring and watched the show at the Magic Fountain, an incredible water display in front of the National Art Museum. Finally, we ended our night by going to a bar on the beach that was made completely of ice! Talk about a cool experience.
La Sagrada Familia
On Saturday, we got up early to make our way over to Parque Guell, a park with glorious views of the city and the Mediterranean. It also houses an architecture park constructed by Gaudí himself. After that, we meandered to the Sagrada Familia, which has to be the most unique church I have ever seen. There are literally bowls of fruit on top of its spires. Why? I have no idea but it looks amazing. It was then finally time to go home. It was an absolute whirlwind of a weekend but definitely worth it. I’d go back for a whole week if I could. Now, it’s time to get ready for my last two weeks. Until next time, ¡Hasta luego!
Today’s installment has two parts. I took a tour of the Amalfi coast yesterday, which means that you are in for another travel edition with lots of pictures and fun facts. However, I first want to tell you about some conversations I had this week about the immigration crisis in Europe. These conversations provided substantial insight into modern Italy and are worth sharing. However, they deal with international politics and not pictures, so feel free to skip to the second part if you want.
Part 1: Italians’ views on the immigration crisis
As many of you know, there have been staggering numbers of migrants moving from North Africa and the Middle East to Europe. The question of how Europe should respond to these migrants is especially relevant in Italy. By nature of its location between North Africa and the rest of Europe, Italy is often the place where these migrants first land. The dilemma is this (I simplify greatly): on the one hand, receiving so many destitute people is a severe strain on Italy’s resources, but on the other hand, both international law and human compassion would forbid turning the migrants away.
This week, I asked two Italians for their opinion on the migrant crisis. I now present to you what they said to me. (I must add a disclaimer that this situation is very current and changing every day. Furthermore, I have not been keeping tabs on the EU’s immigration policies, so forgive me if I oversimplify or misrepresent such an important situation.)
The first person I asked was the Italian woman with whom I have been meeting to practice my Italian speaking skills. Her reply was this: to her, Italy is a beautiful country, full of humanity, goodness, and creativity. It is also a place that suffers under many evils, like the mafia and the growth of poverty. In the end, however, human life takes first priority over other concerns. Italy cannot refuse to help the desperate people fleeing their homes in search of a more just society.
The second person I asked was my literature professor from Sant’Anna. His response was much longer and more detailed.
First, he is frustrated by the EU’s current policies, which make it very difficult for migrants to move from one European country to another. The migrants that land in Italy are treated as Italy’s concern, not Europe’s concern. According to him, this places an unfair burden on Italy, especially when most migrants want to use Italy only as a gate to France and Germany where the jobs are. Finding themselves stuck in a country without a job market, it’s no wonder that some migrants become desperate and turn to crime to provide for themselves.
However, he is even more frustrated by the new Italian government’s attempts to fix the problem by closing all the ports. First, this policy places Italy in opposition to the EU. Second, the closed-port policy means that migrant ships, even those in need, are turned away from Italy. This has caused the death of many people. Thirdly according to him, the policy is ineffective. International law requires that if a ship sends out an SOS signal in international waters, it must be rescued. This means that hundreds of migrants are still arriving in Italy after being rescued by the military.
My professor shared that this situation has brought to light his frustration with the EU in general. According to him, European bureaucracy is “the Inferno.” He believes that Italy will receive sanctions from the EU for closing its ports, but it will take months. He said, “Imagine if Florida closed its ports. It would receive retaliation from the US government within hours!” In fact, his dream is for Europe to become more like America: united states with a stronger central government based on human rights.
Furthermore, he is deeply concerned at the trends of isolationism, nationalism, and xenophobia that led Italy to close its ports. According to him, these trends bear an eerie resemblance to Fascism. One hundred years ago, the Jew was excluded from society; today, it is the migrant who is unwelcome. He said, “This is not the Italy that I know.”
However, when I asked him what the majority of Italians thought, he replied that Italy was split 50-50 on these issues. Clearly, plenty Italians believe that “Strong Italy” means “Italy First”; otherwise, the current government would not be in power. Therefore, the opinions of the two Italians to whom I spoke are by no means indicative of the country as a whole. However, I learned a lot about Italy even by only hearing one side of the story. The passion with which both my professor and my speaking companion gave me their opinions on this issue showed just how much it matters to them.
Part 2: The Amalfi Coast
As I said at the beginning, I went on a tour of the Amalfi coast yesterday with a very knowledgeable tour guide. Here are some of the pictures and fun facts I picked up along the way.
Electricity is very expensive in Italy because Italy can’t produce enough of it for all of its inhabitants. This was not always the case. Italy used to use nuclear power plants; however, after Chernobyl, it shut down those power plants, and to this day has not made up the difference. The expense of electricity means that Italians don’t use air conditioning, central heating, or drying machines. They also have to be careful not to use too many big electrical items (the oven, the iron, hair dryers, etc) at once.
Even though electricity is expensive, churches still use electric lights instead of much cheaper wax candles. This is because they have learned that the smoke from the candles damages the art in the churches. The pictures on the ceiling of the crypt of the Cathedral in Amalfi (see below) were almost entirely blackened until just recently when they were cleaned.
Paintings on the ceiling of the crypt of the Cathedral of Amalfi
Churches in Italy were built at all different times and in all different styles. However, most of them have been renovated in a grand, ornate style (called “Baroque”, a style which was popular during the Catholic Counterreformation. My new hypothesis is that many churches were renovated around this time as part of the Church’s attempt to “change its look” in response to the Protestant Reformation. This would explain why many churches in Italy look so similar.) The Cathedral in Amalfi is one such church. Restorers have exposed one of the old Roman columns which was first used to build the church in the 8th century and then was subsequently sheathed in the grand marble towers used by the Baroque.
A Roman column inside a later Baroque support
The Amalfi Coast used to make its money not by tourism but by sea-trade. This meant that this area of Italy had lots of interaction with the Arab world of North Africa. For that reason, one can see some Islamic influence in their art.
Detail of a mosaic from a church in Ravello. The intricate patterns here recall Islamic art.The roof of a church in Ravello. Many church roofs in these marine towns were made by shipwrights, and so resemble upside-down boats.
Being close to North Africa also meant the danger of Arab pirate raids. This picture tells the story of a storm that miraculously appeared and destroyed the ships of approaching pirates.
A painting showing the deliverance of Italian coastal towns from a pirate raid. At the bottom, the pirate fleet founders in the miraculous storm.
Finally, we saw a chapel built to hold a vessel of the blood of an early Christian martyr, Saint Pantaleon.
The chapel of Saint Pantaleon
According to the Italians, every year, on the anniversary of his death, the blood (long since congealed) miraculously liquefies.
Marble inlay with the palm of martyrdom, the flask of miraculous blood, and the sword of decapitation: the story of Saint Pantaleon
In America, I believe, many people, even believing Catholics, would treat such phenomena with skepticism and a little revulsion. However, many people in Italy still fervently believe in the power of relics and in such miracles as these.
In all, there’s a reason that the Amalfi coast is so famous. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.
A view from Ravello.
(For more views of the natural beauty of the Amalfi coast, look at my pictures from “Il Terzo” of the Path of the Gods, which runs along the coast. It was well worth it to go back just for the views from the highway.)
The clouds cleared for just an hour or so so we could see the snow topped mountains
Time is going faster than I can even keep up with – this is the end of the 5th week, with only three more left! After our midterm exams, we had a four day weekend holiday – two of which I spent on a field trip to Nagarkot – a little get-away from Kathmandu where one can see the mountains even in the monsoon season (if they’re lucky – which we were!).
The hills around Kathmandu – seen here behind Boudha stupa – are not mountains (हिमाल) but hills (पहाड).
Here in Nepal, I’ve been corrected numerous times for saying how pretty the ‘mountains’ (हिमाल) were around Boudha. The problem is, in a country with 8 of the 14 tallest mountains (the 8,000-ers, which includes Sagarmaathaa [सगरमाथा], also known as Everest), ‘mountain’ very specifically means a mountain with snow on the top year around. A ‘mountain’ without snow is actually a pahaaD (पहाड).
Excited for the himals!
This language differentiation makes perfect sense (even if I probably will still continue to call the little mountain-hills I normally hike on back at home ‘mountains’), and when one sees the majestic snow caps, one can really see how different the पहाडहारु and हिमालहारु are. In Nagarkot, we were so lucky that the monsoon rains and mist cleared for a moment to see the snow tops. They were so white, it almost gave us headaches gazing at them for too long. We were so happy – calling to everyone still inside to come share the view with us.
On the way home to Kathmandu
Even when the mountains weren’t out, the break was great – I feel the few days just to breath fresh air and wander around really helped the language sink in. It’s almost scary to think of how little time we have left to learn so much more. Luckily, everyone here is so helpful and I’ve found a language partner back in South Bend who agreed to help me over the next school year. I’m already thinking of all the things I’m going to miss in this city and program, but hopefully I’ll be back soon for research – and with a new language skill at that!
Before living in the Schwäbisch Hall, I never knew salt could be so important! Schwäbisch Hall is often referred to as “die Stadt des Salzes” or “the City of Salt.” In fact, in old German the word “Hall” means salt! Salt has been critical to the development of Schwäbisch Hall for the past 2,000 years. Salt was the “white gold” of the Middle Ages and Schwäbisch Hall’s easy access to a nearby salt spring allowed it to become a wealthy, free imperial city during the Middle Ages. Now, most of the town’s traditional holidays reflect the importance of salt to the community!
Kuchen und Brunnenfest: The Chicken Saves the Town!
Legend has it that without the cockcrow of a chicken, the town of Schwäbisch Hall would not exist. In 1316, the town mill unexpectedly caught on fire. But thanks to cockcrow of a chicken trying to escape the burning mill, the saltstimmers nearby were able to immediately take action to save the mill and Schwäbisch Hall. Out of gratitude for their courageous acts, it is said that the miller baked the saltstimmers a 100 pound cake. The saltstimmers decorated the cake with garland and carried it to the fountains of Schwäbisch Hall to dance and sing traditional songs around them. This was especially significant because all the fountains in Schwäbisch Hall were, and still are, fed by salt water.
Since 1785, more than 500 people participate in the annual reenactment of this story on Pentecost. This reenactment is called “Kuchen und Brunnenfest” or “Cakes and Fountains Festival.”
The following are photos of the festival provided by my teacher Ulli Blogas at Goethe Institute:
Townspeople reenacting the rush to save the salt mill from the fire.Dancing traditional Swabian dances in the main town square.
If are interested in seeing a video of this historic festival, please click on the link below. This video was made by a Schwäbisch Hall Unicorn football player from Portland, Oregon, of whom I had the opportunity to meet at Goethe.
After the historic reenactment, visitors enjoy the festival’s amusement park, city tours, exhibitions, and live music.
Salztage
On October 14th, Schwäbisch Hall celebrates salt! This day is called “Salztage” or “Day of Salt” and offers a live demonstration of how salt was produced by the Celts in Schwäbisch Hall during the Middle Ages and of course, lots of food and drinks.
During the Middle Ages, salt water was drawn from Haalbrunnen spring on Haalplatz (Salt Square) in town and then transported to a mill nearby, such as the outdoor mill pictured above. The salt water was then boiled in iron pans until most of the water had evaporated, leaving the salt behind.
This is the historic Haalbrunnen fountain. It is now in the middle of a parking lot in the center of Schwäbisch Hall.Salt water flowing from Haalbrunnen fountain.Site of outdoor mill where saline water boiling demonstrations take place during Salztage.In the Middle Ages, iron pans such as this were used to boil salt water, forcing the water to evaporate and leaving the salt behind.
This salt was then sold in large markets in Speyer, Germany; Strasbourg, France; and Basel, Switzerland for great profits. In 1924, salt production in Schwäbisch Hall stopped as the town transitioned into a salt spa and resort town.
This is Hohenlohe Hotel, where the town resort’s salt baths and caves are located.
