Ciao Ciao to the Crackberry

Isn't it a beauty? No email alerts, no Bbm bullshit, no internet option, and no 24/7 availability to the world. It's called a basic Wind phone. Wind the brand, not wind as in the cool breeze thats carries our umbrellas and hats away.

I'm currently sitting in Food.com in Newhouse, and counted about 12 people with blackberries. This is all from sitting at a booth and taking about a 2 second look around the cafe. Even the ones with laptops out, like me, have their blackberry positioned aside their computer. It's some competition between their inbox and the blackberry's inbox-who will get the email first?!

"Pronto!" That's how everyone would answer their cell. Always a friendly greeting with an allotted ten to fifteen minutes of conversation, followed by ten "Ciao's" at the end- no joke. I guess the Italians had a hard time saying goodbye, no matter who it was. Here on campus, every other student is glued to the cell phone screen, instead of holding it to their ear. The thought of having a 20 minute conversation with friends back at home sometimes seems impossible because there is no time. Instead, we live day to day by 5 word texts every hour or so. I think if you can the minutes you spent texting or bbming daily, it'd be enough to hold a two hour convo.

In Florence, the basic cell phone was an essential part of life. In fact, there were hardly any in house phones. I'd find myself leaning out the floor to ceiling barred window of my bedroom to make plans to meet at the Duomo steps with fellow peers. Sounds like a jail cell. But it actually was the exact opposite. I felt more free knowing no one had the freedom to contact me at any given moment. I had less emails, less texts, and absolute no bbm's.

My hands become highly skilled in typing away the basic keypad of just nine numbers and letters grouped together.

The nearest Wind store was always in walking distance too. No need to surround your day on when you can drive to the closest Verizon or AT&T.

Back at Syracuse, I decided to invest in this monster to your left. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it's because I can't go more than an hour here without receiving a new email. Every time I'd actually get to a real computer, my inbox was too overwhelming. And it's not because I am miss popular. Ask any student here. Syracuse, social media, and super loaded inboxes are a three deal package. I sometimes forget about how I used to pay for minutes on my phone in Italy. How every phone call was set up through an email between my parents to arrange a time we would both be away amidst our 6 hour time difference.

As far away from reality a wind phone seems to me now, its simplicity made me happier. Today, I can't imagine life without a blackberry. It's how I stay in contact with the world, much like Facebook. I can tweet from it, snap photos with it, email from it, and google directions anywhere in the world. I can check my bank account with it, check movie times. No need to predict the weather either-I can stay up to date with that too. The ease of life with this thing almost makes me sick. My days with Wind were so much more exciting...

Sunday Not So Funday

Domenico. It means Sunday in Italian. And all I want to say is how much I hate Sundays in Syracuse. Somehow, I always have a million things due on Monday, and I spend all of Sunday night thinking about what I have to do rather than just doing it. I HATE IT!

In Florence, Sundays were a day to go to church, to watch my host sisters volleyball game or they were returning home days. I spent most of my weekends away in other countries, and Sunday would usually be the day we returned home. At the point, we refereed to Florence as our home, feeling happy to be back in our own warm beds on Via Fiesolana without any maps or guidebooks to take us there.

In Syracuse, Sundays are a day to vent. To vent about the weekend, to vent about the work that's ahead for the coming week, or to vent about how fast the weekend flew by. By the time Sunday comes around, all you want to do is sit around the television after a nice dinner and do absolutely nothing. In Florence, this was perfectly acceptable.

In Syracuse, it never is. And so, on this beautiful sunny fall not so cold sunday, I can't seem to even enjoy my day without worrying about Monday. Tome Petty says, "You have four years to be irresponsible here. Relax. Work is for people with jobs." But work is for all Americans, college or no college, there is always some sort of stress put on us. We can't seem to escape this worried, working world. And I still don't understand why. All I know if that the coffee and espresso here isn't strong enough, and there are never enough hours in the day.

At Syracuse, I drink about 2 to 3 cups of coffee a day . In Florence, I drank about 2 to 3 cappuccinos a week. You can calculate the difference, but I doubt you'll have the time to...

Home Coming: When Fútbol and Football Collide

Today is Syracuse University's Homecoming. The one day where all alumni decide to take a step back in time and relive their college experience. In Florence, almost any game at Il Stadio seemed like homecoming: a packed stadium where fans seem to really care about a game. For Syracuse football, this happens once a year. Let's disect the differences.

The Dome:

1. Pretty cool for an inside stadium.

2. Orange screams through the stands.

3. People leave after the first half (unless there is some sort of lead).

4. More people are outside tailgating or watching the game at Chuck's rather than paying $25 for student tickets..

5. The box office is on site.

6. Majority of attendees are freshman, alumni, or locals.

7. Beer is not sold after half time.

8. Hot dogs, sausages, popcorn and soda lines are long.

9. Bathroom lines are longer.

10. A big orange named Otto is dancing and tumbling around during timeouts.

Il Stadio

1. There are mountains surrounded the stadium. Enough said.

2. Tailgating does not exist.

3. Gelato is served in the food lobby.

4. The box office is in Piazza de Republica, all the way on the other side of the city. Go Figure.

5. There is separate seating for locals. Students get shafted.

6. The crowd bleeds purple: purple scarves, purple jerseys, and purple hats. Face paint is not an option.

7. The only people drinking wine boxes out of straws are Americans. No alcohol is allowed in.

8. Beer is not served, ever.

9. Teams are sponsored by cell phone companies. There jersey's reflect that (if Verizon were in Florence, the shirt would say Verizon. They have a company called Wind. I think wind is cooler).

10. A huge carton of Mukki, or milk is for some reason propped up in the middle of the field.

Real Car bombs instead of Irish Car bombs, fire pits instead of bon fires, and the same loud, obnoxious fans that yell at you for blocking their view when you decide to go to the bathroom during a field goal or a penalty kick.

And most importantly-no matter if it's Fútbol, Football, or Foozeball-all real fans just have a big foot up their ass. It's what makes game day so great :)

Friend Me

Happy Friday Everyone! So today's topic. Facebook. I really hate how it controls every aspect of the college life if you allow it too. But allowing it too is the easiest part. Everyone here knows who's dating who, who did what this weekend, who was the drunkest in the photo, who's loving the "real world" and who's not, who's having a private party, who's invited to the party, and who wasn't.

But in the world of bella Firenze, Facebook was actually put to good use. I posted photos of the cities I'd visited to share with family and friends, kept in touch with people back in the states, and checked the latest news on night life and weekend trips on Facebook groups. For once, I actually put the entire site to use. I even changed the language on my page to Italian, so I would be forced to read in the language whenever I went on (clearly I assumed I'd be on a lot more than I was). There was no Facebook stalking, no staring at photos to avoid doing homework, and no need to be on the damn page every second you were near a computer.

Here at Syracuse, and about any other college life, facebook became much more than just keeping in touch with people. Evidently, this is not a new find, but I find it crazy how much we can adapt to utilizing a facebook world for logical purposes and then turning it into an obsession once back in the college sphere.

In Florence, I never cared about what other people were doing because I was so focused on what I was doing-being outside exploring and wandering around. When I had time to sit at a computer it was to skype with my parents or type up a creative writing assignment. It was never to go on facebook to pass time. Facebook was to see what was new in the states. At Syracuse, I do not need facebook to see what's new on campus. But we still feed on it and stare at photos of last night or last weekend or even photos from ten minutes ago. I wonder if its pathetic or if its a way of reliving memories over and over again.

I find myself looking at my photos from Florence and my past college years less and less because sometimes it hurts to relive those moments. We miss them too much. Yet we enjoy looking at the photos so recently to remind ourselves of who we are now or how much fun a certain night was. While in Florence, I wanted to see photos of what was going on back at Syracuse because it wasn't my past. Rather, it was sort of like peeking in on the present from an outsider's point of view. Seeing a world that is not yours at the moment but will be when you return there.

Now, back at Syracuse, I ignore anything related to Florence study abroad invites. I become too nostalgic. I try to see facebook for all its pros, but I can't. It connects the world in too many ways. It's a living scrapbook that may not waste paper, but it wastes a hell a lot of my time.

I just can't seem to close the screen here...

Breaking it Down

At Syracuse, the social scene revolves around Marshall Street bars or frat row for the underaged and those without the fake identification. A typical Thursday night for a senior in college entails a pre-game (pre drinking) rendezvous at an off campus house and a trek down to Chuck's sports bar for $1.50 bottle night, followed by Friday happy hour at the Sheraton for free pizza and wings. Next is chucks again for $3.50 pitchers. And this all before Saturday begins. It got me thinking about how this sort of lifestyle was not very appealing while in Florence, yet is all I seem to live for these days. Well, that's a stretch but it's safe to see most seniors in college live weekend to weekend, holding on to their last moments of no real world responsibilities and financial pressure to succeed.

Via Guiseppe Verde became my new Marshall along with twenty other winding cobblestone paths. Kikuya bar was my new Chuck's, only bud lights were replaced with Dragoons, some sort of sweet beer concoction with an extremely high alcohol contend mixed with deliciousness. Let's just say after one, I somehow became "fluent" in Italian.

But what differed most was the club scene: overpriced drinks, overpriced cover, but never too high of a price for fun. Back in Italy, dancing was the social scene-whether it was with some macho Italiano or the American in your Italian class, or even against the Florence locals. The two best clubs were YAB (young and beautiful) and Space Electronica. Swap out fist pumping Jersey Shore guidos for some hardcore Florentines with some spunk in their step.

Let's just say the music may be the same, but these Italians know how to get down.

Thoughts on opening a club on the SU hill?

Opposites Attract (Attract me, that is)

Yes, ladies and gentleman, these are my fish in the pond. My orange fish, I would say. Almost a year ago I was day dreaming about men on vespas who had good taste for wine, and now I'm back to men who love only the 4 d's: booze, basketball, and double D's. Well maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. I decided to map out the differences. Don't worry, this isn't like Mark Zuckerberg's original facemash that turns into a multibillion dollar face book--I don't have any algorithms to write on my window for that.

Instead, here's a short breakdown of the Italian vs. The American boy (the good, and the bad).


The Italian

1. Dressed to perfection, always. Okay maybe I am exaggerating a bit here but lets highlight the pros first.

2. Knows how to kiss. I will not admit if this was learned from experience or not, but I speak the truth.

3. Has an epic taste for wine. Keystone, Bud light, and Franzia boxed wine do not exist in the man's mind.

4. Enjoys dancing. Sure the bumping and grinding can get old, but a true Italian man knows how to dance without a few drinks in him.

5. Can cook!! It is difficult to find a man in Italy who has no sense of what makes a good dish. Even if he's not a mastermind in the cucina, he sure knows how to eat (dipping chunks of bread in sauce is the way to a man's heart in bella Italia).

The cons...

1. Is probably still 35 and living with his mother.

2. Can become a bit aggressive/non stop obsessive once he gets hold of your number. They don't mean to be stalkers, but they are.

3. Sometimes they really aren't Italian at all. Many men in the clubs of Florence are Albanian, knowing they can lure you in with their fake accent and leather shoes. You'll constantly hear the phrase, "What's with deese American gurls."

4. They make fun of American girls who say "Oh My God." They pronounce it "Ohhh Myyy Gawwwd," and continue to mock the phrase for about fifteen minutes. It gets old.

5. They only like soccer, or "futbol," so sports talk is very limited.

Bonus # 6. It can be 95 degrees out, but they will still wear long sleeves until it is officially summer.


The Syracuse Americano

1. They know what buffalo chicken pizza is.

2. They enjoy a variety of sports and probably have basketball season tickets at the Dome.

3. You can actually understand every word they say (for the most part).

4. They were baseball caps, if you're into that sort of sports look.

5. You can write on their facebook wall in English

The cons...

1. Their selection in beer ranges from keystone to Miller light. In turn, they'll do anything for a good deal on pitchers at Chuck's.

2. They probably get most of their pick up skills from Jersey shore reruns.

3. Their wardrobe consists of blue jerseys, orange hats, sweatshirts with the male version of Hester Prynne's "S" (orange is a new shade or red).

4. Many of them are in a frat or know about one (yes I consider this a con).

5. Their ideal date is probably Pita El Saha on Marshall Street.

Bonus# 6 They probably have painted their chest orange at some point for a homecoming game.


My last week in Florence, I crashed my vespa into a ditch while on a wine tour. The tour guide refused to let me continue riding. After much whining , I caved. I quickly noticed his English was a little too good to be true. Turns out he was half American/half Italian. For the first few years of his life he experienced New England winters, much like Syracuse and now was joyriding through the hills of Tuscany as a living.

I guess I got the best of both worlds. Too bad my flight home to the states was in five days. But like every Italian and American known to man, he has a facebook.

Rise and Shine, Eastern and Italian Time

On a usual Tuesday morning in Florence, I was able to leave mia casa at around ten after 9, to make it to my 9:30 Italian class. Tuesdays were lucky for me. On any other weekday I left at 8:30 to make it in time for my 8:50 Italian class. Tuesdays were the only day classes were pushed back.

But even for 9:30, I at first dreaded the early rise and shine. 8:50 class did not exist in my Syracuse experience until now (sad, I know). But despite my whining to get up at a decent hour, I fell in love with my morning walk.

Trip Advisor gives a pretty good image of Via Fiesolana, the start of my adventure. After chugging my espresso shot and downing some chocolate cereal or a blood orange, I'd close two massive floor to ceiling doors that seemed to scooch me out. I stepped out onto the cobblestone street and entered a world of poorly parked macchinas and vespas half on the sidewalk, way too many leash-less dogs following their owners, and bicycle riders who never seemed to understand the concept of a brakes. One left turn, passing street sweepers dragging water into the drains, and then a quick right and I was on Borgo Pinti. It was a straight run from there.

I have to give credit to Abe's blog for his perfect capture of this famous street. Although a bit wider than your average Florence "pathway" (I say pathway because I define street as somethings average size cars can actually fit between), the ten minute walk down Borgo Pinti is something I wish I could do everyday. There's nothing like hopping onto the sidewalk when a vespa decides to honk when he is about an inch away from hitting you.

What I miss most is the vendors on the streets everyday. Trying to sell be tissues or umbrellas or little toy trains because I would somehow find a need for them one day. It was fun ignoring their broken English, pretend to be Italian girl. My secret was only revealed in March when I began to wear flip flops and got death stares from every women over 30 strolling to the nearest cafe or on her way back from the market. Side note: Italians only wear warm clothing and open toed shoes when it is officially summer. It could 90 degrees in May, but arms, toes, and legs were deemed socially unacceptable.

In Syracuse, my morning walk is a bit different. I leave from my back door at Ostrom Place and head down a wide alleway only residents know about. I turn left onto Euclid and wait for the obnoxious overly sized bus to turn his wide rear, as I hang out in the middle of Comstock. There's always a line of cars to enter campus from Euclid too, but the drivers always have some sort of issue with the stop sign, rolling there eyes as we cross the street to get to class (this is a school, right?).

There are no vespas, but rather the occasional motorcycles parked in some regulated corner aligned next to one another(they don't believe in free parking here). The occasional South campus bus. Yet there are bikes. Ironically, a lot of the people I see on bikes are those who rode them while studying with me in Florence. They bring the same attitude here: Full speed ahead! Move at the sound of my bell because I will not brake for you.

Instead of students lounging at cafe tables or doing espresso shots at the bars, there is always the endless line at People's Place, located in the basement of Hendrick's Chapel which is guaranteed to make you late for class. But we all remain. It's true, once back in America, I was nothing without my morning cup of hazelnut, size large. How I managed off tea cup size cappuccinos and shot glass espressos, I am not sure. But standing on this line..

yes this line, never really gets old. Bad angle, I know. It was a little awkward whipping out the blackberry like some undercover student in orange attire and snapping a shot of the 22 (exactly) students that stood in front of me. Most were too busy reading the DO or testing how close their face could come to their berry (that is blackberry with a pink or teal cover,) or iphone to even notice my actions.

I laughed to myself thinking how this would never happen in Italy. Two reasons: 1 because no coffee shot would be placed in the basement of a chapel. 2 because people focus more on talking to each other on any line rather than sticking their nose in newspapers and phones. But People's Place is the only coffee shop who's prices compare to Italy's. $1 coffees vs. .50 euro cent cappuccinos= same price, done deal for me.

After putting a lid on my cup, I headed to class. Although the Villa Rosa is no longer the final destination of my walk, I picture it in the middle of SU's Quad, surrounded my lemon trees, orange trees, and palm trees.

My Professora who we called Francesca, is waiting with her high leather boots, tight denim jeans, and flowy oversized sweater to start the day. I enter Bowne Hall-white walls, straight staircases, not winding, and water fountains replace the tiny cafe owned by a nonno and a nonna downstairs.

Bonjourno Ragazzi fades away as "Good morning students" shouts over the Italian slur. It's still all the same language to me.

When the Moon hits your Eyes like a Big Pizza Pie, That's Amore

The days where thin crust personal pie pizza were a weekly essential are long gone. But the days of New York Pizza are finally back. I get it. "Syracuse isn't 'really' New York," or whatever that means, but the pizza isn't that different.

I used to go to Via dell'Agnolo almost every week to one of the few English named restaurants in town: Pizza Man. Our host mom insisted it was the best pizza in town. Two days later, we found out it was a chain. But still, she insisted. Bright neon yellow lights, I thought my Italian hopes for pizza perfection were crushed. But after champagne served gratis for being a new customer, I decided to be positive. I ordered the Pizza Caprese comes as a freshly baked pie for one (well., maybe 2), baked with fresh mozzarella, oregano, garden tomato sauce and fresh tomatoes on every inch of your pizza, as if your Nonna plucked them from a garden next door and chopped them up just before scattering them on your pie. There is also cold mozzarella slices atop the burning melting cheese inside and for some more color, they throw on some fresh parsley leaves. The entire pie looks like an edible Christmas ornament.

Nowadays, Pizza Man is replaced with a slice from Acropolis on Marshall Street. The photo below, taken by pizzageek.wordpress.com, is my 2:15 am go to after the bartenders decide to kick us all out. Acropolis, much like the pizza boys on the streets of Firenze, smile at every student that walks in. Of course the "Ciao Bellas" are replaced by some laughs at our drunken faces and "What can I get for you darlings," but the result is nothing less: a greasy slice top with cheese perfection and homemade sauce. The mozzarella is not as fresh, but the thickness of the cheese and crust make up for it. And I can fold my pizza without being started at like I'm from another planet (or the United States!). Instead of small shot glasses for vino, Acropolis serves beer. Italian pies with wine, American slices with beer-it makes sense.

For me, pizza is practically home grown. Acropolis pizza, paired with ranch and soaked in enough oil to give the to-go back a grease-pit stain...now that's Syracuse, New York. A Pizza Man Caprese topped with fresh "muuu-zaaa-rell," as the Italian tongue slurs, garden basil, and home grown tomatoes....well, that's Italy. Both equally crafted by sweat and brick oven burns to produce a cheesy, saucy piece of doughy love. Lucky for me, I've acquired a taste for both.

Toilette Etiquette

This was my bedroom in Firenze. I slept about an inch away from my roomate, so luxury may be a bit of an understatement. I must say, the orange and pink comforters did us justice. Despite Italy's poor attempt to keep heat running in every household, these blankets kept us warm.

Every evening, I would return home to find my host mom, Gina, already dressed in her fuzzy blue pajamas and pink slippers, cooking up some four course dinner-you know the usual: soup or pasta, then meat, and more pasta, and paired with Italian bread drenched in balsamico (I would always get made fun of for drowning my bread in the vinegar), but I'll save the food for another post.

It's funny because back in Syracuse, returning home for the day means doing loads of homework, trying to throw some sort of Mac N' Cheese plus veggie concoction together with about 4 other roomates cooking dinner simultaneously, and deciding whether you want to make the hike down to the Marshall Street bars in the cold or stay in for a wine night.

I must say, getting ready to go out(showering, putting up makeup in the bathroom, etc.) is a lot easier here in Syracuse.

Inside 16 Via Fiesolana, I shared what I would joke was a 2x2 box of a bathroom. The reality doesn't get much better.

My shower was about a centimeter away from the toilet and the sink. I really don't even know if you could call it a shower. The drain was on the floor of our bathroom with a curtain rod above to give us some sort of shower domain. When I drew the curtain, I faced two cabinets with a mirror the size of a 4x6 picture frame hanging above the sink. I guess you could say I got pretty close with all aspects of the stanzo da bagno that semester. My favorite part of it all was the post shower activity: mopping. That's right, I mopped up all the water since the drain was the size of my palm. I somehow did not mind this, and either did my roomate. It became a normalcy: going to the bathroom, walking not even a step "into the shower," wrapping a curtain around us, and making sure we did not exceed the ten minute maximum time allotted before the water started to flood.

There was of course the one time where we had a guest from the states stay over who didn't understand the ten minute shower rule. I assumed she thought 25 minutes was an allotted grace period we decided not to tell her about. The result: the entire room flooded, causing two tiles on my side of the bedroom to lift up. I covered for our friend, but luckily was not charged.

We also discovered how fast two people could go through a roll of toilet paper. Trying to translate this was a bit difficult at first. This is where language barrier issues definitely became evident. But we finally mustered up the courage to ask our step sister when we were down to our last two sheets. "Carta igienica," she laughed. So did our host parents when they found out how nervous we were to ask. Soon enough, the request for toilet paper,"Io ho bisogno di carta ignienica, per favore" became our new favorite phrase.

At Syracuse, my bathroom is a bit different. Ironically, I share it with the same roomate I did in Italy. Now, we have two sinks, two mirrors, actual walking space, and a shower with a glass door rather than a curtain. I liked my 2x2 Italian box bathroom better.

Here and There

My name is Joanna Weinstein. I'd tell you my major if I thought that was a good way to define a person, but its not. Instead, I'll tell you this. I spent six months living with an Italian family smack in the heart of Florence, Italy. I traveled around Europe, learned Italian, crashed a vespa into a ditch, ate a lot of pasta, and drank a lot of vino. Now, I am spending my year in Syracuse, New York as a senior in college. It's a touchy subject. I also can't seem to go more than an hour here without thinking of Italy-it's worse than any breakup I've ever endured.

Domani Siamo Qui. Tomorrow we are here. But for the past year, I am trying to figure out where here is. To the left is Firenze, Italy, and above is Syracuse, New York. The left is my past and the right is my present. But almost every other day, I find myself mixing up the two. Where I came from, where I went, and where I am now seems like one big city shape shifting on me every second.

Now, instead of finding myself atop the Piazzale Michelangelo looking at the Duomo, I find myself in Syracuse, New York gazing at the top of the Dome. The quad is my new piazza, Marshall Street is my new Guiseppe Verde, Hendrick's Chapel is my Duomo, and the food...well unfortunately nothing seems up to par to replace that. But, I still manage. I struggle a little knowing that cappuccinos don't sell for a dollar here, and the farmer's markets aren't up to San Ambrosio standards, but there is something about 'Cuse that still takes me back to Florence everyday. I think about it more here than I did over my summer in New York City, and I'm trying to understand way. So I am starting this blog. Two cities, one big world, and how they balance each other. My mission is to discover how I came to call both my home. In the process, I'll travel back and forth over the atlantic, reliving these worlds every day.