Sometimes when you are in a foreign country, you have moments where you wonder: How on Earth did I end up here? Sitting in a Croatian television studio with cameras on me amidst booing fans, shooting lasers and incomprehensible arguments, I had just such a moment.

I did have some inkling of how I ended up in that spot. The director of my NGO here in Zagreb was invited to be on a top-rated television show called Piramida, and needed someone to sit behind her for support. Apparently, none of her other friends wanted to appear on the show, but since I was a foreigner she figured I wouldn’t be embarrassed. It seemed as good a reason for my first television debut as any. She explained the format as follows: three contenders face off in a debate on the headline issues of the day. They argue and interrupt each other, and the at-home audience votes for the ‘most convincing’ via text message. At the end of the show, the winner is announced. This was about all I understood as I went into the television studio, armed with only a handful of Croatian words.

We waited for half an hour in the green room where we met the two other debaters — one a short, long-haired theater director with a dotted line tattooed around his neck and the other a former Olympic boxer turned politician who had brought flowers for the women and signed copies of his book on political marketing. When he found out I was from America, he said "America, good! I was in Los Angeles for Olympics and Las Vegas to get married." The hostess came in to shake everyone’s hand. She was a tall, blonde woman in a kelly-green dress and red patent-leather belt with matching shoes.

The hour of filming was something out of a surreal dream: the set was a huge nylon pyramid with colored spotlights shooting all over it, and I sat directly behind my boss as she argued about whether school uniforms should be mandatory, if women can keep secrets and whether people over 40 should be allowed to adopt babies. I had been told beforehand what the topics would be, but was otherwise totally afloat in a sea of Croatian. I had no idea what was being said, and therefore was clueless about when to react, when to smile, when to boo. I took all my cues from those around me, feeling like a lip-reader in the tower of Babel. I was alienated and part of a mass all at the same time, trying hard to clap at the right moment and look indignant when the other contestants spoke– an outsider just pretending to be one of the regular people.

My boss didn’t win in the end (the boxer took the vote), but we both agreed the experience was worth it. She was given a tape of the show that I plan to watch. I want to see if I looked just as confused as I felt, or if I was just another audience member, blending in like a pro.

Choosing a city to visit on the Adriatic Coast is like selecting from a fool-proof list. Pick Dubrovnik if you want Venetian splendor and great seafood. Choose Hvar if you want partying and the scent of lavender. This time, I decided on Zadar simply because it was close to Zagreb and I figured it would be hard to go wrong. After a long weekend of salty seas, many new freckles and full glasses of red wine, I wasn’t disappointed.

My friend Liz was visiting me in Zagreb, and to escape the heat wave that has been washing over South Eastern Europe this summer we decided to hit the coast. The bus ride was three and a half hours and we arrived there around sundown. The walled old city was already full of people wearing flowy linen clothing, strolling along maze-like avenues and lounging in the open air cafes. We walked into the tourist office (where we would return for help many times) and within minutes they had found us a private room to stay in at a price well below half of what hotels were charging online.

Zadar itself doesn’t have many pleasant beaches to sit on, but rather a long promenade that drops straight into the water. It was the best spot to be at sunset because of the unfettered view of the horizon and the famous musical Sea Organ. Built in 2005 by architect Nikola Ba”iç, the organ uses the push of the waves and blow of the wind to make soft sounds via tubes and cavities. Sitting on the marble steps that cascade into the water, we watched the sunset and listened to the gentle harmonies played by the lapping sea.

To find swimming beaches, we took a quick ferry out to an island just off the coast. We had to walk about ten minutes from the homely port where the boat dropped us off, but were rewarded when we found an even smaller island with broad flat rocks, fragrant pines and an abandoned monastery. A grandfatherly man was waiting with a row boat to take us over, after he amusedly watched our failed attempts to wade over. We stayed all day in the sun and the water, and simply gave him a friendly wave when we were ready to be picked up again.
Back in Zagreb, the city continues to feel emptier and emptier. My Croatian friends remind me that everyone is going to the coast. Who can blame them?

It has been awhile since I have posted. Life and exams took over and
left me little time for other things. But now I have left Bologna and
am in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, where I will be for two months
interning at an NGO that promotes democracy and political
transparency.

I have been to Zagreb before, but only for a few hours. I was anxious
to return and explore what had so unexpectedly caught my attention a
few years back.  The city is much as I remembered it– lines of
baroque buildings, triumphant iron statues and winding avenues lined
with boutiques. My friend was recently here visiting and remarked that
it felt like Vienna, Istanbul and Italy all swirled into one. Thinking
of the enormous concrete apartment buildings on the periphery of town,
I added Communist Russia to the eclectic mix. This is not surprising
given a history that has fallen under Hapsburg, Ottoman, Venetian and
Soviet spheres of influence.

Zagreb is notoriously sleepy in the summer, because anyone with a car
and/or an ounce of sense heads to the sea or the mountains to escape
the heat. While the temperature has been oppressive (up to a heavy
99 degrees last week), there are occasional but magnificent
thunderstorms that break the heat and snap lightning through the
skies. Plus, the city becomes slower and more intimate in the summer
months, and you can wander freely without the hassle of the hustle and
bustle.

I am just settling in for my 8 week stay, and am happy to get to know
this place in a more meaningful way than my previous visit allowed
for. If anyone has any Croatian vacation suggestions, please share.

Next week… my trip to seaside Zadar! (I am well on my way to writing
a guide to Cities Beginning with Z…)

Every time I look down on this timeless town
whether blue or gray be her skies.
Whether loud be her cheers or soft be her tears,
more and more do I realize:

I love Paris in the springtime.
I love Paris in the fall.
I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles.

— Cole Porter

Though I am self-professed Italophile, my devotion was given a serious run
for the euro this weekend when I took a trip to Paris. There are few places
in the world that live up to their own hype, and the enthralling French
capital is indubitably one of them. There is an electric spark in the air
that turns every mundane action into a meaningful activity. Walking to the
corner store to get a baguette and brie feels like a cultural foray.
Strolling along the Seine waving to the barges sloshing along is a thrill in
and of itself. The very act of being in Paris feels somehow more vivacious
than anywhere else.

We had limited time and didn’t go to any museums or galleries, though I hope
to do that on another trip. Instead, we wandered around in grey, drizzling
Paris and tried to absorb as much as we could. We were not alone in our
drifting and watching. People-watching just may be the official Parisian
pastime. Proof of this is in how café chairs are positioned-all facing out
towards the sidewalk. The glamorous population is an attraction all its own.

Winter is a great time to go to Paris. The tourists are sparse, the sales
are on, and the mood is gloriously dreary. Perfect for dressing in all black
and writing deep poetry over a steaming cafe crème.

I’m now back in Bologna, but find myself daydreaming of crepes in Jardins du
Luxembourg, fig jam and brie for breakfast, and that ostentatious twinkle of
the Tour Eiffel. I can’t speak for the other seasons, but I certainly do
love Paris in the winter.

The Italians don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, though they do have a name for it: il Giorno del Ringraziamento. There was a big turkey dinner organized for grateful expatriates in Bologna, but it wasn’t happening until the weekend after Thanksgiving Thursday. What is it about the actual day of Thanksgiving that demands mashed potatoes, stuffing and family? Luckily, I had my little sister Anna out visiting, and she helped me realize all three of those requirements.

 
Armed with a modified shopping list, we cruised around Bologna looking for ingredients to prepare a goat cheese, walnut and dried cranberry stuffing and some killer garlic mashed potatoes. Being in a foreign country means adapting to new things on a daily basis, but sometimes cooking feels like the most difficult skill to translate. Temperatures are different, measurements are different, and the ingredients listed on the US recipe are scattered and hidden around the city with confusing names. But in the end, we triumphed and made a delicious dinner on Thanksgiving itself.

The next day we traveled to Modena, the birthplace of balsamic vinegar (Thank you, Modena!). Though almost everything was closed on a Friday afternoon, we stumbled upon the most beautiful autumn park I’ve seen. The trees were ostentatiously bright, the leaves on the ground were a colorful carpet, and the grey sky made all of it pop in unbelievable hues. For two California girls, a park full of fall foliage is better than a visit to an art museum. We missed the 15th century version of The Divine Comedy displayed in the closed gallery, but the warm chestnuts we ate from a paper cone as we wandered through the park made me forget all about it.

It was a perfect Thanksgiving.

 
It’s getting cold in Bologna, and the signs of winter are evident. Chestnut roasters have set up their carts on the street corners, shop windows have changed from flowy dresses to heavy coats, and faces on the street are disappearing beneath layers of scarves and low hats. As a Californian, the blatant changing of seasons is a novelty that sets a tangible atmosphere, and has marked the passing of time more powerfully than any of my calendars. Walking through the Giardini Margherita, where only a while ago I lounged in the shade to hide from the heat, I’m now forced to don gloves and keep at a brisk pace. Have I been here this long?

Going on my third month, I’m still very much at the beginning of my stay, but the coming of winter is a necessary shock to my system to remind me to take full advantage of where I am. As a student, it’s easy to keep your nose in a book and your head in the classroom, hoping only to get from one exam to the next. This goes directly against my traveler’s instinct, which tells me to savor each moment and live life as I can only in this particular country at this particular moment. Is it "Italian" enough to get pizza as a study snack? Drink 100% genuine Italian espresso so that I can stay up half the night reading? Schoolwork is an inherent part of my time here, but the realization that summer changed so quickly to winter is a good reminder that I should be doing more than ogling the inside of a library.

So this weekend, massive upcoming exam notwithstanding, I took the train to Florence (only 50 minutes) and wandered around the city where I had once loved, twice lived. Went by my old daily bar where I was thrilled to find the same two men behind the counter. They greeted me with a boisterous "Ciao Sarah! Sei ritornata! (You’re back!)" I noticed the new shops that had opened, the ones that were absent. I walked by my old apartment and let the memories flood in. I paid my respects to the Duomo which had, even in my most jaded days, served as a reminder that Florence is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I saw a fascinating photo exhibit commemorating the 40th anniversary of the great flood that doused most of the city’s sacred treasures in mud.

On the train back to Bologna I felt, more than anything, reminded that time passes quickly and inevitably. But if I can keep alert, keep at least part of my mind on the changes as they are changing, then I’m not oblivious to the time that goes by. Now I’ve just got to focus on getting my Californian self through the winter. It’ll be spring before I know it…

Italy, above all countries, is a place to be experienced with every sense. Here are the sensory experiences that signal to me that I am, in fact, here:

1. The smell of coffee bubbling up through a stovetop espresso machine, and the vague scent of raw flame heating metal underneath. My nose tingles just writing about it.

2. The sound of Italians speaking to each other in swiftly lilting words that may as well be set to a score. Angry words rise to crescendo in a furious aria, friendly advice comes in softly comforting notes, jokes trip along in a happy cadence- it’s no wonder that operas are written in Italian.

3. The sharp, emerald-green taste of arugula mixed with the duller tang of pecorino sardo, a Sardinian sheep’s milk cheese. This is a combination I have sought fruitlessly at home in California, but I urge you to try it if you can. It deserves a place with other famous culinary pairings: peanut butter and jelly, champagne and caviar, Ben and Jerry.

4. The sight of the carabinieri officers in dapper uniforms sitting in cars outside their respective posts, checking their hair nonstop in their rearview mirrors. Behind shiny aviator sunglasses, one eye is on the public and one eye on their own reflection, because looking sharp, la bella figura, is naturally an important part of doing their job.

5. The feel of Italy is harder to put my finger on, but anyone who has been here knows it. Anyone who has felt it -the passionate welcome, the shimmering self-awareness, the aging Renaissance beauty and the sheer love for life that permeates every Italian town- can evoke the feeling with just the scent of espresso, an overheard " arrivederci!", or any of their personal sensory catalysts. That’s the best part of Italy: even when you’re not here, you can carry it with you.

What let’s you know you’re in your favorite place?

xxxxxx

Today’s task was going to be a tedious one. As a US citizen, I am required to file a permesso di soggiorno, or a residency permit, with the local Bologna police station. I had already gone through the elaborate document scavenger hunt to produce a stack of different-sized, colored and stamped pages to prove I was financially solvent, doubly health-insured and photographed poorly in passport offices. This packet was delivered to the police station, and I awaited the call to complete the process by having my fingerprints taken. I dreaded the necessary interaction with the infamous web of Italian red tape, but looked forward to walking around afterwards with inked fingers, causing people to wonder what I had been booked for.  I like to keep people guessing.

Told to arrive promptly at 8am, I was finally admitted to the imposing questura after an hour and a half of waiting. Two men, neither in much of a uniform, peered smugly over my carefully collected documents and asked me questions about where I was from and what I was studying. I stumbled over my Italian, nervously feeling like I was being interviewed for a dating reality show rather than submitting my papers for a residency permit. One of the police officers grabbed my hand and rolled it around on a scanner- technology robbing me of my opportunity to look like a criminal. My inkless prints appeared on a computer screen, and the officer asked me on a date in between questions about my citizenship. This felt wildly inappropriate for someone holding a page with my social security number, civil status and financial information. I guess my passport photo wasn’t as bad as I thought.

Later, as I walked out to get a much needed espresso, I had to smile while I ticked off all the Italian stereotypes that had been reinforced in only a few hours time. Inefficient bureaucracy, an exuberance for stamped documents, a love of high tech gadgets, and underlying it all, the unabashed amorous nature that has a place even in the fingerprinting room at the police station. Though it can be jarring, and sometimes frustrating, these passions are what turn a tedious errand into a study in the national character. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Making the choice to move to Italy from San Francisco was not an easy one, but I knew the second I pulled my suitcase out of the closet that I was making the right decision. My empty luggage was hibernating patiently in the dark, but like a toothache it was a constant, dull and throbbing reminder I had been in one place for far too long. It was an insistent relic of where I’d been, and where I still wanted to go. I was accepted to a two-year Masters program, the initial portion located in northern Italy, and knew it was time to scratch the powerful itch to move, to see, to travel. So I packed my grey suitcase beyond the point of legal weight limits, lugged it across the ocean via Air France (which has touch screen on-demand movies… how far we’ve come), and landed in Bologna about a week ago.

Bologna, like any beloved city, has a few nicknames. It is sometimes called Bologna the Red, for its fiery rooftops and deep-seeded Communist tradition. With Europe’s oldest university, the city has also earned the prestigious Bologna the Learned- I’ve heard the city bristles with students from the fall through the summer. As of now, it’s still waking up from sleepy August, during which almost all store windows stay shuttered and residents escape to sea or mountain. It is also called Bologna the Fat, for its treasured salted meats, tortellini and general adoration of all things stuffed with meat and doused in heavy cream. (Gelato no doubt figures into this nickname:  I have discovered a new flavor, which involves Nutella-covered doughnuts within a chocolate ice cream base. And I thought Americans had the monopoly on reckless gluttony…)

All these pet names are still just lip service to me, having been here less than a week. But I trust that over the course of the next nine months that I will be legal resident here (with finger prints at the local police station to prove it), it will become something entirely more personal. Here, at the beginning of my journey, I can only speculate how Bologna will be defined in my mind when I leave next summer: Bologna the Arduous? Bologna the Lonely? Bologna the Life-Altering? Whatever it will come to represent, I’ve made the crucial step. I heeded the quiet beckoning of an empty suitcase and followed it to my favorite boot-shaped nation. To quote from the lyrics of a song recently sent to me by a mentor and friend: the rest is still unwritten.