Easter Comes In with a Bang

And now, for the brief explanation as to my absence. I'm sure I have many dying dire followers due to my hiatus. Fear no more. In the spirit of Easter, I have resurrected my blog. Horrah.

After spring break in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, and France I became inundated with pictures and stories and lovely thoughts for blog entries. However, it was too much and instead of tackling it, I avoided it. The same can be said about my finals work ethic...perhaps that is the best motivator of all for this post.

In any event, spring break--albeit over a month and a half ago--was lovely. I saw lots, ate lots of cheese, accumulated many a bar of chocolate, and learned what countries hate vegetarians most. All in all, a very good week but not at all a vacation.

And so, on an unrelated note--PASQUA IN ITALIA!

After three full months I like to think I have adapted well to the various customs of Italy. I learned to dress like a ninja in order to blend in with the slue of Italians garbed in dark blues, blacks and browns. I learned that what I deem a leisurely stroll to them is a determined power walk. I learned how to avoid the crimson cow flesh lining the aisles of the market. Overall, I have become accustomed to the ways and workings of Florence.

With the feeling of acclamation, I figured Easter would be a relatively normal event. Having seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding and having grown up with a large Italian family, I figured a fusion of the two things would, more or less, be a Florentine Easter. Assuming lamb on a spit was the strangest tradition of the day was a large, large mistake by the silly American study abroad student.
Curious about the ceremonies taking place in this highly religious country, I went where all people go—Google. It was there that I discovered Florence is all but normal when it comes to “Pasqua” (Easter) traditions.

“L’Esplosione del Carro” is an event all Florentines gather to see. “L’Esplosione del Carro” is exactly as it sounds—they literally explode a giant cart in Piazza del Duomo, the vast cathedral in the heart of Florence.

The cardinal of Florence ignites the Colombina, a dove-shaped rocket, inside the Duomo and it shoots down a string outside to ignite the giant brindellone—the wooden cart structure. The Colombina returns back into the church as a 20-minute firework explosion begins outside.

According to legend, if the dove ignites the cart and returns unharmed, it’s going to be a good year. An overall successful display of the Esplosione del Carro guarantees a good harvest, civil stability and good business. During this entire festivity the bells of Giotto’s campanile resound throughout the piazza.

Now, another thing I have learned after 3 months in Italy is that Italians do as they please. A store that is open from 10-1 and then from 4:30-6 here is more or less comparable to American hospital hours. They have little regard for when things should take place. If they want it to happen, it will…probably…eventually. That being said, I had absolutely not idea when this cart explosion would take place.
Wandering towards the Duomo around 10:30 am I was confronted with a solid mass of people who had beaten me to it.

Apparently, if nothing else, the Italians take their cart explosions very, very seriously. I couldn’t budge anybody. Typically, I can weasel myself and my camera to the very front of any and every event. In Italy I have done this for parades, rallies, panoramic views—you name it—but this was different. I could not get closer to this enigmatic cart in front of the Duomo.

After a few anticlimactic “songs” by trumpeters, the fireworks finally began. Now, from where I was standing all I could see was massive clouds of smoke and stray sparklers as I heard, what sounded, like incessant gunshots. Incredibly bizarre. The spectators clapped and yelled and whistled, despite only about 10% of the attendants being able to see anything.

Utterly intrigued by this spectacle, I did some research. Like everything in Italy, nothing just begins—everything is rooted in deep tradition. On Easter Sunday the cart, which has been used for over 500 years, is dragged to the Duomo by a team of white oxen covered in flowers and herbs. The 30 foot-tall cart is then escorted by 150 soldiers, musicians and Italians in 15th century attire. As I said, nothing just starts in Italy; everything is because of a tradition of yore.

In 1097 Pazzino de Pazzi, a Florentine from a rather wealthy family, was the first man to scale Jerusalem’s walls. This took place during the First Crusade as the Europeans laid siege to Jerusalem in an attempt to claim Palestine for Christianity.

Due to Pazzino de Pazzi’s brave act, he was awarded three flints from the Curch of the Holy Sepulchre. He carried these flints back to Tuscany where they are still kept in the Chiesa degli Santi Apostoli.

To light the “holy fire” it is tradition to use these flints. Men with torches then carry the holy fire around Florence. By the end of the 15th centure the Scoppio del Carro is as it is today.

As a foreigner, this was a fantastically odd experience. Though, in not being in America for Easter I realized how utterly absurd our traditions are as well. I had to explain Easter and it was rather difficult not to sound like a crazy person.
It’s like most childhood memories…doesn’t seem weird until you actually repeat it to those not involved. No, no—cart explosions are just nonsense. Bunnies carrying around eggs are normal. Why the bunnies have eggs to begin with, as they do not lay them as far as I know, or why no child actually receives eggs on Easter are questions we just ignore.

The Easter bunny hops around and magically children end up with baskets full of chocolate, socks and underwear. Oh, America. You get it. And so, though I still think setting fireworks off of a 500-year-old cart in front of a massive cathedral in the center of town is absurd, I have come to have a certain fondness for it.

Perhaps America should consider this tradition and nix the bunny. On that note, I’m pretty sure most cultures eat rabbit on Easter…is that right? That can’t be right.

March 17th Sans Drunken Leprechauns

it's all fun and games until you mistoss a flag and it hits a small child...

As far back as I can remember I have always known March 17th as Saint Patrick’s Day. Now, I’m not the least bit Irish, nor do I believe that everybody has a lil’ bit o’ Irish in them on St. Paddy’s Day. Watching the green-dyed bagels and Dr. Suess readings of yore turn in to green beers and belligerent dressed-up leprechauns, I was never really a fan of the day. I had no real reason to be. Sure, it’s all good and well that there are no more snakes in Ireland—but is that really what fuels the intoxication levels and sea of nauesating green?

And so, as March 17 quickly approached, I still saw no need to acknowledge it--especially not while in Italy. However, I soon came to find out that this March 17 marks the 150th anniversary of the unification of Italy. Cool. This is relevent. This makes sense to celebrate.
In 1815, after the defeat of Napoleonic France, the Congress of Vienna convened to redraw the European continent. During this, Italy was put back to the pre-Napoleonic workings and subsequently ruled by independent governements.

Pius IX, the pope at the time, feared that a unification of Italy would result in his lose of power in the region and thus the possible persecution of Italian Catholics. While I’m not entirely sure how true the Pope’s intentions were, I admit they seem moderately admirable. Though, I’ll admit saying this is largely in hopes that the current pope will read this article and complete my goals of my stay in Italy: a picture of me and the pope captioned “Papa e Papa.”

But I digress. While there were many which feared and opposed the unification of Italy, there were also many who adamently believed in the necessity of uniting Italy. Radical figures of the unification movement were Giuseppe Mazzini and Giuseppe Garibaldi. During the uneasy times of an ununited Italy, there were many insurrections. The Carbonari was a radical group which sought the unification of Italy, and often used more extreme measures to express this desire.
After a multitude of innsurrections, expeditions, and revolutions, Garibaldi had made his way to Naples. He stated his intent to proclaim a “Kingdom of Italy” from Rome, which was the capital city of Pop Pius IX. Catholics all over the world took this as a call to action and sent money and volunteers for the Papal Army.

Despite their best efforts, the Papal troops were defeated, and Victor Emmanuel II arrived on October 9 1860 taking command. In February of 1861 Victor Emmanuel called for an assembly of the deputites of the first Italian Parliament, and on March 17, 1861, Parliament proclaimed Victor Emmanuel II King of Italy.

And so, we celebrate. Last night I wandered out of my apartment to find a variety of booths outside the baptistry. Various artisans were showing their crafts and the process behind them. While I watched the woodcarver with fascination for longer than most would, I soon became drawn to the sound of distant music.
Rushing to the source I soon found a marching band making their way towards the duomo.

I ended up literally marching with the band, both due to my bizarre love of marching bands and my need to photograph. The “Soundstreet Band” marched their way to outfront the Duomo where a giant crowd of proud Italians gathered.

This celebration brought to mind the words of a true Italian: Martha Reeves. “Calling out around the world, are you ready for a brand new beat?...They’re dancin in the street. This is an invitation across the nation.” They were literally dancing in the streets. Everybody! Everybody was dancing in the streets. It was actually difficult not to swing and sway.
The band formed a small semi-circle and various people took center stage and shook it out. As a person who has always hoped of being in a place the same time one of those flash-dance-mobs happen (though I think that craze has passed), I loved this.

People were dancing just to dance. They were celebrating their nation and the things that unite them. Be it a love of pizza, love of PDA, or love of Italy—the people of Florence were brought together in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the unification of the country.
The drunken masses of shamrocks and drunks and people pinching me for not wearing green were a distant thought. While the color green was still prevalent on March 17, it was mixed with red and white and didn’t feel so contrived. This March 17 had a much different feel than any other. It was nice to see people singing and chanting and dancing without their BACs coinciding with the date. Viva Italia!

And now, for spring break. Here's hoping my adventures in Austria, Germany, Switzerland and France don't end up in a one-woman expedition back to Italia from the tundra of Russia after falling asleep on the train.

Crazy, Costumed, Crowded Current of Carnevalians

...how did they get up there...


This past weekend I went to Carnevale in Venice. Absolute insanity. If Disney World, Halloween in New York City and those movies about drugs that everybody had to watch in junior high got together, their bastard child would come out looking something like Carnevale.

Mardi Gras, literally meaning fat Tuesday, is essentially the same as Carnevale. It is the festivities leading up to the beginning of the Lenten season. One last hooplah before the piousness begins. I figured hey, when in Italy…and so I decided to go to Carnevale in Venice.

The very concept of Venice is mind-boggling. It is made up of 117 small islands in the Venetian Lagoon along the Adriatic Sea. There are no vehicles of any sort allowed on Venice. The roads are all waterways—subsequently, the ambulances are boats, the police are boats, the taxis are boats, and the wedding procession limousines are boats. The entire concept for the island seemed very fictitious to me. Venice: where Bikini Bottom meets Sims. Originally, the people wanted a place to escape attackers, and thus they fled to Venice. When the island proved too small, they simply built more islands…and more islands and more islands.

One island I visited, Murano, is an island devoted entirely to glassblowers. Apparently, the craftsmen were viewed as a giant fire hazard and thus banished to their own island. I viewed them as amazingly awesome and am currently trying to work into my life plan moving to Murano and perfecting glassblowing as a trade.

Of the 117 small islands that make up Venice, there are a total of about 272,000 inhabitants. Typically, Venice gets about 50,000 tourists a day…this number is nothing compared to the amount of crazed people attending Carnevale. There was a literal current of people. A crazy, costumed, crowded current of Carnevalians. Insanity. Absolute insanity. I really don’t think I stressed enough earlier how absurd this festival is. No, really...imagine Disney World meets New York City on Halloween meets health-class drug movie. Carnevale in a nut(ty) shell.

Being that I thought we were also going to Verona this past weekend, I brushed up on “Romeo and Juliet.” (Because what photo album is complete without a picture of me biting my thumb?) In any event, we didn’t end up going to Verona, though the allusions still managed to pop up.
The masquerade ball in “Romeo and Juliet” allowed for the very premise of the play to form. The masks hid their true identities, thus allowing debauchery to ensue. At Carnevale masks were used for this very reason—to hide identities.

The festivities of Carnevale are a celebratory precursor to the beginning of the Lenten season. The word carnevale comes from the Latin words carnem levare, meaning to remove meat. No alcohol or meat was to be consumed. The original concept of Carnevale was to facilitate concealing identities behind a whimsical and elaborate mask. With hidden faces the upper class was allowed to mingle amongst the commoners. By mingle, I mean they typically indulged in gluttonous consumption of forbidden goods, and had many an affair with lower classes and illicit lovers.

In the 18th century Carnevale gained popularity in Venice, and lasted for six weeks! I legitimately couldn’t handle two days of the mayhem…I cannot fathom six weeks of Carnevale. In order to further flourish the Venetian culture, Carnevale was revived in the 1980s.

During the day the streets were filled with spectators and various people dressed up. I saw several people in full Victorian-age garb, a gang of squid and/or penises, a giant broccoli monster/lizard, and a 7’ pig…and these were of the more normal costumes I saw. Everybody was in the Carnevale spirit. Typically, consumption of alcohol was not to take place, though I’m pretty sure about 98.6% of the people I saw were very very drunk, the remaining percent being children under the age of three.

Overall, Carnevale was absurd, though I’m rather glad to say I experienced it all. Everything about Carnevale seemed very traditional, despite it’s more modern rejuvenation and it’s devil-may-care shenanigans.

There is even food typical to Carneval. I tried the “frittelle di riso”, a typical treat for the celebration. It is literally balls of rice that are fried. The outside is like that of a glazed Munchkin and covered in sugar, though the inside is the consistency of boogers and tastes faintly of lemon. Though bizarre, they weren’t unenjoyable. I had several. This year was the first year I celebrated Mardi Gras/Carnevale to any extent. Though, in Italy I believe every Tuesday to be Fat Tuesday…also there’s a Fat Wednesday and Thursday and….

Hitting the Sweet Spot

Wandering back after leaving a bar in Florence the other weekend was strangely familiar. Coming back Friday night around 2 was no unusual feeling. (Because I’m cool.) Also, I was hungry. Now, around 2 AM on a Friday night at Hofstra any proud Pride patron stops at Dutch Treats. Statistics show that fewer than 3% of Dutch Treats revenue comes from sober students. Perhaps because nobody in their right mind is willing to pay $5 for Pringles, or perhaps because Pringles never seemed more necessary than at 2 AM. In any event, Dutch Treats is a stop on any late night trek home.

Being used to the ability to satiate late night hunger cravings, I was at first slightly upset in having no place cater to my needs. And then I heard the magic words, ”Secret bakery?” Upon asking for clarification, he simply reiterated “secret bakery?” Is “hellz yes” not strong enough of a response? Do I want anything more than to find out what a secret bakery is? Have I already consumed my weight in pastry today? The answer to all of these questions was an overwhelming yes.

According to legend, there are bakeries around town that open up around 1:30 AM. They will serve customers, though they are open to bake goods for the day to supply various other pasticcerias. Closing around 5 AM, the window of opportunity is very limited, though if found certainly a sweet find.

Suddenly, I was transformed into Cartoon Michaela. I was lifted off the ground; my body floating on grey-colored visible beams of aroma the bakery’s sweet smells magnetically pulling me. What magical place was emitting the enchanting aromas?

“We take a left at Mary.” This brought me out of my cartoon-like daze. Looking up, I noticed we were standing in front a giant mosaic of Mother Mary- the obvious landmark for a quest such as this. Giving Mary a quick nod, we made a left.

We were finally there. A Secret Bakery. The sign on the door heeded silence. I can imagine being a mecca for drunken people leaving bars this literal hole-in-the-wall would get rather noisy. Not to mention, the sleeping Italians upstairs. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from attempting to sleep in Italy, it’s that Italians love yelling in the streets. While drunken Americans love to sing show tunes at the top of their lungs in the (Florence) streets, Florentine’s love to talk passionately at all hours of the night…regardless the night of the week. But I digress.

Inside the miniature bakery was already filled. Apparently many a person was possessed by their Warner Brothers alterego tonight. Hot freshly baked mini pizzas, warm oozing chocolate croissants, apple filled pastries…really, how could one chose? Dismissing the possibility of buying three of everything, if only due to the fact that I had only coins in my pockets (one of them a nickel), I decided on a chocolate croissant. This is in the top five best decisions of my life. Though, this may say something about my life decisions, it should also say something about how--excuse my Italian-- freakin’ amazing this pasty was.

Walking back to my apartment at 3 AM in the misting night air reminded me of Long Island. I said in a previous editorial that Florence keeps reminding me (be it good or bad) of Long Island. And so, with the familiar feeling of living inside a nimbostratus cloud, I thought hey—what made this walk home better than a walk home at Hofstra. Besides the fact that I was in Italy not Long Island the answer was obvious: warm pastry.

Dutch Treats should start making fresh pastry at 2 AM. While I realize the lovely workers of Dutch Treats may not welcome this openly, perhaps an easier improvement could be made. Simply offering to toast Pop-Tarts from the hours of 2AM to 5 AM would make Hofstra—nay the world, a better place. Nothing satisfies a person at 2 AM after a night out like a warm baked good.

*The actual name of this bakery isn’t Secret, but for all intents and purposes, it might as well be.

Dead Poet's Society...no...really

The "garden"

The other day I started out wandering towards the Far East side of Florence. Regardless of the fact that it was drizzly and rather overcast, I still deemed it a fine day to explore. Everything seemed quieter and oddly more it its place, despite of the weather conditions. I found myself inside a bizarre little garden area of sorts and this began to set the scene for the rest of my day.

Though marked a garden, it really was more like a getaway. I couldn’t help but feel like Alice in Wonderland as I made my way through the gate into an area just full of vegetation. The pebble path was lined with shrubs and trees of varying sizes. Perhaps the most jarring thing was the table with a fluorescent-checkered tablecloth on it. It had an indistinguishably purposed gargoyle of sorts atop it, and below the table was a bowl full of, now, cat food soup. I believe this is Giardino Della Gherardesca, though on this dreary Thursday it was utterly abandoned. The odds that this was not Giardino Della Gherardesca and that I actually roamed somebody's back yard are fairly high. Wandering about the “garden” for a bit, I left it in a weird daze. After walking into the nooks and crannies Florence has to offer, I seem to understand Fellini better with each encounter.

The fog was thickening, though this still didn’t mean it was time to end my adventures for the day. Walking down a rather main road, Via Gramsci near Piazza Donatello, I saw in the distance a striking cemetery. It was very large and elevated off the main surroundings. Despite the fact that it is encircled by major roads on all sides, it still looked like a place of solitude and tranquility. And thus, I attempted to find a way into this cemetery. Crossing the lanes of traffic proved to be rather difficult, especially due to the rain, but after several near-death experiences on my way to the cemetery, I managed to make it.

Large iron gates welcomed me as I headed up the path to a gatehouse. The narrow archway houses a tiny office, outside of which there are many free postcards and various pamphlets of information regarding the cemetery. I managed to happen upon a cemetery for English poets who died in Florence. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words are engraved on a stunning sign stating, “and here among the English tombs/ in Tuscan ground we lay her./ While the blue Tuscan sky endomes/ our English words of prayer." Among the buried are E. Barrett Browning, Arthur Clough, Walter Savage Landor, and Theodore Parker—the American preacher. While none of these names were of any great particular recognition to me, the existence of an English poet’s cemetery of Swiss property in Florence was rather intriguing.

In 1827 the construction of Cimitero Protestante di Porta a Pinti began. The Catholics weren’t pleased at all with this in the least, and thus after the first burial services the graves were destroyed. I would like to know what the upturned poet's would write about their tumultuous end. Though, soon the cemetery began to grow in acceptance as well as size. Now, there are 1,409 people of 16 nations buried in the English Cemetery.

Walking around in the rain was an eerie experience. The graves were all slick and shiny and not a soul was to be seen. The paths lead around the perimeter of the graveyard, though one cuts through the center. I wish I could have wandered about freely amongst the tombs and mausoleums, but I understand why this isn’t the most plausible thing.

It was frustrating to be able to read only the graves immediately along the path, though these proved to be rather interesting. Some of them dated back to the beginnings of the cemetery, while others were surprisingly recent marking deaths around the later half of the 20th century.
The last burial was held in 1877. After the demolition of the Porte a Pinti and the city walls it became illegal to have a place of burial inside a town, according to Code Napoleon. Subsequently, for 130 years the cemetery was utterly neglected. It wasn’t until recently that it began being restored and rejuvenated…or as much as a cemetery can be rejuvenated. From what I understood, what is now a library was once the house of Beatrice and Claude Shakespeare.

While I’m sure the entire adventure of mine would have had a vastly different feel had it been a sunny day, I rather enjoyed the uncanny nature of it all. I would almost recommend going on a hazy day. It seems fitting.

That's Amore: A Reflection on Valentine's Day

‘Twas the night before V-Day, when all ‘cross the land

Not a creature was happy, not woman nor man;

The hearts were hung by the chimney with care

In hopes that St. Valentine soon would be there;

The students were nestled right tight in their beds,

While visions of chocolates danced in their heads.

And roommates in their jammies, and I in my sweats,

Had just wagered all of our Valentine's bets.

When out in the courtyard arose such loud chaos,

I sprang from bed to see who may want to date us.

Away to the window I jumped to right quick,

Peered through broken blinds, did the window trick.

The moon on the breast of the old, dirty snow

Gave the idea of LI as you come or you go.

When, what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear,

But a miniature man, and eight tiny heart spears.

With a little small diaper, so awkward and white,

I knew it was Cupid this Feb'rary night.

More rapid than heartbeats his insults they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called out mean names;

"Now, Lonely! Now, Single! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Clingy! On Stupid! On, Love-struck and Smitten!

To boxes of chocolates! To flowers short and tall!

Now cry in bed! Cry in bed! Cry in bed, all!"

As dry as the flowers saved from last year's Valentine,

When Cupid meets with the humans, he ne'er doth refine.

So up to the many--the singles and dating,

With arrows of sharpness, was St. Valentine waiting.

And then, in a moment, I heard in my cab'net

The chewing and swal'wing of chocolates now wet.

As I drew in my head, and was turning to see,

Cupid shot me with an arrow and laughed giddily.

He was dressed in a rag, from his hip to his thigh,

And he began to explain, and started on why.

A bundle of arrows he had flung on his back,

And he looked like an archer with a heart that was black.

His eyes- how they're hollow! His hair how curly!

His wings were so creepy, his lashes so girly!

His droll little mouth was drawn like the devil's,

Cupid then told me how to get on his level.

The tale that he told was of grandeur but truth,

And the words that he said all had plenty of proof.

He had a round face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed as he continued to tell me:

The lovers get a day of chocolates and flowers,

The cynics get a day of black shirts and scours.

A wink of his eye as he ate my last treat,

He told me the point's to indulge in the sweets.

Be it sweethearts or Sweet Hearts to each their fun,

You see Valentine's Day discriminates none.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, out the front door he chose.

He flew with his wings, as he turned and gave me a whistle,

And away he then flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy V-Day to all, and to all a good fight."


I like to think of Valentine's Day as a Groundhog's Day for people. Your heart wakes up, comes out of its cavern, exposed to the staring people it waits for the verdict. Is there a shadow, or will it be a very long winter ahead?

Though this may come as a surprise, I actually really enjoy Valentine's Day. It is a day in which cynics, despite their words saying otherwise, truly are most themselves. Despite plethora of chocolates and barren hearts in every window, the cynics still find a way to complain.

I would argue that Valentine's Day is, in fact, is their most favorite holiday of all. It allows for them to be in truest form. Nobody is allowed to be contemptuous on Christmas. Nobody gets to be resentful on Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day is the perfect holiday! Best yet---they're gaining followers!

This being said, every bitter person on Valentine's Day is likely a bitter person most other days of the year. Thus, this is just another day—but with lots more readily available chocolates and a lack of remorse upon consumption.

And so, those who believe in things like "romance" and reasoning such as, "because I love you," this is a day for you. You, like the cynics, get to be more yourself than ever. Indulge in the flowers of suitors and the kisses galore. For those who have somebody to share this holiday with, even better.

Though, would those who love Valentine's Day love it any more if they were single, or would they be the ones yet sending out Yahoo's Valentine's Day e- cards and buying catnip in a heart shape for their cats?

Valentine's Day revolves around chocolate and people showing their true colors—be it pink, red or black. Now I hope you enjoyed my excessive poem I wrote in a reflection on Valentine's Day.

I Always End Up At Feminist Gatherings Wearing Flannel

Today was laundry day. I was down to my last flannel and weird jeans, but I figured I didn't have much to do today but read the Odyssey. Putting on my chic Italian wear, I remembered we were told there was a rally today. Our advisor had emailed all of us, essentially,to essentially, tell us not to go. Taking the email as a welcomed invitation I wandered out of my apartment on the drizzly Sunday to see what this was all about.

As it was the middle of the afternoon and I figured most protesters are early risers, I didn't have much hope of finding the rallyers still rallying. This was not the case. After walking a block I heard chanting. They were marching towards the Duomo. Hundreds upon hundreds of people were banging pots and pans and chanting and marching towards the duomo. WHAT?! This was not what I expected. I find people sending back wrong orders at restaurants outright audacious, the fact that now thousands of people were protesting outside this marvelous basilica was downright baffling.

I wasn't entirely sure what they were protesting, I just knew there were a lot of women with headbands chanting in Italian. They meant business. Several people soon walked by waving giant rainbow flags. Unaware both the point of this rally, and the fact that the rainbow flag was an international symbol, this piqued my interest.

Last semester for the newspaper it seemed as though I was assigned every LGBT event and feminist gathering possible. If there were empowered women taking a stand, there I was in my flannel. While I'm not actually gay, ("not that there's anything wrong with that") I do dabble in the plaid and will admit I would marry Ellen. Fitting most lesbian stereotypes, except the whole liking women thing, I found it comical that--despite no longer being a Chronicle photographer, and no longer being assigned Hofstra LGBT events, I still managed to find myself with a camera amidst crowds of empowered women taking a stand.

I later realized, the main point of this was not solely a gay pride/acceptance demonstration, but rather a demonstration for women. The women (and men, kids, and several puppies) of Italy decided to take a stand against Berlusconi. They argued he is degrading of women and he is humiliating females. Allegedly, the Premier paid a 17 year old for sex. (Also, another fun fact I learned today--prostitution isn't illegal in Italy.) The fact that Burlusconi (supposedly) had sex with a minor is overall a disgrace to the nation and a abomination to the women of Italy. It is a reflection of the fact that the Premier lacks respect for women and does not regard them as equals. I'm curious if this protest still would have happened had the girl been 18...but that's neither here nor there.

I decided to run back to my apartment to grab my other camera and Flip (because every real film major chooses The Flip). Making my way back I managed to get an exorbitant amount of footage of women of varying ages wearing handcrafted headbands, pumping signs (which may have been clever, I wish I could tell) and clanging household objects together. I'm not sure if it was meant to be symbolic that the women were marching holding pots and pans, or just convenient instruments. Either way, it was very effective.

I managed to end up morphing into the mob and marching with the masses. This was oddly moving. I had no idea what I was walking for, but I knew that this was something a lot of people felt passionately about. I figured I wasn't joining a communist gathering (as that rally was yesterday). Walking and hearing the chanting and seeing all the people so moved to action really stirred something in me. I wish I could've learned their catchy songs.

After many many "scusa"s, I made my way to the very heart of the rally. I was feet from a woman with a megaphone calling the people to action. Despite the fact that I couldn't really understand much more than "women", "enough" and "Berlusconi," I still understood the basic form of the rally. The ideas were all there, the words were all there--but what was most effective was the passion and emphasis behind the words. Regardless of the language, political party, or even gender, this rally brought together the people of Italy in attempt to vocalize the contempt and disgust at the current state of affairs in Italy.

I liked being at the very center of things. Again, I'm not entirely sure how the tiny American girl-with-camera made it to the heart of the rally, but I was pretty excited all the same. I took a bunch of pictures, and a lot of video. I plan to make a short video of the rally, though it proved to be a lot harder than anticipated to make a documentary when you can't speak the language.

All in all, I'm glad I left my house in my flannels and reject jeans. Though it was laundry day at my apartment--a rather big day, today proved to be an even bigger day for Italy. Also, I saw a group of sad women on a side street holding a sign that said "STOP KILL" with a picture of a whale with blood coming out of its blowhole. Viva Italia.