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.