Some Final Rays of Sun

Hello and welcome back! I'm pretty freshly arrived from a wonderful weekend at the beach with Mrs. Bortins. She was pleased with those of us who took initiative and went to the SAT practice last weekend, and so when she went to the beach this weekend, she invited us first. We were all looking forward to it, and nobody more than me, because I hadn't been to the ocean in a few years. The first few days of the week were pretty tame in comparison. We're all looking forward to the SATs on Saturday. Honestly, while I've been nervous in past years, this year, I know I'm prepared to do as well as I can, even if it's not a perfect score.

The week passed quickly and uneventfully, with the exception of one minor car-related accident. We're enjoying the extra hours of freedom during our afternoons. A few of us have taken up art, either exploring or returning to it. We've realized that the lake is going to be too cold to properly enjoy soon. I took one of the kayaks out for a long excursion around it's limits on Tuesday afternoon, and after astronomy on Wednesday, we all went swimming. Once we were in, most of us enjoyed it, but the water was cold. We played games and had a great night, but it wasn't too long before we had to go to bed and rejoin the real world for class the next morning.

Thursday morning was the usual fare of math and geometry, but during the afternoon, Leigh gave us all new assignments for the volunteer work we're doing. We're all taking part in a collaborative effort to build a business plan for one of her ideas, and then implement it by Christmas. We'll spend the rest of the year after that developing our own businesses using hers as a model. We all worked on that for a good portion of the afternoon and spent the evening at the villas.

Leigh helped us fill out our common applications on Friday, and we continued working on our high school transcripts and resumes for college applications this fall. She wants us all to achieve, and she's bending over backwards to make it happen. After lunch, we cleaned the house thoroughly and then left for the beach. She took us out to dinner that first night, and we took care of the rest of the meals that week. Dinner was amazing. We went to a local restaurant and had an abundance of seafood. Alec and I ended up sharing a platter of what looked like the dregs from the bottom of a net. Crab legs, clams, shrimp, and much more stood a foot off the table in this monstrosity of a dish. We really enjoyed eating it, and everyone enjoyed watching us. I realized that I love having a bucket for scraps instead of a plate. Afterwards, we went to the grocery store and loaded up on food. Each pair of us had a different meal to take care of, and we all did it very well. It was a great solution to our inconvenient need to eat every day. We had four well-cooked, well thought-out meals without much individual pain.

The next day, while we were exploring an island and slipping on a hazardous causeway in the early morning light, our fellows at home were taking the second practice SAT. Leigh's taking them back in a few weeks. In the afternoon, we got boogie boards and hit the beach again. By the end of the day, we were too sore to do anything but sit on the porch and watch the waves crash on the sand. That was when we found out that Elizabeth's brothers were planning to drop by and surprise her. We kept her in the dark for another hour, and when they finally walked in the door, she was utterly blown away. We all enjoyed watching the reunion.

Sunday was spent in much the same way. We fought the waves until we were utterly exhausted, cleaned the house, and came home to our villas. I really think of this place as home now, which honestly isn't great. I realized when I was at the beach that my habits are so much better when I travel. At home, I seem to stagnate. I'm working on this. Anyway, it was great to see our friends again, even if we had only been away for a few days. I don't know how we'll survive next summer. A few of the fellows were still gone. Christopher was at his home, and Laura had returned to hers. She got back after dark, but we found out that Chris had car problems keeping him an extra day.

Monday came and my roommates and I had to find rides with other people. Elizabeth's older brother John sat in devotions with us. He ships out to Afghanistan soon, and we've been praying for him. It was great to have him with us. With four days of prep left until the SAT, we focused on it all morning, each of us working on his or her own personal weakness. Caleb took over for music in the afternoon. We practiced choir, singing Blue Moon and a song from the Psalter. They're both for the Thanksgiving concert, but we're singing the last one in church next week. It gave me goosebumps. I can't wait.

Well, that's it for this week. Next time, you'll hear about our SAT experience and how we handled the first of the prospective visitors to next year's Fellowship.

Until next week,
Barnabas Holleran

The Calm Before the Storm

Hello again, and welcome back.

We're pretty much back in the swing of things here. The jet lag is gone, the nights are back to normal, and we're no longer geeking out over the simplest things. Oddly enough, I've noticed that I make far more comparisons and allusions to Florence now than I did just after coming back. Maybe I miss it, and maybe it's just becoming more clear the farther back from it I stand. Anyway, things are returning to normal. The exterminator just finished his follow-up fumigation at our house, and I can't wait to finally unpack all of my things from their plastic bags and get settled again. Because my house is literally full of noxious gas, I'm writing from the loft at Mrs. Bortins', looking out over the lake and enjoying the beauty of the start of Autumn. I miss the foliage of Vermont, but this place is making up for it with incredible weather. Things are changing around here, and not just outside. Mrs. Bortins gave us all new work assignments today, cutting most of our work hours down from twenty a week to just five. She still plans to keep us busy with service work for her company, for our upcoming presentations, and with quite a few other projects she has up her sleeve. Thankfully, I get to keep the blog on top of my other work, but we're all getting new assignments.

There's not much to tell of the week we've been back. It's been fairly tame. Many people went home, and the rest of us dreamed of it. Gracsyn celebrated her 18th birthday two weekends ago, and her family came to visit, bearing cake and embarrassing stories. We all had an exceptionally good time. We take the SATs in two weeks, so Leigh has really given us both barrels with the practice— we've been doing two tests a day, back to back, to try to get us used to it. When Saturday came along, a dozen or so of us showed up at Mrs. Bortins to take a full SAT— too early and too long, just like the real one. We were all a little surprised. I had forgotten how little math there was and felt pretty well prepared. Our scores are encouraging. Honestly, I just want October 5th to hurry up and get here. We've spent almost three months working up to this test, and I think we're all about as good as we're going to get. It's time to face it.

So that's my brief recap! We simply haven't had as many escapades and adventures since we got back. However, with less hours to work, and all these beautiful days and nights, I expect I'll have something to write about soon enough.

Until then I remain your servant,
Barnabas

Irish Drinking Songs and Italian Guitar

Hey everyone! It's been way too long since I last wrote, but let me just tell you, it's been— wait, I bet you can guess for yourself— crazy, intense, wild. Lets start quickly with this last weekend or rather Thursday night, when Christopher walked into my room holding a tissue and asking if he'd just found bed bugs. The short answer was yes.We spent the next three days packing and cleaning, searching every crevice in the house for the evil red critters. Everyone was so happy to be back from Italy at first, but the comfort and familiarity of home wore off almost immediately as we realized how much we liked Italy and vacationing in Florence. Instead of hopping a bus to San Marco, and walking the wide cobbled streets to the market or to get some of Edwardo's gelato, we sit in class, go to work, and cook our dinners. Oh well, such is life. Still, I can look back at the fantastic times we had there and tell you a little bit about them!

I last wrote on Friday, the day I decided to spend in relaxation at the villa. I'll let you fill in the blanks for our activities on Saturday: we were young, energetic, and coming to an end of our Italian visit, and we went to town looking for adventure. Each of us went our own way, finding new sights, new shops, and new foods. If we supported the leatherworking economy, we practically built pillars for the gelaterias. By nightfall, we were all back at the top of the hill, turning in a little early to be ready for church the next day.

The good people of Chiesa Evangelica were looking forward to seeing us again, and we couldn't disappoint. Truthfully, we were looking forward to visiting again. Caleb left early, and most of us decided to go with him. We actually arrived before the pastor, who jokingly asked us, all in Italian, if we'd slept there. The rest of the congregation trickled in soon after, and we joined together in worship. Caleb filled the house with music as the congregation joined his piano and we all sang from the Italian hymnals. Regardless of how well we knew the words, Caleb's teaching paid off, and we could at least hum in harmony. We did sing, however, and when the familiar tune of Amazing Grace swept from the front, the pastor encouraged us delightedly to sing in English. Someone translated the sermon for us again, and then we took communion. I'm not really sure what  I was expecting. I think I wanted a deep spiritual moment of interconnectedness as I followed my classmates up to the front and took my place sandwiched between an old Italian lady and one of my friends. However, we joined hands to pray, and everything was comfortably familiar. The elders passed bread down the line and followed it shortly with a large cup; we ate and we drank, and then we went back to our seats. After the service we mingled with the congregation, exchanging hugs and handshakes, and then with lingering steps, we crossed the threshold for the last time.

Monday night held our celebration dinner and performance with Villa Morghen, so Sunday night was our last night in town. Many of us simply wandered the streets in small groups, enjoying the final glimpses of Florence in her sparkling splendor. At night, the darkness covers the blemishes and the cracks, and everything looks perfect and new. The city shines, and the people reflect it with beaming faces. The commerce of the day is done, and now people are free to roam, their minds on their eyes, not on their wallets. Musicians play on most street corners by the square at the center of the city, and their music drifts into the sky with the street vendors' spinning lights. We couldn't bear to leave early— my friends and I skipped dinner to wander. Ten o'clock came, and with it the final bus, so we had to say a final goodnight to our newfound friend.

We were up bright and early the next morning, ready for our final day in town. Our deadline was set at three PM; today was a day of business. Most of us had last-minute shopping to do for ourselves or the folks back home, so we split into groups and assailed the city. From knives to scarves to tobacco, everyone got something, and our business was soon concluded, leaving us with a few final hours to explore the city. A few of us had been missing the food from the old country (you know, America) and so we kept in mind a little place we'd heard of called "The Diner". Alec and I found ourselves alone and looking for it come lunch time. We got hopelessly lost in the streets of Florence, until we stumbled across Via dell'Acqua, a name we recognized from our map. We looked to the left, and sure enough, blazing in a shaft of sun let through theatrical clouds was The Diner, proudly waving an American flag in the narrow alleyway. We walked in and drank in the Rick Astley playing over the speakers. Their food wasn't the best, (that honor is reserved for my hometown) but it was good, and more importantly, we could be unapologetically American with our Californian waitress. The manager was from somewhere in Great Britain, but we forgave him. After a hearty meal, we made our way home by way of the food market. We had one final purchase to make, one final preparation for the celebration.

The evening crawled by, but dinner finally came. The previously bare tables were covered in white cloths, and wine stood in pitchers by the plates. The people at Villa Morghen served us a delicious three course meal, and no matter how much we ate, they had more to feed us. We feasted very well. When our dinner was finally over, they called us into the main gathering room, and we partied late into the night. For the first half hour, this fantastic local guitar player led us in folk music and old Irish drinking songs, with a few classic Italian ballads mixed in. We were a little surprised. Anyway, we had a great time, and I was proud to hold his music for him. When he finished, we started our own performances. Alec, Seth, Jake, and Ian went first. Their talent? Watermelon eating. The poor boys had already stuffed themselves at dinner, and they made the next two minutes hell for themselves, and quite amusing for the rest of us. One by one we followed them, singing, dancing, and reciting poetry. The night was mostly fun, but there were a few somber and beautiful performances, which added tremendously to the whole thing. The schedule ran out, and our photographers were due to present a slideshow, but the computer needed work, so we had a brief interlude. Everyone was surprised at how many more performances leapt out on stage. Even Mrs. Bortins stood up and performed some magic tricks for us. The pictures finally worked, and we spent a long time going through each one, laughing, joking, and enjoying reminiscing on our trip.

Our evening finally concluded. We had all packed in the afternoon, and now each of us had a choice: would we go to bed for a few short hours or stay up until the bus left at four-thirty? One way or another, we made it through the night, and up the hill the next morning. The sun had not yet risen as we drove quietly through empty streets, mounted the highway, and watched the city disappear behind us.

So that's the story of our last few days in Italy. I'm so glad we made friends with the church that we did. They all send their blessings and greetings to us and our churches. We had the time of our lives, and I couldn't imagine the trip being any better. We've been talking about how much withdrawal we'll all go through at the end of the year when we have to say goodbye to the people we've spent so much time with and drawn so close to. In short, we're all so blessed to be in this crew.

Until next time,
Barnabas

Seeing Dante in the Olive Groves

Airy music rushes to meet me as I walk down these hollow halls. Gordan is playing the piano again. This place is amazing. It feels so peaceful and ageless, like a soft forest glade, yet the iron bars on the windows, the tight spiraling stairs, and the long stone corridors contain boundless potential for adventure. If I could fence, these halls would probably ring with steel most hours of the day. But equally likely, the only sound to come from my fingers would be the rustle of pages as I turned slowly through books older than these halls themselves. Here in the hill town of Settignano, surrounded by fields and overlooking a brilliant view of the city, lived Dante and Michelangelo, as well as a host of other brilliant artists and poets, drawing life from the land and giving it back to the people. These past days have been a mix of stress and excitement, and today I plan to simply relax.

I may be the only one left at the villa. The Bortins crew is still out meandering the Mediterranean, and two groups left this morning for Pisa and Sienna. The remaining fellows have just now walked to catch the bus to town. I don't know the details of what they were doing over the past few days, but I can talk of Venice, that sinking city, where I spent my time. Brooke's sister and her husband live in the town of Montebelluna, just outside of Venice, and we stayed with them there. First, we left on Tuesday afternoon, after spending the day with the rest of the group, and visiting Michelangelo's David. Our morning done, we left for the train station, where Christopher saw us off, Brooke, Laura, and me myself. Our train took sped us away little by little to Padova. I had a funny little exchange with another foreigner, a woman who's case was too heavy for her. As I carried it off the train, she thanked me and I accepted it, all in Italian, with neither of us understanding the language. I was still chuckling about that when we met Victoria, Brooke's sister, at the gate. We boarded the train again and left for Montebelluna.

The little town was gorgeous and quiet, although, again, I found that it wasn't as small as I thought. The towns here are deceptively large. What I liked most was that there were no tourists besides us walking through its streets. The town was full of normal people going about normal lives. Victoria greeted old friends, and the place felt like a home— if not our own, than someone's. So we climbed to their apartment and spent the rest of the evening with them. Victoria is an amazing cook. I miss her, actually, and the gorgeous meals she would put on the table. When I told James that the woman I marry has to be able to cook, he spoke out with his Oxford wisdom and said, “Good lookin' changes. Good cookin' lasts forever.” Truer words are hard to come by. So we played cards and retired for the night, sprawling on cushions and mattresses in the living room.

Brooke wanted to stay with her family the next day, so Laura and I went out on the town. Actually, the four of us went out in the morning to the open market held every Wednesday in the square. Instead of cheesy trinkets meant for tourists, the market sold food, clothes, shoes, and all else that the people here actually use, all for so much cheaper than the markets in Florence. It was delightful. We bought food for Venice from the stalls and didn't mind the prices at all. Brooke and Victoria returned home, and Laura and I went to see the sights, mainly the church at the top of the hill. The streets of Italy are an absolute delight, with the possibility of gardens, high vistas, and singing construction workers beyond every turn. We meandered our way back in time to go to Wednesday night church, held outside of town, in an actual warehouse. Now I have experienced both equivalents here; the highly traditional, and the very charismatic. We sang familiar worship songs in Italian from a projector on the wall, and wore headphones to hear a translation of the sermon, a talk on understanding God's will.

Here in Italy, I've been watching everything with an eye of comparison. What is the same in the states? What huge differences can I find? To be honest, I don't know why I expected so much difference. The people are the same here. They worship in churches built before King Richard returned from his crusades, but they worship the same God with the same songs, preaching the same messages for the same problems. Old men still ramble, delighted to share their knowledge, and young bucks still crowd around each other in the park, laughing, boasting, and showing off for the girls. The tiny alleys are older than our capitol, and their ugly and new churches would be old and majestic to us. But the same people walk down the streets, going about the same business of living on this earth. That's what I've seen here. Dogs still bark at strangers, people still get used to priceless views, and tourists always come to see things from a different perspective. I no longer apologize for my camera, or try to blend in. Most of my “grazie”s have turned to “thank you”s, because no matter what I do, I couldn't separate myself from these people, not if I tried.

I can see all of Florence from here. I can see her dome and her spires, her soccer stadiums and her apartment buildings. I can see the valley stretching from end to end, full of orchards and gardens. The view from this mountain is beautiful, more so than almost any I've seen, but it's no different from the views I've seen from any other hilltop, and no different from the view the Etruscans saw two thousand years ago when they looked down into the valley and saw the little seed of a town wrapped around the Arno. Walt Whitman wasn't crazy when he compared us to grass, interconnected and the same. Solomon was right when he wrote that there is nothing new under the sun. And here I am, under the sun, seeing what so many great minds saw before me, and I'm very happy, content to be older than dirt and the same as everyone else. Now I want to read Dante's books. What did he think when he looked out over Tuscany? I can see his pen scratching, and I long to look over his shoulder. As for now? I'm going to return to Odysseus’s tale, and see how his story ends. You? You should shut off your computer and take a walk under the sun.

Au revoir, arrividerci, and see you later!

Your servant,
Barnabas

Tales of Tuscany

I have had so little time to write, that I'm afraid I'll have to give more of a summary than I have been before. So I believe it was to the Basilica di Santa Croce that we went on Friday. This old monastery and museum held all sorts of fascinating things, such as an old choir book, huge and heavy, with very basic musical notation which even Caleb couldn't fully decipher. Pietro led us through, showing us the most important displays and telling us about the history of the building. I love how much everything here has been through. The architects and masons who raised these buildings had such a vision for the future. Pietro's tour led us through this room with an incredible echo. A whispered word would rebound loudly for several seconds. When we finished the tour, we asked one of the guards if we could sing in the room. He nodded and stipulated “no pop music”. We gathered into our groups and sang four part harmony in the echoing chamber, in front of a quickly swelling audience. We left laughing and singing again, everyone very glad we had seized the opportunity.

Of all the days we've had here, I would claim Friday as one of the best. Instead of bussing into the city, we walked up the hill, farther and farther, until we came to this grand gate leading to a private house. We were there to visit the garden. Words and pictures don't do it justice. This long-standing garden has inspired people for centuries. The designer of the famous Longwood Gardens of Pennsylvania drew heavily on this old mountaintop sanctuary. I've been to both, and while Longwoods was fantastic, vast, and beautiful, there was something about this garden, this garden which seemed to go on forever yet sat very compactly on its land and which bled history from every crack in its faded walls, there was something which was overwhelmingly more rich than the gardens in Pennsylvania. I think the best example of this was the giant shrine at the back of the garden, a tall old tiled fountain, set in a wall and crumbling at the corners. The bottom was surrounded by a low wall inset with benches, all much newer than the wall they faced. This old giant stood when Pennsylvania was being roamed in buckskin, and there is no reason why it could not stand for centuries more. We ate lunch overlooking another incredible view of the city and its valley, and spent most of the afternoon lounging there.

That evening, we dressed in our finest and attended the opera! It was fantastic and great fun to watch. The conductor was so invested in the music that he was a joy to watch. Honestly, he kind of stole the stage. We had some trouble getting home, and some of us didn't arrive until two in the morning.

If Friday was one of the best, Saturday was the best. Honestly, I don't remember what we did in the morning, but that afternoon, we visited wine country. The trip out of Florence was pretty. The ride there was beautiful. The views in Chianti were gorgeous. I've never seen such a lovely place in all my life. We met the owner of the vineyard we were visiting, and he brought us around the town to his farm. The grapes hung in great bunches on a hillside overlooking an incredible valley. We sat together around a big table, and he brought out wine after wine, five in all, and so much bread, biscotti and who knows what else, that we were completely and pleasantly filled. One course had bread with meat, and when he heard that one of our party was a vegetarian, he disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a plate of cheese for her, I believe from his own personal larder. When Leigh asked about how to properly taste wine, he laughed and told her to “drink it like water”. I could have stayed there forever, laughing with my friends, tasting wines, eating delicious food, and looking out over the most fantastic countryside I've ever seen.

On Sunday, our adventures took another jump. Leigh and Pietro took most of the others to a museum and a huge garden in Florence. All went well, and there isn't a whole lot to tell, except maybe that they tried to feed the pigeons and found themselves utterly swarmed, covered in a mass of white and flapping. It was a fairly normal visit, I gather. Now, while all that went on, Caleb led a smaller expedition into the city, and we tried to figure out a changed bus schedule. Originally, we were going to split into two groups and find our way to two different churches. After a series of wrong stops, wrong turns, and wrong decisions, we ended at the very “rightest” church we could have, so of course how wrong could the choices have actually been? Instead of the grand churches we wanted to go to, we stumbled into a tiny Italian church just before their sermon. The ten members of the congregation turned to look at us, and we greeted them awkwardly: the Korean family, and their Jewish father, the college student from Florida, who looked more Italian that anyone there, two local women, an old man with a cane, and a few others. 

They quickly realized we were Americans. God was watching out for us, and of course there was a woman there who used to live in America, and who spoke both languages fluently. While the pastor read from Romans, the tiny congregation whispered and schemed, trying to best accommodate us. Soon enough, the jolly old pastor was speaking, and Judy, the American, was taking detailed notes. Every so often, he would step down and hand her a page of his, and then go back to preaching. When he finished, she stood up and spoke in English, speaking about Jacob's dream of the stairs to heaven, and how Freud's analysis of it was correct but on far too small a scale. The sermon concluded, they passed a plate and then we sang, oh yes we sang, in Italian hymnals, with no idea. We made what can only be described as a joyful noise to the Lord. 

But I'm not finished. No, and neither were they. Afterwards, they announced that the next week was a communion Sunday, and that they wanted us to join them again. The old man in the congregation stood up and told us a few things about the church— how it was over 900 years old, and that the inventor of the piano was buried under its walls. At this juncture, the pastor pressed a few keys and accidentally shut his fingers in the unused piano in the corner of the room, letting out quite a cacophonous clang. So the church gathered round us, and we talked with them for a while. The woman who translated was not a regular member, but had happened to be there that day, and she agreed to come back the next week to help the rest of us. As we talked, the pastor clambered onto a pew to look at Seth eye to eye, and with a heavy accent asked, “Basketball?” We practically died laughing. It was an amazing experience. 

So, to cut a long story short, we got lost, stumbled into a church, and found ourselves exactly where we needed to be. Oh, and did I forget to say that Caleb is going to play the piano there next week? I believe I did.

Oh-my-gosh-my-interface-is-in-Italian

The next day, Thursday, was fantastic. Leigh told us the night before that we had to be at breakfast at 8:30, so I set my alarm to give myself an hour, as though I were back at mandala. Well, when my alarm woke me up at 7:30, I realized our mornings had just become a lot easier. All we have to do here is wake up, dress up, and show up. So we had our breakfast, very light food, and then we walked to the center of Settignano to ride the bus. Pietro had a tour planned, and we followed it gladly.

Leaving specific visits to other days, he took us on a general tour of the city, showing us all the main attractions and museums. We bussed into the Piazza San Marco and walked from there to the Duomo at the center of the city, the dome of the Santa Maria del Fiore. Pietro gave us twenty minutes to walk around and meet back up, and we used the time well. The streets were absolutely packed, and even so early in the trip, we felt a sense of deja vu looking at the crowd. Most of the street venders here are selling really cheap generic stuff, and we always see the same five venders. First is the man selling prints of the art in the city. The second sells little splattering balls which he throws lazily at a board on the ground. The third has a display of hats, and the fourth has a rack of sunglasses. Fifth is a man selling wooden letters which connect in a train. There were a few more original people among them, like the people painting impressions of people.

Gracsyn and I strolled around the Duomo together, and one of the artists called her over. “Mia bella! You are so beautiful!” he called with gestures, pinching his own face to point out her dimples. She couldn't help but smile. He spoke good English and offered to sketch us together, my face on David's body, and the two of us in front of the duomo. We declined, but thanked him, and walked waving away. She wiped her cheeks free of four Italian kisses.

On the other side of the dome, we met a lady playing her violin in the echoing street. We stood mesmerized for ten minutes, until more of our group met us and we all went back to find Pietro. Our guide told us later that most towns in Italy, especially the large ones, have two main squares: the religious and the political centers. In Florence, the towers of the two buildings are built to exactly the same height, to symbolize equality of power. It was to this second square that we went next, to the Palazzo Veccio, or “old palace”. We saw the replica of Michelangelo's David standing out on the square, flanked by several other giant statues. We only stayed a few minutes before we flew off to the Ponte Veccio, the old bridge, lined with both beautiful romantic vistas and jewelers, suggesting that it has been carefully engineered to bring revenue in from wedding proposals. From the bridge, we walked east along the Arno river, past shops and stores until we got to a stairway leading up to the piazza Michelangelo, which held one of the grandest views of the city which we have seen. We ate there and found gelatto at the bottom of the hill on our way back home.