Holiday Week… The Extended Version

Buongiorno!

Hello hello! It is a beautiful October day in Paderno del Grappa. It is Saturday October 17th, and fall has arrived, rather quickly too. Today, I rode with Ron, Corado, and Chris to Cittadella- Cittadella this medieval walled city founded in the thirteenth century and was used as a Roman military outpost. The surrounding wall has been restored. It is
1461 m in circumference with a diameter of around 450 m. There are four entrances to the walled city, which roughly correspond to the four points of the compass.

Rolling into the town around 9:30am, immediately the smell of something delicious struck me. Not only was the smell aromatic, having not eaten breakfast yet, it really sent my hunger level through the roof. Coming through the gates and passing modern shops on each side of the street, weaving in and out of cars, we came to the town square where there was a market taking place. The smell was coming from roasted chickens that were just swimming in fresh rosemary. The four rows of the market had everything from food- meats, cheeses, and breads- to clothing and more. Off on the other side of the street, was the saddest excuse for a clown I’ve ever seen. He had balloons, the jump suit on, and the noise on. That’s it. No make up. No hair. No music. No clown friends… I felt sorry for him. Character’s.

We found the ‘’right'’ coffee shop. Ron is particular about which type of coffee bean the shop uses. Of the two types of beans, Arabica and Robusta, Ron likes Arabica because it is very aromatic, sweet, round, slightly acidic and often chocolaty, with a creamy light brown, tends to be reddish in color and has a pleasant hint of bitterness. I had a caffe doppo, a double espresso, and an apricot filled croissant. The croissants are always so fresh, so flaky, and so buttery. As we sat around, Ron picked on us today for not dressing warm enough. The temperature is floating around 8-12 degrees Celsius (roughly 45-52 degrees Fahrenheit), so it’s real chilly in the morning. I definitely will be wearing an extra layer or two tomorrow.

This week has been extremely demanding, coming off of the holiday break, I had two exams and a lot of catching up to do. Intro to Finance covered three chapters, but Dr. Woidtke is a great teacher because she is able to make something dry, like finance, interesting. Her class is full of a lot of examples to help us practice and understand a lot of the concepts in class. A major advantage to having a small class is being able to ask questions as they come up. Another element that studying abroad has, Dr. Woidtke is here with her whole family. I’ve never had the chance to meet my professor’s family and see them on a daily basis, which is very cool.

My other exam this week was in Business Law. Dr. Ringleb, the Executive Director and Founder of the CIMBA program, is the professor. I recommend saving this class for Italy for any future students. His style of teaching is so abstract, yet so informative. His way of going about answering a question may be to ask you 10 more questions, until you’ve answered your own initial question. His knowledge is so vast, he’ll spend the first 30 minutes of each class answering whatever questions we may have. He’ll say, “So… What questions do you have for me?” People will ask anything from legal questions to what is the best way to “smuggle” bottles of the best vino back into the States. The exam was extremely interesting, it required us to “think outside of the box,” and use the Kepner Tregoe Decision Analysis solving method.

Now to rewind, a lot of things happened over the holiday week and I have to share a few stories. Granted I am summarizing events that happened almost a month ago… ok so three weeks in “abroad time” is equivalent to approximately three years in “normal” time.

Departure was great. I HAD to get my last little blurp of blog in before I left, so I rushed from the computer lab at the south end of campus to the Tabacchi store all the way across from campus [it was maybe 200 m haha, but I was rushing so every step counted].

The Tabacchi is a convenience-type of store where I was going to get the best freshly sliced sandwiches in town, and put some money on my pay-as-you-go phone. Italians are great… they have a way of moving at their own speed. Although, I was in a huge hurry to get my last minute things down, jump in the shower, zip the bags, and be on the bus to the Bassano del Grappa train station. It was like the woman making my sandwich knew I was in a hurry, so she did everything BUT make my sandwich. The phone rang, I couldn’t make out everything, but I could tell it was mundane. Then some lady walked in and had to have something right away, she paid in all coins of course. Next, the owner, the lady’s husband came in… annddddd they talked for 3 minutes. I looked at my watch and minutes where ticking by one by one.

Finally, she was focused, she was slicing some turkey, the bread was halved, and I made the ingredients as simple as I possibly could. Then… the phone rang, AGAIN! I was about to loose it. I had maybe 10 minutes at this point until I was to be showered and on the bus. I walked out of the store, finally, with 7 minutes to spare. I took the fastest shower of my life. I was literally still getting dressed as I was shuffling onto the bus.

That was that, I was off on a bus with about 40 classmates to the train station. It was unique that a good portion of us were traveling together to Munich for Oktoberfest; defined as the biggest party in the world with some 7 million people attending. But our overnight train from Venice to Munich departed about 4 hours after we arrived in Venice. So we hit a wine bar, a petite, cozy feeling joint. The two baristas gave us some trouble at first. It’s demoralizing going from the small town of Paderno, where people appreciate the attempt to speak Italian, to Venice where the people respond to our futile attempts of Italian, in English. “Ah un bicchiere [pronounced bee-key-air-eh] de vino rosso per favore.” “What kind would you like?” they say. But the persistent broken Italian shows them we mean well.

Standing out in front of the wine bar, next to the canal, we met two American girls. One had just completed working for World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF). WWOOF is a link for people who want to volunteer on organic farms or smallholdings all over the world. Nicole, originally from California, had been in Italy since June, and speaks Italian extremely well. She put it very well; it took her about a month to pick up what people were saying, two months to be able to speak for the most part, and three months to be able to crack jokes. That is such a great way to measure whether or not you get the language, cracking jokes. She was carrying her guitar with her, which Chris played for a bit, then she played. She had a great voice, real original.

We posted up on a busy little avenue, in front of a bridge, so we had a good amount of people watching, and even met a few people. Jane was from Australia, one of many Aussies I would meet over the week, but she was traveling on her own throughout Europe. She is a very ambitious and a very cool person. With all this action going on around us, fun times, and a few glasses of vino… time somehow was lost, and Chris and I were now running to the train station!

Munich, ah… what a time. The overnight trained arrived at 6:30 am. I woke up in the train station exhausted from a long night and an even longer week prior. I didn’t feel the best, having slept through the train that traveled up into the mountains, my ears were really clogged. I couldn’t even hear myself speak. So my whole world was lopsided for the entire morning. When my ears did finally pop… I’m lucky I didn’t scream out, it was such a sharp pop. Hooooo man- I can still remember it.

One major difference between Italy and Germany: breakfast. Italian breakfast is very small, a pastry or some toast. In Germany, I knew I found some real authentic German breakfast when I lifted the lid of the metal vessel to find two White Veal Sausages in boiling water. I dabbed some sweet-and-spicy whole grain mustard onto my plate, grabbed a large soft pretzel, beer in hand, I sat there just smiling. I couldn’t even help it. I just sat looking at the most textbook German breakfast there is. I cheers’d Mike. The sausage was simple; it had a real clean and simple taste to it. I couldn’t get enough of the mustard. It would have bits of sweet honey shinning through, and other bits of sharp horseradish striking all of my taste buds. The barista at this authentic German drinking house was the hardest working person in the whole place. He never stopped moving. Tables of 25 people needed their beers. The restaurant had wooden beams showing, long wooden tables, wooden benches, wooden stools. That mustard! It was so versatile, from the sausage to the pretzel; I think I even ate a spoonful or two.

After breakfast, I decided to go on a tour of the Dachau concentration camp, just outside of Munich about 16 km northwest. Dachau was the first Nazi concentration camp opened in 1933, and was the model for the other camps. Over 200,000 prisoners are believed to have gone through the gates of Dachau. This was a very first hand experience for me. I couldn’t help but put myself in the shoes of so many unfortunate people who had gone to Dachau in the past, not under their own will. From beginning to end, I could only imagine what people went through; I was able to get a very good idea what it was like.

The train we took was left over from Oktoberfest and hadn’t been cleaned yet; it had bottles everywhere, broken glass, spilled booze, and all sorts of other foul smells.

From the train station, we took an over crowded bus to the actual camp. The train station we arrived at was the very same station prisoners would have arrived at in the 1940s.

When we got to the camp, we walked through the entire process. Beginning to end. Starting with the eradication of people’s identities, where they took role call, and ended with the ovens. The history of it was interesting, but it was a draining experience emotionally.

On the flipside to being in Munich, I was set to attend the 176th annual Oktoberfest. It was time to swing into some fun and maybe even some trouble. I ate at a spot on the main strip in Munich. One thing we picked up from breakfast was that everywhere was seat yourself. So after circling around people like hawks, we saw an opening. Somehow we managed to sit next to the best possible tables this couldn’t even have been planned or recreated. On my left, four Germans [see picture below]. The guys next to us where eating as we sat down, something that looked amazing. We asked what it was, it’s called Schweinshaxe- a roasted ham hock usually marinated or pre-boiled in a caraway seed and garlic brine, roasted until the skin is crisp, and served with mustard, horseradish, and pickled chilies.

As the night went on, we continued to talk and cheers, or in German you say “Proust!” with our new friends. I felt like, after the long day of travel and the trekking around Munich all afternoon that I was holding my own pretty well against these Germans. But after dinner, a time came when I switched from litres to half litres. I don’t know, in my mind… it was more about Cost vs. Time. It made sense to make the big switch. It wasn’t until the waiter [also included himself in the picture below], set the half litre down on the table, and not a second later did I hear, “Awwww! Look at the BABY beers!” from our friends.

For the most part, trouble was avoided in Munich. On Sunday, my Oktoberfest experience was one of the top 3 party’s I’ve been to. Walking up to Oktoberfest was like preparing for battle. I didn’t know what exactly I was about to face, but I had a pretty good idea who the key players would be, me and the litres. The setup itself is similar to a state fair back in the States. There were all sorts of rides, big German guys playing that hammer strength game, and people where everywhere.

After a long day in the Hofbräu tent, I caught a 6:30 am train to Paris. The train ride was great, relaxing and scenic. I sat next to one guy who was going from one stop to the next for work. We talked about the train system, it was his job to figure out if a train was delayed or didn’t make it to its destination, then he had to figure out how to make up for that or which trains he could use instead.

Paris may not be the most ideal place to spend the day after Oktoberfest in recovery mode. So I bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, and a baguette and headed to the Eiffel tower. It went from rainy and gray skies to a decently clear sky with a subtle sunset. I went to the top of the tower to get a good look at Paris. It was breath taking, just thinking about all the history of the city, the Seine River, the main attractions - Arc de Triomphe, le Louve, etc. The second day in Paris, I went to the Louve, which was closed. Perfect. So instead, I walked around the area and hung out at park for a while. The park had 10 or so sculptures in the style that I recognized from a sculpture park in Des Moines, Iowa. The artist’s name is Ugo Rondinone and he is a Swiss artist based out of New York. He is known for some pretty surreal sculptures. It was one of those, “This is a pretty small world” moments.

I stayed in a real small hotel, it was that kind of hotel you see when you’re walking and you only see the sign that say, “Hotel.” The neighborhood was cool because it had a lot of ethnic markets. Paris was the most diverse place I’ve ever been too. It was frustrating not knowing how to speak French… I found out afterwards that speaking Spanish would have been a better option than English. Interesting right? I ate in the markets and in the local restaurants. I had a sandwich one day that was turkey, cheese, and mayo. But my last few bites I noticed a change in taste, so I pulled apart the bread and found the last chunk of the bread had butter instead of mayo… I have no idea what that was about. And the French know how to make fries, always perfect.

Bar-ce-lon-a, S-p-a-i-n:

If I recommended one thing to future students, flying is convenient and efficient. For the most part flights range from very cheap, about 10 euros to around 90 euros. It all depends on when and where you’re going. If you want to cover a lot of ground, the plane ticket was reasonable. Instead of taking a 12 hour train ride from Paris to Barcelona, it took about 2 hours to fly. That equal out to roughly 10 extra hours of beach time.

Barcelona was definitely my favorite place. One thing I realized as I checked into the Kabul hostel, staying in a hostel provides so many opportunities to meet other students and travelers. I met enough people from Melbourne, Australia to be able to tell you about their school system, what they do on the weekends, and how they feel about putting jam on a ham sandwich at the breakfast table.

I met up with my buddy, Alan, from high school because he is studying in Barcelona this semester. Alan and his cousin both speak Spanish fluently, when traveling and you have someone taking you out, ordering, and doing all the little things that make your trip more enjoyable, it really allows you to sit back and relax.

The next day, the only thing on the ‘to do list’ was meet the rest of our classmates to check into the apartment we rented for the next three days. Besides that, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. Barcelona is set up with lots of attractions to see, like the famous architect Antoni Gaudi’s Park Guell or the Sagarda Familia Gaudi is famous for his entirely unique architecture style, to the extent that one building at Park Guell had upside down coffee cups sticking out of the roof!

Barcelona was my favorite place, quite possibly of anywhere I’ve been to. Culturally, I was comfortable. When traveling, it’s important to know your “please” and “thank you’s” of the respective country. At this point in the trip, my mind had Italian, German, and French words running through it. Now add Spanish, and a simple, “Thanks,” turns into a mini process of elimination. After the first day, a few confidence building conversations really seemed to tap open my four years of Spanish studying I had all the way back in high school. I was pulling out verbs and phrases I haven’t thought about in over three years.

I continued to push myself to see how much was really hardwired into my brain. Looking back, there were three instances that speaking Spanish added something to the trip that would have otherwise never have happened.

At the beach, we befriended Ivan, who was from Amsterdam and was vacationing in Barcelona for the week [pictured below]. We made plans that night to make dinner at his apartment and afterwards head out into the night life. My bag was packed only with the essentials and only with clothing that was versatile to traveling, not so much to looking presentable, as far as the clubs were concerned. Ivan told us to check out this clothing store called Zara, which is real similar to H&M, only with a heavier influence on European style. We spent as long as possible soaking up the sun on the beach, so I found myself racing the clock once again.

This time, however, it was an adventure. I was going to find something to wear, as quickly as possible, using only my Spanish. I rushed in the doorway of Zara and hustled up the steps to the men’s floor. The place we were going that night had a dress code, so I asked, in Spanish, if this miss could help me find something to wear that night. She looked at me a bit confused. We talked back and forth for a moment, I told her I was vacationing here and my friend invited us to go out tonight, so I need some nice clothes. “Ah!” she said.

We rushed around, she’d hold up a shirt and I would say, “Um… for me, no…” Once we steered away from the most expensive shirts and the shirts I’d never even dream of wearing, not even on vacation, we found something a little more subtle. I grabbed some jeans, found some new shoes, and a shirt. Done. Success. Adiós.

We met Ivan at the market, which of course was another time issue… I don’t know what it is; it’s as if I have my own internal clock that beats to its own drum. And it is consistently behind the rest of the worlds. Literally.

The market was closing in 15 minutes, so we split up. The other guys grabbed the shelf items and I headed to the meat counter. This was another challenge. I didn’t know the word for lamb, and apparently my impression of a lamb wasn’t spot on. I probably “bahhhhed” at least five times. This market was small and extremely local. Not that I wanted to, but if I resorted to English, it would have been to no abet. But when it clicked, the four of us had a moment of victory! It felt great to be able to communicate solely in a foreign language. I didn’t know I had to weigh my own veggies until I was in the check out line, and when I went back to the produce aisle to do so, I was mesmerized by the scale. The scale had a picture of all the fruits and veggies with their respective Spanish name under it. I could have stayed there and studied for hours, but we had dinner to cook.

Ivan, who was in Barcelona by himself, was more than willing to have us over for dinner because he doesn’t cook, at all. I reverted back to my favorite dish that I make, which is a lamb chop with a goat cheese spread on top broiled to a golden brown crispness. I think I did alright, as Ivan referred to me as “chef” the rest of the weekend.

Finally, to wrap this up and put a little perspective on this whole trip-

The people really made the trip. I reinforced my appreciation for Spanish speaking people. So much history can be found in both Latin America and Spain. The positive interactions and successful communication empowered me to have a desire to reconstitute studying Spanish. I see uses for it in the future of the business world, living in America, and my future trips back to Spain/ Latin America.

Two people in particular gave me an uncanny amount of life perspective through their simple actions of work. Mustafar Ali, or Ali Ali, as we called him [pictured below] was one of the many, many, many Pakistani’s crawling up and down the beach selling everything from “cold beer, very cold,” to scarves, jewelry, and sunglasses. One cab driver I talked to, talked about a particular part of Barcelona. He said, “This part of Barcelona is not Barcelona, it is Pakistan.” Referring to the number of Pakistan people that seek refuge in one small part of town. Ali Ali, made sure we knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. With the very little English he spoke, he said that, “I work for you now.” Which, initially I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. But when I cut my foot, pretty badly, on the ONE rock on the entire beach, Ali Ali ran to the pharmacy for me. He was such a quiet and solitary person. He was content with just sitting in the sand, taking a load off, and helping us out whenever he could.

The next day, when we showed up, Ali Ali was there waiting with more “very cold” beer. And the next day, he was there. It was funny when he showed us his hang nail. I offered him my pocket knife to take care of it. Something I think most American men would take, and use the scissors to damper the situation. He looked at it and had no idea what to do. So I enacted what he should do and he gave me a look like, “no way!” I jokingly told him I’d cut his finger off for him and he smiled this huge smile, but put his hand in his pocket anyways.

The last person I met was a cab driver on the last day. Cabs were so great because, they were rather cheap and it was an easy avenue for me to practice my Spanish. Dario, seemed to have been driving on a lot longer route than the previous time we’d gone to Ivan’s. But lost in conversation we continued on. When he stopped, we realized he read the street address incorrectly. So we had a brief consolation about how I wasn’t going to pay for him driving us 15 minutes out of the way. We spoke only in Spanish and negotiated a flat fee of 10 Euros. I told him that we have been talking back and forth, having great convo, but I asked if we could start a new meter. He said “Because we are friends, you pay 10.” He even offered to come back later and pick us up and take us to the airport. I spent over and hour riding shotgun, speaking to him nonstop. I learned he works 6am-8pm, that’s a 14 hour day! He works everyday and has three kids.

I couldn’t believe it. I can’t imagine. But when I asked him, “Dario, someday, when you’re done driving, what you want to do?” He answered, “Open a restaurant.”

It’s people like Ali Ali and Dario, who work so hard for so little in return, but deep down what drives them everyday, is that individual dream that we all have.

Peace and such… and I cut myself off. Any questions or comments give me an email at jake.kuperman@gmail.com