Summary Post

I've written four posts on my blog thus far, but they do very little to describe what exactly I'm doing here. In case you're curious...

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Arrival
I arrived in Milan on September 1st. I had about a hundred pounds of baggage without wheels that I dragged everywhere. I made my first friend in airport - another exchange student from the States who looked just as lost as I did. Turns out we were staying in the same dorm, so we found our way to it, settled in, and then found our first of many aperitivi. What a great idea - drink and unlimited food for a modest fixed cost.

Money
As many people already know (since I whine a lot), I had a variety of logistical difficulties my first few weeks. Probably the worst was the expiration of my checking card literally the day I arrived. I had no cash or travelers' checks (probably would have been a good idea in hindsight), so I had to do with a lot of begging, borrowing, and being content without. I ordered another card, but it never arrived, so my parents sent me money from my account at home via Western Union, which I collected yesterday. They will bring me a new checking card (and a camera! among other things) when they come visit me next week.

The City
The city of Milan is absolutely enchanting. Cobblestone streets seem mystically laid out as haphazardly as they would have been (and likely were) hundreds of years ago. Architecture is standard European fare - a feast for the eyes of a California not used to seeing buildings ten year old. The heart of the city can be found at Piazza Duomo, a spectacular city plaza with the third largest church in the world and the world-famous fashion districts just blocks away. I walked down one understated street and peered through humble windows into minimalist interior design with the latest from Armani, Prada, and Versace on display. About a kilometer away is a majestic medieval castle with ceilings painted by Da Vinci and Michalengelo's unfinished Pieta on display. Just to the south is a network of navigli, canals ages old that give the feel I'd expect out of Venice. I love walking the city, getting lost on purpose, wandering the streets thinking, "Am I really here?"

The People
As beautiful as the inanimate city is, the people shine brighter. The women are angels. Every time I see a DSI (dark-skinned Italian) pass by me in the streets, I think I melt into the sidewalk and fall in love just a little bit. Everybody is dressed so nicely - I feel self-conscious walking around in public. I've seen more sharp suits on businessmen here than I have my whole life in the United States. The women always cover their shoulders, stomach, and knees, and honestly, it makes the look even hotter (take note American fashion). The Milanese speak with such a clean accent and are more than happy to entertain my feeble attempts to speak Italian. When a beautiful DSI speaks, the Sirens do not compare.

Friends
Oh, gosh, sooo many people that I've met. To early to tell who my good friends are going to be. I feel very spread thin relationally, so I hope that doesn't prevent me from getting to know people well. Since I am in international student housing, I have met people from dozens of different countries. However, I've met surprisingly few Italians. Everybody in my Italian crash course were really cool. I have a good group of guy friends from Brazil named Vini, Pedro, Andrew, Bruno, and others with whom I play football and basketball. I have a Turk friend from Santa Monica who speaks Spanish that loves to surf and ski. I'm planning on also traveling a lot with a friend from Peru named Diego, who also helped me get tickets to the Milan-Inter game. I haven't made good friends with any girls so much, it seems. Jordan Reagan connected me with a friend named Annie from North Dakota who's really cool (and now famous thanks to my previous post). There were two chill Hungarian girls from my crash course, Rita and Katica, that I usually sat next to and caught lunch with. There was a big group of Spanish girls that I toured the city with, but unfortunately I haven't seen them much lately. In general, you just meet a lot of people and can chill out with anybody and it don't matter. There's a good amount of just chilling, talking, and sharing culture. A lot of late-night hangouts-turned-parties with drunken singing/campfire-style guitar.

Church
I found a small but awesome fellowship called the International Church of Milan. The pastor is a personable, solid, Bible-teaching, self-professed redneck who loves God. Everybody at the church is very friendly and speaks English, the two most important requirements. I even have the opportunity to play piano for them some Sundays. The Young Adults leader, Adam, is really cool and goes out of his way to get to each member personally.

Work
When I wasn't in my surprisingly ineffective Italian crash-course, I spent time look for and later training for work. Now I have a really sweet job teaching English for Berlitz Language Center right next to the Duomo. I just finished training, and start working next week, hopefully as much as 20 hours a week. I think most of my students will be businessmen and other professionals looking to refine their English. I now give you permission to start laughing.

School
Oh, yeah, that's why I'm here. Bocconi as a campus is butt-ugly, not to mention a 30 minute tram ride away from my dorm. The Italian student culture seems a little distant and self-contained - the international students definitely travel in packs. Some have told me that Bocconi is considered the Wharton of continental Europe, and it definitely has career services that would compare with Wharton's. However, the rest of the administration is not very user friendly. Regular students all take the same courses at the same time - exchange students don't have a clue about courses until first lecture and cannot drop or add. My courses seem like they are going to be a nice breather from my biology/finance intensive Penn workload:

- International Demography
- Economics of Globalization
- Economics History
- Art and Culture (design section)

Travel
Between school, work, church, and friends, I have a lot going on in Milan. Because of this and money constraints, I might not be able to do as ambitious weekend travel as I once dreamed. This is probably a good thing (see my first post). However, there are a few things outside Milan that I don't want to miss! (hopefully my boss understands)

October 4-6 Oktoberfest!
October 10-12 Trip to Tuscany (Florence, Siena, Pisa)
October 16-19 Surfing trip to Iberia (Barcelona, Northern Spain, Lisbon)
October 26 Chargers vs. Saints in London!
December 5-8 Skiing in the Dolomites

These are activities that I have dates for. I also really want to make it Rome and Venice sometime during the semester. After school gets out, I want to make a quick trip to Monaco and hopefully ski in the French Alps. Then I plan on backpacking for a couple weeks through Switzerland. Hopefully I'll find a way to make all this work.

I love...
aperitivo!
il calcio (the real football, Rossoneri!)
just chilling around Duomo
non-American girls
Italian fashion
that cafe just off the tram-stop
my dorm/room
my job (I get paid to talk)

I could do without...
Nutella! (gosh, it's everywhere here)
Italian bureaucracy
blue-shirt transport officers
PNC (yeah, I know, they're in America, but they deserve to die)
Italian crash course
exchange rate
foreign transaction surcharges

I miss...
California burritos (Rico's, Roberto's, Kotija Jr., etc.)
In-N-Out
PEANUT BUTTER!!! (see my second post)
American girls
American football (GO CHARGERS!!!)
surfing
San Diego sunsets
food carts
Wawa, Qdoba, Greek Lady, etc.
Mexican beer (Sol, Negra Modelo)
Reese's
the guyz house
the girls house
Penn Students for Christ
WPS, swing dancing
Glee Club, singing
piano/guitar
Penn
you

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I think that covers most of the essentials. Hopefully many exciting, funny stories to follow! Let me know if there's anything else you want to know about. God bless!

Colpito dal fulmine

Even though I can barely speak it - and even have trouble understanding at times - I am infatuated with the Italian language. Often when people laud this work of art, they refer to its sound. And to be sure, it is music to the ears of an English-speaker imprisoned by the curt, monosyllabic gasps he has been taught to produce and appreciate. I think that somewhere on a scale from angel music to German, the English language leans to the wrong extreme.

However, Italian's beauty is not limited to the tonal ecstasy that has chilled opera houses for centuries, found its way into the language of our modern music, and sent lovers into serenade - singing Andrea Bocelli's "Con Te Partiro" (which beloveds play on repeat) by default.

It is in the grammar. There is something romantic (*snickers*, I swear, last bad pun!) about conjugation -- action and expression directed to the audience, personalized, linguistically reverent. And there is a sensuality to male and female voices dancing on the page as two become one in writing.

It is in the structure. Avoiding much of the narcissism of English, it contently submits to the real, external nature of pleasure. An American speaks like a god and claims "I (do not) like/love" -- that he does or doesn't give his approval to something. An Italian speaks like a creature and claims "mi piace/incanta" -- that something gives him pleasure, enchantment.

It is in the idioms. Now, you could fairly call me out on this and charge my claim as presumptive. To be sure, I barely know the language -- let alone enough idioms to justly compare -- however, one of them in particular has struck me (*more snickers!*, ok I lied).

...colpito dal fulmine...

Literally, it means "struck by lightning", but its equivalent idiom in English would be "love at first sight". The Italian version is vastly superior. The English version may speak sufficiently to what happens to somebody, but it does not even try to describe by metaphor in a few words what one feels. Spoken from a person who has never been struck by lightning.

**********

The sun never came out this morning. And given that I had left the blinds of my east-facing window open, I am surprised that I did not notice that nature's alarm had failed me. Slowly but surely, however, nature's back-up seeped in through the screen door like elevator music. Though such melody was unexpected, I was neither awoken nor entranced. However, the distant, distorted, yet unmistakable beat of a bass drum soon followed, reminding me that I was not there for smooth jazz. The beat defined itself, pulsating into a rhythm that I could feel more than hear. Somewhere in time the crescendo went from curiosity to compulsion, so I gazed into the chamber, tore through the double doors, and took my seat in the balcony. The air erupted into waves of fury that bolted across the amphitheater with a sound so loud that it was blinding. Smooth jazz had given way to orchestral majesty as strings echoed, winds resonated, and brass waited for cue. And there was the conductor - so small, so far away, yet so present, so in control as he maintained perfect organization of mayhem, resolutely waving that invisible rod, delighting in every sforzando. And there were the cymbals - fearsome weapons of war ready to crack the air in two whenever fortissimo wasn't enough. These terrors could terrorize the terror inside of me, and how I loved them. I feasted on every gunshot, counting the rounds off as best I could and eventually realizing my folly - whoever tried to count the notes of a symphony?

As the musical maelstrom continued, I feared for my life. I thanked God for the shelter of the balcony as His chamber raged in front of me. Yet, I could not believe the sensation my soul was experiencing. The realization that I hated my shelter. I hated seeing fear without feeling fear. I hated hearing terror without tasting terror. I was a spectator of the fury, but I wanted to be the target! I wanted to run out into the arena and stick my head right in between the descending blow of the cymbals. As a pouring rain irrigated the spectacular garden of sound, I wanted to be stuck in the middle of it, dripping wet, completely exposed with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I wanted to feel the hairs on my neck stand on end as the rubber in my shoes froze to the earth. I wanted my heart to fall at the speed of light into my stomach because of knowing exactly what was about to happen to me at time equals zero. And then I wanted it to shoot up into my throat as sparks fly in front my eyes and I get struck by lightning.

Questa mattina - per la prima volta - volevo essere colpito dal fulmine.

North Dakota

So I met this girl named Annie today. Two exchanges of particular note, the first being very paraphrased, and the second being very not:

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ANNIE -- Really? Is that what Wharton students are generally like?

ANDREW -- Yep...pretty much.

ANNIE -- Gosh, I find that hard to believe, because all the Wharton students I've met are not like that at all.

ANDREW -- Really? How many Wharton students have you met?

ANNIE -- Well, I guess three.

ANDREW -- Who are they?

ANNIE -- Let's see... well you, Jordan Regan, and... is it... Josh Veit?

**********

Annie: well I will cook and you will show up and we'll pinky promise then...?

haha

9:32 PM me: A, B, and C, done!

Annie: NICE

I'm stoked

you have class tomorrow?

9:33 PM me: no, i do not

9:34 PM Annie: what will you do all day?

oh

your interview?

I'm looking at the photo rightnow

you're sooo good looking

fyi

9:35 PM oh shit

sorry

omg

wrong windo

9:36 PM oh my gosh

you probably thought i was crazy

oh my gosh

oh my gosh

9:37 PM i am so embarrassed

oh my gosh

you're both named Andrew

oh my gosh

I am soooooo embarrassed

SORRY!

9:39 PM me: LOL!

what?!

there's another andrew in your life?

Annie: haha

yes

me: who's better looking that ME?!

Annie: and I am talking to both of you in google chat

haha

!!!!

I'm sorry!

me: lol

Annie: you prob thought i was SUCH A creep

9:40 PM me: gosh, that made my day

Annie: looking a good looking photo of you?

haha

thanks

I am mortified

Dove posso trovare del burro di...

My mind goes blank. How is this happening? My friend just gave me the bloody word, and I have already forgotten it. I seem to recall a mixture of consonants, even some vowel sounds in random order, but nothing even closely resembling anything of linguistic function. I try to garble out of my mouth a random permutation and immediately regret the attempt. The employee and I stand there, face-to-face, communicating with blank expressions like two desperados realizing they just brought air horns to a gunfight.

Frustrated beyond measure, I attempt to communicate using the universal art of sign language, motioning with my fingers, outlining the minuscule object in question. The employee must think I am squeezing the udders of a cow, because he gives a little chuckle, motioning me toward the milk section. With both sides defeated, I drop the case (or he just left, I don't know).

Come on, it's peanut butter!

I guess I should have asked for the international food section. La sezione di cibo internazionale. After all, I knew how to say that. It's practically English.

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Those who know me know that language is not my strong suit. It is a wonder that English has survived Andrew Trees for as long as it has (some friends of mine claim it hasn't). Even so, hardly content with butchering one language to a pulp, I now continue my path of destruction into the pure-hearted romance languages; virgin with their crisp texture, melodic pacing, and exact pronunciation.

I have taken just enough Spanish in my life (four years high school, a semester in university) where it is in my head to some degree. Then I took a semester of Italian, which is pretty much Spanish with different spelling, different (often opposite) grammar, and pretty much different everything. Two years and no practice later, here I am. I'd say I can speak one language well: 3/4 English and 1/4 Spantalian.

To make matters worse, since I am in an international economics school, I have made friends from all over the world (a blessing, in itself). I hear English in my head, Spanish on the tram, Italian in class, and Brazilian (which for some reason they call Portuguese) at lunch. Whenever I want to say anything, my mouth feels like a trash compactor, loaded to erupt into my victim's ears its putrid concoction of sounds that dogs cannot hear. I cover my mouth in shame, open it for the prescribed dose, and wince as my patient takes the medicine. Then we both cry.

Not that I am satisfied or proud of this in any manner. Yesterday was the straw that broke the camel's back of frustration for me. I hung my head low as I returned via tram from the supermarket to my dorm, passing graffiti-covered walls on the outskirts of town, far from the inoculation of American or English-speaking influence. Those walls--I had failed them.

I feel like showing up to a foreign country without bringing the language with you is sort of like showing up to a sandlot game without bringing a glove. Sure, people will smile and be polite. You might be able to take a few fastballs with your bare hands. Maybe someone can even spot you their old beat-up little-league glove for a while. However, you just don't want to be that guy. It sucks. For everyone.

**********

My thoughts shamefully drift toward my largely unopened Italian immersion course materials in my dorm. I reluctantly make my way for the colossal tower of Nutella (why do they love this stuff so much?!) for discount in the center of the supermarket.

After all, I'm mute, not blind!

My First Post

St. Augustine mentioned that the world is a book, and that those who do not travel visit only one page. That is easy for him to say. He never had to deal with passports, travel visas, permits of stay, and debit card expiration dates. He did not need proof of residence, finance, and health insurance. Gold was the standard everywhere he went, and he didn't need to empty his pockets when going through port security. His known world was not much larger than a country.

St. Augustine and I are a kindred spirit with a common compulsion. We are also both guilty of a common arrogance--a narcissistic perspective that travel should be not only enjoyed, but expected, even easy. He preached surrounded by serfdom, slavery, and social conventions that he could not taste. So sit I here today, thousands of miles from home, zero from expectations, and far from done. I have been given an Augustinian highway as I callously whine because of the speed bumps. And I might even be missing the scenery.

My original goal was to visit 50 countries before my adult life begins (which I defined liberally by full-time job and/or marriage). 50 pages. Roughly a quarter of the book St. Augustine describes. I have summer, winter breaks, and long weekends; close-to-nothing transportation costs; and friends living in all six continents to help me out. I figured I could easily accomplish my goal, hopping from country to country, never spending more than three days in any one place. After all, a place is nothing more than a dot on a map, a passport stamp, a page.

How flawed my vision was. St. Augustine would have been appalled. This is not a book worth skim-reading or crash-studying with Cliff Notes. Places are not points to connect, but rather spaces to be filled. Yes, they are pages in a book, but they are also volumes in a collection, collections in a library, and libraries in a system. Thus a man may read more bound for a lifetime to his city-state than a merchant that has traveled the seven seas.

So here I am in Milan without a euro in pocket, yet blessed beyond measure. I forget this for a minute and return to my various weekend fantasies -- Venice, Rome, Florence, London, Brussels, Barcelona, Monte Carlo, Athens, Prague, Munich, Zurich -- thinking this would put me at twenty. And here I am in Milan.

I have never been a good reader. I have never been given a better opportunity to learn than right here, right now.