A taste of Sicilian springtime

It's the weird triangle of land that seems to be perpetually kicked by the boot of the Italian peninsula. It's best known in the States for cannoli, the Mafia, and the perplexing Dominos creation known as the "Sicilian pizza." For the overly-educated, it's a hotbed of ancient myth and warfare, a stopping point in the epic journeys of both Odysseus and Aeneas and the scene of real-life invasions from the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, and Germans (to name some of the major players). It's a cultural mosaic as colorful as the glass mosaics that adorn the interiors of some of the most spectacular churches in Italy. This is Sicily, whose very name conjures sizzling images of sunshine, citrus, and seafood awash in pure Mediterranean glory.

Though we had to squeeze in our visit in late February - the dead of winter back in the American Midwest - we were greeted with warm spring weather and even warmer hospitality in a blitz of a trip that reminded me why I fell in love with Southern Italy during my Matera trip last November. Its rugged beauty emanates from craggy mountains and aquamarine coasts, rocky highlands and open skies. Its cities are a deeply human mix of grit, wit, and passion that mirrors the people themselves, aflame with an unapologetic identity. To this day the South remains poorer, rougher, and less "modernized" than its northern half - with whom it still strikes a rather prickly truce - and favors energy over elegance, zest over sophistication, defiance over deference. Don't get the impression that the South is backward or underdeveloped, but with roots still heavily in the traditional and agrarian lifestyle, and with unemployment rates uncomfortably high, it lacks the (stereotypical) gentle contentment of the North and replaces it with a fiercer, friendlier gusto! Sicily is the jewel of the Italian South - in spite of an eternal grudge between i siciliani and the mainlanders - and exemplifies the southern culture beautifully while adding its own spectacular signature to the mix.

Regrettably, we only had two nights to spare for our Sicilian adventure, so we headed for the capital city of Palermo along the northern coast of the island. Most of Palermo's seedier side is easily avoidable and not so much a danger to tourists as to locals who may have crossed the Mafia's bad side, but it was not without trepidation that we walked from the train station to our bed and breakfast, a charming establishment not far away. The goal of "blending in" has long been driven from my mind in any city in Italy, for even with increased globalization there is a certain shortage of blonde, fair-skinned, blue-eyed Italian women who also happen to be six feet tall. But at least one can pretend to be familiar with her surroundings, and so with some sage advice from the friendly train conductor we marched confidently off in the direction of our B&B. Thankfully - and not surprisingly - we were left totally alone, though we did manage to encounter two suspicious-looking women readying up for what looked like a potential cat fight.

We arrived too late on Friday night to do anything, so we rose early on Saturday to make up for lost time. Our hosts provided a lovely Italian breakfast - pastries, coffee, and Nutella - topped off with a glass of fresh blood orange juice. Sicily is a volcanic island whose fertile soil is perfect for growing citrus fruits like these arance rosse, and we knew from our first sip that we were a long way from chilly Rome. At our host's encouragement, we headed to the Ballarò market to see what we could see. The sun illuminated Palermo's streets - an oddly aesthetic mix of tumble-down brick, intricate rococo, laundry-laden clothes lines, and graffiti - and we found ourselves in the middle of a winding, bustling collection of tents and tables. Vendors called back and forth in a musical arrangement of heightening superlatives - purissima! morbidissima! bellissima! - while selling kilo upon kilo of fresh fish, eel, squid, caviar, and all manner of fresh fruits, vegetables, breads, candies, and meats, all for the cheapest prices I'd seen anywhere. We treated ourselves to some Sicilian specialties for a midmorning snack: fresh arance rosse and fragole (strawberries), just-fried panelle (chickpea fritters), and fried potatoes. Then we meandered our way down the main road to the Porta Nuova (a remaining portion of the old Norman wall), enjoyed a sunny interlude in one of Palermo's many parks, and found a lovely little trattoria to enjoy our first full Sicilian meal - pizza - next to a large, laughing, all-male party that one of my friends was quite certain were mafiosi. 

The Cathedral at Palermo

The Porta Nuova

Real Sicilian pizza!

Deeply satisfied with a morning of good eats and great company, we next trundled back over toward the Porta Nuova to catch a bus to Monreale. Palermo is nestled between mountains, and the small city of Monreale is up on one of the nearer slopes, known primarily for its spectacular cathedral almost entirely decorated with mosaics inside. The walls and ceilings glittered with vibrant scenes chronicling Creation, the Flood, several other Old Testament stories, and the life of Jesus Christ. Behind the altar was the striking image of Christ Pantocrator on a luminescent gold background, famous among art history students everywhere - with good reason. It was Scripture brought to life in a way more beautiful, vivid, and powerful than I'd ever seen in a church, brighter than faded frescoes and more vibrant than sculpture. But just as spectacular as the interior were the views from the rooftop, which we absorbed with as much awe as we did inside the cathedral below. The rolling mountains, dotted with colorful houses and churches, flattened into the Palermo plain and hugged a sprawling azure coastline. For almost a half hour we just stared out, taking photos that were frustratingly inadequate compared to the beauty of the landscape. Then we descended and boarded the bus back to Palermo for a delicious Sicilian dinner - pasta with tomatoes and eggplant, assorted fritti (fried antipasti with chickpeas, olives, and potatoes), soft sweet bread, and of course a cannoli - before sharing a bottle of wine and getting some shut-eye.

Inside the Monreale Duomo

Christ Pantocrator

Mosaics over every wall

View from the Duomo tower

Panoramic from the tower view

Next morning, after another glass of blood orange juice, we attended Mass in Palermo's Norman cathedral, took a quick look at Palermo's impressive Teatro Massimo, and then boarded another bus to Mondello, a nearby beach town. The bus ride itself afforded some exhilarating views of the Sicilian countryside, already in bloom with thousands of tiny yellow flowers climbing their way up the mountain slopes. As the beach unfolded into view, all five of us let out squeals of delight; if not for the chilly wind, it might have been a spring day at the seafront! The water was streaked with deep blues and electric greens, highlighting the magnificent grays and purples of the distant coastal bluffs. We indulged in a restaurant with a beach view for lunch, savoring our last chance at Sicilian fare (I finally managed to try pasta with swordfish and fulfill my seafood quota that is so vital to Sicilian cuisine). Then we wandered freely up and down the sandy shores, dipping our fingers and toes into the frigid seawater and chatting with some German exchange students who offered to take our photo. They told us that just the previous week it had been warm enough to swim, but sure enough in the distance we could see paddle-boarders and sailboaters braving the chill to bask in the beautiful blue. As the sun drifted out of and behind the clouds, I was able to snap photos of the scene in all different shades of light and color, like watching several days go by rather than just a few hours.

The Teatro Massimo

Swordfish and pasta

Gorgeous shores at Mondello

After one last gelato, we headed back to our B&B to grab our bags and leave for the airport, where we had one last taste of Sicilian friendliness when a man at the currency exchange desk offered to print one of my friend's boarding passes for free instead of sending her to the ticket counter to print one off for an exorbitant EUR 90 fee. I also managed to try an arancina, another fried treat made of rice, peas, and ragù (meat sauce) that followed in line with our attempt to try all manner of the famous Sicilian street fare.

As the sun set on the sea-soaked horizon, it struck me anew how precious my time in Italy has been, and how it has captured a piece of my heart that will forever remain here no matter where I go henceforth. I've begun planning for my inevitable return trip home, knowing that once I leave it will likely be many years until I return. But it's become a when rather than an if, for if you ever have just a taste of something delicious, something extraordinary, something life-changing, you know it's only a matter of time before you try it again. So: When I return to Il Bel Paese, I know that Sicilia will most certainly be on that itinerary, and a glass of fresh blood orange juice will be at the top of the menu.

Budapest: Baths, beauty, and eating our fill in Hungary

If you'd asked me before coming to Rome which European countries I would visit, you can bet that Hungary would not have been on the list. Nothing personal, I assure you, but forgive me for saying that it's not a nation that garners much attention from my demographic. At least not until I joined the "traveler" demographic and realized how much of a jewel the capital city of Budapest - pronounced BOO-dah-pesht - is to the rest of the world.

Following some advice from my mother, who'd heard good things about it, I and three friends decided to give Budapest a try and arrived in "Europe's most underrated city" on Valentine's Day. We found that title to be quite accurate. Picked up at the airport by Sándor, our smiling hostel owner, we were quickly inundated with information about just how much there was to do. A vibrant music scene following the tradition of two sons of Hungary - Liszt and Bartók - and some of the best concert halls in the world. The largest synagogue on Earth, even larger than any in Israel (at least in cubic feet; the largest in square feet is apparently in New York). Dozens of bath complexes still in operation. Roman ruins from the imperial era. Beautiful parks and memorials to the victims of the invasions suffered by the Hungarian people. Thriving nightlife, fantastic cuisine, a righteously famous river, and some of the most breathtaking buildings in Europe. The not-so-distant shadows of multiple invasions (Romans, Mongols, Turks, Soviets), brutality under Nazi occupation, and a dark communist dictatorship had been tempered (though not erased) by a spirit of vitality, beauty, and optimism. We soon felt overwhelmed by all there was to learn and see!

The Blue Danube!

Our only appointment that first evening was a nighttime cruise on the beautiful Danube ("Duna" in Hungarian), the second-longest river in Europe that winds its way through southwestern Germany, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, and central Bulgaria into the Black Sea. Thanks to this lifeline, Budapest - originally three cities (Buda, Pest, and Óbuda) - became a beautiful conglomeration of culture reminiscent at times of Vienna, other times of Paris, other times even of Russia. We glided up and down the river with celebratory Valentine's Day champagne to drink, enchanted by the brilliantly lit Parliament building on the flat Pest bank and by Buda Castle and Saint Matthias Church on the hilly Buda side. (We also learned on our cruise the names of several other famous Hungarians in addition to Liszt and Bartók, such as Rubik himself, whose famous Cube has kept millions entertained for decades.)

Matthias Church in Buda

 

Parliament and the Danube at night

Valentines on our river cruise! (Parliament visible in the background)

Buda Castle

Celebrating the fact that our hostel was in the old Jewish Quarter - now the bustling center of the culinary and social scene - we ate a delicious Hungarian dinner full of typical ingredients: meat, cabbage, and paprika (I tried a gooseburger with great success). It didn't seem possible that we'd be hungry the next morning, but upon arriving in Budapest's enormous Central Market, our stomachs were quickly rumbling while surrounded by fresh produce, just-baked pastries, and vendors selling warm street food like langos (fried dough topped with anything from cheese and sausage to fruit and Nutella.) We didn't stay long, however, because we had a free walking tour that morning to give us the grand tour of what turned out to be a larger city than we originally thought. Winding our way through chic, upbeat Pest at first, we crossed one of the many large bridges across the Danube into older, classier Buda and enjoyed fantastic views of the river and the city from Fisherman's Bastion at the top of Castle Hill. 

Buda (including the steeple of Matthias Church and the white towers of Fisherman's Bastion)

 

Parliament and Pest by day from across the river at Buda's Fisherman's Bastion

But that afternoon turned out to be the real adventure: experiencing the (in)famous thermal baths. Still a definitive feature of modern Hungarian culture, they are probably the most striking sign of Ottoman-Turk influence still lingering from their occupation in the 16th-17th centuries. The waters around the Danube are known for their medicinal qualities and attract thousands each year, and bathing is a treasured part of life's routine for many locals. After some careful research that ended up doing very little to help us out in any way, we chose the Rudas Baths (ROO-dahsh), one of the original Turkish complexes still in operation and frequented by tourists and locals alike. For obvious reasons, I didn't photograph the inside of the baths. But rest assured that it was an escapade that will forever go down in the annals of most bizarre and enjoyable things I've done.

For about four thousand Hungarian forint - which amounted to less than fifteen euros - we were swept into a crowded locker room to put on our swimsuits and head for the baths. Using a digital armband system, we had access to the swimming pool, the saunas, and the baths themselves; for extra charges, we had the option of buying a number of massages or a pedicure, many of them claiming to hold the special healing qualities the waters themselves boasted. It was immediately, startlingly evident - and somewhat a relief - that one did not need to be a physical specimen to feel comfortable in the baths. We'll just leave it at that.

I almost lost my nerve as I peered into the stone room full of Speedoed men and bikinied women, steam rising from the pools so thickly that it was difficult to make out the back entrance. At least a dozen different languages were being spoken around us, including the infamous Hungarian (officially classified as the fifth most difficult language in the world and completely unrelated to any other except very distantly to Finnish). The deal was almost sealed when I had to flee from the shower stall next to a man who'd fully disrobed and was visible through the painfully translucent frosted glass wall. Never had I felt more awkward - and American - in my life. But if we could do as the Romans do, why couldn't we do as the Hungarians did? Giving each other grim smiles of reassurance, we took the plunge.

Within minutes, we were utterly at ease in the warmth of the atmosphere. The main chamber had a large hot pool in the middle surrounded by four smaller pools of temperatures varying from 28 degrees Celsius to 42 degrees Celsius (about 108 degrees Fahrenheit). Following the trend, we made a slow rotation around a stone domed ceiling that was original from the time of the Turks. It felt very much like stepping back in time, except that men and women could now bathe together in brightly colored swimsuits instead of separately in the nude. (N.B. There are single-sex days each week when, we are assured, the majority do bathe in the nude.) Whether or not the water has medicinal qualities remains to be seen - I was left hoping for a miraculous acne recovery in vain - but there was a deeply warming, relaxing element in the whole ritual that left us feeling at once rejuvenated and sleepy. It was easy to see the allure of coming to the baths after a long day at work to calm down and warm up before heading home for a delicious Hungarian dinner. 

 

Baths = conquered

Although you couldn't call our long day of walking work, we did reward ourselves handsomely with a spectacular dinner after the baths. Sándor had recommended an all-you-can-eat buffet (not an intriguing-but-still-rather-repugnant buffet like Shaky's but an elegant European smorgasbord) loaded with traditional Hungarian fare: That means rich in hearty meat, savory spices, potatoes, cheese, stews, and paprika (the national spice). Following my goose excursion, I tasted shark, burgundy venison, ewe's cheese, catfish paprikas (marinated in a heavenly kind of paprika sauce), and a host of other novel nibbles until even I was full.

On Sunday morning we rose early and walked along the Andrássy Utca, the Hungarian Champs-Élysées (and a UNESCO World Heritage Site along with both banks of the Danube and Castle Hill), until we reached Heroes' Square. We stayed in the beautiful piazza flanked by statues of famous Hungarians until it was time to head back to the airport, where we indulged in another Hungarian specialty: Burger King (about as common as Starbucks is in the States). It was genuinely disappointing to have to leave so soon, and we assured Sándor with heartfelt sincerity that we would be quick to return and even quicker to recommend Budapest to our friends.

An interesting combination of Turkish (the once-invaders) and Hungarian flags

Heroes' Square

Special thanks to my old math classmate, Robi Szabo, for his last minute help with Hungarian and Budapest knowledge! Budapest was most definitely - from the moment we landed - a city worth visiting and revisiting, rich in history, alive with culture, and peppered with paprika.

Caffè culture

Italy is not known for its national pride. Finally unified as a single country in 1860 after centuries of famous (often feuding) city-states, this peninsular nation has been rife with division that reached a head during the disastrous decades of the Second World War. Though it bounced back from the brink of utter socio-economic collapse in the 1940s, Italy is still home to Romans, Neapolitans, Venetians, Sicilians, Florentines, and Milanese rather than Italians. Wherever you go, the differences are stark in food, wine, landscape, and language; the presence of dialects - though fading with the permeation of Standard Italian through TV and pop culture - is still strong. Deep-set cultural differences widen the gap between the more modernized North and the still agrarian South, divisive politics stalemate government activity, and don't even get me started on football rivalries, which have been known to shed blood.

But if there's one thing that unifies Italy, it's the Magical Bean itself: coffee.

Caffè is taken extremely seriously by Italians from Sicily to Siena, Rome to Ravenna. Like Italian cuisine itself, coffee is an experience as much as a beverage, and it has a firm place in the heart of modern Italian culture. And like Italian meals, it doesn't fall prey to the (typically American) habit of being "improved" with flavorings, add-ons, seasonal specialties, or other bizarre contraptions designed to drain the wallet and bloat the stomach. There are still plenty of options for the choosey coffee drinkers, each with very specific differences and times of day during which their consumption is appropriate and encouraged. 

They even invented a vending machine for fresh coffee

Caffè (espresso): When you walk into a bar* and order a caffè, this is what you will receive: a tiny cup of potent coffee roughly akin to what is known in America as a "shot" of espresso. Undiluted and bitingly strong, it may require several pouches of sugar but somehow still retains a quality of smoothness that makes it swallow-able. I tried an espresso in Naples, widely regarded as the coffee capital of Italy (and therefore the world). It is acceptable to drink a plain caffè at any point during the day, but they're especially popular for breakfast, for an afternoon pick-me-up, and after large meals.

Caffè (espresso) in its signature little cup, with sugar at the ready

Caffè americano: Though common enough on menus in Italian bars, it's one of the sadder parts of coffee culture, because no one really comes away from a caffè americano experience satisfied. The barista will be disappointed at the customer's total lack of adventure, and the customer will be surprised to discover that it isn't the Italian equivalent of Starbucks (of which there isn't a single location in the entire country). One waiter described caffè americano to me as an espresso in a big cup with more water added. Not remotely interesting or delicious.

Cappuccino: Perhaps the most famous incarnation of Italian coffee, cappuccino starts, like all other Italian coffees, with espresso, to which the barista will add frothy steamed milk. Some bars include a sweet foam while others allow you to add (or do without) your own sugar, and many sprinkle cocoa on top for presentation. For native Italians, cappuccino is strictly a breakfast beverage and never consumed after 10 or 11 in the morning.

A typical Italian breakfast: a cappuccino and a cornetto pastry
(Photo courtesy of the illustrious Megan Woods)

Caffè latte: My personal favorite, often served in a glass - un bicchiere - rather than a tazza (mug) or a tazzina (little espresso cup). The difference between the caffè latte and the cappuccino is a bit of a mystery to this humble blogger; they both are made by adding steamed milk to espresso. I've read that the major contrast comes in the way and the time which the milk is added to the coffee. It's less bound to the "morning only" consumption rules than cappuccino, which is the reason I tried it in the first place, since I was looking for a warm afternoon beverage that wasn't espresso. But whatever you do, don't order just a latte: Not only will you not receive a multi-flavored sweet drink made famous by Starbucks, but you won't receive coffee at all, because latte is plain milk.

Mmmm, caffè latte

Caffè macchiato: A common afternoon favorite, this is espresso served in a tazzina but "stained" with a splash of milk. It's still strong, but it's a bit easier to palate (at least for this wimp) than its undiluted parent.

Latte macchiato: The exact opposite of a caffè macchiato, this is milk "stained" with a splash of coffee. It's a great way to wade into the wide waters of coffee consumption. Like its cousin the caffè latte, it is often served in a glass with a thick frothy surface.

Caffè corretto: Coffee whose hyperactive effects are "corrected" by a touch of liquor, frequently grappa or brandy. It's not difficult to find since most bars boast a wide assortment of liquors, though I've yet to see anyone order it.

Caffè Hag: For those of us who struggle with low tolerance to caffeine, "Hag" is a decaf brand that still retains remarkably good flavor. I had Hag cappuccino and could hardly tell the difference except that my fingers didn't tremble uncontrollably for the next several hours.

Exactly what makes Italian coffee so special is a difficult question to answer, but likely it's exactly the same as what makes Italian food so delicious: the ingredients, the care, and a little magic. I despised every coffee I ever drank in the States, even when it was diluted past recognition with milk and sugar. But upon coming to Italy, I began to look forward to my daily caffè, not for the caffeine kick but for the flavor. Coffee here is deliciously smooth - never watered down unless you want a caffè americano - and meticulously made. And it's a little ritual, too: going to your favorite bar, ordering your caffè, sipping it at the counter while chatting with the barista, and then plunging back into the daily world refreshed and rejuvenated; or visiting your favorite caffeteria, whipping out your homework, and plugging through your assignments while comforted by a warm caffè latte and a friendly waiter. It's unthinkable to get a coffee-to-go in a fashionable paper cup, because that's not the experience. Like so many things in Italy, it's about the process, and the process takes a little time and a little talk. It makes you slow down and sip, and maybe learn something new in the meantime.

*There are two types of "bars" in Italy. There's the traditional concept of a bar or pub, where one goes for alcohol and socialization. Then there's the uniquely Italian (or maybe Mediterranean) concept of a place to get a caffè and something to eat for breakfast, lunch, snack time, or even a quick dinner.

Poland: Kraków and Auschwitz

When some friends went to Poland last semester, it immediately struck me as a unique – even exotic – destination for a weekend trip. Not quite West, not quite East (but certainly North), the only image Poland really had in my head was one of snow, and chocolate, and pierogi and sausage, and my dad, who’d gone to Poland for a conference when I was six years old. But the girls from last semester had given it good reviews (especially the cheapness, which was a pleasant break from the tiring expense of Italy), so I tried to make sure it happened. Luckily, ten other women from this semester were game to come with me, and so on January 31 we flew from Rome to Kraków for a roller-coaster weekend that would leave us stricken, exhausted, and somehow deeply satisfied.

On Friday we arrived in Kraków and immediately set out for some pierogi, traditional Polish dumplings, for our afternoon meal. (We were especially delighted when we converted the price from Polish złoty to euros and learned how inexpensive these delicious delicacies can be.) Thoroughly satisfied by the warm, savory lunch, we headed to Stare Miasto, Kraków’s old market and the largest medieval square in Europe. Seven of us took a horse-drawn carriage for a quick tour of the city, spotting the famous Wawel Castle and several well-known churches on our way while bundling up from the intense cold beneath a blanket. We met up with our other friends afterward in Saint Mary’s Basilica (a fitting meeting point), where we paused to pray and admire the beautiful interior, especially the deep blue ceiling speckled with painted stars. After some hot chocolate and cider, we explored the Cloth Hall marketplace and perused the beautiful handmade souvenirs, from carved wooden boxes and chess sets to delicate amber and titanium jewelry. We indulged in more traditional Polish food (cabbage rolls, anyone?) for dinner and another cup of hot chocolate before turning in early for our Saturday ventures.

           

Pierogi, Polish dumplings filled with cheese, potatoes, meat, and magic

Saint Mary's Basilica

Though we all enjoyed trekking around the beautiful city, the definite apex was our tour of Auschwitz, which you probably recognize as being the most notorious of the Nazi concentration camps. We had decided to include Auschwitz in our plans because we felt it was something we should do, since we were able. At the end of the day, we all agreed that we were glad to have done it. But it was an experience unlike anything I’d ever done and one that I’m certain to never forget.

            

Early Saturday morning, we rose and took a two-hour bus ride to Oświęcim, the Polish city that houses the Auschwitz camps. I was annoyed because I’d lost one of my gloves at the station and tired from an impromptu nap against the icy window of the bus, but immediately upon disembarking I was struck by a new feeling. We couldn’t see anything but the plain brick entrance building, yet there was a distinctly grim air that everyone seemed to feel. No one spoke loudly or moved too quickly. After we met our tour guide and received our audio sets, we moved quietly into the first camp.

            

As soon as I stepped outside and saw the infamous wrought-iron gate proclaiming the bitterly ironic Arbeit Macht Frei (“Work will set you free”), I was gripped by an intense physical reaction that caught me completely off guard. It was like a fist had suddenly clenched in my chest, rooting me to the spot, and for a fleeting moment I was overwhelmed by foreboding. I did not want to go any further. Something awful had happened here, and though my mind had known it all along, my very body was at once repelled by it. In a second it was over, and I was able to follow the group forward. But from then on, there was a sick feeling in my stomach that periodically intensified as we moved from site to site, reflecting on the horror that had reigned here just seventy years earlier.

            

The gate into Auschwitz I

We paused before a plain wall of a plain building, where a pep band would assemble every morning and play German marches so the inmates would keep time as they marched to their labor for the day. We passed neat rows of austere brick buildings that might have been offices or army barracks or even schools in a gentler world. We drifted through the rooms one barrack in burgeoning revulsion, past great piles of possessions left behind by victims who were assured they would be needing them in the future. Eyeglasses. Hairbrushes. Shoe polish containers. Suitcases, with the owners’ names and birthdates carefully inscribed on them. Shoes. Crutches and prosthetics. Thousands and thousands and thousands of these daily effects, displayed in enormous rooms to accommodate the enormous numbers that were only a fraction of what had been found. Tiny cotton shirts and minuscule leather boots belonging to children. Piles and piles of human hair, shaved from women’s corpses and shipped off to be woven into blankets for German soldiers. Mostly dark hair or gray, but every now and then there was a visible lock of blonde amid the sea of braids. Blonde like mine.
            

In disbelief we looked at the cans– each of which was responsible for one hundred deaths – of innocent blue cyanide pellets that had dropped down in the gas chambers to suffocate the two thousand victims who would be exterminated within twenty minutes. We passed through a hallway of photographs taken of inmates before the Nazis began tattooing numbers for identification instead, because within months their prisoners wouldn’t look anything like their former selves. We saw the mats on which they slept, the cell blocks in which dozens were starved to death (including Maximilien Kolbe, who was later canonized), and the gallows from which dozens more were hanged as a warning. We circled the hospital where the cruelest experiments imaginable were performed, especially on women, and the square in which they were forced to stand at attention for hours on end. We stood before the wall against which thousands of political convicts were shot. And we passed through the only remaining gas chamber – with nail marks still visible on the walls – and the adjoined crematorium, its chimney still thrust hatefully into the air.

            

The "hospital" where many Jewish women underwent forced sterilization experiments

The gas chamber and crematorium at Auschwitz I

It is impossible to understand such a place as Auschwitz without visiting it. It is impossible to comprehend the scale of the operation – and the thoughtful, meticulous planning that went into each sickening step – because the mind simply cannot accept it unless it is forced to confront it. I had read Anne Frank’s diary and even visited the Secret Annexe. I had seen Schindler’s List. I had studied the Holocaust in school and encountered it in dozens of novels and movies and articles. I thought I understood it. And I suppose I did understand it, as much as I could have. But to face it is to understand it in a new way. And though many things were impressed on me in ways they hadn’t before, the most disturbing was the realization that the scale of the project – the enormousness and the enormity – was reflective of just how many people had been involved. As tempting as it is to pretend Adolf Hitler was a superhuman villain at war against the world, the reality is that he would have been utterly obscure had no one corroborated. He would have been insignificant if only a few had listened. But thousands and thousands and thousands not only listened but agreed, and not only agreed but took action. And the result was millions of murders – planned, manufactured, and repeated. And so when one visits Auschwitz, it is not the shadow of a defeated nemesis that haunts you. It is the knowledge that the darkness that drove the Holocaust was not that of one man but of millions, of all humanity. That's what you truly face when confronted with evil like this: the darkness within.

            

After completing a two-hour tour of Auschwitz’s original camp, we took a short shuttle to Auschwitz II Birkenau, with its infamous train tracks leading to the largest of the Auschwitz sites. Largely destroyed by panicking Nazis who realized the war was lost, the scope of the place was still apparent, with the ruins of two gas chambers left completely untouched after they were bombed shortly before liberation in 1945. A lone cattle car was perched on one of the tracks, recovered by a Holocaust survivor and donated in memory of the thousands of Hungarian Jews killed there. Candles commemorated the selection point where Nazi doctors would determine after a single glance whether an inmate was healthy enough to live. And at the end of the tracks was a large memorial with inscriptions in over twenty languages, asking that this place be a “cry of despair and a reminder to humanity.”

            

The train tracks of Auschwitz II Birkenau

One of the cattle cars used for transporting prisoners into Auschwitz

The remains of a gas chamber and crematorium

The final half hour was something of a whirlwind as we visited the barracks on the women’s half of the camp and the gravestones beside a large spread of ashes dumped near one of the crematoria. We left our tour guide and spent the bus ride home in exhausted, contemplative silence. Trying to lift our spirits, we watched a children’s dance exhibition in the Kraków mall before doing some light souvenir shopping and enjoying a delicious traditional meal of pierogi, kiełbaska, potato pancakes, and mead. Over dinner, we talked about what we’d experienced and shared our lingering thoughts, which coupled with the warm food served as a cathartic finish to a life-changing day.

The English plaque on the memorial at Auschwitz II Birkenau

I felt – and still do feel – humble and grateful to have shared this day with these women. I’m also genuinely glad to have visited Auschwitz. I think it is important, vitally so, and that everyone who can see it should. One comes away with more than I could ever hope to express in a blog post – no matter how long it is – after seeing it and feeling it. I have thought about that place deeply every day since, and about the people. Their faces have lingered in my mind, and I hope they continue to do so. Because it's really the least we can do, as well as the most powerful. To remember. Forever.

Auschwitz I

La cucina italiana

All right, amici, let’s talk about food. And when you’re talking about food in an Italian context, it’s a serious topic.  There are a lot of things Italians speak lightly about – politics, which are a joke, or love, which is a game – but no one plays around when talking about the Holy Four: football, coffee, food, and wine. I’m not going to attempt to tackle the first one, but I’ve gotten a fair bit of exposure to the other three and, like a true Italian, can now talk (and talk and talk) confidently about them. 

Given the breadth of the topic, I’ll start with some basic distinctions between Italian food and American Italian food, and the Dos and Don’ts of authentic cucina italiana.

THE MYTHS

            Fettuccine Alfredo is a thing.

False. Fettuccine Alfredo is as American as it gets. While Italy has its fair share of cream sauces – and delicious ones – you will never find an authentic Italian ristorante serving this dish. It breaks the rule of NEVER plopping chicken or other meat onto a pasta dish (see Myth #2), and it lacks the delicate craftsmanship common to all truly Italian sauces.

Pasta can be a side dish.

Incorrect. Pasta is its own piatto. It may be complemented with vegetables, cheese, and meats within its respective sauce, but it is a culinary faux pas to slap a chicken breast on top, for pasta can never take second place. Pasta and meat are separate dishes in a traditional Italian meal, with pasta as a primo piatto and a hearty meat or fish arriving afterward as a secondo piatto. Combining a full “main” course with pasta on a plate? Forget it.

  

      It doesn’t matter what sauce goes with what type of pasta.

           Wrong. Certain sauces are always paired with certain pastas, because the true Italian chef knows that certain pastas hold sauces differently, based on their shape and texture. Carbonara, for example, is almost always paired with spaghetti (once I saw rigatoni, but that was weird), and you rarely see vodka sauce with anything but penne.

Italian food involves red sauce, cheese, and bread.

Not even close. There is so much more than spaghetti al pomodoro and pizza margherita. Tuscan cuisine from the north rarely features tomatoes at all; it revolves around grains, legumes, and rich red meat in dishes like bistecca fiorentina (Florentine steak) and hearty stews. A typical Roman specialty is the carciofo alla romana, an artichoke seasoned and stewed in the ascetic style of the Eternal City (mainly salt and garlic). To my surprise, Italians also do potatoes extremely well, delicately roasting them with oil, salt, and rosemary and occasionally putting them on white pizza. Veggie-based soups and meaty stews are found on almost every menu, and the staples of a multi-course Italian meal – vegetables (roasted or in a salad), antipasti, the secondo piatto, and of course the dessert – are just as often tomatoless, cheeseless, and breadless. Veal, beef, pork, salami, fish, artichokes, zucchini, eggplant, olives, and spinach are all integral to Italian cuisine and operate just fine on their own. Plus, with the growing number of diners with vegetarian, vegan, dairy-free, and gluten-free diets, many ristoranti have a wide assortment of dishes that do without these stereotypical elements. Italian chefs are traditional, not uncreative, and with such a deep history that varies with each region and season, the typical “Italian cuisine” one might find at Olive Garden is only a fraction of the true palate of this food-ucated nation.

One of my favorite meals thus far had no red sauce, cheese, or bread. Carciofo alla giudia ("Jewish-style" artichoke with breaded cod)

Now that you hopefully are feeling a bit food-ucated yourself, here are a few of my tips for dealing with the newfound appreciation for il migliore cibo nel mondo.

1. It's okay to still like Olive Garden and Papa John's. Just acknowledge that the pizza you get at home and the pizza you get in Italy are two completely separate species - American and Italian - and you're free to be satisfied with both.

2. Italian cuisine is as much about the process as about the food itself. Food is meant to be carefully planned, created, shared, and enjoyed. To get the full effect, one must eat sitting down among friends and/or family, engaged in pleasant conversation. Eat slowly and steadily, beginning immediately after being served and taking the time to truly savor the flavor. It’s best to spend well over an hour enjoying a main meal, and therefore it’s natural to cultivate friendly relationships with the wait staff, for whom this is a profession rather than a summer job.

3. For God's sake, clean your plate. Not only is it wasteful, but it’s taken as a personal failure by the waiting and cooking staff to leave food uneaten. Sometimes it genuinely is impossible to eat everything before you, and you then must muster the backbone to tell the disappointed server, Sono sazia! But at the very least, give everything a try. And save room for dessert.

4. Be patient, brave, and open. Patience will allow you to wait while your freshly prepared supper is being crafted behind the scenes. Bravery gets you out of your comfort zone so you manage to try whatever the hell “speck” is (it’s a kind of ham, by the way). Openness will keep you willing to move on to the next culinary adventure – like the impossible choice of pesto versus penne alla vodka – which is always worth the risk.

Keep calm and eat gelato.