Ciao everyone!

It’s been six days since I left Frankfort for my adventure in Rome. By the time this letter reaches you, it will have been six days since the end of

the Fall Festival, and, by now, I hope you’ve found a place by your pool to stick the new “We don’t skinny dip, we chunky dunk” sign and regained

some of your energy.

As far as I can tell, Rome is one massive, year-round Fall Fest, except, instead of friendly, yellow-shirted volunteers, it's full of crazed,

pedestrian-loathing natives on motor-scooters. They could certainly use some red-light cameras here.

Although I haven’t seen any pool-side decorations and no clowns have offered to paint my face, everything else is actually very reminiscent of

the Fest. The streets are lined with vendors selling everything from postcards to paper towels, and the tourists and natives come together each

morning to peruse the day’s selection.

Much like the Village Green, there are musicians each night performing on the Spanish Steps, and like the town carnival, the Coliseum remains

bustling with awed visitors and the suspicious-looking gypsies offering guided tours late into the night.

There hasn’t been mention of a parade yet, which is disappointing. If I can somehow procure a Waldo costume, I may just reproduce my own

parade by hiding at landmarks throughout the city and letting people spot me.

Thankfully, our classes don’t start until this Monday, so I’ve had the last week to explore. Most of the major sites are spread across a 2066 sq.

mile vicinity, so, in order to see it all in the space of one week and without a motor-scooter, I’ve had to run across the city. Literally.

I’ve mapped out a new ten mile route each morning which takes me in a loop through different areas of the city. Yesterday, I jogged along a bike

trail on the bank of the Tiber river to the Southern end of Rome and then wound my way back up.

My first stop was the Roman Pyramid, apparently built after the death of Cleopatra and Marc Antony because their illicit romance made all things

Egyptian “in vogue.” From there, I ran to the Coliseum and stopped for gelato outside the excavated site of the old Roman Forum where the first

democratic-style governmental proceedings took place.

Gelato mid-run was not, I admit, a brilliant idea, so I power-walked the remaining leg of the trip, which took me up to the Trevi-fountain. Legend

has it that throwing a coin in the fountain ensures you a return trip to Rome, but, unfortunately, I had already spent the last of my coins on

pistachio-flavored gelato. So, I swiped my debit card instead. I’m not sure what they’ll think at the Old Plank Trail Bank when a charge for a

twenty-five cent return-trip to Rome registers in their system.

Alright, our school is visiting a medieval castle today, so I’ve got to catch my bus!

Until next weekend, “Arrividerci!”

Buon giorno di Roma!

Come va, oggi? See how much Italian I’ve learned with just one week of classes? I hope you’re all as impressed with me as I am with myself!

I used to be one of those people who believe that all Romance languages are essentially the same. That was until I found myself in Rome,

dashing around scooters in busy intersections while the drivers shouted angry things at me which sounded nothing like “Donde está la

biblioteca?”

It took me two weeks to realize that the “scooterists” were profanely telling me to “get-out-da-way,” so I decided it was time to acquire a scooter of

my own. A mere fifteen minutes online allowed me to rent an adorable white Vespa for the weekend, so Friday evening, I planned a trip from

Rome to Lake Bolsena along the Via Cassia, a one-road route which Trip Advisor called “scenic.”

“Lago di Bolsena” is the largest lake in Europe, found about eighty miles north of Rome in the crater of an erupted volcano, and it houses ruins

from the first human lake-settlement. On top of all that, the Via Cassia is the same route that Catholic pilgrims had taken for hundreds of years

between Northern Europe and the Vatican City.

Saturday morning, donned in my teal leather jacket, I assured the owner of the rental company that I had ridden scooters countless times before

and headed out on my adventure. Since I had done this “countless” times—once in Jamaica and once in Mexico—I adjusted fairly quickly to

maneuvering a two-wheeler. I revved my engine, enjoyed the feeling of pure Vespa power underneath me, and cruised proudly out of Rome tire-

to-tire with my fellow scooterists.

For the next seventy miles, I didn’t release my death-grip on the handlebars once, struggling with all my might against a strong breeze just to

keep the scooter running straight. My Vespa was clearly designed for city-driving ONLY, and even at maximum velocity I moved twenty miles an

hour slower than traffic. I was quickly forced to drive only in the right shoulder.

Four hours later, I arrived safely, albeit wind-blown and covered in kicked-up road dirt. After spending ten minutes attempting to balance the 200

lbs. scooter on its tiny kickstand, I set out to photograph the beautiful landscape, happier than ever to be on my own two feet like all the other

camera-carrying, fanny-pack-wearing tourists.

With the worst of it behind me, my return trip to Rome was smooth sailing. I knew my place, and relegated myself to the shoulder from the get-

go. When I finally returned the scooter to the rental company,—who, frankly, looked unabashedly surprised to see me alive—I casually informed

them that my only complaint was that the scooter was not as fast as my motorcycle back home.

I think I’ve maxed out my ability to tolerate intense anxiety for a while, so I can confidently say you’ll be receiving another letter from me next

week!

Arrivederci!

-Corielle

Buon giorno amici!

I’m writing to you on Sunday night before I fall into a deep and much needed sleep—or a food coma. I’m calling this past week the “Tour di

Food,” and I’m crossing the finish line as its gold medalist.

Thursday afternoon I purchased a train ticket at Termini station for a weekend trip to Bologna with some friends, and, on my way home, I spotted

a row of bicycles in the window of a small grocery store. One white bike in particular reminded me of my trusty old Vespa, and it revved my need

for two-wheeled speed.

The seat height was adjustable so the bike could accommodate riders with a more Sicilian-stature, like me, and it was reasonably priced. Fifteen

minutes later, I was the proud owner of my very own set of Italian-made wheels.

Things went downhill from there. My bike had been “preassembled,” although apparently by Picasso. The handlebars were attached backwards

and the foot pedals were secured with black electrical tape. With an angry flurry of hand gestures, I indicated to the men in the store that I

expected them to provide the necessary tools and assistance to right these wrongs, yet they simply feigned confusion.

Unable to ride the bike home as I had initially planned, I attempted to board the metro. Only after I carried the bike down two flights of stairs did

an armed security guard inform me that bikes were not allowed onboard until after nine p.m., even if I bought it its own ticket.

Ultimately, I rolled the bike up the flights of stairs, across the river, and seven miles back to my apartment. I hadn’t had the energy to stop and

buy a lock or a chain, so I leaned the bike against my apartment building and set out for Bologna in a vindictive huff. I vowed that if it had not

been stolen when I returned in three days, I would buy a toolkit and fix it myself.

Bologna was wonderful, despite everything. My friends, Brittany and Anastasia, and I toured the Ducati racing bike factory, visited the oldest

university in the western world, and drank world-renown melted chocolate. We climbed the town’s tallest tower for a spectacular view of the city

at sunset perused Bologna’s annual cheese and wine festival.

I was pleasantly well fed when I finally returned to Rome, so I wasn’t even disappointed to find my bike exactly where I had left it.

My dad owned a bike in college which was such a miraculous piece of junk that he never once, in four years, bothered to lock it up. Every once

in a while it would disappear, only to turn up twenty yards from where the would-be-thief had abandoned it. Feeling sentimental at this bond to

home, I borrowed a wrench from my friend, Gianno-the-doorman, and went to work.

If my handy-woman job was good enough, you’ll be hearing from me again at this time next week!

Ciao,

Corielle

Bouna Domenica!

It’s six p.m. here on Sunday night, so I’m writing home while I wait for the football games to start. Believe it or not, I can watch live NFL games in

Rome at Irish Pubs. This is a flourishing industry which provides beer on tap and televised American sports, both of which are rare commodities

in Italy.

Last week, my roommates and I followed the smell of French fries to one such Pub near our apartments, and I walked in just in time to see D.J.

Moore intercept a pass from Tony Romo. I wish I had thought to pack my giant foam bear claw!

Now, when I came to Rome, I made a promise to myself that I would be as authentic as possible. I want to experience Rome like a real Roman,

so I buy my food fresh from the market in the mornings, I nap from one to four in the afternoon, and I illustrate all my sentences with a flurry of

hand gestures. That said, I cannot and will not replace my devotion to the Chicago Bears with this absurd European obsession with “futbol.”

I just learned recently that the Vatican City forms its own National soccer team each year from members of the Swiss Guard. Is that fair? Not

only are they considered one of the most formidable mercenary units in the entire world, but who is protecting the Holy See while they’re out

bouncing a ball on their heads?

Sometimes I think I’m experiencing Rome more than the Romans do. I can’t go anywhere without a twenty-pound camera hanging from my neck

because everywhere I go because there are more Renaissance masterpieces and two-thousand year old monuments in Rome than there are

banks in Frankfort! Just yesterday, I walked to a gelateria that a Professor recommended, and on the way I passed the Pantheon,

Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers, and an Egyptian Obelisk. Then, painted above the shop where I got my cappuccino flavored gelato, I

spotted a three-hundred year old painting of the Virgin Mary and Child.

The Italians seem so numb to all these wonders of history. In the States, we get excited when we spot the Virgin Mary on burnt toast! Maybe

they’re just too familiar with their home to appreciate it like I can, and perhaps some Italian student in Frankfort is writing home right now about

the magnificent white, triangular bridge which frames the Creamery with artful subtlety. I wonder if a tourist from Rome would take pictures of the

Grainery Tower from fifteen different angles like I did outside the Pantheon? Maybe they would pay ten dollars for a guided-tour of the old Village

Hall like I did for a tour of the Roman Forum?

Since my American savings are now worth seventy-four cents on the Euro, I’m keeping that option open as a summer job.

It’s almost time for the noon games to start, so I’ll end this until next week!

Ciao!

Hola Amics! I’m in Barcelona right now for my first weekend “abroad” since arriving in Rome! All of last week, I worked on brushing the dust off my Spanish skills without damaging my fragile Italian skills. On Friday night while I packed and listened to “Livin’ La Vida Loca” on repeat, I called my brother, Tony, at Vanderbilt University to brag about my weekend get-away to Spain and ask if he would practice speaking Spanish with me. “Well, Spanish isn’t going to do you much good in Barcelona,” he laughed. My abrupt silence hinted that I was not following his train of thought. “You know they speak Catalan in Barcelona…right?” he probed. Google and I spent the next thirty minutes verifying that, yes, the official language of Barcelona was not Spanish, but Catalan, an unfamiliar-looking mixture of all the romance languages and Klingon. Tony was sympathetic at my dismayed realization—and uncharacteristic response which likely arose from our shared chagrin at the year we spent learning pig-Latin from our father, who assured us it was the native language of Lithuania. As soon as I touched down in Spain the following day, I purchased a Barcelona guidebook written in Catalan in the hopes of familiarizing myself with the peculiar Spanish “dialect.” Thankfully, since I am fluent in Spanish, pig-Latin, and Klingon, I found it relatively comprehensible. According to the guidebook, this vibrant seaport on the Eastern coast of Spain had several centuries of love affairs with a shameful number of foreign invaders, culminating in the world’s proudest illegitimate offspring: Barcelona. This explained the exotic and hybrid language, architecture, and cuisine, all of which grew from a cultural gene pool where the Spanish, Arabic, and Roman empires once converged. This city is a brilliant mosaic, and I’ve spent the last two days soaking in its wildly artistic genius. I followed my guidebook along the throbbing “Las Ramblas,” Barcelona’s own Magnificent-Mile (although the scene on this eclectic street looked more like Dr. Seuss’ imagination than any Chicago street I’ve ever seen). By my questionable translation, the book’s authors suggested that I “let Las Ramblas happen to me.” Never one to argue with experts, I let the pulse of Las Ramblas sweep me away. The crowds were so dense that I needed only to lift my feet every so often and allow their collective momentum to propel me forward. Despite the congestion, people moved not with the typical tourist’s frenzied urgency, but in tandem with the seamlessly blended rhythms of the myriad street musicians. As I was rambled past costumed street performers, vendors selling exquisite xocolata—chocolate—sculptures, and a fresh-juice stand with over one-hundred flavors, this addicting atmosphere invaded each of my senses. I’m not sure if it’s the culture or something they’re putting in the fruit juice, but I instantly understood how artists like Gaudi and Picasso were inspired to bizarre greatness here, in Barcelona. The river of human energy suddenly exploded out onto the beach, scattering people in every direction, off to the tapas bars and dance clubs along the dock. Lacking the stamina of a native, I simply plopped down in the sand where they left me and wrote this letter home. Until next week, “Viva Catalunya!” Corielle

Good morning everyone! I have the next nine days off from classes after spending all of last week preparing for midterm exams. I studied Italian in St. Peter’s square each afternoon, repetitively muttering “Ciao! Come va oggi?” and “I’d like a croissant and coffee, please,” in Italian to practice my accent. This proved extremely lucrative, as tourists continued to drop Euro coins into my lap and shake their heads pityingly as they passed by. With my finals over and a net profit—all in change—of three hundred Euros, I took a luxury vacation to Budapest, no expenses spared! I’ve visited the famous Gellert Hotel’s spa and thermal baths, saw the ballet version of Romeo and Juliet at the Hungarian State Opera House, took a tour of the Royal Palace and its vast wine cellar. After converting Hungarian forints to American dollars, the total cost of all my expenses left me shocked. As it turns out, touring eastern Europe is considerably more cost efficient than touring western Europe. In Italy, my American dollars continue to lose their value against the Euro, yet, in Hungary, one dollar is worth nearly two-hundred forints! This would have been a delightful surprise except that my arms are getting tired from carrying three-hundred Euros of alms change all over Europe. The Opera house where I watched Romeo and Juliet performed from a private box is renowned lived up to its reputation for grandeur. Magnificent paintings of arch-angels stretch across the vaulted ceilings and plush red velvet line all the seats and the stairwells. The Royal palace was equally spectacular, as is befitting for centuries of Austro-Hungarian emperors and empresses. As is demonstrated with every remarkable Chicago Bears victory over the Packers at their annual-home game, nothing inspires greatness like a healthy dose of competition. Having spent the last five-hundred years competing with its sister city, Vienna, for capital of eastern Europe, Budapest very literally gives you the old razzle-dazzle. At the Gellert spa, where thermal baths are drawn from one of Budapest’s eighty underground hot springs, I learned that the locals place an enormous degree of faith in the medicinal healing powers of the mineral spring water. I will be submitting the expenses of that trip to my health insurance company once I return to Chicago. I was surprised to learn that, because Budapest has been the battle ground of numerous wars throughout its history, every one of the historical building that I visited is some type of reconstruction. Gellert, for example, was leveled during WWII when British and American troops performed aerial raids on the Nazi-occupied city. I can’t help but be impressed by the enduring local spirit of places like this where violence destroys something precious and beautiful which has been a part of the city for longer than the United States has even been a country. Cities, like people, get wiser with age, so perhaps there is something to be learned from Budapest’s example. Landmarks are nothing more than markers on the land where something great once occurred, and there will always be something ancient in that spot which is worth remembering. I’m about to board my flight back to Rome, so I’ll say goodbye for now! All my love from Budapest, Corielle

Happy Halloween! It’s almost Trick-or-Treating time! Perhaps all that entails for you is leaving a Tupperware container full of Tootsie-Pops on the porch, disabling the doorbell, and retreating to the basement to begin the month-long process of untangling Christmas lights. In my family, though, Halloween is a big event, mostly because my father is on a one-man-mission to prove that dentists can enjoy a holiday based solely on the consumption of sugar. I’m sure he’s been up for hours already, blow-drying the multiple coats of blue body-paint required for his Avatar costume. Despite Italy’s failure to embrace the holiday, I’ve done my best to celebrate. Although none of the locals I have approached have given me the chocolate I demand, my boyfriend Glenn is visiting me in Italy for the next two weeks and came bearing a well stocked care-package from my mother. We spent this past weekend in the “Cinque Terre,” five little towns built precariously along the coastal cliffs of the Italian Riviera. The colorful clusters of homes, fishing boats, and terraced vineyards are delightfully picturesque, although I really think some artificial cobwebs, withering pumpkins, and a motion-activated ghoul noises would have been a nice touch. We began our visit on the southern tip with the intention of hiking to our hotel on the northern tip on the trail which links all five towns. Glenn and I are active, healthy, overly-confident young-adults, so we set out Friday morning after a casual cappuccino in a café overlooking the sparkling sea. We emerged two hours later only one town over, panting with exhaustion. We attempted to warn an elderly couple at the foot of the trail of the steep and treacherous climb ahead, but they assured us that they had already hiked the entire trail twice this week and would be fine. By this point, we had lost most of our daylight and all of our dignity, so we took a considerably less scenic train trip through the center of the mountains to our final destination. To be fair, Glenn had been carrying both of our backpacks since fifteen minutes into the hike and was probably at a slight disadvantage. I, on the other hand, suddenly understood why Halloween had never caught on in the Cinque Terre. There are ten to twelve local families in each town that live scattered along the mountainside surrounding the town square. Even if the pitiful site of twelve pieces of candy in the bottom of a pillowcase was worth a local climb, the neighboring town had better be giving out brand-new Ferraris full of Reese’s before it’d be worth making that hike draped in an old sheet. On Saturday, we climbed through the vineyards and olive groves of Monterosso, and at sunset, Glenn suggested we climb to the hilltop graveyard to watch the full moon rise. This is obviously a terrifying suggestion, especially around Halloween, but I agreed. After all, I’ve ridden both a Vespa and a bicycle in Rome—the walking dead don’t scare me. It was a beautiful night, and the view of the town from above was worth the climb. The descent, on the other hand, with nothing but the glowing candles from the graveyard lighting my path, confirmed my suspicions about the absence of Halloween in these parts. We’re back in Rome now, and I’ll be playing tour-guide for the next week. Until then, Ciao!

Buona Sera! After returning from the Cinque Terre, my boyfriend, Glenn, got a three day tour of my Roman routine. On the second morning, he expressed shocked disillusionment after watching a gypsy screw-on a fake deformed foot, and I could tell he wasn't meant for life as an urban-gladiator. Admittedly, preventing him from strolling out in front of a passing scooter was becoming an exhausting task. Rather than put my boyfriend on an elastic child-leash, I arranged for us to spend our last three days in a Chianti villa. Over the next three days, Glenn and I wrote, produced, and starred in the sequel to Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. We realized too late that no train makes drop-offs in wine country, and the trip was too far to ride my bike with Glenn balanced on the handlebars. The phrase “scooter-for-two” had barely cross my lips before being shot-down, so we opted instead to rent a stylish Ford Fiesta. The rental company waited for us to pay in full and arrive with all our luggage before informing us that, although you must be 18 to rent a car in Italy, their age requirement is 23. Glenn missed the cut-off by ten days. When I was seven, the Alamo rental-car company stranded my mom at the San Antonio airport in the middle of the night with me and my four-year-old brother. Thankfully, airport security was more relaxed back then, because today, an infuriated Sicilian woman waving a pay-phone receiver in the air like a club would surely have been arrested. I don't recall anyone being harmed or handcuffed, but I now suspect that “Heath” is on some kind of rental-car watch-list. Although the surprise age limitation was suspiciously arbitrary, we had no choice but to catch a train to Sienna, the town nearest our vineyard. One such train chugged away as we chased pathetically after it, but after three hours in the station, we journeyed by train and then by taxi to the vineyard just as the sun set across the Tuscan hillside. The leaves were turning red and yellow on the rows of vines which stretched for miles from our Villa, and I jogged at sunrise along the perimeter of olive trees.On our first night, the owners of the vineyard hosted a wine tasting, and on the second night, we ate dinner on our front porch under a night sky so clear that we could easily admire the Milky Way. Friday evening, we returned to Rome by train and took another taxi to the address of our airport “hotel.” The driver came to a stop on an unlit dirt road outside a ramshackle wooden structure which made the Abe Lincoln Motel look like the Ritz Carlton. Our cab driver felt morally obligated to help us located alternative lodging, free of charge, but I began mentally preparing myself to sleep in a manger. The fourth hotel we tried had an available room where we rested and reminisced for five hours before saying goodbye. Glenn's flight landed safe and sound in Boston, albeit four hours delayed. Frankly, I'm just surprised there were no snakes on the plane. Ciao! -Corielle

Salvete! That’s Latin for hello. This week, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on Rome’s long history, from its famed Ancient Empire to the Italian capital of today. Just recently, a letter arrived from my best-friend’s father asking two things: What “cultural observations” had I made about Rome, and would I send him a postcard from the Colosseum. Yesterday at sunset, I jogged to the Foro Romano in search of the card and stayed to watch the moon rise while penning a two-word summary of my thoughts. “It’s old.” Many of its elements are, in fact, ancient. Legend has it that Romulus, son of the god Mars, committed fratricide and then founded Rome way back in 753 B.C. Considering Chicago had only been a city for 100 years before it burned to the ground in 1871, most Roman monuments are remarkably well-preserved. Yet, I’ve noticed an absence of anything new. Despite its illustrious heritage, Rome has seemingly forgotten to continue making history. Rome was a marathon of masterpiece production in the time of Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael, but it apparently passed-out at the finish line. Looking around, very few great works of art or architecture originated after the 16th century. So, why were the Ninja-Turtles on my five-year-old birthday cake named after Italian artists who have been dead for over five-hundred years? Why did I just buy a postcard picturing a structure built in 72 A.D.? It seems that modern Rome is merely a museum of its classical greatness, bearing few indicators that creative innovation has taken place since the Church’s persecution of Galileo in 1633 for his defense of heliocentrism—woops. Until that point, the papacy was the primary patron of the arts, encouraging an environment of unrestricted creativity. With their withdrawal of all funding for secular artistic expression, however, Rome unknowingly closed the curtain on its own greatest stage. Luckily for Galileo, in 1992, the Church admitted this minor error then sold the rights to their formal apology to the B.P. oil company. Postcard in hand, I began the walk home slightly disheartened, but, on the way, I made another startling observation. In the hours after dark, the city of Rome illuminates its monuments with such care that what was dead by day takes on new life at night. I looked at the twin domes of the Pantheon and St. Peters glowing equally bright in the Roman sky, and I was struck with the wisdom of this ancient city. With enough time, whether art is religious or secular becomes irrelevant because its inherent beauty and social value run far deeper than the explicit. Even with its long history of religious strife, somehow, Rome still managed to offer me a silent and holy night. When this postcard reaches home, the holidays will be fast approaching. This season, try and allow yourself to see art as more beautiful than mere images or lyrics, just as Rome is greater than its monuments and my letters are more than just words. -All my love from Rome, Corielle

Ciao Everyone! “Ti amo” to my dad, whose spending a solo-weekend in Frankfort while my mom visits me in Rome! He claims life is good now that he is free to scratch himself whenever and wherever he pleases. Still, when I met my mom at the obelisk in Piazza del Populo for our gleeful reunion, I couldn’t help but miss him. “I am so glad you rented that scooter before I saw these lunatics myself!” my mom exclaimed as we sat in an outdoor café overlooking the Piazza. Only two hours into her trip and she was already making brilliant cultural observations of her very own—I was so proud. Her “itinerary,” which would more accurately describe as a dissertation on the cultural and geographic history of Rome, was supplemented with several maps and pages torn from a number of Rome guidebooks. Her worn copy of Dan Brown’s Angel’s and Demons had more scribbled notes on its pages than my baby-book, and I deduced that she intended to personally verify each of Brown’s claims. In the same time it took me to attend four classes, my mom explored most of Rome’s landmarks with a diligence that would have shamed Nancy Drew. Perhaps Rome could have been built in a day if early Romans had worked out at Curves and owned sensible “Clarks” footwear? After her guided-tour of the Roman Forum and the Vatican City, she proudly told me that she was the only one on her tour who knew the answers to all of the guide’s questions. He apparently helped her practice speaking Italian, which she somehow found the time to learn fluently in the last month using only a computer program. I’ve happily let her “practice her Italian” each time we eat out. Previously, my restaurant experiences have involved a frantic ten minute struggle to decipher the menu, ending in me spontaneously pointing to a random item and saying “Preno questo, per favore,” meaning, “I’ll take this, please.” “This” has been everything from lake-octopus to a personal bottle of wine, so her knowledge of the language has considerably reduced the stress of the whole process. On Friday, we strolled through the Villa Borghese, a rare patch of natural flora and fauna on Rome’s grid which houses the Borghese art gallery. Countless small pathways wind through the large park, leading to several elegant outdoor theaters and café’s and trodden only by pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages. The gallery itself was spectacular. I’ve seen and been bored by countless art museums all across Europe, but Cardinal Borghese’s previously private collection of glossy Bernini statues, ancient Greek and Roman murals, and priceless Caravaggio paintings was enough to amaze even me, who considers Epcot the pinnacle of artistic accomplishment. We’re proceeding with my mom’s itinerary full speed ahead, which means I need to dash off for our weekend getaway in nearby Perugia. If either of us discovers any clues to challenge the Da Vinci Code, you’ll hear about it in my best-selling novel. Arrivederci!

Happy Thanksgiving from Roma! Take a minute to read my letter before rolling yourself into the living room for Sunday’s football games. I’ve heard resurfacing from a holiday food-coma is similar to resurfacing after scuba-diving…if you do it too quickly, your brain might explode. My trip to Perugia with my mom was a close as I’ll get this year to a Thanksgiving celebration. Italian mothers are particularly skilled at reminding their children how grateful they should be, and Sicilian mothers make this an art-form. My mother opened my eyes to my own lack-of-thankfulness while sharing a charming stroll last Saturday. One minute we were buying Perugia’s famous “Baci” chocolates for my dad, and the next, we were celebrating the time honored Italian holiday: Guiltgiving! I never see these moments coming, probably because half of my ancestors are Germans, who, unlike the fiery Sicilians, typically have the emotional sensitivity of a rock. Many of you are half-rock yourselves, so you will fail to understand the extent of my tactless ungratefulness. However, lamenting that I was unable to attend a midnight showing of Harry Potter 7.1 while in Rome nearly brought my non-rock mother to tears. How had she managed to raise a daughter who didn’t appreciate how blessed she was to be in Rome in the first place? At my age, her only vacation was to the great state of Wisconsin! My rock-half asked if she had walked uphill both ways to get there, at which point she conceded her failure as a mother and retired for a siesta. Feeling appropriately guilty, I attempted to jog through Perugia’s steep streets. Perhaps if Illinois was a little more purple-mountain-majestic and a little less amber-waves-of-grain, I’d be better prepared to exercise on terrain best suited to mountain goats. The sledding here would be terrific if it ever snowed. Frankfort gets enough snow to host the winter Olympics, yet we’re reduced to sledding down our own retention ponds. Coming to a wheezing halt at the town’s edge, I settled down to watch the sunset and contemplate the extent of my ungratefulness. I was relieved by how fully aware I was that, without my parents’ hard work, none of my worldly adventures would be possible. Reassured that I was, in fact, very thankful to them and not entirely rotten, I trudged back into town and made my rock-half apologize to my mom. Luckily, another time-honored custom of Guiltgiving is immediate, highly emotional forgiveness. On the train home, I rested my head on her shoulder while she told me about a conversation she once had with her grandmother who had left Caccamo, Sicily for Chicago Heights. She was thankful that, in America, anyone could work hard and save money, and their children would never go hungry. I’ve fallen into my share of food-comas, but I have never known hunger. For that, I am so very thankful. I decided to visit Caccamo myself this Thanksgiving, so my next letter will be sent from Sicily! Until then, Arrivederci!

Ciao! Last Friday, I boarded a bus for my second trip to Caccamo, Sicily, the town of my forefathers. My first trip was six years ago and lasted only two-hours. The cab driver we hired to reach the mountain-top town maneuvered our taxi along the twisting, cliff-side roads like an Olympic luger. Although his impressive performance merited a NASCAR contract, the jump to warp-speed made me so nauseous that I threw up in Caccamo’s town square. This time, I was peppered with sea-sickness patches under my windbreaker, so I disembarked the bus feeling downright chipper! Wandering the narrow tangle of streets, I imagined that my relatives had walked down the same alleys. I couldn’t be certain which house was once the Casa di Corso, but I suspect it was the large, elaborate structure--complete with bell-tower--in the center of town. It seems, however, that the townspeople now use the house to host weddings, funerals, and Catholic mass. Enticed by its glittering pink waters, I hiked down to the Lago Rosamarina in the valley below town. The “footpath” was more like a muddy slip-n-slide, but rather than hike back into town with mud coating my backside, I opted to re-baptize my lower-half in the serene yet chilly ancestral waters. After air-drying, I visited the town’s cemetery. From the expression on attendant’s face, I suspected that not many young, blond women came to the graveyard alone asking to “look around,” but I didn’t know enough Italian to explain that my great-grandfathers were buried there. Although he looked like he half-expected me to pull a dead-cat from my purse, I was allowed through the gates. An hour later, I was out of daylight and forced to abandon my search. Considering that I had now spewed in the town square and poked-around the cemetery after dark, the locals’ impression of me likely bore a distinct resemblance to The Exorcist. This hardly seemed fair since I had just been re-baptized that morning, and I hadn’t said “mum” about them using my family’s old mansion as a church! The last stop on my agenda was Caccamo Castle, a magnificent medieval fortress perched precariously on the mountain’s tallest peak. I was examining the ancient coats of arms in search of any family names when my phone rang. Somehow, word had spread through the cafés and grapevines that an American Corso was in town, and a relative was inviting me to dinner! Leonardo Gullo drove me to his hillside home and explained that his mother, Virginia Corso, was my grandfather’s cousin. He spoke perfect English with a perfectly delightful Sicilian accent, and he knew my Aunt Connie and my Uncle Peppy. I met his daughters and wife, and for the first time in 100 years, our two separated halves of the family shared dinner together in Sicily. My grandparents were forced to leave this beautiful place, but it never stopped being their home. I, too, now feel connected to Caccamo, but its Frankfort that I’ll always call my home. Arrivederci from Rome to Home, Corielle

Tanta Felicità! It’s unofficially Christmas in Rome! The temperature is holding at fifty-five degrees, but the locals are joyfully decking the halls dressed for arctic conditions. Donned in puffy parkas, they resemble festive hordes of Stay-Puff Marshmallow Men as they toss tinsel on Rome’s withering palm trees. The only two people who have not started celebrating yet are me and the Pope. For us, the official start of the season will not happen until the Feast of the Immaculata on December 8th, which, according to some divinely inspired algorithm, is the anniversary of the Mary’s conception. Conception-Day festivities culminate in the annual Whoville tradition of raising a massive tannenbaum in St. Peter’s Square, at which point the city’s Catholics are officially encouraged to join hands around it in a rousing chorus of “Fa-Who-Dor-Aze.” It’s not that I wouldn’t love to join the rest of the Who’s and rock around the palm trees a few days ahead of the proper holy schedule. In fact, I prefer to limit my devotion to doctrine to once a year when I update my pool of potential Lenten-sacrifices—otherwise known as “things I dislike but everyone else loves.” This comes in handy when forty-six days before Easter rolls around, and I can simply select something like Twitter, red meat, or TV shows about hospitals to admirably “give up.” I haven’t whether to sacrifice Shape-Ups or all things relating to “March Madness” this year, but as you can see, rigid devotion to dogma is not my strong-suit. This year, however, his Holiness is my holiday-Obi-Wan in lieu of the seasonal cues to which I’m accustomed. In Chicago, I knew Christmas was coming when a massive, inflatable Snoopy descended on State Street and told everyone that it was now socially acceptable to string Christmas lights. This was followed by a brief, three-day-window of safe rooftop conditions before the weather outside became frightful. Then, from out on the lawns came the tell-tale clatters of our neighbors unfolding their wobbly step-ladders. What, with the Sunday paper, appeared? An artfully arranged plastic Santa and his illuminated deer! Poof! Christmas. Although Snoopy has left it to the Pope to kick-off the Roman holiday rather than make a suicidal dive into the obelisk peppered Roman skyline, the innovative citizens of Rome realized that, for 0.5% of the city’s population, the holiday season officially started on December 1st! Unable to wait the additional eight days, on the first day of Hanukah, an elaborate, seven-foot-tall Menorah was plunked down next to Bernini’s fountain of Neptune, and 99% of Rome made bandwagon-conversions to Judaism. Happy to have found their loophole, the Who’s opened “Christmanukah” markets in Rome’s famous Piazzas. Now, aside with the marvelous sculptural masterpieces, there are 10 x 10 booths selling handmade crafts, men roasting chestnuts, and carnival rides! I don’t want to miss the fun, so, until I get the Christmas-go-ahead from the Pope, I’m wearing my yellow, Fall-Fest-volunteer shirt over my authentic puffy parka and patrolling the Christmanukah celebrations. Buon Natal-ukkah! -Corielle

My flight to O'hare departs leaves soon, but I procrastinated packing until an hour ago. My last day in Rome was unseasonably warm, though, so I couldn't waste the sixty-degree day rubix-cubing my apartment into two, smurf-sized suitcases. Plus, there's a weight limit on checked baggage, so the suitcase-full of spare Euro-change I had collected required a trip to Trevi Fountain. I stopped for lunch in the charming, pedestrian-only neighborhood, Trastevere. Although easily walkable from the Vatican, Rome's metro doesn't serve the area—something tourists regard with great suspicion. Consequently, it's a secret hideaway of cafes, book stores, and mini-piazzas, and its eclectic residents are also Rome's friendliest. These ultra-artsy-bohemian-types rarely travel without six or seven others of their kind, and, in the States, they consistently arrive at Starbucks just seconds ahead of me. There's no Starbucks in Italy, so I found the “Trasteveren-hippies” endearing and spirited unlike their pretentious and annoying American counterparts. Across the Tiber, it was a quick walk straight through the center of the Roman Forum to my next stop, the Colosseum. My exact route right through the ruins was not legal, per se, however, I wasn't sure how I ended up amongst the crumbling pillars in the first place. Since I planned to depart the country tomorrow morning, regardless, I meandered past ancient, partially-unearthed columns without concern for the technicalities differentiating departure and deportation. At the Coloseo, a puzzled-looking old man helped haul me over the ancient stone wall I was scaling. In a show of neighborliness befitting my final evening, my new, elderly friend, Giani, shared his ninety-one years Roman memories as we strolled its perimeter. As a child, he played “freeze tag” within the walls of the Colosseum before it closed to non-paying customers, and he attributed the impressive modern excavations to Mussolini's obsession with ancient Rome. Before parting, he gave me his address lest I have more questions. While packing tonight, I peeled a scotch-taped photograph from my refrigerator. Rather than throw it away, I licked my last international stamp and jotted this note on the back: “Giani, This is a picture of my favorite place in the world. Not only is it beautiful in summer and in the winter, but the people who live here seem so alive. They're always finding a new excuse to spend time with one another, and even a trip to the market involves a band, or people in costume, or a parade! It's not the history here which makes it so great; it's the way that everyone knows and loves the history of their home. Whether they were born here, or this is where they wanted their children to be born, they'll all tell you the same thing: They're lucky to call this home. I consider myself amongst the luckiest of them, even though I've had to leave. It's called Frankfort, Illinois, and if you visit someday, I'd love to give you a tour. Arrivederci from a home worth writing Rome about, Corielle”