My first meaningful overseas experience was a summer spent
in Italy studying Italian language and culture, art history, and studio art
through the University of Georgia. I stayed mostly in Cortona, an ancient
hilltop town in Tuscany, made famous by the book and movie Under the Tuscan
Sun. Studying art history there was extra-fascinating, because we had field
trips to see the works we studied. That summer I made my first breakthrough in
learning a foreign language--not only did we speak Italian in class (unlike my
experience with high school Spanish), but we also had field trips to a wine
tasting, to learn how to make gelato, and a cooking class, all in Italian. When
I left classes, the material stayed with me because I had to use it. Besides
delving into art history and Italian language and culture, the studio art class
I took was the first opportunity I had to work extensively with watercolor--to
learn about how the medium works, and then be set loose in the ancient streets
of Cortona to paint.
Those late mornings were my favorite. Grateful that I wasn't anchored to a dark
studio carving marble or oil painting on huge canvases like my other
classmates, I was free to wander. I would tote my watercolors around town
looking for a quiet, well lit place to paint among layers of history
interspersed with olive trees, grape vines, and very real modern citizens going
about their business. The community of Cortona is used to the UGA art students
who study and create there, and so no one bothered me or thought it odd that I
was sitting in the corner of a stone street sketching. As I sketched out a
composition or started the first wash of watercolor, I also started listening.
People speaking loudly in nearby houses or gardens often, unknowingly, provided
me with Italian lessons.
My Italian teacher had us carry around a small notebook to
write down new words that we heard--whether or not we knew their meaning--just
to observe. That little book stayed right near my watercolor palette. I don't
remember much of what I wrote, but the most important thing that happened there
was training my ears to the rhythm of the Italian language, picking up
vocabulary here and there, but, more than anything else, listening, observing,
absorbing. I'm one of those people who listens better while doing something
with my hands, and so that's why I've been seen with crochet in lecture
classes, elaborate doodles during meetings, or even henna during informal
church gatherings.
During my second trip to Italy, this time being more of a
spiritual journey, mostly in the North, my understanding of the language deepened, as did my
independence and knowledge of myself. During mealtimes, I made efforts to sit
near the Italians and not the English-speaking group of students. Even though I
was often too shy to say much and had very limited vocabulary to join the conversation,
I took the opportunity to listen. When there was a translator, I listened
harder to the Italian being spoken, letting the translation that followed fill
in any gaps in my vocabulary, and then I would write down new words and
expressions. This constant listening continued during afternoons of
chores--sweeping the kitchen floor slowly so as to pick up nearby
conversations. I often knew about plans before the other students did, only
because I heard them in Italian first.
After this second Italian experience, deeper and more
extensive than the first, I found myself in the North End, the old Italian
neighborhood in Boston, drifting through the streets looking for opportunities
to practice the language. If you listen carefully, somewhere behind the throng of
tourists, you can sometimes hear some older locals speaking Italian. Shyness
often, but not always, kept me from striking up a conversation. I eventually
found an official conversation group that was a mix of Italian Americans or students of
all levels just meeting to drink wine or espresso and practice the language.
That was particularly helpful and enjoyable, but I never managed to find the
same opportunities to just listen and observe, outside of the music on my
playlists.
It was during those years in Boston that I started learning
Portuguese, finding the Brazilian community there to be a little friendlier and
easier to get to know. I spent a lot of time in Brazilian churches, again, just
listening, taking things in, noticing patterns in the language, picking up
vocabulary bit by bit. I would listen to Brazilian students chatting after
English classes; many never knew their teacher could understand them! Between
these experiences, and the podcasts and audio lessons that became part of my
commutes, I was able to tune my ear to the language. And as I did that, my
heart also became attached to it. I had similar experiences when I went to
Jordan and dabbled with Arabic for several months before and after, and
although I didn't get as deep with it as with the Latin languages, there is
still a heart connection that came from listening intently.
What's funny is that I feel I don't do as much active
listening now that I'm living abroad. I certainly do listen, and I'm constantly
learning new vocabulary; in fact, I noticed quite a lot of progress after my
first year here. But this time I don't write it down in a fun notebook. Maybe I
should. Maybe I've just reached a plateau and gotten lazy. Maybe the
familiarization of using the language every day has taken away the glamour--not
entirely, but significantly. I still listen to podcasts on my commutes, but
this time they are in English, as are most of my music selections.
What I wonder is, in a world saturated with digital media,
where global connections are a click away, do we actually do more tuning out or
tuning in? I carry a phone with a notepad app that I could be using to write
down new words--and this time, auto-correct in Portuguese could actually help
me spell it right, and finding a clear definition would be easy, too. But I
don't make much use of it for that purpose. Those quiet, yet content-rich
mornings in Cortona feel so far away now. Perhaps it's the busyness of living
abroad versus studying abroad, but I think it also has to do with the greater
complexities of life in the digital age. Like most humans with a phone, if I'm
bored, I'll pull it out and find something to help pass the time. Back in
Cortona, or even during many years living in Boston, I didn't have that option,
and so I found myself observing more things around me with contemplative
contentment in the quiet moments.
I'm certainly not against technology--it can and does allow
wonderful things to happen in life and in learning, and that excites me. But as
I connect more to faraway places on my precious device, I find that I am
missing out on some priceless cultural observations right here. I'm also not
giving myself the gift of pondering the mysterious way light falls on an old
building, or the cool colors in the shadows on a dirt road, or the stories told
by an interesting texture in some age-old stones. Maybe this gringa needs to
tote around some watercolors and sketch paper more often and allow for some
surprising moments of learning and discovery to happen on their own--both in
Saint Joseph of the Fields and in my hometown.
When are you most tuned in to the magic of what's around
you? What would you like to connect with more? What kind of "Cortona
moments" have you had, and how can experiences like that--far or near to
home--be enjoyed to the fullest?
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