Update from Esbjerg

We arrived in Esbjerg, Denmark on the 20th and have been spending the last 4 days exploring the little town and the area surrounding it.  West Jutland, as the region is called, is a relatively rural area of the country, bordered on the west by the sea.  Esbjerg itself sprung up as a fishing port, and to this day it's fishing harbor remains one of the towns economic pillars.

A good friend of ours from Oregon, Maggie, has been living in Esbjerg pursuing her studies. She agreed to host us, and has been showing us that this sleepy little corner of the country really has a lot to offer.

Our first full day here Jenna and I set out on foot to explore the town.  Maggie and her 3 roommates live in a student housing complex on the edge of town, and the walk to the center of the city took us about 45 minutes.  We wandered through neighborhoods, admiring the architecture--the gingerbread-like houses had bigger roof lines than walls, and they were all made of identical red bricks.  The center of town held a giant ice skating rink that will open on Nov. 30th.  We plan to be there!

On the ferry to Fanø!

On our second day, Maggie took us to the local fishery museum.  Students from her school were allowed free admission, so she got us in without having to pay the extremely high $20 admission fee!  They exhibited restored Danish boats from the 18th century and a salt-water aquarium.  After the museum we headed to the town of Ribe (pronounced "Reeb").  It's a little town north of Esbjerg.  We stopped at a little cafe, had lunch, window shopped and meandered along the central square.  That day also happened to be Thanksgiving, and, as Jenna has already mentioned, Maggie roasted a couple of chickens, mashed some potatoes, and we, along with her many fellow-students who participate in a system in which each of them takes turns cooking dinner--had an impromptu, multi-national Thanksgiving feast!


One of my favorite experiences here so far is our day bike ride to the island of Fanø.  Jenna and I borrowed a couple of bikes and the three of us (with Maggie) rode down to the ferry and went across to the little island town.  The best word I can use to describe Fanø is "quaint."  The grass-thatched roofs covered in thick moss and weaving brick streets make for a scene straight out of Hobbiton.  We walked to the local brewery, and I ordered what has been the best beer I've had since leaving Portland (a delicious, full-bodied IPA).  In fact, the place reminded me very much of the type of places that are ubiquitous in Portland.  Even the labels on the beers were reminiscent of those you see in local breweries there.  It was nice to have a little taste of home with a good friend from home.

They put a bird on it!

In general, the language barrier in Denmark has been non-existent.  Almost all of the people here are proficient in English, so getting around has been quite easy.  We've explored quite a bit of Esbjerg and the surrounding areas, and it's fun and exciting to get to see a part of the country that most "tourists" never get to (most travelers visiting Denmark stay in Copenhagen or Ârhus).

Giving Thanks

Thanksgiving being a strictly American holiday, it's not something that we've been hearing a whole lot about lately. The fact that it originated alongside the founding of our country means that the US is, logically, the only country where people celebrate it. Europeans seem to know about it, but unlike Halloween- which is slowly becoming more widely celebrated throughout Europe- they see no reason to adopt our other prominent autumn tradition. Today, we are fortunate enough to be spending time with a good friend of ours, Maggie, who is from Alaska. She plans to cook a "mini-Thanksgiving" this evening for us and a large group of her friends that eats together almost every night. Some are American, but most are not. Though we look forward to enjoying our meal with them, that's far from what today is truly about. 

I think many Americans who are out of the country and away from family during the holidays often fall into the trap of feeling lonely or homesick, or dwelling on what they're missing. Though this holiday might not look like it normally does for us, it's important to remember why this is the case, and how very lucky we are to be able to be here. How all the things we are always thankful for at home are still true- our family, our friends, our good health- and in addition, we are among the fortunate few, who at some point in their lives, get to see the world. 

Happy Thanksgiving.

Jenna

Mi Famiglia

On Thursday, we decided to take a train from Florence to a little town north of here called Reggio Emilia. This sleepy little town is the very place where, well over a century ago, my Great-Grandfather was born. His name was Cesare DePetri, and he was my mother's father's father. It was also very near here that his wife, Onesta, was born. They met and were married in Italy before having their oldest child and immigrating to the United States, where their family continued to grow. Mom brought along with her copies of all of the birth, marriage, and death certificates she could get her hands on, as well as a genealogy report my Uncle had done on ancestry.com.

We had been planning on taking a trip up to Reggio Emilia since we arrived, wanting to research the family and see if we could find any relatives still in the area. Mom was just about jumping out of her skin with excitement when we stepped off the train.

Upon our arrival, we had no idea where we would start. We began walking towards the center of town and stopped in a coffee shop for something to eat and to ask directions (to where, we weren't really sure...). The man working behind the counter understood enough English to give us directions to the "municipal building," which was at the center of the easily walkable town. We had also planned to check churches we came across for any family names in their baptism records. On our way to the municipal building, we passed a church and went in to see if we could find the parish office. No luck inside, but it sure was beautiful! We walked around the outside of the church to see if there was a separate entrance to the offices. Still no luck. We ended up around back of the church, and ran into a group of people standing around in a parking lot. They were all a bit older, and spoke virtually no English, but made a surprisingly large effort to try to help us. We apologized for  not speaking Italian and attempted to ask them in English where the church offices were. Five minutes and many hand gestures later, they finally figured out what we were trying to find.

One of the men turned to an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair-- who's name we deduced was Frank (ironically this is the same name as my Grandfather's, Cesare's son)-- and asked him in Italian where the church office was. Frank seemed hard of hearing, and also seemed to have no idea the answer to our question. They tried their best, and were very kind in attempting to help us, but they eventually told us the church was "all together" and pointed in the direction we had come. "Grazie!" we told them, with complete sincerity for their honest effort, and continued on our search.

W gave up on the church, and walked toward the city center, still following the directions of the guy in the café. We practically ran right into the municipal building (did I mention how small Reggio Emilia is?). We walked in and climbed a flight of stairs to our left. At the top was a door, which my mom timidly cracked open, poking her head into an office. A lady sat at her desk and appeared startled by our unexpected entrance. We apologetically explained, again, that we didn't speak Italian and tried telling her in English that we were looking for some family records. She seemed to understand a little and led us down an elevator to an office on the floor below. She, too, was extremely kind in trying to help us.

She took us into an office where two other women sat. She spoke with them in Italian, presumedly telling them why she thought we were there, and then had us take a number from a machine (there wasn't a single person waiting in the office). Again, we told them we didn't speak Italian and asked if they spoke English. "Not really" they told us (this seemed to be a pattern here, Reggio Emilia not really being a tourist destination). Feeling like we may be hitting another dead end, it suddenly occurred to me to ask them if they spoke French- one of them did! "Alors, peut-être nous pouvons communiqué en Français!" I told her. She was the first person all day who understood perfectly.

I told her, in French, that Mom's grandfather was born in Reggio Emilia and that we were looking for any family records we could find. She understood and explained that the records we wanted were kept in another building just down the street from the one we were in. She gave us an address and the directions to get there. By this point, we all felt like detectives who had just come across their first big clue! We knew we were on the trail, but still had no idea where it would lead...

We left the municipal building and walked up another street toward the new address we had been given. It took us barely two minutes to find the right place. Inside were many people waiting and another machine which dispensed numbers based on what department you needed. Having no idea what any of the labels said--or really what we needed, for that matter--we decided our best option would be to take a number for each and see which one came up first. We pushed all the buttons, withdrew slips of paper, and then waited.

After our first number came up, and with some more poor attempts at Italian, we were passed around between a few different women in cubicles. We were told by one of the ladies that the records we wanted were kept in the basement, which was currently flooded, and that they wouldn't be able to access them until the water went down, and no one knew when that would be. We were handed a request form to fill out, not a word of which we could understand. Okay...

We eventually landed in front of a desk that belonged to a woman named Lucy- an incredibly kind person who understood and spoke only a little English, but who seemed to have infinite patience for helping us. We showed her the birth certificates we had brought, putting emphasis on the names we were trying to look up. We narrowed things down to "Cesare DePetri- born 1875." Lucy disappeared around the corner, and we held our breath. She returned a few minutes later carrying a large book with "1866-1875" printed on the spine.

The book contained lists of names--arranged alphabetically by last-- and next to them, the years in which the people were born (plus some other words we didn't understand). While the three of us peered over her shoulder, Lucy flipped through the pages looking for "DePetri."

Delligatti... Dentino... DePalo..... DePetri!

There it was. In the middle of the page, clear as day, my great-grandfather's name. And written next to it, "1875". That was it, we'd found him! Tears welled up in my mother's eyes as she starred at the page in disbelief. Here we were, half way around the world, in some tiny little town, and written on the page in front of us was his name. Her grandfather's name. Our name. If it wasn't for him (and all those before him, as well as those after) she wouldn't be here- I wouldn't be here.

But that wasn't all! Apparently, the other words on the page indicated to Lucy where the rest of his records were filed. You mean there's more than just a record of him being born here? We asked. Again, she disappeared, and again we waited, wondering what else we might learn about Cesare. She returned a few minutes later and, with a grin, handed us photo copies she'd made (for us to keep!) of a page in a book with his name at the top. It begins by stating the name of his wife--who's last name we hadn't known before-- and then goes on to say where they were married (just a few small towns away in Castelnovo Sotto). After that, there is a rather long paragraph containing all of the information that they have about him. Unfortunately, this information is in Italian and will have to be translated at some point, but Lucy was able to convey a small portion of it to us, namely the fact that Cesare was an orphan. With this information, we realized the continuation of our search, at least for today, would be cut short.

I've never been one to have a strong interest in family genealogy, but after our search through Reggio and our discoveries at the records office, I have a much greater understanding of why people find it so fascinating, and spend years of their lives tracing their bloodlines back for centuries.

Firenze

As we have eluded to in the previous few posts, we have been in Florence for the past week and a half or so. My mom, feeling inspired herself to travel, decided on a whim to spend a month in Italy. She found some cooking classes to sign up for, brought along some family documents to research (her father was Italian) and settled on returning to Florence-- a favorite of the many Italian cities we visited while traveling with my dad and brother during the summer of 2007. She rented an apartment here for the month, and graciously offered to host us for a couple of weeks in her sweet little "home away from home."

The three of us have been exploring Florence and the area around it on foot and have been thoroughly enjoying our time here. The pace of daily life for Italians is slow and leisurely. We've been following their lead, sleeping in most mornings, and taking our time wandering the streets and shopping the markets.































Even as long as we've been here, we still haven't put much of a dent in all that Florence has to offer. In addition to all of the traditional attractions such as the Uffizi and Accademia Galleries, and the world renowned Duomo of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Firenze is loaded with fruit and leather markets, street performers, and free outdoor sculpture gardens. There's certainly no shortage of things to  do, see, or buy.

 

Venice

We're in the midst of the third month of our journey, and life on the road is becoming second nature for the both of us.  You could say that we've fallen into a sort of "travel groove."  The constant motion, new faces, new terrain, new food--these things have become our life.

I'm guilty of neglecting to post on this blog as much as I would like, and even if I wrote here every day, it would be exhausting and impractical to detail all of our daily experiences here.  Suffice it to say that each day brings new sights, experiences and perspectives.

All this said, I'd like to share my impression of the city of Venice, a town world-renowned for it's charm, romance and utter beauty.  Last Sunday (the 11th), despite the forecast of rain, Jenna and I decided to hop a train to Venice.  Jenna had been there once before, and she said it was one of her favorite cities in Europe. It was a place that, for me, held an almost mythical aura. This impression no doubt had been fueled by my exposure to the city from it's appearance in everything from Bond movies to Shakespeare.  It's iconic canals, the vibrant colors, the labyrinthine streets, all contributed to my preconception of the city as otherworldly, ethereal.

From the moment our train started across the narrow bridge from the mainland into the cluster of islands on which this magical city rests, my previous impressions were proved well founded.

The weather throughout our brief time in Venice was not what you would call "nice."  Gray, thick clouds loomed ominously overhead, sudden gusts of wind would threaten to tear the near-useless umbrellas from passersby's clutch, and there was the constant threat of rain.  It was the kind of weather that in most other cities, under most other circumstances I would call gloomy.  In fact, the wind in some places had caused the water at high tide to flood from the canals onto the streets, submerging storefronts and first-level homes.  Tourists and locals alike trudged through puddles in knee-high rain boots (or plastic bags for the thrifty), and shop owners all over the city could be seen squeegy-ing their floors clear of the half-inch of water that had flooded in.

The picture I'm painting of the city those 2 days may give you the impression that I didn't have a good time, that the weather fouled our plans and forced us to huddle indoors.  In fact, the whole aesthetic of the weather, the disgruntled shopkeepers, the tourists trudging through puddles in multi-colored plastic bag-boots, the city employees constructing raised paths in severely flooded areas, was an experience that I would not have traded for the most picturesque blue-sky day in the "Floating City."  We spent most of our time wandering through the streets, getting utterly lost in it's maze of double-backs, dead ends and bridges leading nowhere.  The bright, festive edifices and elegantly arched bridges and courtyards provided an incongruous counterpart to the fog and clouds, the broken umbrellas and trash strewn though the streets, victims of the powerful gusts of wind.  There were areas of the city that were nearly deserted--due to the weather or some other reason I'll never know--and Jenna and I often found ourselves in the midst of our own private, somewhat eerie landscape.

Venice was a charming city, and I am thankful I was able to finally see it for myself before it goes the way of Atlantis.  After all, with climate change becoming an ever-increasing reality, it may be under water in the near future...

Little and Lost

I want to apologize right off the bat for this post coming a tad late and also for our general lack of posts these past couple weeks- we have been in Florence for the last week or so (with a short trip to Venice over the weekend) and have been super busy! But as they say, better late than never, and I think this story warrants telling...

We were out walking one day in Rome with some friends from the hostel we were staying at. We had been exploring the sites all day, and were heading back towards the hostel, planning to stop along the way and grab something to eat. The streets were crowded with tourists (as they were in most places in Rome) and it was a constant struggle for the 5 of us to stay together. I found myself in the lead and looking over my shoulder every few seconds, making sure we hadn't lost anyone. It was easy to do in the crowds, and we had all been putting a fair amount of energy into staying together throughout the day. At one point, several members of our group paused on a corner, and waved me back. One of them had come across a lost child.

Noticing that he was alone, and appeared lost, Anna had stopped and stooped next to a blond haired boy who looked to be about 5 or 6. She made no assumptions and immediately started trying to determine what language the child spoke. “Espanol?” She asked, it being her first language. A timid head shake was all he offered. “Italiano?” No luck. “Inglese? English?” we asked. He responded with a reserved nod, but a nod! It was obviously not his first language, but he knew it well enough to understand, and to communicate with us a little. Something so easily taken for granted in ones own country was such a relief to us, and to him, under our current circumstances.

We instantly began asking him all the logical questions we could think of while simultaneously scanning the area around us for anyone who appeared to have lost a child: What's your name? Who were you with? Where was the last place you saw them? What do they look like?

His name was Adrian. He had been with his family – which we learned consisted of his mother, also blond, his father who 'has no hair', and his brother, who is 9-- only minutes before, but had become separated from them in the crowd. We walked around the corner with him a little ways in the direction he thought they'd been heading, doing our best to keep him calm and reassure him that it would be okay, we would help him find his family. We learned that they were on vacation and had stayed at a hotel the night before, but he didn't know where or which one. Five or so minutes went by with no success, and we began exchanging looks, wondering what our next move should be. It seemed the only logical option was to find a police station and try to explain to them what had happened. None of the 5 (6 if you include Adrian) spoke Italian. I asked in a cafe where to find the “polizia” and received some vague directions in Italian and a gesture around the corner, but nothing we could work with. Okay...

As I walked back out onto the sidewalk to where the group was standing with Adrian, I saw a police car driving past. Without a thought, I ran into the street to flag them down. They stopped and I thought “Oh shit, what now? I've flagged down a police car, but can't speak Italian!” I hesitantly asked them if they spoke English. They replied as many people do: “A little.” Hoping 'a little' was enough, I told them in English “We've found a lost child.”

Just at that moment, I heard by name being called from the sidewalk, and turned to see the group waving excitedly- they'd found them! Adrian had spotted his parents down the street talking to the police officer who they had found to help them. Without knowing if the officers in the car I had stopped ever understood me (they drove away a few seconds later) I returned to the sidewalk in time to see Adrian and his family turning the corner. The whole thing happened so fast, we were all left feeling a little flustered, but were relieved that everything had worked itself out.

All I could think about afterward was how awful it would be to have been Adrian's parents for those 7ish minutes. The panic that would have to be going through their minds having lost their child in such a crowd. How frightening it would be to know that he didn't speak the language and not know where he was.

All I could feel was my heart going out to every parent, every family who's ever lost a child- either temporarily in a crowded place, or even more terrifying- permanently.

Stay diligent out there, everyone. Take nothing for granted.  

~Jenna

Roma

We were lucky enough to get to spend five whole days and nights in Rome. Of all the "big" cities in Europe I've visited to date, I think Rome is my favorite. It's hard to put a finger on exactly why this is-- perhaps it's because it holds some of the most ancient monuments in all of western culture, or maybe it's the fact that you can't walk 2 blocks in any direction without stumbling across a beautiful building or statue, or maybe it's just that I LOVE Italian food. Whatever it is, Rome has this vibe, this feeling about it, that's different from other European cities.

When we planned our week in Rome, we figured we'd be catching the "off season", it being the end of October. We were shocked to find the city absolutely packed with tourists. It was suddenly clear to us why we had had such a difficult time trying to find a Couchsurfing host, and why we had ended up having to book a hostel. Despite the never-ending tourist season in Rome (we learned from locals that there is no "off season") the people of Rome are surprisingly patient, understanding, and welcoming towards outsiders.

Although we were disappointed to have to spend money on so many nights of lodging, we had a good time and met a lot of great people at the hostel we stayed at. Our first night there, we played the apparently world-renowned drinking game "King's Cup" (a.k.a. "Circle of Death", "Kings", or "Ring of Fire")  with a group of Polish students who, to our complete surprise, knew all the rules and played the game exactly as we have always known it in the States. We also made some other friends at the hostel, and spent the following day exploring the city with 3 lovely ladies from Canada who were studying in Lyon, France, and José Pablo and Anna, who were both from Mexico City.

For the remainder of our stay, we thoroughly enjoyed the company of our new friends, as well as the other guests and staff at the hostel. We even met a guy from Chile who lived and worked for 6 months in the tiny town of Granby, Colorado- which also happens to be where I went to high school. Then there was Becca and Caitlin from New York, who arrived towards the end of our stay... as it turned out, they're both studying in Florence, which happened to be where we were headed next. And you'll never guess who we ran into walking down the street in Florence our first morning here! Becca! To top it all off, their apartment is so ridiculously close to ours that we could literally string up a soup-can-phone between our windows if we wanted to. I'm convinced this world is definitely round, full of wonderful people, and getting smaller by the day.

~Jenna

Origins

Those of you who know me know that I am incredibly passionate about this little thing called Montessori Education. The Montessori movement often marks its beginning with the opening of the first Casa dei Bambini in San Lorenzo, Rome in 1907. Today, 105 years later, Sean and I began our day by trekking across The Eternal City to visit it.

San Lorenzo is still a working class neighborhood. It's pretty rough around the edges and exhibits many of the typical characteristics of a lower income area: tasteless graffiti, trash on the streets, buildings in disrepair. In parts, it seemed to be making a turn for the better, while in other parts it appeared almost forgotten.

The first Casa still stands at number 58 Via dei Marsi, Rome. It is on the ground level of an apartment building full of private residences, and from what I gather, it is still a functioning public Montessori school. We knew we had arrived when we noticed a modest sign next to a door which read “Casa dei Bambini: Fondata nel 1907 da Maria Montessori.” The door was open.

We wandered in and found some info boards, in both Italian and English, which had been put up in the entry way during the centenary in 2007, and which we both read through (one of us slightly more enthusiastically than the other).

We then continued through the entry and into an open courtyard which was filled with trees and plants. There were apartment buildings on all 4 sides, each one with it's own entry door and set of doorbells. Next to each of the doorbells was written a very Italian surname and none of the doors or doorbells indicated anything that remotely resembled a school, but it didn't matter. It felt wonderful just to be there, to see the area around it, to imagine what it was like during her time. I felt lucky simply to stand where it all started.

Just a short walk away from the school is the largest and most beautiful cemetery I've ever seen. It's called the “Cimitero Monumental di Campo Verano”, or the Verano Monumental Cemetery, and in it is buried every Catholic who died in Rome between 1800 and 1950. It also happens to be where the Montessori family grave is located. Maria herself was buried--according to her wishes--in the Netherlands, where she died, but her parents, Renilde and Alessandro, were buried in the family plot at Verano. We managed to ask where to go by combining “famiglia Montessori?” with a shrug and a smile, and got a map and some vague directions in Italian from a very kind gentleman near the entrance. We wandered off into the cemetery, where narrow roads wound through acres and acres of graves and tombs, almost all of which sported flowers, it being the day after All Saint's Day- a very important holiday here in Italy.

I don't normally care much for cemeteries, but this one was absolutely beautiful. We were amazed by it's sheer vastness, and how incredibly many graves -in all sizes and styles- it held. We walked, admired, and casually searched for the right quadrant of the cemetery for the better part of an hour. The pictures don't nearly do it justice. Eventually we came to the number we were looking for. We walked all through that 'neighborhood' reading the names on the gravestones, none of which said “Montessori.” Feeling like it must be around somewhere, we looked across the street to where more tombs were located on the side of a building, and there it was! ***Ahhh... that must have been what the kind elderly gentleman at the entrance was trying to explain to us***

We peeked thru an iron gate and into the small room that was labeled with the family name. It contained the tombs of both of Maria's parents, and a plaque recognizing Maria herself, however, only in Italian. We lingered for a bit, admiring again the beauty of the place, and then found our way out of the cemetery. Although we still have 2 days left in Rome, I feel as though my visit here is complete- I saw what I came for.