“The relationship between bees and man hasn’t changed,” Fabrizio said through an interpreter. “It’s man and nature. It will never change.”

“Apicoltura,” or beekeeping, has been the Gabannini family business for four generations, making them the oldest beekeepers in the Marche region in Central Italy. Throughout the years, the family has upheld a tradition of producing quality products while still respecting the natural environment of their work. Their business has survived turbulent times, from the Nazi occupation of the past to the hive die off of the present.

Although not as common today, bee farms were customary in every rural household in the early 20th century. It was not until 1913, that Marino Gabannini decided to barter his product in addition to producing it. And so, Apicoltura Gabannini was born.

Now, the family harvests honey on 25 bee farms in and around Urbino, and tends 600 families of bees. They produce 10 different varieties of honey and sell their goods at local markets, fairs, shows and their shop.

The Gabanninis’ shop is sandwiched between their beehives and their house in the Urbino hills, just outside the town. The dark wood shelves and tables display a wide array of products–from jars of orange-flavored honey to beeswax candles and soap. All these items are produced on the Gabannini farm and in their laboratory behind their house.

On one wall of the shop hangs a framed black and white photograph of a group of four men and three young boys standing among the beehives. One of the boys is Gualtiero Gabannini when he was 4 years old. The picture dates to 1931.

Gualtiero spent his summers as a child in the hills of Urbino’s countryside. When it was hot, he slept near the hives. “Grandparents would tell their grandchildren to be careful around bees,” he said through an interpreter, “so the children were always afraid. But I never was.”

Gualtiero was in his early teens when Germans were stationed near Urbino in WWII. During this time, honey became a precious commodity and many Germans killed bee colonies to steal the goods. However, things played out differently for his family, according to Gualtiero.

“The Germans were so close to us and we began to know each other,” he said. “It became a forced good relationship.” Gualtiero remembered hiding the honey, not from the Germans, but from their Italian neighbors instead.

Despite the hard history, Gualtiero still loves everything about being a beekeeper. Even at 82, with a head of crisp white hair and a thin physique, he’ll walk among the sheets of honeycomb, puffing white smoke at the hives with a bee smoker (a device that looks like a watering can).

This is not the first time the honeybee appears in Italian history. Three honeybees adorn the crest of one of the oldest and noblest families in Italy–the Barberinis. The honeybee symbol gained more power when Maffeo Cardinal Barberini became Pope Urban VIII in 1623 and added the papal symbol to the honeybee crest.

The honeybee soon became a reminder of authority and influence in Italy that few could avoid, including Italian scientist Francesco Stelluti. Best known for his work with microscopes, Stelluti published two works on the anatomy of the honeybee to please Urban VIII. With his microscope, he was able to gaze upon the bee’s most unobserved features–including the tongue and the stinger.

Instead of worrying about the bee’s stinger, the Gabanninis focus on the natural and healing powers of bees. Gualtiero’s wife, Iti Gina, works in the house instead of on the bee farm. Between regular household chores, Gina spends her time making honey hand cream and propolis.

Propolis is an old healing remedy. Ancient Greeks used it for abscesses, Egyptians used it in mummification and Assyrians used it for tumors and sores, according to MedlinePlus online herbal dictionary. Gina began making propolis when she married Gualtiero in the mid-1950s. She dries the propolis in the sun, and then mixes the brittle leaves with alcohol. The result: a natural cure for sore throats and cuts.

`While the Gabanninis have sustained their business through the century, they are constantly facing old and new problems. Rainy days, an age-old problem for beekeepers, slow their work often and can damage their stored products. However, worldwide beehive die off is something very new that many are trying to fight.

Floriana Ferri is a secretary and technical supervisor for Provincial Consortium Apistica, an association of beekeepers in the region. “Italy is like a big garden,” Ferri said through an interpreter. “The honey we produce is some of the best in the country.”

Provincial Consortium Apistica helps train and inform beekeepers in the Marche region. Dying hives has been a recent issue that their association tries to protect against. The causes could be anything from parasites and disease to pesticides, but no one knows for certain.

“Beekeeping is a loved tradition in Italy,” Ferri said. “But it is getting harder for beekeepers. Now it is like a real job, not a hobby.”

In a family business that spans generations, a threat like hive die off could be disheartening. Last year, Apicoltura Gabannini lost 40 percent of production due to the problem, Fabrizio said.

Despite the drawbacks, Fabrizio loves his profession and hopes that his children will carry on in his footsteps. “I love being in close contact with nature,” he said. “I love the bees. They are beautiful and complicated, just like humans.”

In the Italian Renaissance town of Urbino, where selling the past is a major industry, Filippo Battistelli seems to fit right in. He is a luthier, an artisan who uses ancient tools and techniques to craft musical instruments from blocks of wood.

But there is one glaring difference: Battistelli is making electric guitars.

“When I restore old instruments, I feel like a doctor: They come in sick, and I revive them,” he says. But making electric basses is different: “I give them life.”

Filippo Battistelli adjusts a client's electric guitar

Battistelli is a man who seems at home living in two worlds, much like the country that he calls home. Italy may be famous among tourists for its ancient cities and hilltop castles, but it’s the cutting-edge technology, fashion and music that keeps its traditions alive in a changing world. So it’s not surprising to find Battistelli in a workshop that was used as a horse stable for 16th-century nobility, using old-fashioned methods to fashion high-tech instruments. “I love restoring ancient instruments,” says Battistelli. “But I learn even more about early instruments from experimenting with modern ones.”

A quick look around his shop makes it clear that Battistelli is not just a Renaissance man. The arching brick interior of the building is covered in foam insulation to absorb the reverb from the large speakers and bright yellow drum set. A single upright bass chills in the corner, surrounded by rows of colorful and boldly shaped electric basses and guitars. The chisels, brushes and woodshavings that cover his work area would look at home in Stradivari’s workshop, if it wasn’t for the elaborate electronic equipment (and the motorcycle helmet) sitting beside the bench where Battistelli works.
Salt-and-pepper stubble covers an easy smile as Battistelli squints down the neck of a guitar he is adjusting. His muscular arms and calloused hands give testimony to the physical skill and work involved in his trade.

Never formally trained as an instrument maker, he attributes his knowledge to “stealing with his eyes” from the work of other luthiers— and to lots of experimentation. He began repairing his own instruments at an early age, taking them apart to see how they were made. “I think this is common among young people who play,” says Battistelli, who plays trombone and saxophone as well as, “officially,” the electric bass. Battistelli also admits to a youthful affair with heavy metal, during which he smashed a guitar. “But then I grew up,” he says. “Now, besides jazz, I like…jazz.”

But music was not his first love. “I originally wanted to be a visual artist,” he says, pointing to a dramatic pencil drawing he did of electric bassist Jaco Pastorius. “But all art comes from the same source.”
While he was in a high school for visual art, he heard Pastorius—“my idol”— perform live and was inspired to paint the watercolor that now hangs above his workbench. In bright colors and skewed lines that look like they’ve been passed through a distortion amp, the painting depicts a figure playing an electric bass. The musician and instrument are so closely intertwined that they meet at a single point: Just below the neck of the instrument (its shoulder), the body of the bass curves and stretches up to meet the player’s head in a spiraling embrace.

Battistelli used this distinctive design as a model for the first bass he made. Apprenticed to a furniture-maker in the very shop he now owns, Battistelli carved out the body using woodworking tools from the furniture shop. The spiral of the bass’s shoulder recalls the silhouette of the bass player’s head from the painting.

“This is my trademark,” he explains. “It is a symbol of the union between musician and instrument.” It also looks remarkably like the scroll on a violin, bringing to mind another union between the heritage of traditional violin-making and Battistelli’s electric innovations.

Each instrument he makes is fashioned from a block of wood that has been aged and seasoned for between 10 and 40 years. Factory-made instruments, on the other hand, are generally made of wood chemically seasoned for a much shorter time. “They put them in the oven in the morning, take them out at night,” says Battistelli. “This does not allow the sap to drain properly, so they aren’t as sonorous.” Battistelli puts the wood on an incline so that the wood drains and ages naturally over a long period of time.

Once he has selected the wood, he makes measurements for the instrument’s shape and size, carefully orienting the grain of the wood and ensuring that the weight is properly balanced. He cuts and shapes the body using tools that have not changed for centuries. Then he tackles the neck, which, he explains, is the mechanical heart of the instrument — and the most difficult to make. “It’s the part in which everyone who wants to try to be a luthier stops,” he laughs.

Inside the neck is a string that is used to counterbalance the tension of the strings outside, each of which exerts 20 kg of tension on the instrument. The frets (the horizontal bars that cross the fingerboard of the guitar) are also difficult to make. “If you spend 2,000 Euros on a bass, 1,000 was the neck,” he says.
The final step, and one of the most important for the personalization of the instrument’s sound, is the setup of the microphones and other electronic components of the instrument. “The microphone is the interpreter of the sound,” he explains. “It is important to choose the right connection between microphone and wood.”

Battistelli uses ash wood when he wants a bright and resonant sound, and mahogany for a more sensual and warm sound. By combining a bright microphone with a bright wood or vice versa, he can shape the sound of the instrument to fit the client’s personal voice. “My instruments speak,” he says. “A factory-made instrument can also have a beautiful sound, but if you play it for two hours—there’s nothing left to discover: your ear has already understood it. But with my instruments, there are infinite possibilities.”

But there’s a price to these possibilities. Battistelli’s basses can cost between 2000 - 3000 euros (approximately 2,825 - 4,236 USD). “You can find factory-made instruments starting from 50-100 euros,” says Battistelli. “This is the price of my strings.”

His clients, “apart from the young boys who come to get the newest color guitar,” include bassists Dario Deidda, Lino De Rosa (bassist for the Italian rapper Frankie Hi-NRG MC), and Patrick Djivas (bassist for the rock band Premiata Forneria Marconi (P.F.M)). Battistelli considers feedback from musicians to be invaluable, often consulting them about the shape, balance, and sound of the instruments he is building. “To a real musician, an instrument is like a child,” he explains.

And there is one instrument that he will never sell, an elegantly shaped fretless bass that has become like a child to him. “This was made from my own cherry tree,” he says, fingering the dark neck where it joins the body in his signature curl. “My father cut it down when I was two.” Only three blocks of the wood were big enough to make an instrument. One of them is now being plugged into the jack of his speaker tower.

As the infectious groove of Battistelli’s music fills the dim interior of the workshop, it is easy to see what he means when he says that his instruments speak. The sound that spills out from his shop and into the narrow Renaissance alley is the voice of a new generation of instruments born from the ancient tradition of Italian luthiery.

Every group so far has been working hard on their perspective stories. The stories range from the city’s graffiti problems to  beekeepers, cresce sfogliate, and instrument makers, among many others. Throughout this month,  not only have I been able to participate in my own group’s  stories but also in the stories of others.

As a journalist, I find that this is the most exciting part of my job; I get to learn a little bit about people, events and stories about which the general public is unaware.

Any opportunity I have to help or even be invited to witness another story I take it and go. So when Nicole asked me to help her photograph a panorama for her bee story,  I jumped at the chance.

The Gabannini bee farm is a fourth-generation family run business in Urbino. Their little shop sits in front of the property with the house directly behind it and the beehives and boxes are perched on the hillside adjacent to the store.

Entering the store, you see that it is a simple family shop containing shelves lined with different sizes and flavors of honey. The setting sun shines through the window and the jars of “miele di fragola” (strawberry honey) are eye-catching; amber red light shines from the glass.

The “nonna” (grandmother) of the family, Ita Gina, answers the door and tells the interpreter that her husband is soon to arrive but she allows us to come in. We walk through the shop and out through the patio. The family’s property is on a hillside and looming up further I can see a view of Urbino. The sunset beats down on Urbino’s stone walls.

“Nonna” takes us to the little house through a hobbit-sized door and there the four of us stand squished in front of the gas stove. “Nonna,” the interpreter and I are all short but six-foot-tall Nicole crouches to avoid the ceiling. “Nonna” says she needs to finish making dinner.  Nicole asks me to take pictures of “nonna” to add to her slideshow, so I oblige.

In this unexpected moment, I finally get to reach one of my most desired goals in coming to Italy – that is to sit in a real grandma’s kitchen and watch her cook Italian food.

Apart from the intrigue of visiting a real bee farm,  stepping into “nonna’s” kitchen was like learning about two stories for the price of one.

“Nonna” slices “melanzana” (eggplants) from her garden and throws the round disks on to the sizzling skillet. I snap some pictures but pause to converse with “nonna.” She laughs as she flips the slices with a fork and then she gives me a rundown on how to cook the recipe. She speaks to me as if I am a native Italian speaker and seems to be pleased that someone is interested in her cooking.

“Nonna” says “e simplice di cocinare.” The rich smell of garlic wafts up my nose as she takes the cooked slices off the heat and onto a plate. Her wrinkled hand grabs a garnish mixture of Italian parsley and fresh garlic, spreads it over the top of the toasted disks and sprinkles olive oil over the finished “melanzana.”

This experience has been one of the richer ones of my trip because I feel like I learned something about the Italian culture that I have been living in. This recipe I can take home and share with my kids. Now the question is will my recipe taste like “nonna’s?”

The young man pushing through the double doors looks like a personal trainer or one of Urbino’s most eligible bachelors. He sports a deep tan over a lean, fit physique covered by a blue form-fitting shirt, dark grey cargo shorts that stop just above the knees and a tattoo spread across the back of his perfectly toned left calf.

But the building he’s entering isn’t a gym. It’s a convent. And he isn’t heading for a day on the town, but rushing to celebrate a mass at a local hospital.

Claudio Pantaleo, 33, is an ordained Catholic Franciscan monk, but people often don’t believe it.  Part of the reason, he says, is because he’s usually wearing jeans or workout clothes rather than the black robes of his order.  But his age and less traditional, more open-minded views of religious life also play a part, he admits.

“A lot of people tell me I don’t look like a Franciscan monk and neither a priest, but nobody has ever told I me I should change my lifestyle,” he adds.

People who know Pantaleo aren’t surprised. No one expected him to be wearing a monk’s robe. He grew up in a Roman family that was not especially religious, and at 20 was a college student in Urbino who seldom visited church. He expected to eventually have a wife and children. But during a battle with anorexia, he had a spiritual experience he described as a “shock.”

“This experience was very fast for me; I decided to become a priest in a week,” he recalled. “It was immediate, but after that quick decision it took nine years to become a priest.”

He took the vows of obedience, chastity and poverty in 2005 and was assigned to Urbino, where he now shares living quarters with two other Franciscans, one 52, the other 83. Franciscans devote themselves to a life modeled after St. Francis of Assisi, one of the best-loved saints in Catholic history. Most are called to lead lives of preaching, foreign missions, teaching and parish work.

His assignment to the college town of Urbino was a perfect fit for his youthful outlook on his ministry. Although he spends a good deal of time with the elderly, serving as chaplain at the local hospital, he also feels a special calling to the young.

During a Sunday morning mass at San Francesco church near his convent, Pantaleo notices some children sitting in the front pews. He invite them to walk up to the altar and says that people are called by God even as children. Shortly after, his phone rings. He decides to pick up the call because it’s a staff member from the hospital. After the brief conversation he jokingly says, “You’re called even during mass,” and the congregation starts to laugh.

Parishioners seem to appreciate his methods.

“He’s crazy, but a sweet person,” says Pantaleo’s friend, Fabio Barone, 27.  “He’s crazy because I see him every day on his bike on Urbino’s streets that go up and down. He seems like a normal person, not like a priest.”

Pantaleo’s decision to blend into the local community can lead to his appearance at events not normally associated with monks. One Friday night, he attended a party with a DJ playing dance music on one end and a bartender pouring alcoholic drinks on the other. It was a house party with many attractive young women, and Pantaleo settled on the grass to talk to three beautiful women.

Pantaleo says one of the hardest parts of his vocation is dealing with the times he is attracted to someone, or more seriously, falls in love. Despite those occasions, he still feels strongly about what God wants for him.

He admits that worrying about what his superior monk thought about his lifestyle was a burden. He was once scolded for going to a night club during his first years in the priesthood.

“I felt this burden also inside the seminary during the long years of the training,” he said. “Now I feel much more free because I feel that my community and other people trust in me, probably because I’ve never given rise to scandal in spite of my very ‘normal’ and ‘human’ lifestyle.”

The monk says he has no clear vision for himself in the future, but is open to
whatever God presents. He takes his vocation one day at a time. And while he once was closed to the thought of pursuing a woman he loved, he now says if the opportunity comes along, he would be more open-hearted to the idea.

“I’m not obliged or forced into my choice. I have no regrets,” he says about his vocation. “My choice has been renewed every day.”

“Most people get pretty decent care, and no one is completely abandoned,” said Bloom, 43, a professor of English at the University of Urbino. “I think overall it works.”

As opposing forces wage a heated and emotional debate over the issue in the U.S., interviews with ex-pats and native Italians in Urbino with experience in both systems provide insight into what such a change could mean. In general they praised the ability of the nation to provide quick and competent care to all of its citizens, regardless of income, and considered the extra cost in higher taxes — the longer waits for some forms of care — a good exchange.

Italians, like most Europeans, consider health care a national right, not a luxury, they said. And news reports that 45 million Americans had no health care last year, or that families can go bankrupt paying for critical health care, was unacceptable to those interviewed.

The concern for quality health care may be one reason the current Italian system, Servizio Sanitario Nazionale, or SSN,, was ranked No. 2 in the world by the World Health Organization in 2000, the last year such a study was completed. The U.S. was ranked 37. Turkey and the U.S. currently are the only two industrialized nations that do not provide national health care.

SSN is based on a traditional universal model, where the state is responsible for providing accessible healthcare to all of its citizens. Primary care physicians work at local clinics where they treat common problems and screen for more serious illnesses. There is no private sector option for primary care. If a patient needs a specialist, he is referred to one in the Italian system, and that is where waiting times increase. There are private sector specialists, but their costs are not covered.

Prescription medication is also covered by the state. The process is simple, much like in the United States: If a prescription is written, the patient redeems it for the proper drug at a pharmacy.

Paci Luigi,  a pharmacist here since 1975, said he fills around 100 prescriptions a day, mostly for the elderly. He noted that the government will cover any generic prescriptions; however, name-brand prescriptions come at an out-of-pocket expense.

While citizens pay nothing when treated, costs are collected on an on-going basis through higher taxes. The Italian system is financed by general tax revenue combined with an additional healthcare tax. On average, Italians are taxed around 45 percent of their salaries.

Bloom, 43, thinks the price is worth the benefits. For the last six years his daughter has been battling an on-going health problem and is no stranger to the hospital. “I would say we’ve had excellent care,” he said. “It’s probably as good if not better than what she might get in the states.

Andrea Luminati agreed with Bloom. An Urbino native who moved to Los Angeles when he was 18 to pursue a degree in advertising at Pepperdine University,  Luminati, 44,  stayed in the states for the next 20 years before retuning to Italy in 2004.

While in the states Luminati first worked for large companies that provided healthcare benefits, but later started his own business and provided his own health insurance which cost $300 per month. At the age of 38, just one month after getting his own plan,  Luminati was diagnosed with kidney stones and hospitalized for three days. He said the final bill totaled more than $20,000.

“If I hadn’t purchased that insurance in the states, it would have been a huge (financial) blow,” he said.

Once back in Italy, Luminati had another serious health problem, this time a thyroid issue. He said the public system operated in Urbino gave him prompt and excellent care, from diagnosing the problem, running specific medical tests and then providing the proper medication. He paid no money out of pocket.

But Luminati added that state provided care does have some bugs, which get larger and more onerous as the community you live in grows in size.

“You have to look at the Italian healthcare system almost in a city by city basis,” he said. “In Italy, in a smaller town the healthcare system works very well because it’s smaller, there’s less people. (But) in Milan or Rome it’s a whole different ballgame.” He said bigger cities have longer lines for routine care and longer waits for surgery. He said newspapers often run stories detailing this problems and even sanitary issues.

Bloom agreed, adding that many Italians are unsatisfied with the system, most particularly with waiting times.

“I’ve had a family member who had a serious health problem and she had to wait, I think longer than she should had to get the necessary care,” he said. “I’m not sure if she would have had to wait so long in the states.”

Bloom added many Italians believe the recent wave of immigration — much of it illegal — is a reason for some waits. “A lot of (illegal) immigrants use the hospital for basic care because they often don’t have a regular doctor,” said Bloom. “People are worried that it is putting pressure on the system and people are worried because they have to wait in line.”

According to the European organization Active Citizenship Network (ACN), in 2005 around 5,000 Italians filed requests for treatment abroad, most from southern regions.

A nationwide inspection of public hospitals was conducted in January 2007 after multiple reports of poor hygiene and unsafe conditions. Less than half were given a clean bill of health. Thirty-six percent were reported for breaching administrative norms, 17.4 percent for breaching building norms and 7.5 percent for breaching hygiene and cleanliness norms. Regions such as Calabria, Lazio and Campani showed to be the least hygienic and were said to have some Third World features.

According to Luminati, many Italians often seek private care to avoid long waits.

“You’ve got a choice, you’re not stuck with socialized medicine, if you’ve got the money you can go privately,” said Luminati. It is estimated that roughly 35 percent of Italians have some sort of private care.

Elvita Redavid, 27, of Urbino, recalled her last experience with the healthcare system.

After suffering multiple hip and knee injuries, Redavid traveled north to seek private treatment. From experience, Redavid estimated that a vast majority of Italians prefer private facilities over public because of long waiting lines for specialized care in the public sector. “I just felt more comfortable and safe with a private specialist,” said Redavid.

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MULTIMEDIA: See how Italians honor their patron saints.

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Each Italian city has a patron saint. San Crescentino belongs to Urbino. Immortalized for renouncing the Diocletian ruling powers and spreading Christianity, the Roman soldier turned minister was beheaded in 303 A.D. His brief ministry resulted in many converts. San Crecentino’s figure appears not only in Urbino but also in Rome. From the top of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, he stands along with Jesus and St Paul.

Processions are performed to honor a saint’s anniversary of death or another defining event. Carrying the statue in the early summer is a demanding job. Balancing the statue takes precision. It requires six volunteers to support the life-size figure at one time with about 20 men alternating throughout the procession. About 1,000 people join the event each year. Food and wine are an important part of the day. A few people have specific roles in the festival.

Busignani, or “Pippi” as friends know him, has carried the statue for 20 years. The oldest barber in town, he learned the business as a child from his father. Working for 65 years has not slowed him down.

He stops cutting a client’s hair to share the prayer he says each year to San Crescentino, “If you want me to carry you again next year, give me health.” Hair falls in every direction as he excitedly waves his scissors. He explains his favorite is not San Crescentino, but Santa Rita. He wears her image around his neck and often jokes with her, “If you don’t do me this grace, I’ll go to Crescentino.” The grace is health. With health, he explains, you can have anything and without it, nothing.

Next to Busignani’s barbershop, beyond his birdcage replica of the Ducal Palace, is the former home of the statue’s creator. Francesco Antonio Rondelli constructed the image in the early 19^th century. Made of paper-mâché, the statue is kept out of the elements and the public eye except for the procession. To preserve the work, it is stored behind a painting in the Duomo. With a push of a button, the painting dramatically slides down to reveal San Crescentino. The statue holds a relic, a bone from Crescentino. The remaining relics are stored under the cathedral’s main altar.

San Crescentino’s image is easily found around town. This year church officials placed a replica of a bronze statue capturing the saint slaying a dragon. Beside the steps leading up to the Duomo, San Crescentino stands on the left with the dragon at his feet, and opposite is Bishop Mainardo. This bishop brought Crescentino’s relics to Urbino in 1068, some 765 years after he was beheaded.

The current bishop of Urbino, Francesco Marinelli, explained the symbolism behind the dragon slaying. The dragon depicts the triumph over evil and temptation. “Everyone knows him but none try to imitate, ” the bishop says through an interpreter.

Knowing is not necessarily believing. In order to draw in young crowds, especially the estimated 17,000 students that attend the University of Urbino or Università degli Studi di Urbino “Carlo Bo”, Bishop Marinelli writes and edits books each year to distribute free of charge. One such booklet includes stories of modern-day martyrs. Photos of famous art and of the procession are also featured in the book. The bishop hopes this effort will encourage the faith of younger generations.

Each year the book highlights a personal attribute of San Crescentino, with youth as the current theme. He was a very young man who became famous for his martyrdom. In his twenties, Crescentino was targeted by the same military he once served.

One Urbino citizen believes in playing a part in the recreation of this celebration. Giuseppe Cucco, who manages all sites for the University of Urbino, also coordinates the logistics for the procession, from the timing of prayers to the organization of the band. Cucco enjoys conveying the significance of the protection a saint offers. “My faith is not only when in church, but it’s a part of normal life in other places.” With a big smile, he explains why the procession is important. Cucco says he always feels close to God but the procession is a way to express his devotion. “I love my son every day. When he has a birthday, I throw a party.”

And a party it is! Cucco recalls a strong impression imposed during childhood. People would hang out their nicest hand-sewn blankets to decorate the homes providing festive colors for the march. The citizens also threw out flower petals from windows to make a lovely street for the march.

Traditions do not stop at the Italian border. People in countries such as Mexico, Spain and the United States celebrate saints as well. Rosanne Romanello of Long Island, New York participated in processions as a child by signing with the choir in both English and the Italian dialect, Calabrese. Romanello’s parents remember 3,000 people squeezing into church, women and children inside, men standing outside, to hear mass. Today as Italian-Americans have assimilated and moved away, probably no more than 500 come to “La Festa di Santa Marina” celebrated every July. The procession for Santa Marina is celebrated in Filandari, Italy as well as Long Island.

Romanello said, “For the Calabrese who came over to New York 100 years ago, religion was the one thing they could bring over with ease…a metaphorical ‘invisible and weightless suitcase’-” Romanello wrote in an email interview. Every city is looking for a protector according to Cucco. In moments of danger, a city asks for protection. In 1741, Urbino requested a co-saint, Emidio, protector of earthquakes. Emidio earned this reputation because in 1703. an earthquake hit the Le Marche region, but Ascoli Piceno, where the saint once worked miracles hundreds of years earlier, was spared.

Saints are used as intercessors to God. The procession is a physical representation of belief that has withstood ages and a faith that continues today. When Busignani was asked why it is important for future generations to carry on the procession, he answered, “We’re done if you don’t carry the tradition.”

]]> http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/29/san-crescentino-final/feed/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/untranslateable/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/untranslateable/#comments Tue, 28 Jul 2009 19:25:54 +0000 Alyssa Coltrain http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/?p=1336 In reading through my blogs, I have noticed that the difference between myself and Italians that I notice most often is language. I’ve talked about “what happens when that communication is outright rejected” in speaking about my encounter with the rude woman on the bus.  I’ve also talked about “Fritalish,” in which I commented that “what’s important is that we were communicating,” no matter the language. For the most basic conversations, I still believe that this is true, but not for cultural understanding. I think this pattern of language analysis is fitting—language, as a product of history and geography, and both a product and producer of culture and mindset, can illustrate telling things about a country.

For example, in Latin, there is a word called auctoritas, which a dictionary would mostly translate as “power.” It’s both correct and incorrect. If you desperately needed one English word to stand in for auctoritas, power would be an acceptable substitute. However, it doesn’t really convey what the word means—that blend of charisma, allies, deep pockets and sheer ruthlessness that could propel you to the top of Roman politics. The word is untranslateable, but not incomprehensible.

In a way, speaking two languages is similar to living in two cultures mentioned in the article “Voicing Identities.” I am still speaking of a more advanced level of language— beyond the si, grazie, mi dispiace, quanto costa that we’ve learned here. In fact, one of the authors even describes the role that language plays in culture when she relates a woman saying “Did your parents teach you English only and not Tagalog so  you would be quote-unquote more American?” (Solidon 12).

We had another reading that talked about the different levels of language I’ve drawn. In “Culture Blends,” by Michael Agar, he explains that confusion in language and communication is not from the words, but also from the connotations. He writes “the tendency is to draw a circle around language, to herd neat sentences into a corral […] but the most problems with language, the problems that come up when you try to use it to communicate, aren’t about sentences or parts of speech.” They’re about the words that you can’t translate into English, but you just have to learn–concepts without a name in your first language. Like I said earlier, the true difficulty in intercultural communication is in those things that are untranslateable. They should not, however, be incomprehensible.

I feel like that distinction can apply to many of the things I have encountered here in Urbino. For example, I’ve heard pausa referred to jokingly as an “afternoon nap,” which makes it seem almost childish, rather than pragmatic as I feel it to be. If you live in an area where it’s too hot to function in the middle of the day, you just don’t function. You adapt, and spend the middle of the day resting and keeping cool—pausing. The concept makes perfect sense, but there’s no way to translate it into an English mindset.

This makes me think of the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, which suggests that a specific language produces a mindset that goes with it–such as speakers of a language with one word that means both blue and purple being unable to perceive a distinction between the two colors. Would a corollary to that then be that to understand a mindset and culture, one must learn the language?

I don’t think I know enough Italian to figure out if that’s true or not–but I know it’s true in French. You have to know the difference between Etat and gouvernement, understand that paysan is not an insult and laïcité means many different things to different people.

It’s untranslatable, not incomprehensible. I understand how why Francesca, our Italian instructor and coordinator for our interpreters, asked that we refer to them as interpreters rather than translators. You cannot really translate language, in the same way that you cannot translate someone’s state of mind.
I think the realization of this pattern has really helped me understand the gap between our two cultures—to work the hyphen, as it were. Not to sound redundant, but the Italians have a different word for everything (no, duh), and it changes the way they think and look at the world. Their culture is much the same way–it alters the way you think of the world around you. Culture is a kind of language, a kind of mindset. Thus, to appropriately communicate across languages, across cultures, you need to know what “language” they’re speaking, what language you’re speaking, and what may be getting lost in translation.

]]> http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/untranslateable/feed/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/goodnight-and-good-luck/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/goodnight-and-good-luck/#comments Tue, 28 Jul 2009 19:17:17 +0000 Gino Troiani http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/?p=1738 The hourglass that has been running since I arrived in Italy has almost run out. My time here will soon come to an end as I board a jet plane, heading for the States.

I am happy. Happy to be returning to the place and people I love, happy to have made the journey to Italy and seen the ancestral regions of my family, but,  most importantly, happy that what I have learned on this trip will help me pursue my dream of becoming a journalist.

When I learned that we were expected to write blogs throughout the trip, I was a little hesitant. Personally, I enjoy hard news. Blogging never appealed to me. However, after writing a few of them and being able to look back on my experience, I must say that I am thankful for constructing them.

My first post was about my experience interviewing a doctor with the help of an interpreter. (What a task that was!) Despite my hardship, I am thankful that I was able to experience that situation at such a young age because I know I will feel more comfortable and be able to conduct the interview in a more professional manner if that situation ever arises again. (Thank goodness!)

My second post explained the phenomenon of what I like to refer to as “The Gino Invasion.” Much like the British invasion in the 1960’s, the name “Gino” rolled off of people’s tongues here and into their hearts. Much like a celebrity, I was invited to dinners, parties, and those free shots added up. I made some really great friends in my first few days in Urbino, and as those friendships grew, new ones came to be. (Much like the roots of a maple tree that branch out.) Out of all of my blogs, this one was my favorite because it made me feel like I was actually a part of this small town.

My next blog fit well with the previous because in it I recalled a night when my Italian friend Paolo invited me to hang out on a rooftop and play guitar with other Italian students. Surprisingly, though I spoke minimal Italian and they spoke even less English, communication did not seem to be a problem. Instead, music served as an international language, with A flats and B minors replacing “where are you from?” and “what do you do?”. Again, as with my previous posts, this one helped me feel like I belonged here.

After uploading a few more blogs and reviewing my time in Urbino, I think I am ready to answer a few questions.

I am here for a plethora of reasons but, most importantly, to build my knowledge of journalism, to ensure my position as a journalist in the future, and to get in touch with my roots. My last weekend here, I was able to get in touch with some of my relatives and visit the towns where both of my great grandparents and grandfather were born. (Scheggia) I also met some other Troianis who were just as happy as I was to meet and greet. It was truly amazing.

Despite being the same hard-working and dedicated journalist I was before I came on this trip, I can now act on my goal of dismissing all distractions that hinder my work. I know I have talent, and to waste that would be a shame. Even though I have two years of schooling left, I know I will not struggle in the long run if I can get rid of distractions.

I feel that the direction of my final project is solid. I wrote a decent article depicting the Italian healthcare system from a first-hand point of view. Because my topic was not very visually appealing, it was hard for my photographer and videographer to relate their works to my story, however, they did a great job with what they had.

Overall I am satisfied with both the program and trip. If I could go back, I would not change a thing.

]]> http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/goodnight-and-good-luck/feed/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/im-a-duck-in-a-row-of-bunnies/ http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/2009/07/28/im-a-duck-in-a-row-of-bunnies/#comments Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:35:35 +0000 Aimee Alarcon http://inurbino.net/wordpress-mu/?p=1220

View of Urbino from La Fortaleza

Remember way back in kindergarten when we had those learning exercises and had to circle the shape, object or animal that didn’t belong? For example, there would be a row of four animals, three bunnies and one duck and you were meant to circle the duck. Well, my time here has made me realize that I am that duck and will always be that duck here in Urbino.

I have tried to implement some routine into my days by going on daily morning walks. We have been tucked up here in less than romantic dorms (read: Rats might run from this place screaming! Although now I feel obligated to say that the dorm food is the one saving grace, always fresh, tasty and healthy if you, like me, count liters of olive oil as good for you). So I walk up this windy path that drops you down into town through a back entrance. On weekdays, I wave and say and an American “hi” to Cesare, the owner of 3Piante Restaurant, who is also out for some morning exercise. Then I wave to Willie at Ragna d’Oro before entering through the Roman archway going down Via Battisti. My timing is always such that Francesco, the barista at Dolci Di Battista, lifts up the metal gate in time to say, “Ciao” and smile. He knows I’ll be back later to the pastelleria later that day (probably more than once) to enjoy a creamy, sweet macchiato and homemade gelato. (They let you put in up to three flavors in a piccolo serving and any of my family who shares the Grijalva “must try a bit of everything, especially if it is on your plate gene” knows how awesome this is! I think the only better way to enjoy my latest favorite combination of pistacchio, yogurt e yogurt varaido would be to swim in it – naked). So after I say hi, I walk into the main plaza and decide how best to get lost in this little Italian town.

My favorite breakfast at Dolci di Battista

Today was particularly wonderful because it is Sunday and Urbino is quiet at in the morning hours on this day of rest. Urbino is a maze of narrow, shady streets with windy, brick walls that force you to turn left and right again, up and down steep inclines. I see a shady passageway to my left I have not yet traversed and decide to see where it leads me. If I hit a dead end, I know  just to look for sunlight.

“Buon journo, sigorina,” a petite, wrinkled nonna says to me as she sweeps her doorstep in a simple housedress, blue apron with white ruffles and worn, black shoes. There are few other sightings of the people of Urbino today. It is just me and the cool air between the Roman walls until I run into another another nonna walking her dachshund. As I reach the top of my favorite steep street, I look for the orange, long-haired cat always there to greet me the foyer to my left and, to my right, see a local priest, dressed in formal black pants and jacket with a small gold cross pinned to his lapel, walking to church. We nod to each other and then I turn left to take the steps over the whispering bridge in front of the Palazzo Ducale and cross over to a passageway that leads you down to the city’s entrance.  As I walk down the stairs, I pass under a kitchen window and smell the sweet, natural smell of tomato sauce already put to simmer in preparation for pranzo. I exit on the same cobblestone road and go under the same high, stone archway that Michelangelo and Raffael graced in search of art mentors and patrons, as well as their love of local La Marche foods like Casciotta D’Urbino. On my way back to the dorm, I turn to look back at the magnificent pillars of the Palazzo Ducale and can see the Duomo rising up behind it. That must have been a magnificent sight for visitors arriving on horseback from Rome.

Leaving Urbino is bittersweet. I wish I could say that I had truly immersed myself in not just Italian, but also Le Marche culture and language. I wish I had been able to respond “Buongiorno” to the nonna with style and grace instead of a thick, fumbling American accent. I wish I had known the name of the dachhound and stopped to pet him. I wish the priest had known to say, “God be with you, Aimee” instead of just nodding politely. And I wish I had been invited to partake in the spaghetti lunch with that family. But if all these Urbinians are the bunnies, I am the duck. I am wearing Nikes, running tech clothes and a hot pink iPod while I carry a water bottle in my hand. You have to circle me, because no matter how intimately I get to know the streets of Urbino, I will never belong here.

My Urbino cat

I could try to be like Frances Mayes and make a home for myself under the Tuscan sun, but my home is in under the SoCal sun. I came here to get lost in a little piece of Italy that has remained relatively unknown by tourists. Ironically, the purpose of The Urbino Project is to generate tourism and entice Americans to come walk these same streets in which I find solace. Secretly, I hope that Americans will still think of Urbino as too far from Rome, Florence or Venice to bother visiting. I hope to never see the day when we have to circle the bunny.

I’ve even realized more about how people both in my own culture and in others see me based simply on my appearance. I have, in a small way, some Italian blood in my heritage, but never really made much note of it. Growing up in the extremely diverse San Francisco Bay area, I’ve thought about what my ethnicity is. Obviously, other Americans notice, as I wrote in our first week here, “’Why is that guy wearing a USA tee?’ says the first fellow. ‘I don’t know. Is rugby popular here? Is our team good?’ says the second.”

What’s more funny, however, is how the Italians themselves see me. Raised in the athletic “jock” culture of the States, I’ve never thought of myself as particularly big. I’m athletic, I know this, but when your best friend since the age of eight has always been a half-foot taller than you, one doesn’t feel particularly tall. But being here, I see now that things are bigger in America, “A few moments later I hear a familiar tune on the breeze. I look over at a few teenagers sitting below a tree. They’ve got their cell phones out and are giggling. They look back and forth from me to the phones and I realize what I hear comes from them. They’re playing a remix of ‘Macho Man.’”

I’ve learned a lot about the similarities we all share, no matter what our culture, “Speed freaks from California and Pennsylvania finding yet another reason to love Italy and forget, at least for a moment, those left back at home and the stress of work and tight deadlines. That is the reason for this night. I remember a comment from a few nights ago. I’d told Giovanni, editor of the local newspaper, that I loved the driving of his countrymen as he brought two of the professors and I to a meeting with a sommelier we’d been invited to. ‘We do not drive,’ he said and raised a fist to the windshield, ‘we fight!’”

The main thing, though, is that I’ve learned a little more about myself and who I am becoming, “Most of my colleagues here are one or two years younger, some even younger. These folks, though, might as well be decades older than me. I put-on a hyper and confident front often, but I’m actually timid. I’m nervous about traveling. I don’t handle being away from my family for long times yet, and most of the other kids here (because I am still a kid) see their kin only a handful of times a year. I have little confidence in myself dealing with others, constantly thinking I’ve annoyed or insulted them, but my fellows here meet new people with confidence. I’ve learned a lot from them all this past month, and I’ve learned a lot about myself. “

I’ll admit I’ve only read a few of the other students’ blogs, but nearly all seem to have this same realization of who they are and who they are becoming. We are all in the early stages of adulthood. Some are more confident and sure of themselves than others, but I believe one never stops growing and learning, and what more obvious place to spur this than working in another country? I know I’ll be going home more confident and with more knowledge of who I am now. For this, and everything else I’ve learned, I’m glad I came here.