Time to Say Goodbye---A Brief Reflection

“All good things must come to an end,” at least that is what I’ve heard. I have always hated this saying. It seems so cynical, so depressing. I suppose in an existential sense this is true: everything ends at some point, but I can’t help but ask that if something is “good,” does it ever really end? Physically, there may be an end point, but the memories of that good thing, the goodness that one gains from it, the “changed for the better” in someone; isn’t this the continuation of those good things?

I will be leaving Sicily, my home away from home, in two days time, and I have spent the better half of this week reflecting on the above mentioned phrase and all of the good things I have experienced here. True, I will no longer be living in Catania with my wonderful family, but I do not see my leaving as the end of our bond. They have become a part of me, who I am as a person. Living with them and adapting to their lifestyle has taught me much about myself and re-shaped my small perspective of the world. This experience has opened my mind in ways I did not expect. I did not simply take a vacation traveling through the vineyards of Italy, sipping wine, eating cheese, and riding on the back of Vespas with cute Italian men. Alright, well I did do those things, but these past three months became so much more than that. I learned how to be a teacher, felt that rush of pure joy and sense of accomplishment when Ida would understand what she was reading, and the happiness I felt for her accomplishment in that moment; I gained new meaning to “independent study,” or studying without any assignment or teacher or school tuition providing incentive, but studying purely for my own desire to learn; I figured out how to adapt to a striking change in environment and comfort zone; and I discovered a confidence in simply being who I am, embracing my characteristics, both good and bad, and finding value in them.

I am a firm believer in the idea that everything happens in time for a reason or some greater purpose, and I truly believe that I was meant to come here to Catania, to live with this particular family. We both needed each other in order to move forward in our lives, and the timing of everything fell perfectly into place. Through all of the mishaps along the way with the program and my placement, I could not have asked for a better outcome. Antonella, Ida, and Salvo have completely welcomed me into their home as one of their own, and have made a great impact on my life and where I am to go from here. I can only hope that I have impacted them in a positive way and have taught them a little about my own American way of life, and not just the lifestyle they see in the movies.

It has been a beautiful experience and one that I shall never forget. While I will no longer be in Sicily, my teaching will continue. The family and I will keep in touch over Skype, and I will continue to help Ida with her English as she prepares for her certification (her teacher finally saw the light of day!).

Saying goodbye to friends is always bittersweet. There is a sadness in leaving, and yet an excitement in what lies ahead. In a way, though, this isn’t really goodbye. This “good thing” is not really ending. After all, with every end comes a new beginning, and boy, are we just getting started.

Ci vediamo dopo          

Il Balletto di Giselle

One of my fondest memories from my "Visit History" travels in high school was going to see the opera Carmen at the Vienna State Opera House. Growing up, I have always loved going to the theater and getting lost in the performance on stage. I have also spent many years of my youth performing on the stage in dance recitals and theatrical performances experiencing first hand the whimsical and magical world that is the theatre. There is something about going to European theaters though that makes the whole evening seem other worldly, as if you had stepped back in time to an age where men wore top hats and monocles and women wore petticoats and were refined. The theaters alone hold so much history and to see an opera or ballet performed in the part of the world where the story originally came from is a truly remarkable experience. Giuseppe said I could not leave Sicily without seeing the inside of the Teatro Bellini, and treated Antonella, Ida, and myself to a night at the ballet. And boy was it a treat! We were in a second mezzanine box that sat right next to the stage overlooking the orchestra. I could see how three elements of the theater come together in perfect harmony: the stage, the orchestra, and the audience.

We saw the Ballet of Giselle which tells the story of a simple village girl, Giselle, who falls in love with the Duke Albrecht, disguised as a commoner. When he his true identity is revealed and the truth of his intended betrothal to another royal comes out, Giselle goes mad and dies in her grief. During the second act, Giselle becomes a Wili, a spectral being of a young girl who has died before her wedding day and seek revenge upon their would-be husbands during the nighttime. When the Duke goes to Giselle's grave at night, the head Wili tries to dance him into exhaustion and ultimately to death so that Giselle may have her revenge, but Giselle intercedes and dances passionately with him until dawn, and he survives.

The performance was stunning, the dancers as ethereal as the creatures they were trying to emulate. The theater, which opened in 1890, was breath-taking. The walls and ceilings were so ornately decorated that I shall not even try to describe it for my words would not do justice. Luckily, I was able to sneak a few pictures before someone caught me and made me stop. I don't want to appear as an ignorant American, but this was one instance where I felt completely at ease saying, "I'm sorry, I'm American and I didn't know."  

The painted frescoes depict images of springtime

The Misty Mountain

Yes--I am borrowing from J.R.R. Tolkien for this title, but it is too fitting. I simply had to do it.

Last week, Antonella, Giuseppe, Salvo, and I went to Mt. Etna for a little excursion out of the house. The weather that day was beautiful at first; bright, sunny, and warm. As we gradually ascended the side of the volcano, the skies became enveloped in a dense fog and rain began to drizzle on our car. At least, for me in was a light drizzle, for the rest of my companions it was raining cats and dogs. I continually have to remind them that I'm from the Pacific Northwest where it rains over 200 days of the year. The further we drove away from the streets of Catania and up the mountain I felt as if I was getting closer and closer to Washington State, or at least the weather of my home. I felt comforted. Where many take great pleasure in feeling the sunlight on the skin, feeling its warmth surge through their bodies, I find my pleasure in the rain. The enclosing fog reminded me of the early mornings rowing on the water in Port Townsend, the stillness of the bay, the sounds of the fog horn in the distance, the world calm in the precious moments between sleeping and waking. As we reached a tourist summit where we could walk to Crateri Silvestri, one of the main craters, Giuseppe was teasing me about how I must feel right at home with this kind of weather. He chuckled, thinking himself very clever, yet he did not realize that his words were a compliment in my eyes, not a joke.

Everything was eerily beautiful. Antonella kept telling me she wished I could have been there on a clear day to see the view. There was no doubting that the view would be majestic, but I could not have imagined a better day to come on. When I have thought about Etna before as I have watched it looming over the city, I have always imagined it as a place of dark beauty. It is a glorious sight to behold, but an unnerving one as well. The volcano is still active and could truly erupt at any given moment. The craters are constantly fuming, releasing gases that keep the mountain under constant pressure. All along the hillside there are villas that are now abandoned, destroyed by the lava that rushed down from Crateri Silvestri in 2001 and 2002. Hardened, black lava rock has now formed in the doorways and windows where the once red-hot liquid seeped through the narrow openings. Now these once glorious villas stand as relics attesting to how nature will always conquer man.

We spent some time exploring the craters and natural lava caves, and then we retreated to a landmark restaurant on Etna to escape the bitter chill. The owner and waiter there were so pleased to host an American girl for a bit and eagerly offered to make me a cappuccino. In Italy, it is not custom to take coffee with milk after about 10:30 in the morning, but they were so gracious in their offer it felt rude to say no. It was an exceptionally delicious cappuccino and the perfect antidote to my cold hands. As we drank our coffees, the waiter brought me a few postcards of the location and a book on the most recent eruptions of Mt. Etna. He spoke some English and began to tell me about how the restaurant was destroyed and rebuilt after the eruptions in 2001 and 2002. Like the villas along the hillside, lava flowed through the restaurant and out of the windows and doors. It was wonderful to hear him tell all about the history. He was obviously enthralled with the history of the volcano and proud of how the restaurant has survived over the years, and eager to share with a willing listener. He was so kind that he even gave me the postcards, the book, and the cappuccino free of charge--he was just happy to sit and talk with someone who did not already know everything about the volcano he loves so much. It was yet another example of how unbelievably kind the people are here.

I will be sure to write about some more about my outings here in these finals two weeks. It is still hard to believe it has gone by this quickly. Comunque, a dopo!

You can't tell by the pictures, but it was in fact very windy as well. I got a kick out of watching Salvo make several attempts to light his cigarette before finally admitting defeat.

Crateri Silvestri

The warm and welcoming hearth in the restaurant. The black bottles on the mantle are actually filled with Mt. Etna ash. 

 Natural lava cave

     

Teaching the familiar in the unfamiliar

Before I set out on this journey, I gave a lot of thought to why exactly I wanted to do a program based on teaching English. My reasons for wanting to travel to Italy are quite simple: the country is obviously gorgeous, the food delicious, and I studied Italian language in college. Having the opportunity to live there for an extended period of time is the best way to immerse myself within the language and lifestyle. I could have done this simply by back-packing through Italy though, or participating in an actual study abroad program in which I would spend at least three days a week in a classroom studying the language. The question I asked myself was why did I feel a teaching program was the best route? What could I bring to the program as someone teaching English, and how would I benefit from it?

I had the strange advantage of tutoring Italian language to English speaking students at Seattle University, and while I was teaching beginners’ grammar in Italian, I discovered that I had to teach the students more basic English grammar than Italian in order for them to understand the latter. As frustrating as this was in terms of time-management (covering twice as much material in short periods of time) it was easy to explain an English concept to an English speaker. It was also very easy to explain the Italian concepts in English to the students. In choosing a program to apply to, I looked specifically for programs that emphasized teaching English grammar because I wanted to see the flip-side of what I experienced in college; I wanted to see what it was like to teach my first language to someone who has little to no knowledge of it. How would I explain these concepts that to my other English speaking students were second nature? When given the choice, I have a tendency to choose a more challenging task than an easier one to see just how well I can accomplish it. I have never been a competitive person when it came to sports or games. Competing with others does not interest me as much as competing with myself; what can the “Present or Future Alyssa” achieve that “Past Alyssa” could not?

Outside of my own personal goals that I had set for myself, I also saw a teaching program as a great opportunity to build my resume. I have been working since I was 15, earning my own money, paying for much of my own travels through high school and college, but with the state of the job market now, my various waitressing jobs and internships seem to mean nothing. Of course I know that I am a hard-worker and all of my “meager” job experience will one day come in handy, but as I look towards my future, one that I hope might include me becoming a teacher, I wanted to do more to steer my path in that direction. I wanted a taste of what teaching, in probably the most frustrating circumstance, would be like.

There are so many quirks in the English language that, for those of us who speak it, seem so trivial that we never stop to think about them. How does one explain these strange quirks, these exceptions to every damn grammar rule, these moments in the English language where the words we speak seems an insult to what logic says we should say? Allow me to provide you with some examples of these moments that I have had to try and explain to my host sister. As you read over these, think of how you would explain these concepts to someone:

1) The infamous O-U-G-H spelling. The spelling looks simple enough, but now think of how this spelling is pronounced in the English language

            -through—pronounced “thru”

            -though—pronounced “tho”

            -rough—pronounced “ruff”

            -cough—pronounced “coff”

2) Take a look at the following sentences:

            -The dove sitting on the tree branch dove for the worm.

            -The brown bear could not bear the weight of carrying her cub anymore.

            -You should address the envelope with the address on the label.

            -He wound up wrapping his wound with gauze.

All of these words have the same spelling, but one word is a verb and the other a noun.

3) There are also many words that sound the same, but are spelled differently and have different meanings:

            -Wait and Weight

            -Right and Write and Rite

            -Heard and Herd

Now that you have thought about how you would try to explain these to someone in English, try to think of how you might explain these concepts without the luxury of speaking the same language, or at least be at the same level of a shared language. These are only a few examples of things I have tried to explain to Ida. I won’t begin to tell you how hard it was to explain the rules of “-ing” and how the phrase “working-class” is not a verb. I’m pretty sure she has wanted to throw our English books out the window many times. I know there have been times that I have wanted to do just that.

Needless to say, this experience has been a true test of my patience. I suppose that is where I am having a competition with myself—how many ways can I try to convey a concept before I go crazy? The ability to explain one concept in a number of ways has been one of the unexpected benefits of doing this program. From writing out puzzles to drawing pictures to even acting out certain words (or complete scenes of Shakespeare), I can honestly say I have done it all. I remember once during my senior year at Seattle U, as I was introducing myself as the Italian Language tutor to the first year students, my Italian professor told his class, “Alyssa ha la pazienza della santa”—Alyssa has the patience of a saint. I laughed at this, figuring he was trying to convince his students of my tutoring abilities. The more I have tutored people however, I have come to understand what exactly my professor meant by this. One does not simply need to have patience in teaching the material, but also in listening to the needs of the student usually without being told. Tutoring is really about observing the student, how they study, how they learn best, how they react to stress or frustration, and trying to help them navigate these difficulties with ease. During a study session, if I can see Ida becoming frustrated over something trivial, the best thing for me to do is to have her talk and simply vent her frustrations. Usually these frustrations are unrelated to the concept at hand and for her to have someone there (other than her mother) to listen to her and give her advice is helpful.

What I have learned is that few of her teachers have any patience at all, especially her English teacher. I cannot stress enough the importance of teacher encouragement. It pains me to see how hard Ida works on studying English, how she goes above and beyond what is required for her, even getting an American girl to come live with her, for it to be met by sarcasm and disinterest from her teacher. I have met this teacher of hers and she is a real piece of work, folks. She obviously has a power complex—“I am the teacher and therefore I am always right.” I cannot begin to describe how badly I wanted to correct her terrible English while I was in her class. Here she was continually telling the students how horrible they were doing in the class, how they were not getting anything right, and yet she believes it is pronounced “becod” rather than “because.” This is not due to her accent either, folks.

That day in her class, the teacher dumped her lesson off on me which made my stomach drop. I literally walked into her class, completely unassuming, and within five minutes was handed the class textbook and told to teach about the Age of Reason to a class of 25 Italian students. That was by far the fastest recalling of freshman philosophy that I have ever done, and I gave what I thought was a terrible outline of that time in history. I had left out what I thought were important details because I couldn’t keep them all straight. After that, the teacher told me to continue teaching Wuthering Heights to the class. Luckily, as I have a BA in English Literature, this was a novel I knew very well, and I felt confident in reading a chapter to the class and explaining the time period that the novel is set in. While the experience of teaching an entire class was strangely intimidating at first, there were moments when I felt comfortable being in front of a room full of students, talking about something I was passionate about. It was easy to see that no one else in the class shared that same enthusiasm, but it was a revelation on my part that they assisted in. I left the class feeling unsatisfied in how I went about teaching that day. I began critiquing my every choice and kept thinking that if only I had known that that was going to happen, I could have prepared something so much better. When I mentioned this to Ida on our walk home, she told me that I actually gave the best lesson for that class they had had all year. Apparently, her teacher does not have the patience or desire to explain anything about history at all, and for the first time, the class actually understood what they were reading and how it all connected. All of this simply because I explained how the introduction of the printing press led to more people being able to read.

So I have been able to see and experience teaching English from many different angles on this journey. At the beginning, I wasn’t sure how I could contribute to the program or how helpful I would be to Ida. As I near the end of my adventure here, Ida is now speaking English in complete sentences, correcting herself if she makes mistakes, and can watch an entire movie in English and garner an understanding from it. Granted, this all takes a lot of effort on her part, but she is still doing it. I have also become a sort of spokesperson for the program as well, contributing as a “Travel Writer” to the Greenheart Travel Blog and corresponding with various students applying to the program. Even through the moments of frustration and wanting to pull my hair out over some explanation, I am happy with everything that I have learned here about teaching and about myself as a teacher. I suppose I am even satisfied with what I have taught here. Perhaps there is a future in teaching for me after all.     

         

                       

                       

A Fish Out of Water

Last month I had the, I guess I shall call it “privilege,” to participate in a special ceremony in Italian culture. Actually, I participated in four. The Dicottesimo or 18^th birthday as it would be in America is a grand event in Italian culture. In America, turning 18 means one makes the transition from adolescent to adult, and while the meaning is very much the same here in Italy, the celebration is more equivalent to that of a wedding than the average birthday party. It is seen as a sort of coming out party in which family and friends present the birthday girl/boy to the world, offering their hand as a grown adult to the myriad of society. The celebrations are a spectacle, filled with lots of food, friends, and endless festivity. I was grateful to be welcomed into the joyous occasions, as I was aware of how special they are to the people here, but I must be perfectly honest when I say that it was at these events that I felt most like a foreigner.

Now I must explain why exactly I felt this way, as I’m aware of how lucky I am to even have the opportunity to participate in something like a dicottesimo. I am a very simple person—I don’t wear a lot of make-up, I am an utter disaster when it comes to styling my hair, and I spend most of my spare change on coffee and books rather than clothes. Actually, my mother or sister usually has to point out when it’s time for me to go clothes shopping. In short, I’m not one to spend hours making myself up. That is not to say that I don’t enjoy getting myself gussied up; like most girls, I enjoy a fun night out feeling beautiful, confident, elegant, and, dare I say it, even sexy at times. Yet even at those times, I always take the “less is more” route. Many of my friends and family are the same way, so I suppose we have formed a comfort zone with each other in this sense. Well this simplicity made me stick out like a sore thumb the first time I stepped into a dicottesimo. Here is my story for your enjoyment:

            My host sister, Ida, told me that I should wear something nice, a dress would be best. In my head I recalled exactly which dresses I brought with me: a plain, black cotton-stretch sundress and a maroon cocktail dress. Alright, I thought, cocktail dress it is then. I asked Ida if this dress would be appropriate, especially if it would be okay for me to wear with my calf-length black boots (as it was chilly out and I didn’t have fancy stilettos as she did). She told me it would probably be fine, that they would understand I was American. I’m still not sure if that was meant as reassurance or as a slight. Either way, I told myself not to worry about it and instead to just enjoy the evening as it came. I decided that to make up for the lack of stilettos I would curl my hair instead. After putting a little color on my cheeks and lips, I felt pretty good about myself. It was nothing glamorous, but I figured I would at least blend in.       

As we pulled up to the restaurant where the party was being held, Ida stopped me as we got out of the car. “By the way, I don’t know this girl very well, but I do know her family is kind of rich so I think this party will be very fancy.” Fantastic, I thought, you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier? I realized then that Ida was feeling just as uncomfortable about her appearance as I was about mine, and she was the one wearing the nice shoes! Suddenly, my worry returned that I might not be quite so appropriately dressed for the occasion. Perhaps “tacky American” would be the look I was going for then. We stalled for a few minutes waiting for Ida’s stepsister, who is classmates with the birthday girl, to arrive so that she could accompany us in. When we could no longer bear the cold night air, we forced ourselves to smile and we braved the glowing party lights.

            It was a sea of leggy brunettes in stilettos (I cannot emphasize this enough), each of them looking as if they were prepared for a fashion photo shoot. As if Ida and I being the only blondes in the room did not make us stand out enough, I, even in my flat boots, was about three inches taller than almost every girl there in her six-inch heels. So, not only was I under dressed, but I looked like a giant. I could actually feel their stares as I entered the room, could hear them asking each other, “Chi è quella ragazza?”—Who is that girl? As they looked me up and down, it dawned on me that all of these girls were between the ages of 15 and 18—I was one of the oldest people in the room, and yet their stares made me feel like a lost child. Never have I felt so old and so naïve at the same time. The room was brightly lit, the gold colored walls making everything luminous. The tables had floral arrangements in a deep red color that perfectly offset the gold, and on each were two or three bottles of wine. In the far corner opposite the tables a deejay was finishing setting up his equipment while his associate was laying the dance floor and putting up the disco ball. Two professional photographers were casually milling through the crowd, snapping an endless series of posed photos of the party goers. Maybe this was actually a photo shoot. As one who has never been very good with large crowds, my heart immediately began to race at this spectacle. Sweet, baby Jesus help me. Ida led me to the coat check and as the attendant handed me a slip of paper with my coat number on it, I realized I didn’t have any pockets or a purse with me. I stood there for a moment contemplating how I could sneakily slip the number into my bra without anyone seeing, but thankfully Ida grabbed it from me and put it in her purse. We were joined at that point by Ida’s stepsister, and as we turned to face the party, I saw her—the birthday girl. The crowd parted as she glided towards us dressed in a golden evening gown, her hair pinned back from her face in elegant curls that hung gracefully on her shoulders. You’ve got to be shitting me, was all that was going through my head. She greeted us with a gracious smile, thanked us for coming, and linked arms with the three of us for a photo. Awesome, now there will be documentation of my giant tackiness. I had a flashback to my own 18^th birthday party and how drastically different it was from this. Mine included a small handful of friends coming over to my house for popcorn, cake, and a movie, and somehow the night evolved into a big frosting fight. On my 18^th birthday I wore no beautiful dress or had my make-up in place; I was covered, as were my friends, head-to-toe in multi-colored cake frosting. I chuckled at the thought of how all of these girls might react to butter cream frosting splattering their dresses.

            As the evening went on and I drank a few glasses of wine, my uneasiness slowly wore off and I actually began to enjoy myself. The catered food was delicious and ridiculously filling, the desserts, including a legitimate wedding cake, were divine, and by the time we all hit the dance floor, no one took notice of how each other looked. At that point I was particularly pleased to have worn flat boots.

            As I have attended more of these dicottesimi I have gradually become more comfortable, even though I may still be considered under-dressed. While at first glance they seem a little over-the-top in my opinion, I can’t help but notice how much joy is in the room during the party. The birthday girls/boys smile from ear to ear the entire night, obviously thrilled that their special moment that they have been anxiously awaiting for many years has finally come, and in that moment they are the center of attention. As superfluous as it all may seem to me, I can’t deny the happiness that the celebration brings and the rite of passage it brings.

So while this little story may seem random and off the beaten track from what I have been writing, it was one of the most memorable experiences I have had here. Humiliating, yes; nerve-racking, yes; but it was nevertheless exactly what I came here for—to experience something completely different from my small corner of the world, to engage with people who are vastly different from myself, that would push me out of my comfort zone, and try to find some sort of enlightenment from it all. So what, you may ask, did I take away from the experience? Well, with a smile, some good music, and your dancing shoes, you can never have a bad time no matter if you’re fitting in or standing out.

Here are a few pictures from some of the dicottsimi that I have attended

        

The Grapes of Sicily

For my family reading this, I know you have all been wondering the same thing: how is the wine over here? Well, I feel I have finally tasted enough to give you a complete picture of what Sicilian wine is like. Granted the people here do not drink it in the quantities that we do at home. While the wine is quite free-flowing I suppose the people here are accustomed to it, and therefore do not feel the need to drink as much...or else they just drink it throughout the entire day so it's less noticeable. Maybe we should try this at home? A little vino midday at the office would be fine, right? Totally professional. Anyways, I think the best way to describe the wine is to tell you about my first taste of it during my stay:

My hosts' poured me a few sips in a small drinking glass (the traditional curved wine glasses are not very common here) and the first thing I noticed was how remarkably clear the color was. It was a distinctly cherry red, yet had some translucence to it. I lifted the glass to my nose and for a brief moment was back at my aunt's house: my family sitting around the small kitchen table all laughing and talking at once about those "good ol' days"; the little kids telling each other the most elaborate stories that could only come from the imagination of youthful innocence; the smell of the fresh tomato sauce and Glondo's sausages simmering to perfection in a pan; the sounds of a wine bottle being uncorked and graciously poured into glasses, encouraging the conversation to carry us into the late evening hours. It never ceases to fascinate me how a smell can recall certain memories and moments, and how that one smell can summon details that are easily forgotten. The senses seem to have a way of transporting us--they are the closest thing to time travel as we could probably get. When I took my first sip, I suddenly traveled back in time to when I was 7-years-old receiving my First Communion. For any fellow Catholics out there, you understand that this is when you receive the sacrament of the Eucharist, the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ, for the first time. Let's be honest though, at age 7, you feel very grown-up in that moment you get to taste wine for the first time. Then, of course you notice that it is sour tasting and  gradually burning it's way through your throat and stomach, and you spend the rest of mass swallowing your own spit to try and make it go away. My first sip, my friends, of Sicilian wine tasted just like "church wine." It was pungently fruity, slightly acidic, and a bit harsh. That being said however, I do not want you to think that the wine here is awful. As it is with any wine, there are good bottles and bad bottles. My first taste was not the greatest, but it was a good way to experience the fruitiness of Sicilian wine.

Since then I have tried a few different blends of wine, my favorite so far being the Nero d'Avola and Syrah blends. Because the climate here is usually hot, the grapes gain a much richer, darker color, yet have a sweet, jammy flavor to them. So far, my favorite wine I've tasted is Mandrarossa Nero d'Avola.  

Next, I hope to taste some wine made from grapes grown around Mt. Etna. It has become increasingly popular in the past few years. The volcanic soil provides rich, supple soil for the grapes to be grown in and give the wines greater depth of flavor. If you are interested in learning more about Mt. Etna wines I have found an article from Food & Wine Magazine that goes into great detail about this fast-growing trend and even provides a selection of wines and their prices.

http://www.foodandwine.com/articles/sicilian-wine-from-mount-etna

While the wine I have tasted has been mostly on the sweeter side, I am discovering that there is a vast range of flavors that Sicilian grapes can produce. The key is to keep trying different ones until you find one that suits you. Don't worry, folks, I'll keep looking for that perfect wine, and I'll be sure to let you know how good it tastes. A presto!

The Benefits of a Mediterranean Diet

We have all heard or read about the numerous health benefits of following a Mediterranean diet: it can lower cholesterol, prevent heart disease and cancer, provides vital antioxidants, can lower the risk of diabetes, and can help with the ever-recurring issue of obesity. What exactly is a Mediterranean diet? It is a diet rich in fruits, vegetables, beans, seeds/nuts, and healthy fats found in fish and olive oil. From a health and wellness perspective all of this sounds wonderfully simple which begs the question: Why don't more people follow this diet? I have found in my time here in Sicily that the reason for this is because a Mediterranean diet is in fact not a "diet" at all, it is a lifestyle.

I have always hated the word "diet." It has strayed from the simple definition of food/drink habitually eaten by a person, and now eludes to a pessimistic mentality of how one should "diet." People nowadays say "I am on such-and-such diet" or "I want to try this diet" or, quite simply, "I need to go on a diet." I am constantly amazed at how one word, four letters, has the ability to change a person's mindset in an instant. The word can positively motivate someone to change the way he/she lives as easily as it can make them feel self-conscious and ashamed. In a society that places so much emphasis on looking perfectly flawless in every way, we are forever changing the way we diet, constantly in a tug-of-war between what think about the way our bodies look and what the world says about the way our bodies look. The concept of dieting in America has become so focused on how it will make us look, and less and less on how it will make us feel, both mentally and physically. In this way, the Mediterranean diet is less of a "diet" and more of a way of life.

People here are so blissfully unaware of things such as caloric intake, high fiber vs. low fiber, or "Which is better: Vegan or Vegetarian?" More so, they have no concept of how the rest of the world views their way of eating. It simply just is. There are no restrictions or limitations to what foods they eat. Food fuels the body, therefore the body must have food. The difference in mentality between Americans and Mediterranean cultures is that the latter look at food/drink as source of energy as well as pleasure. They eat bread (not whole grain) with every meal, use olive oil on everything, sip wine with lunch and dinner, and typically enjoy a sugary delight each night to please the palate. This provides the pleasurable side of food, and the energy lies in how people here only cook as much as needed, no more, no less. This is how people eat on a Mediterranean diet--a balance of pleasure and energy everyday so that the body stays fueled and the mind and senses happy. Americans are extreme: they tend to either overindulge on the pleasurable aspects of food or set strict limitations on their eating habits. The body and mind never seem to be balanced with each other; when one is overfed while the other remains hungry.

Quite simply put, in order to live life to the fullest, one must strive for happiness. If people spent less time getting caught up in the hoopla of "dieting" and simply chose to value food in all its vitality and enjoyment, they would find the task of being happy and being healthy much easier to achieve. There is a good reason why Italians are some of the happiest and carefree people in the world. While I can honestly say that I can see the benefits of a Mediterranean lifestyle in my body (shinier hair, stronger nails, softer skin, and yes, even a smaller waistline), where I have benefited most is in my spirits. My body does not feel deprived of food, my mind is alert, there is balance between the two. The health benefits are advantageous, but the balance and happiness with oneself have proved to be the greatest benefit of all.