SILENCE IS TRULY DIFFICULT for me to master. People often joke about “awkward silence” in conversations, because very few people are actually comfortable with silence. I’ve wondered for quite some time why it is people have a difficult time just being silent. And is it all people, or is it part of our American culture?
      Quite frankly I’ve never really worried too much about it—having been told I was born with the “gift of the gab”—talking a lot is just part of who I am.
      But today I finally saw just how rewarding silence can be. After a tour of Gubbio, I was totally content. The medieval town is full of history and masterfully crafted art. As we trekked through the steep Gubbio streets and through the woods, I fell in love with the town. Finally, after several hours of uphill walking, we came to a manicured garden and mountaintop caffe’. From there, we looked out over the entire town of Gubbio, and perhaps even beyond. The Italian landscape stretched out before me, and I had to catch my breath as I took it all in. I happily ate my creamsicle pop and snapped pictures with friends so I could somehow capture the view for years to come.
      I felt as if not a single moment of this trip had been lost on me. And I was both happy and proud of my successful day.
      As always, my feeling of self-fulfillment was quickly interrupted. As we walked back through Gubbio, we stopped at the statue of Sant’Ubaldo.
      The story goes, if you put your finger through the ring on the front of the statue and make a wish, and then are able to walk all the way down the main strip in silence, your wish will come true.
      Well, being the superstitious person I am, I couldn’t give up the chance to make a wish. So I walked right up to the statue and looped my pointer finger tightly around that metal hole. I stared up at the white marble saint who stared down at me and concentrated on my wish.
      As I slowly turned and headed down the street, I couldn’t help but feel awkward at first. People crowded the streets, laughing and shouting, while I walked beside my friend in a silence I was deafeningly aware of.
      But the further I walk, the easier it gets. I notice shops I had not before. I watch as a group of young girls stare in a window at an expensive dress. An older couple walks slowly and discreetly down the side of the road. I decide to imagine they’ve been together since they were young, and after all these years they are still happy together.
      I don’t even notice at first that I have reached the end of the street. It’s the concrete wall where the road comes to a ‘t’ intersection staring into my face that eventually makes me stop. A part of me wishes I had further to walk.
      I am shocked to find the silence enjoyable. I don’t really think the point of the walk is to make a wish, but to take in everything around. Even when you think you’re taking everything in about a time or a place, it’s easy to let details slip away. I finally realize that the point of silence (and probably reflective journaling) is to take time to reflect on and capture what is happening all around you. Our lives are made of individual moments, and if you aren’t careful, some of the most important ones may slip away unnoticed.

--Allison James
(Loyola)

THE LAST THING I THOUGHT I WOULD MISS when I came to Cagli is grass. But I do. I don’t even like grass all that much. It makes me itch, actually.
       But I grew up with it in constant presence. It was in our yard, at the park, along the side of the road. I played soccer on it, ate picnics on it, and walked around on it barefoot. The feel of cool, soft grass between your toes on a hot summer day is almost as good as sand at the beach. You can take your dog to a grass field to run and play catch. Can you imagine being a dog and walking around on cement your whole life?
       I would never be able to spend my life surrounded by nothing but cement and stones. Maybe it’s because I grew up in the Northwest, in a city known as the “Emerald City”. But I need my green.
       Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying that there is no green in Cagli. There are some trees, and outside of the city there is grass. But in the area that I spend most of my time, it’s a lot of brown and grey.
        We went to the waterfall today. It was so hot outside and the walk there along the paved highway was far from pleasant. But when we reached the place to begin to climb down, it was like my own, personal oasis. Not that there weren’t already ten or fifteen Italian guys there already—I didn’t have it to myself. But it was good enough.
        There was lots of greenery and the water was clear and surrounded by natural rock formations. The waterfall cascaded into green pools in which small fish swam. I can’t even tell you how much it refreshed me. I didn’t want to leave the cold water.
        Guess I’m just a true Northwest girl at heart. I need my green.

--Maggie Shellenberger
(Gonzaga)

OVER THE WEEKEND a small group, me and three other girls, decided to pack up for Rome. Not knowing quite what to expect, we boarded the bus in Cagli for a winding ride to Rome.
       The bus rides and general traffic laws have been of interest to me on various bus trips. The driver seems to demand spaced on the road, often pushing small cars into the corners of highways. Traffic lights are simply short pauses, as the drivers often rush forward before the light is green. The speed at which the bus driver drives seems up to his own discretion. Dramamine has become a close friend to many students in the Cagli program, as the wild twists and turns are too much for their stomachs. I find myself growing anxious around the curving highways because the drivers often guide the bus through extremely narrow streets.
       Once in Rome, we had similar transportation experiences with taxis. This time, however, the speed at which they drove was to our advantage. Clicking the timer at the beginning of the ride means that every kilometer is costing money. With the cab drivers acting as if they were in racecars, the number on the meter tends to stay low.
       A unique phenomenon that I have faced both in Cagli and in Rome is the fact that the vehicles have the right-of-way. Unlike the U.S., where one is expected to stop for traveling chickens, the Italians place greater emphasis on the driver than the pedestrian. Many a time I have found myself hugging a stone wall as a tiny European car speeds by. I feel that I have developed a mastery for moving between cars, gauging when to walk and when to move out of their way. Being in Rome meant a combination of navigating streets and dodging cars.
       I feel that I have become acclimated to Italian traffic patterns. I wonder if I may find the sluggish traffic circles and plentiful red lights an annoyance on my return to the U.S.

--Carrie Cross
(Loyola)

TODAY I WENT TO THE SMALL GROCERY STORE in Cagli to buy something to eat for lunch. I had bread in my apartment but no meat or even peanut butter to make a sandwich with. I looked around the store for sliced meat, but I didn’t see any prepackaged and didn’t know how to order it from the deli. Instead, I looked for peanut butter and couldn’t find any. As I was checking out, I tried to ask the cashier where the peanut butter was. Neither of us could understand each other so he directed me to another cashier who seemed confident that she knew what I was looking for. She walked me down an aisle in the store and proudly held out a roll of what appeared to be aluminum foil. I had no idea how what I said translated to that, so I thanked her and said to forget about it. The store employees must have felt bad for me, however, because everyone started to help me look for peanut butter. One man walked me over to a shelf full of Nutella and held it up for me. I got the bright idea to say that it was similar to Nutella and it is spread on bread. Instead of using the correct Italian word for bread, “pane”, I said "panna", which actually means cream. The man then walked me over to the refrigerated section and handed me pudding with whipped cream on top. At this point, everyone in the small store had turned to watch the spectacle, so I just grabbed a can of Nutella and pretended that that was what I had wanted all along. It was only as I was walking out of the store that I remembered that they don’t have peanut butter in Cagli.
       During my time in Cagli, my lack of language skills has been a great impediment to my daily activities. Even an experience such as this, a trip to the grocery store became difficult for me because I did not know the correct word to express what I wanted to say, and because I forgot about certain cultural differences between the U.S. and Cagli (in this case, different foods).

--Melissa Schantz
(Loyola)

SOME PLACES I CAN REMEMBER solely by smell. After almost four weeks in Cagli, I find myself recognizing and associating smells with this place.
       Walking down the streets, I can catch snatches of flowery scents from windowsills, and the warm, hearty smell of pasta and food being cooked during pausa.
       I will always remember the cold, dark smell of the Atrium. Each caffe’ that I’ve come to know so well has a unique, signature scent. The gelateria exudes the sugary sweetness of all its wonderful flavors.
       In America, I’ll be without these smells. There may be some close imitation of them, something that instantly reminds me of Cagli, but it will never be as genuine.

--Caitlin Rohan
(Loyola)

I HATE THE AMERICAN IN ME that keeps me constantly looking towards and wishing for the future. The American in me that causes me to be unsatisfied with all that I have, appreciating less and wanting more; thinking that mine is bad and theirs is better. It’s the American in me that recognizes the saying, “The grass is greener on the other side.” I hate the American in me that allows me to be able to live and prosper without encouraging bilingual abilities. It’s the American in me that sometimes doesn’t want/can't understand why other cultures operate under certain values and beliefs different than ours, because we’re so great. It’s the American in me that makes it so hard to adapt to the unsalted bread, paying after you eat, having to ask for the check, resting between the hours of one and four. I hate the American in me that’s too often preoccupied with the physical appearances, money, and status. The American in me that in some respects can’t wait to get back so that I can check my e-mail, figure out where I’m going to work, have a normal cell phone, and chat on AOL regularly.
       I love the American in me that has the best and most advanced technology available for me. The American in me that can travel across the world and find at least one person who speaks English no matter where I am. I love the American in me that will have an English translation on almost all packaging, signage, and written instruction. I love the American in me that doesn’t have to leave home to travel across the world for a great education, and can meet people from different cultures in the classroom of my college. It’s the American in me that can enter and exit the country with almost no problem at all, that lives in the most powerful nation in the world that is known as the melting pot of all nations. I love the American in me that makes me the individual that I am, not dependant on anyone else to make me who I am. I love the American in me that knows that the possibilities are endless, recognizes the sky is the limit, and I can become whatever I want to be in the future without restrictions.
       Sometimes I hate to love it. Sometimes I love to hate it. But at the end of the day, it’s who I am, and what I claim to be.

--Jasmin Conner
(Loyola)

AFTER MAKING A LARGE LUNCH (Italian style) of pesto pasta with tomatoes and goat cheese, I am beginning to wonder how Italians can possible be such wonderful cooks. Our kitchen is incredibly small. There is a separate tiny room with a gas stove and oven, cupboards right at head-hitting level, and a tiny sink with no hot water faucet. How do they cook here? I am just now becoming accustomed to the poor supply of cooking utensils, but I doubt I could ever get used to this kitchen built for a child-sized person.
        As I am cooking, there is almost a chorus of singing out my window. The construction workers, who are working on the next building over, are constantly belting out Italian ballads for me to listen to. It reminds me of the Seven Dwarves whistling as they work.

--Ashley French
(Gonzaga)

THIS WEEK HAS BEEN incredibly busy. I think that the constant buzzing of our group stands in sharp contrast to the relaxed lifestyle of the Cagliese. I am looked at strangely when I eat breakfast while walking to class, while the Cagliese make time to sit in the piazza. While our group walks about the town stressing over deadlines and stories, the Cagliese come to work smiling and ready for conversation. Sometimes I wonder what they think about our schedule as it is out of rhythm with their own.

--Carrie Cross
(Loyola)

[T]HIS EVENING, there appear[ed] to have been a massive explosion at a jewelry shop here in Cagli…
       At dinner it was said that fire and rescue officials believed that one man was trapped under rubble. When a few of us walked back to our school, we saw a large crowd of Cagliese gathered near the scene of the accident. Just like in America, people became curious. The throng of people also alerted us to how serious a situation the Cagliese were faced with.
       It’s also interesting to see how these people who were before names or faces play particular roles in this small community. Some of my fellow students noted that some of the men we’d seen before at caffes or restaurants were firefighters. Seeing the men in action provided yet another window into their lives. Seeing a community handle a crisis or tragedy is generally more of an indication of the reality of the community.

--Christopher Nelson
(Loyola)

I CAN’T PRETEND THAT I HAVE EVER been a minority. As a white Christian girl growing up in the suburbs of Philly, I can’t say I have really ever stood out from the crowd. Even here in Italy, there are so many Americans in the Cagli project alone that it’s rare to feel isolated. Having said all that, it’s difficult for me to ignore the gypsies in the street. Even if you tried, you could not miss them.
       The gypsy women walk hunched through the streets, vigorously shaking cups of change in the faces of tourists. Their fine hair is pulled slightly off their faces, allowing most of it to hang down their backs. Although many appear to be about my age, all of their hair gives off a grey hue, perhaps symbolic of their grueling lifestyle. Their bright patterned clothes shout out their presence and the reputation that follows them all at once.
      Outside the Duomo, a gypsy woman rushes past and forcefully thrusts her cup into the faces of a family. I watch as a mother pulls her daughter away and says in English “Don’t let the bums touch you, they’ll take your money.”
       It makes me sad to hear her say it, but I quickly remember an incident that took place not more than an hour before, when a gypsy woman rattled her cup in my face and I scrunched my nose in disgust before walking away.
       I have never considered myself narrow-minded, so why am I leaping away from these women before me? I wonder how much is true about their reputation. Are they bums? Should they get a job and dress like “us”? Or are they of a culture our society simply cannot understand? Or do we simply not take the time to understand? A combination of both? The memory of this incident bothers me for the rest of the day.
       I wonder what it’s like to be shunned from society, and be unable to escape or hide all at the same time. It seems so sad for an entire group of people to be separated from society—yet the gypsies remain. But why? Are they bothered by their “place” in the world? Am I wrong to jump back?
       I don’t know—for now, no real answers, only questions.

--Allison James
(Loyola)

SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE LIVING IN CAGLI is like living on an island, an island that is relatively free from an outside touch. Far enough away that those that live here can create their own type of lifestyle, hold on to their centuries-old traditions, and most of all, far enough away that Cagli can be a very safe and trusting town. Yet, at the same time, Cagli is close enough to other places that pretty much anything is within reach.
      Once you travel to the “mainland” (outside of Cagli) though, things change. It’s incredibly apparent that you’re not in Kansas— err— Cagli anymore. Things you began to take for granted before don’t exist. Doors are kept tightly locked, bags zipped and close to your side. Beggars line the streets and around every corner there is someone trying to sell you something. Everyone on the mainland wants to take your money in some form.
      As weird as it may sound, when you leave the island, it’s almost as if things and people become “less Italian”. In other words, so many of the traditions the small town of Cagli has been able to preserve have been lost in the chaos of the mainland. For instance, in Cagli, when you ask businesses if they feel any competition with other businesses of their kind, they’ll look at you funny. They just want to supply their fellow townspeople with what they need. If they don’t have it, they’ll send you somewhere that does. I can guarantee that that is not how the shops work in Florence.
       Another more obvious thing that makes the “mainland” seem “less Italian” is the fact that the majority of the language you hear in the big cities is not Italian. It is English. You’re trying your hardest to speak the little Italian you know in order to get your point across, and they respond to you in English. Then you think “Weird. I though I was in Italy.”

--Maggie Shellenberger
(Gonzaga)

FANO WAS CHOSEN as the trip for the day. Though the weather was cold in Cagli, it was beautiful in Fano and turned out to be the perfect day for the beach. The sun was out, water beautiful, and wind gentle.
One thing I can say about our trip to Fano is that I saw more butts that day than I can ever remember seeing at a beach before - big, little, flat, cellulite. Women here are so comfortable with their bodies. In America we are so obsessed with appearances to the point where it dictates how we feel about ourselves and how we see the world around us. This preoccupation with looks often runs our lives. But what I have noticed about Italian culture is that they do not waste time worrying about body shape, being to fat or too thin. There weren’t just skinny women wearing two pieces today.
I also haven’t seen any obese people in Italy and that is a rising issue in America. There culture is built on freshness and they are very careful about what they put into their bodies which I think helps then to be able to be carefree. The lifestyle here is so relaxed and stress free. I could definitely see myself living here. I realized that I very rarely live in the present, and I think that is part of what makes me an American. I am constantly thinking and preparing for the future that often inhibits me from appreciating the present moments. I wonder if Italians have a longer lifespan being that they don’t place the amount of stress and pressure on themselves as we do in America. While life is precious there, I feel like it is just a huge race towards a financial finish line.

--Jasmin Conner
(Loyola)

[W]E HOPPED IN A CAB and pulled up in the piazza outside the Vatican just before 10am. A large crowd was gathering in the street around St. Peter’s basilica, its columns and cross rising heavenward, a palace of pristine ivory. The sight was truly breathtaking. Only one word could even come close to the feeling I experienced: overwhelmed. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed.
      As we stood on the edge of crowd, taking everything in, we noticed a large platform had been erected on the steps of the basilica. It didn’t take us long to realize that something big was about to happen, and before we could blink, a choir began singing, organs sounded, and suddenly the Pope himself emerged from the massive doors of St. Peter’s. At this point I went into shock, followed by hyperventilation, and then lots of jumping up and down. Priests draped in brilliant crimson robes processed out onto the platform, greeting by thousands of cheers.
      Suddenly it hit me: we had stumbled into the midst of Pentecost Sunday mass at the Vatican! I could not believe how lucky I was. We had arrived just in time! For the nest two hours, I was swept up in the excitement of the service, surrounded by a mass of cheering Christians from around the world. Many people waved flags from their countries and sang songs in their native tongues.
      Perhaps the most amazing part of the service was when we gave the sign of peace, and I shook hands with members of the many cultures that surrounded me, saying “pace”. The entire experience was surreal.
      At the conclusion of the service, the Pope addressed the crowd in many languages. When he spoke the language of a group in the crowd, its members would cheer and raise their flags high in the air for him to see. Never before have I felt such a sense of unity with the rest of the world.

--Lauren O’Connell
(Loyola)

YOU'D THINK A TOWN LIKE CAGLI would be quiet. It is tiny, with one main piazza. It is surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. Its streets are tiny, with hardly enough room for one car to fit through. The highway runs along one side of the town, but it's only two lanes and rush hour most definitely does not exist here. The airport is at least two hours away and their flight plans rarely cross over the town. The train station is an hour away, and the tracks don’t run close to Cagli. Since there aren’t a lot of people, there aren’t a lot of emergencies, so sirens aren’t a common occurrence. Basically, all the usual things that make noise in the States don’t exist here.
       Yet somehow, this town is incredibly noisy. Constantly. Between the clamor of the bells (not just every hour, but also often every fifteen minutes – and at times from multiple churches), the grinding and banging of jackhammers and saws at the various renovation sites, the revving of the diesel Vespa engines, the slamming of doors and windows in the wind, the shouts of the old men in the piazza playing cards, the laughter and screeching of young children playing hide-n-go-seek at 1, 2, even 3 in the morning on weekends, the whistles, hoots and hollers of young men trying to attract the attention of passing young ladies, the random bursts of American music coming from the homes of local teenagers, the screeching of brakes from all the miniature European cars, and finally the naturally loud voices of Italians' conversations as they walk down the street… this town is far from quiet. And then the fact that all of the buildings are built of hard materials and stand incredibly close together magnifies all of these sounds and makes them echo so that they sound like they’re all happening right there next to you.
       Even where I live at home, less than ten minutes from downtown Seattle, I’m rarely woken up at night by noises outside my window. Maybe it’s the trees, or the yards that separate homes, or the materials that the buildings are made out of. Or maybe its that I’m simply used to them. They are what I know, what I grew up with. To me, they are not longer many separate noises like I hear in Cagli. They are one collective noise that just sounds like home.

--Maggie Shellenberger
(Gonzaga)

[T]HE ALARM CLOCK I bought here in Cagli never seems to work, so the voices of the Cagliese men are a sort of unofficial alarm clock. Each morning I hear their words. I think I finally figured out what they’re doing outside my window. Since my bedroom is on the basement level, I think the voices are those of a public works crew who is repairing the street. Since I don’t understand the language, I can only understand what is universal- that being laughter. Their laughter in the morning lets me know that all is okay with the world.

--Christopher Nelson
(Loyola)

IT’S FUNNY HOW SOME PLACES can become your home when you least expect it. After another dreary day in Cagli, I trudged back to my apartment from the Atrium ready for a break.
      I turned my key in the old wooden door to exactly the right angle, slipped my fingers around the door’s wrought iron handle, and forcefully pulled before gently pushing to open the door. I smiled to myself that it took a few days for me to master such protocol. I reached out in the dark and flicked the timer button second-naturedly—click!—the entire stone hallway was illuminated. Every time I walk through our entrance tunnel of rocky ground and white arched ceiling, I wonder how old this place is and who used to live here.
      I rounded the two flights of stairs up to my door and entered with a sigh of relief. The comfort that washed over my body came as a shock. The only place I’ve ever known to allow my body a sense of relief, like somebody had just let all the tension drain out, is my home. Was I home?
      I looked around our little apartment of two bedrooms, a bath, kitchen, and living room. Somehow it had become mine. Our keys lay on the table in the entry way, various shoes and notebooks lay scattered about, and from the kitchen I could smell the hearty flavors of our usual chicken and asparagus dinner.
      Somewhere between the culture shock, deadlines, and even homesickness, this place had become my home. Not like the place I grew up in of course—but one that took me in and wrapped its arms around me after a long day, soothing me into leaving my worries behind. It took me in, and so had Cagli.

--Allison James
(Loyola)

I HAVE FOUND THE DAILY PAUSA both refreshing and frustrating. In some ways, the pausa suggests relaxation for workers and promotes more time spent with family members. But at the same time, the lack of store hours during our scheduled free time can make it difficult to enjoy the town.
       The pausa is such a mystery to me. The shops close, the store lights dim, and the workers seem to retreat to some unknown place. Even during pausa, I never hear my neighbors chatting or see Italians running messages to a post office. I wonder what exactly they do during pausa. Do they take naps? Do they read, eat, watch television, visit with friends? Sometimes I think that maybe the pausa is not so unlike the free time I take at school, although I often only have time for a half-hour nap.
       I find that the pausa creates a certain rhythm within the day. The early morning piazza is filled with people overflowing from cafes. During the afternoon, the noise of people and cars recede, leaving the town vacant and quiet. But in the evenings, the piazza is lively again, filled with families going for dinner. It is a new rhythm for me.

--Carrie Cross
(Loyola)

PEOPLE DON'T RUN in Italy. I’ve never really seen them exercise at all in fact, aside from walking. I, an American, have to run. I need to de-stress: a few precious, peaceful moments for myself, taken out of my hectic, Post-It-commanded life. When I first arrived in Italy, I expected my own life to adapt to the slow, easy pace of cars without horns, meandering dinners, and no worries. Well, I was wrong.
      There’s a feeling I get when I need to run. I fidget, itch; my body fills with an almost fizzy, electronic buzz, and my thoughts fire spastically. Unfortunately, this ‘ready-to-run’ feeling happened today during class in Italy.
      After class, as most students were probably napping, eating, or doing their homework, I quietly, almost slyly strapped on my running shoes. I raced down the unfamiliar texture of Cagli’s cobblestone streets, and cruised on to almost non-existent sidewalks. I was laughed at, probably a spectacle down the roads of Cagli as I nervously navigated streets with names I didn’t understand. Despite my nervous high, the car honks (Aha! So they do use them!), stares, and the calls of vai, vai! (go, go!), I felt a cool, serene comfort absorb me. My legs, arms, and every part of my body finally felt right and my mind began to clear. I was running in a town of culture that didn’t exercise. I was blatantly, obnoxiously American, yet I was happy.
      I wish the laid-back Italians could embrace running, which can sometimes be a laid-back sport itself. I feel awkward, almost ashamed as I propel myself along to odd side glances. How could these people not know how great this is? I want to give them sneakers, run with them through the piazza, past the Roman bridges, the mountains, and all the intriguing scenery.
      But I guess since the Italians (as well as most Europeans) take the easy course in life, they may never have the stress, the bursting flecks of energy, the pure adrenalin that permeates a runner: me.

--Caitlin Rohan
(Loyola)

COMING TO ITALY, MOST OF THE IMPORTANT MEN in my life told me over and over—“Be careful”, “Be safe”, “Watch out for those creepy Italian men”. So as much as I want to meet people in Cagli, I’m a little on edge. I was automatically weirded out when an older Cagliese man approached CK, Jasmine, and I today and wanted to show us his home.
      Through broken English he explained his house was very old and very beautiful—perfect for taking pictures. Yeah, I think. I bet it is, you creepy man. But next thing I know, I’m trotting through Cagli towards his home.
      The strange-looking group of us stopped at a wall not far from the piazza as Romano slowly draw a key from his pocket and pushed a heavy door forward. His eyes were lit with anticipation, and I began to wonder what he was going to reveal.
      Inside was a beautiful garden, as if the Garden of Eden was hidden away in the middle of the rocky village of Cagli. Romono was even more excited to show us his home. Still reluctant, I cautiously followed inside.
      Despite our difficulties with language, we managed to decipher that the house was centuries old, and covered in beautiful artifacts. Stone palettes from Roman temples and Greek catacombs hung on walls, as if it were not uncommon to furnish one’s home with such. Proudly, Romano and his son Simone paraded us through the house. Their enthusiasm and interest in our reactions gave off a childlike happiness as they asked after every room, “You like?”
      Their home was beautiful and their passion even more so. Romano was a geologist whose entire basement was dedicated to books, sifters, fossils, minerals, sketches, anything to do with his profession. He proudly pulled books off shelves, pointing to pictures of a man barely recognizable as himself.
      Simone seemed completely taken by my simple phrase, “I have no words.” After seeing the house and attached apartments (we finally figured out they had hosted Cagli professors and students in years past—little less creepy now) he wondered if I would come back with Jasmine the next day and try to come up with words for what I was feeling.
      I left the Bon Clarici house— yes, it’s very official sounding: a Duke of Urbino used to live there, and now the place has its own freaking business card!— feeling I don’t know what. I was grateful for the experience, and overwhelmed by their hospitality. But I was even happier at the pride and joy shining through Romano and his sons’ grinning faces.

--Allison James
(Loyola)

THE OTHER NIGHT WHEN TALKING to an Italian man, he gave me a ring. When I tried to give it back, he would not accept. He said something to the effect of “You only live once”, “You must talk to people,” “You must get to know people”. What the man said on that day remains with me. A few times here our instructors have urged us to savor the moment. Too often we get caught up in the hype. Too often we get caught up in the tomorrows, and forget to enjoy today. While it seems important to savor the moment, we must all keep our eye on the prize. For many of us, our experience here in Cagli signifies many things, but to all of us this project symbolizes a certain freedom.
      One of the most important lessons I’ve learned so far is that the quest to communicate begins with me. When I am not tuned in to what I am feeling, what is important, and what is noteworthy, it becomes difficult to convey that to others. Each day I think I’m learning to be more observant, and to take note of the small things.

--Christopher Nelson
(Loyola)

CAGLI IS QUAINT, a small town just west of the Adriatic. The wind sweeps through the streets and the sun beats down on the mountain-embedded city like the throb of the local discoteca. As a virgin to the sight of the rolling countryside and picturesque alleys of the Italian landscape, Cagli is the perfect place to dip my toes in the water. I may never leave.
My heart is a frail instrument that brings me to specific transitions. By 17:30 of day two I was in love with not a boy, not a place, but a lifestyle. I fell head over heels for the casual mornings, calm afternoons, and rambunctious nights. My heart drops to my stomach for the forthcoming locals. My cheeks turn red with embarrassment when I say…

It was love at first sight.

--Nicole Lettieri
(Loyola)