The Bicycle Thieves

If you have never heard of it, the title of this post refers to a classic Italian film I wholeheartedly suggest for those who enjoy foreign, black and white films whose ending does not resemble mine in any way.

When I arrived in this little town where G has lived his whole life, he set about teaching me the ways of the land. Where to go for this or that. How to act. The usual decorum of the land. Among these lessons, I learned that 1) a bike was necessary and 2) that it was a safe place. I had already inherited a bicycle from my friend and former roommate Linda and coming from Florence I was looking forward to using it without the super high traffic density, so we packed up my old rusty blue bike (or MORBB) and brought it to our little home. But he also told me, don't you worry about locking it up because in this small town everyone would see what happened.

Still in my big city mindset, I was a bit unsure about this idea. I tried it out at the grocery store, 5 minutes from home. All the other bikes were unlocked, I thought, so I left MORBB on the rack and kept my lock inside. I went in and when I came out, all was well. I repeated this several times, at other stores, in other parts of town, all to the same results. I started to feel safe in this small town.

People teased me and MORBB. "It's ugly," they declared. "Who would ever want that rusty old thing?" they exclaimed. "Do the breaks even work?!" they challenged. I was just glad to have MORBB. It worked--erm, well enough--and I was happy to have a companion in my exploration of the small town. Despite lacking lights, reflectors, and having only the bottom half of the bell (rendering it useless), we shared memories together and it got me from one place to another, skidding or huffing, whatever you may call it.

One day I met G "downtown" to learn a bit more about my dual citizenship goals at the city offices and I didn't lock my bike, as per usual. After the appointment, we went around, trying to escape the heat, and I left MORBB where it was. Wrapped by my security blanket this small town had become, I knew nothing would happen to it.

They say hubris ruins people. They are right. When I returned to the center to retrieve MORBB in the hot sun which I thought could only be reserved for the Sahara, MORBB was nowhere to be found. I walked home heartbroken. My solace from the sun came only from the tears on my cheeks. I already missed MORBB.

And so the search began. G called his parents right away and G's dad, a hunter, went out on his bike to find MORBB. G made trips looking for MORBB each morning before departing our small town and upon coming back from work.

Maybe someone saw MORBB abandoned and rode it a while before leaving it somewhere else. Maybe a young kid had taken MORBB, not understanding what it meant to me. Maybe--oh goodness, no!--someone had taken MORBB to another little town to be sold. G and his father the hunter continued to search. They assured me MORBB would be found. I had already said goodbye in my heart to MORBB and had little hope.

Saturday morning, G received a call from his father the hunter who said he found a dark looking bike that might be mine. My heart soared! Could he really have found MORBB?! I recollected myself and thought logically. Could he really have found MORBB??? I asked G where his father the hunter was as I slipped on my tennis shoes, just in case I could ride MORBB back home. G explained that his father the hunter had brought the possible bike home. "But what if it's not MORBB?!" I blurted. I ruminated on someone else loosing their MORBB.

My stomach tightened as we approached G's parents' house. His father the hunter was sitting outside with one of his ferocious hunting dogs just waiting for us. "If this isn't yours, I guess we'll have to take it back," explained his father the hunter, opening the garage door.

"That is definitely not my bike."

There sat a beautiful shiny new bike with a basket up front. The seat wasn't cracked or weathered from spending ages outside. Lights and reflectors were whole and attached right where they were supposed to be. And there, sitting sweetly on the handle bars, was a tiny little bell on the left and a 7 gear changer on the right.

"That REALLY is not my bike."

"But I kind of remember it that way," says G's father the hunter.

"Now that you say that," G begins, "I kind of remember it that way, too." Now since he spent HOURS changing the break pads and a tire on MORBB, I know there is no way he could mistake it for this gift from Heaven.

Slowly it starts to dawn on me. I can't believe it. I want to cry. I take my new bike, a gift from G's parents, on a ride up and down the street, beaming like an 8 year old. I couldn't be happier. My shiny new bike couldn't be more elegant.

MORBB was really stolen. Sometimes I take a little giro around the town looking for it for sentimental reasons, smiling happily on my shiny new bike. Moral of the story: Don't trust G. Lock up everything.

And don't worry. G's father the hunter bought me a new shiny lock for the shiny new bike, too.

The Challenge

I am now 24 years old. I can generally say that I'm pretty proud of myself but I have a lot of growing yet to do, so I set myself a challenge. The idea is not my own (my friends Kellie and Heather set a precedent), but I've gone and taken the brilliancy and decided to adapt it just for me. I have decided to make a list of 25 things I want to complete before turning 25. They have little rhyme or reason. Some of them are things I've always wanted to do. Others are things I think I should do or couldn't imagine doing without even the most arbitrary of reasons. Mostly I just want to get as much as I can out of this year.

I've worked the list to the bone and have come up with 24 challenges with which I feel satisfied, but I'm taking suggestions for the last one. There's no rush. I'm giving myself until mid-February to set the last goal, but if something hits you while reading this post or in passing and you say, "Gosh, that'd be a cool '25 Before 25' challenge" you know how to get in touch with me.

Also, you will read that some of the projects are small and really personal. Others are big scale and I'll be looking for support. I plan on posting updates here and will use this blog as a source to call for help. Plus I made a new page to keep track of completed missions. If there's anything you feel really inspired about helping with or want to join in on, the more the merrier! Contact me by email (samanthacibelli[at]gmail[dot]com), message me on Facebook, or leave a comment below. Looking forward to what the next year brings!

And without further ado, my 25 Before 25:

1. Read the complete collection of Shakespeare's plays.
2. Learn to speak conversational Spanish--and don't lose my Italian!
3. Travel to Budapest, Hungary.
4. Sponsor a bake sale for Cookies for Kids' Cancer.
5. Complete a half-marathon.
6. Cheer on the Carolina Panthers at the Bank of America Stadium.
7. Obtain my Italian dual citizenship... and learn their national anthem.
8. Take a trip to Paris, France with G.
9. Become a "connoisseur" of beer: how it's made, what distinguishes different types and tastes, etc.
10. Organize a community service project for U.S. military families.
11. Go on a date with Dad.
12. Write an editorial that is published.
13. Visit some people at local nursing homes who don't have regular visitors. Make new friends.
14. Conquer my fear of heights.
15. Eat something really different.
16. Surprise Mom with something special.
17. Be a part of some art form, preferably on-stage.
18. Find a way to honor Papa.
19. Get a full-time job and flesh out my knowledge about money.
20. Present/write about my Fulbright project.
21. Keep my pact to Jason.
22. Compose my personal mission statement and brand.
23. Watch the "Must See Movie List." (Suggestions invited!)
24. Start a "Family Stories" project, recording my favorite family myths and memories.
25. **To be determined.**

I long, as every human being does, to be at home wherever I find myself. - Maya Angelou

I've moved! In the interest of saving a little bit of money, I transferred to the little apartment in the Tuscan hills with Gabriele for these two months. Talk about an adventure!

Siena, the city I studied and lived in on my other sojourns to Italy, is right nearby, but I'm settling in here about 20 minutes away in a much smaller town. First up was the chore of finding some space for me and my stuff in this little apartment. We stretched our imaginations and abilities, and G transformed a shelving unit into an awesome hanging space for some old clothing for potential costume parties... Some adjustments and sacrifices were made by both parties, quite willingly, although the timely finding of this article made some moments almost comical.

But now that that's worked out, my sights have been set on getting to know this little town. It's fairly small, but there's plenty for me to explore. Where do I get a hair cut? Found a new hair dresser! Where can I buy the best quality fruit and veggies? In under two weeks, I've already been there three times. Where can I find a replacement part for the sink? Discovered that store, too. Going about trying to make acquaintances in a new place is hard sometimes, but by now I should be a pro, right?

Mostly, I get around by bike. Luckily my dear friend Linda left me her bike in Florence, which also got some tender loving care from my handy man. Going around Florence was rough though between the cobblestones and crazy drivers. Here things are a lot easier, so I don't mind going to the edge of the town, even if I look like the weirdo on the bike. Plus, I'm learning quickly how the streets flow together and how to get from one part of town to another, which will certainly comes in handy for my driving lessons.

Yup, I'm learning how to drive, again thanks to G. Of course I have my license in the US, but I never knew how to drive a standard manual shift. In order to get around here where automatic cars are difficult to find, I'm learning how to juggle a clutch, "joy stick," and hand brake. After an amount of time in deserted parking lots, I've made it to the roads in short periods of time. Working my way up, slowly but surely.

So far my only friend in our little town is our next door neighbor, Signora Adriana. For now we mostly talk about the weather and her family, but she now remembers my name so things are looking up. Plus I'm hatching a few plans in my head on how to make some more. Sometimes I feel like that makes me creepy, but I know you all have done that some time. Don't lie! Yet a few times I've met someone new only to be greeted with something along the lines of "I've heard talk about you." Certainly not the most settling thing to hear. Considering that, to my knowledge, I am increasing the town's population of United States citizens by 100%, I am assuming that's my preceding reputation, but with this being my first time living in a small town, I can only imagine what's to come.

The best day so far was a few days ago, August 10, La Notte di San Lorenzo. The Night of the Shooting Stars! When G came home from work, we made a delicious picnic of Mexican food (new recipes!), resourcefully using the black beans and bell peppers left over from other dinners. Cooking time was spent singing and dancing to some sweet tunes and then out into the countryside to eat, to drink, and to watch the stars. I definitely won on sightings, wracking in somewhere around 20 in a couple of hours. We talked and sang and talked some more. G protected me from unknown animals. We had a blast.

All in all, it's everyday life here and that's all I have to report for now about my new home. Above's a picture I took, without editing, on the way home one day. It's hard not to love something so beautiful. Keep checking back for updates!

Today is the day.

Today is July 30th.

Today is the day several months revolved around: the day I would leave Italy again.

I've blogged a lot about my life decisions, revelations, and changes here, so I figured why not add a few more? And so the story begins:

My Fulbright year could be defined in many ways, but as I reflected the most fitting word is "challenge," be it referring to both the stand taller with a puffed chest type and the "am-I-ever-going-to-get-through-this?" moments. There was challenge everywhere. Challenge in my work. Challenge in my personal life. Challenge in my path to know myself. Challenge in living on another continent. I realized, maybe later than some or just in a different way, that growing up is hard. There are lots of things to do, many more than could ever be done in one lifetime, and so with that comes priorities and hard life choices. And that became my biggest challenge.

Among the series of challenges I fell into or created for myself, I started to doubt the plans I had set. Who knows why, but it was like a slow developing bacteria. A serious talk with a friend, a family member, or an acquaintance now and then grew in number and emotion. Soon attacks came more frequently and were stronger. My resolve strengthened and imploded on itself so often that I started to doubt my whole person and that, above all, made me unhappy. The only thing I could gather was that something had to change. So I took off the cruise control and pulled off the road to look at the map. My route had to change.

So then in May I emailed the professor at Western Washington University and informed her that I would no longer be attending the Experimental Psychology program. It was one of the hardest decisions I've made to date because it meant saying goodbye to something I still found interest in, but just wasn't a priority. The fear of making the "wrong" decision filled me with anxiety because WWU was an atmosphere and a setting that I wanted, that I had worked towards. Alas, I had found in my reflection more of a desire to add to community planning or policy change than I did to grow within an academic environment. Some work here in Florence with a conference called Diversi. E Allora? (Different. So what?) really enlightened that area inside my consciousness.

After that, I realized that I had to get to work. I have student loans to pay, after all. Which brings us to another more humiliating thing to admit: after all of this time, my project still isn't done. I got lost in theory. I made my life harder. I stumbled over my ideas and got discouraged instead of cleaning them up. I wanted so much and then didn't know how to ask for help. I could skip out of town or buckle down and make things work. In reflection I realized how much I had learned reading and not, interviewing and not, writing and not. This time with some real help from Gabriele--the person who knows best how to give it to me straight... in the nicest way possible, I recognized how much of a shame to my experience and a general disappointment to myself it would be to not complete a project. Plus I would feel so much better citing things I had learned from a finished product at job interviews.

And so today is the day I didn't leave Italy again. At least for now.

If there is a purgatory, this is it.

Today I went to the post office. I've talked a lot about the post office because it's a place no one really visits while being here for a short period of time, and, well, they are really Italian. At my particular branch you enter and take a number from one of three sections (finances, where you pay bills among other things signified with the letter "A"; banking, because the Italian post office also has a bank system, which have the letter "F"; and sending, for, you know, doing normal post office things, which is accompanied by the letter "P"). When I usually go, it's always a toss up what I'm going to find, but I'm usually pretty sure it's going to be a wait. If I'm both lucky and go at really unpopular times like early during lunch time or Friday evening, I usually only have to wait for 15 minutes. Tops I've been there for 45+ minutes before being called. Trips usually lean more towards the side of eternity than not. Usually I bring a book or my journal. Often I tweet. Anything to pass the time.

Today I went around 6pm. I'd never been there at that hour and thought I'd pass by. If there were too many people, I figured I'd head there tomorrow. I scan the room and find about 5 people waiting. I go to take a number. Of course there was a choice to make. Do I take an A for the bill I had to pay, or a P for the letter I had to send? Most times I take both, but I started with A244 and found that on the list of numbers recently called my number there was A243 making mine next up. I sat myself down without getting a second number. At least the place is one of the few here that has good air conditioning. People, it's hot here.

Anyway, the time stamp on my ticket was 17:55/5:55. Around 18:15/6:15 some girl jumps toward an open counter to ask if any A's will be called. P134. P135. P136. The woman sitting next to me had P137. She came in at 17:52/5:52. Apparently in this office they mostly pull numbers by order of arrival, but that's not always the case. Certain counters have certain functions. They can do it all, but they don't. Then there are people who jump the line. Why? Because they have something "urgent" or they just have a "quick question" that turns into being helped. After all, we are still in Italy.

So finally at 18:23/6:23 my number is called. Everyone with an A number behind me is saying "Finally, we're moving." I offer my bill to pay and ask if I can also get a stamp. She said of course. I take out my cash and she asks me if I'm paying my 75 euro water bill in cash or using a bank card. I tried once using the bank card, but apparently they discriminate about that, too. I didn't have this tiny design on the back so I had to withdraw from the ATM outside. "Cash," I reply.

In the meantime, a man walks up and asks if he can have the bag. "All of it?" she whispers. "Yes, I'll take all of it." He isn't an official. I don't know who he is. The woman goes in the back room, comes back with a medium sized shopping bag from a retail store. They start talking about lawyers and contracts. I white noise them because I don't want to be privy to any information I shouldn't be. Six minutes pass in this hushed conversation. The man walks away.

The woman returns to my aid, printing out the postage for the letter. I wrote down the address exactly as my friend had given it to me. Apparently I missed something he didn't write.

The woman asked me, "This is going to Holland, right?"
"No," I said quietly, trying not to avert the other clients, "it's going to Afghanistan."
"What?"
I clear my voice and raise it half a decibel. "This letter is for a soldier in Afghanistan."
"But the state isn't written!" she exclaims.
"Va bene. Okay. I can write it. Or I can just take it back and ask him again. Either way."

Maybe she didn't hear that last part. I'm not sure what happened, but the next thing I know this woman he got up and went to the two other women with clients and is "asking" what she should do. But really this asking is more like complaining. And she's doing it very loudly. I can feel everyone's eyes on me. Especially the other A's. My cheeks get hot. Despite the cool atmosphere, sweat starts to appear on my hands. A real Italian would have turned to someone nearby and pleaded their case. I can't even turn around to face the A's. I purposely don't pay attention to the words they are saying, a skill I now realize that I have clearly perfected. I hate that Italians seek to publicly shame, but it's part of their way. Especially postal workers. I think it's a job requirement.

After another two minutes in which her colleagues scream their advice and commiserate with her about just how impossible it is to send a letter without a state, she explains to me that this letter cannot, in fact, be sent if the state to which it is being sent is not known.

"But I know where it's going. It's going to Afghanistan."
"Oh." She pauses. "And this address in the corner of the letter is yours?" she says while pointing to the address of the street around the corner, followed by "Firenze, Italia."
"Sì." I say. "That is me."
"Ah, well, we didn't understand each other."

Yeah, something like that...