For the past six weeks, the students of Loyola's Cagli Program have kept travel journals of their experiences as they immersed themselves in a new culture and project. Here, we have gathered excerpts of their writing.

June 4, 2002
Joe said he wanted his room to throw the party of the trip, and by golly, he succeeded. On the third day, no less. The boys threw a "wine-b-q" for Ethan's birthday and to utilize the 20 euro grill they bought for the roof. I arrived to find confused firemen wandering the darkened street. Surprisingly, Mr. Ciofalo and Dr. Dobler were sticking their heads out the window. Apparently, it's not a party until the faculty shows up. I noticed several neighbors were wandering the streets, as well. For a culture so into food and so seemingly at home spending copious amounts of time outside, is it possible Italians never heard of a rooftop barbecue?

I entered the third floor, which is actually Julie and girls' room, to find several teachers guarding the kitchen table. I exchanged greeting with faculty and few students lounging around the kitchen and climbed the papier-maché ramp to the "roof." The rest of the group was crammed onto the 4x4 room cut out in the roof for a balcony or landing.

The boys were sitting around the grill wearing matching blue jeans, white tank tops, shit-eating grins, and wine-stained lips. Everyone was glowing against the black sky from too much wine and too much laughter, not to mention the grill that took up 1/3 of the space. The boys had started a fire with newspapers, matches, hairspray, and tanning oil. Everyone ate the hot dogs anyway.

The highlight of the night was the antics of the faculty. They all posed for pictures chugging wine from a jug, like so many hillbillies drinking moonshine. Mrs. Samet stole the show with her seven veils dance. She danced with a few of the girls and whooped it up with Bob. Their shrieking laughter drowned out by the laughter of the other students and the blaring "Italian Greatest Hits" mp3 collection (Bob's presumably). "Angelina" and "That's Amore" rattling shutters up and down the street probably did not endearus to the already wary Cagli citizens. The mark has been mad already. The owners of Café d'Italia, Squaqua, and the café already recognize us as regulars, or so it seems. Twenty various-aged Italian men shouted "USA! USA! USA!" at the top of their lungs every time a group of us walked by. We've carved our own niche in town, I guess.

-Dierdre Mullins

June 5, 2002
In Cagli, picking a church is the equivalent of picking a salad dressing for any American. In this small town that thrives on some 9,000 people, there is a church that appeals to every taste.

“Would you like Renaissance, Baroque, or Medieval? We also have Baroque light, heavy Renaissance, and refurbished Medieval.”

In a tour of Cagli, we visited 3 of the many churches in Cagli. The first question to come to my mind was why would a small town like Cagli need 3 churches, as the thought crossed my mind, I heard someone remark that there were more than 12 churches in and around Cagli. For such a small population, I could not see the need for 3 churches, and especially not 12. How did one pick which church he went to; does he base it on decoration, style of artwork, it’s capacity, the time of its services or maybe its vicinity to the person’s house?

-Meghan Devine

June 10, 2002
Looking at the piazza from the perspective of the elders is quite the experience. Sitting on the ledge of the town hall is a feeling all in itself, but trying to see things that weren’t intended for your eyes to ever see as a visitor for 6 weeks is overwhelming. When I came to sit down, I knew I shouldn’t be here, but I needed to feel it. Needed to try and feel it.

No one seems bothered that I came to sit in the spot that seems off limits to anyone with less than 60 years of experience under their belt. You can see everything and everyone from here; the old women slowly getting to where they need to be in the calf-length skirts and their identical shawls. The small transactions and conversations that last 2 minutes just because that’s the way it’s been for hundreds of years prior.

Sitting 20 feet to the left of me is the group of elders that I think I exiled from their tradition. They don’t seem bothered and they won’t ask me to move. They sit in a single line, parallel to everything ongoing and aware of every step taken in their piazza.

- Bob Buhowski

June 11, 2002
I got a shave the other day, and a haircut for that matter. It was something I wanted to do before I left because there are 3 barbiere in the piazza alone. I walked into an empty barbiere and sat down to wait. I was having second thoughts about letting someone I couldn’t communicate to be in charge of my outward appearance for at least two weeks; my hair grows fast. The best part of my Italian and the better part of my anxiety was taken to communicate “shave and haircut in a fade” to this blue-eyed scissor-god. He was very patient with me and he even taught me how to say fade from lunghi a corti.

Five minutes of staring at pictures of half and fully naked women pinned on the wall was enough time for Giovanni to make my hair the best it has ever looked. He was ready to shave me, but I wasn’t exactly ready for him to approach my neck with a blade. The initial anxiety faded and he trimmed everything needing trimming and oiled my face up. He lathered my face with his little brush that must have touched many generations of Italian’s faces before mine, an unworthy outsider looking for a few experiences.

I trusted Giovanni completely at this point. He approached me with the blade and took the first slice of lather and stubble with him. It felt amazing. He graciously guided the blade around what wasn’t getting out with such speed and fluidity – I’ve never seen anything like it. When everything was complete, he wrote down the price and treated me like an American that didn’t understand him…which I was. Exiting, I saw many Americans, perhaps too many for my newly local shave and haircut, but compliments were shared and life was, and still is, good.

-Bob Buhowski

June 12, 2002
As I attach my dripping t-shirts to a clothesline outside my 2nd floor apartment (a practice I am not very accustomed to), I notice a gray-haired man motioning with his hands frantically. He lives below me, but I have never met him. Is this some kind of neighborly wave? Does he want me to come downstairs? Did I just drop my red underwear on his head? These thoughts cross my mind and I wonder what the man’s gestures could possibly mean. He smiles, which assures me he is not angry about the noise we made last night or the insane amount of water I have used for my daily showers or laundry.

He uses only hand movements, and points from my almost-filled clothesline to his empty one next to a hammock nestled in his patch of greenery. I smile and nod, pointing in his direction and making awkward hand movements of my own. Once he realizes that I understand his kind offer, he smiles and waves as he disappears below my balcony.

Later today, after figuring out how to wash my clothes and successfully laundering half of the pile resting in a corner of my bedroom, I settled down on the couch with a book. Glancing outside the glass door, I noticed another old man, this one with a shiny bald head and glasses, relaxing on his identical porch across the street and enjoying the darkening skies and cool breeze. He looked so content that I decided to walk out on to my porch and call my parents. While explaining to them the reasons I haven’t called in a week, the bald man smiles and waves from across the street. “Ciao!” I called, and he replied with the common phrase.

On the other end of the phone call, thousands of miles away, my dad said, “Huh?” After I told him that I was saying hello to a neighbor “I have never met, we began talking about the friendliness of the Cagliesi people. Coming from a somewhat snobby suburb in New Jersey, I (and my dad, who seemed dumbfounded by my neighbor anecdotes), am not very used to this type of small-town, neighborly friendliness.

My house is #16 at home, and I don’t even know the last names of the people who live and have lived at #14. If I happen to get my mail at the same time as Mr. #14, I’ll wave, but friendly conversation is not common in North Caldwell. My hometown has about the same population as Cagli and only occupies one square mile of New Jersey; however, walking down the via in Cagli is a more pleasant experience than in my small town.

Here, the townspeople never pretend they are better than you, or base their ideas around money. It is a drastic change that I completely welcome. The Cagli lifestyle and friendly atmosphere could teach my frenzied, money-hungry hometown a few things about common hospitality and simple living. I know I will bring these ideas with me to the U.S.A. and hopefully Mr. #14 will respond when I ask him how his day is when we happen to retrieve our mail at the same time one day in July.

-Diana Richardson