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Ryan Creel June 1, 2003 |
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As I marinate,
amidst sips of cappucino and the surrrounding conversation, their language grows more familiar.
The front page of the morning newspaper is difficult to decipher, but I gather that a 27 year-old
was killed in a car collision in Fano, a nearby beach town. Until now, I thought all news in
Italy was good news. A wholesome Italian breakfast and a grueling week of classes has prepared
my fellow students and I for our first day of leisure. I construct an invitation to an attractive,
dark-haired cashier at the local Sidis supermarket with three days of Italian lessons and hand
gestures. It is enough to conjure a smile and brief response, "Si, domani".
Gleaming with success, I lead the march to the river. Our noisy arrival displaces the sunbathing
locals and leaves the beach all ours. I sit riverside with new friends and await the appearance
of my new Cagliese friend. This much anticipated respite is a welcomed escape from the demanding
schedule of our first week in Cagli.
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Right to left: Nick Prindle, Jason Gorsuch, James daSilva, Katie Foster, Julie Dise,
Jennifer Pesonen, Mike Memoli, Katie Schwartz, Matt Satterfield, Stephanie Hossbach,
and Mary Ellen Camp.
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"Thunder claps angrily overhead while we
submerge, engrossed in spontaneity." |
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Little
did I know that "domani" means tomorrow. Although I am disappointed,
her smile and our very brief conversation were worth all the trouble. This was but one
incident that hipped me to the realization that my heart is dangerously vulnerable
when swayed by a foreign tongue. |
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Some time later, a fellow student and I
leave in search of another rock-bedded beach. A tall wire fence and a steep
hillside block the path, temporarily impeding our progress. Normally backed down in the face of
such an obstacle, Katie insists we press on. Not long after our first hesitations, we are beside
the second river of Cagli, the Burano. We start upriver with a bottle of wine in hand.
As we curse the sharp stones beneath our feet, a moped zooms down a pillowy soft path to our
immediate left. A brief walk brings us to a chilly swimming hole. Thunder claps angrily overhead
while we submerge, engrossed in spontaneity.
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