Extraordinary Academic Experiences

The Miami University class I am teaching in Florence, Italy, this summer - Journalism 350 Reporting on European Culture and Travel - already has had its share of extraordinary speakers.

Nick Verreos, the L.A.-based principal of the Nikolaki design house and a beloved Project Runway reality TV contestant, visited for two days earlier this month.

The feisty Verreos accompanied the 22 students to the Polimoda International Institute of Fashion Design and Marketing for an insider look at the role of fashion in Italian business and culture. Then he inspired them with a talk about his own life and business.

The following week, Noah Charney, an expert on global art crime, talked to Miami students about organized crime's role in the theft and trafficking of art pieces. He's been the subject of two New York Times pieces; find a profile here.

Now comes word that Rachel Donadio has accepted an invitation to speak to Miami journalism students here. Donadio is the Rome-based New York Times/International Herald Tribune correspondent. The class already has reveled in her reporting on media mogul cum Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi and his alleged sex scandals, especially a recent piece when Libyan leader Muammar el-Quaddafi came to visit.

And in the days before she visits, journalism students will get an insider view of the Catholic church's role in present Italian society from local religious figures.

Wish I could take credit for these incredible visitors to an already unusual journalism class. But most of this was brainstormed by Miami Florence Program Director Mark Bernheim, who conceived and has run this summer workshop for many years.

Bravo, Mark Bernheim! Would that all journalists could rub elbows with such interesting figures in a six-week span. This journalist has rarely had such luck.

Pull Over! It's the 'Twilight' Set!

Spending the summer in Europe with my two teen kids has been less stressful than anticipated. My 16-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son have slowed their pace, found the humor in situations and become more independent – especially when I force them to turn off their laptops.

They quickly made friends with a small group of Miami University students, who invite my kids to shop, hang out in their dorm rooms, attend movies and go get gelato.

The teens gamely roam our base city of Florence during the day – when it’s not 40 degrees C outside, that is.

They window shop, watch people and conduct their own gelato taste tests across Florence.

Then, of course, there’s Italian MTV, an endless source of teen amusement.

I insisted from the start that the kids attend the other Miami University classes being taught in Florence. (I excused them from the exams!)

So every Tuesday morning, they sleepily roll out of bed, down Frosted Flakes and tromp up the cobblestone Via dei Serragli to attend the wonderful art and architecture lectures given by one of my Florentine professor colleagues.

When I can join them, we attend that professor’s walking tours of the city to illustrate what she’s just discussed.

Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, the kids view the art films being shown at a local movie house by my other Florentine colleague. I excuse them from the film discussions, held later, so my colleague is not burdened with extra students.

But that may be a mistake, since the kids usually return grumbling that the movie made no sense.

That was the case last week when the art film was Federico Fellini’s 1963 gem, “8½.”

At dinner that night at Istituto Gould, the Miami summer program home base, one of my journalism students, Kevin, cheered up my kids by saying with a grimace, “You could never understand “8 ½” if you didn’t read the reviews beforehand, like we did.”

But it is on our weekend trips that I have to make the most accommodations for teen traveling companions.

For example, last week we rented a car and wandered through Tuscany. My son was the master map reader, navigating me through the myriad roundabouts. Signage is great in Tuscany, but often sneaks up on drivers like a subliminal message.

With teens, outdoor art becomes a playground, public piazzas a theme park. So it was in San Gimignano, a sublime hilltop village with 15 stone towers where we stayed for two nights.

My son discovered the rooftop vantage with 220-degree views of Tuscan countryside. That proved to be a relaxing place to talk at sunset about everything we had seen and experienced.

In Volterra, a walled hilltop town with breathtaking vistas, instead of endlessly wandering the maze of stone-paved streets, we ventured onto the path following the Etruscan and medieval walls.

This is where Volterrans would dump hot oil from above to drive away attackers.

We came to a gate into the town that had been built in 400 B.C., stopping to imagine life then.

But it was when we reached Montepulciano that my 16-year-old came alive. Just weeks ago the cast of “New Moon,” the second book spawned in the wildly popular “Twilight” vampire series, wrapped up filming here.

When we walked into Montepulciano’s main piazza, my daughter squealed, “There it is!” and ran across the square to a medieval stone building with a clock tower. Such a clock tower building was an iconic emblem from the book, hence this town’s choice as film location, rather than Volterra, where the book’s scene was set.

We paid 2 euro to climb to the top. Her brother took photos. I took photos. She smiled.

We wandered into an enoteca on a patio overlooking the countryside. As I sipped the globally known local vintage, my daughter asked the wait staff where else filming had taken place in town, keen to see them all.

One of the waiters, who spoke excellent English, mentioned that the film’s director had frequented this eatery and stayed in an apartment above.

“We have the ‘New Moon’ storyboard downstairs,” he told her. “Would you like to see it?”

Silly question.

The Joy of Doing Nothing

It's hard for the plugged-in generation to understand.
But those 10- or 12- or 16-hour work days add up.
So does the energy expended on tending a worthy marriage, tending sweet babies, tending the goals that add up to a lifetime.

So, once in a while (sometimes once in a great while), it is good for the body to just sit and do nothing in a spectacular place.

Agriturisma San Gallo, Montepulciano, Italy.
July, 2009

Strike the Pose... in Firenze

He was among the most likable characters on Bravo2's "Project Runway," appearing in the second season of the hit fashion design reality show.
Since then, he's become a likable fashion commentator on network TV, on the red carpet and in the "Fashion Police" column of US Weekly.
Last week, Nick Verreos showed Miami University students he really IS that nice of a guy.

He and David Paul, his partner in the L.A. design firm Nikolaki, came to Florence, Italy, to talk about the fashion industry with Miami's summer journalism students here.
"Buongiorno, buongiorno!" Verreos trilled, kissing both my cheeks.
His neatly kept beard was soft and friendly.

He and Paul gamely rode the public bus, then walked with students to the Polimoda Fashion Institute, an ooh-la-la former villa on a Florence hill.
Verreos worked the crowd of students like a star (which he is, of course).
Shiny, silver, Velcro-fastened tennis shoes gave him away.
Strike the pose, flash a smile.
"Honey, let me tell you....!"

Verreos had the most insightful questions during presentations at the Polimoda about its curriculum and the fashion business.
Later, talking about his life, the killer fashion industry and Heidi Klum, his hands were his accessory, his voice one exclamation point after another.
Be sure to ask Verreos about the first time he met Seal.
And about Klum's expertise with a tele-prompter.
Ooh la la, talk about a man's life being an open-air classroom.

Stumbling Upon Rich History

On the way to the Rialto markets in Venice one morning, I spotted an envious place to sit and read the International Herald Tribune.
“Go on – I’ll catch up,” I told the group of Miami University students and my two teen children.

I settled in on the top step of a gorgeous chiesa, or church, in the High Renaissance style of architecture. At my back, the stone wall of the Chiesa di San Salvador, which loomed over the small campo, or plaza, in front.
Opera recordings from the nearby Musici Veneziani echoed across the campo.
A floral shop spilled color onto the drab campo floor, offering flower and vegetable seeds to the hundreds upon hundreds of people strolling by.

But it was difficult to concentrate on the newspaper, or even the ambience.
That’s because small groups of people kept breaking off from the crowds to slip quietly into Chiesa di San Salvador.

“Are you sure you can make it up the steps, mother?” a middle-aged man asked, in English, of an elderly woman on his arm.
“Yes, I can,” she replied. “I’m not going to miss this for the world.”
After the fifth group of people went in, in a 15-minute span, I closed my paper and followed. Why was this place not on my list?

The dim interior yielded its extravagances slowly, like a silk prayer shawl unfolding.
Raised stone sarcophagi, topped by richly colored paintings and sculpture, lined the walls. Two Titians. A Carpaccio. Organ shutters by Francesco Vecellio.
To the right of the altar, a small mummy – a child? – encased in glass garnered a spotlight. Just before the altar steps, a glassed-over peephole some 4 feet round offered a murky view of a tomb below.

This, then, was a church of consequence.
San Salvador dates to the 7th century, according to the church’s website. The legend goes that Jesus appeared in a dream to Bishop Magnus and asked him to build a church, showing him where it was to be constructed, church history says.
The place was in the heart of the future city of Venice, which didn't exist then. In the dream, the bishop was directed to dedicate the church to Jesus.

Noble Venetians attended San Salvador for centuries, especially after it was reconstructed in the 16th century. That is when so many of the important artworks were installed, usually to honor someone buried there.
Crypts not only cover the walls but the floor, including the glassed-over crypt for Bartolomeo Bontempelli near the altar. If you could see down into this crypt, the frescos that decorate the walls would be revealed. But lighting is impossible in the damp underneath of the church.

I could not take my eyes off “Transfiguration of Christ” by Titian (1560-65), which covers silver altar screen. The Save Venice organization describes it the best on its website. “Christ stands surrounded by an explosion of divine light as the figures of Moses and Elijah rush toward him from the sides. Below, the apostles James, John and Peter recoil from the radiant but terrifying vision.”
Titian, of course, was the iconic Renaissance artist, his later works vibrantly colored and imaginative.

To the left of the altar, “The Supper at Emmaus,” finally determined as painted by Vittore Carpaccio (1513), echoes “The Last Supper” but depicts the resurrected Christ meeting with two of his apostles at an inn in Emmaus.

I was humbled by the beauty inside San Salvador, and embarrassed that I wasn’t aware of its significance while picking a reading spot.
But many Americans are acutely aware of the needs of San Salvador. Even this day, restoration work was going on in two spots in the nave.
The Boston and New York chapters of Save Venice, an organization founded in 1967 following devastating flooding in Venice, have been instrumental in raising funds and choosing rehab projects, including several at San Salvador.

To get involved: www.savevenice.org
To learn more about Chiesa di San Salvador: www.chiesasansalvador.it/eng/presentazione.php

Bargaining

The light in Florence, it is divine.

In the morning, it slips across the aged red tiles of buildings in our neighborhood, beckoning, welcoming, enticing.

By afternoon, it bakes July tourists as they tred wearily down the tunnel-like streets near the Uffizi, sweat dripping, feet burning in Reeboks.

For all this light, you clearly need the right… sunglasses.

Or so Rebecca decided.

So near the stalls of the Basilica di Santa Croche, she commenced the dance with a street hawker who had a fold-up table covered in sunglasses.

Treating her like a beloved client at Roberto Cavalli, he gently unfolded various pairs of sunglasses, crooning “bella,” “buona,” placing them on her nose, directing her to push some up higher.

A black pair with gold trim. A red pair with gold trim.

He handed her a small mirror.

An aviator frame. An oversized pair with white movie-star frames.

As he moved slightly back and forth, a powerful, unwashed odor wafted across the walk.

A two-toned purple pair in plastic.

Rebecca smiled.

She looked at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.

“Quanto costa?” she inquired.

“25 euro,” the hawker said, continuing his croon.

She frowned. Put the sunglasses down, but kept her fingers wrapped around them.

“No. Too much,” she said in English.

His shoulders sagged a big.

“20 euros, fini,” he said.

Rebecca’s mother shook her head. “Rip off,” she said, “Come on – let’s look some more.”

“20 euros, fini,” he repeated.

The mother walked off to browse at the next kiosks.

Rebecca told the hawker, “No,” once more.

The bargaining continued.

The mother casually watched from three kiosks away.

Rebecca reached for her wallet, handed over a bill.

The hawker spoke quickly. She added some coins, then spun and headed off down the street.

“Graci,” she called back to him.

When she reached her mother, she crowed, “I got them for 12! Ha HA!”

Her mother, ever the spoiler, examined the sunglasses and pronounced, “They are worth, maybe, 5.”

Rebecca tossed her shoulders, adjusted her sunglasses, and continued her strut.

In evening in Florence, the light shimmers across the tight line of apartments, churches and restaurants lining the Arno River.

It flickers, promising, warming the blond walls.

The two-toned purple sunglasses remain on Rebecca’s face.

Her expression is inscrutable.

She turns her head toward the light.