Globalization and Starbucks

You know... I have to say that I am of mixed feelings about the concept of Globalization.

I agree 100% that the destruction of cultures in the name of progess is reprehensible. Western culture is particularly insidious; it is seen by many as the 'civilized' world, and many countries want to not only emulate but also participate in Western culture... opening the doors for the horrifying spectre of a McDonald's in Piazza Rotunda last year. I am frightened that the merging of cultures (really, the encroaching of Western ideas on the rest of the world) might result in the disappearance of local cultures everywhere. (I'm not convinced this is inevitable but for the sake of argument I can state vehemently that if it happened, this would be tragic.)

However, if the concept of Globalization is understood as an opening of communication (of which this Forum is a great example), a sharing of ideas and concepts and/or a breakdown of stereotypes and misunderstandings throughout the world, with easier access to others' cultures and ideas... and if it all is approached with care, then I applaud it.

As with the advent of any new thing, it is the application of the technology or concept that matters, not the thing itself. Arguments could be made for the good and bad in almost every concept or invention throughout history -- from the big giant stick that could be used both as a weapon to beat one's neighbor or as an oar to row a boat, to nuclear power which has the potential to destroy us all, or power entire countries -- and Globalization is just as potentially terrifying, and potentially wonderous.

Bottom line... I dread the day Starbucks worms its way into Rome (though at home I visit it three times a week or more), and I hope countries worldwide don't get caught up in the game of trying to "keep up" by installing Western versions of all things in their cities and their lives.
I agree with Karin that the danger lies in the potential for destruction of cultures around the globe.

On the other hand, I have faith that people will hold to their senses of identity (another slippery concept) and will still be Italians, still be Turkish, still be Germans, whether drinking a glass of wine or eating an order of fries.

I hope.....

Venetian Dreams

Venice is a city suffused with light and beauty. To say it is lovely is like saying St Peter’s is a church, or Siena a walled city. It isn’t untrue, it just isn’t saying nearly enough.

Canals that widen and narrow as they twist, the currents unknown to all but a few. Bridges of stone where one can stand to watch the passage of time, and blink to find an hour has passed. Multi-colored blossoms and Mozart’s operas tumbling from windows covered with wrought-iron grillwork… marble steps that lead down into glinting water and disappear into its depths… unseen children laughing, and footsteps echoing around a corner just ahead… or is that behind? Gondolas silent and swift, gliding through history. Moldering brick and stone facades of water-stained homes whose footings descend into the blue/green water. Gold-gilt ceilings and the largest oil painting in the world… museums that capture and enshrine hundreds of years of worship… and around every bend in every lane another campo opens, letting in the light and reminding travelers of themselves.

I spent a week in Venice in the summer of 2006, drinking in the city and its both overwhelming and somehow languid, understated beauty along with strong cappuccinos and glasses of Chianti. And in that week I began to understand what dreams are made of.

It took me days to adjust to the pace. Like any city, Venice can feel rushed, hurried, frantic. But below the surface lies the ease of movement I found in all of Italy, an unhurried living of each hour that has nothing to do with the surface noise and motion. Waiters with full trays take a moment to say Ciao to their friends, some of whom they have just met. Gondoliers talk and smoke and lean back in their chairs, watching pretty women walk by and waiting for nightfall when lovers ask them for trips that cost twice what anyone would pay in any other place for 45 minutes of romance. And store owners lock their doors at noon and drink wine at nearby bars, waiting for the day to pass.

The mornings are all but silent, waves lapping on the edges of the docks and the only human sound the calls of shoppers and merchants in the fish market. I often walked through the quiet streets in early daylight, in search of a panetteria with fresh-baked sweets. I found them by smell, the perfume of hot bread drifted easily through the winding streets, drawing me in.

Mid-days I spent in museums and scuole, in the Doge’s Palace and the Basilica of St. Mark, and in smaller churches scattered through the city in every campo, marveling at the overwrought, sumptuous, decadent beauty that lies hidden behind doors of rough wood – or chiseled marble. I hadn’t realized it was possible to depict the Madonna and child in so many hundreds of ways throughout the ages, nor had I known that much color could exist side by side with yet more color, until it all ran into one vision in my mind that would not take shape… and I staggered from the Scuola Grande di San Rocco feeling drunk on beauty… and overloaded on opulence.

I sat on the edge of the Grand Canal in the evenings, at the foot of the Ponte di Rialto. I listened to the babble of languages around me, catching a word here and there, heard the calls of gondoliers and the slap of water against a black gondola. I drank Chianti and cappuccino. I took deep breaths and watched the shadows creep across the slate gray water as the sun set behind the storied hotels across the water.

Venice at night… lights from the other side of the canal glittered in a mélange of color on unseen waves, twinkled behind me in the café doorway. Men’s voices somehow become deeper, and their laughter slower, and desire seems palpable in the air. One night when the moon was full and the revelers had begun to go home, I heard footsteps above me on the bridge, and the chink of wine glasses against stone… a woman’s laughter and a man’s gentle words… and I looked up with a smile, expecting to see late-night lovers out for a stroll. The footsteps faded, the laughter slipped away, and only shadows stepped off the edge of the bridge.

A chill passed through me and I shivered in the cool spring air. The days of immense beauty… the nights of glowing richness… I suddenly realized that ghosts had slid by me, close enough to touch. In fact, Venice might very well be a dream being dreamed by these ghosts. Who could they be, to have such power?

I sat back in my chair and took a last sip of wine. In the back of my mind I heard them… Mozart and Vivaldi, Artemisia and Leonardo, Dante and Virginia Galilei, Michelangelo and Bernini, Tintoretto and Raphael, walking over bridges through the centuries… I imagined them slipping into their respective beds and closing their eyes… … if they all were dreaming together of beauty and elegance and architecture and art, and of love and laughter and of time, something very like Venice would appear.

I felt for a moment almost enchanted, as though I were also part of the dream. When I finally went to bed that night I wondered what I would find in my own slumber, and if I would walk beside those whose dreams have created such wonder.

I slept soundly and dreamed of nothing, and awoke to the sun streaming in through an open window and the sound of a dove on the railing outside. I arose and stepped outside, and watched the canal beneath my balcony come alive with light.

And I spent the rest of my time in Venice sitting on the edge, listening for footsteps.

© Teresa Cutler, 2006 (This and other essays can be found in my upcoming book, All that Glitters, a collection of essays about Italy.)

Burnt Siena

Just before nightfall. The weekend before the first 2006 Palio, Siena’s 500+ year old horse race around Piazza del Campo, and the stone-paved streets were filled with sound – laughter, singing, drums, horns, and the shouts as friends and enemies called to each other from windows two and three stories above the level of my feet.

Flags of every imaginable color hung from poles jutting from buildings overhead and at first I noticed only that they were beautiful. They waved in breezes unfelt at street level, and they ascended and descended as the street level changed.

It came upon me slowly, as if I had always seen it; along each street, each flagpole held the same flag as the poles before and after. An unending sea of identical patterns – of caterpillars, towers, panthers, elephants, more – receding into distances, in every direction. I was entranced, following the colors haphazardly until I turned a corner, encountering yet another pattern. Through the city, I walked a journey marked by ever-changing color.

I found out later that Siena is made up of seventeen separate contradas, or groups… guilds, maybe. Each has its own flag, and each takes its membership quite seriously. It used to be that one was born into, grew up and worked in, and was married and died within one particular contrada. From the first moment of awareness, one knew where he or she belonged. While the contradas have become less well-delineated through the centuries, it is still true that one has no doubt to which one belongs.

I didn’t know this that night. I knew only that beauty and movement drew me ever onward, and I marveled at each new motif. I walked into streets lit now by hanging lamps and squares of light that spilled from doorways and open windows. Laughter drifted out to me, the scents of garlic, onion, meats… wine. I walked past them, into the next street… and the next.

In the growing darkness I felt suddenly quite the outsider. For the first time in Italy, I was in a place that seemed to keep me at bay, letting me see only glimpses of its soul, and hear only echoes of its heart. For all its color, for all the beauty of its narrow, lovely streets and the hanging-garden of lights and color, Siena was somehow unsettling.

I turned to look in all directions and saw only what I had seen before… flags fluttered in the shifting of winds as day turned into night, the air cooling as the stone city gathered its shadows home.

The city seemed to be waiting… not a wisp of movement, not a breath of air. I stopped in the middle of an almost empty street that led downhill, curving slightly to the right, the flags hanging just above my head. I held my breath.

A whisper past my ear, a motion not quite seen… the laughter of a hundred voices gathered in a hidden garden… a remembered touch… a man speaking in a low voice of lost love… of desire… and an ache in my heart that began a hundred years ago.

Siena, Italy, is 5,768 miles from me, and somehow it will not let me breathe.

© Teresa Cutler, 2006 (This and other essays can be found in my upcoming book, All that Glitters, a collection of essays about Italy.)

Albuquerque Adventures

I have been home in Albuquerque (see my summer travels at http://www.tlc-travels.blogspot.com) for a little over a month now. As of September 1, weekly essays about my life in Albuquerque will be posted here.

New Mexico is a wonderful place to live... sunsets of red and purple and gold... 10,000 foot mountains rising on the east, forever-mesas stretching westward, spotted with ancient volcanoes... forests and rivers and wildlife, ghost towns and artsy abodes... friends, family, loved ones... and my dogs Sebastian and Emma.

I'll be exploring all of it.

Talk to you soon!

tlc