Guest Blog and Photos by Marissa Frost
Although it has no head, I feel like it is watching me. It is insulted by my looks of disgust and quick short breath so as not to inhale its overpowering scent. Although it is a delicacy, I cannot imagine touching the flakey dried white meat to my lips. Yes, going to a new country means having to try new things but I do have my limits. I told my teachers where I was going and what’s the first thing they said? “Try the salted cod!  It’s their specialty.” Maybe next time.
Here in Vicenza, Italy, I stand in what appears to be my first fish market since arriving in this magnificent country two weeks ago. Coming from California, I am not used to mannerisms found here that are so automatic to locals. Standing in line, we pay for our breakfast bars to take back with later to Paderno del Grappa, the home of our studies.  The small, frail woman in front of me turns around with a mortified look on her face. I glance behind my shoulder only to find my friend Molly massaging the individual fruits with her bare hands. Running her fingers over the brightly colored oranges, I quickly correct her and point to the plastic gloves available for situations such as these. We laugh only because we have no other response.
Being immersed in the Italian culture, I find that my every move will either surprise or reiterate the opinions of the locals on the stereotypical American girl. I have yet to find out what exactly this stereotype is, but the vibes I get from my fellow grocery shoppers are that of suspicion and disappointment. Not the greatest feelings.
With my six fellow female travelers, we finally exit the supermarket only to be thrown into the hustle and bustle of Vicenza early in the morning. Cars zip by as they race to their next destination and we use our best efforts to save all of our limbs while attempting to cross the street. I would expect nothing less in the capital of the Veneto region and am pleased at the vibrant energy surrounding the small cobblestone streets, an energy not found in the quiet town of Paderno del Grappa.
Hours of museums, churches and shops later, we split up. Molly, Krista and I search the unknown streets for food around 2 p.m. but have no luck. Our stomachs growl as we search for an affordable, appealing menu outside of each restaurant we pass. “Small pizza, 20 Euros. Grilled rabbit, 24 Euros. Salted cod, 16 Euros.” This isn’t working.
With our trusted Rick Steves in the possession of our other half across town, I decide to take matters into my own hands by asking for advice from the first man I see.  In skewered Italian I plead, “Scusi, parle ingelse?” To my surprise and delight, the elderly local smiles, nods, and starts chatting away in English. We explain our situation and he quite fluently replies that he is just on his way home from work on his lunch break and would be pleased to lead us to a great restaurant near his house.
Down the streets we walk and talk as he tells me of his travels to America working with a ski company in Utah, New York, and Colorado. Along the way he points out the oldest building in Vicenza, the most photographed house, a great place to stop in for gelato, and the list continues. Molly, Krista, and I exchange reassuring looks, all thinking, “Boy did we luck out.” Not only are we able to make a new Italian friend and find a place to mend our hunger, but we also get a free tour of the town.
As we walk past bridges over rivers, down alleys and corridors, the nameless man comes to a halt at a large wooden door with a sign above it reading “Osteria il Cursore.” I barely have time to holler, “Grazie” before he hurriedly rounds the next corner. With a push of the handle, I enter.
Once inside, the scents of grilled chicken, buttered pasta and fine wines linger in the air as we eagerly sit at the nearest table.  The casual atmosphere of white and red checkered tablecloths and children playing peek-a-boo at the table to the left seem to clash with the beautifully presented dishes that surround us.
Even before ordering, I reach for the basket of fresh white rolls and smooth butter onto the bread’s blank canvas.  The waitress arrives and after clarifying a few questions on the menu, I order a Special Ale beer and tomato pasta. As she leaves, I see a middle aged couple at a nearby table eyeing us. Thinking it is the usual Italian stare I have gotten used to, I ignore their observations. However, the black suited man leans into our table inquiring what part of America we come from. As he speaks, I immediately identify his heavy British accent and realize why they were so intrigued by our conversation, as English is rarely found in Vicenza.
We chat with the couple who hail from Liverpool, England, and speak to us about their travels thus far. Their curiosity in our Italian adventures and American origins only add to the exciting tale I look forward to sharing with my family and friends when I arrive back in Paderno del Grappa.
Once the food and drinks arrive, there is no time for talking. The meal becomes strictly business as we intend to wipe our glasses and plates clean in our desperation for a substantial lunch. We have been deprived living off of the raw mystery meat and bland cardboard strings that some may refer to as noodles back at the school cafeteria.
Looking back I wish I had taken a photo. The plate the waitress presented had bright yellow fluffy pasta drizzled in an oily flavorful sauce. On top rested delicately placed marinated tomatoes, each about the size of a thumbnail. As I take I sip of my refreshingly foamy beer, I prepare to dig into a heavenly meal. With each bite I take, the more satisfied I feel and all of my hunger and earlier frustrations melt away. My two friends have similar looks of appreciation on their faces as we slowly eat and drink, discussing our upcoming travel plans for Spain and Amsterdam.

By the time I spear the last tomato on the white plate that now looks so large, I feel completely content. I pay the ten Euros and as we exit, I wave a smile and goodbye to the British couple that still sits sipping their wine. As we reenter the world with full bellies and newfound energy, our phones buzz and cars continue speeding down the road.  We are back to reality. Now the only task is finding our way back into town. Still, the trip ahead is all worth it after eating what is by far the most fulfilling meal I’ve had the pleasure of eating in Italy.

Read more stories from study abroad students in our Spring 2010 series, Blogs from Abroad.

Marissa Frost is entering her senior year at the University of Oregon as a Journalism: Public Relations major. Originally from Cupertino, California, she decided to move to Oregon when she was 17 to pursue her dreams of writing. During her stay in Italy, Marissa discovered the thrill of traveling while visiting eight different countries including France and Hungary.  After three years working for a jewelry company as well as interning for the Eugene chapter of the American Cancer Society helping plan events, Marissa looks forward to graduating and entering the business world.

Gallery • 2 Photos

Great Lengths to a Great Italian Meal