In the morning, the campi between San Giacomo dall'Orio and Rialto whisper with quiet local activity. There's the bump of a push-cart on the steps of a bridge, a slurrish shout-out, always in dialect. Fruit vendors and cafe owners are the first ones, more than ready for the waves of tourists that break upon the city at 10 sharp.
The Sagra continues, I think it lasts a week. Maybe less. Each day the rows of wooden tables are unstacked and hosed down, the plastic outhouses cleaned out by a limby old man. The string lights still stretch from church tower to treetop, and the row of white tents still has a vague perfume of sausage and polenta.
A carrier boat pulls up to to the nearby canal steps and unloads a couple hundred crates of Beck's. Yesterday's shipment lies in chips and pieces over the cobbled pavement, some held together by the red label.
At the gelateria near Anna and Juliana's place, they have the weirdest, most outlandish flavors. Basil, peach, licorice, to name a few. A Japanese guy in front of me asked if he could have a taste of the coconut. The gelato man shrugged. "Why? It tastes like coconut."
The next morning, I walked the streets for the last time with Venetian keys jingling in my pocket. At 11:13 I dropped them into an empty jam jar on Juliana's shelf.
Alessia had told me she worked at the airport. I found her at a wine-tasting kiosk, sans those fabulous new glasses of hers. Instead she wore an orange lanyard around her neck. She said she'd offer me a drink before my flight, but she wasn't allowed to open any bottles until her boss arrived.
Lufthansa is steady, efficient, German. On-board refreshments include any kind of drink and a snappy choco-hazelnut bar. It's a step past British Airways, all they give you is a twinkyish ham-roll for breakfast. Alitalia I've never tried, but my intuition, ahem, stereotypography, makes me feel like the CEO puts more funding into in-flight dinners than on-time arrivals.
Dinner on my transatlantic flight rolled around, first on silver trays, then in our stomachs. The baby kicking the back of my seat in time with "Frere Jacques" did not make things easier. But it stopped long enough for me to ask the flight attendant if wine came with dinner. "Yes, and it costs 6 dollars," she said. "Oh," I responded. "So wine doesn't come with dinner." With a confused expression, she assured me that it did. "Not for me, it doesn't," I laughed. She knelt and asked me if I preferred red or white.
That seemed an appropriate end to those adventures.
If you have any inquiries, so do I.
-a
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Last batch of photos
Treviso, Veneto
Treviso's little-known treasure: the Boob Fountain. Literally, "Fontana delle Tette."
Watching the Redentore fireworks in Venice
Sagra in the Campo di San Giacomo dall'Orio
Traditional Venetian food worth 30 minutes and an elbow in the gut
Monday, July 26, 2010
Venice this go-around
Evenings are quiet, laid back. A stroll along the quieter canals, a sip of a sweet spritz in the shadow of a familiar campo. The sun sets at last on the pitched roofs of the campanile. Dinner's not a big deal, it's a plate of mixed cicchetti, a tapas-like affair of fried seafood, meatballs, tomato, something like that.
And you bump elbows with friends so easily. By chance. This town is so small, so tight that you can't help but run across the people you know, few though they may be.
Sitting on the steps of the train station before Brandolin took the train back to Treviso, two carabinieri approached. In slurred, accented Italian they asked for our documents, hands open, gesturing impatiently against their blue uniforms. My American citizenship unsettled them, and they flipped my drivers license over and over, looking for something, always hoping to find it on the other side.
Alice returns home from the mountains with shopping bags filled with wood, with paper, pens and exacto-knives for her architectural thesis. In the single-bulbed light of the kitchen she knocks down some calculations on an oversized calculator before constructing a maze of ruler-straight lines on paper.
To the drill of a construction site, to the clink of plates and tiny espresso cups, the bump and roll of carts over bridges, the people walk. They walk with purpose in sharp suits and bright silk ties and shiny shoes; they walk frailly, with a cane, or two, stopping for a rest at the uneven street corner; they walk under pressure, weighed down by a heavy camper's backpack and the need to catch an 8:00 train; they walk elegantly, with calm, hands behind their backs, swaying back and forth with a glance at each decorated storefront, an ear open for the nearest bell tower's chime. They walk carelessly, bumping their shopping bags against strangers' legs and poking themselves in the eyes with their sunglasses. Everyone walks in awe, wrinkles of disbelief on their foreheads -- it's almost too overwhelming, the volume of crenelated and tiled marble on such raw and chewed-away, soggy wooden supports.
But this Venice is normal; this go-around, the Venice that I see is normal and calm. It is normal, it is calm, and yet it is absolutely exceptional. I feel the flux of the crowds in my blood, in my lungs; I feel the range of prices and the qualities of products, the taste of fruit and fish, the silences and uproars of empty churches and crowded squares.
Culture shock.
-a
And you bump elbows with friends so easily. By chance. This town is so small, so tight that you can't help but run across the people you know, few though they may be.
Sitting on the steps of the train station before Brandolin took the train back to Treviso, two carabinieri approached. In slurred, accented Italian they asked for our documents, hands open, gesturing impatiently against their blue uniforms. My American citizenship unsettled them, and they flipped my drivers license over and over, looking for something, always hoping to find it on the other side.
Alice returns home from the mountains with shopping bags filled with wood, with paper, pens and exacto-knives for her architectural thesis. In the single-bulbed light of the kitchen she knocks down some calculations on an oversized calculator before constructing a maze of ruler-straight lines on paper.
To the drill of a construction site, to the clink of plates and tiny espresso cups, the bump and roll of carts over bridges, the people walk. They walk with purpose in sharp suits and bright silk ties and shiny shoes; they walk frailly, with a cane, or two, stopping for a rest at the uneven street corner; they walk under pressure, weighed down by a heavy camper's backpack and the need to catch an 8:00 train; they walk elegantly, with calm, hands behind their backs, swaying back and forth with a glance at each decorated storefront, an ear open for the nearest bell tower's chime. They walk carelessly, bumping their shopping bags against strangers' legs and poking themselves in the eyes with their sunglasses. Everyone walks in awe, wrinkles of disbelief on their foreheads -- it's almost too overwhelming, the volume of crenelated and tiled marble on such raw and chewed-away, soggy wooden supports.
But this Venice is normal; this go-around, the Venice that I see is normal and calm. It is normal, it is calm, and yet it is absolutely exceptional. I feel the flux of the crowds in my blood, in my lungs; I feel the range of prices and the qualities of products, the taste of fruit and fish, the silences and uproars of empty churches and crowded squares.
Culture shock.
-a
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sagra
Sunshine tops the crenelated brick walls in Campo S. Simon Grande. I leaned back on a wooden bench next to a Korean couple to watch it all go by on the grand canal. Trash, trash boats, private taxies, vaporetti loaded with suitcases and their owners.
The freight boats had a little bit of a thrill out in the canals on Friday night. Ah, the Redentore. Instead of fruits and vegetables they carried shirtless twenty-somethings, rack after rack of beer and hours upon hours of electronica music. Now, paint-chipped and sun-stained, they took up their old life, usually under the command of some kind of balding, browned old man in a fisherman's vest.
Less famous is the feast of San Giacomo, which appropriately takes place in the campo of the same name. Not by chance, I'm guessing. The Sagra is what they call it. I shuffled shoulder-by-shoulder through a thick crowd of hungry Veneziani toward the barbecue kiosk's counter. I leaned over, taking in a healthy dose of greasy, salty smoke. The grillers and waitresses drank a beer between orders, smiled at the hassled customers, balancing plates of sausage, chicken, and white polenta. On top of that we ordered a dish of bigoi in salsa, a kind of pasta in fish sauce, and two plates of the saltiest fries I've ever washed down with a Beck's.
The whole night, the locals stacked beer cans next to their kids' legos. They talked, gesticulated under the festive string-lights which their children blew bubbles and a band of 40-somethings sang out in an only half-comprehensible Venetian dialect.
Two tables down , I recognized this girl by her hairdo. It was swirled and flipped up in the back, a little frizzy in the summer air, and held in place elegantly by a pair of chopsticks (she studies Chinese). Next to her, a girl I swear I saw earlier that day as I rattled my suitcase over the cobblestones, up and down the olympic-sized Ponte degli Scalzi. Her new glasses were a graduation gift, obsidian-colored and wide-lensed. I exchanged a quick word and a friendly kiss with each of them. Then the streetlights were extinguished, and that sent us home.
Festa.
-a
The freight boats had a little bit of a thrill out in the canals on Friday night. Ah, the Redentore. Instead of fruits and vegetables they carried shirtless twenty-somethings, rack after rack of beer and hours upon hours of electronica music. Now, paint-chipped and sun-stained, they took up their old life, usually under the command of some kind of balding, browned old man in a fisherman's vest.
Less famous is the feast of San Giacomo, which appropriately takes place in the campo of the same name. Not by chance, I'm guessing. The Sagra is what they call it. I shuffled shoulder-by-shoulder through a thick crowd of hungry Veneziani toward the barbecue kiosk's counter. I leaned over, taking in a healthy dose of greasy, salty smoke. The grillers and waitresses drank a beer between orders, smiled at the hassled customers, balancing plates of sausage, chicken, and white polenta. On top of that we ordered a dish of bigoi in salsa, a kind of pasta in fish sauce, and two plates of the saltiest fries I've ever washed down with a Beck's.
The whole night, the locals stacked beer cans next to their kids' legos. They talked, gesticulated under the festive string-lights which their children blew bubbles and a band of 40-somethings sang out in an only half-comprehensible Venetian dialect.
Two tables down , I recognized this girl by her hairdo. It was swirled and flipped up in the back, a little frizzy in the summer air, and held in place elegantly by a pair of chopsticks (she studies Chinese). Next to her, a girl I swear I saw earlier that day as I rattled my suitcase over the cobblestones, up and down the olympic-sized Ponte degli Scalzi. Her new glasses were a graduation gift, obsidian-colored and wide-lensed. I exchanged a quick word and a friendly kiss with each of them. Then the streetlights were extinguished, and that sent us home.
Festa.
-a
Friday, July 23, 2010
Re-den-to-re!
I'm back in the states but the story continues.
Jesolo Beach was calm, yellow umbrella-d, spattered with German tourists dripping Gelato and beer onto the sand. It was dirty, I'm talking about the water littered with trash, but mostly dark and seaweedy. It was warm, the sky was hot, the air was wet, the water was bubbly with the sun on the surface.
The Feast of the Redentore pumps more blood, more life, into Venice. With that comes more tourists, more cigarette butts dropped on the ground, still burning, more discarded water bottles. With that come the boats, meant for fruits and vegetables, but this time, overloaded with people. They circle the canals, charged up with speakers blaring electronica. There are the oddly familiar faces from all sides of the same world, some bright, some sunburned, some jetlagged, some lost behind a folded map. These people. Their clothes are wilted, welted over with sweat in the least flattering places: breasts, armpits, the small of the back.
Along the Zattere docks were hundreds of boats, lined with tables, chairs, amplifiers playing traditional Veneto music, and crowds of eating, drinking, dancing, swearing Veneti enjoying themselves despite the unbearable humidity.
The sun had gone down by 9. But the cobbly paths along the waterfront were lit by strings of bobbly yellow lanterns. Blankets and towels stretched down the fondamenta, covered in people holding beer bottles and bags of chips from the local grocery store.
The fireworks soared up from the church of the Redeemer like red and green plumes of ink. They rolled in bright gold across the canal and exploded over the heads of those lucky enough to have reserved a boat for the feast. The fire shuttled up directly above us, flashed and crashed over the rows of craned necks and bare arms -- and then, dust and paper, bits and pieces of firework packaging, drifted onto our shoulders, our heads, while the next wave wailed skyward.
There was only one train returning to Treviso: 2:42 am. A sweaty, thirsty, worn-out crowd of all ages swayed back and forth in the station, eyes half-open, waiting for the platform number announcement. At 2:39, it came. And the sunken limbs sprung to life, the faces lit up with panic, determination to be on that train. It was an instantaneous transportation lottery.
The next morning I awoke to a swirl of debris and upturned chairs and potted plants. A storm had swept the Veneto, dragging branches, stripping leaves off trees and flipping over trash cans. But the water continued to trickle down the roadside acqueduct; the campanile still stood tall over the sleepy town of Villorba.
-a
Jesolo Beach was calm, yellow umbrella-d, spattered with German tourists dripping Gelato and beer onto the sand. It was dirty, I'm talking about the water littered with trash, but mostly dark and seaweedy. It was warm, the sky was hot, the air was wet, the water was bubbly with the sun on the surface.
The Feast of the Redentore pumps more blood, more life, into Venice. With that comes more tourists, more cigarette butts dropped on the ground, still burning, more discarded water bottles. With that come the boats, meant for fruits and vegetables, but this time, overloaded with people. They circle the canals, charged up with speakers blaring electronica. There are the oddly familiar faces from all sides of the same world, some bright, some sunburned, some jetlagged, some lost behind a folded map. These people. Their clothes are wilted, welted over with sweat in the least flattering places: breasts, armpits, the small of the back.
Along the Zattere docks were hundreds of boats, lined with tables, chairs, amplifiers playing traditional Veneto music, and crowds of eating, drinking, dancing, swearing Veneti enjoying themselves despite the unbearable humidity.
The sun had gone down by 9. But the cobbly paths along the waterfront were lit by strings of bobbly yellow lanterns. Blankets and towels stretched down the fondamenta, covered in people holding beer bottles and bags of chips from the local grocery store.
The fireworks soared up from the church of the Redeemer like red and green plumes of ink. They rolled in bright gold across the canal and exploded over the heads of those lucky enough to have reserved a boat for the feast. The fire shuttled up directly above us, flashed and crashed over the rows of craned necks and bare arms -- and then, dust and paper, bits and pieces of firework packaging, drifted onto our shoulders, our heads, while the next wave wailed skyward.
There was only one train returning to Treviso: 2:42 am. A sweaty, thirsty, worn-out crowd of all ages swayed back and forth in the station, eyes half-open, waiting for the platform number announcement. At 2:39, it came. And the sunken limbs sprung to life, the faces lit up with panic, determination to be on that train. It was an instantaneous transportation lottery.
The next morning I awoke to a swirl of debris and upturned chairs and potted plants. A storm had swept the Veneto, dragging branches, stripping leaves off trees and flipping over trash cans. But the water continued to trickle down the roadside acqueduct; the campanile still stood tall over the sleepy town of Villorba.
-a
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Alla Trevigiana
I expected a swift pick-up at the airport in Treviso, and a simple drop-off. Where? That would be my friend's grandmother's house. She was on vacation, you see. It's a pretty random and complicated-sounding story, right?
Anyway, I knew it was Signor Fuser when he walked in, hands behind his back, yellow polo. He passed through the automatic doors, checked the arrival times, and then he figured the kid with the black duffel and overloaded backpack was that American guy he was supposed to find.
But no quick pick-up/drop-off deal did I receive; in twenty minutes we were in a buzzing Trevigian restaurant before a hot pizza and a cold beer. "I'm glad Helene has this calm, relaxed American friend," he said. "She's always in a hurry, doing a thousand things at once." Good thing I passed the test, right?
After a zippy tour around the grandmother's house in Villorba with Signora Fuser, I sat down with both parents for a glass of bubbly water. It fizzed more than usual. Later in the kitchen, I couldn't remember which glass was mine, so I took the Speedy Gonzalez one. The water was little help against the humidity; it seemed like the religious icons, pictures of the Pope, were all going to melt and slide down the walls. On the TV, almost too modern for such an old-fashioned place, a news story about a mountain festival is accompanied by Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."
By day, the fish market in Treviso is, well, a fish market. The workers hose down the wooden platform before row after row of fish on ice. By night, it's loaded with aluminum tables, chairs, young people, and later on, empty cans and bottles.
There's a fountain not many people know about in Treviso, fortunately Helene knew about it. It's called "The Boob Fountain." I don't have to explain much, but just so you know, there's a hilarious picture coming up.
Helene took me to the local pool in Treviso. It was surrounded by little cypress trees, and the tiles on the bottom were wide and smooth. Pool rules said you had to wear a different pair of flip-flops in the pool area. And everyone had to wear a swim cap. Mine was a flashy shade of neon red. Picture that, now.
At dinner they set little candles, citronella, afloat in a dish of water. All to ward off the mosquitoes, which spiraled above the fish and tomatoes. Marcello, Helene's father, smiled as he cracked open a heavy bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco, the best. In the humid garden, it tasted like summer.
A calm sort of nightlife wraps its way up and down the city's ancient walls. Drink-stand deals sprinkle the fringes of the historic center. At still more aluminum tables, girls bat their eyes and grind their heels into the gravel while the boys lean against the crumbly bricks.
Took a trip to Veneto Designer Outlets. Like Tanger, or whatever you know like that... you know, like a kind of consumer's Disneyworld. Here, we got crenelated stucco walls and bell towers in the Venetian style. It was wild, I tell you. Wild!
-a
Anyway, I knew it was Signor Fuser when he walked in, hands behind his back, yellow polo. He passed through the automatic doors, checked the arrival times, and then he figured the kid with the black duffel and overloaded backpack was that American guy he was supposed to find.
But no quick pick-up/drop-off deal did I receive; in twenty minutes we were in a buzzing Trevigian restaurant before a hot pizza and a cold beer. "I'm glad Helene has this calm, relaxed American friend," he said. "She's always in a hurry, doing a thousand things at once." Good thing I passed the test, right?
After a zippy tour around the grandmother's house in Villorba with Signora Fuser, I sat down with both parents for a glass of bubbly water. It fizzed more than usual. Later in the kitchen, I couldn't remember which glass was mine, so I took the Speedy Gonzalez one. The water was little help against the humidity; it seemed like the religious icons, pictures of the Pope, were all going to melt and slide down the walls. On the TV, almost too modern for such an old-fashioned place, a news story about a mountain festival is accompanied by Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire."
By day, the fish market in Treviso is, well, a fish market. The workers hose down the wooden platform before row after row of fish on ice. By night, it's loaded with aluminum tables, chairs, young people, and later on, empty cans and bottles.
There's a fountain not many people know about in Treviso, fortunately Helene knew about it. It's called "The Boob Fountain." I don't have to explain much, but just so you know, there's a hilarious picture coming up.
Helene took me to the local pool in Treviso. It was surrounded by little cypress trees, and the tiles on the bottom were wide and smooth. Pool rules said you had to wear a different pair of flip-flops in the pool area. And everyone had to wear a swim cap. Mine was a flashy shade of neon red. Picture that, now.
At dinner they set little candles, citronella, afloat in a dish of water. All to ward off the mosquitoes, which spiraled above the fish and tomatoes. Marcello, Helene's father, smiled as he cracked open a heavy bottle of Valdobbiadene prosecco, the best. In the humid garden, it tasted like summer.
A calm sort of nightlife wraps its way up and down the city's ancient walls. Drink-stand deals sprinkle the fringes of the historic center. At still more aluminum tables, girls bat their eyes and grind their heels into the gravel while the boys lean against the crumbly bricks.
Took a trip to Veneto Designer Outlets. Like Tanger, or whatever you know like that... you know, like a kind of consumer's Disneyworld. Here, we got crenelated stucco walls and bell towers in the Venetian style. It was wild, I tell you. Wild!
-a
Monday, July 19, 2010
Last Hits Florence, First Hits Germany
Sunset was divine. Piazzale Michelangelo.
No, it wasn't mine, or a friends. But you can't exactly blame me.
Celebrating the 4th of July in Lucca.
Frankfurt, city of books and banks.
Vineland in the Rheinland.
The old hits the new head-on in down-town Frankfurt.
Closing the Book (German Chapter)
So I'm way behind in my blog, it's obvious. I'm gonna start by saying I'm in Venice now, city of paintbrushed canals, quietly decaying churches and palaces. And the humidity that melts more than a gelato.
I'll catch up with the last bits of Germany. I ended up falling into some interesting situations.
One afternoon, German historian and professor Walter Pehle picked me up in his Volkswagen and took me to the S. Fischer Publishing House. As random as this seems, this is the place Lothar used to work.
At Fisher, the editors are blocked story by story around a deep, wellish atrium. "This is art," said Walter, pointing down into the courtyard at a modernesque arrangement of blue and turquoise metal. "There are some people who do not agree." I wonder if speaking English makes Walter's sense of humor more dry. It's possible; he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of a couple swear words.
From the rooftop terrace, I gazed upon an impressive skyline of Frankfurt that wavered in the heat. Then, several stairs and keyholes later, we were in the publisher's archives. Among the oldest were books by Thomas Mann, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka. Woolf's translations were published by Fischer. Since all this, the company has summarized itself in a red logo: three fishes. "Two looking to the left, and one looking to the right," Walter said (I may be wrong, though, it may be the other way).
Walter wore a pink polo. His quirky circular glasses and the bucket hat he wore reminded me of my grandfather, but instead of classical music, jazz is his thing. "I know every note to this," he said as he played a favorite while we were stuck in a traffic jam.
The next day, my last in Germany, I biked up to Neu Isenburg. The trail led me past stark rows of timber after timber, all the while the crush of rubber on sand and pebbles. The people I passed had calm, serious faces.
In the early afternoon, the streets are quiet except for maybe the tap of a crooked man's cane, or the ding of a bicycle bell. Silence is as common as the walnut trees; in a cafe stands a young woman, blonde, her hands clasped behind her back. A clean white apron matches her smile.
On the bus to the airport in Hahn, we rolled through the ivied and steepled countryside. The man in leather shoes tapped his feet. I didn't see any earbuds or headphones, he must have been listening to the scenery of windmills and hills that stay green even in the 35 degree heat. For him, it's a bouncy oom-pah.
Next time, photos. Promesso.
-a
I'll catch up with the last bits of Germany. I ended up falling into some interesting situations.
One afternoon, German historian and professor Walter Pehle picked me up in his Volkswagen and took me to the S. Fischer Publishing House. As random as this seems, this is the place Lothar used to work.
At Fisher, the editors are blocked story by story around a deep, wellish atrium. "This is art," said Walter, pointing down into the courtyard at a modernesque arrangement of blue and turquoise metal. "There are some people who do not agree." I wonder if speaking English makes Walter's sense of humor more dry. It's possible; he never missed an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge of a couple swear words.
From the rooftop terrace, I gazed upon an impressive skyline of Frankfurt that wavered in the heat. Then, several stairs and keyholes later, we were in the publisher's archives. Among the oldest were books by Thomas Mann, Aldous Huxley and Franz Kafka. Woolf's translations were published by Fischer. Since all this, the company has summarized itself in a red logo: three fishes. "Two looking to the left, and one looking to the right," Walter said (I may be wrong, though, it may be the other way).
Walter wore a pink polo. His quirky circular glasses and the bucket hat he wore reminded me of my grandfather, but instead of classical music, jazz is his thing. "I know every note to this," he said as he played a favorite while we were stuck in a traffic jam.
The next day, my last in Germany, I biked up to Neu Isenburg. The trail led me past stark rows of timber after timber, all the while the crush of rubber on sand and pebbles. The people I passed had calm, serious faces.
In the early afternoon, the streets are quiet except for maybe the tap of a crooked man's cane, or the ding of a bicycle bell. Silence is as common as the walnut trees; in a cafe stands a young woman, blonde, her hands clasped behind her back. A clean white apron matches her smile.
On the bus to the airport in Hahn, we rolled through the ivied and steepled countryside. The man in leather shoes tapped his feet. I didn't see any earbuds or headphones, he must have been listening to the scenery of windmills and hills that stay green even in the 35 degree heat. For him, it's a bouncy oom-pah.
Next time, photos. Promesso.
-a
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
"After-work-celebration"
I see Frankfurt by day. Yesterday I drank a Coke that was canned in the Czech Republic and crossed the river Main to the whine of an old man´s accordion. In front of him was a little styrofoam cup.
The Kleiners´house is three streamlined hardwood floors beneath a red A-frame roof. It´s decorated by Ikea and numerous original pieces of art. Most impressive are the bookshelves -- after all, Lothar is a publishing house mogul. Maybe you didn´t know that though.
No word exists in English for what they call "after-work celebration." It happens each night when Lothar returns from the office, and involves a splendid dinner followed by hijinks in the garden (badminton, sprinkler games, soccer, a combination of all three, sometimes).
I have what seems to be an uncanny ability to lead my friends out of a translation pickle. The result: I get compliments on my English. The difference between "itch" and "scratch" was a little sticky.
Last night, Frauke and Lothar took me beer-tasting. The trains rattled by the place called "Endstation" -- incorrectly, because it´s far from the end of the line. Lothar and I traded college party stories -- mine were a little tamer, I think. I was talking about packing peanuts while he mentioned rolling kegs down mountains. But I taught Lothar the terms "beer pong" and "keying a car." While not useful language, it´s at least amusing. Later on he showed me breathtaking photos of his business trip to India and a crazy youtube video of Spain´s tomato festival.
Goethe wrote a version of "Faust," following the legend and Marlowe´s play. His house in Frankfurt is filled with his father´s legal volumes and prints of Rome and Venice. Pretty popular place for bookish types, it seems. The historian followed me through the rooms and swapped Palermo stories with me.
Tonight it finally got dark at 10pm. Lothar flipped casually through coffee-table books on Renaissance and Roman art. Frauke waterered the plants and talked over the fence with her neighbor. I just breathed in the air and listened to the sprinkler.
To cite a 90´s movie,
Shazaam.
-a
The Kleiners´house is three streamlined hardwood floors beneath a red A-frame roof. It´s decorated by Ikea and numerous original pieces of art. Most impressive are the bookshelves -- after all, Lothar is a publishing house mogul. Maybe you didn´t know that though.
No word exists in English for what they call "after-work celebration." It happens each night when Lothar returns from the office, and involves a splendid dinner followed by hijinks in the garden (badminton, sprinkler games, soccer, a combination of all three, sometimes).
I have what seems to be an uncanny ability to lead my friends out of a translation pickle. The result: I get compliments on my English. The difference between "itch" and "scratch" was a little sticky.
Last night, Frauke and Lothar took me beer-tasting. The trains rattled by the place called "Endstation" -- incorrectly, because it´s far from the end of the line. Lothar and I traded college party stories -- mine were a little tamer, I think. I was talking about packing peanuts while he mentioned rolling kegs down mountains. But I taught Lothar the terms "beer pong" and "keying a car." While not useful language, it´s at least amusing. Later on he showed me breathtaking photos of his business trip to India and a crazy youtube video of Spain´s tomato festival.
Goethe wrote a version of "Faust," following the legend and Marlowe´s play. His house in Frankfurt is filled with his father´s legal volumes and prints of Rome and Venice. Pretty popular place for bookish types, it seems. The historian followed me through the rooms and swapped Palermo stories with me.
Tonight it finally got dark at 10pm. Lothar flipped casually through coffee-table books on Renaissance and Roman art. Frauke waterered the plants and talked over the fence with her neighbor. I just breathed in the air and listened to the sprinkler.
To cite a 90´s movie,
Shazaam.
-a
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A Different Flavor
The monastery in Eberbach is where they filmed the adaptation of Umberto Eco´s The Name of the Rose. The 38 degree heat was delicate, quiet. The wine cellar had all the silence of a royal tomb.
In the Rhine valley, carps rippled the surface of a bubbling pond while we socialized to a sip of Riesling. The winery´s square was terraced with beerhall benches and orange umbrellas. Below, a vista of vines leading down to the water´s edge. A view worth raising a glass to it.
"Lovage" is the name of a sweet herb in the Seligenstadt cloister garden. To me, it had a scent of celery, cinnamon and licorice. The interesting tastes and flavors went all the way to the ice cream shop near the basilica; here we found exotica such as "dragonberry" and best of all "dolphin." I tried neither. The latter I actually try to avoid when I buy my tuna. Just kidding. It was blue and had some kind of chips in it.
Early in the morning, Lothar, Linus and I drove to pick up some pastries. We passed a yellow awning and Lothar pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is a very bad bakery." The cookies in the good bakery known as "Americans" have German flags pasted on them with the text, "World Champions 2014." Well.
Backyard badminton is getting more and more intense. The point (at least, the way I play) is to grunt with each shot and celebrate Wimbledon-style at every point. Makes it more fun, I think. And Linus really goes for the competition - Quentin just likes the fun.
One thing occurred to me. I know what German sounds like, simply because I don´t understand it. It´s a weak advantage, but I think meaning precludes the sound, it replaces it. Along those lines - the fourth Harry Potter movie isn´t my favorite. But hearing Hagrid speak German was a little highlight of the day.
Local wildlife includes: frogs, mice, hedgehogs, and the parrots next door. For a touch of whimsy we´ll also mention the neighbor´s automatic lawnmower.
Shakalaka.
-a
In the Rhine valley, carps rippled the surface of a bubbling pond while we socialized to a sip of Riesling. The winery´s square was terraced with beerhall benches and orange umbrellas. Below, a vista of vines leading down to the water´s edge. A view worth raising a glass to it.
"Lovage" is the name of a sweet herb in the Seligenstadt cloister garden. To me, it had a scent of celery, cinnamon and licorice. The interesting tastes and flavors went all the way to the ice cream shop near the basilica; here we found exotica such as "dragonberry" and best of all "dolphin." I tried neither. The latter I actually try to avoid when I buy my tuna. Just kidding. It was blue and had some kind of chips in it.
Early in the morning, Lothar, Linus and I drove to pick up some pastries. We passed a yellow awning and Lothar pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is a very bad bakery." The cookies in the good bakery known as "Americans" have German flags pasted on them with the text, "World Champions 2014." Well.
Backyard badminton is getting more and more intense. The point (at least, the way I play) is to grunt with each shot and celebrate Wimbledon-style at every point. Makes it more fun, I think. And Linus really goes for the competition - Quentin just likes the fun.
One thing occurred to me. I know what German sounds like, simply because I don´t understand it. It´s a weak advantage, but I think meaning precludes the sound, it replaces it. Along those lines - the fourth Harry Potter movie isn´t my favorite. But hearing Hagrid speak German was a little highlight of the day.
Local wildlife includes: frogs, mice, hedgehogs, and the parrots next door. For a touch of whimsy we´ll also mention the neighbor´s automatic lawnmower.
Shakalaka.
-a
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Games and Wardrobes
Frauke invited me to a Kirchner exhibition. His art is a contorted twist of expressionism, contemporary to Nolde and an integral part of the Brücke movement. "Marcella" is a moody and moving portrait in soft green colors, a girl, bored, sitting on a couch.
After the exhibition, we squinted our eyes in the afternoon sun and I heard a few snatches of Italian in the street. We watched Linus and Quentin ride a mechanical bull at a kids´ "playplace," and I thought about stuff, random stuff. Behind the mechanical bull was the towering skyline of the city.
Here´s a joke. How many people does it take to move an old wardrobe from the first floor to the attic? The answer: two (one culture-shocked American and one motivated, leather jacket-wearing Christian guitar teacher). True story.
Another joke: How many people does it take to put together a new Ikea wardrobe? In Merle´s room, we went over the instructions three times, once in German, once in English, and once just to make sure we wouldn´t mess anything up. Still, our craftsmanship suffered a few hiccups. I found myself lying down under a drawer a-la-car mechanic. All that´s left to do are the doors.
Quentin loves playing. In a period of an hour or so, he turned me into a badminton pro, a tennis champ, a star goalie, and (not sure about this one) someone who is very good at passing a tennis ball under a wooden crate of stone tiles for the back porch.
At the pool, I jumped off the five-meter high-dive. Merle went first, and of course, of course, the American has to go now. So I jumped. I mean, fell. Curled into the fetal position and smacked the water with my knees. I´m sure it´s on youtube somewhere by now. More my speed was lying in the sun.
A final update: after-dinner conversations here are relaxing, interesting and fun. As the sun winds over the trees, we sit in the garden and swap stories on local politics, court systems and television programs. I recently recounted the "Homeowner vs. Kitchen Remodeling Company" court case story.
And just like that, another day, another post.
-a
After the exhibition, we squinted our eyes in the afternoon sun and I heard a few snatches of Italian in the street. We watched Linus and Quentin ride a mechanical bull at a kids´ "playplace," and I thought about stuff, random stuff. Behind the mechanical bull was the towering skyline of the city.
Here´s a joke. How many people does it take to move an old wardrobe from the first floor to the attic? The answer: two (one culture-shocked American and one motivated, leather jacket-wearing Christian guitar teacher). True story.
Another joke: How many people does it take to put together a new Ikea wardrobe? In Merle´s room, we went over the instructions three times, once in German, once in English, and once just to make sure we wouldn´t mess anything up. Still, our craftsmanship suffered a few hiccups. I found myself lying down under a drawer a-la-car mechanic. All that´s left to do are the doors.
Quentin loves playing. In a period of an hour or so, he turned me into a badminton pro, a tennis champ, a star goalie, and (not sure about this one) someone who is very good at passing a tennis ball under a wooden crate of stone tiles for the back porch.
At the pool, I jumped off the five-meter high-dive. Merle went first, and of course, of course, the American has to go now. So I jumped. I mean, fell. Curled into the fetal position and smacked the water with my knees. I´m sure it´s on youtube somewhere by now. More my speed was lying in the sun.
A final update: after-dinner conversations here are relaxing, interesting and fun. As the sun winds over the trees, we sit in the garden and swap stories on local politics, court systems and television programs. I recently recounted the "Homeowner vs. Kitchen Remodeling Company" court case story.
And just like that, another day, another post.
-a
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Eating. Drinking. Octopi.
I was wearing black, sitting on a bench under Frankfurt´s white-hot noontime sun. An enormous square fanned out, steel and glass on every side, spattered at the corners by curiously-domed churches. These survived, or were reconstructed. Lothar showed me the pictures - the place was absolutely razed in the war.
I rode into the city on Frauke´s bike, under tree tops and graffitied railway bridges, past beer gardens and rose nurseries. It all took about an hour.
Maybe you heard. There´s this octopus, Paul is his name, and he "chooses" which team wins the World Cup games. I mean predicts, with near infallibility. How? He swims into the one out of two tanks with the flags of the nations. He´s not been wrong, I think.
I saw quite a few Starbucks in Frankfurt. Not going to lie, I was intrigued. And a little tempted. But I stood my ground behind the self-righteous attitude of European (let´s get specific and say Italian) coffee. And I much prefer the coffee maker - Merle taught me how to use it.
The day of Germany´s last game, Lothar came home and changed into a t-shirt with a lobster on it. The kids and I interrupted our 24th (or was it 25th?) round of backyard badminton for a mock penalty shootout, all to warm up for the night´s marquee matchup. Spain vs. Germany.
Per Lothar´s advice, I´ve had a pretty essential slice of Frankfurt cuisine. First, green sauce, a regional specialty that goes great with potatoes. At the game-watch, he ordered "hand-cheese," typical of this area, and so called because of its shape. On top of all that we drank applewine, it´s like a less-sweet kind of cider. It tricks you because it tastes so much like juice.
Germany, needless to say, didn´t win. The way back from the pub was dark, lit only by Lothar´s and Linus´blinking bike lights, and the hints of their murmurs.
Forza.
-a
I rode into the city on Frauke´s bike, under tree tops and graffitied railway bridges, past beer gardens and rose nurseries. It all took about an hour.
Maybe you heard. There´s this octopus, Paul is his name, and he "chooses" which team wins the World Cup games. I mean predicts, with near infallibility. How? He swims into the one out of two tanks with the flags of the nations. He´s not been wrong, I think.
I saw quite a few Starbucks in Frankfurt. Not going to lie, I was intrigued. And a little tempted. But I stood my ground behind the self-righteous attitude of European (let´s get specific and say Italian) coffee. And I much prefer the coffee maker - Merle taught me how to use it.
The day of Germany´s last game, Lothar came home and changed into a t-shirt with a lobster on it. The kids and I interrupted our 24th (or was it 25th?) round of backyard badminton for a mock penalty shootout, all to warm up for the night´s marquee matchup. Spain vs. Germany.
Per Lothar´s advice, I´ve had a pretty essential slice of Frankfurt cuisine. First, green sauce, a regional specialty that goes great with potatoes. At the game-watch, he ordered "hand-cheese," typical of this area, and so called because of its shape. On top of all that we drank applewine, it´s like a less-sweet kind of cider. It tricks you because it tastes so much like juice.
Germany, needless to say, didn´t win. The way back from the pub was dark, lit only by Lothar´s and Linus´blinking bike lights, and the hints of their murmurs.
Forza.
-a
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Germany, my New Expatriotism
Descending through a snowy field of white clouds, I saw Germany for the first time in four years. It looked like golf courses speckled with A-framish towns, and everything watched over by windmills. I thought of Quixote´s giants.
I mentioned Frauke and Lothar before, they are my gracious hosts (so are their three children, the best German teachers I´ve ever had). They live in a town called Buchschlag. I hear it and I think of book-slag. Something I wouldn´t want to read. German is like that though; I had a friend who said it felt like "garbled English." You can try to make sense of it, but it´s better to admit complete ignorance and then act surprised in the face of a true cognate.
Linus, 10, is the middle child. He led the way by bicycle to get an ice cream in Dreieich. We went through an old castle, past grain fields, hay bales and little A-framed houses. We stopped for a detailed look at this wooden bird he desperately wanted to explain to me. At the time, it went over my head.
Lothar, the father, is in educational publishing, and would rather tell you about his work than have you ask. He´s really busy, but comes home with enough energy to race the kids up and down the backyard. When we speak English and he can´t come up with the right word, he drops everything and turns to the dictionary. Just that precise.
For lunch, we had sushi - my second go at it. We chased it down with strawberry cake and a spur-of-the-moment German lesson, facilitated by a colorful handful of SillyBandz. This meant that I learned the words for heart, seal, house, castle, magic wand, that kind of thing. Very useful, practical stuff. If I ever need a train ticket, I´m all set.
I sat in the living room while Linus did a Tae Kwon Do demonstration. Quentin´s (the youngest, 6) wobbly mimicry turned everything into a father-children gymnastics routine, not without tickling and a little rough-housing.
In this house, I sleep in the playroom, on top of the fitted sheet and under the comforter. It really puts the "comfort" in comforter, not gonna lie. In the morning, I wake up to my three "cousins" saying "Good morning" to me. Life is good. Even if I can´t stumble over that simple phrase in German to save my life. My teachers have their work cut out for them.
Guten nacht,
-a
I mentioned Frauke and Lothar before, they are my gracious hosts (so are their three children, the best German teachers I´ve ever had). They live in a town called Buchschlag. I hear it and I think of book-slag. Something I wouldn´t want to read. German is like that though; I had a friend who said it felt like "garbled English." You can try to make sense of it, but it´s better to admit complete ignorance and then act surprised in the face of a true cognate.
Linus, 10, is the middle child. He led the way by bicycle to get an ice cream in Dreieich. We went through an old castle, past grain fields, hay bales and little A-framed houses. We stopped for a detailed look at this wooden bird he desperately wanted to explain to me. At the time, it went over my head.
Lothar, the father, is in educational publishing, and would rather tell you about his work than have you ask. He´s really busy, but comes home with enough energy to race the kids up and down the backyard. When we speak English and he can´t come up with the right word, he drops everything and turns to the dictionary. Just that precise.
For lunch, we had sushi - my second go at it. We chased it down with strawberry cake and a spur-of-the-moment German lesson, facilitated by a colorful handful of SillyBandz. This meant that I learned the words for heart, seal, house, castle, magic wand, that kind of thing. Very useful, practical stuff. If I ever need a train ticket, I´m all set.
I sat in the living room while Linus did a Tae Kwon Do demonstration. Quentin´s (the youngest, 6) wobbly mimicry turned everything into a father-children gymnastics routine, not without tickling and a little rough-housing.
In this house, I sleep in the playroom, on top of the fitted sheet and under the comforter. It really puts the "comfort" in comforter, not gonna lie. In the morning, I wake up to my three "cousins" saying "Good morning" to me. Life is good. Even if I can´t stumble over that simple phrase in German to save my life. My teachers have their work cut out for them.
Guten nacht,
-a
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
4th of Luglio
The sound of a train controller´s ticket puncher is the sound of anxiety. That is, when you realize you´d bought the wrong ticket while sweating two layers through a single shirt after hauling a 30 pound bag a good mile. Ok, pity party´s over. Everything worked out fine.
I now sit in the kitchen of my friends Frauke and Lothar in Germany. To give you a better picture, they´re about ten years younger than my parents and have three kids of their own. I´m writing this post to the soft music of their dishwasher. To ease me gently from Italian to German culture, we ate pasta for dinner on Tuesday.
My story must include the couple of days I just spent in Viareggio with Serena, her siblings Luca and Silvia, and her boyfriend Stefano. At dinner, Silvia put a pot of beans on Luca´s plate to mark his absence while we munched on a variety of meats and what is essentially fried bread. Mm, delish.
Luca never did arrive for dinner, I think. But the next day he drove me out to Pisa to show off the physics department at the university. The air conditioning felt nice inside his office, four or five desks scattered with coke cans and mathematical formulas illegible in any language. He explained to me, in simple, simple terms, his research on solar flares.
That was on the 4th of July, my first one abroad, which still involved the beach, a barbeque, and eating watermelon. The two of us arrived late to lunch at the Marradi´s campagna, a farmish slice of land complete with a small creek, a few ducks and a gay rooster.
The night before that ended with me and Stefano pushing bicycles back to Serena´s house while singing the American national anthem. Stefano fiddled around as mechanic those couple of days; he was good, but we still ended up with a stalled motorscooter and a bike with a derailed chain. Only two bikes meant me wobbling along, led down dusky streets by Stefano. Serena side-saddled the bike rack behind, dangling her legs and a cigarette off the side. When that bike gave out, we chained them together against a roundabout roadsign and continued on foot.
We wandered down the abandoned nighttime beach, still decorated with color-coded chairs and umbrellas. A disgruntled night-watchman ushered us to "not my problem" territory, where we sat down under a half moon and indiscernable constellations to stumble over the remote past tense of "to cook" in Italian. It´s a mouthful.
Sunday night, July 4th, we found a nervous little piece of red, white and blue bunting in the arena of Lucca. Don´t be fooled like me; Lucca´s arena is an ovalesque piazza surrounded by connected houses. Off the yellow walls and green shutters bounced the drawly accents of a few proud co-nationals of mine.
Ah, Lucca by night. Not two columns on the Duomo are the same; magnificently whimsical was the tower with a tree at the top. We wandered until we got lost; that was after an interesting conversation on American pride and Obamanian politics.
Con liberta` e giustizia per tutti.
-a
I now sit in the kitchen of my friends Frauke and Lothar in Germany. To give you a better picture, they´re about ten years younger than my parents and have three kids of their own. I´m writing this post to the soft music of their dishwasher. To ease me gently from Italian to German culture, we ate pasta for dinner on Tuesday.
My story must include the couple of days I just spent in Viareggio with Serena, her siblings Luca and Silvia, and her boyfriend Stefano. At dinner, Silvia put a pot of beans on Luca´s plate to mark his absence while we munched on a variety of meats and what is essentially fried bread. Mm, delish.
Luca never did arrive for dinner, I think. But the next day he drove me out to Pisa to show off the physics department at the university. The air conditioning felt nice inside his office, four or five desks scattered with coke cans and mathematical formulas illegible in any language. He explained to me, in simple, simple terms, his research on solar flares.
That was on the 4th of July, my first one abroad, which still involved the beach, a barbeque, and eating watermelon. The two of us arrived late to lunch at the Marradi´s campagna, a farmish slice of land complete with a small creek, a few ducks and a gay rooster.
The night before that ended with me and Stefano pushing bicycles back to Serena´s house while singing the American national anthem. Stefano fiddled around as mechanic those couple of days; he was good, but we still ended up with a stalled motorscooter and a bike with a derailed chain. Only two bikes meant me wobbling along, led down dusky streets by Stefano. Serena side-saddled the bike rack behind, dangling her legs and a cigarette off the side. When that bike gave out, we chained them together against a roundabout roadsign and continued on foot.
We wandered down the abandoned nighttime beach, still decorated with color-coded chairs and umbrellas. A disgruntled night-watchman ushered us to "not my problem" territory, where we sat down under a half moon and indiscernable constellations to stumble over the remote past tense of "to cook" in Italian. It´s a mouthful.
Sunday night, July 4th, we found a nervous little piece of red, white and blue bunting in the arena of Lucca. Don´t be fooled like me; Lucca´s arena is an ovalesque piazza surrounded by connected houses. Off the yellow walls and green shutters bounced the drawly accents of a few proud co-nationals of mine.
Ah, Lucca by night. Not two columns on the Duomo are the same; magnificently whimsical was the tower with a tree at the top. We wandered until we got lost; that was after an interesting conversation on American pride and Obamanian politics.
Con liberta` e giustizia per tutti.
-a
Monday, July 5, 2010
The New Tenants
This all happened a while back. It´s time to catch up. Excuse any typing errors, it´s a German keyboard. The proof? ßßßßßßßÖÖÖÖÖÖäÄÄÄÄ-. Bang.
The two new tenants of Petra Capitani´s Poggetto apartment in Florence (once my lovely home) arrived on Saturday. First Lorraine, from Ontario. I was still sleeping off a long last night of conversation and fun with my classmates when she knocked on our door at 9. Later on she shared her life´s story with me while I cleaned the kitchen, and when we sat down for a simple lunch, I told her mine. Still jetlagged, she took a nap while I finished packing.
I went outside to toss some bottles in the recycling bin. On the steps, there was a massive black suitcase and a woman in a sunhat that somehow made me think of Diane Keaton. "You must be Karen," I said, remembering what Lorraine had told me, all after hesitating and wondering what her first impression of me must have been.
Lorraine woke up, and I showed the two of them around. Like, where the grocery store was, how to get to the school, where the Baroncini gelateria was, etc. They wanted to pay me for helping them out, I wouldn´t have any of it. I just took the mere sum left from Petra´s deposit and hit the swollen, sweaty road for the train station. I was going to Viareggio again to decompress under the sun, knowing the sea wasn´t too far.
The night before, I sat on the sunwarmed steps leading up to Piazzale Michelangelo for a taste of red wine and a sunset view of the famous city I´d been calling home for a month. The voices around us were getting louder, and every now and then you´d hear the sparkle of a bottle rolling down to the bottom.
The evening finally brought us back across the Arno to a favorite bar. Then, we slipped into Santa Croce´s notorious tourist club, Twice. I can say with gusto that I´m glad I´ve only been there once. Ashley and I, the only two guys, didn´t have a ton of fun playing body bumper-cars with Ettore or Niccolo`.
I realize now, with dismay, that I never got a good picture of that yellow sign that marked out my neighborhood so well. And by good, I mean any.
Guten nacht. I´m in Frankfurt, Germany now. Yes, yes, I know that screws up the whole concept of this blog. But I´ll be returning to Italy in ten days.
-a
The two new tenants of Petra Capitani´s Poggetto apartment in Florence (once my lovely home) arrived on Saturday. First Lorraine, from Ontario. I was still sleeping off a long last night of conversation and fun with my classmates when she knocked on our door at 9. Later on she shared her life´s story with me while I cleaned the kitchen, and when we sat down for a simple lunch, I told her mine. Still jetlagged, she took a nap while I finished packing.
I went outside to toss some bottles in the recycling bin. On the steps, there was a massive black suitcase and a woman in a sunhat that somehow made me think of Diane Keaton. "You must be Karen," I said, remembering what Lorraine had told me, all after hesitating and wondering what her first impression of me must have been.
Lorraine woke up, and I showed the two of them around. Like, where the grocery store was, how to get to the school, where the Baroncini gelateria was, etc. They wanted to pay me for helping them out, I wouldn´t have any of it. I just took the mere sum left from Petra´s deposit and hit the swollen, sweaty road for the train station. I was going to Viareggio again to decompress under the sun, knowing the sea wasn´t too far.
The night before, I sat on the sunwarmed steps leading up to Piazzale Michelangelo for a taste of red wine and a sunset view of the famous city I´d been calling home for a month. The voices around us were getting louder, and every now and then you´d hear the sparkle of a bottle rolling down to the bottom.
The evening finally brought us back across the Arno to a favorite bar. Then, we slipped into Santa Croce´s notorious tourist club, Twice. I can say with gusto that I´m glad I´ve only been there once. Ashley and I, the only two guys, didn´t have a ton of fun playing body bumper-cars with Ettore or Niccolo`.
I realize now, with dismay, that I never got a good picture of that yellow sign that marked out my neighborhood so well. And by good, I mean any.
Guten nacht. I´m in Frankfurt, Germany now. Yes, yes, I know that screws up the whole concept of this blog. But I´ll be returning to Italy in ten days.
-a
Thursday, July 1, 2010
You Are Now Leaving Florence
As my language-teaching course slows down, I have some time to burn. I try to spend it in the center of Florence.
Outside the Uffizi Gallery, the crowd is noisy and colorful. The faces are red and shiny in the three o'clock sun, and they stutter along, open-mouthed, behind cameras of varying shape and size. Or the hunch in the shadows on marble steps, chugging a soda that cost two euro too much. Their clothing wilts off their backs, and they clap for the Czech guitarist. But they don't put any coins in his case.
Walking down a narrow street, I passed a leather store selling belts, shoes, diaries, handbags and change purses. I didn't look in the window, instead I just breathed in its rich perfume. Down the street, a girl stood in an open doorway. She was wearing leather-bound wedge heels, and tossed her hair as she shot me a glance. Right before I passed, she dropped her cigarette to the ground, and I stepped on it without breaking stride. I walked on, and I heard the door click shut behind me. Ah, stranger politics, they're great.
I just realized today that the bathroom in my flat doesn't have a lamp. It has a chandelier. Not that I'm saying I'm livin' that good, good life or anything. I mean, remember, I'm out of here in two days.
I've been surrounded in the run-down beauty of this country for a month now. I celebrated such a benchmark with a walk through the streets of my neighborhood, Poggetto. I've gotten attached to this little 'burb, it's wide streets, boutiques that make a concerted effort to not rip off the locals, the Baroncini gelateria (since 1946), the crazy discoteca where the area's teens waste time on Friday nights, and of course, the neon yellow sign that proudly designates the neighborhood: "POGGETTO," it says, vertically.
I'm gonna miss this neighborhood. But anyway, I walked up the streets, past the Franciscan church - it all ultimately let down a one-way street bordered by olive trees and ten-foot tall walls on both sides. I more or less clung to the walls as I walked, praying to every little wall-chapel I passed to not get hit by an Alfa Romeo.
At a certain point, I noticed a road sign in the distance. White, with black letters spelling "Firenze." A diagonal red line across it wasn't vandalism; it meant I was leaving Florence. And I am, in two days. I ceremoniously walked past it to admire a vista of rolling hills and villas through a blown-out chunk of the brick wall. Then, I turned around.
There's a city-wide strike tomorrow, it starts at 9AM. That means I may have to brave the grocery store, and it may feel like the night before a "snowstorm" in Charlotte.
You'll hear from me in a few days. Viareggio, it seems, is my next destination. Monday, my blog is going to take a weird turn because I'm flying from Pisa to Frankfurt, Germany. I'll meet up with some old family friends and watch the World Cup. Read, and write, always those, too.
Benedicite.
-a
Outside the Uffizi Gallery, the crowd is noisy and colorful. The faces are red and shiny in the three o'clock sun, and they stutter along, open-mouthed, behind cameras of varying shape and size. Or the hunch in the shadows on marble steps, chugging a soda that cost two euro too much. Their clothing wilts off their backs, and they clap for the Czech guitarist. But they don't put any coins in his case.
Walking down a narrow street, I passed a leather store selling belts, shoes, diaries, handbags and change purses. I didn't look in the window, instead I just breathed in its rich perfume. Down the street, a girl stood in an open doorway. She was wearing leather-bound wedge heels, and tossed her hair as she shot me a glance. Right before I passed, she dropped her cigarette to the ground, and I stepped on it without breaking stride. I walked on, and I heard the door click shut behind me. Ah, stranger politics, they're great.
I just realized today that the bathroom in my flat doesn't have a lamp. It has a chandelier. Not that I'm saying I'm livin' that good, good life or anything. I mean, remember, I'm out of here in two days.
I've been surrounded in the run-down beauty of this country for a month now. I celebrated such a benchmark with a walk through the streets of my neighborhood, Poggetto. I've gotten attached to this little 'burb, it's wide streets, boutiques that make a concerted effort to not rip off the locals, the Baroncini gelateria (since 1946), the crazy discoteca where the area's teens waste time on Friday nights, and of course, the neon yellow sign that proudly designates the neighborhood: "POGGETTO," it says, vertically.
I'm gonna miss this neighborhood. But anyway, I walked up the streets, past the Franciscan church - it all ultimately let down a one-way street bordered by olive trees and ten-foot tall walls on both sides. I more or less clung to the walls as I walked, praying to every little wall-chapel I passed to not get hit by an Alfa Romeo.
At a certain point, I noticed a road sign in the distance. White, with black letters spelling "Firenze." A diagonal red line across it wasn't vandalism; it meant I was leaving Florence. And I am, in two days. I ceremoniously walked past it to admire a vista of rolling hills and villas through a blown-out chunk of the brick wall. Then, I turned around.
There's a city-wide strike tomorrow, it starts at 9AM. That means I may have to brave the grocery store, and it may feel like the night before a "snowstorm" in Charlotte.
You'll hear from me in a few days. Viareggio, it seems, is my next destination. Monday, my blog is going to take a weird turn because I'm flying from Pisa to Frankfurt, Germany. I'll meet up with some old family friends and watch the World Cup. Read, and write, always those, too.
Benedicite.
-a
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