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
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Photos! and Notte Bianca
Finding myself in the streets of Florence
Backlogged on photos. Here's the BC Reunion, Roma.
Giardino di Boboli in Florence.
When I shave each morning, I turn on the radio. The stations usually alternate between English and Italian songs. It was a cloudy day when a bouncy, upbeat Italian pop song came on. I slipped and nicked myself, right on my adam's apple.
Italy has been eliminated from the World Cup. It happened on the jovial feast day of San Giovanni, Florence's 4th of July. "Each one of us knows, deep down, that Italy will lose," said Luca in his well thought-out English. "But during the game, everyone will be absolutely convinced that they will win." Well.
Some character sketches. There's one other coed roommate couple in this program, Beth and Ashley. Ashley's a Canadian guy, over-aware that 95% of all people with his name are girls. He watches football, not soccer, and enjoys the little things. Like killing mosquitoes. Beth is a professor, also 28. She has a quiet first impression but has been to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.
She told me that story while we stood in a crowd, tangled in a mess of parked bicycles along the Arno. With thousands of Florentines and expats we watched the red, blue and green fireworks sail skyward from Piazza Michelangelo.
The next day Beth and Ashley hosted a dinner party. We drank a wine called "Red Viper" (I think Ashley picked it out because it looked cool - it was actually fruitier than we all expected). We played a game. I'd played before, in college, but the first time I'd seen it was in the movie Inglourious Basterds. You ask yes-or-no questions to guess the name on a card stuck to your forehead. I was Meryl Streep.
As I walk down the streets in this city, I pay attention to the license plates on the cars. They usually have two letters, a space and then a jumble of more letters and numbers. I always look for the initials of friends and family.
I was a little amused, a little disgusted to find a cigarette machine right outside a pharmacy. This country, never lacking in beauty, style or art, doesn't seem to lack much irony, either. I guess it's a human thing.
Saturday night was "Notte Bianca," white night, on the other side of the Arno River. That meant live music, cheap bar prices and hundreds upon hundreds of Florentine kids leaning on lampposts and fountains under yellow spotlights. All the trashcans were filled with cups and bottles by midnight.
I'm gonna mention some of my co-teachers. Corinne and Beth jumped Alice into a grocery cart and bumped her over the cobblestones. The locals turned from their trance music to watch, and grinned. I got separated and called a roommate from the Ponte Santo Spirito. That was my night.
Bravissimi.
-a
Friday, June 25, 2010
"Poetry is an Art!"
In this country, the aperitivo is as a custom probably as old as wine itself. After work, they go to corner bars - students with backpacks and high-tops, businessmen in suits, retirees jabbering about a car accident fifteen years ago. And there's food, all you can eat, stuff like bruschetta, olives, meatballs, vegetables, that kind of thing.
At a long table at this place called Strizzi Garden, we ate, drank wine and wasted time under a dusty-colored full moon. In company were the teachers in my program, the trainees I've gotten to know so well, and the students. I spoke with this guy Luca. "Let's make a deal," he said in well-practiced English. "You call me Luke, and I call you Andrea. It's a cultural exchange."
The next day was the feast of San Giovanni, known for closed shops and fireworks at the end of the day. I clicked open my front door to the sound of birds and vespa motors.
A loaf of bread - "crushed," they call it - goes for 90 cents at the family owned store across the street. According to Florentine tradition, it has no salt. It's soft as a pillow and reminds me every time why bread is my favorite food.
I recently took the most expensive bus ride of my life. I was caught on board without a ticket and had to pay a 45 euro fine. "You must think you're such a badass," said the expression on the ticket controller's face while I fished around for enough money. Once again, I had no identification on me. It's like I want to shed my name, my age, my country.
My teaching goes on, not without hilarity. Eliciting vocabulary from students is like a really slow, really stupid-looking game of charades.
I walked past a row of restaurants at noon. Mostly empty tables and chairs under white linen pergolas, a few couples here and there sipping a modest glass of wine. I don't hear, I listen to the sounds inside as I pass - the casual clink of plates, of forks and knives, not the usual vocal buzz, but the hum of a dishwasher.
There was a man strolling through the streets a block from the Duomo, wearing a faded shirt and rubber boots pulled up to his knees. In his hands, a notebook clenched tightly, and he cried out - to no one, to everyone - "Poetry is an art!" Poor guy, born in the wrong century.
-a
At a long table at this place called Strizzi Garden, we ate, drank wine and wasted time under a dusty-colored full moon. In company were the teachers in my program, the trainees I've gotten to know so well, and the students. I spoke with this guy Luca. "Let's make a deal," he said in well-practiced English. "You call me Luke, and I call you Andrea. It's a cultural exchange."
The next day was the feast of San Giovanni, known for closed shops and fireworks at the end of the day. I clicked open my front door to the sound of birds and vespa motors.
A loaf of bread - "crushed," they call it - goes for 90 cents at the family owned store across the street. According to Florentine tradition, it has no salt. It's soft as a pillow and reminds me every time why bread is my favorite food.
I recently took the most expensive bus ride of my life. I was caught on board without a ticket and had to pay a 45 euro fine. "You must think you're such a badass," said the expression on the ticket controller's face while I fished around for enough money. Once again, I had no identification on me. It's like I want to shed my name, my age, my country.
My teaching goes on, not without hilarity. Eliciting vocabulary from students is like a really slow, really stupid-looking game of charades.
I walked past a row of restaurants at noon. Mostly empty tables and chairs under white linen pergolas, a few couples here and there sipping a modest glass of wine. I don't hear, I listen to the sounds inside as I pass - the casual clink of plates, of forks and knives, not the usual vocal buzz, but the hum of a dishwasher.
There was a man strolling through the streets a block from the Duomo, wearing a faded shirt and rubber boots pulled up to his knees. In his hands, a notebook clenched tightly, and he cried out - to no one, to everyone - "Poetry is an art!" Poor guy, born in the wrong century.
-a
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
RVs and Russian Ringtones
My lessons are going well. I find it ironic that my sole purpose in this program is helping people overcome the one language I want to be speaking. Walking back through the graffitied tunnel that runs under the train tracks, I see the sun set on Florence's orange horizon.
"Obey your thirst," says the ubiquitous Sprite ad we know so well. In Italy, you are merely asked to "listen to your thirst."
Friday at the bar in Piazza San Jacopino, there were only a couple customers other than me and 3 other kids in my program. One lady, chainsmoking the whole time, leaned over a carriage only to gently lift out a pet skunk. You never know what you're gonna see here.
According to the folklore of my childhood, I'm turning into a carb. Whatever that is. Probably some kind of geometric-looking, polygonal shape I haven't seen since 10th grade chemistry class. Ah nutrition facts. They're a new addition to Italian food products, apparently. "Calories" are scripted instead as "energetic value." Why would you want to count energetic value?
The head of my teaching program has confirmed it. Baroncini Gelateria is the best in Florence. The worst? I don't know for sure, but probably the ones with the brightest colors and the cheesiest flavor names.
I wake up each morning to my neighbors' shouts and the slams of doors. My arms are mosquito bitten, and I scratch them as my alarm goes off. My ringtone? This tacky and annoying Russian-sounding tune. Cultural, I know.
I'd heard of this kind of chocolate before, but I bought a bar of Ritter Sport. It's German. I hate the name though, because after eating chocolate, there's nothing I'd rather do less than a sport. I'd prefer, I think, a nap.
I was thinking back to Viareggio the other day, some of the things I heard Serena's family say. One of her father's lifelong dreams is an RV roadtrip across the United States. The stuff of novels worshipped by hipsters and B-movies starring Robin Williams. It must seem weird to Europeans, then, that we Americans want to vagabond around their continent on shoestring budgets, wearing coffin-sized backpacks.
Salute.
-a
"Obey your thirst," says the ubiquitous Sprite ad we know so well. In Italy, you are merely asked to "listen to your thirst."
Friday at the bar in Piazza San Jacopino, there were only a couple customers other than me and 3 other kids in my program. One lady, chainsmoking the whole time, leaned over a carriage only to gently lift out a pet skunk. You never know what you're gonna see here.
According to the folklore of my childhood, I'm turning into a carb. Whatever that is. Probably some kind of geometric-looking, polygonal shape I haven't seen since 10th grade chemistry class. Ah nutrition facts. They're a new addition to Italian food products, apparently. "Calories" are scripted instead as "energetic value." Why would you want to count energetic value?
The head of my teaching program has confirmed it. Baroncini Gelateria is the best in Florence. The worst? I don't know for sure, but probably the ones with the brightest colors and the cheesiest flavor names.
I wake up each morning to my neighbors' shouts and the slams of doors. My arms are mosquito bitten, and I scratch them as my alarm goes off. My ringtone? This tacky and annoying Russian-sounding tune. Cultural, I know.
I'd heard of this kind of chocolate before, but I bought a bar of Ritter Sport. It's German. I hate the name though, because after eating chocolate, there's nothing I'd rather do less than a sport. I'd prefer, I think, a nap.
I was thinking back to Viareggio the other day, some of the things I heard Serena's family say. One of her father's lifelong dreams is an RV roadtrip across the United States. The stuff of novels worshipped by hipsters and B-movies starring Robin Williams. It must seem weird to Europeans, then, that we Americans want to vagabond around their continent on shoestring budgets, wearing coffin-sized backpacks.
Salute.
-a
Monday, June 21, 2010
Ro-ma, Ro-ma-ma
"There's always something going on in Rome." I've said it before, and I'll say it again.
I elevated my language status this weekend to fluent. It's a long story. Digging through my bag on the train, I realized I left my passport in my top dresser drawer in Florence. The hostel manager said I could stay the night if I had my passport number and date of issue. Only a couple hours later, my housemate texted me those superimportant numbers.
But the receptionist that evening didn't believe me, said I was making up the numbers. I had to argue with him. "Call Giancarlo," I said, "Call him now. I'm telling the truth." One phone call and five minutes later, the receptionist asked me to write down my passport number and issue date on a piece of paper that would serve as my temporary passport that night. The guy upped the price 5 euro. I obviously had to pay.
That night found me along the Tiber River with four college friends and three bottles of local wine. We talked about phases of the moon, horoscopes, the Roman Empire and the American Empire.
I posed with Conor in front of some graffiti. It read "We are mods." Keep an eye out for it on Facebook.
Conor and Rob had been experimenting with the concept of the man-purse since the beginning of their European excursion. The verdict? Useful, even if it transgresses traditional gender boundaries. What could I say? I was proud of them. I had to be. Each night in Florence, I sleep under a leopard-print blanket. Not by choice, though, not by choice.
"This is the first time we've been in a country when we had someone with us who could speak the language," my friends said. I did what I could. I translated the name of Bernini's fountain to "the sucky boat." I was antsy to speak Italian, but more importantly, I wanted to make sure no one fleeced any of us.
My friends liked people-watching as much as I do. "What's his/her nationality" was a favorite at the Trevi Fountain. In Piazza Navona, the girl eating a gelato by herself could've been waiting to meet someone. Or she could've been sad. She had square, black glasses. "Italians know how to wear glasses," I told Conor as I adjusted my own crooked pair.
Seeing my close college friends in Rome was disorienting. It didn't seem like a reunion, the gravity of that word just didn't seem to apply. We were just meeting up; it was time shared, one of those summertime get-togethers, not at all a reprise, or an epilogue. This is what it's like, being a grad.
Later, on the four-hour train ride back to Florence, I passed through towns whose names I never heard before, only saw on the labels of wine bottles in the States.
-a
I elevated my language status this weekend to fluent. It's a long story. Digging through my bag on the train, I realized I left my passport in my top dresser drawer in Florence. The hostel manager said I could stay the night if I had my passport number and date of issue. Only a couple hours later, my housemate texted me those superimportant numbers.
But the receptionist that evening didn't believe me, said I was making up the numbers. I had to argue with him. "Call Giancarlo," I said, "Call him now. I'm telling the truth." One phone call and five minutes later, the receptionist asked me to write down my passport number and issue date on a piece of paper that would serve as my temporary passport that night. The guy upped the price 5 euro. I obviously had to pay.
That night found me along the Tiber River with four college friends and three bottles of local wine. We talked about phases of the moon, horoscopes, the Roman Empire and the American Empire.
I posed with Conor in front of some graffiti. It read "We are mods." Keep an eye out for it on Facebook.
Conor and Rob had been experimenting with the concept of the man-purse since the beginning of their European excursion. The verdict? Useful, even if it transgresses traditional gender boundaries. What could I say? I was proud of them. I had to be. Each night in Florence, I sleep under a leopard-print blanket. Not by choice, though, not by choice.
"This is the first time we've been in a country when we had someone with us who could speak the language," my friends said. I did what I could. I translated the name of Bernini's fountain to "the sucky boat." I was antsy to speak Italian, but more importantly, I wanted to make sure no one fleeced any of us.
My friends liked people-watching as much as I do. "What's his/her nationality" was a favorite at the Trevi Fountain. In Piazza Navona, the girl eating a gelato by herself could've been waiting to meet someone. Or she could've been sad. She had square, black glasses. "Italians know how to wear glasses," I told Conor as I adjusted my own crooked pair.
Seeing my close college friends in Rome was disorienting. It didn't seem like a reunion, the gravity of that word just didn't seem to apply. We were just meeting up; it was time shared, one of those summertime get-togethers, not at all a reprise, or an epilogue. This is what it's like, being a grad.
Later, on the four-hour train ride back to Florence, I passed through towns whose names I never heard before, only saw on the labels of wine bottles in the States.
-a
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
World Cup, Acqua Alta
I watched Italy's first World Cup match not at my apartment, not downtown with thousands of people in front of a huge projector screen. I was with two friends in my teacher program at a local bar (Piazza San Jacopino) with 60 year-old men and their grandsons.
In the streets are butts of cigarettes, broken bottle-glass and ticket stubs of busses, trains and concerts. All glazed with a city dust that creeps under doors at night with the mosquitoes.
During the day, my apartment is so quiet. Six hours before I give my lesson, I eat lunch to the hum of the fridge. I'm looking for a radio to fill in the cobwebbed corners with some kind of dialect that was already musical before it sang a song, one that was popular 30 years ago.
My teaching program's school, "The Learning Center of Tuscany," has a break room. Inside it is a coffee machine that has probably earned more of my money than the local bus system. There is a microwave, but no fridge. On top of it, there's a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Sending letters is worth the effort. It is a struggle in today's over-ramped techno-world. But sending a letter in Italy is a herculean effort (bet you like that classical reference). The post office is like a waiting room that also happens to mail stuff. Oh, and sometimes, a package arrives on time. I recently mailed a letter to NC State at the local post office. They made me buy 10 envelopes, so give me an address, I'll write you a letter from Italy.
Today I finally got my radio. It cost 25 euro, but it's well worth it for the fun we have in lesson plan preparation. Can't wait to bring it home.
Vespas are not really vehicles, I've decided. They're more like shoes. Let me explain. The paths people take while riding a vespa are no different from the paths people take while walking. You'd cut across that sidewalk to the other road on foot, and so you'll cut across that sidewalk to the other road on a vespa. Which means if someone's gonna bump into you, you gonna get nailed. By a vespa windshield.
Something weird happened today. I went out to lunch with some kids in my program, and it started raining really hard. Hail, in fact. That's not as weird as what happened later, when we got up to go back to the school and found about six inches of water on the ground outside. We stood with a group of orange-vested construction workers and waited a couple of seconds. My friends tied plastic bags around their feet, and braved the high water. I waited for the water to go down before going back. Didn't wanna mess up my nice shoes.
-a
In the streets are butts of cigarettes, broken bottle-glass and ticket stubs of busses, trains and concerts. All glazed with a city dust that creeps under doors at night with the mosquitoes.
During the day, my apartment is so quiet. Six hours before I give my lesson, I eat lunch to the hum of the fridge. I'm looking for a radio to fill in the cobwebbed corners with some kind of dialect that was already musical before it sang a song, one that was popular 30 years ago.
My teaching program's school, "The Learning Center of Tuscany," has a break room. Inside it is a coffee machine that has probably earned more of my money than the local bus system. There is a microwave, but no fridge. On top of it, there's a bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Sending letters is worth the effort. It is a struggle in today's over-ramped techno-world. But sending a letter in Italy is a herculean effort (bet you like that classical reference). The post office is like a waiting room that also happens to mail stuff. Oh, and sometimes, a package arrives on time. I recently mailed a letter to NC State at the local post office. They made me buy 10 envelopes, so give me an address, I'll write you a letter from Italy.
Today I finally got my radio. It cost 25 euro, but it's well worth it for the fun we have in lesson plan preparation. Can't wait to bring it home.
Vespas are not really vehicles, I've decided. They're more like shoes. Let me explain. The paths people take while riding a vespa are no different from the paths people take while walking. You'd cut across that sidewalk to the other road on foot, and so you'll cut across that sidewalk to the other road on a vespa. Which means if someone's gonna bump into you, you gonna get nailed. By a vespa windshield.
Something weird happened today. I went out to lunch with some kids in my program, and it started raining really hard. Hail, in fact. That's not as weird as what happened later, when we got up to go back to the school and found about six inches of water on the ground outside. We stood with a group of orange-vested construction workers and waited a couple of seconds. My friends tied plastic bags around their feet, and braved the high water. I waited for the water to go down before going back. Didn't wanna mess up my nice shoes.
-a
Monday, June 14, 2010
Regionalizing in Flavor
My apartment room in Florence. Neighborhood, Poggetto.
Piazza del Duomo, Pietrasanta, not far from Viareggio.
I blew out my electric razor a couple days ago with an ill-fitted power adapter. So I shaved with a razorblade for the first time. Although I'm not sure that if in Italy, Gillette is the best a man can get.
Italians may lose their faith, but they'll never lose their religion. Every hill down in Tuscany is crowned with a campanile. The soil here is rich, you can tell just by looking at it. From the train window it looks yellow-brown, and out of it sprout vineyard after vineyard. The strongest roots cling to the rockiest earth, all for the best sunshine.
On Saturday I got off the train at Viareggio with a crowd of African immigrants that I'd later see on the beach, selling their counterfeit sunglasses, their bracelets, their beach towels.
The clouds swept away as we walked past the rows of orange and teal umbrellas and volleyball nets. The beach was long and wide. I lost beach rackets to my friend Serena twice. Her longtime boyfriend Stefano doesn't speak English, but he loves the sound it makes. I told him I wished I could hear what sound English makes without understanding anything.
I fell asleep on the beach. "Little shrimp," they call you when you turn pink in the sun. Thanks, Stefano, thanks.
Serena introduced me to cecina, basically, Italian fried dough. It's oily, it's crusty, it's soft on the inside, it's kind of like pizza with the consistency of an omelet. Delicious. Dinner for eight at the Marradi household is an act of provincial theatre. Signora sheds compliments and accepts no help in the kitchen. The homemade limoncello she makes is like Italian girls. It's sweet, and packs a punch. Her husband grumbles after a day's work as an engineer, but the regional wine calms him into a tender father proud of his English skills. The man has a raggy 1994 road atlas of the US.
Night in Viareggio. I sat in the backseat of the Fiat with Silvia, Serena's sister, as the four of us passed discoteca after discoteca, girls tottering along in high heels, and bright red Ferraris in our rear-view mirrors.
Sunday, I woke up at 12:30 to the sound of clinking plates and silverware. Soon enough, I was eating a thick and bloody Bistecca alla Fiorentina, the tenderest. I continued to get drilled on "American Questions."
As I returned, it rained. The train was full of disappointed faces in beachwear.
Salute. E forza.
-a
Friday, June 11, 2010
Habituation
Each time I'm on a train, or a bus, I find myself in a seat facing backwards, not forwards. I see where I've been, not where I'm going. Appropriate.
In my apartment, we don't have cups. We only have a series of very fancy glasses, like you'd find at a nice restaurant for water. It's a good life, feeling classy as you drink water, or the fake Coca-Cola I bought at the supermarket that promises a "real American taste."
My bed is leopard-themed. Leopard print spots on my blanket and all my pillows. I don't often sacrifice my masculinity, but if it's what I have to sacrifice to live in this country, I may be tempted.
Someone told me that in Italy, wine is cheaper than water. On a grand scale, that may be true. But at the store I paid 15 cents for a 1,5 liter of water, and 2,70 for a bottle of Chianti. So... maybe not.
Today, lunch cost me 2 euro. I split bread and and pack of mortadella with Filomena, the only Italian in this program and the only Mormon Italian I know. Almost as strange as a Catholic Charlottean.
I got a job as a travel blog writer. My first assignment is for the 15th, a restaurant guide to Venice. Let's see what happens.
This city fosters a different kind of writing. It's loose, but it's continental, it's full of a kind of possibility, the transfusion of western blood into this city center. Each night I scroll down the wooden shutters and close the window on the mosquitoes that somehow dig their way anyway. And I sleep with no shirt because of the heat, exposing myself to their bites and constant buzzing. Other than that, it's quiet here. I want to get a radio to rattle off some Italian while I get dressed or cook - but maybe I should just accept the silence.
Still getting my stuff together. Coins are nearly invaluable here in Europe. I don't have a change purse (nor do I really want one). But I do have a plastic baggie that I keep in my pocket. "Nice wallet," I was told.
I'm trapped in a classroom a lot of the time learning about teaching. I taught my first lesson yesterday. It was good. It wasn't as interesting as it sounds.
-a
In my apartment, we don't have cups. We only have a series of very fancy glasses, like you'd find at a nice restaurant for water. It's a good life, feeling classy as you drink water, or the fake Coca-Cola I bought at the supermarket that promises a "real American taste."
My bed is leopard-themed. Leopard print spots on my blanket and all my pillows. I don't often sacrifice my masculinity, but if it's what I have to sacrifice to live in this country, I may be tempted.
Someone told me that in Italy, wine is cheaper than water. On a grand scale, that may be true. But at the store I paid 15 cents for a 1,5 liter of water, and 2,70 for a bottle of Chianti. So... maybe not.
Today, lunch cost me 2 euro. I split bread and and pack of mortadella with Filomena, the only Italian in this program and the only Mormon Italian I know. Almost as strange as a Catholic Charlottean.
I got a job as a travel blog writer. My first assignment is for the 15th, a restaurant guide to Venice. Let's see what happens.
This city fosters a different kind of writing. It's loose, but it's continental, it's full of a kind of possibility, the transfusion of western blood into this city center. Each night I scroll down the wooden shutters and close the window on the mosquitoes that somehow dig their way anyway. And I sleep with no shirt because of the heat, exposing myself to their bites and constant buzzing. Other than that, it's quiet here. I want to get a radio to rattle off some Italian while I get dressed or cook - but maybe I should just accept the silence.
Still getting my stuff together. Coins are nearly invaluable here in Europe. I don't have a change purse (nor do I really want one). But I do have a plastic baggie that I keep in my pocket. "Nice wallet," I was told.
I'm trapped in a classroom a lot of the time learning about teaching. I taught my first lesson yesterday. It was good. It wasn't as interesting as it sounds.
-a
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Expatria alla Fiorentina
My apartment in Florence. It's a little distant from the city center, and I like it that way. Our neighborhood is tree-lined and close enough to a grocery store.
I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.
Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.
I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.
Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.
We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.
As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.
Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.
Ciauu,
-a
I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.
Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.
I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.
Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.
We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.
As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.
Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.
Ciauu,
-a
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Last Day in Venice
I’ve been meaning to comment on how Anna and Juliana’s apartment has a wooden door with a round brass knob in the center. In an odd way I feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings every time I walk in.
When you enter the apartment, someone’s usually there. Often it’s Alice, because she’s working on her architecture thesis. There’s this unspoken rule that you have to say “Ciauu!” when you enter the apartment, and whoever’s home responds, “Ciauu!”
I went for a walk. Venice is like a funnel, and everything spirals down into Piazza San Marco. The Basilica looks white in the afternoon sun. The roof tiles lie in their onion-shaped, neglected beauty. Demystified and out of context, they remind me of a moldy shower.
The campanile soars above Venice’s skyline from far away. Up close, it doesn’t seem so big. Back at BC, I had a class in Campion Hall, with a window that looked out on the maintenance building and that brick tower or smokestack or whatever it was. On a crisp, clear day, and sitting in the right place in the room, I could trick myself into thinking it was a campanile.
I saw a dog take a shit in Piazza San Marco. The owner cleaned it up, but I’m still not sure how I feel about that.
Walking down by the Salute. Seaweed floats up through Coke cans and bits of Styrofoam to the stairs that descend into the water. There, it basks in the sun and resembles a pile of little dead snakes.
I traded pens with Anna for kicks. She got a Hampton Inn desk pen from Allentown, PA. I got an Italian pharmaceutical promotional pen. Sweet.
The idea of partying in foreign countries is a really weird idea, if you think about it. And yet, on an empty stomach, I hit the campo with Juliana, her friend Valentina (who I’d finally know in person, as opposed to only in photos) and Alice. We ended up in Rialto where this random old man took a little too much interest in our conversation.
Before heading off to Florence, I got a panino for the train. I was hungry, and didn’t know if it would be better to: a.) eat it slowly, digesting it at an even pace, or b.) wolf it down as fast as I could and have a ball of panino sit in my stomach while I gaze out the window of the countryside.
I chose option b.)
More on Florence later.
-a
Monday, June 7, 2010
Photos!
Maybe the best photo I've taken. Gondole on the Grand Canal near the Rialto Bridge.
Reflections off the water at Zattere.
Heading toward Campo Santa Marherita with Anna and Juliana.
Me and Anna near the center of Pordenone.
Ca' Foscari University. Seen from the bridge where everyone sits.
Undefeated 2-0 at rackets on the Lido.
Reflections off the water at Zattere.
Heading toward Campo Santa Marherita with Anna and Juliana.
Me and Anna near the center of Pordenone.
Ca' Foscari University. Seen from the bridge where everyone sits.
Undefeated 2-0 at rackets on the Lido.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Grilling Out at Pordenone
All over Venice, there are signs that say, "Venice 2020." Remnants of the city's now-defunct bid for an Olympic games. Think about it: rowing would be awesome. And that's about it. The rest would be "Treviso 2020."
In this town, people leave their trash outside their houses in tiny bags. The dumpsters here are gray and yellow, with ventilation holes. They sit next to the canals like three-dimensional cheese graters, waiting to get picked up by trash-boats.
I went to a lecture at the Ca' Foscari University. There were two Turkish writers who read passages from their novels on the 1915 persecution and exile. After their readings followed the Italian translations. Turkish sounds to me like German played backwards on a record player.
Riding in a train is a worthwhile experience. The Veneto countryside out the window more than counterbalances the fact that you can't breathe inside the rail car.
Yesterday I went up with Anna and Giovanni to Pordenone for a barbecue. Weather was perfect, and there was enough bacon, chicken, wings, polenta, bread, beer and wine to last well over three hours. These were Giovanni's friends from his scout troop (he's a leader).
My presence at the barbecue was a chance to practice English for some.
One of Giovanni's scouts excelled at the tennis racket-flyswatter. A useful tool obviously invented by the exterminator son of a tennis pro.
The marketplace in Pordenone happens every Saturday. You can find just about anything. Shirts, pants, underwear, shoes, rugs, hats, umbrellas, belts, knives, pots, pans, bags, jewelry, scarves. The prices were unbelievably low. I didn't buy anything.
I finished The Sun Also Rises. It comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.
Just to keep you all updated... I'm a little behind in my blog. Just got into Florence safe and sound, and tomorrow begins my program. COMING SOON: Last day in Venice and PHOTOS!
Salute.
-a
In this town, people leave their trash outside their houses in tiny bags. The dumpsters here are gray and yellow, with ventilation holes. They sit next to the canals like three-dimensional cheese graters, waiting to get picked up by trash-boats.
I went to a lecture at the Ca' Foscari University. There were two Turkish writers who read passages from their novels on the 1915 persecution and exile. After their readings followed the Italian translations. Turkish sounds to me like German played backwards on a record player.
Riding in a train is a worthwhile experience. The Veneto countryside out the window more than counterbalances the fact that you can't breathe inside the rail car.
Yesterday I went up with Anna and Giovanni to Pordenone for a barbecue. Weather was perfect, and there was enough bacon, chicken, wings, polenta, bread, beer and wine to last well over three hours. These were Giovanni's friends from his scout troop (he's a leader).
My presence at the barbecue was a chance to practice English for some.
One of Giovanni's scouts excelled at the tennis racket-flyswatter. A useful tool obviously invented by the exterminator son of a tennis pro.
The marketplace in Pordenone happens every Saturday. You can find just about anything. Shirts, pants, underwear, shoes, rugs, hats, umbrellas, belts, knives, pots, pans, bags, jewelry, scarves. The prices were unbelievably low. I didn't buy anything.
I finished The Sun Also Rises. It comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.
Just to keep you all updated... I'm a little behind in my blog. Just got into Florence safe and sound, and tomorrow begins my program. COMING SOON: Last day in Venice and PHOTOS!
Salute.
-a
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Granita? or Slushy?
Let's see, what we got today?
Hmm, I've learned since getting here that there's a wrong way to spread Nutella on a piece of bread. Apparently I've been screwing up for several years. But I may be getting the hang of it now. So look out, breakfast world.
The real trick is using a little spoon. With the knife, you'll break bread in a very unholy way. I dropped a piece on the terrazzo floor in the kitchen, and it blended in perfectly. I've never seen bread pull a camouflage trick like that. Poof.
Through the sweepy see-through curtains in the kitchen, I can see and hear the passersby shouting ahead at each other. It's not as good as taking a shower, but it's better than the TV. Which I've watched.
Alice and Silvia and I ate lunch together today while watching "The Bold and the Beautiful." The climax of the episode involved a photo-shoot and two cougars (one, a large cat, the other, a woman on the older side agewise). Italians prefer dubbed television and movies. As a once-active Godzilla fan, I highly approve.
I ran into a Brasilian girl on the way back to lunch. She asked me the way to the nearest vaporetto station, and I told her. She seemed new around town, because she asked, "A vaporetto. Now is that a bus or a boat?" She had pretty cool sunglasses though.
The price of silk ties has risen one euro in the past year.
Alice showed me Campo San Simeon Profeta, which is, according to her, "the quietest campo that looks out on the Grand Canal." I think it's true. I had a gelato, she had a granita. Basically, a granita is a slushy. But let's be real, what sounds better? Granita? or slushy? We talked NFL and NBA.
My friends from Treviso, Laura and Laura, came to visit. We spent the time in Campo Santa Margherita, where I pointed out British accents and Minnesota Vikings jerseys.
New phone number: (+39) 347 090 8321. Gimme a buzz should you randomly happen upon Italy.
With aficion, let's hope.
-a
Hmm, I've learned since getting here that there's a wrong way to spread Nutella on a piece of bread. Apparently I've been screwing up for several years. But I may be getting the hang of it now. So look out, breakfast world.
The real trick is using a little spoon. With the knife, you'll break bread in a very unholy way. I dropped a piece on the terrazzo floor in the kitchen, and it blended in perfectly. I've never seen bread pull a camouflage trick like that. Poof.
Through the sweepy see-through curtains in the kitchen, I can see and hear the passersby shouting ahead at each other. It's not as good as taking a shower, but it's better than the TV. Which I've watched.
Alice and Silvia and I ate lunch together today while watching "The Bold and the Beautiful." The climax of the episode involved a photo-shoot and two cougars (one, a large cat, the other, a woman on the older side agewise). Italians prefer dubbed television and movies. As a once-active Godzilla fan, I highly approve.
I ran into a Brasilian girl on the way back to lunch. She asked me the way to the nearest vaporetto station, and I told her. She seemed new around town, because she asked, "A vaporetto. Now is that a bus or a boat?" She had pretty cool sunglasses though.
The price of silk ties has risen one euro in the past year.
Alice showed me Campo San Simeon Profeta, which is, according to her, "the quietest campo that looks out on the Grand Canal." I think it's true. I had a gelato, she had a granita. Basically, a granita is a slushy. But let's be real, what sounds better? Granita? or slushy? We talked NFL and NBA.
My friends from Treviso, Laura and Laura, came to visit. We spent the time in Campo Santa Margherita, where I pointed out British accents and Minnesota Vikings jerseys.
New phone number: (+39) 347 090 8321. Gimme a buzz should you randomly happen upon Italy.
With aficion, let's hope.
-a
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