Fröhe Weinacth, Buona Natale, Joyeux Noël and Feliz Navidad!
I have now met up with Anja and am staying with her family in Wittenberg. Everything is well. Her brothers, Oliver (8) and Felix (2) are delightful. It's been years since I've been around the larval specimens of pink apes, so it's a lot of fun. It's also a completely different experience, because little kids don't necessarily (okay, don't at all) operate on the same sleep schedule as adults. I got a brief glimpse of what I put my parents through when I was an infant when Felix started crying for his father sometime around 3AM last night. I swear I had just put my head to the pillow when he started, and I was praying that Norbert, his father, would come and see to it that he was alright. You see, for children, it would be a grave social faux pas if I were to react to them in the same way as I do my college-age compatriots if they wake me up from a sound sleep. Luckily, Norbert came up and rocked Felix back to sleep in short order. However, Oliver, being at that ambitious age when rising with the sun is normal (oh what nostalgia!) has taken it upon himself that around 8:30AM or so, I have slept long enough and that it is time to play. This he does in a manner-of-fact tone that only a child can do. In German. I imagine the conversations we have going like this.
Oliver (auf Deutsche): Peter.
Me: *No reaction*
Oliver: Peter.
Me: *I am awake now, but am not letting on*
Oliver: Peter, it's 8:30 in the morning. The sun has been up for two minutes!
Me: *I open my eyes. The game is lost*
Oliver: Ah, your eyes are open! How wonderful! That means it is time to play!
Me: *At this point, two conversations begin - one in my brain in English, and one out loud in German*
To myself: "Dear god, gods or whatever there is controlling the cosmos, please forgive all my many years of sinning. I take back every bad thing I've ever said, ever done, ever thought against my siblings, my parents, my pets, my friends, my teachers, the President, both political parties, Mother Nature, You, and everything else in the Universe. I will devote myself only to tending medicinal plants in a mountain-top garden for the rest of my life, in quiet and in peaceful repose, never again so much as brushing a mosquito from my body. I shall make even the Jains look like violent sociopaths, if you will only remove this sweet, irreproachable child which you have sent to damn me as I lay here unable to defend myself until at least 9. Please, oh higher powers that be, please!"
To Oliver: Ja. Okay.
Oliver: Peter, it's 8:31! A whole minute has gone by where we could be playing? Don't you realize we only have another sixteen hours to play? There is so much to do!
To myself: "Okay Peter, prayer didn't work. Okay... But can't get angry! That will ruin his life. What will he think if this crazy, slothful American suddenly jumps out of bed and starts yelling at him in some foreign language? He'll be scarred for life. Every time he hears English, watches anglophone movies or listens to anglophone music, thinks about the United States, irrepressible feelings of hatred will well up inside him. He'll go crazier than bin Laden, than Kaczynski, than Hitler! You will have created a force of evil out of a pure innocence. It'd be worse than Marius releasing Baal, worse than Qui-Gon taking Anakin as his padawan, worse than voting for Pat Buchanan. Oh what a thin line I tread! What precariousness I face!"
To Oliver: Ja, ich komme. Eine minuten.
Oliver: *Unwavering* Ah, Peter, you must not know what time it is! How simple a mistake! It's okay, it's still 8:31. And now it is 8:32! Hurray! Hurray! A minute has passed and now we can go and play! Come! Come now! You can't sleep when you're playing, just as you can't play when you're sleeping!
To myself: "Face it Peter, you are up against an implacable foe. There is no possibility for detente, for negotiation, only surrender. Unconditional capitulation. He will never cease in his efforts to harry and challenge you. He will win the battle and the war and you will have no choice but to meet his demands and submit! You, who've faced all-nighters, anxious dogs, loud parties downstairs, fire-alarms, even sleeping outdoors in the cold, have been defeated by a small child. Do not be so ashamed though. Like Master Yoda said, "Size matters not." He has been training every day of his life. His devotion to his art is unparalleled. He makes martial art masters, learned scholars, and virtuoso performers seem like errant amateurs. You had no hope. You had no defense. It is best to end your suffering quickly and with whatever is left of your honor and sanity!"
To Oliver: Okay, okay. Jetzt ich komme.
Oliver: Wonderful! Ah, I see that you have propped yourself up on one arm in an effort to stall for time! That is mildly clever of you! It has been tried on me many times though, not to fear. I applaud your efforts, futile though they may be. Now it is play time! Come and play! Yes, up on the other elbow! Good! Good! Soon we will play! And now you've gotten into a crouching position! I know you're thinking when I turn my back you'll go lay down again, but luckily I will instead come and crawl next to you and lock eyes so that you have no choice but to get up fully.
To myself: "I knew I should have gotten me a Duplicator like in Calvin and Hobbes. You know, sleep in hiding while my clone endures all this, then pull the switch around noon or so. Hell, I'd settle for 10 even. Well, at least I still have the Transmogrifier and the Flying Time Machine! Jokes on you kid!"
To Oliver: Okay, spiele zeit.
Oliver: Good! I found a cardboard box we can tear up and kick around!
To myself: *Crying softly* "I am bested."
All in all though, I am having quite a pleasant time, and am quite glad that I am able to celebrate Christmas with Anja. Since she reads this blog though, I obviously can only allude to the horrible cruelties that she is inflicting upon me, and can't mention them specifically. It's late now, and Anja and I are off to her aunt's near Dresden tomorrow, so I'll call it quits and get a bit of sleep before Oliver makes his judgment rounds. Tschüs!
12.24.2008
12.21.2008
A Deep Breath
Alright, I recant my earlier disaffection. The rocks I collected during my time in France and elsewhere have literally been there for millions of years. I can replace the maps with a couple dollars and a few days on e-bay. And money does grow on trees, plus whatever the hell plant linen comes from. Flax? Does linen come from flax? What is flax anyways? Have any of you seen a flax plant? I vaguely recall hearing something about them growing in the Nile flood plain. Maybe I should go to Egypt.
Anyways, I feel a lot better now because I got some food in me, listened to Minnesota Public Radio (thank you Internet), and had a nice walk around Berlin. It is a big big city. Texas big though, not New York big. Very spread out. I saw the Russian Embassy, the Chancellery and the Parliament, looked at Tiergarten from a distance, walked through the Brandenburg Gate (smaller than I'd expected it to be), and saw the Fernsehturm from several different angles. And I meet Anja tomorrow! Plus, its almost Christmas, so I can't be upset. And I'm in Europe, so I really can't be upset!
Anyways, I feel a lot better now because I got some food in me, listened to Minnesota Public Radio (thank you Internet), and had a nice walk around Berlin. It is a big big city. Texas big though, not New York big. Very spread out. I saw the Russian Embassy, the Chancellery and the Parliament, looked at Tiergarten from a distance, walked through the Brandenburg Gate (smaller than I'd expected it to be), and saw the Fernsehturm from several different angles. And I meet Anja tomorrow! Plus, its almost Christmas, so I can't be upset. And I'm in Europe, so I really can't be upset!
Bella zio? Lei e' ubriaca. Spacca!
or Hell isn't Other People, it's Budget Airlines
or Why I'm Never Leaving The US Again
This has been written piecemeal, starting on Saturday in Milan and continuing to the present moment in Berlin. If at any point I change tone, well, the events that have passed during that time should be an influencing factor. Needless to say, it has been interesting. Federico, my host from couchsurfing has been extremely hospitable and has shown me about Milan in a way in which I otherwise would never have had. My total lack of ability to speak Italian coupled with the languages difference from French and English would've made going around by myself nearly impossible. As it has turned out, I've eaten well, slept well, visited well, and met a number of quite interesting people.
First of all, there is Federico, my host. He lives with his parents near the Porta Genova station in southern Milan. His house is in an old smelting plant complex that has now been (beautifully) turned into private homes. His own home is enormous and wonderfully decorated; so much so that it is frequently used as a setting for advertisements, as it was the day I arrived. Apparently that day, it was the Barilla pasta company. Federico's mother, Barbara, sounds and looks like any Italian mother, smoky voice (because she smokes) with dark hair and a lovely expressive manner that indeed does use the hands a lot. All stereotypes, I've found, are based in some part in truth. Federico also informed me she's recently taken up smoking pot, as we discovered coming home the other night. His father, Roberto, I only briefly saw twice, is the editor of one of the daily papers in Milan. His brother, Francesco, is 12, and unlike my impression of most twelve-year-olds (or even seventeen-year-olds, as my host brother proved) he was not a little shit. Pardon the explitive. There were also a whole slew of Federico's friends, his girlfriend, and Diana, another couchsurfer from San Sebastien in the Basque Country of Spain.
Second, there are Federico's friends. I find Italian, like Spanish, to be a lovely language. French is lovely too, but in a subtle, soft sort of way. Italian and Spanish are languages that make you really feel like you're doing something with your mouth. Lots of zz's and rr's and ch's and ss's and tz's. French is muffled in that regard. Federico and his friends introduced me to little bits of Italian slang as well. Whereas the people of central and southern Italy speak dialects of Italian, the Italians of the North (like where Milan is) actually speak pure Italian. However, not content to be themselves, they have opted to mixing their Italian with a whole slew of slang particular only to the city. To say 'What's up?' in standard Italian would be 'como esti' - similar to French or Spanish - but in Milan, they say 'bella zio' - literally, beautiful uncle. Similarly, they have 'spacca' or 'it breaks' to say 'cool!' or 'that rocks!' and 'sbatti' or 'a scramble' for something that is stupid and a waste of time. I also learned the important phrase, 'lei e' ubriaca' or 'she is drunk'. Good to know! Despite my linguistic insight into the Italian language, any effort to speak the language would result in something like me reading a guide book. For questions like 'Where is the Duomo?' or 'How much does this cost?', I'm sure what I'd actually be saying would be 'Yes, the eels are patriotic, Gloria Estefani sneezes at them' or 'Twice now I have had carpal tunnel, once in May and once with your dog'. For more complex statements like 'I like Milan a lot. I'll have to come back one day', I can only assume I am saying 'Milan irritates my teeth like a wet airplane on crack. I have photographs of Silvio Berlusconi naked with the Pope, I will trade you five goats and your grandmother for them."
The events of my time here have been interesting. My bus ride from Montpellier - all 11 hours of it - was not the worst experience of my life, but would probably rate among the top five. Thank god there were no screaming children on board, or I might have just suffocated myself with my gloves. Perhaps that helped to realign my karmic balance, as the rest of my time up to this moment has been spectacular. I had no problem getting to where Federico had told me to meet him, even with my 40 kilos of luggage (88 lbs, more than half my weight) in three suitcases in tow - as well as a bag of groceries, my camera and the ridiculous red poster I got in Ireland (yes Anna, I still have it). After meeting him, he and I headed off on foot to check out the Duomo. Apparently I had had my monumental knowledge (literally, my knowledge of monuments) of Milan confused with that of Florence. Then again, my preformed ideas of Italy are a mix of Roman ruins, Tuscan vineyards, the Venetian canals, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Mazerattis, and the mafia walking down the street while broad, old men sit gesticulating wildly outside shops, consuming enormous amounts of pasta, and admiring how beautiful all the women are. Like France, Italy is full of beautiful people. Europe is full of beautiful people. Except the English. The English on the whole have been homely to ugly. Maybe it's because I can understand what they are saying that I like them less.
While walking around the Duomo - a 14th-century gothic church that is probably the most impressive edifice to God I've ever been in - Federico pointed out the demonstrators for not just one but two of the official Fascist parties in Italy. Mussolini would be proud(?) to know that his legacy has continued to present day. However, for the millions of Italians and thousands of soldiers of the Allied armies who fought against him, I'm not so sure they'd enjoy this rejuvenation. It was also explained to me that despite the fact that fascism is officially banned in the Italian constitution, these two political parties represent a significant force in the government. These mad, mad Europeans. Still though, who am I to let a bit of right-wing extremism dampen my day. Federico told me he couldn't go into the Duomo because he'd burst into flames, so I went in while he and his friend visited the rock and roll exhibit that was set up in the plaza. (Note: one of the lesser known parts of Vatican II was to construct a giant orbital laser beam that would incinerate any non-practicing Roman Catholic trying to visit a church without returning to the faith. It's the #2 cause of death in Italy, after death-by-tortellini). I can't speak to the hsitory of the Duomo, as I only glanced at the wikipedia article. What I can say is is that it is huge. I could easily fit all my possessions, plus the possessions of my entire family, deconstruct our house, drain our lake, and then maybe excavate the acreage of our property and stow it within the walls of the cathedral with no problem. That, plus an ornately styled marble floor and a vaulted ceiling roughly one-hundred feet or so above my head made it all quite cool.
After the Duomo, we went around to the Via Montenapoleono, which is the major fashion street in Milan. It is subtler and less showy than the Champs Elysées in Paris or... those places where The Devil Wears Prada was shot. Okay, so I don't know much about fashion. Still, the stores there and the clothes and accessories inside were no less impressive. A pair of ruby slippers? 1,250 euro. A Bvlgari necklace? 49,000 euro. Armani shoelaces? 200 euro. Federico told me that even if it doesn't look like it, Milan has a greater concentration of fashion houses and designers than either Paris or New York. Even September, during the Milan Fashion Week, he works as a steward for various events, and basically is beside himself as a stream of beautiful women pass by where he lives. What a truly grueling job that must be. We then went to see the Castello Sfazia (I think it was called that) which is the ducal castle of the Visconti Dynasty of Milan. It was a lot different from other castles I've seen in Europe in that it was in the middle of a city, but was not palatial. It was very much a defensive castle. Sure it looked night, but it would be a practical place to hole up against say, a barbarian horde, or even your own revolting peasants. We wandered afterwards, but Federico explained that Milan is not really like Paris or Rome with a ton of monuments and famous buildings. It's possible to see the whole place in two days. Finally, we went home for lunch, which Federico cooked. We had penne in tomato sauce - simple but very tasty. He also confirmed in explaining how to make pasta and the sauce that my family has been doing it correctly all along.
Saturday afternoon, we walked around some more. I can't recall what we saw. My ever-growing collection of photos will no doubt remind me in six months time. Eventually though, Federico had to go drop something off for his mother, so he left Diana and I to have lunch at a mozzarella bar that he recommended. For all the delicious cheeses of France, they simply don't have an equivalent for the wet white cheese of Italian fame. Besides parmesan, it is perhaps the most famous of Italian cheeses, and not without reason. In Italy, it doesn't get better. My lunch of a big ball of mozzarella with strips of Tuscan prosciutto I can probably say ranks among my top five meals of my life. Magnifico. After lunch, Diana and I walked back to the Duomo and started to head back to Federico's. However, it being a Saturday, and Saturdays being big things in Italy, we were literally elbowing our way through waves of people coming in the opposite direction. It wasn't uncommon to see people just stop in the middle of the sidewalk, in groups of four of five, and start talking. Sometimes they'd try to monopolize the whole sidewalk, with half the party looking into shop windows while the other half behind them near the street pointed at what the others should look at. This, couple with the constant possibility that a car will drive half-way up the sidewalk to park, made getting back a long and tiring process.
We arrived home, picked up some takeout sushi (nothing will ever compare to the real stuff except more of the real stuff), and watched Young Frankenstein. Diana thought it would be a horror movie and so was reluctant to watch it. We convinced her otherwise, and she enjoyed it. After the movie though, more serious business needed tending. Federico's girlfriend Sarah had gotten wind that Diana was staying at his house. Despite the fact that the two have been dating for five years, Sarah decided to become irrationally jealous that there would be a woman sleeping in Federico's house (Diana was sleeping in the basement while I shared Federico's room on a cot). Rather than explain the situation to his girlfriend, Federico decided it would be better to come up with a complicated scheme whereby Diana would be presented as a friend of mine who had been in Milan staying at a hostel and who had not been able to book for a second night. Out of kindness, Federico had offered to put her up, and that was to be the scoop. Luckily, Sarah bought it all and Federico was out of the doghouse.
Saturday evening, Federico brought Diana and I out to a party. This party was a birthday party for one of Federico's friends. This guy - whose name if I picked up ever I have now forgotten - decided to throw himself and his girlfriend a birthday party via a Facebook e-mail, from 8PM to 11PM. In it, he also put a list of presents that he wanted and stated that the reason for this list was to avoid duplicates. As Federico pointed out to me, first of all, this guy is a dick. Second, who throws a party for themselves, demands presents, and then kicks the guests out at 11? So, as retaliation, Federico and his friends decided to select the cheapest, most useless present they could find, and get it for this guy in bulk. Federico also explained that this guy is sex-deprived by his prudish girlfriend, so I said Federico should get him a pregnancy test kit.
On the way to the party, Diana, myself, Federico and Federico's girlfriend Sarah are in the car. Federico explained to me that when he goes to California in the summer time, he is often made fun of because the subtleties of English pronounciation escape him. For example, the difference between 'three' and 'tree'. For further example, the difference between 'beach' and 'bitch'. For even further example, the difference between 'can't' and, well, guess. I suppose I too would be a bit shocked if I asked someone to do something and they replied 'sorry, can't' with slightly different articulation. After, we discussed more serious things, like racism in the United States, and our prison system. Federico was shocked to learn that the death penalty exists not exclusively in Texas as he had thought, but in 38 out of the 50 states in the Union. We also talked a bit about Obama, a subject that has earned my fellow citizens - regardless of their political pursuation - the returned amity and gratitude of millions of Europeans who'd been... less than overjoyed about the Bush presidency.
We arrived at the party after it had officially finished, but then again, so had everyone else, so no one minded. Maybe that's how Italians normally do things - in which case, I'd get along well. I find it normal for myself to be casually late anywhere between two and six hours after the fact. Being announced in introduction as an anglophone, I was thus used as practice for the Italians to spruce up their English, or to show off. When the Italians speak English, it is a lot more beautiful than when the French speak English. I don't like the French speaking English to me. It grates the ears. Anyways, this is the first conversation I have after sitting down:
"You like the dog?" says the birthday boy, whose house we are at. He points to the Golden Retreiver at my feet.
"Yes, she's beautiful," I reply and pet her.
"She is pregnant," he continues. "We know this because yesterday, she fuck."
'Okay. Well, spacca!' I think to myself. He goes on, "Yeah, she fuck yesterday. The male dog, he also a golden retriever. His owner, he want a thousand euro for to have sex."
"A thousand euro? Wow."
"Yeah, I tell him I would do it for five hundred." This statement, in perfect English, would leave me to believe that this guy I am talking to would be willing to impregnate his dog for five hundred euro. Well, maybe his girlfriend has just pushed him that far. The rest of the party wasn't especially interesting. There was free cake, which was tasty, and a couple of Federico's friends sang and dance to some pop songs from the US, which were amusingly bad, but other than that, nothing. We went home, I packed up my things, took an altogether too short nap, and began my journey out of Milan.
I feel that it is important to mention that all good things must come in moderation. As much as I have enjoyed being in Milan these last two days, I never adjust to the sense of abject fear and rage-enducing sense of delay that is inspired by having to get places. For my flight from Milan to Berlin, I woke up three hours after going to sleep, dressed in the dark, bid fairwell to Federico, dragged my suticases out the door, and began the slog to the metro. I don't think a word exists for the feeling of being burdened with the (dead) weight of a not-so-small child or a very big dog, distributed between two suitcases (which have the annoying habit of swinging apart from one another when you least desire them to) and a backpack, and having to make your way, terrified that you'll be irrevocably late, across a foreign city to a place you can only hope will be where you want it. Harried is what I come up with - a feeling of being perpetually attacked or harassed. The Milan Central station is a monument - in the truest sense of the word - to the legacy of Benito Mussolini and fascist Italy. It is enormous. It looks like what the Greeks would have built if they'd had steam power, an Art Deco bent, and money being thrown at them left and right. Luckily, I found the bus and got on, and everything was alright. Still, I very much miss my car and the flexibility it provides.
I will also remark on the irony of well made plans that go awry because of one critical error at the start. In Chemistry, in high school, my lab partner Brian and I would have grades that would be only slightly separate - mine being the lower one. The reason for this is because during the long mathematical calculations integral to chemistry, I would often make some small mistake at the start, and that would throw off everything. I'd come to almost the correct conclusion, having followed all the steps, but it's that one mistake at the start that screws you. This story I use as an analogy for my problem that upon arriving at the Milan airport. Having suffered hauling my bags across town, sweating with fear, repacking all my things carefully so my checked bag weighed only 15 kilos (and thus redistributing the remaining 25 either on my person or in the carryon; a true beach of a task) and finally striding over to the check-in counter, I am told that I have booked the flight for January 21st, and not December 21st. The feeling I felt there was similar to having someone jump out at you to scare you, only you feel it all in slow motion. In my brain the process was something like, "Oh." Followed by, "Well, this is interesting." Followed by, "Very interesting indeed." Followed by a pause. Followed by a chorus of wrathful oaths against God, my own shortsightedness, this horrible can't of an airline, and just for good measure Silvio Berlusconi who was no doubt behind it all. My brain is essentially thrown off track. Like anything that goes of track, whether a brain or a car or what have you, the immediate idea is to get back on track, regardless of what damage or consequences might follow. For a driver, the risk is overcorrecting and swerving into oncoming traffic or flipping the car. For my brain, it was not thinking about anything except getting another ticket, hang the cost. Luckily, there were still spots available. Unluckily, the cost was... not small. Sufficed to say that my Christmas present from all of you will be this short hop over the Alps. After that humiliation, I still had to trudge through security carrying fifty-five pounds of crap, straining to hold everything up, sweating like a heavy-weight boxer, and still in mental shock over my error in calculation. I am now onboard the plane to Berlin. Tomorrow, I will meet Anja and begin my two-week sojourn in Germany. I plan on getting to my hostel, sleeping for an inordinately long time, and then going to meet her. The moral of this story is to be careful to check and double-check your work, lest you make an error that compounds the end result. Besides these hellish disasters, I have enjoyed my brief glimpse of Italy a lot. It looks good, it sounds good, it tastes good, and what I had intended to be a check off the list of countries visited has only made me realize how much more there is and to want to come back and explore it more. Buon notte, gutten nacht, and good night!
P.S. (from Berlin) My friend Ping also tells me that the box of various things - including my rock and map collection - that she had offered to bring back to the US for me ended up being sent with our friend Paige, who was told she couldn't bring it in her carry-on. Yeah, I should have mailed it all. Yeah, I should've left explicit instructions in the case it couldn't be mailed. Perhaps I just shouldn't collect things. I think if I find an open fire somewhere, I'll go throw in my film and my camera too. Great. Fuck you, life. So, I guess the important lesson is never, ever leave home. Also, never, ever entrust things to other people. Also, just in general goddamnit all to hell.
I've now had a little bit more time to breathe deep and realize that, as Dad recently put it, I am still alright. I'm healthy (if a little disheveled), I'm not lost, nor am I freezing, and I am lucky to be where I am. I think I am just a bit too tired to express myself as best as I can.
or Why I'm Never Leaving The US Again
This has been written piecemeal, starting on Saturday in Milan and continuing to the present moment in Berlin. If at any point I change tone, well, the events that have passed during that time should be an influencing factor. Needless to say, it has been interesting. Federico, my host from couchsurfing has been extremely hospitable and has shown me about Milan in a way in which I otherwise would never have had. My total lack of ability to speak Italian coupled with the languages difference from French and English would've made going around by myself nearly impossible. As it has turned out, I've eaten well, slept well, visited well, and met a number of quite interesting people.
First of all, there is Federico, my host. He lives with his parents near the Porta Genova station in southern Milan. His house is in an old smelting plant complex that has now been (beautifully) turned into private homes. His own home is enormous and wonderfully decorated; so much so that it is frequently used as a setting for advertisements, as it was the day I arrived. Apparently that day, it was the Barilla pasta company. Federico's mother, Barbara, sounds and looks like any Italian mother, smoky voice (because she smokes) with dark hair and a lovely expressive manner that indeed does use the hands a lot. All stereotypes, I've found, are based in some part in truth. Federico also informed me she's recently taken up smoking pot, as we discovered coming home the other night. His father, Roberto, I only briefly saw twice, is the editor of one of the daily papers in Milan. His brother, Francesco, is 12, and unlike my impression of most twelve-year-olds (or even seventeen-year-olds, as my host brother proved) he was not a little shit. Pardon the explitive. There were also a whole slew of Federico's friends, his girlfriend, and Diana, another couchsurfer from San Sebastien in the Basque Country of Spain.
Second, there are Federico's friends. I find Italian, like Spanish, to be a lovely language. French is lovely too, but in a subtle, soft sort of way. Italian and Spanish are languages that make you really feel like you're doing something with your mouth. Lots of zz's and rr's and ch's and ss's and tz's. French is muffled in that regard. Federico and his friends introduced me to little bits of Italian slang as well. Whereas the people of central and southern Italy speak dialects of Italian, the Italians of the North (like where Milan is) actually speak pure Italian. However, not content to be themselves, they have opted to mixing their Italian with a whole slew of slang particular only to the city. To say 'What's up?' in standard Italian would be 'como esti' - similar to French or Spanish - but in Milan, they say 'bella zio' - literally, beautiful uncle. Similarly, they have 'spacca' or 'it breaks' to say 'cool!' or 'that rocks!' and 'sbatti' or 'a scramble' for something that is stupid and a waste of time. I also learned the important phrase, 'lei e' ubriaca' or 'she is drunk'. Good to know! Despite my linguistic insight into the Italian language, any effort to speak the language would result in something like me reading a guide book. For questions like 'Where is the Duomo?' or 'How much does this cost?', I'm sure what I'd actually be saying would be 'Yes, the eels are patriotic, Gloria Estefani sneezes at them' or 'Twice now I have had carpal tunnel, once in May and once with your dog'. For more complex statements like 'I like Milan a lot. I'll have to come back one day', I can only assume I am saying 'Milan irritates my teeth like a wet airplane on crack. I have photographs of Silvio Berlusconi naked with the Pope, I will trade you five goats and your grandmother for them."
The events of my time here have been interesting. My bus ride from Montpellier - all 11 hours of it - was not the worst experience of my life, but would probably rate among the top five. Thank god there were no screaming children on board, or I might have just suffocated myself with my gloves. Perhaps that helped to realign my karmic balance, as the rest of my time up to this moment has been spectacular. I had no problem getting to where Federico had told me to meet him, even with my 40 kilos of luggage (88 lbs, more than half my weight) in three suitcases in tow - as well as a bag of groceries, my camera and the ridiculous red poster I got in Ireland (yes Anna, I still have it). After meeting him, he and I headed off on foot to check out the Duomo. Apparently I had had my monumental knowledge (literally, my knowledge of monuments) of Milan confused with that of Florence. Then again, my preformed ideas of Italy are a mix of Roman ruins, Tuscan vineyards, the Venetian canals, Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Alfa Romeos, Mazerattis, and the mafia walking down the street while broad, old men sit gesticulating wildly outside shops, consuming enormous amounts of pasta, and admiring how beautiful all the women are. Like France, Italy is full of beautiful people. Europe is full of beautiful people. Except the English. The English on the whole have been homely to ugly. Maybe it's because I can understand what they are saying that I like them less.
While walking around the Duomo - a 14th-century gothic church that is probably the most impressive edifice to God I've ever been in - Federico pointed out the demonstrators for not just one but two of the official Fascist parties in Italy. Mussolini would be proud(?) to know that his legacy has continued to present day. However, for the millions of Italians and thousands of soldiers of the Allied armies who fought against him, I'm not so sure they'd enjoy this rejuvenation. It was also explained to me that despite the fact that fascism is officially banned in the Italian constitution, these two political parties represent a significant force in the government. These mad, mad Europeans. Still though, who am I to let a bit of right-wing extremism dampen my day. Federico told me he couldn't go into the Duomo because he'd burst into flames, so I went in while he and his friend visited the rock and roll exhibit that was set up in the plaza. (Note: one of the lesser known parts of Vatican II was to construct a giant orbital laser beam that would incinerate any non-practicing Roman Catholic trying to visit a church without returning to the faith. It's the #2 cause of death in Italy, after death-by-tortellini). I can't speak to the hsitory of the Duomo, as I only glanced at the wikipedia article. What I can say is is that it is huge. I could easily fit all my possessions, plus the possessions of my entire family, deconstruct our house, drain our lake, and then maybe excavate the acreage of our property and stow it within the walls of the cathedral with no problem. That, plus an ornately styled marble floor and a vaulted ceiling roughly one-hundred feet or so above my head made it all quite cool.
After the Duomo, we went around to the Via Montenapoleono, which is the major fashion street in Milan. It is subtler and less showy than the Champs Elysées in Paris or... those places where The Devil Wears Prada was shot. Okay, so I don't know much about fashion. Still, the stores there and the clothes and accessories inside were no less impressive. A pair of ruby slippers? 1,250 euro. A Bvlgari necklace? 49,000 euro. Armani shoelaces? 200 euro. Federico told me that even if it doesn't look like it, Milan has a greater concentration of fashion houses and designers than either Paris or New York. Even September, during the Milan Fashion Week, he works as a steward for various events, and basically is beside himself as a stream of beautiful women pass by where he lives. What a truly grueling job that must be. We then went to see the Castello Sfazia (I think it was called that) which is the ducal castle of the Visconti Dynasty of Milan. It was a lot different from other castles I've seen in Europe in that it was in the middle of a city, but was not palatial. It was very much a defensive castle. Sure it looked night, but it would be a practical place to hole up against say, a barbarian horde, or even your own revolting peasants. We wandered afterwards, but Federico explained that Milan is not really like Paris or Rome with a ton of monuments and famous buildings. It's possible to see the whole place in two days. Finally, we went home for lunch, which Federico cooked. We had penne in tomato sauce - simple but very tasty. He also confirmed in explaining how to make pasta and the sauce that my family has been doing it correctly all along.
Saturday afternoon, we walked around some more. I can't recall what we saw. My ever-growing collection of photos will no doubt remind me in six months time. Eventually though, Federico had to go drop something off for his mother, so he left Diana and I to have lunch at a mozzarella bar that he recommended. For all the delicious cheeses of France, they simply don't have an equivalent for the wet white cheese of Italian fame. Besides parmesan, it is perhaps the most famous of Italian cheeses, and not without reason. In Italy, it doesn't get better. My lunch of a big ball of mozzarella with strips of Tuscan prosciutto I can probably say ranks among my top five meals of my life. Magnifico. After lunch, Diana and I walked back to the Duomo and started to head back to Federico's. However, it being a Saturday, and Saturdays being big things in Italy, we were literally elbowing our way through waves of people coming in the opposite direction. It wasn't uncommon to see people just stop in the middle of the sidewalk, in groups of four of five, and start talking. Sometimes they'd try to monopolize the whole sidewalk, with half the party looking into shop windows while the other half behind them near the street pointed at what the others should look at. This, couple with the constant possibility that a car will drive half-way up the sidewalk to park, made getting back a long and tiring process.
We arrived home, picked up some takeout sushi (nothing will ever compare to the real stuff except more of the real stuff), and watched Young Frankenstein. Diana thought it would be a horror movie and so was reluctant to watch it. We convinced her otherwise, and she enjoyed it. After the movie though, more serious business needed tending. Federico's girlfriend Sarah had gotten wind that Diana was staying at his house. Despite the fact that the two have been dating for five years, Sarah decided to become irrationally jealous that there would be a woman sleeping in Federico's house (Diana was sleeping in the basement while I shared Federico's room on a cot). Rather than explain the situation to his girlfriend, Federico decided it would be better to come up with a complicated scheme whereby Diana would be presented as a friend of mine who had been in Milan staying at a hostel and who had not been able to book for a second night. Out of kindness, Federico had offered to put her up, and that was to be the scoop. Luckily, Sarah bought it all and Federico was out of the doghouse.
Saturday evening, Federico brought Diana and I out to a party. This party was a birthday party for one of Federico's friends. This guy - whose name if I picked up ever I have now forgotten - decided to throw himself and his girlfriend a birthday party via a Facebook e-mail, from 8PM to 11PM. In it, he also put a list of presents that he wanted and stated that the reason for this list was to avoid duplicates. As Federico pointed out to me, first of all, this guy is a dick. Second, who throws a party for themselves, demands presents, and then kicks the guests out at 11? So, as retaliation, Federico and his friends decided to select the cheapest, most useless present they could find, and get it for this guy in bulk. Federico also explained that this guy is sex-deprived by his prudish girlfriend, so I said Federico should get him a pregnancy test kit.
On the way to the party, Diana, myself, Federico and Federico's girlfriend Sarah are in the car. Federico explained to me that when he goes to California in the summer time, he is often made fun of because the subtleties of English pronounciation escape him. For example, the difference between 'three' and 'tree'. For further example, the difference between 'beach' and 'bitch'. For even further example, the difference between 'can't' and, well, guess. I suppose I too would be a bit shocked if I asked someone to do something and they replied 'sorry, can't' with slightly different articulation. After, we discussed more serious things, like racism in the United States, and our prison system. Federico was shocked to learn that the death penalty exists not exclusively in Texas as he had thought, but in 38 out of the 50 states in the Union. We also talked a bit about Obama, a subject that has earned my fellow citizens - regardless of their political pursuation - the returned amity and gratitude of millions of Europeans who'd been... less than overjoyed about the Bush presidency.
We arrived at the party after it had officially finished, but then again, so had everyone else, so no one minded. Maybe that's how Italians normally do things - in which case, I'd get along well. I find it normal for myself to be casually late anywhere between two and six hours after the fact. Being announced in introduction as an anglophone, I was thus used as practice for the Italians to spruce up their English, or to show off. When the Italians speak English, it is a lot more beautiful than when the French speak English. I don't like the French speaking English to me. It grates the ears. Anyways, this is the first conversation I have after sitting down:
"You like the dog?" says the birthday boy, whose house we are at. He points to the Golden Retreiver at my feet.
"Yes, she's beautiful," I reply and pet her.
"She is pregnant," he continues. "We know this because yesterday, she fuck."
'Okay. Well, spacca!' I think to myself. He goes on, "Yeah, she fuck yesterday. The male dog, he also a golden retriever. His owner, he want a thousand euro for to have sex."
"A thousand euro? Wow."
"Yeah, I tell him I would do it for five hundred." This statement, in perfect English, would leave me to believe that this guy I am talking to would be willing to impregnate his dog for five hundred euro. Well, maybe his girlfriend has just pushed him that far. The rest of the party wasn't especially interesting. There was free cake, which was tasty, and a couple of Federico's friends sang and dance to some pop songs from the US, which were amusingly bad, but other than that, nothing. We went home, I packed up my things, took an altogether too short nap, and began my journey out of Milan.
I feel that it is important to mention that all good things must come in moderation. As much as I have enjoyed being in Milan these last two days, I never adjust to the sense of abject fear and rage-enducing sense of delay that is inspired by having to get places. For my flight from Milan to Berlin, I woke up three hours after going to sleep, dressed in the dark, bid fairwell to Federico, dragged my suticases out the door, and began the slog to the metro. I don't think a word exists for the feeling of being burdened with the (dead) weight of a not-so-small child or a very big dog, distributed between two suitcases (which have the annoying habit of swinging apart from one another when you least desire them to) and a backpack, and having to make your way, terrified that you'll be irrevocably late, across a foreign city to a place you can only hope will be where you want it. Harried is what I come up with - a feeling of being perpetually attacked or harassed. The Milan Central station is a monument - in the truest sense of the word - to the legacy of Benito Mussolini and fascist Italy. It is enormous. It looks like what the Greeks would have built if they'd had steam power, an Art Deco bent, and money being thrown at them left and right. Luckily, I found the bus and got on, and everything was alright. Still, I very much miss my car and the flexibility it provides.
I will also remark on the irony of well made plans that go awry because of one critical error at the start. In Chemistry, in high school, my lab partner Brian and I would have grades that would be only slightly separate - mine being the lower one. The reason for this is because during the long mathematical calculations integral to chemistry, I would often make some small mistake at the start, and that would throw off everything. I'd come to almost the correct conclusion, having followed all the steps, but it's that one mistake at the start that screws you. This story I use as an analogy for my problem that upon arriving at the Milan airport. Having suffered hauling my bags across town, sweating with fear, repacking all my things carefully so my checked bag weighed only 15 kilos (and thus redistributing the remaining 25 either on my person or in the carryon; a true beach of a task) and finally striding over to the check-in counter, I am told that I have booked the flight for January 21st, and not December 21st. The feeling I felt there was similar to having someone jump out at you to scare you, only you feel it all in slow motion. In my brain the process was something like, "Oh." Followed by, "Well, this is interesting." Followed by, "Very interesting indeed." Followed by a pause. Followed by a chorus of wrathful oaths against God, my own shortsightedness, this horrible can't of an airline, and just for good measure Silvio Berlusconi who was no doubt behind it all. My brain is essentially thrown off track. Like anything that goes of track, whether a brain or a car or what have you, the immediate idea is to get back on track, regardless of what damage or consequences might follow. For a driver, the risk is overcorrecting and swerving into oncoming traffic or flipping the car. For my brain, it was not thinking about anything except getting another ticket, hang the cost. Luckily, there were still spots available. Unluckily, the cost was... not small. Sufficed to say that my Christmas present from all of you will be this short hop over the Alps. After that humiliation, I still had to trudge through security carrying fifty-five pounds of crap, straining to hold everything up, sweating like a heavy-weight boxer, and still in mental shock over my error in calculation. I am now onboard the plane to Berlin. Tomorrow, I will meet Anja and begin my two-week sojourn in Germany. I plan on getting to my hostel, sleeping for an inordinately long time, and then going to meet her. The moral of this story is to be careful to check and double-check your work, lest you make an error that compounds the end result. Besides these hellish disasters, I have enjoyed my brief glimpse of Italy a lot. It looks good, it sounds good, it tastes good, and what I had intended to be a check off the list of countries visited has only made me realize how much more there is and to want to come back and explore it more. Buon notte, gutten nacht, and good night!
P.S. (from Berlin) My friend Ping also tells me that the box of various things - including my rock and map collection - that she had offered to bring back to the US for me ended up being sent with our friend Paige, who was told she couldn't bring it in her carry-on. Yeah, I should have mailed it all. Yeah, I should've left explicit instructions in the case it couldn't be mailed. Perhaps I just shouldn't collect things. I think if I find an open fire somewhere, I'll go throw in my film and my camera too. Great. Fuck you, life. So, I guess the important lesson is never, ever leave home. Also, never, ever entrust things to other people. Also, just in general goddamnit all to hell.
I've now had a little bit more time to breathe deep and realize that, as Dad recently put it, I am still alright. I'm healthy (if a little disheveled), I'm not lost, nor am I freezing, and I am lucky to be where I am. I think I am just a bit too tired to express myself as best as I can.
12.18.2008
Gone!
I'm all packed, have said my goodbyes, am still wondering how I'll fool the RyanAir people into thinking my 40-odd kilos of baggage are actually 25 (needless to say, I'll be looking like a cold, cold hobo for about three hours on Sunday), and will soon miss this lovely place and all its lovely people.
For the next two weeks, I'll be in Berlin (or around Berlin). If you need to get a hold of me, call my US cellphone. It should be the surest way to reach me, but please save it for an emergency. It's expensive. If you just want to get a hold of me, e-mail or facebook will be checked on a semi-regular basis. Other than that, I will be out of normal communications until the end of January! Expect intermittent letters, postcards and the like. Au revoir! Je vous aime lots and lots.
For the next two weeks, I'll be in Berlin (or around Berlin). If you need to get a hold of me, call my US cellphone. It should be the surest way to reach me, but please save it for an emergency. It's expensive. If you just want to get a hold of me, e-mail or facebook will be checked on a semi-regular basis. Other than that, I will be out of normal communications until the end of January! Expect intermittent letters, postcards and the like. Au revoir! Je vous aime lots and lots.
12.15.2008
Going, going...
Today is Monday the 15th of December. In Montpellier, it is currently a full 50 degrees warmer than in Minnesota. And it's only 44F here. It's strange to be in a place where fall lasts until the winter solstice. Anyways, enough of the weather.
I finished my last paper, took my last exam, and now I am in the process of packing, weighing, throwing things out, picking things up, putting things down, picking them up again, looking things over, asking myself 'Why the hell do I still have this,' then taking the next half hour to come up with some excuse to keep it, bundling things, unbundling things, putting things in boxes one way, putting things in boxes another way, putting the boxes inside other boxes, putting the boxes in suitcases, putting myself in boxes, eating the boxes, wondering 'Why the hell did I just eat a box? Now I have to get a new box', getting a new box, slapping my wrist when I try to eat the new box, vomiting up the old box, wondering if I can still use it, deciding against it, fiddling with the new box, putting stuff in it, taking stuff out of it, throwing it out the window causing a car to swerve into the side of a building, taking out a load-bearing wall, leading to the collapse of half the building which then ruptures the gas line that conflagrates into a five-alarm fire, deciding I should just make do with the old box, piecing it together with duct tape, trying to fit things in it despite looking like and being a lump of wet cardboard, being screamed at by my host family that the neighborhood is on fire, ignoring them as I devise an ingenious plan to construct a new box out of an mismatched sock and three square meters of vinyl I found in the alleyway, and finally deciding to give up as the floor supporting all my things has just collapsed into the growing blaze, consuming them in a fireball and burning off my eyebrows.
In all seriousness though, I am almost done with being in France. Contrary to my last post, I'm not all that bothered by it anymore. A lot of people have already left, and I'll be leaving in a few days anyways. True, I will likely not see a lot of these people for a while, if ever, but c'mon, I can't worry about every little thing. I can barely summon the energy to finish this entry without giving up. It took me an hour to write this paragraph! Gah! More later. Maybe.
I finished my last paper, took my last exam, and now I am in the process of packing, weighing, throwing things out, picking things up, putting things down, picking them up again, looking things over, asking myself 'Why the hell do I still have this,' then taking the next half hour to come up with some excuse to keep it, bundling things, unbundling things, putting things in boxes one way, putting things in boxes another way, putting the boxes inside other boxes, putting the boxes in suitcases, putting myself in boxes, eating the boxes, wondering 'Why the hell did I just eat a box? Now I have to get a new box', getting a new box, slapping my wrist when I try to eat the new box, vomiting up the old box, wondering if I can still use it, deciding against it, fiddling with the new box, putting stuff in it, taking stuff out of it, throwing it out the window causing a car to swerve into the side of a building, taking out a load-bearing wall, leading to the collapse of half the building which then ruptures the gas line that conflagrates into a five-alarm fire, deciding I should just make do with the old box, piecing it together with duct tape, trying to fit things in it despite looking like and being a lump of wet cardboard, being screamed at by my host family that the neighborhood is on fire, ignoring them as I devise an ingenious plan to construct a new box out of an mismatched sock and three square meters of vinyl I found in the alleyway, and finally deciding to give up as the floor supporting all my things has just collapsed into the growing blaze, consuming them in a fireball and burning off my eyebrows.
In all seriousness though, I am almost done with being in France. Contrary to my last post, I'm not all that bothered by it anymore. A lot of people have already left, and I'll be leaving in a few days anyways. True, I will likely not see a lot of these people for a while, if ever, but c'mon, I can't worry about every little thing. I can barely summon the energy to finish this entry without giving up. It took me an hour to write this paragraph! Gah! More later. Maybe.
12.04.2008
This Damn Country
I distinctly remember my first day in Montpellier - I had just left my British-commune hostel in Carcassonne, I was fast running out of money (which I continue to do), and I was feeling aloof, mixed with homesick and arrogant. I had no interest in "mixing" with the other Americans when I finally arrived at our dorm housing - having hauled my 80-odd pounds of luggage up a hill for two hours in the rain. I had no interest in becoming friends with them. I was quite content to just do my own thing. Oh how silly I was back then.
I've spent four months in Europe. This is the longest I have been away from home. Through necessity as much as desire (read: desire as much as necessity) I've found myself transforming my surroundings into a second home. It is hard to live in a place and not invest yourself into it if you want to have a normal time. It is one thing to be traveling all the time and enjoy a city or not. It is a different thing altogether to make yourself at home in a new place. Much to my shock, I'm finding I will miss Montpellier, my life here, and my friends.
For months now, I've been hearing people say how much they miss me, and how they want me to come back home, and even - though I don't believe it - that life just isn't the same without me. It's touching to hear that, granted, but it was a temporary thing - I'd be back in a long time, but I'd be back. Something lately has been happening, a thing that I did not anticipate and for which I had not planned. I hear, now and again, my friends who will be staying or going elsewhere telling me how much they will miss me.
Well damnit, I will miss everyone I've had the privilege of knowing here too! It has been a long four months, but in many ways it's still been altogether too short. And the difficult thing is that while going back to my home and Macalester and all the people who are there will be returning to a fixed thing, I can never again return to the same Montpellier. The people who are here are here only for a finite time, and then they'll uproot like me and take off for the four corners. That makes it particularly sad, that I will never be at a bar or in class or even walking down the street and see someone I know (let's face it, I can count the number of French friends I have on my fingers, and none of them even live in Montpellier). Thirteen days from now, I'll be off to see the rest of Europe, and while I have to good fortune to have some wonderful friends waiting for me along the way, it will nonetheless be bittersweet to leave. Humph.
While I could say "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," I find that to be campy quite frankly. Instead, I'd rather say, oh, I don't know, "Here's to all of you, the fine memories, and everything in between!"
I've spent four months in Europe. This is the longest I have been away from home. Through necessity as much as desire (read: desire as much as necessity) I've found myself transforming my surroundings into a second home. It is hard to live in a place and not invest yourself into it if you want to have a normal time. It is one thing to be traveling all the time and enjoy a city or not. It is a different thing altogether to make yourself at home in a new place. Much to my shock, I'm finding I will miss Montpellier, my life here, and my friends.
For months now, I've been hearing people say how much they miss me, and how they want me to come back home, and even - though I don't believe it - that life just isn't the same without me. It's touching to hear that, granted, but it was a temporary thing - I'd be back in a long time, but I'd be back. Something lately has been happening, a thing that I did not anticipate and for which I had not planned. I hear, now and again, my friends who will be staying or going elsewhere telling me how much they will miss me.
Well damnit, I will miss everyone I've had the privilege of knowing here too! It has been a long four months, but in many ways it's still been altogether too short. And the difficult thing is that while going back to my home and Macalester and all the people who are there will be returning to a fixed thing, I can never again return to the same Montpellier. The people who are here are here only for a finite time, and then they'll uproot like me and take off for the four corners. That makes it particularly sad, that I will never be at a bar or in class or even walking down the street and see someone I know (let's face it, I can count the number of French friends I have on my fingers, and none of them even live in Montpellier). Thirteen days from now, I'll be off to see the rest of Europe, and while I have to good fortune to have some wonderful friends waiting for me along the way, it will nonetheless be bittersweet to leave. Humph.
While I could say "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," I find that to be campy quite frankly. Instead, I'd rather say, oh, I don't know, "Here's to all of you, the fine memories, and everything in between!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
