I had a recent discussion with a friend about words that are difficult to translate into other languages. She pointed out that it tells a lot about the society and people, these culturally-bound concepts. Her example was Gemütlichkeit - .
Mine is serendipity, which apparently is one of the ten most difficult English words to translate. I have always said that I have a "good star" - it's most notable for helping me find parking spots (parallel parking skills don't hurt). But it's something more. It's something that deposits just the right kind of friend when you need one, something that delivers you into a new work situation when the old one grates, something that finds you that perfect item to compliment your new outfit buried in the clearance rack.
We have many jobs on this planet - but one of them might be opening ourselves up to both coziness and insight.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/07/science/07brain.html?ref=science
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
50K and counting
Where do bloggers go when they disappear? This one finished her first novel during NaNoWriMo. I almost want to say "novel" because it's difficult to know what will become of this one. I don't think it will end up winning any book awards, like Haruki Murakami, but I learned something I didn't know before and that seems darned good enough: apparently, I can write 50,000 words in 30 days, or if we want to be precise about it, 29 days, or even more precise, 23-ish days (too much precision is bad for you) - because I took some days off, yes I did, and if you think I wrote in my novel on Turkey Day, you have another think coming.
And just how did I accomplish this, you may ask? (Or, you may not, but because I'm in charge here - ha ha that's secret awesome thing number twelve about being a writer - let's pretend that you asked). Well, the answer is visualization. I pictured myself in a future where I'm still around, telling some interested person who also asks questions, "How did you come to write your first novel?" and I would say, "Well I found myself with an awful lot of time on my hands one November and my mother was seredipitously visiting and looking for something for us to do and found this writer's workshop and it was mid-October and they talked about this crazy thing called NaNoWriMo and I went for it."
No, no, no, you've got it all wrong, story-teller. Visualization didn't get anyone anywhere unless you count the time that some unnamed person that I know (not me) took LSD and climbed up in a tree and was happy to be sober later and not have fallen out. What got me to 50K plus words was something more like this new favorite quote about writing, by our dear terse friend Mr. Hemingway:
Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail.
I suppose I already gave it away, that I don't work every day, but only work-a-holics feel the need to do that, and that is not me, no sir Mr. Bob. I do better when I rest and eat and exercise and I ran three miles today before coming home and making a white sauce with onion juice to pour on my baked potatoes and leftover turkey and sesame oil-drizzled green beans. And then, I sat myself down, and pounded out my final 600 or so words, and went to the handy dandy word verifier at the NaNoWriMo site and got my webpage with certificates and shamelessly ordered myself a t-shirt that says "winner." Because the best contests are with yourself. I learned that this month, too (or in the past several months of Crash Course in Life and Living in the Moment). In the end (and in the beginning and middle, also), our greatest pain and freedom originate from our own mind and the silly things we do with it.
Two new favorite books that would make the world a better place if everyone read them:
When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron
Stillness Speaks by Eckhart Tolle
Isn't he just the most charming and wise man in a gold vest that you've ever seen?
And just how did I accomplish this, you may ask? (Or, you may not, but because I'm in charge here - ha ha that's secret awesome thing number twelve about being a writer - let's pretend that you asked). Well, the answer is visualization. I pictured myself in a future where I'm still around, telling some interested person who also asks questions, "How did you come to write your first novel?" and I would say, "Well I found myself with an awful lot of time on my hands one November and my mother was seredipitously visiting and looking for something for us to do and found this writer's workshop and it was mid-October and they talked about this crazy thing called NaNoWriMo and I went for it."
No, no, no, you've got it all wrong, story-teller. Visualization didn't get anyone anywhere unless you count the time that some unnamed person that I know (not me) took LSD and climbed up in a tree and was happy to be sober later and not have fallen out. What got me to 50K plus words was something more like this new favorite quote about writing, by our dear terse friend Mr. Hemingway:
Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail.
I suppose I already gave it away, that I don't work every day, but only work-a-holics feel the need to do that, and that is not me, no sir Mr. Bob. I do better when I rest and eat and exercise and I ran three miles today before coming home and making a white sauce with onion juice to pour on my baked potatoes and leftover turkey and sesame oil-drizzled green beans. And then, I sat myself down, and pounded out my final 600 or so words, and went to the handy dandy word verifier at the NaNoWriMo site and got my webpage with certificates and shamelessly ordered myself a t-shirt that says "winner." Because the best contests are with yourself. I learned that this month, too (or in the past several months of Crash Course in Life and Living in the Moment). In the end (and in the beginning and middle, also), our greatest pain and freedom originate from our own mind and the silly things we do with it.
Two new favorite books that would make the world a better place if everyone read them:
When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron
Stillness Speaks by Eckhart Tolle
Isn't he just the most charming and wise man in a gold vest that you've ever seen?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
weekend highlights
Thursday, smooth arrival. Stop at massive Whole Foods lunch bar for cornucopia of healthy yet highly salted dishes. Inquiry after slipcovers at Macy's (they do not carry, and good thing because no longer needed). Crate and Barrel reminiscing; mostly sour. Shoe search, several loops at indoor/outdoor mall. Met a friendly, slightly distracted salesman named Don. Got double discounts for brand-new senior status and birthday month. The pair is cute with chic bows and tiny studs. Songs by women with big hearts who trickled into the pink room, growing from seven to eleven. "A Dream is a Wish the Heart Makes," though some dreams require modification along with hearts (aka breaking). Happy Birthday, two times through, some tears. End with Halloween round with witch's hatted Joan. Meaningful, coherent dream.
Friday, found coffee and The Hook. Gym visit; monkey machine after weights. No sightings. Home and rest. Running out of shoes to find ones that fit - back and forth, walking and jogging, dodging parents and undergrads. Free parking; a nice surprise. Onward to Micheal's, begin with a return. Three projects, at the end complete with Band-Aid detour. Natural foods: walnuts and cocoa energy chunks. Kroger milk and chicken dinner. Home again, nacho night and comforting. More pie.
Saturday, writer's workshop: new place, new people, NaNoWriMo (can you believe it). Soft lighting, a few pistachios. Dreams' beginning. Lunch in the space beyond "Adults Only Area": Mexican burrito - can I eat sour cream now? Circa circuit, nada. No Possessions Unrecycled. Recycling center, now closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. No goods at Goodwill. Home again: rest, chores, rest, walk. Up the hill - does it look different? Coming down, gaggles of booted adult-children. Home again; chicken potatoes kale salad. Pie-enhanced applesauce. Meaningful, coherent dream.
Sunday, sleep-in. Two loops - Old Farm Rd. Family on long walk. Home again - rearranging, like it better. Cozier, more coherent. Getting there. Leftovers lunch. Airport run, big hug. Phoned a friend; good advice. Smooth sailing a little at a time.
Friday, found coffee and The Hook. Gym visit; monkey machine after weights. No sightings. Home and rest. Running out of shoes to find ones that fit - back and forth, walking and jogging, dodging parents and undergrads. Free parking; a nice surprise. Onward to Micheal's, begin with a return. Three projects, at the end complete with Band-Aid detour. Natural foods: walnuts and cocoa energy chunks. Kroger milk and chicken dinner. Home again, nacho night and comforting. More pie.
Saturday, writer's workshop: new place, new people, NaNoWriMo (can you believe it). Soft lighting, a few pistachios. Dreams' beginning. Lunch in the space beyond "Adults Only Area": Mexican burrito - can I eat sour cream now? Circa circuit, nada. No Possessions Unrecycled. Recycling center, now closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. No goods at Goodwill. Home again: rest, chores, rest, walk. Up the hill - does it look different? Coming down, gaggles of booted adult-children. Home again; chicken potatoes kale salad. Pie-enhanced applesauce. Meaningful, coherent dream.
Sunday, sleep-in. Two loops - Old Farm Rd. Family on long walk. Home again - rearranging, like it better. Cozier, more coherent. Getting there. Leftovers lunch. Airport run, big hug. Phoned a friend; good advice. Smooth sailing a little at a time.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Jennifer Lee grows up
Jennifer Lee has always wanted to be famous. As a little girl, she craved the attention of her family, especially her daddy, and put on all sorts of shows – dancing, singing, and brief comedy acts – when she was small enough to be cute no matter what she did. As she grew older, she kept a dream in her heart that someday – any day now, really– she would be spotted by a scout and whisked off to Hollywood. She knew that once this happened, they (whoever “they” were, the people responsible for making other people famous) would straighten her slightly crooked teeth, and turn her hair from its mousy, stringy present state into a lush wavy gift to the world. She believed that famous people were just ordinary people that were discovered and then created, and she could think of no reason that this shouldn’t happen to her. (Wasn’t Tom Cruise awfully short with a big nose, anyway?).
For back-up, Jennifer Lee attended college and became a dental hygienist (no one, not even she, would ever connect her desire to help people have beautiful teeth with her own longing for a mouthful of straight and shiny). But, she didn’t worry about actually enjoying her chosen profession because she knew that one day, she’d be a movie actress. There were a few times in her early twenties when she felt the universe conspiring to help her dream come true. On these occasions, she tried as hard as she could to listen to the energy and be in the right place at the right time, so she could be “found”, like that Latina trophy wife from the TV show Modern Family. She worried about missing her chance at the fair that one day, wondering if the scout had passed on the other side of the Ferris Wheel from where she waited with her hair just styled and her make-up fancy. As she inched toward 30, a seed of doubt began to grow inside her, which she tried to ignore. However, it was hard not to notice that her Lucky and People and US Weekly magazines continued to be populated mainly with images of women 25 and under. Jennifer began to look at times supremely confident, and at other times simply uncertain.
For this young person, the Sweet Adelines competition has come at the time when she is beginning to consciously awaken to the reality of her life as an ordinary woman. This will turn out to be a wonderful thing, because she will eventually understand that there is no Prince Charming/Movie Star waiting for her in Hollywood, and she will let herself begin a relationship with a normal, kind, and utterly ordinary man who will love her, crooked teeth and all. But right now is not yet that time, and she is not quite ready to say goodbye to her dream. When she sings “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” Jennifer Lee feels muddled. She is close to (but not quite) understanding that she is saying goodbye to one dream while opening herself up to another, more fulfilling and genuine possibility. While singing this song, she feels confused, earnest, wistful, and sad. She has nurtured the dream of being famous for so long, that she feels guilty for betraying it when she thinks of Jerry, the man who fixes her sink, and settling down with him in a nice ranch house. When she sings “Powder Your Face,” this feels like a last ditch attempt at her dream – during this song, she convinces herself that she will be famous after all. She is nothing if not stubborn, and until she has irrefutable evidence to the contrary, or an awfully good alternative (again, Jerry comes to mind), she can persist in thinking of herself as the next Big Thing, the next face to grace People magazine. As the song ends though, Jennifer remembers that she is turning 30 soon, and might want to start a family. Movie stars always end up divorced, dead, or in rehab, anyway. Which is to say, Jennifer Lee is finally growing up.
The above is a character description of the young woman I will "play" at the Sweet Adelines competition in Winston-Salem for my chorus. This young woman is not me, but she is my age, and so - along the lines of "there but for the grace of God go I" - she seems like she could be. Alter-egos are interesting; they are both more and less than the real person. Spiderman and Batman and even Superman were "all that" but they also couldn't do certain things, like have normal families or sleep schedules, for example. They were vulnerable, too - which many of today's superheroes are not, according to this recent study. It suggests that boys today are limited to one of two choices: hypermasculine and aggressive, or a slacker. Not too encouraging given that today's world, and today's woman, calls for so much.
My cousin's alterego is called Jeffy Pumpkeen, invented mainly for Facebooking his brothers, I believe. I like the idea of developing a persona who can do things that we are unable to do, things that would make us too vulnerable if we did them ourselves. This persona can think the scary and real thoughts that we need to process but can't, quite. This persona can have dreams that sound silly if spoken aloud to real people. And this persona can converse over the internet so the real Us can keep a safe distance from the social hubbub that is Facebook.
This all sounds lovely, as long as some day we are able to confront our demons and assimilate our alter-ego into our own identities. Otherwise - unless you happen to be called Bruce Wayne - I think there is another name for it: multiple personality disorder. Or just plain lonely.
For back-up, Jennifer Lee attended college and became a dental hygienist (no one, not even she, would ever connect her desire to help people have beautiful teeth with her own longing for a mouthful of straight and shiny). But, she didn’t worry about actually enjoying her chosen profession because she knew that one day, she’d be a movie actress. There were a few times in her early twenties when she felt the universe conspiring to help her dream come true. On these occasions, she tried as hard as she could to listen to the energy and be in the right place at the right time, so she could be “found”, like that Latina trophy wife from the TV show Modern Family. She worried about missing her chance at the fair that one day, wondering if the scout had passed on the other side of the Ferris Wheel from where she waited with her hair just styled and her make-up fancy. As she inched toward 30, a seed of doubt began to grow inside her, which she tried to ignore. However, it was hard not to notice that her Lucky and People and US Weekly magazines continued to be populated mainly with images of women 25 and under. Jennifer began to look at times supremely confident, and at other times simply uncertain.
For this young person, the Sweet Adelines competition has come at the time when she is beginning to consciously awaken to the reality of her life as an ordinary woman. This will turn out to be a wonderful thing, because she will eventually understand that there is no Prince Charming/Movie Star waiting for her in Hollywood, and she will let herself begin a relationship with a normal, kind, and utterly ordinary man who will love her, crooked teeth and all. But right now is not yet that time, and she is not quite ready to say goodbye to her dream. When she sings “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes,” Jennifer Lee feels muddled. She is close to (but not quite) understanding that she is saying goodbye to one dream while opening herself up to another, more fulfilling and genuine possibility. While singing this song, she feels confused, earnest, wistful, and sad. She has nurtured the dream of being famous for so long, that she feels guilty for betraying it when she thinks of Jerry, the man who fixes her sink, and settling down with him in a nice ranch house. When she sings “Powder Your Face,” this feels like a last ditch attempt at her dream – during this song, she convinces herself that she will be famous after all. She is nothing if not stubborn, and until she has irrefutable evidence to the contrary, or an awfully good alternative (again, Jerry comes to mind), she can persist in thinking of herself as the next Big Thing, the next face to grace People magazine. As the song ends though, Jennifer remembers that she is turning 30 soon, and might want to start a family. Movie stars always end up divorced, dead, or in rehab, anyway. Which is to say, Jennifer Lee is finally growing up.
The above is a character description of the young woman I will "play" at the Sweet Adelines competition in Winston-Salem for my chorus. This young woman is not me, but she is my age, and so - along the lines of "there but for the grace of God go I" - she seems like she could be. Alter-egos are interesting; they are both more and less than the real person. Spiderman and Batman and even Superman were "all that" but they also couldn't do certain things, like have normal families or sleep schedules, for example. They were vulnerable, too - which many of today's superheroes are not, according to this recent study. It suggests that boys today are limited to one of two choices: hypermasculine and aggressive, or a slacker. Not too encouraging given that today's world, and today's woman, calls for so much.
My cousin's alterego is called Jeffy Pumpkeen, invented mainly for Facebooking his brothers, I believe. I like the idea of developing a persona who can do things that we are unable to do, things that would make us too vulnerable if we did them ourselves. This persona can think the scary and real thoughts that we need to process but can't, quite. This persona can have dreams that sound silly if spoken aloud to real people. And this persona can converse over the internet so the real Us can keep a safe distance from the social hubbub that is Facebook.
This all sounds lovely, as long as some day we are able to confront our demons and assimilate our alter-ego into our own identities. Otherwise - unless you happen to be called Bruce Wayne - I think there is another name for it: multiple personality disorder. Or just plain lonely.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
little miss froggie
Today for a quarter I bought a Long Frog (?) pin to go on my new GW jean jacket. You know how everyone looks like a certain type of animal? I kind of think I've always looked like a frog. I have no idea why and I realize that this makes no sense and that some of you (who have nothing better to do) will Google pictures of me and try to figure out the frog parts of Chiara. I couldn't really explain it, until I searched frog animal symbolism.
Now I get it: I'm all about evolution. In undergrad, I applied for a fellowship (which I didn't win) and we were asked to write 17,000 essays (ok, maybe 7, but it felt like a lot). One was about a book we read (I chose Anna Karenina), one was about our career goals, one was about - who knows - a challenge or "learning moment" which is my quartet calls it when someone goofs up. The essay I have in mind was a free skate, 10 single spaced pages (maybe 4) on whatever we liked. I wrote - get this - about personal growth. Ha! Double ha! Because at the ripe old age of 17 and a half, what on EARTH did I know about personal growth? (And really, I'm less than twice that now, so maybe I should just quit while I'm ahead and go watch more TV).
Regardless, I feel my whole life I've been motoring toward my destiny of evolution, which is to become an amphibian, apparently. Darwin would take issue with that but at least it works metaphorically. These lines from the site above are too good not to just pop in here, but do go visit the site because there is a funny lady who greets you at the top before you get to this part:
The frog undergoes incredible transformations to reach the destination of full adulthood, and so do we as humans...The frog understands what it is like to undergo some serious growing pains.
[Just an aside: I'm pretty sure there is no animal that symbolizes stagnation and stubborn unchangingness. It's kind of like when you read your horoscope and it makes you sound like you're a rock star and then you read all the other months and realize that everyone is a frickin' rock star. If the horoscope people didn't make everyone sound amazing most of the time who would buy all those silly magazines?]
But seriously, evolving. As a species we evolved to walk upright, have few offspring that we invest enormous amounts into, and eat a lot of corn (a good little evolver in its own right).
Ok, species are easy to figure out. What exactly are we here to do as individuals? A lot of people (including me) would say that we're here to learn how to love each other. One of my favorite professors would happily share his religion with anyone who agreed to listen for 2 minutes (and that's all it took): "I believe God is love and God manifests wherever humans are loving each other well." Simple huh? Not really, because I think to really love another being, we have to love ourselves. Not "if I were a little skinnier" or "if I earned more money" or "if I were a tiny little baby and hadn't made any mistakes, big or small, yet." The list of reasons NOT to love ourselves is very long, especially when we are squishy tadpoles. Unless we just burn the list up. Light that sucker on fire, dance and holler around the flames, and blow away the ashes when it's all that remains.
Now I get it: I'm all about evolution. In undergrad, I applied for a fellowship (which I didn't win) and we were asked to write 17,000 essays (ok, maybe 7, but it felt like a lot). One was about a book we read (I chose Anna Karenina), one was about our career goals, one was about - who knows - a challenge or "learning moment" which is my quartet calls it when someone goofs up. The essay I have in mind was a free skate, 10 single spaced pages (maybe 4) on whatever we liked. I wrote - get this - about personal growth. Ha! Double ha! Because at the ripe old age of 17 and a half, what on EARTH did I know about personal growth? (And really, I'm less than twice that now, so maybe I should just quit while I'm ahead and go watch more TV).
Regardless, I feel my whole life I've been motoring toward my destiny of evolution, which is to become an amphibian, apparently. Darwin would take issue with that but at least it works metaphorically. These lines from the site above are too good not to just pop in here, but do go visit the site because there is a funny lady who greets you at the top before you get to this part:
The frog undergoes incredible transformations to reach the destination of full adulthood, and so do we as humans...The frog understands what it is like to undergo some serious growing pains.
[Just an aside: I'm pretty sure there is no animal that symbolizes stagnation and stubborn unchangingness. It's kind of like when you read your horoscope and it makes you sound like you're a rock star and then you read all the other months and realize that everyone is a frickin' rock star. If the horoscope people didn't make everyone sound amazing most of the time who would buy all those silly magazines?]
But seriously, evolving. As a species we evolved to walk upright, have few offspring that we invest enormous amounts into, and eat a lot of corn (a good little evolver in its own right).
Ok, species are easy to figure out. What exactly are we here to do as individuals? A lot of people (including me) would say that we're here to learn how to love each other. One of my favorite professors would happily share his religion with anyone who agreed to listen for 2 minutes (and that's all it took): "I believe God is love and God manifests wherever humans are loving each other well." Simple huh? Not really, because I think to really love another being, we have to love ourselves. Not "if I were a little skinnier" or "if I earned more money" or "if I were a tiny little baby and hadn't made any mistakes, big or small, yet." The list of reasons NOT to love ourselves is very long, especially when we are squishy tadpoles. Unless we just burn the list up. Light that sucker on fire, dance and holler around the flames, and blow away the ashes when it's all that remains.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
two movies
Forgot to also mention that I bought 2 classic movies today: Fargo and Uncle Buck. Both involve the woods...quirky people...that might be where the similarities end. Add those to my tiny little DVD collection comprised of Little Miss Sunshine (did everyone else know that's an old nickname for Shirley Temple?) and Edward Scissorshands. Now I just need The Princess Bride and I'll be all set with the plot of my life: dark stupid criminals plus heroic crazy-yet-practical woman, oblivious crass and invasive relatives (no not really family, that part's a joke), a collection of bumbling, lovable-by-the-end searchers, and an outcast misunderstood warmhearted and terrifying artist.
good night, moon, and Dear God, thank you for sending the rain.
good night, moon, and Dear God, thank you for sending the rain.
two items
The loveseat was formerly owned by a couple, Ed and Florence. When Ed passed, Florence required a place for her daughter to sleep when visiting from the big city. But, in the tiny apartment that Florence chose when she downsized most of her life, there wasn't a reasonable place for a spare bed, or even a full-size pullout sofa sleeper. Florence recalled that Temple Furniture out of North Carolina used to make a twin-bed loveseat sleeper bed. Proud that she had recalled such an obscure fact, never before necessary in her life of extra bedrooms and otherwise spacious living, she called up Temple Furniture to inquire. Turns out they still made the twin-bed sleeper, selling "a lot to ladies like you," said Bob the salesman to a Florence, who wondered just how old she sounded. She chose a large, mostly neutral floral print, and had it placed in her living room kitty-corner from her red sofa. When Florence's daughter Sandra arrived, she remarked that it was cute and that it would do.
The blue cabinet was made by a whimsical gentleman who stained so many items accidentally with rings of black coffee that he began planning for it. The cabinet was for his granddaughter - his only grandchild and secretly his favorite living person in the world (he felt guilty choosing her over his son, a nice enough lad but not nearly as adorable as a baby as little Sally). She being 10 years old at the time, he designed it as small without being tiny - approachable, he thought. He chose a muted slate-ish blue and made it with simple lines, so that when Sally grew up and developed taste, she might still keep it around. He hoped for this in his subconscious, knowing that he himself might be not around when she made her adult decision about his cabinet. When he was in the garage one day, Sally came out and asked if he was going to stain it with his "coffee stuff like Grandma's ashes table." He shook his head, embarrassed that his wife's urn was on a hand-crafted old TV stand covering up a brown circle, but Sally went on to say "that would be real special, if you made it for me like you made Grandma's fine arresting place." Instead of a coffee ring he chose a dark walnut stain for the front board on the top, and it came out real nice, he thought. Sally said "hmmm, I guess this will do" and turned the two shelves behind the doors into a penthouse for her dolls.
The blue cabinet was made by a whimsical gentleman who stained so many items accidentally with rings of black coffee that he began planning for it. The cabinet was for his granddaughter - his only grandchild and secretly his favorite living person in the world (he felt guilty choosing her over his son, a nice enough lad but not nearly as adorable as a baby as little Sally). She being 10 years old at the time, he designed it as small without being tiny - approachable, he thought. He chose a muted slate-ish blue and made it with simple lines, so that when Sally grew up and developed taste, she might still keep it around. He hoped for this in his subconscious, knowing that he himself might be not around when she made her adult decision about his cabinet. When he was in the garage one day, Sally came out and asked if he was going to stain it with his "coffee stuff like Grandma's ashes table." He shook his head, embarrassed that his wife's urn was on a hand-crafted old TV stand covering up a brown circle, but Sally went on to say "that would be real special, if you made it for me like you made Grandma's fine arresting place." Instead of a coffee ring he chose a dark walnut stain for the front board on the top, and it came out real nice, he thought. Sally said "hmmm, I guess this will do" and turned the two shelves behind the doors into a penthouse for her dolls.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
two black bears
Today I went with my good friend E up Skyline Drive hike the Appalachian Trail, which has the coolest graphic:
Literally immediately after we got on the trail, we saw two black bears. The first was to our left, up a little incline, about 20 feet away. She looked right at us, and E said "I'm not scared, we're fine" and I decided to believe her. The bear looked at us for maybe 20 more seconds, and then ran off and made a snuffling noise that E (who became an expert on black bears this past summer, very convenient for today!) says is designed to sound intimidating. But luckily, there hasn't ever been a black bear attack in Virginia and since 75% of their nutrients come from plants (like our friend below; no I didn't take that picture), I wasn't scared that maybe I looked like brunch. We set off, only to go 10 steps and see another bear, this time down the trail from us maybe 50 feet away. This one took less time to decide to make herself scarce, and we both exclaimed about how amazing it was. E's dream each summer is see a black bear and she got two of them! And I was impressed at her black bear knowledge and glad we didn't get eaten, even though I didn't really think we would...
Later I learned what bears symbolize. For various reasons I'm looking forward to fall, but something tells me that this winter will be a good one for hibernating and preparing for big changes come spring. I don't know what they are, but I and my hungry self will be ready.
Literally immediately after we got on the trail, we saw two black bears. The first was to our left, up a little incline, about 20 feet away. She looked right at us, and E said "I'm not scared, we're fine" and I decided to believe her. The bear looked at us for maybe 20 more seconds, and then ran off and made a snuffling noise that E (who became an expert on black bears this past summer, very convenient for today!) says is designed to sound intimidating. But luckily, there hasn't ever been a black bear attack in Virginia and since 75% of their nutrients come from plants (like our friend below; no I didn't take that picture), I wasn't scared that maybe I looked like brunch. We set off, only to go 10 steps and see another bear, this time down the trail from us maybe 50 feet away. This one took less time to decide to make herself scarce, and we both exclaimed about how amazing it was. E's dream each summer is see a black bear and she got two of them! And I was impressed at her black bear knowledge and glad we didn't get eaten, even though I didn't really think we would...
Later I learned what bears symbolize. For various reasons I'm looking forward to fall, but something tells me that this winter will be a good one for hibernating and preparing for big changes come spring. I don't know what they are, but I and my hungry self will be ready.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Things I Learned on Sullivan's Island
At some point the flag people were going to add a stripe for each state, but when Kentucky and Tennessee joined (I think those states are correct), it got to 15 and started to look awful crowded. Then a resolution was passed to bring the stripes back to 13 for the original colonies and a star for each new state. Phew! We wouldn't want a cluttered flag...
Real forts are conceptually similar to the ones we all built as children in backyards and under coffee tables. They are burrowed-in places that are difficult to access and easy to defend from the inside. But I never had a control room or a maze for ammunition under my coffee table - I was happy with a blanket.
The Women's Army Corps was created in WWII (I think) so more men could go fight.
The slave trade ended officially in 1808 but continued in secret (or whatever it means when it continues but it's not suppposed to) after that.
Between 10 and 12 million Africans were forced to emigrate in the slave trade. About half of them passed through Charleston (of course I hope y'all will fact check me, if you are genuinely interested in knowing the actual for-real truth).
The Gullah people have retained aspects of their African culture unlike any other people. Words like "gumbo" have origins in the languages of West Africa.
Sullivan's Island has the coolest lighthouse I've ever seen.
On the shore when the wave goes out there are lots of little what look like blowholes in the sand that bubble bubble while the wave recedes. I tried with my toe but couldn't figure out what caused the effect.
Postcard stamps now cost 28 cents.
Ants like to eat shrimp.
Real forts are conceptually similar to the ones we all built as children in backyards and under coffee tables. They are burrowed-in places that are difficult to access and easy to defend from the inside. But I never had a control room or a maze for ammunition under my coffee table - I was happy with a blanket.
The Women's Army Corps was created in WWII (I think) so more men could go fight.
The slave trade ended officially in 1808 but continued in secret (or whatever it means when it continues but it's not suppposed to) after that.
Between 10 and 12 million Africans were forced to emigrate in the slave trade. About half of them passed through Charleston (of course I hope y'all will fact check me, if you are genuinely interested in knowing the actual for-real truth).
The Gullah people have retained aspects of their African culture unlike any other people. Words like "gumbo" have origins in the languages of West Africa.
Sullivan's Island has the coolest lighthouse I've ever seen.
On the shore when the wave goes out there are lots of little what look like blowholes in the sand that bubble bubble while the wave recedes. I tried with my toe but couldn't figure out what caused the effect.
Postcard stamps now cost 28 cents.
Ants like to eat shrimp.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Chiara visits Charleston, SC
The forecast for Charleston, SC, is scattered thunderstorms into the indefinite future. They greeted me on arrival yesterday and appeared during today's lunch at a delightful bistro with the best fish and chips I've ever eaten. If one were to assume that the storms blow away the 100% humidity, one would be quite, quite wrong. It's oppressive and makes breathing difficult; AC is not a choice here the way it sometimes seems so at home. Apparently it can be gotten used to, but that probably takes more than 24 hours.
I'm staying with 6 friends - 2 adults, their son and daughter, and 2 cats out of a novel. Oscar is neurotic and takes adult Prozac, designated by CVS as "canine" (yes I know cats are felines). As my friend tells it, Oscar's life took a turn for the worse when their first child was born, and when they had a second and moved from Cville to Charleston, he completely lost it. Each time he enters the house, he takes an interminable amount of time and engages in nighttime rituals, alternating meowing to go out with meowing to come in. He and Sebastian, who lost one-third of his tail in a past life, follow like dogs when the family takes walks.
Other than being humid, Charleston is beautiful. Like Rome, Charleston has strict laws about the appearance of buildings, requiring city approval to change the color of one's home, if one happens to be rich enough to live downtown. Walking by Rainbow Row, near the Battery, I learned about the classic Charleston sideways porch.
In the days before AC (and Charles Towne was founded in the 1600s), apparently such a design, paired with a slightly off-kilter orientation toward the harbor, enabled a sea breeze to blow through and, if not actually cool things off, exchange stale inside air for oppressive outside air. And, with the likes of Blackbeard hanging around, probably the air inside was pretty stinky.
My favorite Charleston sight today was at the elementary school we visited for work, where one of the books in the office was titled "Pirates Don't Change Diapers." That's funny, I thought that's what swashbuckling meant - as in, "little Johnny, does that lovely aroma arising from your backside mean that you need your swash buckled?"
Yesterday's favorite sight happened at the dock of family friends, who live on the intracoastal waterway. We walked through their spongy yard, past an awfully realistic fake dead plastic bird (the coastal version of an owl) to the wooden walkway that wound through some reeds. I spied little black crabs that looked like spiders. I have a friend who is scared of spiders and I wonder: if something looks like a spider but isn't a spider, is it still scary? Other local animal life apparently includes dolphins and alligators which made an appearance in my friends' neighborhood recently. You know what they say: if anything will make a cat neurotic, it's an alligator. So far my scariest creature feature has been with these beautiful dark blue bugs the size of a hummingbird. They live in the trees - Charleston is famous for live oaks and the Spanish moss with which they live in harmony.
Last Charleston lesson for the day: don't touch the Spanish moss because it contains chiggers which will cause you to itch for a week and a half. And that will make Oscar pitch a fit.
I'm staying with 6 friends - 2 adults, their son and daughter, and 2 cats out of a novel. Oscar is neurotic and takes adult Prozac, designated by CVS as "canine" (yes I know cats are felines). As my friend tells it, Oscar's life took a turn for the worse when their first child was born, and when they had a second and moved from Cville to Charleston, he completely lost it. Each time he enters the house, he takes an interminable amount of time and engages in nighttime rituals, alternating meowing to go out with meowing to come in. He and Sebastian, who lost one-third of his tail in a past life, follow like dogs when the family takes walks.
Other than being humid, Charleston is beautiful. Like Rome, Charleston has strict laws about the appearance of buildings, requiring city approval to change the color of one's home, if one happens to be rich enough to live downtown. Walking by Rainbow Row, near the Battery, I learned about the classic Charleston sideways porch.
In the days before AC (and Charles Towne was founded in the 1600s), apparently such a design, paired with a slightly off-kilter orientation toward the harbor, enabled a sea breeze to blow through and, if not actually cool things off, exchange stale inside air for oppressive outside air. And, with the likes of Blackbeard hanging around, probably the air inside was pretty stinky.
My favorite Charleston sight today was at the elementary school we visited for work, where one of the books in the office was titled "Pirates Don't Change Diapers." That's funny, I thought that's what swashbuckling meant - as in, "little Johnny, does that lovely aroma arising from your backside mean that you need your swash buckled?"
Yesterday's favorite sight happened at the dock of family friends, who live on the intracoastal waterway. We walked through their spongy yard, past an awfully realistic fake dead plastic bird (the coastal version of an owl) to the wooden walkway that wound through some reeds. I spied little black crabs that looked like spiders. I have a friend who is scared of spiders and I wonder: if something looks like a spider but isn't a spider, is it still scary? Other local animal life apparently includes dolphins and alligators which made an appearance in my friends' neighborhood recently. You know what they say: if anything will make a cat neurotic, it's an alligator. So far my scariest creature feature has been with these beautiful dark blue bugs the size of a hummingbird. They live in the trees - Charleston is famous for live oaks and the Spanish moss with which they live in harmony.
Last Charleston lesson for the day: don't touch the Spanish moss because it contains chiggers which will cause you to itch for a week and a half. And that will make Oscar pitch a fit.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
family=forever
This weekend my cousin D2 was kind enough to get married so we could have a family reunion in Lexington, KY. Raised as an only child, I got my sibling fix (complete with altercations and time outs from grandma) from my group of tumbling cousins, who now have little tumblers of their own. There's something really special about getting together with a bunch of people you've known since you were small, and their parents who (by virtue of being her siblings) have known your mom since she was small, or just enough bigger to boss them around.
There are so few people in the world who have known us since we were born. To have a whole clan of them seems an amazing gift, that as an adult I have truly learned to appreciate. Initially it's tough to relate to people who saw all the awkward stages, from diapers to glasses to funny poofy hair to bad boy(or girl)friends and all the other stages that one can spend an entire life trying to forget or trying to insist "That wasn't me! That was another person! I'm different now!" But after being past the worst of the awkwardness, it's comforting to have all these people who don't actually care, because they've loved you, or at least teased you, since you were very tiny. To them, probably like with your parents, the "you" that is really true is that cute little person who they once held in their arms or tickled or took to a baseball game, or in one case, the emergency room. (More about that later, but wild mushrooms were involved).
Maybe this time it sunk in because I'm in the middle and can participate on both sides: without children myself, I first drove to Aunt & Uncle M&M's and was tucked in cozily for one night before being driven to Lexington with love. After arriving, I got to play cousin-auntie to the smaller cuties, my cousins' children. Friday night we played chase in the courtyard at the rehearsal dinner, pretended to hide from Mom and Dad (who I graduated high school with), and had a potty party outside the single restroom up a rickety stair at this charming historic home. Saturday little Ada's namesake was learning to swim between her mom - whose own life has enough parallels with my own to be eerie- and me. The reception was the absolute best with dancing and then sleepy bodies who trusted me not to drop them while slowdancing, apparently because I'm related to them. And my personal favorite conversation, with my now-grown cousin whose diapers I changed I was babysitting age, about his friends who are NICKnamed Bill, Willy, and Harold.
So here's the point: family is forever and I'm glad I have enough years in me yet to say THANK YOU to every last one of you. You know who you are.
There are so few people in the world who have known us since we were born. To have a whole clan of them seems an amazing gift, that as an adult I have truly learned to appreciate. Initially it's tough to relate to people who saw all the awkward stages, from diapers to glasses to funny poofy hair to bad boy(or girl)friends and all the other stages that one can spend an entire life trying to forget or trying to insist "That wasn't me! That was another person! I'm different now!" But after being past the worst of the awkwardness, it's comforting to have all these people who don't actually care, because they've loved you, or at least teased you, since you were very tiny. To them, probably like with your parents, the "you" that is really true is that cute little person who they once held in their arms or tickled or took to a baseball game, or in one case, the emergency room. (More about that later, but wild mushrooms were involved).
Maybe this time it sunk in because I'm in the middle and can participate on both sides: without children myself, I first drove to Aunt & Uncle M&M's and was tucked in cozily for one night before being driven to Lexington with love. After arriving, I got to play cousin-auntie to the smaller cuties, my cousins' children. Friday night we played chase in the courtyard at the rehearsal dinner, pretended to hide from Mom and Dad (who I graduated high school with), and had a potty party outside the single restroom up a rickety stair at this charming historic home. Saturday little Ada's namesake was learning to swim between her mom - whose own life has enough parallels with my own to be eerie- and me. The reception was the absolute best with dancing and then sleepy bodies who trusted me not to drop them while slowdancing, apparently because I'm related to them. And my personal favorite conversation, with my now-grown cousin whose diapers I changed I was babysitting age, about his friends who are NICKnamed Bill, Willy, and Harold.
So here's the point: family is forever and I'm glad I have enough years in me yet to say THANK YOU to every last one of you. You know who you are.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
layers of The Other Guys
Last night we saw The Other Guys, which is actually getting strong reviews. I feel like this film was written by the Coen brothers, had they grown up as cool jock types with lower IQs. Hmm that is confusing. What I mean is, there is more than meets the eye with The Other Guys, but probably not as much as in the best Coen bros films. Fargo, O Brother, and The Big L come immediately to mind of course!
Let me explain. For me it has to do with the movie having multiple layers and the sense that these guys, Will Ferrell (the feeler) and Mark Wahlberg (the angry dude) are dealing with literally everything in their lives all at once. Gone are the days of action movies with a single plot and reliably evil bad guys. No, instead these guys are having identity crises (as in, do I want to be a respected, macho detective or a traffic cop? A pimp or a steady sweet husband?), relationship crises, emotional crises, and figuring out how to behave in public, all while they're trying to catch (kind of) bad guys and stop a retirement fund from being robbed.
Boys, welcome to the club. For several decades now, women have been struggling with these very issues! As in: how do we manage to be Donna Reed perfect uncomplaining mom and wife, sex kitten, accomplished careerists, all while maintaining some sense of ourselves and our interests in things that don't fit into those categories, like, oh, sleeping? It's enough to make a gal stay home, pun intended.
I'm actually really impressed with the guys in the movie, and for the people who made it. They are grappling with some serious shite and not embarrassed to fall down and make mistakes (the dudes who jump 20 stories to their death on accident, now, they were just idiots). It's really, really frickin' hard to balance all that life stuff all at once, and I have not the slightest clue how to do it. But certainly, I can recommend trying, and being open to guidance, and being open to learning stuff about yourself that you didn't realize before being kidnapped and shipped to the west in your red Prius (it's not a spoiler if I don't tell you how or when it happens in the movie).
Last night at quarteting, which was held in a peaceful gathering place, I saw a whiteboard that I liked. Something along the lines of:
RADICAL ACCEPTANCE
1. Notice not accepting.
2. Practice acceptance deliberately.
3. Do it over and over.
The actual version was definitely better though not any clearer about what, exactly, one should be accepting. Reality? The chance to make a better reality? I dunno, but I hope I get to have as much fun giving it a shot as The Other Guys.
Let me explain. For me it has to do with the movie having multiple layers and the sense that these guys, Will Ferrell (the feeler) and Mark Wahlberg (the angry dude) are dealing with literally everything in their lives all at once. Gone are the days of action movies with a single plot and reliably evil bad guys. No, instead these guys are having identity crises (as in, do I want to be a respected, macho detective or a traffic cop? A pimp or a steady sweet husband?), relationship crises, emotional crises, and figuring out how to behave in public, all while they're trying to catch (kind of) bad guys and stop a retirement fund from being robbed.
Boys, welcome to the club. For several decades now, women have been struggling with these very issues! As in: how do we manage to be Donna Reed perfect uncomplaining mom and wife, sex kitten, accomplished careerists, all while maintaining some sense of ourselves and our interests in things that don't fit into those categories, like, oh, sleeping? It's enough to make a gal stay home, pun intended.
I'm actually really impressed with the guys in the movie, and for the people who made it. They are grappling with some serious shite and not embarrassed to fall down and make mistakes (the dudes who jump 20 stories to their death on accident, now, they were just idiots). It's really, really frickin' hard to balance all that life stuff all at once, and I have not the slightest clue how to do it. But certainly, I can recommend trying, and being open to guidance, and being open to learning stuff about yourself that you didn't realize before being kidnapped and shipped to the west in your red Prius (it's not a spoiler if I don't tell you how or when it happens in the movie).
Last night at quarteting, which was held in a peaceful gathering place, I saw a whiteboard that I liked. Something along the lines of:
RADICAL ACCEPTANCE
1. Notice not accepting.
2. Practice acceptance deliberately.
3. Do it over and over.
The actual version was definitely better though not any clearer about what, exactly, one should be accepting. Reality? The chance to make a better reality? I dunno, but I hope I get to have as much fun giving it a shot as The Other Guys.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Joel & Don Find Themselves
Whenever I read TIME magazine, I always start by skipping to the back. Joel Stein's column (with an obnoxious title that I won't repeat here but will include a blog link that will tell you the title and maybe some other things you didn't want to know) is on the last page. Though I spent a while trying not to like it, I have to admit that I kind of appreciate his humor. Irreverent, sometimes self-deprecating but mostly self-important, treating serious topics like he's trying to decide between shades of red crayon (that is, not seriously at all)...this guy lightens things up and makes me feel unexpectedly well-adjusted.
TIME's week of August 2 issue - which probably came to our very own, clear cardboard (where do they get that stuff?) postal repository in Charlottesville's central hold-mail area the last week we were in Italy - held an interesting surprise. Joel was being serious, or mostly serious. He went to meet Tony Robbins and managed to write a whole entire column without making fun of him. I liked when TR explained why Joel isn't friends with a bunch of really really famous people and TR is. You can read for yourself of course, but TR pointed out that Joel is judgmental and has a hierarchical model of the world (what does that mean, anyway? I use hierarchical models but I'm pretty sure Joel Stein is not a statistics freak). Basically Joel's goal is to make fun of people. Maybe to secure his own place to make sure he's above them in some way. TR, in contrast, sees his job as understanding and helping others.
I'd love to know what TR's model of the world is so I can try and adopt it in the spare time that I'm now devoting to finding myself. Unfortunately, Stein's column is not exactly a scholarly, thorough source. (I'm probably overthinking it, but isn't that what blogging is about?) I definitely appreciate this because for me it describes a growing-up process. As petrified adolescents, humans tend to judge judge and judge some more because turning the eye inward would mean realizing what an awkward, confused, self-conscious and utterly desperate mess most of us are, at that age and perhaps any (don't get me wrong, supposedly from, ahem, education research, many adolescents are well-adjusted and that is all wonderful. PS I hate them all and their well-adjusted parents regardless of sexual persuasion). Anyway.
So, as we grow, and if we're lucky and more than a little dedicated, we get better at understanding and accepting our own faults and in turn, the faults of others (I hope everyone realized off the bat that when I say "we" and "our" in posts like this, I really mean "I" or "me" but am hoping for some of that scholarly mood and a feeling of community by invoking the royal "we". Plus a tiny wish that it's not only yours truly who had a traumatic teenage experience). Because aren't we all totally flawed and uncertain and - this is a big one - feeling out of control? Isn't that what the world teaches us? As in, "Gee you thought you were buying train tickets? Think again, sista!"
Oh yeah, I was going to mention Don Draper.
FYI, I've never actually watched Mad Men but I believe they have rad costumes. So after reading about Joel's quest for self-acceptance, I turned to the second-to-last page, about a fictional character also in search. Here are my favorite bits that create their own, more universal narrative, in a new form called "column scramble" that I believe means I'm not plagiarizing, but just in case: James Poniewozik wrote all these words, not me. I take credit only for their rearrangement, thoughtful omission, and funky punctuation (wouldn't that be a great band name? you could sell t-shirts with question marks grooving out).
When we first see him, he's struggling to answer a simple question: "Who is Don Draper?"
In a way, Don has achieved...what he wanted: his liberty. He is free - in fact, expected - to relaunch his brand. But how? As whom?
Don extricates himself...but falling back on his earliest identity: "I'm from the Midwest," he says. "We were taught that it's not polite to talk about yourself."
(The idea that you can't escape the past)
Sometimes it seems the entire series is one long setup for...inevitable therapy visits. Which isn't to say (it's) all angst.
And there's buoyancy.
The changes that have come...can be discomfiting to watch.
But they're rich with possibility.
TIME's week of August 2 issue - which probably came to our very own, clear cardboard (where do they get that stuff?) postal repository in Charlottesville's central hold-mail area the last week we were in Italy - held an interesting surprise. Joel was being serious, or mostly serious. He went to meet Tony Robbins and managed to write a whole entire column without making fun of him. I liked when TR explained why Joel isn't friends with a bunch of really really famous people and TR is. You can read for yourself of course, but TR pointed out that Joel is judgmental and has a hierarchical model of the world (what does that mean, anyway? I use hierarchical models but I'm pretty sure Joel Stein is not a statistics freak). Basically Joel's goal is to make fun of people. Maybe to secure his own place to make sure he's above them in some way. TR, in contrast, sees his job as understanding and helping others.
I'd love to know what TR's model of the world is so I can try and adopt it in the spare time that I'm now devoting to finding myself. Unfortunately, Stein's column is not exactly a scholarly, thorough source. (I'm probably overthinking it, but isn't that what blogging is about?) I definitely appreciate this because for me it describes a growing-up process. As petrified adolescents, humans tend to judge judge and judge some more because turning the eye inward would mean realizing what an awkward, confused, self-conscious and utterly desperate mess most of us are, at that age and perhaps any (don't get me wrong, supposedly from, ahem, education research, many adolescents are well-adjusted and that is all wonderful. PS I hate them all and their well-adjusted parents regardless of sexual persuasion). Anyway.
So, as we grow, and if we're lucky and more than a little dedicated, we get better at understanding and accepting our own faults and in turn, the faults of others (I hope everyone realized off the bat that when I say "we" and "our" in posts like this, I really mean "I" or "me" but am hoping for some of that scholarly mood and a feeling of community by invoking the royal "we". Plus a tiny wish that it's not only yours truly who had a traumatic teenage experience). Because aren't we all totally flawed and uncertain and - this is a big one - feeling out of control? Isn't that what the world teaches us? As in, "Gee you thought you were buying train tickets? Think again, sista!"
Oh yeah, I was going to mention Don Draper.
FYI, I've never actually watched Mad Men but I believe they have rad costumes. So after reading about Joel's quest for self-acceptance, I turned to the second-to-last page, about a fictional character also in search. Here are my favorite bits that create their own, more universal narrative, in a new form called "column scramble" that I believe means I'm not plagiarizing, but just in case: James Poniewozik wrote all these words, not me. I take credit only for their rearrangement, thoughtful omission, and funky punctuation (wouldn't that be a great band name? you could sell t-shirts with question marks grooving out).
When we first see him, he's struggling to answer a simple question: "Who is Don Draper?"
In a way, Don has achieved...what he wanted: his liberty. He is free - in fact, expected - to relaunch his brand. But how? As whom?
Don extricates himself...but falling back on his earliest identity: "I'm from the Midwest," he says. "We were taught that it's not polite to talk about yourself."
(The idea that you can't escape the past)
Sometimes it seems the entire series is one long setup for...inevitable therapy visits. Which isn't to say (it's) all angst.
And there's buoyancy.
The changes that have come...can be discomfiting to watch.
But they're rich with possibility.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
what I want to remember (aka, arrivederci, Roma)
- smells at Campo di Fiori: mostly produce, the odor of fish in the northeast corner, smoke
- the cigar stored at the base of a column outside the Fendi store, waiting for a gentleman who went to browse with his family, and fetched after said browsing
- the advanced age of children who either ride in strollers or are carried by their mamas; the number of both mamas and papas who lug babies by hand rather than put them in strollers
- street plaques (instead of street signs)
- finding Piazza Navona by accident
- the sense of not knowing exactly where one is but not worrying about it, because Piazza Navona or some other piazza will always appear
- the "gatto" mascot kitty who lounges on, under, or near the blue SUV outside the door
- the sewer-borne odor of asparagus or broccoli that indicates the shower was used on a given day
- 2-hour washing machine cycle + drying clothes on a handy rack
- Sette Oche, my favorite restaurant (visited 3xs in 4 weeks)
- il dolce sorriso ("the sweet smile"), my favorite gelateria that is right around the corner
- the above-sink drying rack that doubles as a storage cupboard
- fountains, fountains, fountains
- the poor irritating men at Piazza del Popolo and the Spanish Steps hawking roses either by shoving them into your palm, pretending to give them to you, and then demanding payment
- passeggiatas on Via del Corso
- couples of all ages who hold hands or are otherwise affectionate while on their passegiata
- sudden "rainshowers" at all hours from people watering their window boxes from 3-4 stories above the street
- fast, efficient trains and inter-city bus/metro systems
- faces on buildings
- Vespas
- walking into traffic confidently; i.e., finally figuring out how to cross the street (except when there's a traffic light, which begs obeying)
- the whispering wall at Piazza del Popolo
- assigned seating at the movie theater
- perpetual brilliant blue skies and the beautiful quality of light all day long (sorry, L)
- getting doused turning the fountain into a drinking fountain by plugging the main stream so that water shoots out of another little hole in the top of the pipe
- the basil that must grow in Paradise
- deciding what each day will hold after waking up
- pretending that I am a Roman!
- the cigar stored at the base of a column outside the Fendi store, waiting for a gentleman who went to browse with his family, and fetched after said browsing
- the advanced age of children who either ride in strollers or are carried by their mamas; the number of both mamas and papas who lug babies by hand rather than put them in strollers
- street plaques (instead of street signs)
- finding Piazza Navona by accident
- the sense of not knowing exactly where one is but not worrying about it, because Piazza Navona or some other piazza will always appear
- the "gatto" mascot kitty who lounges on, under, or near the blue SUV outside the door
- the sewer-borne odor of asparagus or broccoli that indicates the shower was used on a given day
- 2-hour washing machine cycle + drying clothes on a handy rack
- Sette Oche, my favorite restaurant (visited 3xs in 4 weeks)
- il dolce sorriso ("the sweet smile"), my favorite gelateria that is right around the corner
- the above-sink drying rack that doubles as a storage cupboard
- fountains, fountains, fountains
- the poor irritating men at Piazza del Popolo and the Spanish Steps hawking roses either by shoving them into your palm, pretending to give them to you, and then demanding payment
- passeggiatas on Via del Corso
- couples of all ages who hold hands or are otherwise affectionate while on their passegiata
- sudden "rainshowers" at all hours from people watering their window boxes from 3-4 stories above the street
- fast, efficient trains and inter-city bus/metro systems
- faces on buildings
- Vespas
- walking into traffic confidently; i.e., finally figuring out how to cross the street (except when there's a traffic light, which begs obeying)
- the whispering wall at Piazza del Popolo
- assigned seating at the movie theater
- perpetual brilliant blue skies and the beautiful quality of light all day long (sorry, L)
- getting doused turning the fountain into a drinking fountain by plugging the main stream so that water shoots out of another little hole in the top of the pipe
- the basil that must grow in Paradise
- deciding what each day will hold after waking up
- pretending that I am a Roman!
Monday, July 26, 2010
30 hours in Firenze
Unless you stretch the truth a bit, didn't do any of these things in Florence, but I did manage to get there. Of course, from my last post, you know things went, um, a trifle poorly at the train station to purchase the fare. Well, the next morning (Thurs?) I successfully boarded the train from Rome, and boy am I glad I didn't end up in Bologna, which is a fair distance from Florence.
View Larger Map
See, here's what happened. In my confusion and haste, I purchased a ticket to Florence Campo Marte, which is like going to Queens instead of Manhattan. Anyhoo, figured out that I should detrain before setting off for Bologna (the next stop). After that, things improved slightly, because I was able to take an 8-min ride into the main station, Santa Maria Novella (S.M.N.), for free, plus buy return ticket from the little dinky Campo Marte station and not stand in the great big line that surely would have greeted me at S.M.N. Phew!
Some highlights/mishaps:
- obtaining restaurant advice from the friendly hotel clerk - resulting in my enormous dinner of pasta AND roast beef with French fries, most of which I ate.
- no wait in the line to climb the Duomo, though an astoundingly narrow space to climb up
- understanding Florentine Italian more easily than Roman, because when they turned Italy into a country in 1861 (more or less), they had to pick a language because all the individual states spoke their own dialects. Florentine Italian was chosen because the Renaissance was so awesome.
- ogling lots of leather and paper products because Florence is a tourist mecca
- hanging out at the Piazza Signoria at midnight, when there are still lots of people about
View Larger Map
See, here's what happened. In my confusion and haste, I purchased a ticket to Florence Campo Marte, which is like going to Queens instead of Manhattan. Anyhoo, figured out that I should detrain before setting off for Bologna (the next stop). After that, things improved slightly, because I was able to take an 8-min ride into the main station, Santa Maria Novella (S.M.N.), for free, plus buy return ticket from the little dinky Campo Marte station and not stand in the great big line that surely would have greeted me at S.M.N. Phew!
Some highlights/mishaps:
- obtaining restaurant advice from the friendly hotel clerk - resulting in my enormous dinner of pasta AND roast beef with French fries, most of which I ate.
- no wait in the line to climb the Duomo, though an astoundingly narrow space to climb up
- understanding Florentine Italian more easily than Roman, because when they turned Italy into a country in 1861 (more or less), they had to pick a language because all the individual states spoke their own dialects. Florentine Italian was chosen because the Renaissance was so awesome.
- ogling lots of leather and paper products because Florence is a tourist mecca
- hanging out at the Piazza Signoria at midnight, when there are still lots of people about
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
a dose of the real world
Aside from the actual events, there's something nice about nearing the end of my time here and being more frequently reminded of things I miss about home. Starting with yesterday, when I was pooped on by a pigeon (apparently it's good luck! oh ho! I know why it's good luck - because there are a million pigeons and people must get pooped on ALL THE TIME). But that was just a warm-up for this afternoon when I camped out in the train station.
After spending most of the month journeying to places within walking distance of my home piazza, I am traveling to Firenze (Florence) for a 1-day trip tomorrow. And it's for sure, because the hotel room was reserved this morning with no refunds. That turns out to be important simply because it means there is no turning back, no matter WHAT manner of confusion might occur at the train station. (Ahem...that's what we in the business call foreshadowing - which, by the way, gives you a curious and wacky collection of hits when googled for images). For example, and then I'll continue with my story.
Ok. Why don't I ever listen to the little voice in my head? The one that whispers the truth to me and I ignore it? Or rather, I humor it, saying "you silly, that can't be what's happening, that would be ridiculous." Today, the little voice told me about 20 minutes into my stand in the 90-minute train-ticket line that somehow, I wouldn't exit the line with tickets but instead two sore feet, a bunch of pages finished in my latest novel, and the desire to throttle an old lady (more foreshadowing).
Let's back up a bit: upon entering Stazione Termini, the main station in Rome, I observed - and turned my back on - the automated Bancomat ticket machines. (First, because anything purchased with a VISA card here incurs an international transaction fee plus a 3% upcharge from the bank, and second, because I was deluded and wanted to "experience Italy" by standing in the long line with all the other people who apparently haven't anything better to do than stand in an astounding queue and get overheated. I knew when I planned this Rome trip that most of my purchases would be in cash (euros) - people have credit cards but don't use them to buy normal things. I'm not sure what they use them for, but that's a topic for another day.) This decision was mistake #1.
Another thing it's important for you to know: I had 50 euro on me, which seemed like an adequate amount, because the ticket was 46 euro. Ah, mistake #2, though maybe it was really #1, having made that decision upon leaving the flat.
Did I mention how hot it was? And how long I stood in the line? And how there were Italian people with a divergent - that's right, I said DIVERGENT - sense of personal space around me? In particular, an older man who entered the line after me, who thought the space immediately to my right was open for his little body, and a woman who ALSO entered the line after me, who kept running into me with her blue purse, even after I tried to subtly shove her away from me. I'm not sure how you subtly shove someone but I tried my best today. (As you know) I'm American and when I stand in a line, the entire lateral space in relation to my body should be kept free, both from the people ahead of me, who are AHEAD of me, and from the people behind me, who are supposed to be BEHIND me. Here's a diagram, in case you need it.
And by the way, I'm no longer going to apologize for my desire to have a teensy bit of space between myself and the next bloke. I've spent most of my life feeling guilty for not observing the cultural/social mores of every other society on earth beyond my own, and I'm done with that; I have my own social mores and they are just as good as anybody else's.
Anyhoo, as I stood in the line, I kept telling myself how delighted I'd be with my train ticket after purchasing it, and how happy a choice it was not to be standing in the line tomorrow morning, when I'd rather be on a train to Firenze. This was not so much mistake #3, since all the fateful decisions had been made, but let's call it psychological delusion #2, after the first delusion related to "experiencing Italy".
Do you want to know what happened when I finally reached the ticketing desk? I'll bet you can guess, can't you? Well, just in case not, as it turned out, the tickets cost 46 euro EACH WAY. Which means, for the calculation-impaired, 2 times 1 46-euro tickets = MORE THAN 50 EURO. Which equals some consternation, to be sure. The lady explained to me that the tickets cost the same on the internet as in the station, and I was just relieved that she thought I has confused the magic-internet price with the actual station price, instead of failing to do the math and multiply enough. We dickered a bit while she tried to find a ticket that cost under 46 euro, which would have meant getting to Florence from Rome in 4 hours rather than 1.5. Good thing the heat hadn't entirely destroyed my wits, and I didn't go for it.
Of course, hindsight is 20/20 (though who can see it when the little voice is waving an "I TOLD YOU SO!" banner in your face?) As I exited the line, fully defeated and not yet aware of the final option, which I'll get to in a sec...this little old lady, who had been sitting on the floor at the head of the line for many minutes, addressed me in Italian. Of course I was still wearing my idiot hat and thought she was trying to share in my train-related disappointment. She said "did you get the tickets?" and I said "no" ruefully. Then, what did she do? Did she say "Oh I'm so sorry that's terrible!" or "Wow too bad you wasted all that time, that happened to me last week and I still haven't gotten over it!" No. Instead she pointed to the information booth and yelled that if I wasn't going to buy tickets I shouldn't stand in the ticketing line but should go to the information booth so I don't take up space from everyone else who actually wants to buy a ticket. Gee, thanks lady. You're so helpful. I yelled at her "Non lo sapevo!" which I'm hoping meant "I didn't know it!" followed by "Fa fa fa blah blah blah" with a wave of my hand which means "Fa fa fa blah blah blah I hate you."
After sighing for a moment, I went to the station cafe to buy a bottle of water. I must have looked pathetic because when I got out my 1.62 euro for what turned out to be a 1.70 bottle and developed a stricken look, the lovely woman took pity on me and took my change and let me have my water. Oh thank you, thank you, kindly lady who donated 8 cents out of the goodness of your heart and your till!
Phew. To wrap up the story, I realized that I could have at least gotten to to Florence for under 100 cash, but you can bet your bottom euro I was not about to get back in that Godforsaken line. So, I went to the automated ticket machine and purchased a 1-way ticket to Florence with my dandy VISA card, so that the 3% upcharge would be less, and I could still go to Florence in the morning, and I could leave the station feeling even just a tiny bit confident in my abilities to function in the world. Which means I still need to buy our return ticket upon arrival in Florence tomorrow, but it also means I didn't lose my mind. Err, maybe we'll let the public decide that one...
After spending most of the month journeying to places within walking distance of my home piazza, I am traveling to Firenze (Florence) for a 1-day trip tomorrow. And it's for sure, because the hotel room was reserved this morning with no refunds. That turns out to be important simply because it means there is no turning back, no matter WHAT manner of confusion might occur at the train station. (Ahem...that's what we in the business call foreshadowing - which, by the way, gives you a curious and wacky collection of hits when googled for images). For example, and then I'll continue with my story.
Ok. Why don't I ever listen to the little voice in my head? The one that whispers the truth to me and I ignore it? Or rather, I humor it, saying "you silly, that can't be what's happening, that would be ridiculous." Today, the little voice told me about 20 minutes into my stand in the 90-minute train-ticket line that somehow, I wouldn't exit the line with tickets but instead two sore feet, a bunch of pages finished in my latest novel, and the desire to throttle an old lady (more foreshadowing).
Let's back up a bit: upon entering Stazione Termini, the main station in Rome, I observed - and turned my back on - the automated Bancomat ticket machines. (First, because anything purchased with a VISA card here incurs an international transaction fee plus a 3% upcharge from the bank, and second, because I was deluded and wanted to "experience Italy" by standing in the long line with all the other people who apparently haven't anything better to do than stand in an astounding queue and get overheated. I knew when I planned this Rome trip that most of my purchases would be in cash (euros) - people have credit cards but don't use them to buy normal things. I'm not sure what they use them for, but that's a topic for another day.) This decision was mistake #1.
Another thing it's important for you to know: I had 50 euro on me, which seemed like an adequate amount, because the ticket was 46 euro. Ah, mistake #2, though maybe it was really #1, having made that decision upon leaving the flat.
Did I mention how hot it was? And how long I stood in the line? And how there were Italian people with a divergent - that's right, I said DIVERGENT - sense of personal space around me? In particular, an older man who entered the line after me, who thought the space immediately to my right was open for his little body, and a woman who ALSO entered the line after me, who kept running into me with her blue purse, even after I tried to subtly shove her away from me. I'm not sure how you subtly shove someone but I tried my best today. (As you know) I'm American and when I stand in a line, the entire lateral space in relation to my body should be kept free, both from the people ahead of me, who are AHEAD of me, and from the people behind me, who are supposed to be BEHIND me. Here's a diagram, in case you need it.
And by the way, I'm no longer going to apologize for my desire to have a teensy bit of space between myself and the next bloke. I've spent most of my life feeling guilty for not observing the cultural/social mores of every other society on earth beyond my own, and I'm done with that; I have my own social mores and they are just as good as anybody else's.
Anyhoo, as I stood in the line, I kept telling myself how delighted I'd be with my train ticket after purchasing it, and how happy a choice it was not to be standing in the line tomorrow morning, when I'd rather be on a train to Firenze. This was not so much mistake #3, since all the fateful decisions had been made, but let's call it psychological delusion #2, after the first delusion related to "experiencing Italy".
Do you want to know what happened when I finally reached the ticketing desk? I'll bet you can guess, can't you? Well, just in case not, as it turned out, the tickets cost 46 euro EACH WAY. Which means, for the calculation-impaired, 2 times 1 46-euro tickets = MORE THAN 50 EURO. Which equals some consternation, to be sure. The lady explained to me that the tickets cost the same on the internet as in the station, and I was just relieved that she thought I has confused the magic-internet price with the actual station price, instead of failing to do the math and multiply enough. We dickered a bit while she tried to find a ticket that cost under 46 euro, which would have meant getting to Florence from Rome in 4 hours rather than 1.5. Good thing the heat hadn't entirely destroyed my wits, and I didn't go for it.
Of course, hindsight is 20/20 (though who can see it when the little voice is waving an "I TOLD YOU SO!" banner in your face?) As I exited the line, fully defeated and not yet aware of the final option, which I'll get to in a sec...this little old lady, who had been sitting on the floor at the head of the line for many minutes, addressed me in Italian. Of course I was still wearing my idiot hat and thought she was trying to share in my train-related disappointment. She said "did you get the tickets?" and I said "no" ruefully. Then, what did she do? Did she say "Oh I'm so sorry that's terrible!" or "Wow too bad you wasted all that time, that happened to me last week and I still haven't gotten over it!" No. Instead she pointed to the information booth and yelled that if I wasn't going to buy tickets I shouldn't stand in the ticketing line but should go to the information booth so I don't take up space from everyone else who actually wants to buy a ticket. Gee, thanks lady. You're so helpful. I yelled at her "Non lo sapevo!" which I'm hoping meant "I didn't know it!" followed by "Fa fa fa blah blah blah" with a wave of my hand which means "Fa fa fa blah blah blah I hate you."
After sighing for a moment, I went to the station cafe to buy a bottle of water. I must have looked pathetic because when I got out my 1.62 euro for what turned out to be a 1.70 bottle and developed a stricken look, the lovely woman took pity on me and took my change and let me have my water. Oh thank you, thank you, kindly lady who donated 8 cents out of the goodness of your heart and your till!
Phew. To wrap up the story, I realized that I could have at least gotten to to Florence for under 100 cash, but you can bet your bottom euro I was not about to get back in that Godforsaken line. So, I went to the automated ticket machine and purchased a 1-way ticket to Florence with my dandy VISA card, so that the 3% upcharge would be less, and I could still go to Florence in the morning, and I could leave the station feeling even just a tiny bit confident in my abilities to function in the world. Which means I still need to buy our return ticket upon arrival in Florence tomorrow, but it also means I didn't lose my mind. Err, maybe we'll let the public decide that one...
Monday, July 19, 2010
two delightful excursions, part II
Today also had lovely things in store. I went to the Janiculum, which is up a very very steep hill but not, apparently, one of the famous seven hills of Rome. It should be though - I had to climb this stair to get there, and found a curious plaque on the way, which translates to "My way of seeing things is sometimes unsophisticated and immature, yet sincere like the children on the stairs at Viale Glorioso." Of course this is at the bottom of the stair - at the top is a somewhat more sobering, cautionary plaque about a poor teenager who fell down them in 1849. So the moral of the story is have fun but for goodness' sake be careful!
While I was at the Janiculum, I spent my time meandering, finding a tiny stone gazebo to rest and read, until the shade moved past me, and I, in turn, moved on. I felt a sense of peace and tranquility (and plain old joy, as shown here when I found it).
Moseying along the path below the old city wall, I encountered an elderly man walking his dog. The man - but not his dog - looked uncannily like my friend from the movie Up!. At first I thought he was tending the greenery, but I realized after passing him and noting his age, that he was just slowly making his way over a cedar tree that had fallen on the path. In my memory of this day, this man will represent my Grandpa Erv, who I blogged about before this trip, and who passed away while I was at the Janiculum. I like the idea that his spirit - so kind, so dear - was with me while the flora and breezes comforted my senses.
As I left, I climbed down many stairs, and came to a locked gate with no apparent exit. But, with patience - good for so many things in life! - I noticed an opening in the fence, and made my way through. Then, to document my journey up, and down again, I photographed this joiner. My favorite part is the way the light plays on the leaves. The thing about joiners is that you can never get them just right - it is a 3-D world represented in 2-D so, impossible to replicate. One must only be satisfied with the effect, and tolerant (even welcoming) of imperfection - another useful tool that I will stow away for my continued journey.
While I was at the Janiculum, I spent my time meandering, finding a tiny stone gazebo to rest and read, until the shade moved past me, and I, in turn, moved on. I felt a sense of peace and tranquility (and plain old joy, as shown here when I found it).
Moseying along the path below the old city wall, I encountered an elderly man walking his dog. The man - but not his dog - looked uncannily like my friend from the movie Up!. At first I thought he was tending the greenery, but I realized after passing him and noting his age, that he was just slowly making his way over a cedar tree that had fallen on the path. In my memory of this day, this man will represent my Grandpa Erv, who I blogged about before this trip, and who passed away while I was at the Janiculum. I like the idea that his spirit - so kind, so dear - was with me while the flora and breezes comforted my senses.
As I left, I climbed down many stairs, and came to a locked gate with no apparent exit. But, with patience - good for so many things in life! - I noticed an opening in the fence, and made my way through. Then, to document my journey up, and down again, I photographed this joiner. My favorite part is the way the light plays on the leaves. The thing about joiners is that you can never get them just right - it is a 3-D world represented in 2-D so, impossible to replicate. One must only be satisfied with the effect, and tolerant (even welcoming) of imperfection - another useful tool that I will stow away for my continued journey.
two delightful excursions, part I
Yesterday I walked to the Appia Antica, one of the original highways that the Romans used to reach the port (in or near Naples, methinks). It's a few miles from my place, past the Circus Maximus (really, just a big field) and down a tree-lined avenue. Once outside the city walls, you walk or bike along an increasingly picturesque way.
Two of Rome's most frequented catacombs are located there, and I went to the one that was open on Sundays, San Callisto. It was serendipitous indeed, because I had the most wonderful, mystical tour guide in the world. I didn't learn her name, but she took her job seriously in the best sense possible.
The tour guide, a tiny woman with a poncho (it's cold underground) and a thin wooden staff with a purple fluttery topper, seemed to have the spirit of San Callisto. (Assuming San Callisto was a kindly and inspirational gentleman and not one of those curmudgeonly saints). She had a lovely accent that I couldn't place, but could have been Spanish, Italian, or maybe even Sicilian, and spoke with a light in her eyes. She drew attention to the fact that we were all pilgrims come to a holy place, and in an English-speaking group, there are likely to be people from a lot of different faiths, but it was marvelous because we all came to be there in peace. She also noted that the Christian catacombs, being as old as they are (150-320 AD) were just that - no Catholic/Protestant divisions yet. Another expected perk was that she had knowledge of the way people learn random facts, which is to say, not very well; which is to say, if you want them to remember said facts, you'd better repeat them over and over. But because of her accent and her divine tone of voice, it didn't bother me at all. Feel free to quiz me on the random facts, when I return stateside.
The tour began in a small chapel and continued into the earth - about 30 feet underground (no pictures were allowed, unfortunately). Contrary to popular belief, the Christians didn't hide in the Catacombs but rather used them as a burial site, which even the Romans with all their many and varied pagan gods respected (E!Tonight, or People magazine, anyone?). Tufa, or lava rock, is soft until exposed to the air, which is convenient if you are going to be doing a lot of digging and then plan on walking around in the area you dug. Which they did, believe me! I'm awfully glad I had a guide who was considerate and did not leave us all down there to fend for ourselves. Here is the entry into the catacombs - now imagine a flight of stairs in there going 30 feet down followed by miles upon miles of tunnels!
After the catacombs, continued down the Appia Antica and found a bike rental place, which is a dandy way to see the couple of miles farthest out. If you don't mind the original Roman stones, about the size of watermelons and sometimes quite as round. If you need to jostle a loose tooth out of your noggin', this is the place to do it. Luckily the "modern" (as in, maybe 200 years old?) cobblestones were the most common paving stones used, and I didn't fall over on my bike once, though I thought about it a lot. Here is a picture of me not falling over (see the similarities between myself and our almost-naked friend, who we must have seen 8 times on our journey):
After the ancient road, I walked along a not-at-all-ancient-road (i.e., with lots of cars) to return to the city wall. I took a bus for a couple of the ickiest miles and got to see this lovely Roman soldier show on the Circus Maximus. Notice the guy with black and white gladiator sandals - he must represent a very special type of gladiator, indeed.
Two of Rome's most frequented catacombs are located there, and I went to the one that was open on Sundays, San Callisto. It was serendipitous indeed, because I had the most wonderful, mystical tour guide in the world. I didn't learn her name, but she took her job seriously in the best sense possible.
The tour guide, a tiny woman with a poncho (it's cold underground) and a thin wooden staff with a purple fluttery topper, seemed to have the spirit of San Callisto. (Assuming San Callisto was a kindly and inspirational gentleman and not one of those curmudgeonly saints). She had a lovely accent that I couldn't place, but could have been Spanish, Italian, or maybe even Sicilian, and spoke with a light in her eyes. She drew attention to the fact that we were all pilgrims come to a holy place, and in an English-speaking group, there are likely to be people from a lot of different faiths, but it was marvelous because we all came to be there in peace. She also noted that the Christian catacombs, being as old as they are (150-320 AD) were just that - no Catholic/Protestant divisions yet. Another expected perk was that she had knowledge of the way people learn random facts, which is to say, not very well; which is to say, if you want them to remember said facts, you'd better repeat them over and over. But because of her accent and her divine tone of voice, it didn't bother me at all. Feel free to quiz me on the random facts, when I return stateside.
The tour began in a small chapel and continued into the earth - about 30 feet underground (no pictures were allowed, unfortunately). Contrary to popular belief, the Christians didn't hide in the Catacombs but rather used them as a burial site, which even the Romans with all their many and varied pagan gods respected (E!Tonight, or People magazine, anyone?). Tufa, or lava rock, is soft until exposed to the air, which is convenient if you are going to be doing a lot of digging and then plan on walking around in the area you dug. Which they did, believe me! I'm awfully glad I had a guide who was considerate and did not leave us all down there to fend for ourselves. Here is the entry into the catacombs - now imagine a flight of stairs in there going 30 feet down followed by miles upon miles of tunnels!
After the catacombs, continued down the Appia Antica and found a bike rental place, which is a dandy way to see the couple of miles farthest out. If you don't mind the original Roman stones, about the size of watermelons and sometimes quite as round. If you need to jostle a loose tooth out of your noggin', this is the place to do it. Luckily the "modern" (as in, maybe 200 years old?) cobblestones were the most common paving stones used, and I didn't fall over on my bike once, though I thought about it a lot. Here is a picture of me not falling over (see the similarities between myself and our almost-naked friend, who we must have seen 8 times on our journey):
After the ancient road, I walked along a not-at-all-ancient-road (i.e., with lots of cars) to return to the city wall. I took a bus for a couple of the ickiest miles and got to see this lovely Roman soldier show on the Circus Maximus. Notice the guy with black and white gladiator sandals - he must represent a very special type of gladiator, indeed.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
GO BOB HERBERT!
There might be a bit of irony in putting this article about Tweeting on a blog, but it's just so good.
Mostly, I use new technology the way old technology was used: I use my cell phones (more or less) to place calls. I read online news in the morning (usually) for a finite period of time (I can't even stand to watch news programs with all their digital ticker updates designed for a masochistic epileptic). But without friends and family in the immediate geographic area, there are admittedly fewer ways to connect to the people I care most about. And that means fewer words of wisdom filtering into my 21st century life and fewer anchors to the real world that raised me. Sounds like a good compromise is called for: I like Bob H's strategy. Let's not go back to paper-clips and floppy disks (oh, floppy disks!). But maybe be more thoughtful about all the gadgets so we don't end up like this guy?
Mostly, I use new technology the way old technology was used: I use my cell phones (more or less) to place calls. I read online news in the morning (usually) for a finite period of time (I can't even stand to watch news programs with all their digital ticker updates designed for a masochistic epileptic). But without friends and family in the immediate geographic area, there are admittedly fewer ways to connect to the people I care most about. And that means fewer words of wisdom filtering into my 21st century life and fewer anchors to the real world that raised me. Sounds like a good compromise is called for: I like Bob H's strategy. Let's not go back to paper-clips and floppy disks (oh, floppy disks!). But maybe be more thoughtful about all the gadgets so we don't end up like this guy?
Friday, July 16, 2010
a day in
Please don't be mad at me for being in Rome and spending the whole day inside. I'm not even sure how I managed to take up the whole day putzing, but putz, I did. My activities included making breakfast - "Italian" toast which is French Toast with yummy pane (bread) and topped with peach pieces, a little writing, recording a tribute to my grandfather, a nap, Pilates, vocal practice, sweeping the floor, and washing dishes.
It seems like there could be several different theories for why I like to stay in, sometimes. For example, the nesting instinct, which apparently male lovebirds have according to this hilarious question:
"Are Male Lovebirds Usually Builds Up Nests And Stay Inside The Nesting Box While The Female Is Busy Carrying The Nesting Materials?"
But for many, including me, nesting doesn't have anything to do with wanting to spawn a little human baby (as covered yesterday). Maybe it's more aligned with wanting to establish one's place in the world. I've traveled enough that the first thing I do upon entering a new hotel room - or a nice flat in Rome - is unpack and put everything somewhere. When you travel - it's sometimes more difficult to remember lots of things about yourself, especially what "home" means. I'm not the only one to explore the options, ranging from...
the traditional where the heart is
to
the varied
to
people you love and/or feeling at home
to just off-topic and funny
Nesting might a way of creating an external place of comfort and familiarity. This seems especially important when the internal stuff is in flux. As in, "Gee, I don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but look at the tidy kitchen counter!" Tomorrow, I will make the city of Roma my home again, and let the dust bunnies collect until I need another reminder of who in the heck I am.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
figuring it out
Ovid was exiled from Rome, though the reasons are unclear. In the Smiles of Rome, an excerpt from his Art of Love is included, with Susan Cahill's follow-up proposal that Ovid was too progressive for the misogynistic moralist Emperor Augustus. Ovid attended to the needs of women in his writing...what a goofy idea!
What is up with women, and men's roles in the world today? I'm not trying to whine - people are constantly developing new ways to be victimized feminists (did you think those two words were contradictory? Emily Gould explains why they are not). I'm seriously trying to figure it out, in terms of both ontogeny and phylogeny (that is, my own puny little existence and the overall trajectory of the species).
Certainly, there has been progress, in the last 50 years, particularly. What's 50 years, though? Maybe it's like the moment an infant who, after crawling in the dirt for centuries, takes that first toddling step. It's a clumsy uprightness, followed by an almost immediate return to the earth: Because when you've been crawling for so long, the effort spent walking seems ridiculous. Except, of course, when you want to make actual progress.
Like the infant learning to walk, our societies can't acquire the new skill of respecting and appreciating women's contributions by watching (especially when we're still watching mostly men, whether it's in sports, entertainment, politics, etc). Do you remember learning anything new, recently? How un-fun it was and how you just wanted to give up and go sit on the couch and eat Cheetos? That's how it feels to be figuring out how to be a "new woman" in today's age.
For a while it seemed as simple as doing like so many men do: adopt a career and pursue it single-mindedly. BUT! But: I like - and need - my social connections (see weepy, inspirational clip below). I like my community, and my thoughtfully prepared, healthy dinner, and my swept floor. I like knowing what's going on with my family, and reaching out to someone who seems sad. Without being Martha Stewart (not even close), I like making homemade birthday and holiday cards, and trying out a new recipe. I like my lighthearted, mostly-for-fun women's barbershop group.
After I realized things were going to be more complicated than I initially thought, I spent some time trying to do it all (in my head - thankfully, real children were NOT involved). My conclusion? Like Erin Pizzey: exhausting. It just doesn't make sense. Someone has to actually run the world on a daily basis, including shopping, cleaning, and feeding everybody, and someone has to dream the dreams that keep the world moving forward. For everyone to do all of everything...blech, and double blech.
At the Colosseum, I approached our guide after the tour, and asked her about a fun fact regarding the seating areas at the fights. From her telling, "women and slaves" sat in the uppermost tier - the cheap seats. I was curious about this, thinking that the wives/mistresses of the fancy Senator dudes would be allowed to sit near their mates and all the spraying blood. She replied that no, in public life, women had no influence. But then she got a glint in her eye: in private life, she said, as the mothers, sisters, and daughters of those fancy dudes, they had a great deal of influence. For example, did you know that Helena, the mother of the Christianity-edict-ing Constantine, is often credited with exposing him to the religion? Then with another glint, she added: "some things never change, no?"
So what now? Who the hell knows? I peeked behind the curtain and saw the Wizard of Oz, and he is a scared little man in a tiny narrow booth. He may think he's the boss, but he is missing out, too. A scrumptious creme brulee is a delightful accomplishment indeed, as is the act of showing up at a sad house with a hearty casserole. Maybe he and Dorothy should have a little chat?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
turbo tourism
After 2 weeks of moseying, lolling around, and general leisure, I just came off a 2-day stint of "turbo tourism". Monday was the warm-up day from 11-6pm, and yesterday was spent at the Forum by 10am and then went to Hadrian's villa by metro/buses, returned at 8:30pm and had a true Roman dinner beginning at 11pm. Needless to say I will be laying low today, apart from some necessary grocery shopping.
Here are some highlights:
- going to the Colosseum and NOT being a gladiator condemned to fight/die "damnatio ad bestia" (damnation by beast), or a spectator getting sprayed with perfume to cover up the stench of blood from all the death
- being a savvy enough tourist not to be taken by the "goofy gladiators" charging too much moola for having a photo with them pretending to stab you with fake swords, but being appreciative of the guy who did and laughing at him from afar
- watching entire families wearing the same straw hat purchased from the guys who spread out a bunch of them on sheets in the hot, hot sun
- having dirty gladiator feet at the end of walking over 6 miles on Monday
watching archeologists continue to dig at what must be some of the most plundered/excavated sites in the world
hanging out at the Temple of the Vestal Virgins site which (coincidentally?) also has some of the prettiest, and only, flowers in the Forum
warnings, dogs, and turtles at Hadrian's villa!
almost getting ambushed by one sneaky statue...
...and copping a feel from another one
finding this bar which must have seen its popularity increase 500% since Twilight came out
Viva Italia!
Here are some highlights:
- going to the Colosseum and NOT being a gladiator condemned to fight/die "damnatio ad bestia" (damnation by beast), or a spectator getting sprayed with perfume to cover up the stench of blood from all the death
- being a savvy enough tourist not to be taken by the "goofy gladiators" charging too much moola for having a photo with them pretending to stab you with fake swords, but being appreciative of the guy who did and laughing at him from afar
- watching entire families wearing the same straw hat purchased from the guys who spread out a bunch of them on sheets in the hot, hot sun
- having dirty gladiator feet at the end of walking over 6 miles on Monday
watching archeologists continue to dig at what must be some of the most plundered/excavated sites in the world
hanging out at the Temple of the Vestal Virgins site which (coincidentally?) also has some of the prettiest, and only, flowers in the Forum
warnings, dogs, and turtles at Hadrian's villa!
almost getting ambushed by one sneaky statue...
...and copping a feel from another one
finding this bar which must have seen its popularity increase 500% since Twilight came out Viva Italia!
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