Why Scuba Donkey?
Scuba Donkey was conceived in an Opel Astra in the mountains of Provence. The Opel Astra, if you don't know, is essentially a glorified golf cart that has no business on any road with even the slightest incline. I didn't know. I thought I was being frugal by renting the cheapest car with manual transmission to scoot around the back roads in the south of France with my beloved Gwendolyn.
I was not being frugal. I was being ignorantly suicidal. The Opel Astra has absolutely no pick-up whatsoever. Pick-up is something you want when driving through the hilly regions of Provence.
So, to distract ourselves from the certain doom we faced as we hurtled down a particularly curvy & up-and-downy stretch of road, Gwen & I came up with a list of words that were fun to say. Between screams ("Watch out!" "He's heading straight for us!" & "Oh, my God! This is it!") we determined that the words scuba & donkey, among others, we're actually kind of fun to utter out loud. You try it. Do it now.
See?
I like combining accents. I recommend equal parts Jim Carrey from " The Mask" & Mike Meyers from "Shrek" to come up with a creepy Scottish vibe. Let the breath trail off during the last syllable.
Scuba donkeeeeaahhhhhh!
This isn't really a travel blog, although we'll post our travel stories. It's more of a commentary on why we like the things we like. We don't just want to see the world, we want to experience it. The process of discussing & analyzing the day's events & then trying to record it in an artistic or funny way helps in a huge way to appreciate what we've just been through. And by sharing our suggestions & warnings with you maybe we can save you some time or angst should you find yourself in the same part of the world.
These, then, are the chronicles of the Scuba Donkey. A collection of narratives detailing our adventures as we roam the earth seeking out the things we love & identifying those we could live without. We invite you to participate in the process.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Awake in Barcelona- G
On Sunday June 19th, we set foot in Barcelona for our third and last time of our trip. Our arrivals were twice by plane & once by ferry. Arrival by plane was definitely much preferred. Our ferry trips were creepy at best with the deserted eleven-story Grimaldi Lines ferry being the highlight. It's 50 truck drivers starring at our every move and it's 50 high school kids making out to loud dance music on the chair-less top deck did not disappoint. Mario, myself & the 10 other awe struck tourists looked at our watches frequently over the 23 hour trip and noticeably stayed out in the open on the upper deck drinking caffeinated beverages so as not to require sleep. Long stretches below amid long empty corridors reminiscent of The Shining and cabins aromatically scented with diesel fuel and starched sheets were not a welcome comfort. We opted for 5-year old hot dogs, rum & coke, and our own game of ipad Yatzee on the top deck to keep the dream alive. I’m an excellent Yatzee player now.
____
Scuba Donkey on The Grimaldi Line
Barcelona was our home base and our break between ferries. We witnessed the beautiful city shift gently from Spring to Summer. Dark colored jackets and scarves gave way to floral prints and brighter wisps of blues and pinks. The H&M stores were packed, those 80's style Original Wayfarer Ray-Ban sunglasses that Madonna loved are back with a vengeance in white, and everyone had on a pair of Birkenstocks. Men and women alike wore the Gizeh style ones with impeccable flair. The political protests in Plaça de Catalunya grew to a full-blown tent city of thousands noticeably affecting the overall mood of the Catalan paradise & a few tourists began to show signs of sunburn.
I was awake. I wasn’t tired one bit and for my 34th day straight without the comforts of “home”, I felt more rested than ever. When I looked in the mirror of our beautiful little hotel room at The Hotel Gaudi, I had no dark circles under my eyes and my forehead was void of those ever increasing lines. My breath was calm and deep and every pore of my skin seemed to be fully open as if they were soaking up every last bit of oxygen available. The relaxed safety one is known to feel at home and I always find myself searching for, I felt while traveling. I was satisfied, fulfilled & unbelievably awake.
A beach walk to Barceloneta was the choice for our last day. A naked & tattooed 70 year old man with a penis to his knees strolling the boardwalk, Frank Gehry’s waterfront fish sculpture, amazing sushi & sangria, drumming protesters & coconut gelato all fulfilled our remaining Spanish wishes. We stopped for a few more tapas whenever the fragrances called us in. We wandered dim rainy side streets until our feet were too sore to walk any further, we slept then returned to the place we now call home.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Indiana Jones & The Most Beautiful Girl in the World- M & G
June 10
Gwendolyn: It was a hike wheeling luggage from the train station through the charming Myrtle Beach meets Pompano town of Civitavecchia, Italy. We were hungry and not sure how long it would take us to locate our ferry line and stand in all of the appropriate queues. Although there was a very suspect looking Subway sandwich sign, we were anxious to continue on and find something better by our ferry port. Barcelona was our destination and we knew that no matter what we encountered, it wouldn't be but a short 24 hours before we could eat our favorite gazpacho.
All of a sudden, there it was. The port. With it's various display of industrial looking cranes and lifts, large cargo ships, a few cruise ships, and of course a large gate lit in golden hues by the setting evening sun. It was all that separated ourselves from what we knew was the direction we needed to go. There were two rather serious looking Italian guards in front of the gate with large semi trucks approaching them one by one for permission to enter. I left the luggage with Mario and ran haphazardly between them to reach the guards.
" Through here you are very beautiful 100 yards free shuttle very beautiful come back beautiful" was the line from one of the guards that successfully landed us one step closer to the Grimaldi Ferry Line and our prized gazpacho. Still, however complimentary of my lovely hairstylist that added the hint of blond highlights peaking out from under my floppy hat that Italian men notoriously love so well, there was something a little off about the exchange. I knew then that something was amiss. We were in store for a new adventure.
The reception and waiting area was something like the arcade corner of an early 80's bowling alley in the suburbs of Midwest Ohio. The ones I became ever so familiar with as a child. Rows of thin wooden seats bolted together provided comfort. An assortment of crazy ball machines and those large glass cages with the giant claw that never successfully captures the fuzzy stuffed bear in the bow tie from the mound below provided entertainment.
I chose to sit and guard the bags while Mario ventured in deeper in search of food.
Mario: The snack bar was well stocked with all sorts of useless & largely inedible crap. It was patronized by families that seemed to communicate only by screaming at each other regardless of whether they were expressing love or fury. There were also lots of truckers who congregated here while waiting to accompany their shipments on the next ferry. I adjusted my Stetson & entered.
A word about the Stetson: I found it in Antibes, a little French seaport just outside of Nice. It is made of pre-weathered leather & looked both rustic & stylish. I tried it on & felt like Clint Eastwood at a fashion show in Milan. Gwen loved the hat when I held it up but her enthusiasm faded somewhat when I put it on. My longish hair had become stiff & dry due to the salt air & the absence of hair product. It stuck out like the thatching on a tiki hut from underneath the awesome cowboy chapeau. But a little strategic smoothing & angling seemed to satisfy any objections & I left the haberdashery with my head held high & my eyes slightly narrowed. I looked cool!
No one seemed to notice my arrival at the snack bar. I had somehow failed to cut the striking figure that preceded me in my head. I perused the selection at the deli counter. The myriad collection of shrink-wrapped baguettes served only to confuse me. Every incarnation of pork product was combined with a different kind of cheese. There was ham & mozzarella, sausage & emmenthal, prosciutto & Parmesan. Ordinarily, this would be snack Valhalla for me but the contents of each sandwich seemed a little flimsy.
The man at the counter took orders from his customers efficiently & economically. He was wearing a hat, too, a little paper hat like one does while preparing peppy cuisine. He looked at me, questioning. I pointed vaguely into the refrigerated counter & he told me the cost & pointed to the cashier. I walked over to dutifully pay first. Then I returned to hand him my receipt. While he prepared my meal, I stared into the counter again, doubting my selection & wondering if I should choose for Gwen or let her decide for herself. I was thus distracted when the man said, "Hey, Indiana Jones!". He wore a malicious grin as he held out the now pressed & paper-thin baguette. I smiled sheepishly as I took my dinner from the bald philistine in the paper hat. I left the snack bar to report back to Gwen.
Gwen: All of the strange & prolonged stares while Mario was away put me a little on edge, but in no time at all my man had returned proudly carrying his odd looking sandwich. I asked, " How was it in there?" and all he provided me was a firm "go see for yourself".
I passed the threshold of the aluminum framed cage with plexiglass windows erected inside a corner of the larger concrete block building as a makeshift convenience store. As I entered all seemed normal for a brief moment. Then, there was silence. All eyes were on me and all I could here in my head as I scanned the room was the music from that Bar in Star Wars.
Growing up in a small fishing town in Midwest Ohio afforded me the opportunity to not only become familiar with bowling alleys, but with a various array of truck stops, bait shops, & even the suburbs of Detroit. I have also been to Gary Indiana a few times and walked the docks of many port towns selling uniforms to yacht crew. None of those experiences prepared me for this.
The sandwich man was at the edge of the counter awaiting my order by the time I walked across the room. He appeared to be about 6 feet tall with a bald head bearing an upside down boat shaped paper sandwich making hat. "Buona sera, one large beer and a ham and cheese sandwich, Grazie", I said.
He stared directly at me as he took the bottle opener to the beer. I kept my eyes mostly on the ceiling. He passed the beer across the counter with my sandwich and in slow motion with a slightly carnival-ish grin and a muddled Italian accent said, "You- are the most beautiful girl in the world." There it was.
'You are the most beautiful girl in the world' is normally a great thing to hear when in you're in your late thirties and the freckles have all smeared together and given way to brown blobs between those "fine lines" they mention in cosmetic ads. Given the present moment circumstances; however, it wasn't so great and he said it a little louder than I would have preferred.
I smiled, said Grazie and turned around.
Have you ever been scuba diving or snorkeling with barracuda? They are odd looking things that hover and stare directly at you. They don't move - they just stare. Well, I turned around to see a whole school of barracuda and a very long cashier line. They welcomed me into the queue and stood very closely- all eyes fixed on me.
I stood there tapping my foot, facing forward & holding my gourmet dinner when the same bald paper hatted sandwich man now unexpectedly 2 feet shorter smiled, held out a plastic bag and said, "for you beautiful, but hold on to your beer."
Several toothless grins from the cashier line encouraged me in Italian to take the bag, but definitely hold on to the beer. This was somehow very important to them that I hold on very tightly to my beer. I oddly understood this in Italian. I did hold on tightly to my beer & I smiled at my shrunken sandwich man who obviously served his fare from high atop some kind of raised platform. As I awkwardly awaited my fate in line, he stood right beside me, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at me until I made it to the front of the line to pay.
My exit was swift. My walk back to Mario was brisk. And, when I returned to him, all he said was "Star Wars bar, right?"
We both hoped the food and crowd would be slightly less frightening on board our 21 hour cruise.
___________________
Gwendolyn: It was a hike wheeling luggage from the train station through the charming Myrtle Beach meets Pompano town of Civitavecchia, Italy. We were hungry and not sure how long it would take us to locate our ferry line and stand in all of the appropriate queues. Although there was a very suspect looking Subway sandwich sign, we were anxious to continue on and find something better by our ferry port. Barcelona was our destination and we knew that no matter what we encountered, it wouldn't be but a short 24 hours before we could eat our favorite gazpacho.
All of a sudden, there it was. The port. With it's various display of industrial looking cranes and lifts, large cargo ships, a few cruise ships, and of course a large gate lit in golden hues by the setting evening sun. It was all that separated ourselves from what we knew was the direction we needed to go. There were two rather serious looking Italian guards in front of the gate with large semi trucks approaching them one by one for permission to enter. I left the luggage with Mario and ran haphazardly between them to reach the guards.
" Through here you are very beautiful 100 yards free shuttle very beautiful come back beautiful" was the line from one of the guards that successfully landed us one step closer to the Grimaldi Ferry Line and our prized gazpacho. Still, however complimentary of my lovely hairstylist that added the hint of blond highlights peaking out from under my floppy hat that Italian men notoriously love so well, there was something a little off about the exchange. I knew then that something was amiss. We were in store for a new adventure.
The reception and waiting area was something like the arcade corner of an early 80's bowling alley in the suburbs of Midwest Ohio. The ones I became ever so familiar with as a child. Rows of thin wooden seats bolted together provided comfort. An assortment of crazy ball machines and those large glass cages with the giant claw that never successfully captures the fuzzy stuffed bear in the bow tie from the mound below provided entertainment.
I chose to sit and guard the bags while Mario ventured in deeper in search of food.
Mario: The snack bar was well stocked with all sorts of useless & largely inedible crap. It was patronized by families that seemed to communicate only by screaming at each other regardless of whether they were expressing love or fury. There were also lots of truckers who congregated here while waiting to accompany their shipments on the next ferry. I adjusted my Stetson & entered.
A word about the Stetson: I found it in Antibes, a little French seaport just outside of Nice. It is made of pre-weathered leather & looked both rustic & stylish. I tried it on & felt like Clint Eastwood at a fashion show in Milan. Gwen loved the hat when I held it up but her enthusiasm faded somewhat when I put it on. My longish hair had become stiff & dry due to the salt air & the absence of hair product. It stuck out like the thatching on a tiki hut from underneath the awesome cowboy chapeau. But a little strategic smoothing & angling seemed to satisfy any objections & I left the haberdashery with my head held high & my eyes slightly narrowed. I looked cool!
No one seemed to notice my arrival at the snack bar. I had somehow failed to cut the striking figure that preceded me in my head. I perused the selection at the deli counter. The myriad collection of shrink-wrapped baguettes served only to confuse me. Every incarnation of pork product was combined with a different kind of cheese. There was ham & mozzarella, sausage & emmenthal, prosciutto & Parmesan. Ordinarily, this would be snack Valhalla for me but the contents of each sandwich seemed a little flimsy.
The man at the counter took orders from his customers efficiently & economically. He was wearing a hat, too, a little paper hat like one does while preparing peppy cuisine. He looked at me, questioning. I pointed vaguely into the refrigerated counter & he told me the cost & pointed to the cashier. I walked over to dutifully pay first. Then I returned to hand him my receipt. While he prepared my meal, I stared into the counter again, doubting my selection & wondering if I should choose for Gwen or let her decide for herself. I was thus distracted when the man said, "Hey, Indiana Jones!". He wore a malicious grin as he held out the now pressed & paper-thin baguette. I smiled sheepishly as I took my dinner from the bald philistine in the paper hat. I left the snack bar to report back to Gwen.
Gwen: All of the strange & prolonged stares while Mario was away put me a little on edge, but in no time at all my man had returned proudly carrying his odd looking sandwich. I asked, " How was it in there?" and all he provided me was a firm "go see for yourself".
I passed the threshold of the aluminum framed cage with plexiglass windows erected inside a corner of the larger concrete block building as a makeshift convenience store. As I entered all seemed normal for a brief moment. Then, there was silence. All eyes were on me and all I could here in my head as I scanned the room was the music from that Bar in Star Wars.
Growing up in a small fishing town in Midwest Ohio afforded me the opportunity to not only become familiar with bowling alleys, but with a various array of truck stops, bait shops, & even the suburbs of Detroit. I have also been to Gary Indiana a few times and walked the docks of many port towns selling uniforms to yacht crew. None of those experiences prepared me for this.
The sandwich man was at the edge of the counter awaiting my order by the time I walked across the room. He appeared to be about 6 feet tall with a bald head bearing an upside down boat shaped paper sandwich making hat. "Buona sera, one large beer and a ham and cheese sandwich, Grazie", I said.
He stared directly at me as he took the bottle opener to the beer. I kept my eyes mostly on the ceiling. He passed the beer across the counter with my sandwich and in slow motion with a slightly carnival-ish grin and a muddled Italian accent said, "You- are the most beautiful girl in the world." There it was.
'You are the most beautiful girl in the world' is normally a great thing to hear when in you're in your late thirties and the freckles have all smeared together and given way to brown blobs between those "fine lines" they mention in cosmetic ads. Given the present moment circumstances; however, it wasn't so great and he said it a little louder than I would have preferred.
I smiled, said Grazie and turned around.
Have you ever been scuba diving or snorkeling with barracuda? They are odd looking things that hover and stare directly at you. They don't move - they just stare. Well, I turned around to see a whole school of barracuda and a very long cashier line. They welcomed me into the queue and stood very closely- all eyes fixed on me.
I stood there tapping my foot, facing forward & holding my gourmet dinner when the same bald paper hatted sandwich man now unexpectedly 2 feet shorter smiled, held out a plastic bag and said, "for you beautiful, but hold on to your beer."
Several toothless grins from the cashier line encouraged me in Italian to take the bag, but definitely hold on to the beer. This was somehow very important to them that I hold on very tightly to my beer. I oddly understood this in Italian. I did hold on tightly to my beer & I smiled at my shrunken sandwich man who obviously served his fare from high atop some kind of raised platform. As I awkwardly awaited my fate in line, he stood right beside me, shoulder to shoulder, staring up at me until I made it to the front of the line to pay.
My exit was swift. My walk back to Mario was brisk. And, when I returned to him, all he said was "Star Wars bar, right?"
We both hoped the food and crowd would be slightly less frightening on board our 21 hour cruise.
___________________
INDIANA JONES
G overlooking The Port of Civitavecchia- 5 minutes in....still optimistic!
Friday, June 10, 2011
Can't let your guard down for a moment- M
June 8,
After my run-in with the nefarious umbrella salesman, I became (in my opinion) justifiably paranoid. They sold everything: umbrellas, both asian parasols to protect from the sun as well as the crappy ones that fell apart when you needed them most, overpriced drinks & food strategically presented so as to imply more meat & cheese than there actually were & toys. They sold toys that glowed, spun & flew. They sold round little balls that you could throw against the wall where they would splat & then ever so slowly reconstitute themselves eerily into their original shape. For some reason, they all seemed to be of Indian or Pakistani descent. Every street vendor attempting to solicit my business was chased off with scowls & curses. "No way, man! I'm not falling for THAT again!"
And Gwen would giggle at the sour negotiations going on.
Today, while breathing in the splendor of the Borghese park with my sweetheart, another fiendish entrepreneur approached the bench we occupied. I saw him as he spotted us from across the promenade, a bunch of roses in one hand, multi-colored twine in the other.
"Flower?". He held out a rose that seemed to approach middle age.
"No, thank you," I replied civilly but warily.
"But, your girlfriend is so beautiful!"
My spider sense began to tingle. I raised my internal warning sign to defcon 4. Shields up! We were headed into An Unpleasant Encounter.
"Yes, she is. But, we won't be spending any money right now."
"Where are you from? English?"
Crap! I thought. He's engaging us in conversation! All hands on deck! Ready torpedo tubes 1 & 2!
"No," chirps the ever-friendly Gwendolyn. "We're from Florida."
"Ahh, how lovely! Then this is a gift for you!". He handed her the rose.
Defcon 5! Prepare to fire torpedoes! Ready the escape pods!
"No thank you." she says. "We have nothing for you."
"It's a gift," he says innocently.
Gwen looked at the recently-passed-it's-prime flower doubtfully. Then, we both thanked him through compressed lips. He shoved the roses under an armpit & extracted one of the brightly colored twine. He knotted it elaborately around Gwendolyn's wrist.
"We have no money for you!" we said in unison.
"It's a gift," he repeated. He pointed to the Vatican in the distance. "It's good luck.". He pulled another piece of twine & offered to tie it around my wrist.
"We really have no money for you!" I insisted less forcefully now.
"It's a gift. Good luck." he smiled & nodded deferentially toward St. Peter's basilica. I held my wrist out. He knotted the twine carefully while my heart filled with shame with the sudden realization that I had unjustly generalized the street vendors. "Thank you." I said quietly.
"Now, you have gift for me?"
"What?!?!"
"You give me gift. Five euro."
"We have no money for you!" We were practically singing this now.
"No change in your pocket? You won't look?"
"No." I said it simply. My mental trigger finger itched furiously now. Gwen handed him back the unwanted flower (who could have ever thought of such a thing?). He took it back with a scowl & walked away.
We tried to remove the twine but it was securely fastened with some Gordian variation. So, we wandered away with the unwanted & unasked for bangles. But after a little while, the idea of the constant micro-grifting we'd been subject to made the thin little bracelets seem unusually heavy. We cut them off with butter knives over lunch consisting of Greek salad, eggplant parmesan, bruschetta, tiramisu, strawberries with cream & the perfunctory awesome cappuccino. All of which we happily overpaid for.
With a credit card, of course. We're lucky the guy didn't operate with credit.
After my run-in with the nefarious umbrella salesman, I became (in my opinion) justifiably paranoid. They sold everything: umbrellas, both asian parasols to protect from the sun as well as the crappy ones that fell apart when you needed them most, overpriced drinks & food strategically presented so as to imply more meat & cheese than there actually were & toys. They sold toys that glowed, spun & flew. They sold round little balls that you could throw against the wall where they would splat & then ever so slowly reconstitute themselves eerily into their original shape. For some reason, they all seemed to be of Indian or Pakistani descent. Every street vendor attempting to solicit my business was chased off with scowls & curses. "No way, man! I'm not falling for THAT again!"
And Gwen would giggle at the sour negotiations going on.
Today, while breathing in the splendor of the Borghese park with my sweetheart, another fiendish entrepreneur approached the bench we occupied. I saw him as he spotted us from across the promenade, a bunch of roses in one hand, multi-colored twine in the other.
"Flower?". He held out a rose that seemed to approach middle age.
"No, thank you," I replied civilly but warily.
"But, your girlfriend is so beautiful!"
My spider sense began to tingle. I raised my internal warning sign to defcon 4. Shields up! We were headed into An Unpleasant Encounter.
"Yes, she is. But, we won't be spending any money right now."
"Where are you from? English?"
Crap! I thought. He's engaging us in conversation! All hands on deck! Ready torpedo tubes 1 & 2!
"No," chirps the ever-friendly Gwendolyn. "We're from Florida."
"Ahh, how lovely! Then this is a gift for you!". He handed her the rose.
Defcon 5! Prepare to fire torpedoes! Ready the escape pods!
"No thank you." she says. "We have nothing for you."
"It's a gift," he says innocently.
Gwen looked at the recently-passed-it's-prime flower doubtfully. Then, we both thanked him through compressed lips. He shoved the roses under an armpit & extracted one of the brightly colored twine. He knotted it elaborately around Gwendolyn's wrist.
"We have no money for you!" we said in unison.
"It's a gift," he repeated. He pointed to the Vatican in the distance. "It's good luck.". He pulled another piece of twine & offered to tie it around my wrist.
"We really have no money for you!" I insisted less forcefully now.
"It's a gift. Good luck." he smiled & nodded deferentially toward St. Peter's basilica. I held my wrist out. He knotted the twine carefully while my heart filled with shame with the sudden realization that I had unjustly generalized the street vendors. "Thank you." I said quietly.
"Now, you have gift for me?"
"What?!?!"
"You give me gift. Five euro."
"We have no money for you!" We were practically singing this now.
"No change in your pocket? You won't look?"
"No." I said it simply. My mental trigger finger itched furiously now. Gwen handed him back the unwanted flower (who could have ever thought of such a thing?). He took it back with a scowl & walked away.
We tried to remove the twine but it was securely fastened with some Gordian variation. So, we wandered away with the unwanted & unasked for bangles. But after a little while, the idea of the constant micro-grifting we'd been subject to made the thin little bracelets seem unusually heavy. We cut them off with butter knives over lunch consisting of Greek salad, eggplant parmesan, bruschetta, tiramisu, strawberries with cream & the perfunctory awesome cappuccino. All of which we happily overpaid for.
With a credit card, of course. We're lucky the guy didn't operate with credit.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Pudding- M
June 7. Tuesday
Giovanni, the gentleman who prepared my absinthe, told me that part of the problem with Rome, aside from the tourist gouging umbrella salesmen, is that there is so much art, culture & overall beauty that the locals take it for granted. This may be so. We all too often take for granted the place where we live.
Today, we saw oodles (oodles I tell you!) of Carravagios. I stood inches away from a Christ as imagined by Michaelangelo. I snapped away on my camera at my lovely Gwendolyn as she sat in the cathedral & the light hit her just so. I had delicious pasta. And what's the story with the mozzarella here? It's like...
Pudding.
Gwen purchased the blueberriest blueberries I've ever tasted. The man running the fruit stand at the market gave her two bonus cherries which were plump & awesome. We took pictures of flowers & doors & walls.
And as I thought of all these things, I said to Giovanni, "Too much is always better than not enough.". And Giovanni, who is a most excellent fellow, poured me another absinthe.
Did I mention the colors?
Giovanni, the gentleman who prepared my absinthe, told me that part of the problem with Rome, aside from the tourist gouging umbrella salesmen, is that there is so much art, culture & overall beauty that the locals take it for granted. This may be so. We all too often take for granted the place where we live.
Today, we saw oodles (oodles I tell you!) of Carravagios. I stood inches away from a Christ as imagined by Michaelangelo. I snapped away on my camera at my lovely Gwendolyn as she sat in the cathedral & the light hit her just so. I had delicious pasta. And what's the story with the mozzarella here? It's like...
Pudding.
Gwen purchased the blueberriest blueberries I've ever tasted. The man running the fruit stand at the market gave her two bonus cherries which were plump & awesome. We took pictures of flowers & doors & walls.
And as I thought of all these things, I said to Giovanni, "Too much is always better than not enough.". And Giovanni, who is a most excellent fellow, poured me another absinthe.
Did I mention the colors?
Giovanni, Justin, Smart cars & Cigarettes -G
June 7-
Giovanni, Justin, Smart cars & Cigarettes
Today is the seventh of June. It is our last night in Rome.
Rome defies expectation. There is no comparison.
In Rome, there are cigarettes hanging from the lips of old men in suits driving beat up old fiats down narrow cobblestone streets inches away from tourist's feet.
In Rome, there are seventy year old women in high heels, flawlessly tailored dresses, long scarves, large floppy hats and bright red lipstick riding their bicycles past cafes next to 2,000 year old structures with ancient Roman columns.
There are flat black painted racing style 4 door smart cars, red smart cars, green smart cars, white smart cars, blue ones, yellow ones... In Rome, everyone has a smart car- or a fancy Alfa Romeo.
In Rome, if you close your eyes and stand at an intersection of narrow streets ending in a piazza with names like Cinque Lune, Navona, Salvatore In Lauro you will smell truffle oil and garlic. You will hear the ringing of bicycle bells and the sonorous poetry of a language spoken like the most beautiful love song colliding with a passionate fight of lovers. You will feel the humidity on your skin, the heat of the sun and maybe the mist of a few raindrops from a small passing cloud. You will be aware of the pounding of your feet and you will feel the smile on your face.
In Rome, you can fill 4 days of your beautiful life taking in the complete history of the modern world. You can visit the Pope, see The Colosseum, explore the roman forum in the pouring rain where the moss on the ancient stone glows a vibrant green, visit the creations of Michelangelo and Caravaggio and eat food that redefines every morsel that has ever touched your lips.
In Rome you can feel at home in Giovanni's pub with every American sports pendant on the wall and turn a few corners to meet the columns of The Parthenon originally built to honor Pagan Gods.
In Rome, you can meet up for a drink with the son of your good friends from home while on his after college tour of Europe - knowing well that the meeting wasn't like any other. It was a chance to meet in ROME to celebrate travel and the stories, surprises, adventures & uncertainty that comes with it. When else in life can you discuss Nigerians under the bleachers, potential German wives, Cinque Terre, absinthe bars in Antibes , and the cast of the Jersey Shore all with recent personal reference points?
In Rome, you can grab a cannoli from the pastry shop across from your hotel and eat it in bed while blogging about your day.
I love Rome.
_________________________________________
Giovanni, Justin, Smart cars & Cigarettes
Today is the seventh of June. It is our last night in Rome.
Rome defies expectation. There is no comparison.
In Rome, there are cigarettes hanging from the lips of old men in suits driving beat up old fiats down narrow cobblestone streets inches away from tourist's feet.
In Rome, there are seventy year old women in high heels, flawlessly tailored dresses, long scarves, large floppy hats and bright red lipstick riding their bicycles past cafes next to 2,000 year old structures with ancient Roman columns.
There are flat black painted racing style 4 door smart cars, red smart cars, green smart cars, white smart cars, blue ones, yellow ones... In Rome, everyone has a smart car- or a fancy Alfa Romeo.
In Rome, if you close your eyes and stand at an intersection of narrow streets ending in a piazza with names like Cinque Lune, Navona, Salvatore In Lauro you will smell truffle oil and garlic. You will hear the ringing of bicycle bells and the sonorous poetry of a language spoken like the most beautiful love song colliding with a passionate fight of lovers. You will feel the humidity on your skin, the heat of the sun and maybe the mist of a few raindrops from a small passing cloud. You will be aware of the pounding of your feet and you will feel the smile on your face.
In Rome, you can fill 4 days of your beautiful life taking in the complete history of the modern world. You can visit the Pope, see The Colosseum, explore the roman forum in the pouring rain where the moss on the ancient stone glows a vibrant green, visit the creations of Michelangelo and Caravaggio and eat food that redefines every morsel that has ever touched your lips.
In Rome you can feel at home in Giovanni's pub with every American sports pendant on the wall and turn a few corners to meet the columns of The Parthenon originally built to honor Pagan Gods.
In Rome, you can meet up for a drink with the son of your good friends from home while on his after college tour of Europe - knowing well that the meeting wasn't like any other. It was a chance to meet in ROME to celebrate travel and the stories, surprises, adventures & uncertainty that comes with it. When else in life can you discuss Nigerians under the bleachers, potential German wives, Cinque Terre, absinthe bars in Antibes , and the cast of the Jersey Shore all with recent personal reference points?
In Rome, you can grab a cannoli from the pastry shop across from your hotel and eat it in bed while blogging about your day.
I love Rome.
_________________________________________
Monday, June 6, 2011
It's easier for a fat man to fit through the eye of a needle... -M
June 6,
Ok, ok. I'm getting the hang of this. Breakfast in Rome today only set me back about ten stones & I even managed to get some of my sandwich in my mouth before it exploded, throwing sandwich shrapnel onto the street. I don't even know what was in it. A lot of cheese, I guess. And I got a glimpse of something pink that might have been prosciutto that lay there silently mocking me from the sidewalk.
Today, Gwen & I went to the Vatican. As a repentant apostate, this was kind of a big deal for me. Saint Peter's basilica is nothing less than awesome. It is an enormous, ponderous testimonial to catholic magnificence. It is also a monument to suffering & the abasement of common folk. Every statue, every painting shows some soul being tortured or in a state of extreme supplication. It Is beautiful & terrifying at once for it is designed to obliterate the human spirit in lieu of the Holy one.
I noticed, on the way in, a few beggars lining the walls of the Vatican hoping for alms from the pilgrim/tourists. On occasion, to assuage any social guilt, I've been known to drop a coin or two. Not this time. I'm on a budget. So was everyone else, I guess. And everyone else was a lot of goddamn people. And this includes the nun I saw walk by with nary a look at the armless beggar. That which you do for the least of me...
The Vatican is also a repository of huge wealth. The art! Greek, Roman, Egyptian... We saw mummies! The gems! Gold! All piled up safely & you can see some of it for about €15. No soup kitchens, though. Maybe, they're around the back.
We had to go through the museum to get to the Sistine Chapel. It is a glorious labyrinth of paintings, tapestries & sculptures with private parts either covered or removed. And then at last Micaelangelo's masterpiece (or one of them, anyway). I won't bother describing that. It's stunning. But, I will comment on two things:
1. In the chapel, women must cover their shoulders & knees & silence must be observed. There are guards roaming the chamber shushing & clapping their hands at the boisterous. This is something one also encounters when viewing the presumably equally holy remains of Ho Chi Minh in Saigon.
2. Flash photography is forbidden because the light degrades the pigmentation of the art. I would get furious at my fellow pilgrim/tourists when they broke this rule & then I relayed something. It's not because I worshipped the subject of the art. I worship the art.
And my apostasy is complete.
_________________________
Ok, ok. I'm getting the hang of this. Breakfast in Rome today only set me back about ten stones & I even managed to get some of my sandwich in my mouth before it exploded, throwing sandwich shrapnel onto the street. I don't even know what was in it. A lot of cheese, I guess. And I got a glimpse of something pink that might have been prosciutto that lay there silently mocking me from the sidewalk.
Today, Gwen & I went to the Vatican. As a repentant apostate, this was kind of a big deal for me. Saint Peter's basilica is nothing less than awesome. It is an enormous, ponderous testimonial to catholic magnificence. It is also a monument to suffering & the abasement of common folk. Every statue, every painting shows some soul being tortured or in a state of extreme supplication. It Is beautiful & terrifying at once for it is designed to obliterate the human spirit in lieu of the Holy one.
I noticed, on the way in, a few beggars lining the walls of the Vatican hoping for alms from the pilgrim/tourists. On occasion, to assuage any social guilt, I've been known to drop a coin or two. Not this time. I'm on a budget. So was everyone else, I guess. And everyone else was a lot of goddamn people. And this includes the nun I saw walk by with nary a look at the armless beggar. That which you do for the least of me...
The Vatican is also a repository of huge wealth. The art! Greek, Roman, Egyptian... We saw mummies! The gems! Gold! All piled up safely & you can see some of it for about €15. No soup kitchens, though. Maybe, they're around the back.
We had to go through the museum to get to the Sistine Chapel. It is a glorious labyrinth of paintings, tapestries & sculptures with private parts either covered or removed. And then at last Micaelangelo's masterpiece (or one of them, anyway). I won't bother describing that. It's stunning. But, I will comment on two things:
1. In the chapel, women must cover their shoulders & knees & silence must be observed. There are guards roaming the chamber shushing & clapping their hands at the boisterous. This is something one also encounters when viewing the presumably equally holy remains of Ho Chi Minh in Saigon.
2. Flash photography is forbidden because the light degrades the pigmentation of the art. I would get furious at my fellow pilgrim/tourists when they broke this rule & then I relayed something. It's not because I worshipped the subject of the art. I worship the art.
And my apostasy is complete.
_________________________
Vatican Art & Sunlight
Sunday, June 5, 2011
A tourist's outrage & redemption -M
June 5, Sunday
How does one not love Rome? Julius Ceasar slept here. Caligula had sex with a swan while fellating a donkey here. Borgias & Medicis sold their daughters' virtue for weed money. Sundry popes manipulated the world from a jewel encrusted hammock in the Vatican. Supermodels sprinkle cocaine on chocolate mousse & complain to the media about their loss of privacy. Rome is all decadent holiness.
But Rome truly sucks for stupid tourists like me. It sucks for the Everyman. You have to be canny. You have to be sly to enjoy the magnificence of Rome.
Case in point: after paying over $20 for a couple of slices of pizza & a water & another $15 for a slice of salami on bread & a plastic bottle of tea, I was close to the end of my limited wits. It was raining on the Palatine Hill. My beloved Gwendolyn was soaked. Her camera equipment depreciated noticably with each raindrop. We huddled miserably under a tree by the house of the nefarious Livia. An apparently helpful umbrella salesman offered to bail us out.
Now these umbrellas have been proffered for about €5 all day long but now it was raining. "€10!" he said. "Hell no!" hollered the damp American. "Those things have been selling for €5 all day!". "Fine," he replied. "Give me €5.". I reached into my pocket & pulled out a soggy 10 spot. He took it, handed me a sad red micro umbrella & said, "OK €8!" & dropped a €2 coin in my palm.
"We just agreed on €5!" I handed him back the umbrella. "OK €7!" He cried & threw another euro at me. Now, I was prepared to administer the righteous beating which my western upbringing assured me I was entitled to, but the damp misery on my sweetheart's face & the speedy retreat which my adversary had adopted prevented any such response. He was literally sprinting away through the ruins of Augustus' Rome. Doubtless he was rushing to spend his ill gotten profit at the local donkey whorehouse/opium den.
The sad little umbrella did it's utmost to protect us from pneumonia while we hugged each other under it's scarlet insufficiency toward our hotel. Occasionally, the handle would fall off or the umbrella would collapse into us if the breeze picked up. Across from the Trevi Fountain, we found that the United Colors of Benetton might have a dry sweater for my waterlogged Gwendolyn for a nominal sum & a kidney.
Thus revived, we tossed the rest of our savings into the fountain & wished for a happy life free of parasites.
At this point, we both realized we were starving & had merited a reasonable meal. We arrived at a cool little spot we'd seen the night before. It was small, cozy, impeccably decorated. We left the little red umbrella in it's own little puddle by the door. And then had the most awesome meal of our lives. We shared an unbelievable asparagus soup with a puff pastry top & a rigatoni carbonara the defies description. Then Gwen had filet with onion, vanilla, ginger & pear while I had a rare filet with white truffle. The beer flowed. We split a chocolate mousse with more truffle (one can never have enough truffle) & a litre of limonocello. This time the astronomical price was both expected & worthwhile. We literally skipped back to our room, happy & sated.
But, we forgot the umbrella.
________________________________________________
How does one not love Rome? Julius Ceasar slept here. Caligula had sex with a swan while fellating a donkey here. Borgias & Medicis sold their daughters' virtue for weed money. Sundry popes manipulated the world from a jewel encrusted hammock in the Vatican. Supermodels sprinkle cocaine on chocolate mousse & complain to the media about their loss of privacy. Rome is all decadent holiness.
But Rome truly sucks for stupid tourists like me. It sucks for the Everyman. You have to be canny. You have to be sly to enjoy the magnificence of Rome.
Case in point: after paying over $20 for a couple of slices of pizza & a water & another $15 for a slice of salami on bread & a plastic bottle of tea, I was close to the end of my limited wits. It was raining on the Palatine Hill. My beloved Gwendolyn was soaked. Her camera equipment depreciated noticably with each raindrop. We huddled miserably under a tree by the house of the nefarious Livia. An apparently helpful umbrella salesman offered to bail us out.
Now these umbrellas have been proffered for about €5 all day long but now it was raining. "€10!" he said. "Hell no!" hollered the damp American. "Those things have been selling for €5 all day!". "Fine," he replied. "Give me €5.". I reached into my pocket & pulled out a soggy 10 spot. He took it, handed me a sad red micro umbrella & said, "OK €8!" & dropped a €2 coin in my palm.
"We just agreed on €5!" I handed him back the umbrella. "OK €7!" He cried & threw another euro at me. Now, I was prepared to administer the righteous beating which my western upbringing assured me I was entitled to, but the damp misery on my sweetheart's face & the speedy retreat which my adversary had adopted prevented any such response. He was literally sprinting away through the ruins of Augustus' Rome. Doubtless he was rushing to spend his ill gotten profit at the local donkey whorehouse/opium den.
The sad little umbrella did it's utmost to protect us from pneumonia while we hugged each other under it's scarlet insufficiency toward our hotel. Occasionally, the handle would fall off or the umbrella would collapse into us if the breeze picked up. Across from the Trevi Fountain, we found that the United Colors of Benetton might have a dry sweater for my waterlogged Gwendolyn for a nominal sum & a kidney.
Thus revived, we tossed the rest of our savings into the fountain & wished for a happy life free of parasites.
At this point, we both realized we were starving & had merited a reasonable meal. We arrived at a cool little spot we'd seen the night before. It was small, cozy, impeccably decorated. We left the little red umbrella in it's own little puddle by the door. And then had the most awesome meal of our lives. We shared an unbelievable asparagus soup with a puff pastry top & a rigatoni carbonara the defies description. Then Gwen had filet with onion, vanilla, ginger & pear while I had a rare filet with white truffle. The beer flowed. We split a chocolate mousse with more truffle (one can never have enough truffle) & a litre of limonocello. This time the astronomical price was both expected & worthwhile. We literally skipped back to our room, happy & sated.
But, we forgot the umbrella.
________________________________________________
The Roman Forum in the Rain under The Red Umbrella
Scuba Donkey at Trevi Fountain with The Red Umbrella! ;)
Saturday, June 4, 2011
A place of worship: Part 2 -G
A Place of Worship Part 2
In Rome, between every historic monument and place of worship, there is a Prada store. There is Chanel, Burberry, Ferragamo and every possible name of fashion you can imagine. And on the sidewalks and walking straight down the middle of Roman streets are men and women that look so unbelievably fucking cool. So cool it makes an American woman in her teva sandals and sundress want to run back into the hotel and hide! They do say ciao, they do ride Vespas, they do make out against walls anywhere they want, they do wear 1,000€ high heels down old cobblestone streets, they all do have sexy luscious dark curls, and the men do have impeccable taste in shoes and don't seem to care about shaving. Each and every one of them is Venus and Adonis incarnate.
Today, I have been totally schooled in the way of fashion. Yes, it is partly about the clothes, the shoes, the hair, and the sunglasses, but that's only the half of it. It appears that how you wear it all & how you move while you are wearing it is totally the second half of the formula. One must hold the cigarette and move it to their lips with the utmost sultry care. One must shift their hips, swing their leather bag and look over their shoulder with just the right slow languid motion as to imply sex with every nuance.
This is rocket science. This is serious stuff. Those who have not caught on just look like American tourists that can't ever escape their lowly fate. And the key to it all is to look like you don't give a fuck about any of it while you are doing it. There is no place to be. There is no one to impress. You have time for a cappuccino and cigarette. You totally woke up looking like this. You are carefree. Sex oozes from every cell of your being, and remember...you don't give a fuck. You are the most fashionable creature to ever roam the earth.
In Rome, between every historic monument and place of worship, there is a Prada store. There is Chanel, Burberry, Ferragamo and every possible name of fashion you can imagine. And on the sidewalks and walking straight down the middle of Roman streets are men and women that look so unbelievably fucking cool. So cool it makes an American woman in her teva sandals and sundress want to run back into the hotel and hide! They do say ciao, they do ride Vespas, they do make out against walls anywhere they want, they do wear 1,000€ high heels down old cobblestone streets, they all do have sexy luscious dark curls, and the men do have impeccable taste in shoes and don't seem to care about shaving. Each and every one of them is Venus and Adonis incarnate.
Today, I have been totally schooled in the way of fashion. Yes, it is partly about the clothes, the shoes, the hair, and the sunglasses, but that's only the half of it. It appears that how you wear it all & how you move while you are wearing it is totally the second half of the formula. One must hold the cigarette and move it to their lips with the utmost sultry care. One must shift their hips, swing their leather bag and look over their shoulder with just the right slow languid motion as to imply sex with every nuance.
This is rocket science. This is serious stuff. Those who have not caught on just look like American tourists that can't ever escape their lowly fate. And the key to it all is to look like you don't give a fuck about any of it while you are doing it. There is no place to be. There is no one to impress. You have time for a cappuccino and cigarette. You totally woke up looking like this. You are carefree. Sex oozes from every cell of your being, and remember...you don't give a fuck. You are the most fashionable creature to ever roam the earth.
Part 1: A place of worship -G
Saturday June 4th- 9:30pm
Part 1: Something to Believe In
I've only been to Rome one other time in my life. I ran through some busy street with a giant back pack on just 5 days before my 21st birthday. It was all a blur and I only caught a glimpse of the coliseum from afar. I never felt like I could say I had seen Rome. After today, and only an afternoon of exploring, I feel I can now begin to say - I've seen Rome.
When Mario and I enter a new city on this trip, we've take up the custom to familiarize ourselves briefly with the map, then just start wandering and see where we end up. After The Spanish Steps and several busy side streets we found a church, a large basillica, and everything inside was adorned in gold. There was music. There was a grand dome with evening sunlight peering in. It was grand. It was peaceful. It felt solid. It felt safe.
I am not religious. Spiritual with the frequent inclination to worship mother earth, sunsets over the ocean, butterflies, flowers, ;) but never one to find dark stone structures representative of God. I was called out on my narrow mindedness today. I was called out on my resistance to structure and conformity. I was called out on my fear of rules and guidelines.
It was silent inside, but the masses were outside in the streets of Rome and they needed something to make them feel safe, something to ground them, something to believe in. Today I was just one in the grand mass and today I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. Today I understood a bit of what I so often repelled. So when I turned another corner to see The Pantheon of Rome with it's grand choir singing from inside for evening mass- I was open to it's overwhelming resonance with something much larger than myself. Many have come before and many will come after and we all need something to believe in! If a giant structure of marble & stone can remind us of something that withstands time when our own impermanence is glaringly evident- it becomes not only a monument to the human spirit and it's history on earth, but a place of real worship.
Part 1: Something to Believe In
I've only been to Rome one other time in my life. I ran through some busy street with a giant back pack on just 5 days before my 21st birthday. It was all a blur and I only caught a glimpse of the coliseum from afar. I never felt like I could say I had seen Rome. After today, and only an afternoon of exploring, I feel I can now begin to say - I've seen Rome.
When Mario and I enter a new city on this trip, we've take up the custom to familiarize ourselves briefly with the map, then just start wandering and see where we end up. After The Spanish Steps and several busy side streets we found a church, a large basillica, and everything inside was adorned in gold. There was music. There was a grand dome with evening sunlight peering in. It was grand. It was peaceful. It felt solid. It felt safe.
I am not religious. Spiritual with the frequent inclination to worship mother earth, sunsets over the ocean, butterflies, flowers, ;) but never one to find dark stone structures representative of God. I was called out on my narrow mindedness today. I was called out on my resistance to structure and conformity. I was called out on my fear of rules and guidelines.
It was silent inside, but the masses were outside in the streets of Rome and they needed something to make them feel safe, something to ground them, something to believe in. Today I was just one in the grand mass and today I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. Today I understood a bit of what I so often repelled. So when I turned another corner to see The Pantheon of Rome with it's grand choir singing from inside for evening mass- I was open to it's overwhelming resonance with something much larger than myself. Many have come before and many will come after and we all need something to believe in! If a giant structure of marble & stone can remind us of something that withstands time when our own impermanence is glaringly evident- it becomes not only a monument to the human spirit and it's history on earth, but a place of real worship.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Wherein Gwendolyn forgives Snooki -G
Friday June 3, 2011
3:30 in the afternoon
I wrote a long blog entry last night about the great beauty of this city and how in love with it I am. Firenze is undeniably one of the most magnificent places in the world. The post was philosophical, humanistic and the complete opposite of the ones Mario writes. ;) ...Mine had very little humor and very long wordy run on sentences about the meaning of life- with no big words whatsoever (i always defer to mario for those). In it, everyone was beautiful, every sound moving, every sight overwhelming! Then, i was out. I fell asleep half way through my writing and Mario had to sneak the iPad back from underneath my heavy head to play his Vegas Tower game.
Today, after breakfast we entered into the heart of Florence for our last day. It has been 6 days and it feels like a lifetime wouldn't nearly be enough to cover all of the experiences of Tuscany. We entered with all of the love and gratitude in the world - for the people, for the art, for the food, for the limoncello! We turned the corner for one last glance of the grand Catthedral in the morning light. I couldn't resist. I stopped by a lamppost to get my camera out, held it high at just the right angle- ...and got run over by Snooki. It wasn't enough that we had the fortune of bumping in to the male cast members of The Jersey Shore a few days before. This time, it was not a gentle glance from afar. I literally got run over by Snooki. The camera man trampled me first and then all I could see when my senses returned were giant fuzzy mohair boots, an over adorned python print dress and a big fluff of hair. They all brushed by me at shoulder level, and Im only 5 foot 3. ;) It wasn't a pleasant brush, nor a brush with greatness, but I'm in Firenze- here the greatness is in the air! I straightened myself up, removed a few strands of the long hair Pomeranian fur from my sleeve and returned to the beauty that lay before me. Ancient sculpures, cathedrals, exquisite boutiques, the fragrance of jasmine at every turn. To Snooki and some of my other favorite American tourists from today...it is generally phrased as either "permesso" or "excuse me". Pick one or both, and remember to fall in love with Firenze while you are here. There is a gift around every corner. This is one of the most exquisite places on earth.
And thank you Firenze for welcoming all of us with open arms. We all have much to learn from you.
______
Snooki & her boots
3:30 in the afternoon
I wrote a long blog entry last night about the great beauty of this city and how in love with it I am. Firenze is undeniably one of the most magnificent places in the world. The post was philosophical, humanistic and the complete opposite of the ones Mario writes. ;) ...Mine had very little humor and very long wordy run on sentences about the meaning of life- with no big words whatsoever (i always defer to mario for those). In it, everyone was beautiful, every sound moving, every sight overwhelming! Then, i was out. I fell asleep half way through my writing and Mario had to sneak the iPad back from underneath my heavy head to play his Vegas Tower game.
Today, after breakfast we entered into the heart of Florence for our last day. It has been 6 days and it feels like a lifetime wouldn't nearly be enough to cover all of the experiences of Tuscany. We entered with all of the love and gratitude in the world - for the people, for the art, for the food, for the limoncello! We turned the corner for one last glance of the grand Catthedral in the morning light. I couldn't resist. I stopped by a lamppost to get my camera out, held it high at just the right angle- ...and got run over by Snooki. It wasn't enough that we had the fortune of bumping in to the male cast members of The Jersey Shore a few days before. This time, it was not a gentle glance from afar. I literally got run over by Snooki. The camera man trampled me first and then all I could see when my senses returned were giant fuzzy mohair boots, an over adorned python print dress and a big fluff of hair. They all brushed by me at shoulder level, and Im only 5 foot 3. ;) It wasn't a pleasant brush, nor a brush with greatness, but I'm in Firenze- here the greatness is in the air! I straightened myself up, removed a few strands of the long hair Pomeranian fur from my sleeve and returned to the beauty that lay before me. Ancient sculpures, cathedrals, exquisite boutiques, the fragrance of jasmine at every turn. To Snooki and some of my other favorite American tourists from today...it is generally phrased as either "permesso" or "excuse me". Pick one or both, and remember to fall in love with Firenze while you are here. There is a gift around every corner. This is one of the most exquisite places on earth.
And thank you Firenze for welcoming all of us with open arms. We all have much to learn from you.
______
Snooki & her boots
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The situation in Florence... -M
June 1, Firenze
Today we are buying scarves. Gwen & I happen upon a fabulous cache of them in one of the booths in piazza near our room. Our eyes glaze over with blinding gluttony as we fondle the material & imagine ourselves duly wrapped in Gallic accouterments. The salesgirl informs us they cost €12 per glorious strip but she will sell us one for €10. "What if we buy two?" I asked shrewdly, invoking the spirit of every canny Arab negotiator I've ever read about. "Then," she replied, "you will have two beautiful scarves.". Forty euro later, we walk away happily with four.
Later.
We are crossing the Piazza del Duomo. As always, I am slack jawed in the presence of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. This is due as much to the beauty of the structure as it is to my deviated septum. Gwendolyn is equally entranced but has the presence of mind to notice the camera crew rushing-stumbling backwards over the cobblestones. The are recording for posterity the testosterone laden male cast members of "The Jersey Shore" as the swagger into the square. There are four of them walking like gunslingers toward an appointment at the OK Corral. Their lips are pursed the way one would if he was to kiss something repulsive. Hats are worn at an angle to prevent the sun from hitting their bad sides. I recognize a couple of them: the Situation & the one that looks like a muscular fireplug. We scamper behind shamelessly, as do all the other American tourists, to snap a photo & bask in the mild contempt of the erstwhile superstars. Two Italian policepeople (one was a girl policeperson) look inquiringly at the growing mob. I inform them helpfully that they are the stars on an American TV show that everyone watches but no one likes. They walk off shaking their heads.
_________
A glimpse of the boys
Today we are buying scarves. Gwen & I happen upon a fabulous cache of them in one of the booths in piazza near our room. Our eyes glaze over with blinding gluttony as we fondle the material & imagine ourselves duly wrapped in Gallic accouterments. The salesgirl informs us they cost €12 per glorious strip but she will sell us one for €10. "What if we buy two?" I asked shrewdly, invoking the spirit of every canny Arab negotiator I've ever read about. "Then," she replied, "you will have two beautiful scarves.". Forty euro later, we walk away happily with four.
Later.
We are crossing the Piazza del Duomo. As always, I am slack jawed in the presence of the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore. This is due as much to the beauty of the structure as it is to my deviated septum. Gwendolyn is equally entranced but has the presence of mind to notice the camera crew rushing-stumbling backwards over the cobblestones. The are recording for posterity the testosterone laden male cast members of "The Jersey Shore" as the swagger into the square. There are four of them walking like gunslingers toward an appointment at the OK Corral. Their lips are pursed the way one would if he was to kiss something repulsive. Hats are worn at an angle to prevent the sun from hitting their bad sides. I recognize a couple of them: the Situation & the one that looks like a muscular fireplug. We scamper behind shamelessly, as do all the other American tourists, to snap a photo & bask in the mild contempt of the erstwhile superstars. Two Italian policepeople (one was a girl policeperson) look inquiringly at the growing mob. I inform them helpfully that they are the stars on an American TV show that everyone watches but no one likes. They walk off shaking their heads.
_________
A glimpse of the boys
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
You wanna fragglerock with that? -M
May 30, 7:15 pm Firenze
In a cafe, high up overlooking Florence. The city was glowing yellow as the sun began her preparations to set. The waiter asked us what we want to drink. "A Mojito," says Gwen simply. Of course, I am an adventurer, so I ordered something that reads like Caprioska or whatever. The menu claims the drink arrives with vodka, lime & sugarcane. Our waiter asked if I prefer limon or fragglerock(!). I never cared much for that show & besides, I wanted the lime. "Limon!" I declared, clearly & without hesitation. Twenty minutes later our drinks arrived. Gwen's Mojito was strong & tangy. I got strawberries soaked in vodka with two pink straws.
In a cafe, high up overlooking Florence. The city was glowing yellow as the sun began her preparations to set. The waiter asked us what we want to drink. "A Mojito," says Gwen simply. Of course, I am an adventurer, so I ordered something that reads like Caprioska or whatever. The menu claims the drink arrives with vodka, lime & sugarcane. Our waiter asked if I prefer limon or fragglerock(!). I never cared much for that show & besides, I wanted the lime. "Limon!" I declared, clearly & without hesitation. Twenty minutes later our drinks arrived. Gwen's Mojito was strong & tangy. I got strawberries soaked in vodka with two pink straws.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Soccer camp -M
May 28, 5:30 pm.
Overlooking a grand park in Milan. People are sunbathing & frolicking. Two unreasonably fit young men are knocking a soccer ball back & forth. They are infuriatingly shirtless. Gwen asks, "Mario, do you think they look like that just from playing soccer?". I am immediately besieged by thoughts of soccer camp everyday from 9 to 5, my now rapidly aging & decrepit body pummeled by soccer balls as I gasp for breath. I tell her this & she helpfully suggests that I'd still have time to go to work at night.
Overlooking a grand park in Milan. People are sunbathing & frolicking. Two unreasonably fit young men are knocking a soccer ball back & forth. They are infuriatingly shirtless. Gwen asks, "Mario, do you think they look like that just from playing soccer?". I am immediately besieged by thoughts of soccer camp everyday from 9 to 5, my now rapidly aging & decrepit body pummeled by soccer balls as I gasp for breath. I tell her this & she helpfully suggests that I'd still have time to go to work at night.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Scuba Donkey in Nice- M & G
So, we are 10 days in to our grand adventure and Scuba Donkey has arisen from the warped imagination of a man who walked around Monaco today looking like a blend of Jerry Garcia meets Napoleon Dynamite. It's the only day so far where the French didn't even try to greet us with a bonjour- they just jumped straight to English. I'm guessing it was the white socks pulled half way up the shins!
In the past 10 days, we have come to the conclusion that we are the perfect match and a great team. Neither one of us are particularly fond of scuba diving or donkeys, and getting out of the car to motion angry Frenchmen around Mario while our car is stalled on an incline so that he doesn't get out and kill them works out particularly well for both of us! -gg
I did NOT have my socks pulled halfway up my shins. In fact, I looked every bit the debonnair adventurer with my tie-dyed t-shirt & my traveler's Capri cargo pants. -Marchaus
Some of our observations thus far:
1. When driving in France, no matter how heavy the traffic, it is perfectly acceptable to stop in whatever lane you happen to be traveling in and have a conversation with a pedestrian.
Any honking from your fellow drivers is to be viewed as encouragement for your social grace.
2. Apparently, it is a grand thing to seek death by tourist for Gallic motorcyclists & scooter enthusiasts.
3. While at a beachside restaurant in Cannes, Frank from Bruges dressed in only the finest of Ralph Lauren pinks (shirt and pants) reminded us that "One must enjoy the little things in life"! This was just before the arrival of our $25 Carpaccio and his suggestion that we try Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt's propietary Pink Floyd blush wine.
4. In Avignon, Mojitos are inexplicably served with a marshmallow garnish.
5. The freedom to be as weird as you want is essential to a healthy and fulfilling life. (This point was illustrated perfectly with Mario's fine choice of ensemble. photos will follow)
6. Nice is not remotely nice (it is clearly not dependent on American tourist dollars), but Aix, Avignon, and Antibes are amazing!
7. The Hotel Nice Garden is unimpressive at first glance. In fact, it is snugly nestled between an adult bookstore & a head shop. However, it really does sport a very nice garden as well as a lovely & accommodating staff.
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In the past 10 days, we have come to the conclusion that we are the perfect match and a great team. Neither one of us are particularly fond of scuba diving or donkeys, and getting out of the car to motion angry Frenchmen around Mario while our car is stalled on an incline so that he doesn't get out and kill them works out particularly well for both of us! -gg
I did NOT have my socks pulled halfway up my shins. In fact, I looked every bit the debonnair adventurer with my tie-dyed t-shirt & my traveler's Capri cargo pants. -Marchaus
Some of our observations thus far:
1. When driving in France, no matter how heavy the traffic, it is perfectly acceptable to stop in whatever lane you happen to be traveling in and have a conversation with a pedestrian.
Any honking from your fellow drivers is to be viewed as encouragement for your social grace.
2. Apparently, it is a grand thing to seek death by tourist for Gallic motorcyclists & scooter enthusiasts.
3. While at a beachside restaurant in Cannes, Frank from Bruges dressed in only the finest of Ralph Lauren pinks (shirt and pants) reminded us that "One must enjoy the little things in life"! This was just before the arrival of our $25 Carpaccio and his suggestion that we try Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt's propietary Pink Floyd blush wine.
4. In Avignon, Mojitos are inexplicably served with a marshmallow garnish.
5. The freedom to be as weird as you want is essential to a healthy and fulfilling life. (This point was illustrated perfectly with Mario's fine choice of ensemble. photos will follow)
6. Nice is not remotely nice (it is clearly not dependent on American tourist dollars), but Aix, Avignon, and Antibes are amazing!
7. The Hotel Nice Garden is unimpressive at first glance. In fact, it is snugly nestled between an adult bookstore & a head shop. However, it really does sport a very nice garden as well as a lovely & accommodating staff.
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M's Photo from the Train Station
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