August 3, 2005

never in paris, plus photos

No matter how much my little heartful of wishes hangs on getting around to updates about my little Italia trip, I don't know if I'll ever finish the doomed-from-the-start series. So, for those of you interested, ghoulishly procrastinatory, and just really really bored people out there, here are the photos I took. The first few are from the stopover in Geneva and the extremely pretty, nature-y ones are from Cinque Terre, and that last one is a photo of a kick-ass mozzerella di bufala pizza.

So lately it's come up in conversation with various people that I would really really love Paris. I've never been. But apparently it's my long lost soul-land. And it's true, I probably would adore Paris, the food! the cafés! the art! the jolie streets! There's JC (pas moi. I'm not that crazy yet), who upon hearing a bit about my trip to Italy immediately boomed, "You'd love Paris!" and there are the dispatches and Flickrs of Mosh who is living the dream, spending a month at cooking school, and JI who just got back from Berlin and asked in the manner of "Where's the butter" at a lobster dinner, "Why haven't you been to Paris?" (Berlin seems pretty nice too. Apparently the young people pretty much live on unemployment money which is enough to hang out and do whatever, go see movies, hang out in coffeeshops and read cuz rent is cheap and there's healthcare. Sure, economically dubious but otherwise, Dream. Come. True.)

And this Sunday, caught a rerun of No Reservations on Travel Channel with Anthony Bourdain in Paris. He just goes fooding the whole time! He's like the ultimate guy to hang out with. Shall we stop before degeneration into gushing about Bourdain whose grumpster humor makes me giggle? Oui.

So now Paris is like a boy who I have never met that my friends are trying to set me up with and I have already fallen a little smitten with something I do not know. Disregard the crop of grammatical errors in that sentence, cue sentimental strings section and fade out.

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July 26, 2005

sunny days

Was in the Boston area this past weekend, though we stayed mostly in the burb of Medford (I think). Anyways, times were a-rip roarin' with beaches, beers, and barbeques, again instilling in me the great self-hatred for ny living space costs. Damn you people who can have a backyard and a huge sunlit house with a dining room (a dining room!!!) and porch and grill and only pay freaking $500 a month. Damn you! I need to move to North Carolina or something and build me a castle. With a moat. And maybe a dragon. He can stay in my spare banquet hall. And rotisserie some chicken with his fire breath or something.

We did have all sorts of grilled meats this weekend. Hamburger, sausages, chicken, lamb, ribs, oh my! There was some grilled pineapple that was especially tasty, sweet and sugary as a guileless southern belle. I shall have a fruit-grilling room next to the dragon, throw him a few peaches now and again and keep him sweet-tempered.

We also went to Carson Beach on Saturday, which I found rather neat, being pretty much on the edge of Boston. You could stand at the shore and look over to your left and see the New England spires of town, sitting all proper-like. The small, picturesque beach was not crowded at all, the day was lovely, the water freezing. We played volleyball and threw the 'bee and sat out in the sun. A little girl ran after a runaway beach umbrella which maybe had planned to elope with the wind.

What with watermelon eating contests, margaritas, going on swingsets, and the ol' college beer pong tournaments (There were brackets. Very Official.), soft serve ice cream, there should be more weekends like this. And weekdays too probably. I wonder what I should name my dragon.

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July 13, 2005

Italia Part IV - It is the custom

It's almost been a month since my last Italy update and here we are, at Part Quattro. And if you know me, it's an amazing feat that I remember that I even went to Italy, oh that once upon a time, so forget I took so long and count your lucky pizza stelle (that's pizza stars for you ignorant folk). Snuggle up your cuddlies and listen well, for here I will discuss the more everyday sort of things. Because if I didn't, I'd just have to regale you with lots of synonyms for walking, sprinkled with a Colosseum or two.

Let's start with one of my favorites... gelato! Oh, it's divine. The first night, during our brisk night tour of Rome, I get my first taste of Italian gelato right by the Pantheon. It's a tad expensive at two euro. KM, ever the expert, a title well earned by much eating and traversing, says there is clearly only one flavor of import at this joint - FRAGOLA! (fragola rock. ahurhur.) It tastes as all fruit gelati should, like the absolute essence of whatever the fruit - this case, strawberry, in ice creamish form. Sounds so ridiculously simple, so captain obvious, but it's true and true, through and through.

Two more gelaterie of note were Giolitti and Old Bridge (more info here). Giolitti is fancier, with a dazzling display case of flavors, seats, mirrors etc. but excellent. MM gets canteloupe and one other flavor (memory like sieve) - see essence of fruit remark. I get chocolate and zabaglione which is wonderful for a bit but then is overwhelmed by the marsala or rum or whatever alcohol is in this hard to spell flavor.

Old Bridge is closet-in-the-wall near the Vatican, with locals and tourists alike lining up patiently. Here, I did my best attempt at flawless Italian ordering. The effort at the language warranted a "brava" from the gruff but smiling server and a huge portion of nocciola and cioccolato con panna, which is whipped cream that pretty much comes as a natural, and free, after-thought to any cone (pictured above).

Most Italians are happy to see any effort at speaking their language. Some common things to know of course are Grazie, Scusi, and Ciao. Un caffè is not coffee but espresso (mmmmmmm). On buses and other crowded means of transport where you must push and shove to get off at a destination, it seems you do not say 'scusi' but 'permesso'.
And when ordering pizza, this is foolproof: point to the variety of rectangles of goodness before you and say, "Questo." The guy will then indicate where he is about to cut and you say (and I couldn't help motioning with my hand here) "Meno" for less and "Piu" for more. And if you are too soft-spoken, a regular just might take over for you and roar out, "Due suppli!" as happened to G.

Almost as important as the gelato and pizza was a McDonalds in Trastevere near Piazza Sonnino. I don't really understand what those Italians were eating in their Happy Meals but my bladder thanks the clean toilets there. KM tells me that McDonalds is not very popular but nevertheless, this location always had people whenever we made a pitstop and there is a McDonalds straight as the crow flies across from the Pantheon. Also great, considering the unrelenting sun and copious walking, were the water fountains scattered all over the city (most look like this). The water is cold and good and always flowing.

There are various internet points scattered about as well. Common is the internet point slash laundromat (makes sense though doesn't it?). Below is the view from the one in Trastevere where KM frequented. Here, whilst the others were taking care of further travel plans, I would watch some Italian TV, some infomercials - exercising machines, dating services - and music video countdowns. La Dolce Vita indeed.

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June 20, 2005

Italia Part III -The Longest Day Continues

KM takes us to this restaurant in an area of Rome, Trastevere, which has become his stompin' grounds and will likewise become our stomps as well. It's charming, not toooo touristy, artsy, with lots of yummy places to hang out, drink, eat, chillax - sort of like the east village.

Outside the restaurant are these gigantic candles burning on the ground near a menu. An accordian player and his violinist sidekick play outside and will soon go around the diners both outside and in for money. These street performers are ubiquitous, especially around dining and drinking establishments. They play music from old, romantic movies and times, with operatic melodies and oom-pah-pah accompaniments. Sometimes people drop some coins in collecting cups to pay for this sort of evening soundtrack or sometimes for skill, or for lack of knowing what else to do with an outstretched hand.

The servers seem slow, but this is just the Italian way. Our waiter looks vaguely punk, with one of those big black circle earrings and spikey pitch black hair. Nevertheless, he is very nice, forgiving of my bad pronunciations, and he shows some magical waiter-instincts when he brings us a second basket of bread and a new fork before we get around to asking him.

The cosy, duskily-lit restaurant has a hodgepodge of photos and wine bottles lining the wall. The other tables are laughing it up and the mood is friendly and relaxed. Dinners in Italy tend to be rather late-ish, so despite our wolfish hungers, we're in prime dinner-time.

With a bottle of red standing sentry, we eat our pasta and meat courses. My pasta - primo course - is orrechiete with sausage and broccoli rabe and for my secondo, I dig into saltimbocca, veal goodness wrapped in prosciutto goodness. A Roman specialty, saltimbocca means hop or jump in the mouth. It jumped. It jumped from its pool of light butter sauce into my tummy. And all was good with the world. Sorry I don't have any pics of the food!

After dinner, with energy roaring from our bellies, we get a night walking tour of Rome. The stops: the Spanish steps, where there is a group of people with guitars singing Beatles songs not very well. And the Pantheon. And Trevi Fountain. Needless to say, I get kind of overwhelmed and kinda tired. Too many sites. Too much history! I valiantly fight off some guys trying to sell roses -- they're fierce -- and because I don't throw a coin behind my shoulder into the fountain, I doom myself never to return to Rome. We shall see. I think I'll return any place where they wrap things in prosciutto and cook them in butter.

My photos, so bland, like my personality. Here are some nicer shots.

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June 17, 2005

jealousy

Are you humming that Natalie Merchant song "Jealousy"? I am. Whatever happened to her? I know. Celine Dion fed her to her bébé. What? I don't know.

So, it's kind of amazing. My friends are travelling all over the world! Like Captain Planet except without superpowers! Except maybe Heart. They all have Heart. ShooooO! (Heart power). Their current, very recent, and future locations include: Iceland, Ecuador, Taiwan, Japan, Guyana, S. Africa, Namibia, Italy ... Pretty cool eh?

Their voyaging has awoken the green monster in my feet (eww that sounds fungal) even though I just took a vacation, now I want to go somewhere again.

But then again, I saw some people laying out in the sun, reading and sleeping, today during my lunch hour and I wanted to be one of them too.

It's too easy.

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June 12, 2005

Italia Part II - The Longest Day

The landscape scrolls by the windows of the train while nobody checks our tickets. I will find that this is a common occurrence in Italy, a habit much like a smoker's need to light one up after a good meal. That metaphor was as unnecessary and incorrect, even, as ugg boots. Oh there I go again. Out of control. During this introduction to the lack of ticket-punching, I am also introduced to KM's Ridiculous Sunglasses. They are Large, Purplish, and involve Snakes. Really. Snakes. (Quick search yields this sort of similar look). Those Italians, they really like their sunglasses. I will find that sunglass shops with names usually starting with 'ottica' dot the cityscape like starbucks in the big apple, twinkle twinkle. Street vendors also carry trays of sunglasses. KM divulges that the best selection is near Termini, the big train/bus station near the center of Rome. The three boys make a pact to each get a pair of Ridiculous Sunglasses near Termini for fun photo op whilst I look on in amusement.

Tada! We have arrived in Roma! KM has been boarding at a lovely apartment of an Italian Grandma, who will be called Nonna, and so brother MM has to go and drop off stuff there. We all head over over the river (and through the woods? haha) to Nonna's house we go. Nonna's house might as well be through woods and over oceans -- it's far, not to be found on any standard-issue maps of Rome, especially not this small one. If you click on the map, Nonna lives like two or three inches off the map to the left. KM is now a champion walker.

We took a bus and tram, if I remember correctly. I learned again that tickets in the Rome public transportation system are like mosquitos in winter, affordable housing in nyc, deep thoughts in janet's head: ABSENT. While there are validating machine thingies on board these vehicles, they are in the middle and aren't required for entry. I hear that you can be fined or show a driver's license or student ID as identification for a fine that you will never pay but for the duration of our stay in Rome, nobody checks. Honesty goes down the drain and I marvel, coooool! It's freeeee! Awesome!!!!!

While the brothers M go off to meet and greet Nonna and such, G and I go off towards the end of Nonna's jasmine-lined block. At a sort of cul-de-sac, there is a pretty great view of Rome, while behind us, cute little smart cars and scooters zoom by now and again. Far off, we can see the big dome that is St. Peter's. Closer by, the trees are lushly green and there are two golden retrievers running alongside the wire fence, tails wagging happily, barking noisily and importantly. The bells of a small herd of goats clang gently as they graze, paces from us, ignoring the dogs. They don't seem to care much for the view. They don't really seem to care much for anything.

Afterward, we drop off my stuff. I am staying near Termini, at a hostel in a twelve-bed room full of eager, energy-filled, english-speaking, wine-soaked college-age backpackers. I promise myself that next time I visit this nation, I will stay in a real hotel or somebody's house. The hostel was serviceable, sometimes gross. Eh. At least nobody threw up on me, as did some girl at G's hostel. You get what you pay for, quoth the princess on her perpetual pea.

It's almost nine and the princess and her cohorts all feel that it is high time to dine. Not counting a scant bit of sleeping on the plane, MM and I have been up for over 24 hours. Nevertheless, I'm hanging in there. But this will turn out to be the day without end.

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June 9, 2005

Italia Part I - The Layover, The Flight

I don't like planes, breathing that fresh canned air scent, imprisoned in the scratchy chair that wouldn't pass muster at the movie theater, watching the little plane on the screen blink slowly, nano-slowly across the vast ocean of tiny headrest screen. Planes and airports transform me into that mean little girl in The Secret Garden, yearning to run with my stringy dirty blond hair amongst the wild brambles and sweet heather-filled moors of the Yorkshire countryside. My travelling companion on this first leg of voyage (whom we shall call MM), on the other hand, loves planes, loves airports, had even planned out his travelling clothes a week before we set our dancing feet at JFK.

Actually, I had never before set my party-pooper feet at this grand international airport before; I've always flown in and out of Newark, a venue that does little to improve my tomato garden state's reputation and causes my mother to get lost every single time she attempts to pick somebody up. The airy windows and shops, the prospect of good times abroad, and MM's infectious plane-related excitement perk up my mood considerably.

After spending a long-ish time at the gate as we had arrived rather early, we finally boarded. The stewardesses greeted us in a dazzling, if slightly frightening array of english, french, and german. Ah, Swiss Air. Will it rain chocolates? No. Only cartons of duty-free cigarettes.

In the air!!!
I have given up my aisle seat so that I can sit next to my buddy, who is in the last row/middle aisle on the plane. I call this true friendship. The button on the armrest that should move the seat back so that the passenger can rest upon it comfortably à la lawnchair is just there for show. I press it and attempt to lean back to no avail, getting a small workout on my back muscles.

The guy next to us is a first-time abroad traveller. He is a nice guy but a little clueless, asking us about connecting flights. All three of us will connect in Geneva for Rome. Over the course of the flight, he will down five mini-bottles of red wine.

Planes are no mans land. You can read, watch, eat, drink anything you like (On my return flight I watch Hitch.). I skim through an issue of Lucky, watch a quarter of Life Aquatic, half of Bug's Life, and check in on MM's "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" game. It's the British version though, so the dollar signs are replaced by pound signs and there are strange questions having to do with by jingo, by golly and marmite or summat. The food is edible and luckily we both get some sleep. Et voilà, we arrive in Geneva.

Getting off the plane, I gasp a little. Yes - fresh air, but also, here's some real purple mountain majesty. The airport is in an impressive locale with the backdrop of shadowy mountains and inexplicably blue sky.

Once at the airport, Clueless and a few others stumble about. We straighten him out and our connecting gate etc. MM and I decide that we'll attempt to take the train into Geneva proper. With a little confusion, we get on a train and hope for the best. The pleasant machine lady voice announces in French and English the stops on the train. Bon, we are on the right track.

We get off ten minutes later at the quiet train station. After veering towards a park and deserted road, we find the right direction towards Lake Geneva. The water is impossibly sparkly, vast, and like the city, clean. There are not that many people out and about and there is an apparent cool and collected atmosphere - MM and I have been invoking national stereotypes all throughout the flight and so we pretend or agree that it makes sense that this country is known for its diplomacy, precise watches and shady neutrality. There will be a very different story in Italy. We see banks, chocolate shops, Swatch watches, and lots of flags and return to the airport.

The flight to Italy is short. I miss the scenery because I fall into a dead sleep but MM tells me that we flew over the Alps. We arrive in Fiumicino Airport, Rome safe and sound and find our luggage with no problem. We help Clueless find his friend and advise him to keep his money in different places, warning darkly of gypsies and pickpockets. While we wait for KM (MM's brother who has been studying abroad in Rome) and G (KM's friend) to meet us, we have fun guessing what nationality people around us are. Most Italians are given away by their shoes and sunglasses. Some Americans are given away by lost looks and shorts. There is one Italian man wearing tight jeans, a blue blazer, classy little loafers, and laughably large sunglasses. I begin to realize that Rome is a little like Williamsburg aka hipsterville. More on that later.

Here, too, the announcements for trains to Rome come over the loudspeaker in multiple tongues - Italian, French, and English. This is the last time we will hear translations. The trains are sorrrrrrt of on time. Finally, we see our amici and we all get on the train to Rome. KM has brought me chocolate. That, too, is what I call friendship.

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