my walk home from the u-bahn takes a shortcut along a playground. in the morning, the root-broken path is shaded by a canopy of spiky pines. in the evenings, the light of the steetlamps filters down white through long needles. being especially tired tonight, i was especially zoned out on the home stretch. i was preparing a few phrases to describe my day to my host mother and sister, who would probably still be up. i wanted to ask about antonia´s first day of the 6th grade.
i looked up before the noise had really registered: a snort. a snort? there, along my side of the low fence, a family of boar froze, streaked with the shadows. the small ones were about 5 meters away, herding together. i felt a shock over my skin; the largest one was still trotting towards me. the mother, at four meters, three.
i clapped, loud. one of the piglets lunged sideways and shook the fence. the mother stopped and snorted again. the other large boar was still approaching from my left. i clapped again. hey! i couldn´t see any tusks, but the closer beast came up to my thigh. it would knock me down on the charge like any other animal. i was thinking about my friend emanuele´s garden in montegemoli, how boar had rooted it up and broken his tomato trellises. last year a 6-year-old boy was killed. i clapped again and we all held still.
i backed away, and the two adults watched me, scraping their hooves onto the broken asphalt. putting a little distance between myself and the young, everyone breathed easier, and i quickly counted their ridged backs. nine, tramping into the suburbs for the choice grass. rules of the wild still apply.
i fly back to the US on friday.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
global observations about germany part 4
4. yesterday while on the last leg of my run around the grünwaldsee, i passed two girls, each about 10 years old. they were chattering loudly from either side of the street, seated gingerly on unicycles. they got quiet as i approached. the one with the long blonde ponytail hopped to the ground. after i passed, i looked over my shoulder; she had again fitted the long seat under her wildly striped skirt, and was wobbling over the wet cobblestones toward her friend. she was also wearing a pair of outrageous tights. behind that whirl of color, i noticed that the unicycle was outfitted with a small fender that pointed back, straight and stiff like a shark´s fin. i love germany. it is a land where children ride unicyces, secure in the knowledge that no spray from the street will kick up onto their skirts.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
weimar
as part of the program i´m on, this weekend was a scheduled trip to weimar, an idyllic town southwest of berlin and the birthplace of ´the german classical period.´ goethe lived there for 50 years, and was later joined by schiller. there is a beautiful park that stretches along the ilm river, complete with ruins purposefully constructed as such - to add to the atmosphere. the town is full of perfect 16th century renaissance villas with their tastefully daring color schemes. my favorite had a smooth stucco exterior, grey with a hint of violet, set off perfectly by orange window frames, outlined in black.
we spent this morning at what remains of buchenwald, a nazi concentration camp 6km from weimar. we spent 3 hours milling around, listening to an audio tour on ipods hung around our necks. i walked along the railroad tracks until they mossed over in the encroaching forest. there, i found a series of simple aluminum poles planted in the ground at regular intervals. at the bottom of one i read ´unbekannt 893.´ unbekannt means unknown, nameless.
after walking around for an hour inside the camp proper, i chose at random one of the paths leading down the hill into the trees. signs pointed towards ´the little camp,´ where conditions were worst: many prisoners lived barely a few weeks. but i chose wrong at the fork, and arrived at a dead end. from there i could see the path i should have taken, and cut across a small orchard towards it.
but i had to turn around. looking down, i saw enormous plums, oozing out of their overripe skins, scattered everywhere. i felt them under my feet. one looked stretched out like a pear, as though while still on the branch its flesh had liquified and weighed down in the peel, like pennies in a sack. turned with my toe, its underside was all rotten, clinging to the grass.
i was very angry: no one had picked these plums when they were ripe on the branches, no one had put them in a basket to sit on their kitchen counter or to be made into preserves. why hadn´t someone gotten some sweet out of these plums? i picked one up and it went to mush in my hand. it was so heavy. i put it down carefully, afraid it would splatter if dropped, and watched my step along the way i had come.
we spent this morning at what remains of buchenwald, a nazi concentration camp 6km from weimar. we spent 3 hours milling around, listening to an audio tour on ipods hung around our necks. i walked along the railroad tracks until they mossed over in the encroaching forest. there, i found a series of simple aluminum poles planted in the ground at regular intervals. at the bottom of one i read ´unbekannt 893.´ unbekannt means unknown, nameless.
after walking around for an hour inside the camp proper, i chose at random one of the paths leading down the hill into the trees. signs pointed towards ´the little camp,´ where conditions were worst: many prisoners lived barely a few weeks. but i chose wrong at the fork, and arrived at a dead end. from there i could see the path i should have taken, and cut across a small orchard towards it.
but i had to turn around. looking down, i saw enormous plums, oozing out of their overripe skins, scattered everywhere. i felt them under my feet. one looked stretched out like a pear, as though while still on the branch its flesh had liquified and weighed down in the peel, like pennies in a sack. turned with my toe, its underside was all rotten, clinging to the grass.
i was very angry: no one had picked these plums when they were ripe on the branches, no one had put them in a basket to sit on their kitchen counter or to be made into preserves. why hadn´t someone gotten some sweet out of these plums? i picked one up and it went to mush in my hand. it was so heavy. i put it down carefully, afraid it would splatter if dropped, and watched my step along the way i had come.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
überwältigt
i. general
there is a lot going on in berlin. every site has a past. to your right, you´ll see a fragment of the wall. and here, this is where karl liebknecht was killed. behind me and to my left, one can see the brick foundation of the SS-headquarters, the ´topography of terror.´
i don´t know very much about architecture, but i have been thinking about it a lot here. space has a memory, a past that must be somehow confronted, dealt with, integrated into the present. what do we want to remember? what do we want to forget? are we going to put a sign up that says ´under this parking lot is the bunker where hitler committed suicide and where his body was burned´? are we going to put a sign on the side of the finance ministry that says ´this was the air force headquarters, where hermann göring had his office´? there is a monument for the murdered jews of europe. should there be one for the gays and lesbians that the third reich massacred with equally malicious intent?
in an anthology i brought along on this trip, the editor j.d. mcclatchy introduces the poet may swenson saying that ´she was aware that description is itself a moral commentary.´ so this is about the past, but specifically, it seems, about how to reprsent the past - how should a community describe its own memory - to visitors and to itself. architectural choices seem to be one of the ´practical´ facets of dealing with a past that speaks to us whether or not we want to hear.
ii. specific
»The enormity and scale of the horror of the Holocaust is such that any attempt to represent it by traditional means is inevitably inadequate ... Our memorial attempts to present a new idea of memory as distinct from nostalgia ... We can only know the past today through a manifestation in the present.« (Peter Eisenman, 1998)
in may 2005, berlin´s holocaust memorial was opened to the public. constructed according to peter eisenman´s design, the denkmal für die ermordeten juden europas is comprised of a visitor´s center underneath the 19.000 square meter ´field of stelae´ - 2711 concrete slabs of varying height, arranged in a grid. because of their different heights (from a few inches up to 4 or 5 meters) and because the are placed on an intentionally uneven surface, together the slabs create a the impression of a wave or ripples on a liquid surface. i learned on my walking tour wednesday that peter eisenman was inspired by wheat blowing in the wind. take it or leave it.
the monument is open day and night. one can walk along the axes of the grid, seeing the blocks rise up around, some leaning slightly away. one can sit on the low blocks around the edges. i went back thursday evening and jotted down a few notes about what i saw. this is what i wrote:
iii. this is history
yuuuu-lee! yuuu-leee! juuuu-leee!
a young couple murmuring in french emerge from the stone, then fade again into a valley. walking side by side is a tight fit between the slabs.
3 guys my age jump from block to block toward the center of the field. they have gotten the attention of some official, who holds his arms out and pushes his palms toward the ground. Down! the one wearing a visor and camoflage shorts is embarassed. that´s nice.
to my right, another group has climbed up. leaping to the next block, they look through the LCD screens on the back of their pocket cameras. a boy sprints by, chased by his older sister. the french couple reappears at the edge. beyond the crest of the wave i can see the umbrellas outside the café.
yuuu-leeee! juuuu-leeee!
a young woman in a tanktop and playfully short bangs is pacing along the edge of the monument, peering down the rows. her 7 year old son jogs ahead, helping. she whistles between her fingers and anxious calls out juuuu-leeee! juuuuu-leee! she has lost her julie in there.
there is a lot going on in berlin. every site has a past. to your right, you´ll see a fragment of the wall. and here, this is where karl liebknecht was killed. behind me and to my left, one can see the brick foundation of the SS-headquarters, the ´topography of terror.´
i don´t know very much about architecture, but i have been thinking about it a lot here. space has a memory, a past that must be somehow confronted, dealt with, integrated into the present. what do we want to remember? what do we want to forget? are we going to put a sign up that says ´under this parking lot is the bunker where hitler committed suicide and where his body was burned´? are we going to put a sign on the side of the finance ministry that says ´this was the air force headquarters, where hermann göring had his office´? there is a monument for the murdered jews of europe. should there be one for the gays and lesbians that the third reich massacred with equally malicious intent?
in an anthology i brought along on this trip, the editor j.d. mcclatchy introduces the poet may swenson saying that ´she was aware that description is itself a moral commentary.´ so this is about the past, but specifically, it seems, about how to reprsent the past - how should a community describe its own memory - to visitors and to itself. architectural choices seem to be one of the ´practical´ facets of dealing with a past that speaks to us whether or not we want to hear.
ii. specific
»The enormity and scale of the horror of the Holocaust is such that any attempt to represent it by traditional means is inevitably inadequate ... Our memorial attempts to present a new idea of memory as distinct from nostalgia ... We can only know the past today through a manifestation in the present.« (Peter Eisenman, 1998)
in may 2005, berlin´s holocaust memorial was opened to the public. constructed according to peter eisenman´s design, the denkmal für die ermordeten juden europas is comprised of a visitor´s center underneath the 19.000 square meter ´field of stelae´ - 2711 concrete slabs of varying height, arranged in a grid. because of their different heights (from a few inches up to 4 or 5 meters) and because the are placed on an intentionally uneven surface, together the slabs create a the impression of a wave or ripples on a liquid surface. i learned on my walking tour wednesday that peter eisenman was inspired by wheat blowing in the wind. take it or leave it.
the monument is open day and night. one can walk along the axes of the grid, seeing the blocks rise up around, some leaning slightly away. one can sit on the low blocks around the edges. i went back thursday evening and jotted down a few notes about what i saw. this is what i wrote:
iii. this is history
yuuuu-lee! yuuu-leee! juuuu-leee!
a young couple murmuring in french emerge from the stone, then fade again into a valley. walking side by side is a tight fit between the slabs.
3 guys my age jump from block to block toward the center of the field. they have gotten the attention of some official, who holds his arms out and pushes his palms toward the ground. Down! the one wearing a visor and camoflage shorts is embarassed. that´s nice.
to my right, another group has climbed up. leaping to the next block, they look through the LCD screens on the back of their pocket cameras. a boy sprints by, chased by his older sister. the french couple reappears at the edge. beyond the crest of the wave i can see the umbrellas outside the café.
yuuu-leeee! juuuu-leeee!
a young woman in a tanktop and playfully short bangs is pacing along the edge of the monument, peering down the rows. her 7 year old son jogs ahead, helping. she whistles between her fingers and anxious calls out juuuu-leeee! juuuuu-leee! she has lost her julie in there.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
there are trees in this city
guten abend, i#m in berlin, adjusting to zet another kezboard configuration. i've been here 24 hours, and i need to take care of some basic 'get settled' tasks before dinner, but i just wanted to say that i am safely arrived in northern europe, at a very welcoming homestay in the southwest neighborhood of zehlendorf. this morning i went to the market with my host mother daniela and her daughter antonia, and this afternoon we went on a boat tour of berlin. that was very nice. here are the differences i have noticed thus far between germany (here) and italy (there):
1. here you eat all your food on one plate. fork and knife are both placed to the right of the plate, and the spoon across the top. i was delighted to learn this.
2. here, wheat bread exists. it is almost black, and after eating it i feel capable of unifying a nation.
3. germans love trees, and like to have them around for company. even in the center of berlin, i am amazed by how green the landscape is, and i don't think a month will be nearly long enough to see all the branches hanging over a dark oak trellis or all the ivy climbing up a black lampost.
4. there are many more buildings here that have been built in the last 50 years, and a particular wealth of public buildings designed by the most prominent architects in the last 15.
i am here in berlin to pound grammar and vocabulary into my skull, and, departing from this last point, to be a part of a culture that has witnessed two moments of profound destruction. the allies bombed the city. a wall was built, then they tore it down.
1. here you eat all your food on one plate. fork and knife are both placed to the right of the plate, and the spoon across the top. i was delighted to learn this.
2. here, wheat bread exists. it is almost black, and after eating it i feel capable of unifying a nation.
3. germans love trees, and like to have them around for company. even in the center of berlin, i am amazed by how green the landscape is, and i don't think a month will be nearly long enough to see all the branches hanging over a dark oak trellis or all the ivy climbing up a black lampost.
4. there are many more buildings here that have been built in the last 50 years, and a particular wealth of public buildings designed by the most prominent architects in the last 15.
i am here in berlin to pound grammar and vocabulary into my skull, and, departing from this last point, to be a part of a culture that has witnessed two moments of profound destruction. the allies bombed the city. a wall was built, then they tore it down.
Monday, July 30, 2007
il macellaio
tearing it up, endlessly analyzing the infinite possible interpretations in your mind, that's a waste of time, he said. the melody, the harmony of poetry is something you feel in your gut.
dario cecchini had very large hands and a collection of appropriately large knives. the wall of his shop read 'chi mangia la fiorentina unnà paura di nulla.' he who eats a steak alla fiorentina fears nothing. this is also written on his business card, which encourages prospective clients to make an appointment. dario cecchini is a butcher.
the shop was decorated with an incredible diversity of elegant art. restored antique furniture was balanced against wild modern sculpture. next to some of these latter pieces were silly sketches by the sculptors, made on the shop's own butcher paper. in the corner, a heavy door with a window looked into the stainless steel cooler: there were six sides of beef hanging on enormous hooks, and more chains hung down, waiting. already wrapped, cuts of pork, veal, and boar peeked out of the drawers in a plastic chest. in the corner chilled a stained white bucket, half full of unidentifiable innards.
behind the elegant curve of the glass display case, there was a small scale, piles of butcher paper, and an old machine that seemed capable of vacuum sealing a vespa. we were there after hours; the case was empty and spotless except for a few sheets of paper set parallel on the steel display platters - orders phoned and faxed in, notes to the two apprentices. next to the case, right out on the floor of the shop, was a wooden table about waist high. the legs were 4x4s, and the surface was 18 inches thick, curving slightly on the bottom. three feet long and two feet wide, it was half a tree: the surface was a hundred dark dents and in the center, a shallow worn into the wood by the rocking of a heavy blade. the block shone, greased with the fat of bones. i couldn't stop staring at it, and cecchini said simply, 'i made that.'
in addition to having this exclusive and impeccably decorated butcher shop, signore cecchini owns and runs a restaurant across the street that is open 3 nights a week and has no menu. you eat what he brings you. and until recently, if you caught him at the right time and in the right mood, he would recite sonnets of 13th and 14th century vulgar tuscan poets and hundreds of lines from dante's inferno before going back into his locker to hang hundreds of pounds of top-quality beef on stainless steel hooks.
but signore cecchini doesn't do dante anymore. he feels that roberto benigni and other italian actors have made dante a commodity. it's fashionable to recite dante now in soccer stadiums. or, benigni recites a canto on television and the next day every italian bookstore is sold out of the comedy, only so those books can gather dust on another set of shelves. signore cecchini is also a showman, no doubt: even while we were being introduced he threw out a wide variety of tuscan cuss words, trying to shock and alienate the theorists from the university, the people who want to take what is sacred to him and show it the self-indulgent saw of literary theory.
i asked signore cecchini if there was a connection in his mind between his love of poetry and the work that he does with his hands, tearing up animal bodies with his huge hands and his huge knives. he said, 'listen, i'm not a dante scholar, a dantista. i'm a butcher. i think that poetry is something that the soul needs to be healthy, and the only way i know how to approach poetry is to learn it by memory, to feel the words in my gut and then, from there, to speak them out loud.'
dario cecchini is relatively famous in italy and even abroad for his odd combination of callings. he has appeared on 'the today show.' this notoriety allows him to request his clients to make appointments, to serve whatever he wants at his restaurant, and to make a sack of money doing it. it could be argued that, to some extent he too has sold out, using poetry as a way to compliment and enrich himself. he doesn't seem to mind the attention it brings him.
but i want to let this butcher have his ego and his success. not because only very few butchers jump up on their counters to recite poetry for their customers and neighbors, but because all butchers know about bodies, about how much they weigh. and because all butchers cut themselves sooner or later. cecchini's reaction to this latest commodification of dante seemed almost physical, as if hearing dante torn up and sold for 50€ a seat gave him the same pain as seeing a choice cut ground up for goulash, or nicking a finger with one of his cleavers. swearing at us, refusing to recite in public, it was as if he was instinctively pressing this wound with his unmarked hand, or sticking the bleeding finger in his mouth.
why does it feel so right to do that, anyway? it makes us seem more animals than enlightened beings. and maybe that's the point. he may reject complex interpretations, he may cuss and stomp and make a little scene, and it may have all been part of the performance, the act - but i bought it: for cecchini, poetry has weight. he feels it in his bones, feels it running in his veins. to see it be made into a fad, sold on the auction block for cheap; that cuts him, and deep.
dario cecchini had very large hands and a collection of appropriately large knives. the wall of his shop read 'chi mangia la fiorentina unnà paura di nulla.' he who eats a steak alla fiorentina fears nothing. this is also written on his business card, which encourages prospective clients to make an appointment. dario cecchini is a butcher.
the shop was decorated with an incredible diversity of elegant art. restored antique furniture was balanced against wild modern sculpture. next to some of these latter pieces were silly sketches by the sculptors, made on the shop's own butcher paper. in the corner, a heavy door with a window looked into the stainless steel cooler: there were six sides of beef hanging on enormous hooks, and more chains hung down, waiting. already wrapped, cuts of pork, veal, and boar peeked out of the drawers in a plastic chest. in the corner chilled a stained white bucket, half full of unidentifiable innards.
behind the elegant curve of the glass display case, there was a small scale, piles of butcher paper, and an old machine that seemed capable of vacuum sealing a vespa. we were there after hours; the case was empty and spotless except for a few sheets of paper set parallel on the steel display platters - orders phoned and faxed in, notes to the two apprentices. next to the case, right out on the floor of the shop, was a wooden table about waist high. the legs were 4x4s, and the surface was 18 inches thick, curving slightly on the bottom. three feet long and two feet wide, it was half a tree: the surface was a hundred dark dents and in the center, a shallow worn into the wood by the rocking of a heavy blade. the block shone, greased with the fat of bones. i couldn't stop staring at it, and cecchini said simply, 'i made that.'
in addition to having this exclusive and impeccably decorated butcher shop, signore cecchini owns and runs a restaurant across the street that is open 3 nights a week and has no menu. you eat what he brings you. and until recently, if you caught him at the right time and in the right mood, he would recite sonnets of 13th and 14th century vulgar tuscan poets and hundreds of lines from dante's inferno before going back into his locker to hang hundreds of pounds of top-quality beef on stainless steel hooks.
but signore cecchini doesn't do dante anymore. he feels that roberto benigni and other italian actors have made dante a commodity. it's fashionable to recite dante now in soccer stadiums. or, benigni recites a canto on television and the next day every italian bookstore is sold out of the comedy, only so those books can gather dust on another set of shelves. signore cecchini is also a showman, no doubt: even while we were being introduced he threw out a wide variety of tuscan cuss words, trying to shock and alienate the theorists from the university, the people who want to take what is sacred to him and show it the self-indulgent saw of literary theory.
i asked signore cecchini if there was a connection in his mind between his love of poetry and the work that he does with his hands, tearing up animal bodies with his huge hands and his huge knives. he said, 'listen, i'm not a dante scholar, a dantista. i'm a butcher. i think that poetry is something that the soul needs to be healthy, and the only way i know how to approach poetry is to learn it by memory, to feel the words in my gut and then, from there, to speak them out loud.'
dario cecchini is relatively famous in italy and even abroad for his odd combination of callings. he has appeared on 'the today show.' this notoriety allows him to request his clients to make appointments, to serve whatever he wants at his restaurant, and to make a sack of money doing it. it could be argued that, to some extent he too has sold out, using poetry as a way to compliment and enrich himself. he doesn't seem to mind the attention it brings him.
but i want to let this butcher have his ego and his success. not because only very few butchers jump up on their counters to recite poetry for their customers and neighbors, but because all butchers know about bodies, about how much they weigh. and because all butchers cut themselves sooner or later. cecchini's reaction to this latest commodification of dante seemed almost physical, as if hearing dante torn up and sold for 50€ a seat gave him the same pain as seeing a choice cut ground up for goulash, or nicking a finger with one of his cleavers. swearing at us, refusing to recite in public, it was as if he was instinctively pressing this wound with his unmarked hand, or sticking the bleeding finger in his mouth.
why does it feel so right to do that, anyway? it makes us seem more animals than enlightened beings. and maybe that's the point. he may reject complex interpretations, he may cuss and stomp and make a little scene, and it may have all been part of the performance, the act - but i bought it: for cecchini, poetry has weight. he feels it in his bones, feels it running in his veins. to see it be made into a fad, sold on the auction block for cheap; that cuts him, and deep.
Friday, July 27, 2007
three
1. buon harry potter
tonight i went with some friends to see harry potter 5 e l'ordine della fenice at the multiplex. on the ride there, i got a phone call. at the end of the conversation, my interlocutor signed off saying 'ci vediamo domani, buon harry potter.' now, the sense of this was totally clear and translates perfectly into english as 'see you tomorrow, enjoy harry potter.' but literally (i find literal translations so very much fun), the phrase renders as 'we'll see each other tomorrow, happy harry potter.' italians wish each other 'buon compleanno' and 'buon natale' - happy birthday and merry christmas, respectively, and that's familiar enough to a native english speaker - but they also feel so free to use 'buon' with almost any noun. the textbook example is 'buon divertimento,' which literally translates as 'happy [as in happy birthday] - happy fun time.' and so, tonight, we took it to the next level, and i'd like to send out those same wishes to the virtual community tonight: God bless us every one: merry harry potter.
2. the conditional past
to continue the grammar thread, while recently reading the end of an italian short story, it really jumped out to me that the whole paragraph was in the conditional past. and so it seems, despite my best efforts to the contrary, that i am becoming an adult. just making sure we're all on the same page, there are three types of hypothetical phrases in italian. the present: if x happens, then i do/will do y; the possible: if x were to happen, i would do y; and the impossible: if x had happened, i would have done y. and let me interject here that hypothetical phrases are my personal everest of the italian language, my personal standard of fluency. if i ever am irritated with someone, bring my hands together as if in prayer and rock them at the wrists and bust out a hypothetical phrase without effort, i will be celebrating at the summit baby.
in the 'impossible' variety above, 'i would have done y' is an example of the conditional past. if the conditions had been different, i would have made a different choice. but that's impossible. there's no turning back. the conditional past is grammar's recognition that our choices have consequences, that these choices matter, and that time travel doesn't exist: past choices can rarely be undone. with all this in my head, reading the last paragraph of that story, i surprised myself by saying, 'oh SHIT!'
3. jogging part II
although it's been very hot, i've been running more and more. this is partly because exercise helps me unwind and work out the stress of my projects, not knowing when it's appropriate to address someone formally or informally, and continually attempting and failing to construct correct hypothetical phrases. but it's also because i want to sort of stay in shape, and i don't want to eat less, so i have to run more.
weeks ago i was talking with one of the neighbors who is a runner and he asked me about my route. i told him i go down to the roundabout, over the bridge, and then loop back through a rather industrial area. he looked at me incredulous, his disgust completely unmasked. that part of town? it stinks! and he made a move as though to hold his nose. i run for an hour down at the park. why don't you run there? i shrugged. well, angelo, because...i don't like running in a small circle and i like to be surrounded by heavy machinery when i work out, ok? there, i thought it. i couldn't figure out why he was so up in arms about it.
so, it's taken me weeks, but i may have had an insight into this. and may be an insight into other italian mysteries such as 'why do people wear such nice clothes and sunglasses all the time?' and 'why do people always bring coffee to the table on a tray?' if i probe angelo a little more next time i see him, i bet he would translate his disdain for running on the wrong side of the tracks as 'you run there? that's 45 minutes of your life - you could be having an experience that would be so much more aesthetic than that!' it comes as no surprise that italians are sensitive to beauty. i mean, they have some of that here. but what impresses me is the tenacity of their commitment to it in the most quotidian arenas. you're going to the store? why not put on your new shoes? some jackass american kid is coming over? why not use the best china? every moment is an opportunity to experience something beautiful - why not take another five minutes of thought and planning to make the afternoon something to write home about?
tonight i went with some friends to see harry potter 5 e l'ordine della fenice at the multiplex. on the ride there, i got a phone call. at the end of the conversation, my interlocutor signed off saying 'ci vediamo domani, buon harry potter.' now, the sense of this was totally clear and translates perfectly into english as 'see you tomorrow, enjoy harry potter.' but literally (i find literal translations so very much fun), the phrase renders as 'we'll see each other tomorrow, happy harry potter.' italians wish each other 'buon compleanno' and 'buon natale' - happy birthday and merry christmas, respectively, and that's familiar enough to a native english speaker - but they also feel so free to use 'buon' with almost any noun. the textbook example is 'buon divertimento,' which literally translates as 'happy [as in happy birthday] - happy fun time.' and so, tonight, we took it to the next level, and i'd like to send out those same wishes to the virtual community tonight: God bless us every one: merry harry potter.
2. the conditional past
to continue the grammar thread, while recently reading the end of an italian short story, it really jumped out to me that the whole paragraph was in the conditional past. and so it seems, despite my best efforts to the contrary, that i am becoming an adult. just making sure we're all on the same page, there are three types of hypothetical phrases in italian. the present: if x happens, then i do/will do y; the possible: if x were to happen, i would do y; and the impossible: if x had happened, i would have done y. and let me interject here that hypothetical phrases are my personal everest of the italian language, my personal standard of fluency. if i ever am irritated with someone, bring my hands together as if in prayer and rock them at the wrists and bust out a hypothetical phrase without effort, i will be celebrating at the summit baby.
in the 'impossible' variety above, 'i would have done y' is an example of the conditional past. if the conditions had been different, i would have made a different choice. but that's impossible. there's no turning back. the conditional past is grammar's recognition that our choices have consequences, that these choices matter, and that time travel doesn't exist: past choices can rarely be undone. with all this in my head, reading the last paragraph of that story, i surprised myself by saying, 'oh SHIT!'
3. jogging part II
although it's been very hot, i've been running more and more. this is partly because exercise helps me unwind and work out the stress of my projects, not knowing when it's appropriate to address someone formally or informally, and continually attempting and failing to construct correct hypothetical phrases. but it's also because i want to sort of stay in shape, and i don't want to eat less, so i have to run more.
weeks ago i was talking with one of the neighbors who is a runner and he asked me about my route. i told him i go down to the roundabout, over the bridge, and then loop back through a rather industrial area. he looked at me incredulous, his disgust completely unmasked. that part of town? it stinks! and he made a move as though to hold his nose. i run for an hour down at the park. why don't you run there? i shrugged. well, angelo, because...i don't like running in a small circle and i like to be surrounded by heavy machinery when i work out, ok? there, i thought it. i couldn't figure out why he was so up in arms about it.
so, it's taken me weeks, but i may have had an insight into this. and may be an insight into other italian mysteries such as 'why do people wear such nice clothes and sunglasses all the time?' and 'why do people always bring coffee to the table on a tray?' if i probe angelo a little more next time i see him, i bet he would translate his disdain for running on the wrong side of the tracks as 'you run there? that's 45 minutes of your life - you could be having an experience that would be so much more aesthetic than that!' it comes as no surprise that italians are sensitive to beauty. i mean, they have some of that here. but what impresses me is the tenacity of their commitment to it in the most quotidian arenas. you're going to the store? why not put on your new shoes? some jackass american kid is coming over? why not use the best china? every moment is an opportunity to experience something beautiful - why not take another five minutes of thought and planning to make the afternoon something to write home about?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
il crudo sasso
monday morning i left early from arezzo and took a train/bus north to stia, a small hamlet in the casentino valley. i walked from the station to the Castello di Porciano, of which only a single tower and a lone wall remain. but on the north side, the stone that remains was covered with a blanket of ivy that moved slowly from a green that was almost black in shadow through a fire orange into a deep blood red. i don't know what has caused this change in color: it's still july (even in italy), and why is the only west side so eager to get on with autumn?
i took some pictures for the dante project, then talked to an old man at the fountain. he was filling up a blue plastic watering can and had four more patiently waiting, their long spouts all in a row. he was very inviting when i asked if i could fill my water bottle. he gave me directions to the trailhead where i could start up towards monte falco, one of the high peaks of this region and of in the appenine mountain range. i'll gloss over that part of the journey, suffice it to say that it was steep and took a long time. when i came out of the oak forest into this little bald meadow at the top, to my left was all of eastern italy. the appenines run down the spine of the italian peninsula, and on a clear day, they say you can see all the way to the tyrrenian sea, and from monte falterona (the peak just to the east), you can see to the adriatic. really fantastic, even with a little haze.
from there i followed the appenine ridge for about 15 km until i more or less slid down the eastern side to the sacred hermitage and monastery at camaldoli. i spent two nights there in the guest house of the monastery, where i had a cell to myself. this made me very happy, despite the fact that the bed was about 4 inches too short. after walking more or less 30km, i slept great. tuesday i ambled in the forest and chilled out by the little brooks that dante describes running down the mountain; at a pasture hidden in the forest, i stood shyly at the fence while two horses nibbled at hay from my open palm.
in the afternoon and evening i sat in on two sessions of a national conference on liturgy. i heard an architect's fascinating talk about the centrality of the altar, how the altar defines a church as 'lo spazio in attesa,' the space in waiting. space waiting to be actualized, made into a place.
yesterday i left camaldoli shortly after 6, taking a different path to the southeast towards la verna, the summer retreat of St. Francis of Assisi and the site of a beautiful monastery that sits on what dante calls 'il crudo sasso' - the raw rock. that seemed pretty spot-on to me: approaching through the forest, there were huge boulders everywhere, covered in moss and jutting out of the ground like impacted teeth. i don't know much about geology, but from the extreme angles of the striations in these stones, the area seemed like the place tectonic plates come to party. either that, or it is the scrap heap of the LORD.
rising out of the canopy, the forbidding surface of the largest boulder was chosen by Francis and his closest followers as the site of their retreat. at the time, they simply spent the summer months each crouched in his own hovel. standing beside the site of francis' first cave, one of the friars explained that it was chosen for him by his brothers as the most luxurious: only a little rain would come in when it was windy. a nice gesture; it is always windy.
il crudo sasso figures prominently in francis' hagiography as the place he received the stigmata, the spontaneous appearance of the wounds of Christ on his hands and feet. i knew that. i did not know, as padre gildo explained, that in the last years of his life St. Francis wanted only two things: first, to know in his heart the love that Christ had for all people. and secondly, to know the pain that Christ experienced on the cross. i don't know how to react to that.
i took some pictures for the dante project, then talked to an old man at the fountain. he was filling up a blue plastic watering can and had four more patiently waiting, their long spouts all in a row. he was very inviting when i asked if i could fill my water bottle. he gave me directions to the trailhead where i could start up towards monte falco, one of the high peaks of this region and of in the appenine mountain range. i'll gloss over that part of the journey, suffice it to say that it was steep and took a long time. when i came out of the oak forest into this little bald meadow at the top, to my left was all of eastern italy. the appenines run down the spine of the italian peninsula, and on a clear day, they say you can see all the way to the tyrrenian sea, and from monte falterona (the peak just to the east), you can see to the adriatic. really fantastic, even with a little haze.
from there i followed the appenine ridge for about 15 km until i more or less slid down the eastern side to the sacred hermitage and monastery at camaldoli. i spent two nights there in the guest house of the monastery, where i had a cell to myself. this made me very happy, despite the fact that the bed was about 4 inches too short. after walking more or less 30km, i slept great. tuesday i ambled in the forest and chilled out by the little brooks that dante describes running down the mountain; at a pasture hidden in the forest, i stood shyly at the fence while two horses nibbled at hay from my open palm.
in the afternoon and evening i sat in on two sessions of a national conference on liturgy. i heard an architect's fascinating talk about the centrality of the altar, how the altar defines a church as 'lo spazio in attesa,' the space in waiting. space waiting to be actualized, made into a place.
yesterday i left camaldoli shortly after 6, taking a different path to the southeast towards la verna, the summer retreat of St. Francis of Assisi and the site of a beautiful monastery that sits on what dante calls 'il crudo sasso' - the raw rock. that seemed pretty spot-on to me: approaching through the forest, there were huge boulders everywhere, covered in moss and jutting out of the ground like impacted teeth. i don't know much about geology, but from the extreme angles of the striations in these stones, the area seemed like the place tectonic plates come to party. either that, or it is the scrap heap of the LORD.
rising out of the canopy, the forbidding surface of the largest boulder was chosen by Francis and his closest followers as the site of their retreat. at the time, they simply spent the summer months each crouched in his own hovel. standing beside the site of francis' first cave, one of the friars explained that it was chosen for him by his brothers as the most luxurious: only a little rain would come in when it was windy. a nice gesture; it is always windy.
il crudo sasso figures prominently in francis' hagiography as the place he received the stigmata, the spontaneous appearance of the wounds of Christ on his hands and feet. i knew that. i did not know, as padre gildo explained, that in the last years of his life St. Francis wanted only two things: first, to know in his heart the love that Christ had for all people. and secondly, to know the pain that Christ experienced on the cross. i don't know how to react to that.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
falcons
party people (and those who would not identify as 'party people'):this is the casentino valley, which follows the route of the arno river south from its source in the appenines towards arezzo. this is twilight. this is gherardo, who goes to art school by day and by night is one of italy's most accomplished falconiers. and this is a falcon. in italian, un girifalco grigio.
last night i found myself at gherardo's house chatting with his parents and drinking coca-cola, watching as gherard set his two prize falcons free to float about on the evening air, watching him swing a logoro - a length of cord with a baby chick tied to a weight on the end, watching the falcons scream down from on high to claw the chick to shreds in midair. their rear claws (which correspond to human thumbs, i suppose), are muscular and the talon is longer and much more intimidating than the others, which were already considerably intimidating. at the last possible moment, the falcon's feet drop down from their aerodynamic tuck to thrust these rear claws into their prey. when i saw this happen in living color, the force of the falcon's descent and the strength of the claws ripped the chick's head off.
it was awesome.
as gherardo eloquently explained, falconry has been an art since the middle ages, with rich traditions in the west and in asia. the logoro he used with the chick was a western design, but gherardo also showed us a logoro that falconers have been using in pakistan for centuries. a length of flexible cane with string on the end, it allowed gherardo to simulate the flight of smaller birds by using a real bird's wing instead of a weight at the end of the cord. he handled the cane with practiced grace; his motion reminded me of flyfishermen. then, he reached into a small pouch at his belt and pulled out another chick, which he pulled apart with his bare hands, throwing pieces to the falcon, who caught them in the air.
it was awesome.
although gherardo has established an obvious intimacy with the birds that he's had for a long time, he was very frank about using hunger as a means to keep his new acquisitions close. the falcon comes back because of the chick, whether he tears it to pieces or whether gherardo does the job for him. in the end, that only increased my appreciation for what these falcons are capable of. birds of prey seem to be machines of desire. when they flew towards their prey, it was as if every feather was perfectly aligned towards their aim, as if every atom of their bodies were drawn effortlessly along their line of sight.
tomorrow i'm going up to camaldoli, a benedictine monastery in the northern casentino valley, and on wednesday i'll be at la verna, St. Francis of Assisi's summer refuge. thinking of the falcons, it makes more sense why monks everywhere take a vow of poverty, and why perhaps St. Francis, who spoke of 'lady poverty' as his beloved, was able to revolutionize the church in his brief lifetime. i don't know if it's 'right' to deprive falcons of food to bind them to you. i've tried to starve a few girls into liking me, and it didn't work very well.
but watching those falcons, i felt free. the grace with which they moved their wings to catch the currents, the speed and control with which they approached, the ferocity of their attack: the air is their element, and they can do almost anything they want up there. being in the presence of that power, i felt a part of it. but also because it's slowly becoming real to me that my desires are my own, that i can make choices. i don't intend to take any eternally binding and highly uncomfortable vows in the next few days, but i want to take a long look at these monks, who have pointed every fiber of their being toward their desire and are living in the consequences. to be really free, does one have to choose to live in desire?
Sunday, July 15, 2007
hot bodies
hello, it's 00:20, and i am sitting in arezzo. i should go to bed, but the last two days are worthy of description, so here we are:
i spent yesterday more or less around the house labelling photos for the dante project and typing up a translation of a mario rigoni stern story that i'll finish tomorrow. around 16:30, i put on some clothes and walked in to the center of town, where i met up with a local poet and high school latin teacher with whomi had chatted a few times last year. she was going to give a lecture in nearby monterchi, comparing the work of two painters: in this corner, from 15th century san sepolcro, piero della francesca; trading uppercuts and color palattes with with the 20th century florentine ottone rosai. taking advantage of the opportunity to salute her, listen to some italian, and see some art all in one swing, i was going to check it out. i was getting a ride with her and her husband. it was very, very hot.
the ride to monterchi bordered on the surreal. i don't have time to do justice to the complexity of the personalities involved, but there were three principal players, plus me: professoressa verde, made-up to the max, expressing her anxiety about her lecture by confirming a series of superfluous details over her cell-phone. her husband, francesco, smoking incessantly, expressing his anxiety that we were running late. every 2 minutes, he would set his jaw and announce the time, followed by our expected arrival time in monterchi. with the interaction between these two characters alone, i was already primed for a spectacle. we left 10 minutes behind schedule, only for professoressa verde to realize 5 minutes into our 45 minute drive that we had forgotten a friend of hers from the previously mentioned provincial government, to whom she had also promised a ride. and so, another rapid, pointed telephone call. the woman was on her bicycle, on a nearby street. we would turn around and pick her up.
prof.ssa verde gave her husband a brief description of this alessandra as we went in search of her. she's passionate about art, specifically piero della francesca. she works at the provincia. she's taking classes at the university. she's a little...spaced out. she's rather fat. and there she was, waving at us eagerly on the sidewalk, next to her dilapidated bicycle. a brown skirt and leopard print top were stretched across her generous build. as she settled herself very close to me in the back seat, she chattered away; beads of sweat collected on her upper lip. somewhere in the middle of the unfiltered narrations of her consciousness, she made my acquaintance. no, really, the pleasure was mine.
over the next 45 minutes, prof.ssa verde became more and more nervous about her talk, and now having no one else to call, she turned to the two bodies in the back seat. she delicately took a book from her purse and did an impromptu commentary on some of the verses she herself had written inspired by these two painters. she encouraged me to buy her book after the lecture. alessandra kept interrupting with the most far-fetched mental associations ('listen, you know what comes to mind...?'); francesco was clearly furious about our continued state of tardiness and that this fat lady in the back seat - the reason we were so late in the first place - wouldn't shut up and let his wife read her damn poems. and all the while, it was very, very hot.
the sweat pooled precariously above alessandra's lips and then ran down into the folds of her neck.
today i got up at 6 and caught a bus to the marina di grosseto on the adriatic sea, italy's west coast. my host family has been there on holiday for the last 2 weeks and i went down for the day to be with them and take a dip. the beach was narrow and crowded, but the water was beautiful. i swam out to the buoy and floated there, looking back at all the people under their umbrellas, walking along the edge of the water, splashing each other. summer in italy is a celebration of the human body. every woman wore a bikini, regardless of age or physical fitness. every man over 25 wore a speedo. there were bellies that spilled generously over waistbands, thighs that slapped against each other. old women sunned their shoulders, their tops arranged in ways that tempted physics.
and i have to tell you, every body was beautiful. the sun was high and the water calm and blue all the way to elba. many of these families have been coming to this beach their whole lives for a few weeks in july or august. and it is very, very hot. what a wonderful freedom, to lay down your weight and have the sea take it. to come back under the umbrella, and read the afternoon away in magazines.
i spent yesterday more or less around the house labelling photos for the dante project and typing up a translation of a mario rigoni stern story that i'll finish tomorrow. around 16:30, i put on some clothes and walked in to the center of town, where i met up with a local poet and high school latin teacher with whomi had chatted a few times last year. she was going to give a lecture in nearby monterchi, comparing the work of two painters: in this corner, from 15th century san sepolcro, piero della francesca; trading uppercuts and color palattes with with the 20th century florentine ottone rosai. taking advantage of the opportunity to salute her, listen to some italian, and see some art all in one swing, i was going to check it out. i was getting a ride with her and her husband. it was very, very hot.
the ride to monterchi bordered on the surreal. i don't have time to do justice to the complexity of the personalities involved, but there were three principal players, plus me: professoressa verde, made-up to the max, expressing her anxiety about her lecture by confirming a series of superfluous details over her cell-phone. her husband, francesco, smoking incessantly, expressing his anxiety that we were running late. every 2 minutes, he would set his jaw and announce the time, followed by our expected arrival time in monterchi. with the interaction between these two characters alone, i was already primed for a spectacle. we left 10 minutes behind schedule, only for professoressa verde to realize 5 minutes into our 45 minute drive that we had forgotten a friend of hers from the previously mentioned provincial government, to whom she had also promised a ride. and so, another rapid, pointed telephone call. the woman was on her bicycle, on a nearby street. we would turn around and pick her up.
prof.ssa verde gave her husband a brief description of this alessandra as we went in search of her. she's passionate about art, specifically piero della francesca. she works at the provincia. she's taking classes at the university. she's a little...spaced out. she's rather fat. and there she was, waving at us eagerly on the sidewalk, next to her dilapidated bicycle. a brown skirt and leopard print top were stretched across her generous build. as she settled herself very close to me in the back seat, she chattered away; beads of sweat collected on her upper lip. somewhere in the middle of the unfiltered narrations of her consciousness, she made my acquaintance. no, really, the pleasure was mine.
over the next 45 minutes, prof.ssa verde became more and more nervous about her talk, and now having no one else to call, she turned to the two bodies in the back seat. she delicately took a book from her purse and did an impromptu commentary on some of the verses she herself had written inspired by these two painters. she encouraged me to buy her book after the lecture. alessandra kept interrupting with the most far-fetched mental associations ('listen, you know what comes to mind...?'); francesco was clearly furious about our continued state of tardiness and that this fat lady in the back seat - the reason we were so late in the first place - wouldn't shut up and let his wife read her damn poems. and all the while, it was very, very hot.
the sweat pooled precariously above alessandra's lips and then ran down into the folds of her neck.
today i got up at 6 and caught a bus to the marina di grosseto on the adriatic sea, italy's west coast. my host family has been there on holiday for the last 2 weeks and i went down for the day to be with them and take a dip. the beach was narrow and crowded, but the water was beautiful. i swam out to the buoy and floated there, looking back at all the people under their umbrellas, walking along the edge of the water, splashing each other. summer in italy is a celebration of the human body. every woman wore a bikini, regardless of age or physical fitness. every man over 25 wore a speedo. there were bellies that spilled generously over waistbands, thighs that slapped against each other. old women sunned their shoulders, their tops arranged in ways that tempted physics.
and i have to tell you, every body was beautiful. the sun was high and the water calm and blue all the way to elba. many of these families have been coming to this beach their whole lives for a few weeks in july or august. and it is very, very hot. what a wonderful freedom, to lay down your weight and have the sea take it. to come back under the umbrella, and read the afternoon away in magazines.
Friday, July 13, 2007
immigrant girl
hello, i'm back in arezzo this morning after four days on the road to the north and east. i was in bologna, verona, padova, and ravenna taking pictures for the dante project. the mosaics in ravenna are really mind-boggling (the area above and around the small altar in San Vitale has over 400,000 individual tiles), and a youth hostel there was my home base.
as i arrived on monday evening to check in, the carabinieri drove up. i was slightly concerned: unlike the polizia, who write parking tickets, the carabinieri are military police whose uniforms are a very serious shade of navy and whose sidearms are not attached to their belts by a little elastic cord. i was not the reason for their visit, however: as i was chatting with the saucy blonde running the place, they brought a dark-skinned and dishevelled girl from the back seat of the car into the hostel. once inside, the driver of the car spoke with the proprietess. this officer seemed to spend his spare time lifting small automobiles into the air and biting the heads off small vermin or unattended infants. tiredly, he explained that they had found the girl wandering in the middle of the road; she had no where to go. as he was speaking, she seemed ashamed of herself. she stared at the floor. she pulled a carefully preserved romanian passport out of her large fanny pack. the saucy blonde's gaze chilled and she sighed. there was a bed for her, she could stay.
ravenna is a port city on the northeast coast, and so is a popular point of entry for eastern europeans looking to find work to support their families. italians have a complicated relationship with these immigrants. as in the united states, immigrants work the lowest level service jobs. the cops are always chasing dark-skinned vendors of trinkets or off-brand merchandise away from tourist attractions. italians call these young men 'vu comprà' - a jab at their poor pronunciation of 'voule comprare:' do you want to buy a...? many of the issues have correlates in the united states. immigrants often bear the brunt of frustrations about the lack of employment opportunities for young people and a political system gridlocked in partisan bickering and back-channel corruption. non-native speakers or darker-skinned individuals are often looked at with the same diffidence as hispanics are in some parts of the united states.
as in other european nations, racial diversity is a relatively new phenomenon in italy. until recently, the first sentence of french elementary school history texts was 'our ancestors the gauls,' and 50 years ago, that was accurate. but not anymore. europe is struggling to maintain national identities that can no longer rely on the subconscious support of 'people who look like us.' what can they lean on? in france it's the secular state - no head coverings allowed. elsewhere it's language. the term 'vu comprà' preserves the distinction between the old stock and the newcomers - those who know how to use the subjunctive and those who can just make themselves understood. in the netherlands, it's knowledge of national history and customs, and how high you score on the test determines your eligibility for citizenship. last year on the camino de santiago, we saw the unfolding of a publicity campaign billing this 1200 year old pilgrimage route as the 'main street of europe' - a path that predates all of the nations that now surround it. but history resists that sort of simplification, and clashes with the present reality. every few towns there was a statue of santiago matamoros, one of the later incarnations of st. james (whose tomb is the journey's destination). matamoros is rougly translated as 'moorslayer.' is that an image that a unified europe wants to rally around? europe is struggling with difference - between its own member nations and between the northern and southern hemispheres. i chuckled to myself yesterday in mantova, virgil's home town: the mythic history of italy begins with aeneas, the founder of rome. he too arrived on italian shores bedraggled and without a reservation.
the carabinieri gave the romanian girl a last glance and walked out, their keys and handcuffs jangling. the proprietess processed her documents, gave her a key and pointed to the stairwell. the girl never spoke. as she was shuffling away towards her room, a cell phone rang inside her small backpack. she rummaged furiously through some shirts and a small towel. she found the phone and answered, mumbling. there was a long silence, then she cried a little and choked out three or four words slowly, quietly. i don't speak romanian, but i got it. who hasn't said it?
'i want to come home.'
as i arrived on monday evening to check in, the carabinieri drove up. i was slightly concerned: unlike the polizia, who write parking tickets, the carabinieri are military police whose uniforms are a very serious shade of navy and whose sidearms are not attached to their belts by a little elastic cord. i was not the reason for their visit, however: as i was chatting with the saucy blonde running the place, they brought a dark-skinned and dishevelled girl from the back seat of the car into the hostel. once inside, the driver of the car spoke with the proprietess. this officer seemed to spend his spare time lifting small automobiles into the air and biting the heads off small vermin or unattended infants. tiredly, he explained that they had found the girl wandering in the middle of the road; she had no where to go. as he was speaking, she seemed ashamed of herself. she stared at the floor. she pulled a carefully preserved romanian passport out of her large fanny pack. the saucy blonde's gaze chilled and she sighed. there was a bed for her, she could stay.
ravenna is a port city on the northeast coast, and so is a popular point of entry for eastern europeans looking to find work to support their families. italians have a complicated relationship with these immigrants. as in the united states, immigrants work the lowest level service jobs. the cops are always chasing dark-skinned vendors of trinkets or off-brand merchandise away from tourist attractions. italians call these young men 'vu comprà' - a jab at their poor pronunciation of 'voule comprare:' do you want to buy a...? many of the issues have correlates in the united states. immigrants often bear the brunt of frustrations about the lack of employment opportunities for young people and a political system gridlocked in partisan bickering and back-channel corruption. non-native speakers or darker-skinned individuals are often looked at with the same diffidence as hispanics are in some parts of the united states.
as in other european nations, racial diversity is a relatively new phenomenon in italy. until recently, the first sentence of french elementary school history texts was 'our ancestors the gauls,' and 50 years ago, that was accurate. but not anymore. europe is struggling to maintain national identities that can no longer rely on the subconscious support of 'people who look like us.' what can they lean on? in france it's the secular state - no head coverings allowed. elsewhere it's language. the term 'vu comprà' preserves the distinction between the old stock and the newcomers - those who know how to use the subjunctive and those who can just make themselves understood. in the netherlands, it's knowledge of national history and customs, and how high you score on the test determines your eligibility for citizenship. last year on the camino de santiago, we saw the unfolding of a publicity campaign billing this 1200 year old pilgrimage route as the 'main street of europe' - a path that predates all of the nations that now surround it. but history resists that sort of simplification, and clashes with the present reality. every few towns there was a statue of santiago matamoros, one of the later incarnations of st. james (whose tomb is the journey's destination). matamoros is rougly translated as 'moorslayer.' is that an image that a unified europe wants to rally around? europe is struggling with difference - between its own member nations and between the northern and southern hemispheres. i chuckled to myself yesterday in mantova, virgil's home town: the mythic history of italy begins with aeneas, the founder of rome. he too arrived on italian shores bedraggled and without a reservation.
the carabinieri gave the romanian girl a last glance and walked out, their keys and handcuffs jangling. the proprietess processed her documents, gave her a key and pointed to the stairwell. the girl never spoke. as she was shuffling away towards her room, a cell phone rang inside her small backpack. she rummaged furiously through some shirts and a small towel. she found the phone and answered, mumbling. there was a long silence, then she cried a little and choked out three or four words slowly, quietly. i don't speak romanian, but i got it. who hasn't said it?
'i want to come home.'
Thursday, July 05, 2007
back in arezzo
let me be brief. i got back from the farm on sunday evening. on tuesday, i went to siena for the famous palio - a bareback horserace around the semicircular campo in the center of the city. if i start talking about it, i'll be here for an hour, and i have to go. but suffice it to say, it was absolute madness. a girl passing by bumped into the guy next to me, who took offense and said something, so without a word, she just punched him in the face. that is how invested the sienese are in this: emotions were running high. when the 10 riders finally started, 2 were thrown in the first lap, their horses still tearing around the track shaking their manes - even they couldn't believe it. there was confusion at the finish - first the flag of the nicchio contrada was flown out of a window of the palazzo pubblico, but they took it back in after a just a minute. oca was the official winner and the place exploded. young girls were consoling their sobbing brothers. when the nicchio flag was flown from the palazzo, two middle-aged men from that district standing near me screwed up their leather faces and embraced as if they had both just become grandfathers. when that flag was taken back, their joy turned to a rage i had never seen.
yesterday i spent part of the day in florence, taking pictures for my dante project. i was just going about my business when i came across a piece in the Museo dell'Opera in Santa Croce that really rocked me back. preparing for a bronze bas-relief with scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary, the late 16th century sculptor giambologna made some studies in terracotta, two of which are preserved in the museo. in the first, joachim is being chased out of the temple. the piece was pretty beat up, and so was the second. it was entitled 'the meeting of joachim and anne.'
i did some research on this, and while i knew that anne was the mother of mary, according to apocryphal texts, joachim was her father. he was chased out of the temple because he and anne had been unable to bear children: not having 'given children to israel,' he was publically humiliated. just as i would have done in that situation, joachim left the city and went to live with shepherds. but he was called back to his wife when an angel appeared to him in a dream; at the same moment the angel appeared to anne telling her that a child would be born. joachim and anne met at the gates of jerusalem - this is considered by commentators to be the moment of the immaculate conception of mary.
i didn't know any of that when i was looking at the sculpture. i just knew that giambologna knew what he was doing: this little terra cotta bas-relief was so obviously a study, a rough rectangle of baked clay, and yet the two central figures were so animated, reaching out to embrace each other. their movement and their desire were palpable. and the figures had no heads or arms: broken, lost in the last four and half centuries.
yesterday i spent part of the day in florence, taking pictures for my dante project. i was just going about my business when i came across a piece in the Museo dell'Opera in Santa Croce that really rocked me back. preparing for a bronze bas-relief with scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary, the late 16th century sculptor giambologna made some studies in terracotta, two of which are preserved in the museo. in the first, joachim is being chased out of the temple. the piece was pretty beat up, and so was the second. it was entitled 'the meeting of joachim and anne.'
i did some research on this, and while i knew that anne was the mother of mary, according to apocryphal texts, joachim was her father. he was chased out of the temple because he and anne had been unable to bear children: not having 'given children to israel,' he was publically humiliated. just as i would have done in that situation, joachim left the city and went to live with shepherds. but he was called back to his wife when an angel appeared to him in a dream; at the same moment the angel appeared to anne telling her that a child would be born. joachim and anne met at the gates of jerusalem - this is considered by commentators to be the moment of the immaculate conception of mary.
i didn't know any of that when i was looking at the sculpture. i just knew that giambologna knew what he was doing: this little terra cotta bas-relief was so obviously a study, a rough rectangle of baked clay, and yet the two central figures were so animated, reaching out to embrace each other. their movement and their desire were palpable. and the figures had no heads or arms: broken, lost in the last four and half centuries.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
tease
so let me tell you a little bit about the farm. it is run by an american woman named edith who came to italy 35 years ago as an art history doctoral student. she's been here since. la fonte ferrata is half organic farm, half retreat 'place,' and edith herself follows a modified verson of st. benedict's rule for hermits. she is delightful.
edith has several cats, one of which got half its face ripped off by a fox or boar on the day i arrived. while it convalesces, the kittens that belong to it have been adopted by a surrogate calico. the little ones often...how to put this - meld their three miniature feline frames into a single sphere, which they then roll up next to the calico flank. it's impossilbe to tell which tail, ear, or muzzle belongs to whom. cute is a word too brief to describe this.
the adriatic sea is about 5 km away, and saturday night i found the perfect spot to view the sunset. next to the olive grove, there is a big fig tree and two long rows of lavender. the lavender looks like something out of dr. seuss. it is beautiful, but simultaneously so spiky and purply alien that i actually got a little freaked out thinking a sneech or lorax would materialize over my shoulder. but, for better or worse, we stayed this side of whoville and nothing more spectacular happened than the slow dunk of the ripening plum-sun into the sea. it was a fierce orange against the lavender, and the cypresses in the distance were silhouetted...I was like, dude - can we spread this out a little bit? can we donate 5% of this beauty to the krispy kreme parking lot at the corner of jefferson and 15A?
i do a lot of solitary work, but a couple times a week some neighbors come over to lend a hand. danielle is quebecoise, and has been living in italy for 8 years. french is her native tongue, and her english is excellent, but in trying to negotiate all the different idioms she sometimes makes these mistakes which are made more hilarious by the general context of fluency. above all, these instances make me feel better about being an amateur language user here myself. today, she tried to ask me if my time in italy is part of research for a dissertation or a thesis. and there, right at the end, she fell back on an anglicized version of the french 'la thèse' and ultimately came out with, 'so, are you here for a tease?'
i laughed. yes. i am. sunset with a side of cypress and lavender - that is a tease. whatever i will be able to accomplish doing research on dante or translating short stories, it's just a tease for what's really out there in both areas. more broadly, i think danielle hit right on it: thinking about the best essays i've read, the thesis - the main idea, the point - is so often just a tease. all the detail and example and description is so much more delicious than the summing up. the idea? that's great. the experience? better. let me rephrase. the idea of 'surrogacy/adoption' is beautiful - it means you can have more than one family. but the idea is nothing compared with a ball of kittens warming themselves at the breast of a strange cat.
edith has several cats, one of which got half its face ripped off by a fox or boar on the day i arrived. while it convalesces, the kittens that belong to it have been adopted by a surrogate calico. the little ones often...how to put this - meld their three miniature feline frames into a single sphere, which they then roll up next to the calico flank. it's impossilbe to tell which tail, ear, or muzzle belongs to whom. cute is a word too brief to describe this.
the adriatic sea is about 5 km away, and saturday night i found the perfect spot to view the sunset. next to the olive grove, there is a big fig tree and two long rows of lavender. the lavender looks like something out of dr. seuss. it is beautiful, but simultaneously so spiky and purply alien that i actually got a little freaked out thinking a sneech or lorax would materialize over my shoulder. but, for better or worse, we stayed this side of whoville and nothing more spectacular happened than the slow dunk of the ripening plum-sun into the sea. it was a fierce orange against the lavender, and the cypresses in the distance were silhouetted...I was like, dude - can we spread this out a little bit? can we donate 5% of this beauty to the krispy kreme parking lot at the corner of jefferson and 15A?
i do a lot of solitary work, but a couple times a week some neighbors come over to lend a hand. danielle is quebecoise, and has been living in italy for 8 years. french is her native tongue, and her english is excellent, but in trying to negotiate all the different idioms she sometimes makes these mistakes which are made more hilarious by the general context of fluency. above all, these instances make me feel better about being an amateur language user here myself. today, she tried to ask me if my time in italy is part of research for a dissertation or a thesis. and there, right at the end, she fell back on an anglicized version of the french 'la thèse' and ultimately came out with, 'so, are you here for a tease?'
i laughed. yes. i am. sunset with a side of cypress and lavender - that is a tease. whatever i will be able to accomplish doing research on dante or translating short stories, it's just a tease for what's really out there in both areas. more broadly, i think danielle hit right on it: thinking about the best essays i've read, the thesis - the main idea, the point - is so often just a tease. all the detail and example and description is so much more delicious than the summing up. the idea? that's great. the experience? better. let me rephrase. the idea of 'surrogacy/adoption' is beautiful - it means you can have more than one family. but the idea is nothing compared with a ball of kittens warming themselves at the breast of a strange cat.
Friday, June 22, 2007
3 minutes
hello all,
i have three minutes remaining on my hour at an internet cafe/tobacco counter in donoratico, LI. this week and next i am working at an organic farm called La Fonte Ferrata - the iron fountain. it's solitary work, a lot with the weedwacker, and i take an inordinate amount of pleasure mowing down the tall grass and making it even. i am reading dante, james wright poems, and thomas merton. and harry potter 3, il prigioniero di azkabàn.
hopefully some more content will be forthcoming in the next few days. until then...
i have three minutes remaining on my hour at an internet cafe/tobacco counter in donoratico, LI. this week and next i am working at an organic farm called La Fonte Ferrata - the iron fountain. it's solitary work, a lot with the weedwacker, and i take an inordinate amount of pleasure mowing down the tall grass and making it even. i am reading dante, james wright poems, and thomas merton. and harry potter 3, il prigioniero di azkabàn.
hopefully some more content will be forthcoming in the next few days. until then...
Sunday, June 17, 2007
interview in the legislature
good morning.
one of my projects here in italy this summer is conducting research for an interactive database on the geography of dante. although the protagonist of the Divine Comedy (dante the pilgrim) undertakes a journey through the metaphysical terrain of the afterlife, dante the poet makes that journey real to his readers by frequent allusion to landmarks and vistas that he himself experienced in 13th century italy and that are still (to some extent) available to modern readers. my project is to take photos and collect information on the various locales that are part of dante's life and the tradition that continues to develop out of his work. whether it be a place where dante himself stopped or stayed during his exile from florence, a place he may not have seen but mentions in the Comedy, or places that travelers have explored since - imagining themselves following in dante's footsteps: my assignment is to catalog these places in image and text and then weave together the various itineraries into a coherent network of interactive web pages.
as part of this project, this past thursday i conducted a preliminary interview with il Dottor Pierluigi Rossi, an official in the regional government, doctor/nutritionist, and local television personality. this week on 'terra di arezzo' he presented his findings collected over the last year surrounding the Battle of Campaldino (11 june 1289), in which the florentines literally massacred the aretine army and their two commanders, Buonconte da Montefeltro and Bishop Guglielmo degli Ubertini. beyond the fact that dante himself was in the florentine cavalry for this battle, Buonconte has a prominent role in Canto V of the Purgatorio volume of the Divine Comedy and Guglielmo was the bishop who initiated the construction of the Duomo in Arezzo. This Dottor Rossi and others have found the skeleton of Guglielmo buried beneath a small Fransiscan church near the battlefield alongside two others - one of whom he believes to be Buonconte's. as far as the dante database goes, it's kind of a big deal.
in any case, the actual content of the interview aside, thursday was an interesting insight into italian local politics. il Dottor Rossi told me to meet him at 11:30 at the Sede della Provincia - the regional government offices. the Sede della Provincia is probably slightly more prestigious and powerful than a county legislature, but housed in a 14th century stone building with an interior of hardwood and fresco. il Dottor Rossi arrived at 11:50, we made our introductions, and he led me into the Sala dei Grandi - the room where the legislature meets and where it was, in fact, in session. il Dottor Rossi led me into the center of the room and gave me a quick visual tour of the room, including a detailed description of the far wall, covered with beautiful 18th century portraits of all the historical greats born in the province of Arezzo. now, il Dottor Rossi was completely at ease, but this was a slightly awkward situation for me. i needed to appear simultaneously attentive and respectful to him - he will probably become one of the most important contacts in this project - while also conveying to the entire assembly that i didn't intend my presence in the center of the room as a sign of disrespect. which it almost certainly was. a man immediately to our right was, in fact, making an impassioned oration about public health, and there i was, getting the dime tour.
after 3 or 4 minutes of being stared at by 75% of the regional government (perhaps the only that day that a majority was achieved), il Dottor Rossi told me to wait off to the side - he would sit for a few moments, sign the register to indicate that he had been present for that session of governance, and we could go out to the terrace for our interview. that is precisely what happened. il Dottor Rossi took his seat and chatted for about 7 minutes with the woman next to him while this man (apparently from the opposition) railed on and on about small town health care. a page came by with a beautiful leather bound portfolio; he signed his name, got up, and left. our interview and tour of the area lasted about an hour. i had to go to another appointment, and il Dottor Rossi had to go to lunch - no doubt worn out by a contentious morning of governance.
one of my projects here in italy this summer is conducting research for an interactive database on the geography of dante. although the protagonist of the Divine Comedy (dante the pilgrim) undertakes a journey through the metaphysical terrain of the afterlife, dante the poet makes that journey real to his readers by frequent allusion to landmarks and vistas that he himself experienced in 13th century italy and that are still (to some extent) available to modern readers. my project is to take photos and collect information on the various locales that are part of dante's life and the tradition that continues to develop out of his work. whether it be a place where dante himself stopped or stayed during his exile from florence, a place he may not have seen but mentions in the Comedy, or places that travelers have explored since - imagining themselves following in dante's footsteps: my assignment is to catalog these places in image and text and then weave together the various itineraries into a coherent network of interactive web pages.
as part of this project, this past thursday i conducted a preliminary interview with il Dottor Pierluigi Rossi, an official in the regional government, doctor/nutritionist, and local television personality. this week on 'terra di arezzo' he presented his findings collected over the last year surrounding the Battle of Campaldino (11 june 1289), in which the florentines literally massacred the aretine army and their two commanders, Buonconte da Montefeltro and Bishop Guglielmo degli Ubertini. beyond the fact that dante himself was in the florentine cavalry for this battle, Buonconte has a prominent role in Canto V of the Purgatorio volume of the Divine Comedy and Guglielmo was the bishop who initiated the construction of the Duomo in Arezzo. This Dottor Rossi and others have found the skeleton of Guglielmo buried beneath a small Fransiscan church near the battlefield alongside two others - one of whom he believes to be Buonconte's. as far as the dante database goes, it's kind of a big deal.
in any case, the actual content of the interview aside, thursday was an interesting insight into italian local politics. il Dottor Rossi told me to meet him at 11:30 at the Sede della Provincia - the regional government offices. the Sede della Provincia is probably slightly more prestigious and powerful than a county legislature, but housed in a 14th century stone building with an interior of hardwood and fresco. il Dottor Rossi arrived at 11:50, we made our introductions, and he led me into the Sala dei Grandi - the room where the legislature meets and where it was, in fact, in session. il Dottor Rossi led me into the center of the room and gave me a quick visual tour of the room, including a detailed description of the far wall, covered with beautiful 18th century portraits of all the historical greats born in the province of Arezzo. now, il Dottor Rossi was completely at ease, but this was a slightly awkward situation for me. i needed to appear simultaneously attentive and respectful to him - he will probably become one of the most important contacts in this project - while also conveying to the entire assembly that i didn't intend my presence in the center of the room as a sign of disrespect. which it almost certainly was. a man immediately to our right was, in fact, making an impassioned oration about public health, and there i was, getting the dime tour.
after 3 or 4 minutes of being stared at by 75% of the regional government (perhaps the only that day that a majority was achieved), il Dottor Rossi told me to wait off to the side - he would sit for a few moments, sign the register to indicate that he had been present for that session of governance, and we could go out to the terrace for our interview. that is precisely what happened. il Dottor Rossi took his seat and chatted for about 7 minutes with the woman next to him while this man (apparently from the opposition) railed on and on about small town health care. a page came by with a beautiful leather bound portfolio; he signed his name, got up, and left. our interview and tour of the area lasted about an hour. i had to go to another appointment, and il Dottor Rossi had to go to lunch - no doubt worn out by a contentious morning of governance.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
portrait: perugia bus ride
yesterday i was in the umbrian hill town of perugia to meet with a professor who is generously helping me as i investigate the process of translating short fiction from italian to english. so far it is uniquely satisfying, but oh my a lot of work.
i stand towards the front of the bus. i need to see what's going on, where we are. in the future i'd like to be able to recognize those landmarks, navigate on foot. i'd like to have no questions for the bus driver. i'd like to pretend i live here. i'd like to get to the point where all the beauty is old hat. it's awful: it's too easy to pretend i'm already there. even in italy, aesthetic experience asks for eyes up, ears open. there i am, turning over what i read in some book.
in the first seat, a few feet up and to my right, an unshaven man with dark eyes was slouched down in a washed out black sweatshirt. he looked around and i looked away. he was too lean, shifty. a few moments later, a young olive skinned woman in old sneakers came up to my elbow, holding a baby. a woman of her stature had approached me on the train 20 minutes before, asking for money. she had also been holding a baby. cheap, i thought.
but this woman was just waiting for an old man to get out of her way. the man in the sweatshirt was sitting with his eyes closed, his mouth just slightly open and breathing shallow. when she put her hand on his shoulder, he slowly raised his eyelids, then suddenly turned to give the fat baby a big toothy smile. it faded into a gaze of genuine...gratitude. then his eyes fell a bit and his mouth opened again, like something bitter might fall out. i looked for the first time at his right hand, which he was holding up along his jawline. it was bloated and swollen to twice its normal size.
there was a noise in the back of the bus. the man took only the slightest moment to gather his strength. a baby stroller had fallen down into the aisle. as he passed and moved decisively towards the back, i couldn't take my eyes off his hand, held up on a bent elbow against his chest. there was no protecting it from the maze of shoulders; it had to be broken, badly.
man. even in perugia, people are just trying to live. sometimes it is hard - to pack up the baby, come in from the outskirts of town, and take two buses up to the hospital. and the stroller won't stay put.
i stand towards the front of the bus. i need to see what's going on, where we are. in the future i'd like to be able to recognize those landmarks, navigate on foot. i'd like to have no questions for the bus driver. i'd like to pretend i live here. i'd like to get to the point where all the beauty is old hat. it's awful: it's too easy to pretend i'm already there. even in italy, aesthetic experience asks for eyes up, ears open. there i am, turning over what i read in some book.
in the first seat, a few feet up and to my right, an unshaven man with dark eyes was slouched down in a washed out black sweatshirt. he looked around and i looked away. he was too lean, shifty. a few moments later, a young olive skinned woman in old sneakers came up to my elbow, holding a baby. a woman of her stature had approached me on the train 20 minutes before, asking for money. she had also been holding a baby. cheap, i thought.
but this woman was just waiting for an old man to get out of her way. the man in the sweatshirt was sitting with his eyes closed, his mouth just slightly open and breathing shallow. when she put her hand on his shoulder, he slowly raised his eyelids, then suddenly turned to give the fat baby a big toothy smile. it faded into a gaze of genuine...gratitude. then his eyes fell a bit and his mouth opened again, like something bitter might fall out. i looked for the first time at his right hand, which he was holding up along his jawline. it was bloated and swollen to twice its normal size.
there was a noise in the back of the bus. the man took only the slightest moment to gather his strength. a baby stroller had fallen down into the aisle. as he passed and moved decisively towards the back, i couldn't take my eyes off his hand, held up on a bent elbow against his chest. there was no protecting it from the maze of shoulders; it had to be broken, badly.
man. even in perugia, people are just trying to live. sometimes it is hard - to pack up the baby, come in from the outskirts of town, and take two buses up to the hospital. and the stroller won't stay put.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
culture confrontations
1. american foreign policy is all over the television. the telegiornali this last week have been packed with news and commentary about the G8 summit in germany and the preparations for president bush's arrival in rome friday afternoon. on the one hand, the commitment that came out of the summit were encouraging: we americans have finally pulled our heads out of the sand, noticed that 'it's getting hot in here' (here being the atmosphere), and agreed that yes, climate change is a reality. also, the 7 most industrialized nations in the world plus russia renewed and expanded their commitment to fighting AIDS in africa, which is fantastic.
on the other hand, all the posturing is just so disappointing. leaving aside the issue of planetary destabilization - a term that david orr prefers to 'climate change' - i'm offended that all these decisions are being made by 8 people, all white and very well fed. i know that all of the leaders have consulted extensively with people 'on the ground' and of course this money will do worlds of good, but at the very least on the symbolic level there is no room at the table for africa.
2. last night i went with my host-brother filippo to a birthday party for his friend sara. there were about 15 people up at a little house in the countryside near to arezzo, and we spent a wonderful evening eating and talking. granted, filippo and his friends are all in their late twenties, but i was so impressed by how an italian party works even for young people. everyone rolled in around 8:30 and we sang happy birthday to sara and did a toast. that brought us to 9pm. from 9 until 1:30, we ate, drank, talked and sang without ceasing. throughout the evening a soccer ball would appear and all the males would be drawn to it by a distinctively european magnetic force. but i was most struck by another magnetism that animated the evening. it's as much a comment on the college party or american bar scenes as it is on filippo's friends, but there was a strong sense that last night we were in it together. of course smaller conversations were always breaking out and breaking up, but everyone was there for the long haul. eating and drinking were means for time together, not means unto themselves. while even i was aware of some small dramas unfolding over the course of the evening, no one was positioning themselves to go home with someone else and no one retreated into the privacy of drunkenness.
the conversation was immediately interrupted so i didn't have to answer, but late in the evening someone asked me what the differences were between italian and american culture. so i thought only to myself: 'tonight is the difference.' in italy, even among a group of 15 young friends, the family at table together remains the most important social model. for better and worse, the dominant american ideal seems best expressed by the most recent barrage of military recruitment advertisements on television: an 'army of one.'
on the other hand, all the posturing is just so disappointing. leaving aside the issue of planetary destabilization - a term that david orr prefers to 'climate change' - i'm offended that all these decisions are being made by 8 people, all white and very well fed. i know that all of the leaders have consulted extensively with people 'on the ground' and of course this money will do worlds of good, but at the very least on the symbolic level there is no room at the table for africa.
2. last night i went with my host-brother filippo to a birthday party for his friend sara. there were about 15 people up at a little house in the countryside near to arezzo, and we spent a wonderful evening eating and talking. granted, filippo and his friends are all in their late twenties, but i was so impressed by how an italian party works even for young people. everyone rolled in around 8:30 and we sang happy birthday to sara and did a toast. that brought us to 9pm. from 9 until 1:30, we ate, drank, talked and sang without ceasing. throughout the evening a soccer ball would appear and all the males would be drawn to it by a distinctively european magnetic force. but i was most struck by another magnetism that animated the evening. it's as much a comment on the college party or american bar scenes as it is on filippo's friends, but there was a strong sense that last night we were in it together. of course smaller conversations were always breaking out and breaking up, but everyone was there for the long haul. eating and drinking were means for time together, not means unto themselves. while even i was aware of some small dramas unfolding over the course of the evening, no one was positioning themselves to go home with someone else and no one retreated into the privacy of drunkenness.
the conversation was immediately interrupted so i didn't have to answer, but late in the evening someone asked me what the differences were between italian and american culture. so i thought only to myself: 'tonight is the difference.' in italy, even among a group of 15 young friends, the family at table together remains the most important social model. for better and worse, the dominant american ideal seems best expressed by the most recent barrage of military recruitment advertisements on television: an 'army of one.'
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Italia x2
hello everyone,
i'm back in italy. i thought the blog was an interesting forum to keep everyone informed of my various experiences and reflections last time around, and so i've decided to see what this medium inspires this time. as i remember writing in one of the very first posts, the title 'in the middle of the journey of our life' (taken from the first line of Dante's Divine Comedy) seems even more appropriate now. 18 months ago, setting out for 6 months in europe, i was heartened in thinking of my travels as part of a shared journey, whose challenges and blessings would be illuminated by those who had been a part of my life to that point, and also as part of the human experience of going out alone to make some aspects of the unknown more intelligible. i felt it was the least invasive way to keep interested parties abreast of that my particular process and its development.
i just wrote a whole paragraph about how fragile the 'our' in 'the journey of our life' can be, and maybe i'll come back to that in a later post, but the blog form encourages leaner fare and the thoughts that i'm developing on that front aren't as interesting or pressing as my most recent observation about italians: they rarely sweat. now, i am still acting under the assumption that if, hypothetically, one were to carry around a 25 lb. pack for an hour with the sun is beating down on an 80°F afternoon, that one might, nay, should expect some sweat collecting in the lower back region and potentially under the straps of the pack. and yet, here in italy, arriving at the home of friends in such a state provokes a cascade of commentary ending with a push out the door and commands to go take a shower and come back for dinner. of course, their company and the meal are more than worth it - even worth the phone call to the absent daughter of one's own age to inform her of one's arrival and an only slightly abbreviated rehashing of the afternoon's commentary - oddio tutto sudato come mai!
maybe i'm the only one around here drinking any water, or perhaps my scandinavian heritage or acclamation to the rochester clime has made me totally unable to handle heat, but on my run today i passed two other joggers who were both wearing sweatshirts. again, it's like 80°, and the young lady was wearing knee length tights and the gentleman had his long socks pulled up over his shins. perhaps the overarching realization about italians, evident in their cuisine, impeccable dress, social interaction, quantity of time spent drinking coffee away from work, is that everything for them is effortless. my northern european, protestant upbringing has given me an affection for work and a particular satisfaction in production (1) - whether it be the nuanced expression of an idea, the aesthetic experience that freshly cut lawn can be, or, when out for a run, ever expanding sweat stains emanating from the chest, back and underarm areas. i doubt i will ever become such a subtle creature as these italians.
Notes:
1. Weber, Max. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.
i'm back in italy. i thought the blog was an interesting forum to keep everyone informed of my various experiences and reflections last time around, and so i've decided to see what this medium inspires this time. as i remember writing in one of the very first posts, the title 'in the middle of the journey of our life' (taken from the first line of Dante's Divine Comedy) seems even more appropriate now. 18 months ago, setting out for 6 months in europe, i was heartened in thinking of my travels as part of a shared journey, whose challenges and blessings would be illuminated by those who had been a part of my life to that point, and also as part of the human experience of going out alone to make some aspects of the unknown more intelligible. i felt it was the least invasive way to keep interested parties abreast of that my particular process and its development.
i just wrote a whole paragraph about how fragile the 'our' in 'the journey of our life' can be, and maybe i'll come back to that in a later post, but the blog form encourages leaner fare and the thoughts that i'm developing on that front aren't as interesting or pressing as my most recent observation about italians: they rarely sweat. now, i am still acting under the assumption that if, hypothetically, one were to carry around a 25 lb. pack for an hour with the sun is beating down on an 80°F afternoon, that one might, nay, should expect some sweat collecting in the lower back region and potentially under the straps of the pack. and yet, here in italy, arriving at the home of friends in such a state provokes a cascade of commentary ending with a push out the door and commands to go take a shower and come back for dinner. of course, their company and the meal are more than worth it - even worth the phone call to the absent daughter of one's own age to inform her of one's arrival and an only slightly abbreviated rehashing of the afternoon's commentary - oddio tutto sudato come mai!
maybe i'm the only one around here drinking any water, or perhaps my scandinavian heritage or acclamation to the rochester clime has made me totally unable to handle heat, but on my run today i passed two other joggers who were both wearing sweatshirts. again, it's like 80°, and the young lady was wearing knee length tights and the gentleman had his long socks pulled up over his shins. perhaps the overarching realization about italians, evident in their cuisine, impeccable dress, social interaction, quantity of time spent drinking coffee away from work, is that everything for them is effortless. my northern european, protestant upbringing has given me an affection for work and a particular satisfaction in production (1) - whether it be the nuanced expression of an idea, the aesthetic experience that freshly cut lawn can be, or, when out for a run, ever expanding sweat stains emanating from the chest, back and underarm areas. i doubt i will ever become such a subtle creature as these italians.
Notes:
1. Weber, Max. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.
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