Moving day for the troops. We are officially leaving the sleepy streets of Cortona for the bustling metropolis of Rome. Cam and I both woke up with a killer headache thanks to the Absenthe we drank last night. Though, we rallied ourselves, packed, and trudged up the hill to where the car was. Gunnar, Margie, Tom and Julie had left early. But my family, Cam's family and Leisha stuck around to look around the annual open-air market, and have coffee. And I needed coffee.
But all too soon it was over, so we said goodbye to the quaint town atop the hill and hit the road for Rome.
Now, if the two hour car ride wasn't enough, every time a motorcycle or car would get too close for comfort, Leisha would let out a scream that busted eardrums. I was thankful when we made it so that the ringing in my ears could die down.
We ditched the cars and crammed nine people into a Mercedes van and headed to town.
My dad had booked three nights at the St. Regis hotel, and I have to say it was the nicest hotel I've ever been in. Entering the lobby one would think they've stepped into the palace on Palatine Hill. I was tempted to ask if this was "Ceaser's Palace," but I think the joke would've been lost on the man behind the counter. We got our rooms, dropped off our bags and left for dinner. We stopped at a tasteful restaurant off the main drag. We sat outside in the narrow alleyway and sipped wine, making up for our real Italian experience we missed at Montepulchiano.
After returning to the hotel my parents and sister went to bed, but I went for a walk. I walked down Republica Square, the heart of Rome basically. Then I went down one of the busier streets. What I found was a city life I had never seen before. Shops were open til 1am or later, live music was being played on every street corner, everywhere I looked there was another twenty-something year-old beautiful Italian woman.
I went home after an hour tired, but very excited about exploring more tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
7-17-09
Sorry I haven't been posting, things got real. Now I'm in school again, studying business of all things... Ah, no matter, new journalism classes are on the way, and I'm sitting tight until then.
Today is Victoria's birthday, so you know it's going to be a special one. Cam and I took a lazy morning. Though, when we did decide to drag ourselves out of bed, we went downstairs to find a banquette of food waiting for us. French toast, gnocchi and a bounty of fresh fruit was a welcome sight for hungry eyes.
After breakfast I accompanied my family on a hike to see the sights we hadn't at the beginning of the week. In one of the churches, where stuffy air filtered the dusty light which angled itself through stained glass, there was a purported piece of the cross Christ was crucified on. True or not, it was the size of a dime and in a glass case, making it hard to take pictures of it. We visited St. Marguerite's Church, otherwise known as the oldest church in Cortona. My sister tried to get a picture with one a nun, but she ran into the church, her habit flapping wildly behind her as she retreated. We took a tour of the fortress atop the hill. We got to go out on the ramparts and get a panoramic view of Tuscany.
We drove to the pool, and after our sweltering hike, jumping into the cool water was a welcome refreshment. The others showed up, and we quickly made presence known. Cam performed a sideways backflip, causing the lifeguard to ban us from jumping in the pool. We protested, just like loudmouthed Americans should, but they still didn't let us jump.
At night we got all spiffed up and walked down to Republica Square where two hired cars waited to take us to the restaurant in the hills for Victoria's birthday. No expense was spared on the meal, which was succulent. Ashley, my sister, and I helped make the gnocchi. It was neat to learn real Italian cooking from real Italian cooks. My dad of course never stopped asking questions, he even started writing the recepies down on a scrap of paper he tore from a tablecloth.
We ate till we were stuffed, and drank all of their wine. We stumbled into the hired cars and made our way back to our warm beds. As I watched the great restaurant fade into an Italian night, I thought about the power of food and great cooking to bring people together. This was a treat, one birthday we won't readily forget.
Today is Victoria's birthday, so you know it's going to be a special one. Cam and I took a lazy morning. Though, when we did decide to drag ourselves out of bed, we went downstairs to find a banquette of food waiting for us. French toast, gnocchi and a bounty of fresh fruit was a welcome sight for hungry eyes.
After breakfast I accompanied my family on a hike to see the sights we hadn't at the beginning of the week. In one of the churches, where stuffy air filtered the dusty light which angled itself through stained glass, there was a purported piece of the cross Christ was crucified on. True or not, it was the size of a dime and in a glass case, making it hard to take pictures of it. We visited St. Marguerite's Church, otherwise known as the oldest church in Cortona. My sister tried to get a picture with one a nun, but she ran into the church, her habit flapping wildly behind her as she retreated. We took a tour of the fortress atop the hill. We got to go out on the ramparts and get a panoramic view of Tuscany.
We drove to the pool, and after our sweltering hike, jumping into the cool water was a welcome refreshment. The others showed up, and we quickly made presence known. Cam performed a sideways backflip, causing the lifeguard to ban us from jumping in the pool. We protested, just like loudmouthed Americans should, but they still didn't let us jump.
At night we got all spiffed up and walked down to Republica Square where two hired cars waited to take us to the restaurant in the hills for Victoria's birthday. No expense was spared on the meal, which was succulent. Ashley, my sister, and I helped make the gnocchi. It was neat to learn real Italian cooking from real Italian cooks. My dad of course never stopped asking questions, he even started writing the recepies down on a scrap of paper he tore from a tablecloth.
We ate till we were stuffed, and drank all of their wine. We stumbled into the hired cars and made our way back to our warm beds. As I watched the great restaurant fade into an Italian night, I thought about the power of food and great cooking to bring people together. This was a treat, one birthday we won't readily forget.
Monday, September 6, 2010
7-16-09
We leave Cortona for a day trip into Florence. I choose to go mainly because I had to get out of Cortona for a day. Don't get me wrong, Cortona is beautiful and exquisite and magical, but it is confining. I also want to partake in some people watching. Florence is awesome for people watching.
We take the train into town. It's about an hour and half trip sitting in coach with no air conditioning or fans. Come to find out my mom and Charlie had slipped into first class without realizing it. They had air conditioning and ice water, while we were stuck with parched mouths and back sweat.
We walked the promenade to the Ponte Veccio (a bridge in Florence famous for its shops). I drink an espresso at a cafe and Cameron eats gelato. Those who hadn't seen the David go to The Academia (which leaves Charlie, Victoria, my dad and me).
My dad and I visit the Medici Family tomb/museum. The Medici Family is the richest family in Italian history. They were merchants in the 1500's with ties to the Pope in Rome. Basically, they handled every banking transaction across the Mediterranean, so yeah, they're a pretty big deal. The shrines they built are amazing. All the art work was done by stone inlay. The coat of arms, which is a lion (go figure), is blue and the mane alone has 30 individual pieces of stone, which all fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Extremely intricate.
We meet back up with everyone to go to the Duomo. I decide not to walk to the top and get a gelato instead. I wait on the sidewalk eating my gelato and watch the people. A Japanese tour stops in front of me admiring the Duomo. The tour guide speaks really fast and everyone is skinny and has black hair. They leave and another tour stops. They are all fat and flabby. Everyone is out of breath and looking for a place to sit down. The tour guide is speaking English. Before they leave I ask where they're from. A man, red-faced and sweating manages to wheeze out "Chicago." Boy do I love America.
Cam and I grab some fries from the McDonald's in the station before getting on the train to Cortona. We almost miss the final boarding call because the line was so long. It's even hotter in the train going back. About 100 degrees and Zero air flow. It's like sitting in a plastic bag between Ron Jeremy's ass cheeks. It doesn't help that Ashley and Erica are complaining about it all the way back to Cortona, but we arrive safe and sweaty, and excited about tomorrow's events!
We take the train into town. It's about an hour and half trip sitting in coach with no air conditioning or fans. Come to find out my mom and Charlie had slipped into first class without realizing it. They had air conditioning and ice water, while we were stuck with parched mouths and back sweat.
We walked the promenade to the Ponte Veccio (a bridge in Florence famous for its shops). I drink an espresso at a cafe and Cameron eats gelato. Those who hadn't seen the David go to The Academia (which leaves Charlie, Victoria, my dad and me).
My dad and I visit the Medici Family tomb/museum. The Medici Family is the richest family in Italian history. They were merchants in the 1500's with ties to the Pope in Rome. Basically, they handled every banking transaction across the Mediterranean, so yeah, they're a pretty big deal. The shrines they built are amazing. All the art work was done by stone inlay. The coat of arms, which is a lion (go figure), is blue and the mane alone has 30 individual pieces of stone, which all fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Extremely intricate.
We meet back up with everyone to go to the Duomo. I decide not to walk to the top and get a gelato instead. I wait on the sidewalk eating my gelato and watch the people. A Japanese tour stops in front of me admiring the Duomo. The tour guide speaks really fast and everyone is skinny and has black hair. They leave and another tour stops. They are all fat and flabby. Everyone is out of breath and looking for a place to sit down. The tour guide is speaking English. Before they leave I ask where they're from. A man, red-faced and sweating manages to wheeze out "Chicago." Boy do I love America.
Cam and I grab some fries from the McDonald's in the station before getting on the train to Cortona. We almost miss the final boarding call because the line was so long. It's even hotter in the train going back. About 100 degrees and Zero air flow. It's like sitting in a plastic bag between Ron Jeremy's ass cheeks. It doesn't help that Ashley and Erica are complaining about it all the way back to Cortona, but we arrive safe and sweaty, and excited about tomorrow's events!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
7-15-09
The order of the day is wine tasting. We stop at 3 different wineries in Tuscany. The first one we visit is named S. Anna and it's located on the outskirts of a small town, whose name I forget. But what is interesting about this winery is the dedication to the art of wine making. The wine master, a older woman whose family has owned S. Anna for 200 years, describes the intricacies of wine making. Or at least she tried. We visited their cellars where moss grows 2 inches thick on the ceiling which gives the wine its musty aromas. She also tried to explain what to do with the caps that develop on the wine as it's being mixed in the tanks. The cap, she says, is a collection of grape skins, stems, and leaves which aren't filtered out during the draining sequence. They form a cap that floats on top of the wine, and it's the wine masters choice whether or not to leave it floating on top, or to pound it down into the wine, mixing the liquids and solids. She chooses to mix them because she feels that the acids and minerals in the stems and skins add to the overall aroma of the wine, giving it an extra layer.
I guess it was the authenticity of the place which sold me. That and the craftsmanship of the wine. I sipped and allowed the aromatic grape-juice to develop, catching all the subtle flavors that are the byproduct of a skill set developed over hundreds of years. We try Merlot, Zinfandel, Chianti, Cabernet and each has its own attitude. Considering the variety of flavors, you'd think each came from a different region in Italy. But no. They all come from grapes grown in their backyard. The wine is so good, Margie gets a little tipsy and jokes with Charlie about how he farted in the cellar. Which he did, and it was hilarious.
We move on to the other wineries, but honestly, they were factory-like and unauthentic. Which took its toll on their wine. They were mostly flat and drab.
Naturally, we are a little screwy after the 3rd winery visit and hungry. We go to a town called Montepulchiano, which sits atop a hill (don't they all in Tuscany?). We get word that there is a restaurant near the middle of town which used to house Hemingway back when he was a world traveler. But because it's too early (around 4:30) they aren't serving dinner, and nobody is willing to wait till 7, so we trudge on (after I had a peek into the restaurant of course). Our saliva is dripping as we think about the authentic Italian cuisine that is surely awaiting us as the top of the hill.
We sit at a table outside and order beer and wine. We choose from plastic menus, me - chicken carbonara. It's weird though, whenever someone orders a dish the waitor says something like; "Oh, I think we have one more of those." or "I'm sorry we don't have anymore of that dish." What's stranger still is that he seems to be keeping a tally and is checking it after each person orders. Then he brings out plastic utensils to be used for our authentic Italian meals. Our worst fears are realized when he brings out what are essentially TV dinners. Complete with plastic covers, straight from the microwave. I can't help but laugh. Here we are faded on wine, sweaty and and hungry, in the heartland of Italian cooking, a short walk from Hemingway's eatery, and we're stuck with Stouffers and Lean Cuisine. MmmMmmMmmMmmMmm, plasticy.
I guess it was the authenticity of the place which sold me. That and the craftsmanship of the wine. I sipped and allowed the aromatic grape-juice to develop, catching all the subtle flavors that are the byproduct of a skill set developed over hundreds of years. We try Merlot, Zinfandel, Chianti, Cabernet and each has its own attitude. Considering the variety of flavors, you'd think each came from a different region in Italy. But no. They all come from grapes grown in their backyard. The wine is so good, Margie gets a little tipsy and jokes with Charlie about how he farted in the cellar. Which he did, and it was hilarious.
We move on to the other wineries, but honestly, they were factory-like and unauthentic. Which took its toll on their wine. They were mostly flat and drab.
Naturally, we are a little screwy after the 3rd winery visit and hungry. We go to a town called Montepulchiano, which sits atop a hill (don't they all in Tuscany?). We get word that there is a restaurant near the middle of town which used to house Hemingway back when he was a world traveler. But because it's too early (around 4:30) they aren't serving dinner, and nobody is willing to wait till 7, so we trudge on (after I had a peek into the restaurant of course). Our saliva is dripping as we think about the authentic Italian cuisine that is surely awaiting us as the top of the hill.
We sit at a table outside and order beer and wine. We choose from plastic menus, me - chicken carbonara. It's weird though, whenever someone orders a dish the waitor says something like; "Oh, I think we have one more of those." or "I'm sorry we don't have anymore of that dish." What's stranger still is that he seems to be keeping a tally and is checking it after each person orders. Then he brings out plastic utensils to be used for our authentic Italian meals. Our worst fears are realized when he brings out what are essentially TV dinners. Complete with plastic covers, straight from the microwave. I can't help but laugh. Here we are faded on wine, sweaty and and hungry, in the heartland of Italian cooking, a short walk from Hemingway's eatery, and we're stuck with Stouffers and Lean Cuisine. MmmMmmMmmMmmMmm, plasticy.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
7-14-09
"I have no talent, I'm just passionately curious" - Einstein
Today we visited Siena. A tasteful town that lies and hour and a half west of Cortona. We had no trouble finding the town, but parking was another story. My dad and Charlie dropped all of us off by the side of the road saying, "Just a minute! We have to find parking." So we waited, and waited. We entertained ourselves by playing the category game (where you pick a category and go through the alphabet and try to come up with names within the category starting with the corresponding letter of the alphabet). The Google Maps machine ghosted by us on its never-ending quest of world documentation. I waved, but the others were too stroked out they simply reposed on the curb like zombies at a vegetarian potluck. Finally, after 45 minutes of waiting in the hot Tuscan sun, Charlies white tuft of hair was seen glistening as he labored up the steep Italian cobblestones. But he was alone. He told us Lee had split off to find parking in some other section of the city. I said, "Knowing him, he's already found a restaurant and is halfway through his second beer." So we began walking to the main square.
Once we got there, I spotted my dad sitting at a table sipping a beer and looking as cool as a cucumber. He greeted us as we sat down and ordered drinks. I looked out into the square that was lined with red-bricked buildings separated by cobblestone walkways which fed the open space with a steady stream of sightseers and sleepy souls. We ate our assigned appetizers ardently assuming that afterwards we'd ascertain some awesome-tasting entrees. Which we did. But as the conversation waned my appetite for gelato grew. So Cam and I quickly made our way from the restaurant to the parlor where we ate scoops of scrumptious frozen treats and talked to tribes of titillatingly tantalizing head-turners. But soon it was time to go, so we met up with the rents and left Siena as we found it: A somber, sunbaked city swirling with smiling strumpets and series of century-old stringent stores full of lip-smacking sweets.
Today we visited Siena. A tasteful town that lies and hour and a half west of Cortona. We had no trouble finding the town, but parking was another story. My dad and Charlie dropped all of us off by the side of the road saying, "Just a minute! We have to find parking." So we waited, and waited. We entertained ourselves by playing the category game (where you pick a category and go through the alphabet and try to come up with names within the category starting with the corresponding letter of the alphabet). The Google Maps machine ghosted by us on its never-ending quest of world documentation. I waved, but the others were too stroked out they simply reposed on the curb like zombies at a vegetarian potluck. Finally, after 45 minutes of waiting in the hot Tuscan sun, Charlies white tuft of hair was seen glistening as he labored up the steep Italian cobblestones. But he was alone. He told us Lee had split off to find parking in some other section of the city. I said, "Knowing him, he's already found a restaurant and is halfway through his second beer." So we began walking to the main square.
Once we got there, I spotted my dad sitting at a table sipping a beer and looking as cool as a cucumber. He greeted us as we sat down and ordered drinks. I looked out into the square that was lined with red-bricked buildings separated by cobblestone walkways which fed the open space with a steady stream of sightseers and sleepy souls. We ate our assigned appetizers ardently assuming that afterwards we'd ascertain some awesome-tasting entrees. Which we did. But as the conversation waned my appetite for gelato grew. So Cam and I quickly made our way from the restaurant to the parlor where we ate scoops of scrumptious frozen treats and talked to tribes of titillatingly tantalizing head-turners. But soon it was time to go, so we met up with the rents and left Siena as we found it: A somber, sunbaked city swirling with smiling strumpets and series of century-old stringent stores full of lip-smacking sweets.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
7-13-09
This is my last post for awhile as I am traveling to Shasta with my family for the week. I will be busy wakeboarding and basking in the glory of the summer months and will have no time to update this tell-all tale. So now you know.
My mom and sister (Erica) arrived by train at Cortona. "Finally!" said my mom as she embraced my dad and me, "you wouldn't believe the train system here." And right she was. Trying to navigate a metro system is hard enough when the signs are in English! And next to impossible when they are in Italian or German. However, with a little help from the natives (mainly finger pointing and short phrases spoken in broken English) they made it. But before they arrived...
My dad and I went for a drive on the country roads that surround the sleepy Tuscan town. We stopped at a restaurant which had been converted from a mansion-villa. It was so big we spent 20 minutes searching for someone to sell us a couple cokes. Once we did, we sat on the portico overlooking the valley and lake. We sat and sipped as an old man watched us from a few tables away. He was nicely dressed in a summer suit and panama hat. Just a curious old Italian man living out the last days of his life watching strange tourists sip Coca-Cola and speak funny languages. We asked him if he spoke English, and he replied by shaking his finger and saying, "No No," urging us to continue our conversation as if he wasn't there. So we did, and left shortly after finishing our sodas.
That night we met with Margie, Gunner, Julie and Tom (friends of Charlie and Victoria). Margie is the life of any party, she's loud and vivacious, the instant friend. Gunner is Margie's husband. He is a large German purebred who loves to cook and take pictures. Tom is Gunner's kitchen partner, meaning they cook together in the kitchen. Tom loves European history and has a sharp pallet for wine. Julie - Tom's wife - is somewhat reserved and soft spoken, but loves to laugh. Thankfully these four personalities have opened their villa for Cameron and I. Otherwise, we'd be stuck with sharing a couch - which would get old quickly. And the bonus is that we're staying with two gourmet chefs! How's that for a touche?
When evening rolled around, Cam, Charlie and I we went out for drinks at a bar in town. I had a Screwdriver (Orange juice/Vodka - a classic, I found you drink many of them in college) and Cam had a Sidecar (1 part Brandy, 1 part Cointreau, 1 part lemon juice - I was suprised he didn't just order "One Appletini please" and when told it's 6 euros say, "Oh my! I'll have to get my checkbook out of my man purse! Just one moment honey!" with a wink and slap of the butt.) I sat listening to Charlie and Cam bicker about this and that, slowly getting drunk. Charlie left after awhile to find the grown ups, so Cam and I upped the ante. We ordered two Absinthe (for those who've never had Absinthe, it is a neon green drink that needs to be sterilized by burning sugar cubes before being poured over ice. It is said to have psychedelic effects, but all I got was some heightened color which could have been due to the alcohol. Did I mention it tastes like black licorice?)
After the Absinthe we were both in the mood to find girls. We found a couple sitting on the church steps in the main square. One spoke awesome English because it was her first language. The other spoke none. We sat on the steps talking until 1am, and just as I was about to make the move and invite my girl back with me she said, "Oops! Sorry it's late, we have to go." Even Italian girls have curfews, so we headed back to the villa for some sleep.
Now before we left for the bars, Gunner pulled us aside and said, "Listen, we don't care what time you get back, just make sure to keep quite when going to your room." How hard could it be, right? Wrong. There is nothing harder to do than sneak into a century old villa drunk on Absinthe. If you ever did it, I applaud you because Cam and I failed. We were giggling and bumping into things, opening doors and eating bread, I was amazed nobody woke up. We miraculously found our beds on the fourth floor and passed out. I realized after piecing my night together - lots of Absinthe = hazy, hazy, hazy night. Just a warning.
My mom and sister (Erica) arrived by train at Cortona. "Finally!" said my mom as she embraced my dad and me, "you wouldn't believe the train system here." And right she was. Trying to navigate a metro system is hard enough when the signs are in English! And next to impossible when they are in Italian or German. However, with a little help from the natives (mainly finger pointing and short phrases spoken in broken English) they made it. But before they arrived...
My dad and I went for a drive on the country roads that surround the sleepy Tuscan town. We stopped at a restaurant which had been converted from a mansion-villa. It was so big we spent 20 minutes searching for someone to sell us a couple cokes. Once we did, we sat on the portico overlooking the valley and lake. We sat and sipped as an old man watched us from a few tables away. He was nicely dressed in a summer suit and panama hat. Just a curious old Italian man living out the last days of his life watching strange tourists sip Coca-Cola and speak funny languages. We asked him if he spoke English, and he replied by shaking his finger and saying, "No No," urging us to continue our conversation as if he wasn't there. So we did, and left shortly after finishing our sodas.
That night we met with Margie, Gunner, Julie and Tom (friends of Charlie and Victoria). Margie is the life of any party, she's loud and vivacious, the instant friend. Gunner is Margie's husband. He is a large German purebred who loves to cook and take pictures. Tom is Gunner's kitchen partner, meaning they cook together in the kitchen. Tom loves European history and has a sharp pallet for wine. Julie - Tom's wife - is somewhat reserved and soft spoken, but loves to laugh. Thankfully these four personalities have opened their villa for Cameron and I. Otherwise, we'd be stuck with sharing a couch - which would get old quickly. And the bonus is that we're staying with two gourmet chefs! How's that for a touche?
When evening rolled around, Cam, Charlie and I we went out for drinks at a bar in town. I had a Screwdriver (Orange juice/Vodka - a classic, I found you drink many of them in college) and Cam had a Sidecar (1 part Brandy, 1 part Cointreau, 1 part lemon juice - I was suprised he didn't just order "One Appletini please" and when told it's 6 euros say, "Oh my! I'll have to get my checkbook out of my man purse! Just one moment honey!" with a wink and slap of the butt.) I sat listening to Charlie and Cam bicker about this and that, slowly getting drunk. Charlie left after awhile to find the grown ups, so Cam and I upped the ante. We ordered two Absinthe (for those who've never had Absinthe, it is a neon green drink that needs to be sterilized by burning sugar cubes before being poured over ice. It is said to have psychedelic effects, but all I got was some heightened color which could have been due to the alcohol. Did I mention it tastes like black licorice?)
After the Absinthe we were both in the mood to find girls. We found a couple sitting on the church steps in the main square. One spoke awesome English because it was her first language. The other spoke none. We sat on the steps talking until 1am, and just as I was about to make the move and invite my girl back with me she said, "Oops! Sorry it's late, we have to go." Even Italian girls have curfews, so we headed back to the villa for some sleep.
Now before we left for the bars, Gunner pulled us aside and said, "Listen, we don't care what time you get back, just make sure to keep quite when going to your room." How hard could it be, right? Wrong. There is nothing harder to do than sneak into a century old villa drunk on Absinthe. If you ever did it, I applaud you because Cam and I failed. We were giggling and bumping into things, opening doors and eating bread, I was amazed nobody woke up. We miraculously found our beds on the fourth floor and passed out. I realized after piecing my night together - lots of Absinthe = hazy, hazy, hazy night. Just a warning.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
7-12-09
And here's a poem I wrote -
The clouds in the sky
were drifting by
like quiet giants
stepping deftly over pastures green.
First full day in Cortona! And what a town it is! For one, it sits up on a hill overlooking all of Tuscany. We walked to the top, and from there we caught a glimpse of a thousand acres of vineyards dotted with towns and yellow Sunflowers.
This morning we got up early. My dad went for a run, and I wrote. When he got back we had breakfast, got ready for the day and went for a walk. We walked to the church atop the hill, but were shooed away by a troop of flustered nuns who said "our knees weren't covered, so we couldn't come in." (Well, in so many words, they mostly pointed at our uncovered knees and yelled 'Diavolo! Diavolo!' which is 'come back later' in Italian, I think.) So instead we walked around the outside and then up to a fortress that lay on the very top of the hill. We spoke of its fortifications. I said it was genius placement because you could see your enemy from miles away, and if you ever were attacked, it would be difficult for them to storm such a steep hill. Just below the fortress lay three giant sandstones that were perfect seats to rest on during the heat of the day. While sitting on these stones I noticed a clear blue lake in the distance. Its shimmering blue waters reminded me of Suttle Lake in Central Oregon.
We descended to the church again. Sunday Mass was starting, and as we walked down the main road old women hunched over the wheels of their tiny Eurocars rambled past us on their way to church. We saw families, single women, men, fathers and sons, grandpas and grandmas all heading up the hill on their way to Mass. I pitied them and admired them for their brazen belief in God. How easy it must be for them to sleep at night thinking there is someone watching over them. Someone who really cares for their well being, hoho!
Farther down the hill we came to a turnoff where we saw a sign for "La Pisina", (which is pool in Italian). We took it and stumbled upon an oasis in the hills. Where we stood, which was on the backside of Cortona, was perched a pool, tennis court, soccer or 'futbol' field, and a restaurant! All overlooking the beautiful Tuscan valley! 'This must be paradise,' I thought to myself as I surveyed the scene. My dad ordered two waters and we sat on the terrace soaking in the warm summer breezes. I watched in awe as the lifeguard went about his job, which I learned was anything but. He would stand at the pool for 20 seconds, then he'd walk to the restaurant and talk to a chef or waitress, then he'd grab a cigarette from behind the bar and while smoking he'd adjust his skimpy speedo onesy. After, he'd loaf back to the pool and begin the process again. And I thought our jobs were easy!
After finishing my dad made an exit to look around the restaurant, and I went to the bar to talk to the cute girl mixing drinks. She took my empty bottle with a "Grazie" and a sweet smile and I about lost it. It's not many times in a boys life when he is confronted with absolute beauty. The type of beauty that is a byproduct of eating olive oil and fresh basil for the bulk of one's life. She was wearing a loose fitting white tanktop and her eyes were almond colored, same as her sunkissed skin. Her name is Lisa (pronounced Liza) from Cortona, whose been to Los Angeles and New York and enjoys reading Romance novels. Ah Liza, how beautiful.
We walked back to town via a goat trail carved into the hillside. When we got back to our villa we had a helping of Prochutto salad on toasted bagettes with beer. We talked about who'd we invite to a dinner party if we could invite anyone. I said Bukowski, Franklin, Groucho, Allen, Kurosawa, Pryor, Orwell and Thompson. My dad came up with Jesus, Bill Gates, Churchill, Jefferson and Morrison. After, we were drained and had to sleep. When we awoke Charlie, Victoria, Cameron, Ashley (next door neighbors from long ago) and their friend Leisha had arrived from Rome. And what better way to celebrate than to head into town and drink? So we did.
We stopped at a local bar, the adults (my dad, Charlie, Victoria, Leisha) went to sit at one table, and Cameron (a year older than yours truly), his sister Ashley (my sister's age) and I went to sit at another table. We ordered a round of drinks, Cameron a 'Sex on the Beach' (we gave him soo much crap for that), Ashley a beer (my kind of girl), and me a 'White Russian' (because 'The Dude abides.") We sucked those down and ordered something a bit stronger so we went with the "Harvey Wallbanger*." (*just for clarification, a Harvey Wallbanger is called such because after a few, don't be surprised if you are banging against a wall and introducing yourself as "Harvey, from accounting!") They brought the Harveys with finger-food, hoping that a few watercress crackers would offset the massive amount of alcohol being dumped into our system. The Bangers went down a bit more slowly, and after I had a pretty good buzz. I remember Cam saying, "Hey lets get another drink! One we've never had before!" I nodded in approval and said, "Pick one!" He chose one called "Horses Neck", which turned out to be whiskey and lemon with ice. Cam hates whiskey, but we drank those and ate finger sandwiches and felt very European.
Afterwards, we made our way to dinner. We ate like kings, slopping up the excess alfredo with slices of fresh Italian baguettes and downing more beer. Just as our dinner was ending, a festival began in the square below us. We sat watching the flag throwers and dancers twirl and shake while listening to the folk band churning out traditional Tuscan dance songs. It was the perfect ending to our first day in Cortona!
The clouds in the sky
were drifting by
like quiet giants
stepping deftly over pastures green.
First full day in Cortona! And what a town it is! For one, it sits up on a hill overlooking all of Tuscany. We walked to the top, and from there we caught a glimpse of a thousand acres of vineyards dotted with towns and yellow Sunflowers.
This morning we got up early. My dad went for a run, and I wrote. When he got back we had breakfast, got ready for the day and went for a walk. We walked to the church atop the hill, but were shooed away by a troop of flustered nuns who said "our knees weren't covered, so we couldn't come in." (Well, in so many words, they mostly pointed at our uncovered knees and yelled 'Diavolo! Diavolo!' which is 'come back later' in Italian, I think.) So instead we walked around the outside and then up to a fortress that lay on the very top of the hill. We spoke of its fortifications. I said it was genius placement because you could see your enemy from miles away, and if you ever were attacked, it would be difficult for them to storm such a steep hill. Just below the fortress lay three giant sandstones that were perfect seats to rest on during the heat of the day. While sitting on these stones I noticed a clear blue lake in the distance. Its shimmering blue waters reminded me of Suttle Lake in Central Oregon.
We descended to the church again. Sunday Mass was starting, and as we walked down the main road old women hunched over the wheels of their tiny Eurocars rambled past us on their way to church. We saw families, single women, men, fathers and sons, grandpas and grandmas all heading up the hill on their way to Mass. I pitied them and admired them for their brazen belief in God. How easy it must be for them to sleep at night thinking there is someone watching over them. Someone who really cares for their well being, hoho!
Farther down the hill we came to a turnoff where we saw a sign for "La Pisina", (which is pool in Italian). We took it and stumbled upon an oasis in the hills. Where we stood, which was on the backside of Cortona, was perched a pool, tennis court, soccer or 'futbol' field, and a restaurant! All overlooking the beautiful Tuscan valley! 'This must be paradise,' I thought to myself as I surveyed the scene. My dad ordered two waters and we sat on the terrace soaking in the warm summer breezes. I watched in awe as the lifeguard went about his job, which I learned was anything but. He would stand at the pool for 20 seconds, then he'd walk to the restaurant and talk to a chef or waitress, then he'd grab a cigarette from behind the bar and while smoking he'd adjust his skimpy speedo onesy. After, he'd loaf back to the pool and begin the process again. And I thought our jobs were easy!
After finishing my dad made an exit to look around the restaurant, and I went to the bar to talk to the cute girl mixing drinks. She took my empty bottle with a "Grazie" and a sweet smile and I about lost it. It's not many times in a boys life when he is confronted with absolute beauty. The type of beauty that is a byproduct of eating olive oil and fresh basil for the bulk of one's life. She was wearing a loose fitting white tanktop and her eyes were almond colored, same as her sunkissed skin. Her name is Lisa (pronounced Liza) from Cortona, whose been to Los Angeles and New York and enjoys reading Romance novels. Ah Liza, how beautiful.
We walked back to town via a goat trail carved into the hillside. When we got back to our villa we had a helping of Prochutto salad on toasted bagettes with beer. We talked about who'd we invite to a dinner party if we could invite anyone. I said Bukowski, Franklin, Groucho, Allen, Kurosawa, Pryor, Orwell and Thompson. My dad came up with Jesus, Bill Gates, Churchill, Jefferson and Morrison. After, we were drained and had to sleep. When we awoke Charlie, Victoria, Cameron, Ashley (next door neighbors from long ago) and their friend Leisha had arrived from Rome. And what better way to celebrate than to head into town and drink? So we did.
We stopped at a local bar, the adults (my dad, Charlie, Victoria, Leisha) went to sit at one table, and Cameron (a year older than yours truly), his sister Ashley (my sister's age) and I went to sit at another table. We ordered a round of drinks, Cameron a 'Sex on the Beach' (we gave him soo much crap for that), Ashley a beer (my kind of girl), and me a 'White Russian' (because 'The Dude abides.") We sucked those down and ordered something a bit stronger so we went with the "Harvey Wallbanger*." (*just for clarification, a Harvey Wallbanger is called such because after a few, don't be surprised if you are banging against a wall and introducing yourself as "Harvey, from accounting!") They brought the Harveys with finger-food, hoping that a few watercress crackers would offset the massive amount of alcohol being dumped into our system. The Bangers went down a bit more slowly, and after I had a pretty good buzz. I remember Cam saying, "Hey lets get another drink! One we've never had before!" I nodded in approval and said, "Pick one!" He chose one called "Horses Neck", which turned out to be whiskey and lemon with ice. Cam hates whiskey, but we drank those and ate finger sandwiches and felt very European.
Afterwards, we made our way to dinner. We ate like kings, slopping up the excess alfredo with slices of fresh Italian baguettes and downing more beer. Just as our dinner was ending, a festival began in the square below us. We sat watching the flag throwers and dancers twirl and shake while listening to the folk band churning out traditional Tuscan dance songs. It was the perfect ending to our first day in Cortona!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
7-11-09
Today was fantastic! First, my dad and I traveled to the top of the Duomo (a cathedral in Florence famous for its gargantuan renaissance dome). I gazed out across the vast city where the streets were veins and arteries carrying cars and trucks and people, then up to the hillside where I saw sprawling villas with vineyards cozily tucked into the rocky facade. Looking at the buildings, I noticed the verandas that were like little oases high above the chaos of the streets. I noticed an outdoor market just a few streets from the Duomo, so we bid farewell to the breathtaking views and plunged into the dusky gloom of the cathedral.
Now I've got to hand it to Renaissance painters. They really knew how to decorate the inside of a cathedral dome, and the Duomo is no exception. The mural depicts man's existence on earth as well as life in heaven and in hell. The hierarchy went something like this: Satan and his minions were on the bottom level (closest to the ground), then came humans and their miserable life on Earth, then the guardian angels, the saints, and finally Jesus and God. Being a stone-cold atheist, even I was taken back by its beauty. I stopped to think, "Wait. Maybe?" but quickly shrugged off the thought with a, "Naaaahh", which echoed throughout the entire cathedral.
After emerging from the eerie dimness of the Duomo, my dad and I began wandering the streets looking for the outdoor market. We found it crammed into an alley between two traffic heavy streets. Having nothing better to do, we idly stared at the souvenirs, which seemed so similar to the knickknacks found at the Saturday Market in Portland. When we passed by the vendors, they would rush up to us with fine leather and shout, "Almost free! Almost free!" However, since this was the only English they spoke, it proved difficult to barter with them. We became bored of this frequent bombardment and left to find more exciting things.
We stopped at a small restaurant for a lunch of wine and prosciutto salad, which is toasted bread topped with tomatoes, mozzarella and herbs drizzled with olive oil and vinaigrette (a favorite of mine). We sat there talking about this and that, slowly getting drunk and feeling very European when I had an idea for a story.
It's about a workaholic father and his twenty-something year-old son, who take a trip to Italy, (sound familiar?). The father is a practicing lawyer and is recently divorced. The divorce from his wife has made him realize he's missed much of his sons life and wants to make up for lost time. While in Italy they meet a mother and her twenty-something year-old daughter who are traveling in Italy as a celebration for her daughters graduation from law school. The mother is also recently divorced, so her and the father have an instant connection. The son and daughter find each other attractive, so they hit it off as well. Everything is fine for a while, the father courts the mother, the son makes passes at the daughter, until things start to intertwine. Turns out the mother is a cougar who finds the son to be irresistible. And the daughter has a thing for successful older men (aka the father). It'd make for a wonderful Woody Allen film about love and loss and love again in the romantic cities of Italy, all it needs is a juicy ending.
All too soon it was time to leave our quaint Italian restaurant, and make our way to the Academia to see the David! We entered the Academia happy to be out of the scorching heat of the afternoon. First we saw the Evangelist artwork with its depictions of chastity and paintings of the Virgin Mary. Then we walked through the museum of classical instruments where we saw a few harpsichords along with the first flutes, clarinets, trombones and six string guitars. After that we stared at the collection of Michelangelo's Prisoners. Then finally we saw Him. The David. The head honcho. The cue de gras of anatomically correct statues. He stood in his heroic poise, gazing out to some distant point, as we marveled at his massive brilliance. To think Michelangelo carved this out of stone freehand is mind-blowing! Moving on from one genius to the next we found a room filled with Botticelli's sculptures. The one that caught my eye was his chiseling of Zeus's head. Rumor has it that Goethe liked the statue so much, he bought a casting and placed it at the foot of his bed. He says it inspired him to write, and if it wasn't for Botticelli he may never have become the man we know him as.
After Academia it was time to head to Cortona. So we packed the car and made a high-speed burn down the A1 stopping only for the tollbooths.
Now I've got to hand it to Renaissance painters. They really knew how to decorate the inside of a cathedral dome, and the Duomo is no exception. The mural depicts man's existence on earth as well as life in heaven and in hell. The hierarchy went something like this: Satan and his minions were on the bottom level (closest to the ground), then came humans and their miserable life on Earth, then the guardian angels, the saints, and finally Jesus and God. Being a stone-cold atheist, even I was taken back by its beauty. I stopped to think, "Wait. Maybe?" but quickly shrugged off the thought with a, "Naaaahh", which echoed throughout the entire cathedral.
After emerging from the eerie dimness of the Duomo, my dad and I began wandering the streets looking for the outdoor market. We found it crammed into an alley between two traffic heavy streets. Having nothing better to do, we idly stared at the souvenirs, which seemed so similar to the knickknacks found at the Saturday Market in Portland. When we passed by the vendors, they would rush up to us with fine leather and shout, "Almost free! Almost free!" However, since this was the only English they spoke, it proved difficult to barter with them. We became bored of this frequent bombardment and left to find more exciting things.
We stopped at a small restaurant for a lunch of wine and prosciutto salad, which is toasted bread topped with tomatoes, mozzarella and herbs drizzled with olive oil and vinaigrette (a favorite of mine). We sat there talking about this and that, slowly getting drunk and feeling very European when I had an idea for a story.
It's about a workaholic father and his twenty-something year-old son, who take a trip to Italy, (sound familiar?). The father is a practicing lawyer and is recently divorced. The divorce from his wife has made him realize he's missed much of his sons life and wants to make up for lost time. While in Italy they meet a mother and her twenty-something year-old daughter who are traveling in Italy as a celebration for her daughters graduation from law school. The mother is also recently divorced, so her and the father have an instant connection. The son and daughter find each other attractive, so they hit it off as well. Everything is fine for a while, the father courts the mother, the son makes passes at the daughter, until things start to intertwine. Turns out the mother is a cougar who finds the son to be irresistible. And the daughter has a thing for successful older men (aka the father). It'd make for a wonderful Woody Allen film about love and loss and love again in the romantic cities of Italy, all it needs is a juicy ending.
All too soon it was time to leave our quaint Italian restaurant, and make our way to the Academia to see the David! We entered the Academia happy to be out of the scorching heat of the afternoon. First we saw the Evangelist artwork with its depictions of chastity and paintings of the Virgin Mary. Then we walked through the museum of classical instruments where we saw a few harpsichords along with the first flutes, clarinets, trombones and six string guitars. After that we stared at the collection of Michelangelo's Prisoners. Then finally we saw Him. The David. The head honcho. The cue de gras of anatomically correct statues. He stood in his heroic poise, gazing out to some distant point, as we marveled at his massive brilliance. To think Michelangelo carved this out of stone freehand is mind-blowing! Moving on from one genius to the next we found a room filled with Botticelli's sculptures. The one that caught my eye was his chiseling of Zeus's head. Rumor has it that Goethe liked the statue so much, he bought a casting and placed it at the foot of his bed. He says it inspired him to write, and if it wasn't for Botticelli he may never have become the man we know him as.
After Academia it was time to head to Cortona. So we packed the car and made a high-speed burn down the A1 stopping only for the tollbooths.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
7-10-09
Sorry I haven't been posting lately. Term finals are eating my soul, and my Russian Literature final paper will be the death of me. So, to remain somewhat sane, I decided to post yet another record from my Notes for your enjoyment. Let the madness continue...
We finally made it to Florence! The plane ride has thoroughly botched my reliable perception of time - Is today the 10th? Or has the plane ride sent us back in time to the 9th? Who knows... And so if you are now as confused as I am we can continue the story. Getting to Florence was interesting. It all started in Portland when they told us we had to pick up our boarding passes for the flight to Italy in Amsterdam. Upon hearing this, my dad and I exchanged skeptical glances knowing exactly what that meant. We pleaded with the attendant to try once more, and she said that because it was a different airline it was impossible to retrieve the boarding passes. We would have to get them in Amsterdam. As we walked away from the desk, my dad said, "Ah hell, let's go on an adventure!" And that is exactly what we did.
Upon arriving at the Amsterdam airport we stopped at the list for departures. The readout listed our flight to Florence as canceled. Having our worst nightmare come to fruition, we made our way to the ticket booth. Behind the desk sat a portly Dutch woman who told us our flight to Florence had been canceled. "Well DUH!" I remember thinking, "If that's all we wanted to know, we'd still be sitting in front of the departure listings. We need a solution woman!" Well, she had one. We were to take different flight to Bologna, where a transport would be waiting to take us to Florence. We said goodbye to our Dutch maiden and pressed onwards.
The flight to Bologna was pretty uneventful. I attempted to rest my weary body during the two hour flight, but chance saw to it that I didn't get a wink. Behind me sat a beautiful Dutch family whose oldest son never gave interlude to his nonstop chatter. From take-off to touchdown, his piercing voice rang in my head, violently jerking me awake. He had obviously never learned the rule "Silence is Golden", and I wasn't the one to teach him because his dad was built like Van Dam and I felt stringy from a lack of sleep.
Despite my being dog tired, the adventure continued in Bologna. As promised, a transport awaited us and 12 others (fellow refugees of the airwaves) at the airport. We were all told to stay at the baggage claim by wiry Italian woman with a clip-board, so we did. Then she left and came back with a walkie-talkie and told us to move upstairs, so we did. She then told us to wait on benches until she knew what was going on, so we did.
After a while, we were led outside to a Mercedes Mini Bus. Our luggage was loaded by the sweaty driver and we were off.
The ride was incredible! We zipped through mountains, into small cities, and out onto open fields where we saw Italian villas with vineyards.
We made it to Florence in good time. I give credit to the driver, who managed to average 90 mph while dodging cars and navigating the spindly mountain roads. He dropped us at the airport and sped off into the heat of the Italian afternoon. We watched him go, then u-turned to find ourselves outside the car rental.
Soon we found ourselves behind the wheel of an Alfa Romeo with vague instructions on how to reach our hotel. The man at the counter had outlined our route, but neglected to tell us how to get on the A1 (similar to an American Interstate). So, after three near collisions in the roundabout, we mounted the A1 with our course set for the hotel.
"The Grand Hotel" is properly named, and I recommend staying there if ever your in Florence. However, we had little time to gawk as we were hungry, so we threw the stuff in the room and went out for some lunch and a stroll. We had arrived. Walking along the cobblestone streets we saw shopkeepers smoking cigarettes, beautiful women on cell phones and street vendors selling art prints. My dad pissed off one of these vendors when he unknowingly walked on some of their prints. But who could blame him? He was engrossed with the beauty of the city and forgot where his feet fell. As we sat in a small cafe we munched Paninis and sipped beer while watching the afternoon haze settle over a bustling Florence.
We finally made it to Florence! The plane ride has thoroughly botched my reliable perception of time - Is today the 10th? Or has the plane ride sent us back in time to the 9th? Who knows... And so if you are now as confused as I am we can continue the story. Getting to Florence was interesting. It all started in Portland when they told us we had to pick up our boarding passes for the flight to Italy in Amsterdam. Upon hearing this, my dad and I exchanged skeptical glances knowing exactly what that meant. We pleaded with the attendant to try once more, and she said that because it was a different airline it was impossible to retrieve the boarding passes. We would have to get them in Amsterdam. As we walked away from the desk, my dad said, "Ah hell, let's go on an adventure!" And that is exactly what we did.
Upon arriving at the Amsterdam airport we stopped at the list for departures. The readout listed our flight to Florence as canceled. Having our worst nightmare come to fruition, we made our way to the ticket booth. Behind the desk sat a portly Dutch woman who told us our flight to Florence had been canceled. "Well DUH!" I remember thinking, "If that's all we wanted to know, we'd still be sitting in front of the departure listings. We need a solution woman!" Well, she had one. We were to take different flight to Bologna, where a transport would be waiting to take us to Florence. We said goodbye to our Dutch maiden and pressed onwards.
The flight to Bologna was pretty uneventful. I attempted to rest my weary body during the two hour flight, but chance saw to it that I didn't get a wink. Behind me sat a beautiful Dutch family whose oldest son never gave interlude to his nonstop chatter. From take-off to touchdown, his piercing voice rang in my head, violently jerking me awake. He had obviously never learned the rule "Silence is Golden", and I wasn't the one to teach him because his dad was built like Van Dam and I felt stringy from a lack of sleep.
Despite my being dog tired, the adventure continued in Bologna. As promised, a transport awaited us and 12 others (fellow refugees of the airwaves) at the airport. We were all told to stay at the baggage claim by wiry Italian woman with a clip-board, so we did. Then she left and came back with a walkie-talkie and told us to move upstairs, so we did. She then told us to wait on benches until she knew what was going on, so we did.
After a while, we were led outside to a Mercedes Mini Bus. Our luggage was loaded by the sweaty driver and we were off.
The ride was incredible! We zipped through mountains, into small cities, and out onto open fields where we saw Italian villas with vineyards.
We made it to Florence in good time. I give credit to the driver, who managed to average 90 mph while dodging cars and navigating the spindly mountain roads. He dropped us at the airport and sped off into the heat of the Italian afternoon. We watched him go, then u-turned to find ourselves outside the car rental.
Soon we found ourselves behind the wheel of an Alfa Romeo with vague instructions on how to reach our hotel. The man at the counter had outlined our route, but neglected to tell us how to get on the A1 (similar to an American Interstate). So, after three near collisions in the roundabout, we mounted the A1 with our course set for the hotel.
"The Grand Hotel" is properly named, and I recommend staying there if ever your in Florence. However, we had little time to gawk as we were hungry, so we threw the stuff in the room and went out for some lunch and a stroll. We had arrived. Walking along the cobblestone streets we saw shopkeepers smoking cigarettes, beautiful women on cell phones and street vendors selling art prints. My dad pissed off one of these vendors when he unknowingly walked on some of their prints. But who could blame him? He was engrossed with the beauty of the city and forgot where his feet fell. As we sat in a small cafe we munched Paninis and sipped beer while watching the afternoon haze settle over a bustling Florence.
Monday, May 24, 2010
7-9-09
"A life worth living... Is a life worth recording"
The journal I wrote these experiences in was given to me by a family friend who has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. She had written that quote in the inside flap before giving it to me, and I feel as though it represents the subject of this exercise. I was frequently reminded of her point every time I opened this log, and so it came to be the underlying theme of these records...
Today is traveling day. The day I embark on my three week escapade in Europe. Excited? Anxious? Fearful? It's hard to say. After the initial week with our parents and friends in Italy, my sister and I will be on our own, traveling for the first time without a parental escort. I'm trying not to think about it too much, though if anything, I'll be a stronger person because of this trip. I can't wait to see what the other countries of the world can offer me. However, I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. I have a long history of losing my mind to grandiose expectations, which end only in disappointment.
Getting on the plane, I immediately notice the girl across the aisle where my dad and I are sitting. She's a brunette, wearing a maroon sweater with a chic white scarf wrapped playfully around her neck. She's wearing faded jeans with a stylish brown leather belt that outlines her sensuous curves. She speaks to the flight attendant, her voice full of music, and orders wine. Damn it! I have no chance... These European women always have held a fascination with me. Maybe it's the exotic air they emit - a special kind of aura that memorizes and intoxicates me. But I've gotten ahead of myself.
Getting to the plane was an adventure in itself. First we got our boarding passes and our bags checked. We'd be flying from Portland to Amsterdam, then from Amsterdam to Italy. However, to get our boarding passes for the Amsterdam-Italy flight, the attendant told us we'd have to stand in a different queue. She directed us to an exhaustive line where we waited and waited, moving in increments of centimeters. Getting half way through that line, the attendant came up to us and directed us to another line just as exhaustive as the first. So we did as the brainless ushers bid and moved to the new line. Finally reaching the desk, after what felt like hours, we were told we couldn't pick up our boarding passes here, we'd have to wait and pick them up in Amsterdam. The thought of standing in yet another exhaustive line in a foreign country made my head swim. (I didn't know at the time that my sister and I would be doing a lot of this in the coming weeks...)
We checked our bags and made our way to security. My dad and I followed the formalities of the TSA. We took off our shoes and belts, and emptied our pockets of coins, keys and cellphones. How frivolous, I thought, they must do this only as a means of pleasing the public. The people have come to expect it, and so the TSA minions have developed this process as a means of maintaining the illusion of control in an otherwise chaotic and violent world. It's all just a false sense of security, but who cares? We must all endure hell in order to find heaven... right?
Having placed my bag and shoes in the scanner, I readied myself for the metal detector. The attendant, a middle-aged, bald, Caucasian-black-Puerto Rican waved me through. Before I could scoot passed him he stopped me with his baton. "How old are you?" he asked with a serious note in his voice. Taken back, I answered, "Uh... 18? Why do you ask?" and with a wink and a coy smile he said, "Just curious."
Thoroughly confused and feeling somewhat violated, I retrieved my carry-on and found my dad outside the bathroom. "Hey, the TSA people here are weird," I said. "No kidding," said my dad, "but what do you expect of Portland?" He was right, I've lived in Portland my whole life, I should be used to these people by now. I pondered this as we made our way to the gate. Europe HERE I COME!!!
The journal I wrote these experiences in was given to me by a family friend who has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. She had written that quote in the inside flap before giving it to me, and I feel as though it represents the subject of this exercise. I was frequently reminded of her point every time I opened this log, and so it came to be the underlying theme of these records...
Today is traveling day. The day I embark on my three week escapade in Europe. Excited? Anxious? Fearful? It's hard to say. After the initial week with our parents and friends in Italy, my sister and I will be on our own, traveling for the first time without a parental escort. I'm trying not to think about it too much, though if anything, I'll be a stronger person because of this trip. I can't wait to see what the other countries of the world can offer me. However, I'm trying to keep my expectations in check. I have a long history of losing my mind to grandiose expectations, which end only in disappointment.
Getting on the plane, I immediately notice the girl across the aisle where my dad and I are sitting. She's a brunette, wearing a maroon sweater with a chic white scarf wrapped playfully around her neck. She's wearing faded jeans with a stylish brown leather belt that outlines her sensuous curves. She speaks to the flight attendant, her voice full of music, and orders wine. Damn it! I have no chance... These European women always have held a fascination with me. Maybe it's the exotic air they emit - a special kind of aura that memorizes and intoxicates me. But I've gotten ahead of myself.
Getting to the plane was an adventure in itself. First we got our boarding passes and our bags checked. We'd be flying from Portland to Amsterdam, then from Amsterdam to Italy. However, to get our boarding passes for the Amsterdam-Italy flight, the attendant told us we'd have to stand in a different queue. She directed us to an exhaustive line where we waited and waited, moving in increments of centimeters. Getting half way through that line, the attendant came up to us and directed us to another line just as exhaustive as the first. So we did as the brainless ushers bid and moved to the new line. Finally reaching the desk, after what felt like hours, we were told we couldn't pick up our boarding passes here, we'd have to wait and pick them up in Amsterdam. The thought of standing in yet another exhaustive line in a foreign country made my head swim. (I didn't know at the time that my sister and I would be doing a lot of this in the coming weeks...)
We checked our bags and made our way to security. My dad and I followed the formalities of the TSA. We took off our shoes and belts, and emptied our pockets of coins, keys and cellphones. How frivolous, I thought, they must do this only as a means of pleasing the public. The people have come to expect it, and so the TSA minions have developed this process as a means of maintaining the illusion of control in an otherwise chaotic and violent world. It's all just a false sense of security, but who cares? We must all endure hell in order to find heaven... right?
Having placed my bag and shoes in the scanner, I readied myself for the metal detector. The attendant, a middle-aged, bald, Caucasian-black-Puerto Rican waved me through. Before I could scoot passed him he stopped me with his baton. "How old are you?" he asked with a serious note in his voice. Taken back, I answered, "Uh... 18? Why do you ask?" and with a wink and a coy smile he said, "Just curious."
Thoroughly confused and feeling somewhat violated, I retrieved my carry-on and found my dad outside the bathroom. "Hey, the TSA people here are weird," I said. "No kidding," said my dad, "but what do you expect of Portland?" He was right, I've lived in Portland my whole life, I should be used to these people by now. I pondered this as we made our way to the gate. Europe HERE I COME!!!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Welcome!
Hello y'all,
This, as you may have guessed already, is a blog. But it's not just any blog. It's the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler. The DYT is of course, me. I've been to nearly every continent, except Asia and Antarctica (Nepal holds a special interest to me, but money/time is tight because of school... blah blah blah). And as you can discern from the title I'm a fan of Bukowski. In fact, I'm a fan of reading in general. There's nothing better than rocketing towards the great unknown with only you're wits and books to guide you.
But I digress. The point of this blog is to recount the adventures my sister and I had in Europe this last summer. We went for three weeks, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't the greatest trip of my life. So if you're interested, read on. If you're not, screw you, you obviously have no sense of humor. Go back to watching you're reality TV shows and pop culture icons, there is no use for here.
I feel as though it's my duty to forewarn you, at times this blog may get gritty and downright revolting. It is an all-inclusive account, so no details have been omitted. Feel free to give up on it anytime you please. Just know that if you do, you will be considered a pansy in every sense of the word by everyone, including you're mom. So without further adieu, enjoy the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler.
-BTR
This, as you may have guessed already, is a blog. But it's not just any blog. It's the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler. The DYT is of course, me. I've been to nearly every continent, except Asia and Antarctica (Nepal holds a special interest to me, but money/time is tight because of school... blah blah blah). And as you can discern from the title I'm a fan of Bukowski. In fact, I'm a fan of reading in general. There's nothing better than rocketing towards the great unknown with only you're wits and books to guide you.
But I digress. The point of this blog is to recount the adventures my sister and I had in Europe this last summer. We went for three weeks, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't the greatest trip of my life. So if you're interested, read on. If you're not, screw you, you obviously have no sense of humor. Go back to watching you're reality TV shows and pop culture icons, there is no use for here.
I feel as though it's my duty to forewarn you, at times this blog may get gritty and downright revolting. It is an all-inclusive account, so no details have been omitted. Feel free to give up on it anytime you please. Just know that if you do, you will be considered a pansy in every sense of the word by everyone, including you're mom. So without further adieu, enjoy the Notes of a Dirty Young Traveler.
-BTR
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