Last night I stripped down all the little postcards and photos and magazine pieces and maps, and fabric, and stuff that adorned my walls and realized I should have taken a before and after photo. The difference is pretty stark, as usual.
Last night Enrique was saying goodbye, in case he's alseep when I leave. I asked if he wanted my hairdryer, and he did, and while I was happy assuming it was for his girlfriend, he leapt into discussing the merits of blow drying greasy hair. I laughed and laughed. I will miss this crazy kid, who's probably going to save africa and stop forced migration, but who doesn't want to wash his hair.
And this morning I woke up, looked out the window and noticed it was pouring rain. Seriously, England? You can't even spare me a crumb of mercy on my last day?
There's a Mike Doughty song about America; he sings 'I love my country so much, like an exasperating friend.' I think that works nicely here.
And it's ok. After my exam (Which was in a big church, again; why does every church basement have a stage with a sombrero on it? Did the wise men swing by Guadalajara on their way to Bethlehem? I did not pay attention in church.) I walked around in the City; took pictures of the Old Bailey for my dad. The Old Bailey is the big law court, where the TV show Rumpole took place. I did not know that until my mom told me maybe I should get my dad a souvenir having to do with the Old Bailey. Unfortunately, the law court doesn't have a gift shop; I would love to see what they come up with for t-shirts. 'Barristers do it in front of a jury of their peers...' I ending up getting him a CD, 'English Drinking Songs' which should go over well.
After that, I went and had lunch on the steps of St. Paul's. Because I am awesome and knowledgable and carry maps, I gave tourists directions to their various destinations. It's really hard telling someone that they are not where they think they are, and the landmark they want is right in front of them. Kills their confidence.
Crossed the Thames and did a circuit through the Tate Modern, one last peek at the Lobsterphone. (Lisa:) I think I may have ran into Christophe and Joffrey, but only if Joffrey's had a haircut and I didn't realize it until about ten minutes later.
Back over Blackfriars bridge and wandering through streets, finding cool tiny presents for my sisters. Have I mentioned it's been about 80 and sunny this whole time? It is. It's wonderful.
Yesterday, more of the same; Trafalgar Square-- that conniving bastard of a landmark-- and the National Gallery, where I saw the Hans Holbein piece where the skull is distorted...you know the one I mean? It's pretty awesome, the fact that someone figured out how to do that, and the intensity of the colors after 400 years. It's huge in real life. Wandered through Soho and its prostitutes and CD stores and whole foods shops and wholesale fabric stores.
It's occurring to me that in Ithaca I won't be able to indulge in going for a walk with the knowledge that on any corner I can stop for a coffee as a break and then continue. I can't wander in to a free national museum, idle away a few hours looking at famous famous things on a whim. I'm seriously thinking about stocking up on liquor at the airport while I still can (August 29th, it's sick--I've been acting like I was thirty since I was about twelve. Let me buy my own beer.) It's hard to know at this point what I'll miss about being here.
I have a whole grand Summer of Adventure and Eating Things ahead of me. I'm probably going to give Boston another chance to make a good impression (I say, staring at it tight-lipped, with my arms crossed). I'll be glad to see all of your shining faces, except for Rich, but I'll be glad to be 3,000 miles closer to your shining face. It's not that this thing in particular is ending, but that something is ending. Aww.
I'm sitting here in the computer cluster, alone, wearing my rain boots. Also, clothes, but the wellies are classic, Morton-Salt-Girl yellow, and I will bet you a Dairy Milk someone at the airport says something about them when I have to take them off for security. I'm quite proud of having dealt with all four of the big London airports. For the record, Stanstead is my favorite, Heathrow second, then a mile passes and Luton and Gatwick can both burn in hell and I hope they do.
Not sure what I'm going to do next. I have to pack up my bed, abandon my hairdryer and hand cream and a few last odds and ends, and then...nothing much. I'm going to be anticlimactic leaving girl on the tube, in my boots.
I will write to my flatmates on a spare sheet of notebook paper in a little while, and I will tell them thanks for being great, help yourself to the things on the table, and don't forget to lock the door. So, internet, you too. See you in real life!
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
!!!
In an email from my mom:
Guess who is about to make an appearance? Your aunty Bird is coming to USA for her Yale reunion! She is going to have a counselling session with Dad and Uncle Chris at her request. She is bringing her "partner" 8Ball Aitken. We don't know what happened to Douglas who was her husband. Well that's it for now. See what happens when you leave? Love, Mom
I am so excited I cannot even speak. A counselling session? Including her "partner" "8Ball"?? Bound to be Amazing.
[If this doesn't make sense to you, I can't even get started right now. Someday.]
Edited, to Add:
It seems that her reunion weekend is the weekend I'm going back up to Ithaca. I don't know if I should feel relieved or disappointed.
However, you can find them both on myspace. Of COURSE.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Slog
I should know better...
...than to start my studying 2 days before the exam.*
...than to go grocery shopping when hungry*
--because I buy chocolate chip brioche and banana bread.
--and consume it sitting in the shopping plaza
...than to agree to be surveyed for consumer research
--because I will have to admit I came for a snack, and it sounds very childish, and I am holding a brioche-loaf.
--because the nice lady will comment: 'Are you eating that whole thing as a snack?'
--because, still self conscious about my apparent gluttony, I will have to listen to the nice lady talk about her son and his girlfriend and their trip to New Jersey, and Tony Soprano. All I want to do is eat my fatty snack.
...than to think chocolate chip brioche will make me feel satiated, or indeed better about anything, because it's really just too much sugar and now I feel gross. And still have to study.
Pretty much everything's just a pain in the ass at this moment. I'm going to leave England in a week, and be in a shitty mood about it, * and get off the plane, and my parents are gonna be like, So how was it? And I'm going to be all grouchy and twelve, and say 'FINE' and cross my arms over my chest and pretend not to hear them in the car when they talk about me.
* This is also the kind of thing that's annoying, because in my psychology-exam head I'm all, 'Human learning and memory! Spread it out for maximum retention sleep improves memory 7+/-2!' 'Applied decision making consumer decisions Lecture 15!' 'Peaks and ends!' I did life wrong, and I know it. And it KILLS me.
Alright, I'm going to go memorize some names for a while. See you in a week(ish)!
...than to start my studying 2 days before the exam.*
...than to go grocery shopping when hungry*
--because I buy chocolate chip brioche and banana bread.
--and consume it sitting in the shopping plaza
...than to agree to be surveyed for consumer research
--because I will have to admit I came for a snack, and it sounds very childish, and I am holding a brioche-loaf.
--because the nice lady will comment: 'Are you eating that whole thing as a snack?'
--because, still self conscious about my apparent gluttony, I will have to listen to the nice lady talk about her son and his girlfriend and their trip to New Jersey, and Tony Soprano. All I want to do is eat my fatty snack.
...than to think chocolate chip brioche will make me feel satiated, or indeed better about anything, because it's really just too much sugar and now I feel gross. And still have to study.
Pretty much everything's just a pain in the ass at this moment. I'm going to leave England in a week, and be in a shitty mood about it, * and get off the plane, and my parents are gonna be like, So how was it? And I'm going to be all grouchy and twelve, and say 'FINE' and cross my arms over my chest and pretend not to hear them in the car when they talk about me.
* This is also the kind of thing that's annoying, because in my psychology-exam head I'm all, 'Human learning and memory! Spread it out for maximum retention sleep improves memory 7+/-2!' 'Applied decision making consumer decisions Lecture 15!' 'Peaks and ends!' I did life wrong, and I know it. And it KILLS me.
Alright, I'm going to go memorize some names for a while. See you in a week(ish)!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Challenge
So I got this in the mail:
Pictoral Scavenger Hunt
to help make your last couple weeks more interesting, at least while you're walking around the city (bring your camera everywhere)...
1. a middle-aged man wearing trench coat and bowler
2. a bulldog
3. an animal (living creature) bigger than a dog
4. someone swimming
5. a grandfather clock
6. a can of baked beans
7. a gun or cannon
Guns and cannons. Did you know, in Ethiopian art, 'good' characters are signified by the 3/4 view, and 'bad' characters are always in profile? I did not know this, but now I will never forget it. Thanks, photo challenge!
Now getting realer:
8. your hand in a lobster tank
9. someone (living person) playing a wind/brass instrument
10. yourself with smiling child (simpsons reference)
Unfortunately it is both rainy and exam season, so I'm not doing as much wandering as I should. I'm also not doing as much studying as I should, so I will update as I collect these.
Anybody got any good ones to add?
Pictoral Scavenger Hunt
to help make your last couple weeks more interesting, at least while you're walking around the city (bring your camera everywhere)...
1. a middle-aged man wearing trench coat and bowler
2. a bulldog
This bulldog's name is Success.
Please also note the steel-toed boot in the corner. I love it when people adhere to stereotypes!
3. an animal (living creature) bigger than a dog
Hey, guess what, I live by a zoo:
Guess what else, it costs a ton of money to go into the zoo. Thus the fence:
Zookeepers.
Warthogs: Still bigger than dogs.
4. someone swimming
I think that ought to cover it, since I felt SUPER CREEPY taking these pictures, and will not be doing it again.
5. a grandfather clock
I thinkI can do better than this. We'll see.
6. a can of baked beans
By the crate.
By the can.
Enough with the beans.
7. a gun or cannon
Ok, first, the loose interpretation:
Guns and cannons. Did you know, in Ethiopian art, 'good' characters are signified by the 3/4 view, and 'bad' characters are always in profile? I did not know this, but now I will never forget it. Thanks, photo challenge!
Now getting realer:
Not only is this a gun...it's a 16th century grenade launcher:
What a shame there aren't more of these floating around.
And now:
Guns. Clap your hands for the British Museum.
8. your hand in a lobster tank
9. someone (living person) playing a wind/brass instrument
10. yourself with smiling child (simpsons reference)
Unfortunately it is both rainy and exam season, so I'm not doing as much wandering as I should. I'm also not doing as much studying as I should, so I will update as I collect these.
Anybody got any good ones to add?
Monday, May 14, 2007
Another Lisa Story
Riding on the tales of Italy-story below, here's another.
So, Ryan came to visit a few weeks ago, and Lisa was also here because she fell in love with my flatmate via MSN conversations. As one does.
She takes a crazy bus full of small children through the chunnel, carrying a box of French pastries the whole way. They got a little squished, but made it through in very good condition overall.
So, the scene is a little Shakespearean, and has nothing to do witht he rest of this story, but here it is:
--Lisa likes my flatmate
--My flatmate used to like me
--But seems to be into Lisa
--My flatmate doesn't think I know Lisa likes him
--And we intend to keep it that way
Also:
Lisa met an Italian dude at an airport on a different trip than the one I took with her. She fell asleep and he covered her with his jacket. He didn't want to hit on her, just to work on his English. He lives in London, works as a pastry chef in a sushi restaurant, and wants to hang out.
And that is how, moments after arriving in London, Lisa's getting us ready to go have free coffee and desserts with her Italian airport soulmate. I eat a sweet potato first, though, because I was hungry. That's not important to the story, but sweet potatoes are easy to prepare and full of vision-saving vitamin A. KT, pay attention.
We leave the pastries--which were beautiful--and start walking to the sushi place. It's kind of hard to find, but we get there and it's nice. It's also closed, and the staff is just cleaning up/hanging out, while the Italian was waiting for us to show up. The Italian guy, his Filipino/Italian/mystery boss, and some other employees of the sushi place were there. We awkwardly sit down and have free drinks and chat. The Boss loves chatting. He is basically someone's overly jovial Dad as the boy waits around for the girl before going to the movies in 1965. Everyone in the room speaks some English, but it's the native tongue for only 3 people, so there's some Telephoning going on.
The coworkers offer to make some sweet potato crisps, and confusion ensues where they think I don't like sweet potato, when really I do like it, in fact I just had one. They make regular potato crisps, but that was good too. And then the Italian guy has to show off as well, so he disappears to the kitchen, leaving us with Dad.
Dad wants to show us the samuri armour hanging in the restaurant, and tells us all about the samuri, and gradually shifts his story from the suit being ::the:: armour worn by the last samurai himself, to the type of armour worn at that time, to a reproduction of that style. Ok dude.
The Italian returns, makes a crack about the japanese, and gets a death glare from Dad. But he also had pastries which were very, very beautiful. Also, tasty. He basically won Lisa over with the good, free dessert. Lisa's ready to follow wherever the Sushi staff wants to go next, and I am always ready to follow Lisa, and Ryan's just happy to be here.
As the most London-knowledgable member of our party, I'm trying to figure out where we're going. 'The bar' is as much as I'm told. Ohkay.
Turns out the one they want is closed, but Trader Vic's in the Hilton is open. I should point out that we are wearing jeans and hoodies, and the doorman is in tails and a top hat. Oh well. It's also a tiki bar which dresses its staff in cheongsams, decorates the walls with giant shells and fish nets thrown whimiscally about the walls and ceiling, serves Grog, fruity umbrella drinks, and a mystery drink in a ceramic vat embellished with mermaids and seashells. Dad chats to the waitress in tagalog. Of course he does.
Somehow Dad is talking about his wife, and also his girlfriend, and also his partner. He had a kid with someone as well. It's hard to keep track--are there actually 3 love interest here, or does he refer to the same one with 3 titles? He stole the show. He ran right off with it and didn't look back.
Everyone gets a straw and shares from the vat. Dad expresses his concern to the waitress, pointing to one of his sushi chefs 'But he has AIDS...' and laughing uproariously. I sit next to Dad, and he wants to talk about politics, art, restauranting, the world, while holding my upper arm and emphasising really good points with a pat. He was just really into being the center of attention. And I like grog.
We close the bar after a burly top hat-wearing dude suggests that it's time to pay the bill. Dad kisses everyone; Italian kisses everyone.
I like remembering that night because it's pretty much prototypical of any outing with Lisa. She wants to hang out with someone she met under unusual circumstances; she obtains free food and drink; end up, underdressed, somewhere strange; and have to walk home for a long distance.
So, Ryan came to visit a few weeks ago, and Lisa was also here because she fell in love with my flatmate via MSN conversations. As one does.
She takes a crazy bus full of small children through the chunnel, carrying a box of French pastries the whole way. They got a little squished, but made it through in very good condition overall.
So, the scene is a little Shakespearean, and has nothing to do witht he rest of this story, but here it is:
--Lisa likes my flatmate
--My flatmate used to like me
--But seems to be into Lisa
--My flatmate doesn't think I know Lisa likes him
--And we intend to keep it that way
Also:
Lisa met an Italian dude at an airport on a different trip than the one I took with her. She fell asleep and he covered her with his jacket. He didn't want to hit on her, just to work on his English. He lives in London, works as a pastry chef in a sushi restaurant, and wants to hang out.
And that is how, moments after arriving in London, Lisa's getting us ready to go have free coffee and desserts with her Italian airport soulmate. I eat a sweet potato first, though, because I was hungry. That's not important to the story, but sweet potatoes are easy to prepare and full of vision-saving vitamin A. KT, pay attention.
We leave the pastries--which were beautiful--and start walking to the sushi place. It's kind of hard to find, but we get there and it's nice. It's also closed, and the staff is just cleaning up/hanging out, while the Italian was waiting for us to show up. The Italian guy, his Filipino/Italian/mystery boss, and some other employees of the sushi place were there. We awkwardly sit down and have free drinks and chat. The Boss loves chatting. He is basically someone's overly jovial Dad as the boy waits around for the girl before going to the movies in 1965. Everyone in the room speaks some English, but it's the native tongue for only 3 people, so there's some Telephoning going on.
The coworkers offer to make some sweet potato crisps, and confusion ensues where they think I don't like sweet potato, when really I do like it, in fact I just had one. They make regular potato crisps, but that was good too. And then the Italian guy has to show off as well, so he disappears to the kitchen, leaving us with Dad.
Dad wants to show us the samuri armour hanging in the restaurant, and tells us all about the samuri, and gradually shifts his story from the suit being ::the:: armour worn by the last samurai himself, to the type of armour worn at that time, to a reproduction of that style. Ok dude.
The Italian returns, makes a crack about the japanese, and gets a death glare from Dad. But he also had pastries which were very, very beautiful. Also, tasty. He basically won Lisa over with the good, free dessert. Lisa's ready to follow wherever the Sushi staff wants to go next, and I am always ready to follow Lisa, and Ryan's just happy to be here.
As the most London-knowledgable member of our party, I'm trying to figure out where we're going. 'The bar' is as much as I'm told. Ohkay.
Turns out the one they want is closed, but Trader Vic's in the Hilton is open. I should point out that we are wearing jeans and hoodies, and the doorman is in tails and a top hat. Oh well. It's also a tiki bar which dresses its staff in cheongsams, decorates the walls with giant shells and fish nets thrown whimiscally about the walls and ceiling, serves Grog, fruity umbrella drinks, and a mystery drink in a ceramic vat embellished with mermaids and seashells. Dad chats to the waitress in tagalog. Of course he does.
Somehow Dad is talking about his wife, and also his girlfriend, and also his partner. He had a kid with someone as well. It's hard to keep track--are there actually 3 love interest here, or does he refer to the same one with 3 titles? He stole the show. He ran right off with it and didn't look back.
Everyone gets a straw and shares from the vat. Dad expresses his concern to the waitress, pointing to one of his sushi chefs 'But he has AIDS...' and laughing uproariously. I sit next to Dad, and he wants to talk about politics, art, restauranting, the world, while holding my upper arm and emphasising really good points with a pat. He was just really into being the center of attention. And I like grog.
We close the bar after a burly top hat-wearing dude suggests that it's time to pay the bill. Dad kisses everyone; Italian kisses everyone.
I like remembering that night because it's pretty much prototypical of any outing with Lisa. She wants to hang out with someone she met under unusual circumstances; she obtains free food and drink; end up, underdressed, somewhere strange; and have to walk home for a long distance.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
During the hour of sun today.
la la la on the street where I live...You can't see the advertisements for costumes as well as I would have hoped.
But hey! The cars, they drive on the wrong side!
Banksy.
forgot to flip it, sorry.
Reflecty.
Reflecty.
Aaaand Reflecty.Saturday, May 5, 2007
Massive!
I am so in love with Lisa.
To balance out my love for Li, how about I tell you story about Italy and my hate for it?
The Story Of Italy
So, many moons ago, Lisa came to visit me in London. After a ridiculous encounter with jack the ripper, basketballs, indian food, glassware, a drunk named Kirsten, and White Dorm Bob Marley, we got on a plane and headed to Pisa. Totally exhausted and half drunk.
In quick succession: Meet friend in Pisa! Look at the tower! Visit his high school because he is 17! Eat panini! Get on a train and go to Florence!
Lisa taught me the Italian I would need to survive:
Dai! -- Come on/ Gimme a break!
Basta! -- Enough!
Che cazzo dicce! -- What the fuck are you saying?! (Literally, what the penis are you saying.)
Florence is where Lisa spent last fall. It is her territory. I'm trying to get through this part fast. At the time Lisa came to Florence, Lisa was dating Jon the Pirate, a nice fellow. But then when she was leaving for Paris, they broke up. Jon is thus still in Florence, not dating Lisa.
Lisa, I say. Where exactly are we sleeping tonight?
Oh, she says. The bartender from my favorite bar said we could stay at his place.
As an afterthought, she adds: He pretty much tries to sleep with anything that moves. Italian guys are like that. Italian guys are crazy.
. . .
FORESHADOWING!!!!!
So, Florence: Old! Tiny streets! Big Palaces! Dog Shit! Scooters! And, after wandering the cobblestoney streets a bit, and running into J0n, aka Lisa's exboyfriend, aka Jon the Pirate, we meet up with Sergio, the bartender.
Sergio is about thirty. He takes the cheek-kissy thing a little seriously. He's got a wicked widow's peak and speaks pretty decent English. He is an avid facebooker--facebook, for him, reflects real life. He had an extra key made to his apartment, and we put our stuff down there.
I think you can really tell a lot about a person by the state of their bathroom. (FORESHADOWING!!!!!!) The layout couldn't actually be Sergio and associated roommates' fault, but it was laid out all in a line-- [sink area][shower][toilet], so that there's no way to move between toilet and sink without stepping in the shower area. Which did not drain effectively, so you stepped in a cold scungy shower-puddle. That was the part that WAS their fault--the general damp and grodyness. Also, I took a nap and sergio said the sheets were 'mostly clean.' Dude, don't admit it even if it's true.
We--Lisa, Sergio, two other girls, and I--eat dinner. An entire can of beer falls into a girl's purse, and no one notices until I see foam dripping on my foot. Goodbye, cell phone.
Time passes; bars happen. At Lisa's favorite bar, I have never been so gawked at in my life. The guys don't even bother to pretend like they're not checking you out. Odd moment when Sergio's guy flatmate is talking to me, and asks where Lisa and I are sleeping. I say Sergio's room, and it becomes his task for the rest of the night to convince me that I should sleep in his bed (Nothing will happen, it will be cozy!) so that Lisa can sleep with Sergio. Uh, yeah.
Lisa, awesome Rebecca of the cell phone beer bath, and I move on to irish car bombs in scottish pub in italy?. there is running on the tiny nighttime streets. Lisa leads me through the maze like Lassie; and at the end of an alley is a door and sign telling us to be quiet. So we quietly open the door, quietly enter the back door to a secret 4-am bakery where a quiet old baker-woman is taking trays of croissants out of the oven. Quietly. Drunk, quiet croissants. Lisa and I eventually return to Sergio's and sleep.
Next day: Remember, Lisa's knee is still messed up for mysterious reasons, so she can barely walk and her shoes hurt. We go to find her some new shoes, walking the length and breadth of the city in search. I convince her that abandoning her old shoes in a square is a good idea. No going back. She also shows me the sandwich place where she practically live for the semester since she was in love with the sandwich-maker. Sandwich artist. Sandwista?
I decided he was very unattractive. I'm not sure if this broke Lisa's heart or made her feel better about things. Sorry luv.
Dinner: again with Sergio, at the same place, and with a gaggle of girls from Syracuse for someone's birthday. Lisa and I are sitting at the end of the table; towards the end of the meal, the parents and teenaged daughter sitting at the next table overhear something, and, eyes shining eagerly they lean over with interest:
Dad (he has a mustache, if this helps you imagine it): Do you girls go to Syracuse?
(Mom and daughter lean in)
Lisa and I: No, they all do. I'm living in London right now, usually I'm at Cornell...and she's studying in Paris.
Awkward Pause. All eyes at the Fam's table go dead. Me, thinking both of these items could be of considerable interest to start up a polite conversation if all you wanted was to talk to a bunch of girls you've never met. What are you going to do over the syracuse connection? Talk about street names? Try and find people you know in common?
Family, babbling: Oh, well our oldest daughter goes, and belongs to XYZ sorority, and yadda yadda yadda.
Lisa and I, nodding politely.
I ask the girls sitting immediately to our left to talk to the 'Cusers. They all play Small World: Syracuse, and talk about housing issues. Family babbles on, happy to have an attentive ear. Lisa and I talk shit about them in French over the psedoconversation, and continue once that breaks up.
Other highlights: Apparently Lisa never learned how to spin pasta around a fork, despite a) being italian, b) living in Italy for 6 months, and c) intense instruction from a table of italian dudes and syracuse girls.
That night, we returned to Lisa's favorite bar with the group. I met Sal, Yoel's doppleganger and all around nice guy, and played pool with Italians, and everyone was horrible at it, except for girl-who-I-forget-her-name. And every Italian guy tries the 'Oh let ME teach you how to hold that thing,' but the Girl totally cleans up and schools them. But we were having a good time. Jon, the pirate, was there, and I talked to him because I hadn't in a long time.
It was getting to be the end of the night, so Lisa, Jon and I move outside, waiting for Sergio to meet up. He says he'll be ready to go in 20 minutes, but that is a lie. We're sitting on a stoop near the bar, and an italian dude approaches, asking for a light. Lisa has one, and six minutes later he is crooning into her ear how in love with her he is. Two things about Lisa: She knows how to say 'Do you have a light' in about twelve languages, and carries around lighters for just that purpose. And she attracts european boys like flies. She is like that.
So Jon and I are talking, and Lisa and Italian are cooing. Jon and I are mostly talking about how creepy sergio is and how uncomfortable he makes me. Jon is the one who first noticed that Sergio looks like a vampire. and after like an hour and a half Sergio returns. Lisa goes to talk to him, and Italian follows. And then Lisa comes back absolutely sobbing, and to this day no one knows what exactly the Undead Bartender said. The Italian disappeared.
I give sergio a dirty look and start walking away with sobby-lisa through a crowd of kebab-eating customers. If you haven't had kebab/falafel with the sauce they use for kebab, it's really pretty delicious. But at this point I was trying to figure out what happened. And then asking Jon if we could stay over at his because I was afraid Sergio was going to slit my throat in my sleep.
Me: Thanks Jon, you're a real pal.
Jon: It's cool, do you know where sergio's is so we can pick up your stuff?#
Me:...no.
Lisa: sobbing.
Me: Lisa, you don't have to give me directions, but can you guide us back to his house?
Jon and I drag knee-broken, drunk, sobbing lisa through the streets of Florence. She is like a little compass, this girl. We go inside using the copied key, and I pack up our stuff, consider stealing something as asshole tax, decide against it, throw the key on the couch, and leave. Estimated time between entering door and departure: four minutes. I don't mess around.
We go back to Jon's. Lisa is not in hysterics anymore, so she and Jon talk as I do Jon's dishes because he had a lot of them and I feel bad for imposing. As I'm doing that, Lisa goes to use the bathroom, and comes back.
Lisa: Dude, what's the red stuff on your mirror?
Jon: Oh, yeah, it's kind of messy in there. Last week, I had a huge dinner with some people, and had a bunch of wine, and threw up a lot, and some of it splashed. I haven't cleaned it all up yet.
We are now all standing at the threshold of Jon's bathroom. There is indeed a pile of pink ribbon-shaped pasta, corralled in the corner by some pink paper towels. There are pink flecks on the walls, ceiling, and mirror.
Lisa: Why is the toilet seat in the shower?
Jon: It came off when I was throwing up. And I didn't want to lose it.
(The next day, I say to Lisa I think I will clean up Jon's bathroom as a thank-you for letting us stay. She tells me I should not. And I am glad.)
Sergio is now calling Lisa every ten minutes or so, so I turn off her phone. Lisa wants us all to snuggleare. Jon laughs, because that is a made up verb. Jon's laugh is great, it's like an explosion.
Jon sleeps on his couch, and Lisa and I sleep in his bed, better to snuggleare.
The next day, Ididn't know it was day and not night anymore because jon's shutters totally block out all light. I was impressed. Lisa checks her messages and the series of Sergio Messages are priceless:
'Leeza, come back right now, this is sillyness'
'I cannot believe you, this is not very polite'
'Leeza...I do not know what I did to upset you? I do not think I said anything that terrible? I did not use any bad words?'
She calls/texts him, he doesn't answer. (because now that it's daylight he's turned into a bat, and bats don't have thumbs so can't operate cell phones.)
We go and get kebab/falafel, meet Jon's friend Kelly (Who I thought was named Cali, and also thought that was an funny choice since she's from California. No, I just didn't listen well enough.) It was sunny, and we were sitting next to a well/fountain in a square. Some guys jumped in/threw each other in, and everyone watching suddered because it was pretty filthy water. Visited Boboli Gardens, a Medici palace. It was very, very pretty. We also got a lot of gelato on this day.
I forget when we sat on the triangles, it might have been this day. But on one of the bridges over the river in Florence, there are these structures that stick out in a triangular fashion from the side of the bridge. And lisa and I sat on them and took pictures and communed with the dirty river. Lisa told me about the water rats that eat people and the blood poisoning you get from swimming/drinking the river water. It was a day with dirty water.
We met up with people for dinner, and this girl was coming to visit London so I told her things and gave her my email and my number. She never called or emailed, I hope London didn't eat her. Also, a tiny girl tried to sell us flowers at dinner, and tried to charm us with her sad eyes. We gawked at the attractive waiter and tried to figure out if he was Italian.
I headed to the airport after dinner, since my flight left at 6 AM and the first bus/train didn't get there til 5:50. (I had been carrying around my stuff, don't worry, the story has continuity) The last bus/train got there at 1. Sucks for me, i figured, but at least I don't have to impose on Jon for another night, and anyway sleeping in an airport is not that terrible.
On the way to the station Lisa translated as guys catcalled a girl for wearing tight pants. She was basically wearing leggings with a pink puffy/furry trimmed ski coat. It's not like she wasn't pulling it off, but on the other hand, why would you do that?
The bus had about 7 people on it, and all of them got off before the airport. The radio was on and played a string of easy listening music in Italian, and then My Heart Will Go On. I just remembered that. All of the italian singers had that whisper-sing thing going in their songs, I suppose to express 'longing.' Maybe 'regret.'
I get off the bus at the aeroporto. There is another guy ahead of me, walking to the sliding glass door. He walks up to it. The door does not open. He knocks against the glass. The door does not open. He looks frustrated, turns right, and walks to another door.
This smells like trouble.
I walk to the sliding glass door. It does not open.
Holy shit, I think to myself. For real, Italy?
I walk to another door to the left. Nothing. I walk the 3/4 of the airport that is accessible, and it seems that I am screwed.
I walk back to one of the doors and start knocking furiously. A trio of guards eventually come by and open the inner door. I tell him, 'sera, Englese? Evening. English? using up everything I have learned since Che cazzo dicce. What?
He tells me...something. And then retreats to the other side of his door, with his giggly cohorts.
'The airport isa close.'
Me: What time will it open? What time in the morning?
Him: (something) and waves a hand at me.
Shit. I am frustrated and angry and spat at the door as he left, because that is how frustrated I was. (Remember Pyramid Books?)
I consider the options. There is the bench I am currently sitting on, just outside the doors. There is a road, and a parking lot. There is a parking structure. Then there is highway and nothing.
It's cold. I head for the parking structure.
There was a vending machine with a wide selection of flavored waters.
And a bathroom.
The bathroom, I noted, had CCTV going for it. So at least if a bloodthirsty Italian decided to cut my throat in the bathroom, there would be a trace of it. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn't take a shower in two days, so I washed my hands and face and tried to revive my hair by flipping the hand-dryer around. I learned the words for 'liquid soap' and 'fire extinguisher.' I read some random class notes that were in my bag. I generally made myself at home for three and a half hours, and then went to stand with the crowd of unhappy people at the eastern entrance.
One guy seemed to be a professor for american students in florence. He was very eager to prove he knew everything about everything. He also had a man-ponytail run through his baseball hat. One guy was just a travelin' dude who met his fiance due to Ryanair cancelling a flight. Two guys were canadian students doing the eurotrip thing, and shamelessly flirting with a gaggle of Italian girls who arrived moments after I did. I didn't talk to anyone, choosing instead to sulk and sit on a bench, and write a letter to avoid eye contact.
The Letter I Wrote:
Title: Shitaly
Italy is stupid, I hate it. After being terrorized by short, swarthy guys or thirty year old predators for as long as I could stand, I was informed that I could not spend another glorious night in an anonymous airport. No, Galilea International Airport 'Was close. The airport isa close.' Fuck off, rentacop guidos, and see you in three hours as I sit six feet away from your precious fucking sliding doors. You know what? I spat on you and I didn't feel bad about it, because every bathroom I've been in in the past three days has been filthy. Jon this is not including yours per se, the red wine/tartaglia vomit was just Italy rearing its ugly head. At least it does make me glad to return to London, where at least I can predict people's behavior and find generally up to date information about businesses and public places.
Italy: Aside from the obvious delights of the food, coffee, sometimes architecture, and weather, BIG thumbs down.
(end of letter)
I think that accurately reflects my feelings at the time.
A little while later, some dude walks in a hurry arounds the corner, up to the doors--The Doors Open! And into the airport. We all look expectantly, and Professorial Dude tries to follow him. Doors do not open. We are, as a group, dumbfounded.
About 20 minutes later, dude comes back and opens the doors.
There is much rejoicing.
Further insults, though, as no one is around yet to start the check-in process, and then I eat a gross breakfast, and then I get a bottle of water AFTER I go through security and they take it away from me, and I say, 'Dai!' and get a shrug, and watch the smarmier Canadian get the talky Italian Girl's email, and sleep on the plane.
So that was Italy, in one Massive post.
To balance out my love for Li, how about I tell you story about Italy and my hate for it?
The Story Of Italy
So, many moons ago, Lisa came to visit me in London. After a ridiculous encounter with jack the ripper, basketballs, indian food, glassware, a drunk named Kirsten, and White Dorm Bob Marley, we got on a plane and headed to Pisa. Totally exhausted and half drunk.
In quick succession: Meet friend in Pisa! Look at the tower! Visit his high school because he is 17! Eat panini! Get on a train and go to Florence!
Lisa taught me the Italian I would need to survive:
Dai! -- Come on/ Gimme a break!
Basta! -- Enough!
Che cazzo dicce! -- What the fuck are you saying?! (Literally, what the penis are you saying.)
Florence is where Lisa spent last fall. It is her territory. I'm trying to get through this part fast. At the time Lisa came to Florence, Lisa was dating Jon the Pirate, a nice fellow. But then when she was leaving for Paris, they broke up. Jon is thus still in Florence, not dating Lisa.
Lisa, I say. Where exactly are we sleeping tonight?
Oh, she says. The bartender from my favorite bar said we could stay at his place.
As an afterthought, she adds: He pretty much tries to sleep with anything that moves. Italian guys are like that. Italian guys are crazy.
. . .
FORESHADOWING!!!!!
So, Florence: Old! Tiny streets! Big Palaces! Dog Shit! Scooters! And, after wandering the cobblestoney streets a bit, and running into J0n, aka Lisa's exboyfriend, aka Jon the Pirate, we meet up with Sergio, the bartender.
Sergio is about thirty. He takes the cheek-kissy thing a little seriously. He's got a wicked widow's peak and speaks pretty decent English. He is an avid facebooker--facebook, for him, reflects real life. He had an extra key made to his apartment, and we put our stuff down there.
I think you can really tell a lot about a person by the state of their bathroom. (FORESHADOWING!!!!!!) The layout couldn't actually be Sergio and associated roommates' fault, but it was laid out all in a line-- [sink area][shower][toilet], so that there's no way to move between toilet and sink without stepping in the shower area. Which did not drain effectively, so you stepped in a cold scungy shower-puddle. That was the part that WAS their fault--the general damp and grodyness. Also, I took a nap and sergio said the sheets were 'mostly clean.' Dude, don't admit it even if it's true.
We--Lisa, Sergio, two other girls, and I--eat dinner. An entire can of beer falls into a girl's purse, and no one notices until I see foam dripping on my foot. Goodbye, cell phone.
Time passes; bars happen. At Lisa's favorite bar, I have never been so gawked at in my life. The guys don't even bother to pretend like they're not checking you out. Odd moment when Sergio's guy flatmate is talking to me, and asks where Lisa and I are sleeping. I say Sergio's room, and it becomes his task for the rest of the night to convince me that I should sleep in his bed (Nothing will happen, it will be cozy!) so that Lisa can sleep with Sergio. Uh, yeah.
Lisa, awesome Rebecca of the cell phone beer bath, and I move on to irish car bombs in scottish pub in italy?. there is running on the tiny nighttime streets. Lisa leads me through the maze like Lassie; and at the end of an alley is a door and sign telling us to be quiet. So we quietly open the door, quietly enter the back door to a secret 4-am bakery where a quiet old baker-woman is taking trays of croissants out of the oven. Quietly. Drunk, quiet croissants. Lisa and I eventually return to Sergio's and sleep.
Next day: Remember, Lisa's knee is still messed up for mysterious reasons, so she can barely walk and her shoes hurt. We go to find her some new shoes, walking the length and breadth of the city in search. I convince her that abandoning her old shoes in a square is a good idea. No going back. She also shows me the sandwich place where she practically live for the semester since she was in love with the sandwich-maker. Sandwich artist. Sandwista?
I decided he was very unattractive. I'm not sure if this broke Lisa's heart or made her feel better about things. Sorry luv.
Dinner: again with Sergio, at the same place, and with a gaggle of girls from Syracuse for someone's birthday. Lisa and I are sitting at the end of the table; towards the end of the meal, the parents and teenaged daughter sitting at the next table overhear something, and, eyes shining eagerly they lean over with interest:
Dad (he has a mustache, if this helps you imagine it): Do you girls go to Syracuse?
(Mom and daughter lean in)
Lisa and I: No, they all do. I'm living in London right now, usually I'm at Cornell...and she's studying in Paris.
Awkward Pause. All eyes at the Fam's table go dead. Me, thinking both of these items could be of considerable interest to start up a polite conversation if all you wanted was to talk to a bunch of girls you've never met. What are you going to do over the syracuse connection? Talk about street names? Try and find people you know in common?
Family, babbling: Oh, well our oldest daughter goes, and belongs to XYZ sorority, and yadda yadda yadda.
Lisa and I, nodding politely.
I ask the girls sitting immediately to our left to talk to the 'Cusers. They all play Small World: Syracuse, and talk about housing issues. Family babbles on, happy to have an attentive ear. Lisa and I talk shit about them in French over the psedoconversation, and continue once that breaks up.
Other highlights: Apparently Lisa never learned how to spin pasta around a fork, despite a) being italian, b) living in Italy for 6 months, and c) intense instruction from a table of italian dudes and syracuse girls.
That night, we returned to Lisa's favorite bar with the group. I met Sal, Yoel's doppleganger and all around nice guy, and played pool with Italians, and everyone was horrible at it, except for girl-who-I-forget-her-name. And every Italian guy tries the 'Oh let ME teach you how to hold that thing,' but the Girl totally cleans up and schools them. But we were having a good time. Jon, the pirate, was there, and I talked to him because I hadn't in a long time.
It was getting to be the end of the night, so Lisa, Jon and I move outside, waiting for Sergio to meet up. He says he'll be ready to go in 20 minutes, but that is a lie. We're sitting on a stoop near the bar, and an italian dude approaches, asking for a light. Lisa has one, and six minutes later he is crooning into her ear how in love with her he is. Two things about Lisa: She knows how to say 'Do you have a light' in about twelve languages, and carries around lighters for just that purpose. And she attracts european boys like flies. She is like that.
So Jon and I are talking, and Lisa and Italian are cooing. Jon and I are mostly talking about how creepy sergio is and how uncomfortable he makes me. Jon is the one who first noticed that Sergio looks like a vampire. and after like an hour and a half Sergio returns. Lisa goes to talk to him, and Italian follows. And then Lisa comes back absolutely sobbing, and to this day no one knows what exactly the Undead Bartender said. The Italian disappeared.
I give sergio a dirty look and start walking away with sobby-lisa through a crowd of kebab-eating customers. If you haven't had kebab/falafel with the sauce they use for kebab, it's really pretty delicious. But at this point I was trying to figure out what happened. And then asking Jon if we could stay over at his because I was afraid Sergio was going to slit my throat in my sleep.
Me: Thanks Jon, you're a real pal.
Jon: It's cool, do you know where sergio's is so we can pick up your stuff?#
Me:...no.
Lisa: sobbing.
Me: Lisa, you don't have to give me directions, but can you guide us back to his house?
Jon and I drag knee-broken, drunk, sobbing lisa through the streets of Florence. She is like a little compass, this girl. We go inside using the copied key, and I pack up our stuff, consider stealing something as asshole tax, decide against it, throw the key on the couch, and leave. Estimated time between entering door and departure: four minutes. I don't mess around.
We go back to Jon's. Lisa is not in hysterics anymore, so she and Jon talk as I do Jon's dishes because he had a lot of them and I feel bad for imposing. As I'm doing that, Lisa goes to use the bathroom, and comes back.
Lisa: Dude, what's the red stuff on your mirror?
Jon: Oh, yeah, it's kind of messy in there. Last week, I had a huge dinner with some people, and had a bunch of wine, and threw up a lot, and some of it splashed. I haven't cleaned it all up yet.
We are now all standing at the threshold of Jon's bathroom. There is indeed a pile of pink ribbon-shaped pasta, corralled in the corner by some pink paper towels. There are pink flecks on the walls, ceiling, and mirror.
Lisa: Why is the toilet seat in the shower?
Jon: It came off when I was throwing up. And I didn't want to lose it.
(The next day, I say to Lisa I think I will clean up Jon's bathroom as a thank-you for letting us stay. She tells me I should not. And I am glad.)
Sergio is now calling Lisa every ten minutes or so, so I turn off her phone. Lisa wants us all to snuggleare. Jon laughs, because that is a made up verb. Jon's laugh is great, it's like an explosion.
Jon sleeps on his couch, and Lisa and I sleep in his bed, better to snuggleare.
The next day, Ididn't know it was day and not night anymore because jon's shutters totally block out all light. I was impressed. Lisa checks her messages and the series of Sergio Messages are priceless:
'Leeza, come back right now, this is sillyness'
'I cannot believe you, this is not very polite'
'Leeza...I do not know what I did to upset you? I do not think I said anything that terrible? I did not use any bad words?'
She calls/texts him, he doesn't answer. (because now that it's daylight he's turned into a bat, and bats don't have thumbs so can't operate cell phones.)
We go and get kebab/falafel, meet Jon's friend Kelly (Who I thought was named Cali, and also thought that was an funny choice since she's from California. No, I just didn't listen well enough.) It was sunny, and we were sitting next to a well/fountain in a square. Some guys jumped in/threw each other in, and everyone watching suddered because it was pretty filthy water. Visited Boboli Gardens, a Medici palace. It was very, very pretty. We also got a lot of gelato on this day.
I forget when we sat on the triangles, it might have been this day. But on one of the bridges over the river in Florence, there are these structures that stick out in a triangular fashion from the side of the bridge. And lisa and I sat on them and took pictures and communed with the dirty river. Lisa told me about the water rats that eat people and the blood poisoning you get from swimming/drinking the river water. It was a day with dirty water.
We met up with people for dinner, and this girl was coming to visit London so I told her things and gave her my email and my number. She never called or emailed, I hope London didn't eat her. Also, a tiny girl tried to sell us flowers at dinner, and tried to charm us with her sad eyes. We gawked at the attractive waiter and tried to figure out if he was Italian.
I headed to the airport after dinner, since my flight left at 6 AM and the first bus/train didn't get there til 5:50. (I had been carrying around my stuff, don't worry, the story has continuity) The last bus/train got there at 1. Sucks for me, i figured, but at least I don't have to impose on Jon for another night, and anyway sleeping in an airport is not that terrible.
On the way to the station Lisa translated as guys catcalled a girl for wearing tight pants. She was basically wearing leggings with a pink puffy/furry trimmed ski coat. It's not like she wasn't pulling it off, but on the other hand, why would you do that?
The bus had about 7 people on it, and all of them got off before the airport. The radio was on and played a string of easy listening music in Italian, and then My Heart Will Go On. I just remembered that. All of the italian singers had that whisper-sing thing going in their songs, I suppose to express 'longing.' Maybe 'regret.'
I get off the bus at the aeroporto. There is another guy ahead of me, walking to the sliding glass door. He walks up to it. The door does not open. He knocks against the glass. The door does not open. He looks frustrated, turns right, and walks to another door.
This smells like trouble.
I walk to the sliding glass door. It does not open.
Holy shit, I think to myself. For real, Italy?
I walk to another door to the left. Nothing. I walk the 3/4 of the airport that is accessible, and it seems that I am screwed.
I walk back to one of the doors and start knocking furiously. A trio of guards eventually come by and open the inner door. I tell him, 'sera, Englese? Evening. English? using up everything I have learned since Che cazzo dicce. What?
He tells me...something. And then retreats to the other side of his door, with his giggly cohorts.
'The airport isa close.'
Me: What time will it open? What time in the morning?
Him: (something) and waves a hand at me.
Shit. I am frustrated and angry and spat at the door as he left, because that is how frustrated I was. (Remember Pyramid Books?)
I consider the options. There is the bench I am currently sitting on, just outside the doors. There is a road, and a parking lot. There is a parking structure. Then there is highway and nothing.
It's cold. I head for the parking structure.
There was a vending machine with a wide selection of flavored waters.
And a bathroom.
The bathroom, I noted, had CCTV going for it. So at least if a bloodthirsty Italian decided to cut my throat in the bathroom, there would be a trace of it. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn't take a shower in two days, so I washed my hands and face and tried to revive my hair by flipping the hand-dryer around. I learned the words for 'liquid soap' and 'fire extinguisher.' I read some random class notes that were in my bag. I generally made myself at home for three and a half hours, and then went to stand with the crowd of unhappy people at the eastern entrance.
One guy seemed to be a professor for american students in florence. He was very eager to prove he knew everything about everything. He also had a man-ponytail run through his baseball hat. One guy was just a travelin' dude who met his fiance due to Ryanair cancelling a flight. Two guys were canadian students doing the eurotrip thing, and shamelessly flirting with a gaggle of Italian girls who arrived moments after I did. I didn't talk to anyone, choosing instead to sulk and sit on a bench, and write a letter to avoid eye contact.
The Letter I Wrote:
Title: Shitaly
Italy is stupid, I hate it. After being terrorized by short, swarthy guys or thirty year old predators for as long as I could stand, I was informed that I could not spend another glorious night in an anonymous airport. No, Galilea International Airport 'Was close. The airport isa close.' Fuck off, rentacop guidos, and see you in three hours as I sit six feet away from your precious fucking sliding doors. You know what? I spat on you and I didn't feel bad about it, because every bathroom I've been in in the past three days has been filthy. Jon this is not including yours per se, the red wine/tartaglia vomit was just Italy rearing its ugly head. At least it does make me glad to return to London, where at least I can predict people's behavior and find generally up to date information about businesses and public places.
Italy: Aside from the obvious delights of the food, coffee, sometimes architecture, and weather, BIG thumbs down.
(end of letter)
I think that accurately reflects my feelings at the time.
A little while later, some dude walks in a hurry arounds the corner, up to the doors--The Doors Open! And into the airport. We all look expectantly, and Professorial Dude tries to follow him. Doors do not open. We are, as a group, dumbfounded.
About 20 minutes later, dude comes back and opens the doors.
There is much rejoicing.
Further insults, though, as no one is around yet to start the check-in process, and then I eat a gross breakfast, and then I get a bottle of water AFTER I go through security and they take it away from me, and I say, 'Dai!' and get a shrug, and watch the smarmier Canadian get the talky Italian Girl's email, and sleep on the plane.
So that was Italy, in one Massive post.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
A Day in Review
I took a shitty test
I got interviewed by German TV. It was a sort of 'jaywalking' thing, as far as I could tell; I don't think I said anything sufficently wacky to be aired, though.
I gave directions to a kind of wildebeest-herdsman kind of dude not two minutes later. He had a
keffiyeh and homemade shoes and a big, awesome, scary walking stick. Gnarly, weathered, taller than me. I hope he found his herd.
I saw a big float of a lion wearing a crown. Given its placement (at Soho Square), I assume it has something to do with this
I laughed at this
I met random english dudes who had heard of Down to Earth Approach and Say Anything. I'm still shocked.
I got interviewed by German TV. It was a sort of 'jaywalking' thing, as far as I could tell; I don't think I said anything sufficently wacky to be aired, though.
I gave directions to a kind of wildebeest-herdsman kind of dude not two minutes later. He had a
keffiyeh and homemade shoes and a big, awesome, scary walking stick. Gnarly, weathered, taller than me. I hope he found his herd.
I saw a big float of a lion wearing a crown. Given its placement (at Soho Square), I assume it has something to do with this
I laughed at this
I met random english dudes who had heard of Down to Earth Approach and Say Anything. I'm still shocked.
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