Alright, I feel absolutely no legitimacy in making this post given that I haven’t been in Italy since December, but I’d like to straighten things out proper and award myself some personal closure in the process.  Let’s go back in time to tie up the last few knots in the story.

I arrived at a crossroads in mid-November. I had the opportunity to establish myself in Bari, as an English teacher with the aim of staying until mid-summer.  However, the sleigh bells of the holiday season were beginning to ring and the opportunity to return home beckoned powerfully.

I was torn.  One side of me wanted to stay in Southern Italy, continue my study of Italian,  live la vita Bari, and perpetuate the gratifying liberty of living on the road.  Tugging me from the other side was a longing to see my friends and family, New York City, a new stage of life, and a deep satisfaction of the experience so far.  I was split 50/50 and I couldn’t rationalize it, so I let me subconscious sort it out.  I consulted my dreams, my emotional reactions to: music, e-mails, advice and conversations, and the way I spent my free time. To sum it up, my focus naturally began to drift away from life in Bari.

I decided to come home.  It ultimately FELT like the right thing to do (Capitalized felt in the sense that I listened to my instinctual feelings as opposed to a use of the past tense in order to forecast a change of mind in the future).  I spent a lot of time thinking about my decision between booking the flight in November and arriving home in late December.  If I was to write a paper about it or something, I would organize my thoughts somewhere along these lines.

This kind of traveling as a form of escapism, like watching movies, playing video games, and taking drugs, is  valuable and truly didactic for a certain period of time, but it’s also important to graduate from the experience, taking with you the things you’ve learned along the way.

Conscience: Escapism how?  escapism from what? Isms isms isms, but no definition?

I suppose what drives me to travel, to explore, is a dissatisfaction with some institutions here in the U.S and a resulting curiosity about the rest of the world. Things like Scandinavian welfare and Southern European lifestyle really appeal to me because they ease some of the blues I feel at home.  However, every place has its ups and downs. Everyone in the world feels the strain of the global capitalist system in some way or another.  The super-market is always around the corner. Permanently moving to Italy was never going to resolve these dissatisfactions. Accountability for one’s own lifestyle is everything, and the endless potential of this world makes this a beautiful, beautiful thing.  I realized: Life is what you make of it, and a poor craftsman blames his tools.

On a more personal level, the day is meaningless without meaningful relationships:  “Happiness is only real when shared.”  Although I was making a lot of good friends in Italy, leaving my friends and family in the States could never make sense to me.

—————————————————————————————————-
A Little Reminiscence

I sit here in Hoboken under the fury of a cosmic blizzard, thumbing through my phone book and reminiscing about the names through which I scroll.  There’s Andrea, the owner of the guitar bar where I waited on tables and strummed Dylan tunes;  Betta and Iside, my two lovely roommates in seaside Bari; English Express, the school where I taught Italian “youths” English; Lorenzo, the owner of Fish Pub who sent me on covert marketing missions in the Florentine universities; Marin and Alessandro, maghi delle seghe; Nicla, the farm owner who employed me on her picturesque farmhouse in the middle of Tuscany; and Maja, my bluebird from Denmark.  People are the greatest resource this world has to offer and it is these characters who shape the memory so well.

The pilgrimage to Italy was a lovely six months of liberty and la vita dolce. I’m going to miss the fertility of the Mediterranean peninsula, the Sunday strolls along cobblestone streets, the balmy evenings, the sweet clementines after dinner, the romance of the Italian language and the sanguine blood of the Italian nation. Despite my sappy longings, I’ve made my peace with these memories and look forward to whatever it is that lies ahead.

Since returning to America, I’ve picked up a few jobs to keep my hands busy.  I’m currently working as a blogger for xanga.com, interning at an independent publishing company in SoHo and enduring the pains of an indentured clerical servant at a home health care company in Union City, NJ.

I’m quite busy in these days but perhaps I’ll have the time to start another blog if there is enough demand.  I’ll call it: Craigorio Does Regular-Ass Life. Until then:

Buon Viaggio,

Craig

It’s been a snowy weekend approach to Christmas here in Danmark.  Maja and I have filled the past 10 days or so scouring festive markets, playing with sheep, touring western denmark, eating aebleskiver, and taking lovely strolls through snowy Aarhus.  Although it hardly snowed when I studied here in 2008, an unlikely storm has struck the country and were knee deep in a picturesque winterland.

________________________________________________________________________

Hyggeligt

[who-geh-lee (confused American pronunciation)]

Talking about holiday experience in Denmark without the word Hyggeligt doesn’t make sense and leaves a massive hole in the story.  Roughly translated, the word means “cozy.”  However, our word “cozy” doesn’t justify the meaning of Hyggeligt.  It is a state of mind and a cultural cornerstone that represents pleasure, enjoyability and happiness.  It is a very common word used in noun, verb, and adjective forms.  I.E…….

Noun : “This is some great Christmas hygge”

Verb:  “We hygge together” -  We get along well

Adjective: “That was hyggeligt” – that was nice

Hyggeligt culture is most evident in the domestic setting.  Because the weather outside can be so brutal, it is important to make the indoor environment as warm, comfortable, and “hyggeligt” as possible.  Physically manifested in candle arrangements, hot tea, comfortable chairs, cozy décor and chocolate, “Hygge” goes much further than decorations and drinks.  Rarely touched in the America I’ve experienced, the real value of hygge comes in the mentality behind the physical things—A relaxed, content, and warm frame of mind.  It’s a unique flavor of “good times” that this part of the world specializes in.

Classic Hygge

________________________________________________________________________

I arrived in Aarhus on December 8th after an 18 hour Ryanair journey that involved an overnight on an empty airport floor, an unprecedented touch of luck with a Ryanair check-in lady (that allowed me to avoid 100 dollars of extra charges), forgotten sandwiches (the worst thing in the world), annoying British accents and a temporary goodbye to Italy.

Maja and I spent a little over a week in Aarhus before heading over to Copenhagen for a Christmas celebration.   She was finishing up her last week of journalism school.  She took me to school one day to attend the release party of the magazine for which she is an editor.  Only in Denmark do you arrive at school to carry cases of beer from the bar (that is located in the same hallways as your lecture hall) to the foyer where you are having a party a few meters away from the library, speaking to your teachers about a certain assignment as you enjoy a Christmas beer at 12:30 in the afternoon.

Drinking at School, A Rebel Without a Cause

Kolding

We went to Maja’s parents’ house in Kolding for a few nights on the way to Copenhagen and they were very eager to share their take on Danish Christmas.  On the first night we dined on a homemade Risengroed, a cornerstone of the holiday culture. Risengroed is a rice pudding sprinkled with a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon upon which you melt a piece of butter to brew a savory maelstrom of rice pudding glory.  It’s sweet, but not jelly donut sweet, and this golden middleway in combination with the spicy Christmas beer makes for a memorable dinner amongst the holiday “hygge” of the Danish home.

On the second night we had a proper Christmas dinner with a roasted duck, sweet potatoes, regular potatoes and a cabbage salad.  The Bygvraa’s dug into the family wine collection after the royal meal, and within a few hours, Momma bear was fast asleep, Mr. Bygvraa was playing 80s pop hits on the laptop while Maja and I were jamming on the guitar, singing songs while wearing Santa hats–christmas candles burning, teeth stained red and that intangible joy, that Christmas never seems to forget, floating through the air.

Conscience:  And by intangible joy, you mean 3 bottles of wine, right?

I sit here on 11:25am Saturday morning, next to Maja’s dad whose been hammering away at some semi-professional snood for the past half hour, the both of us too hungover to talk and waiting for Maja to wake up so we can get going with breakfast.  Maja’s mom knocks on the door, returning from a walk with their brown lab “Dino.”  I answer the door and she stands there saying something in Danish, waving her hand and walking away, and I answer with a gentle, “okay.”  I close the door and turn around and Maja’s dad says, “she meant to say that she is going next door.”

My time in Denmark has been filled with numbingly awkward moments like this as well as moments of holiday cheer and Danish intoxication.  The Scandinavian winter is a bit overwhelming and I now recall those long January nights of 2008, when I first arrived in Denmark for my semester abroad.  Daylight is difficult to catch as the sun sets around 4pm here.  Days go from black to grey to black again, but the most interesting aspect of this pattern is the degree of darkness that is reached in the early evening.  By 5pm or so, it is midnight dark outside as if you were galavanting around the city at 2 o clock in the morning.  The long hours force a lot of the Danish werewolves to migrate south for the winter.

Conscience:  There’s a handgun in the closet, I left the child-lock off for you.

Anyway, Maja and I are jumping on a train tomorrow to head out to beautiful Copenhagen.  I’ll be in touch soon.

Buon Natale,

Craig

written 12/20/09

Unsolved Mysteries Update: blah blah blah, what dishonorable bullshit!  We did go to Copenhagen before I came back to the States and it was a fantastic time, however, we can’t dwell too long on that because I’ve waited too long to finish this thing.  Here are some pictures from the Copenhagen visit…. I hope to have the last entry up by this weekend, if not, early next week. Peace.

Please forgive me for the delay and deception surrounding the events of this posting, but I assure you the fun of returning to America to surprise friends and family a few days before Christmas was well-worth the misleading details leading up to the holiday.

What happened in one sentence:

I decided to return to the United States for the for-seeable future because I felt satisfied with my experience, and eager to re-unite with friends and family.

I returned to New York on December 21st at around 6pm after a quick layover in Iceland.  I spent the following days frightening friends and catching up with loved ones.  Jo Jo, my brother, and T.J. were the victims of my greatest efforts, and I took deep pleasure in catching them off guard.

‘Joey Trucks’

I stepped out of the cab after a frustrating 10 minutes of trying to process my credit card with a rookie driver.  After greeting my mom in the lobby of our building, we headed upstairs.  Meanwhile, my aunt called the house line and asked my brother to check the model of his television.  As Joe searched the back of his t.v. for a serial number, my mom snuck me in through the patio door and into her bathroom, where I hid in the shower.  My mother then asked my brother to get something from her bathroom.  From behind the lucid shower door I saw Joe shuffling through a bag without the slightest inclination of my presence.  I took a step forward as he turned around.  An expression of pure fear overcame his face as if his features and skin were melting.  He put his back up against the wall, locked in position for about a second before he realized what was going on.  We both began laughing, me-bursting and barking, Joe-giggling and putting his hands over his mouth.  It was only a few minutes of expedited catching up before the first game of Fifa 2010 kicked off:  my baggage could wait downstairs.

‘Ice TJ’

The next day around 425pm, my brother and I were walking down Washington Street on the way to the Path Station, to reach Battery Park by 5 when TJ was to get out of work.  Compliments of informant Megan Raquet, I knew the location of Tj’s office.  I gave my brother my camera as we waited outside of TJ’s building in long coats and big hats.  Unfortunately, TJ had to stay a bit late that day, but after about 15 minutes of waiting I spotted TJ descending the stairs.  I nodded over to my brother and we began following him as he briskly strode towards the subway.  It took about one block of following TJ before I got in the appropriate range and space to make my move.  In front of a packed bus stop I firmly placed my hand on his shoulder and remained silent.  Due to the ridiculous nature of the situation, my sense of time was a bit off, but I think it took TJ about a second and a half to realize it was me, when he exploded into a fit of rage and joy.  In a split second I found myself on his shoulder, moving quickly down the road.  All I could hear was, “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE, I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA PULL THAT SHIT.  You MOTHERFUCKER.”

‘Two Terrapins’

Surprising Neil and Marc was the most anti-climactic of my ventures, but entertaining nonetheless.  Again thanks to Megan, the two UMD roommates were strategically placed at a common gathering of friends.  When I arrived, I arranged my black scarf as babushka on my head and was let into the house.  I moved quickly to the kitchen and saw Neil and Marc standing together, leaned up against countertops, drinking keystone lights.  I scurried up to Neil incognito, my face veiled by the black scarf, and put my head onto Neil’s shoulder.  In typical Neil fashion, he didn’t react and continued his conversation.  I revealed my face like Clayton Bigsby when Marc got a glimpse and said something like, “I knew you were going to come back,”  which caught Neil’s attention and provoked a reaction physically and rhetorically similar to TJ’s.  The ensuing mayhem of that night featured collegesque decadence sponsored by Keystone Light and a certain group of masters from Holland.  Needless to say: Things got a little out of control.

All Day Incorporated, 2009

Allora, my days and holidays have since been filled with catching up, job searching, interviewing, exploring NYC and working a part-time clerical job.  I plan on making two more posts, hopefully by the end of January.  One on my time in Denmark and one as a closing bit…I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.

Nell’attesa,

Craigorio

I stood at the crosswalk of a busy street, the light was red, the green man was there, but cars filled the intersection, bumper to bumper, drifting through the traffic light as if it was green. 14 year old kids swerved in and out of traffic on their vespas, helmet-less, with back seat passengers texting on their cell phones.  Two girls passed me by, gave me a derogatory glance, and walked into the street, stepping in front of each bumper, hardly looking to their left or right.  I contemplated following their example but the traffic light turned green and congestion gave way to greater traffic fluency.  Soon thereafter, a man walked confidently across the road, striding through lanes of quickly moving cars and vans, saying “boom!!,” as he walked in front of each braking vehicle, as to simulate the noise of his body hitting the windshield.  It took me another three or four examples before I learned how to cross the street in Napoli, the land of my maternal grandfather- a city of great beauty and disorder.

I took a weekend break to the capital of Southern Italy in early December to re-trace the roots a bit, to see where my family comes from and what ultimately pushed their migration to America.  Although all of my family migrated from old Naples early in the 20th century, time doesn’t make the apple fall that much farther from the tree.  Another Napoletano-Americano I met put it very nicely:

“As I pulled into the train station, as I saw the big sign on the underground wall that said, “Napoli,” feelings and images rushed to my head, feeling almost a bit choked up.  I walked out of the station and as we were walking to our hotel, I said to my wife, ‘look, doesn’t that look like my grandfather?’  Things carried a similarity to other things I’ve seen growing up.  I thought to myself, ‘my uncle built a garage that looks like that one, my mother makes that same hand gesture!”

It’s very fulfilling to return to the motherland and revisit the origins of your family culture.  The consumerism of modern American culture can drown meaningful tradition and give you a bit of the capitalist blues from time to time.  I feel personally sound revisiting these traditions not only in Napoli, but in all of Italy throughout my pilgrimage.  Whether this is legitimate, or the result of a 16 year liberal education is up for debate, but what’s it really matter when you genuinely feel it inside of yourself?

Napoli The City

Aside from the personal connections, Napoli is still one of the most interesting cities I’ve ever visited.  Visually speaking, the area is very beautiful. The old Mediterranean charm strewn over the Gulf of Naples and old city streets is imagination-provoking, and the graceful sun tumbles over Mount Vesuvius daily to illuminate this charm in a warm and sanguine light. In addition to the picturesque landscapes, there is also a political curiosity about Napoli with regards to the influential mafia organization—the Camorra.

“A State within the State”

I don’t know too much about this Napoletano organized crime network, but I caught a glimpse of their influence by walking the streets of the city and speaking with a few of the people there.  A Napoletano named Tristano described the situation as, “a state within the state,” that besides paying taxes to the government; you are also obliged to pay mafia taxes.  If you own a coffee bar, you may have to submit to a form of extortion by paying a protection tax, as well as serving the Camorra’s preferred brand of coffee beans.  If you don’t comply with these expectations, your business may be ransacked and destroyed in the night. Although parking may be free on street x, there is a mobster standing on the corner requesting a few bucks to park your car there.  If you don’t pay, you will be without a windshield upon your return.  In the mid 90’s, the Camorra took over garbage disposal in the region, resulting in serious health problems as industrial waste and other hazardous materials are burned recklessly, creating heavy air and soil pollution.  Children drive the trucks full of haz-mats—they are less likely to complain about the adverse health effects.  To the tourist’s eye, this is manifested in the garbage piles seen all over the city. Although I may have seen a snapshot of the situation, the mafia hangover is far more painful outside of the city center; somewhere I didn’t get to journey during my two day trip to the motherland.  It’s a gold mind for political thinkers and those who enjoy studying society.   This political dynamic in connection with my family history, among the Mediterranean backdrop, made Napoli one of the most engaging visits of my trip so far.

Pizza

Napoli is the home of pizza and I blessed my tongue with two of the holy pies during my brief sojourn.  The first was a beautiful eggplant pizza—a tremendous piece of art, but merely a warm up for the main event. The next day, I made one of the most valuable lunchtime investments of my life.  I was standing at the street vendor outside of the represented pizzeria, window shopping the various midday delicacies when I spotted a rather curious piece out of the corner of my eye.  I inquired with the pizza dealer, “what’s that guy in the corner all about?”  When he gave me the description, I felt a serotonin wave crash in my brain as I took an impact-embracing step backwards, simultaneously reaching for any money in my pocket that I could offer this man.  We took care of the transaction and I walked away from the stand with the prize in my grasp.

Pizza Napoletano

Elliptically shaped and jagged around the edges, the warm piece of dough radiated good-will throughout my body.  Aromatic tomato sauce topped with freshly melted mozzarella sat on the roof of the pizza like a freshly fallen blanket of snow at the peak of a majestic mountain.  A perfectly ripe basil leaf was dug into the dairy-tomato mound like the American flag on Iwo Jima.  I took the commencement bites, and they were wonderful, but like the dry bites of a jelly-donut, I knew something better awaited me at the core.  Around the third or fourth bite a tremor struck my spine and I felt my expectations crumbling at the mercy of experience.  I closed my eyes, saw god and swallowed my bite, opening my eyes to a view of old Napoli, trash on the street and young kids playing soccer in the courtyard.  I brought the pizza to eye level and took a peek into its mysterious cave, with icicles of melted ricotta cheese pointing towards a bed of salty prosciutto crudo.  I took another bite and savored the churning flavors of cheese and ham in conjunction with the tender chewiness of the olive dough.  I realized what the 2007-2008 Patriots failed to complete on that balmy February night in Arizona—perfection.  I spoke to my brother and plans are already under way to open up a pizzeria in New York called “Nice Boys Pizza” featuring this ricotta-prosciutto beast.

The Lovesick Hostel-keeper

I arrived in Napoli late on a Thursday evening to an empty hostel run by a lovesick girl from Cincinnati.   We picked up two pizzas and two bottles of wine from a pizzeria downstairs and shared a conversation over the meal.  She was enamored with her Napoletano boyfriend, but he was telling her on facebook, in a 3rd grader’s English, that they could not be together because he needed 12 hours a day to study, but he only wanted to finish his education so quickly so that he could move to America and be with her.  She often took a stressful sigh and spilled a line like, “I’m convinced that wine fixes everything,” or, “I would be really sad right now if I wasn’t so drunk” or “Oh my god I love him so much.”  They had been together for a couple months, but she told me they were probably going to get married.  Regardless, after this facebook exchange, she got black-out drunk on rose wine and skyped her grandparents for a few hours (no, I’m not exaggerating the “s” on the end of the word hour). I went to sleep but I could still hear remnants of her conversation:

“BUT grandpa, I thought you would be really really happy to know, he’s really really religious.  He goes to church every week.  I love him because he cares about me more than he cares about himself.”

She was a trip.  During my two-day tour of Napoli, she spent the majority of her time sleeping and searching for a pair of twin necklaces, each with one-half of a broken heart featuring the engraved signature of the respective partner.  Besides the entertainment, she did provide me with some good info about Napoli and a quick guided tour, and I’m very grateful for that.  Still, I wonder what the future holds for the lovesick hostelkeeper.  I think she’s being completely hustled al Napoletano, but who knows, maybe “that’s amore.”

Conscience: lol

Allora

At the end of my stay, I found that my Napoletano blood has run not so thin over the years as I left the hostel without paying.  It seemed a suitable goodbye.

Still, the city had its revenge.  I went to the metro to catch the last train to the central station in order to take the bus back home.  It was the last bus of the night so it was pivotal that I caught that train.  After about 40 minutes of waiting, with about 20 minutes to spare until the bus’s departure, the announcement finally came over the loudspeaker:  The train was arriving, step away from the yellow line.  When I and two others saw the train approaching, we got to our feet only to see the train blow by us without stopping.

This is Napoli.

This fumble for a loss on third down forced a brisk power walk across Napoli city on fourth in order to make the bus in the last minute.  Somehow I broke a few tackles and caught the bus with only a minute to spare.

Winter break is approaching and I will be heading up to Aarhus, Denmark to spend the holidays with my dear friend Maja.  I’ll post something about la vita Danmark in the next few days.

Nell’attesa,

Craigorio

Written 12/05/09

Wtf am I supposed to do with this thing?

Roasted turkey, road trips, and jam sessions have filled the days and evenings of late November as my first month in Bari comes to a close.

Work

Working with this English school is a pretty entertaining gig.  It’s not much of a school actually; it’s more of a tutoring center for kids who struggle with doing their English homework.  We get a range of students from the over-achievers, studying 6 languages at the age of 16, to the golden defiant and confused.  The lessons are 90 minutes long and are mostly spent going over topics and exercises from the homework.  It’s an interrogation room setup with white walls sparsely populated with educational posters and an over-sized, off-white table.

One of the most interesting parts about these kids is the books they use to learn English.  They’re made by Italians and are filled with strange methods and unorthodox subject matter.  Also, I personally think they’re teaching the kids the wrong things.  For example, the other day I was going over an exercise with this Augustus Gloop-looking kid, and I was a bit disturbed by the material.  The activity involved using the right form of the past tense to complete the blanks in this story.  When all the dust had settled, the story came out to look something like this:

“A gang of young men in West London murdered a boy today.  The boy was on his way home from school when the group of 6 men approached him with chains and a bat.  They struck him repeatedly until he was bloody and unconscious, when they took his money and ran.  By the time the ambulance had arrived, it was already too late, and the boy had died.  He was 14 years old and left behind 3 sisters and a single mother.”

Later on in the lesson, Gloop had to proofread a story he had authored himself in English.

“alright Augustus, let’s hear it.”

Gloop went on with the story, a story about picking up an elderly hitch hiker in the rain who has no family.  After gruesome details about her facial structure and some eerie dialogue, the old lady eventually pulls out a gun and murders the driver.

This kid can hardly speak a sentence of English, yet he’s fucking Stephen King of murder storylines.  I diverted from the rest of the plan to talk about the first time he went to see a soccer match with his father.

Pogliano a Mare

On a recent day off, I took a quick train ride south to see a picturesque village built into the cliffs overlooking the Adriatic Sea called Pogliano a Mare.  The sights, smells and sounds of Pogliano inundated my senses with life for a pleasant afternoon of wandering narrow white streets and seaside vistas.

To me, this setting is the most beautiful in the world.  It’s like the imagery from my favorite movie, The Life Aquatic. You can make a book’s worth of psychological analysis as to why this is, but it’s not something I’m interested in.  For me, the pleasure of this scenery is a natural reaction, something beyond rationality.

A few photos…

Thanksgiving

My roommates and I hosted a Thanksgiving dinner for our friends last Thursday.  I was excited to return the favor to those who have been so generous in sharing their culture with me, but at the same time, a bit nervous about preparing a thanksgiving feast for 10.

My fears were quickly nullified by the internet.  I downloaded a few recipes and went to work early in the day.  I roasted a turkey, made cranberry sauce and gravy, whipped up some mashed potatoes and attempted a homemade stuffing.  I went 2/3 on the day, failing miserably on the stuffing.  It was edible and therefore eaten, but the remains were not scraped off the bottom of pan like they were with the bird and potatoes.

The evening went well.  People really enjoyed the turkey and I thought it was a bit moister than some of the turkey I’ve had in Thanksgivings past.

The party

Only a few days after our feast, we hosted another party to celebrate the 41st birthday of our friend Toni.  This one was a bit larger: there was around 15-20 people at the apartment.  Toni is a well-known Italian journalist who lives in the neighborhood.  I went to his house one night for a game of Risk that, like most, was brought to an end without a conclusion.  We crowded the kitchen table with plates of antipasto and bottles of wine.  Johnny the violinist-butcher brought over a few more plates of fresh mozzarella and olives to add to the mix.    Johnny is an interesting fellow: a thin, but muscularly defined man in his late thirties who owns a Salumeria (deli) down the street.  He is a violinist who left his career in professional music because he couldn’t make enough money to live.  Even though it is not his career anymore, he is still quite the artist.  Many late nights I have past his dimly lit deli to see him playing his violin alone under the pig legs hanging from the ceiling.  After some encouragement from the guests, (do it for) Johnny consented to perform for us.  He turned off all the lights and put a semi circle of candles on the floor in front of him and played a cassette from the stereo, a background piece that sounded like a light lounge band in a Paris café with a gentle piano and an accompaniment of strings.

Johnny the butcher vigorously improvised to this piece for about 5 minutes with the kind of authentic fire you see in an artist who does what he does for the sake of art and nothing else.  You can tell when someone performs for the love of art, and it’s an amazing thing to witness.  Johnny was brilliant, deeply tuned into his trade in a way that transcends consciousness, biting his lips, sliding his feet, and reacting to impulses that seemed controlled by some other master than the conscious mind.  He finished his performance and turned away to hide the tears about to fall from his eyes.

Later in the evening, I got the opportunity to jam with him a bit.  Ciccio, a friend of ours, who also left a career in professional music as a singer-songwriter, and I, were playing around with our guitars, singing songs like “I will survive” and “That’s Amore,” when Johnny pulled up with his violin and joined in.  We played a Bright Eyes song together called “at the very bottom of everything,” which has a folk-country jingle to it in the key of C perfect for a fiddle.  It was one of the most pleasurable experiences of my trip so far to play that song with them, fiddling around, belting the words and plucking the strings at 4am in a circle of friends, smoking hand rolled cigarettes and finishing off the bottom of the wine jug before calling it a night.

This social circle I’m involved in now is quite different from College Park Maryland.

College Park, 8 months ago, Friday Night 1am

Gimbel and I finish up another game of pool as I look over to my left to see a young couple daggering in a dark corner of the bar. “Yo Marc, you want to get another beer?” “What??” It’s a bit difficult to communicate meaningfully amongst the loud music, “I’M TRYIN TO FIND THE WORDS TO DESCRIBE THIS GIRL WITHOUT BEING DISRESPECTFUULLLLLLLL.”

“Yo, let’s get some Panda”

When Italians text message, they sign off with a salutation like, “call you at 12.  A hug!,” as if replacing the action with text.

So yeah, we’ll talk soon.

A tap on the ass and a wink in the eye,

Craig

“Abbiamo cresute un Mostro” (We’ve created a monster!!) says Iside to Betta as they walk away from a very vulgar conversation with me in the kitchen about Italian bureaucracy.  I’ve become a bit more comfortable with them over the past two 20 days.

As I learn the ways of Italian vulgarity, my personality becomes more lucid.  I’m learning how to jest better and it’s easier to speak my mind now than it was in August.  Conversations have become more authentic and relationships more meaningful, however, I’m still a long way from really connecting with people in Italian.  Iside recently told me that it took her years before she could emotionally connect with people in Italian and this thought has profoundly impacted my thinking about my future in Italia.  Still, I’m taking each day pian piano (slowly-slowly), collecting the moments one by one and not leaping to conclusions.

Life in Bari continues to be pleasantly enlightening as I become immersed in my environment.  A new roommate just moved in.  He’s a 32 year old guy named Andrea who works in the medical field, doing cancer research.  It’s nice to have some male companionship around to talk about soccer and such.  He may be moving to San Francisco in the near future so he’s also very curious about American culture.

In my spare time I’ve been going to the movies with my friends, taking walks around the Bari, meeting new people, volunteering at a house for Somalian asylum seekers and playing a bit of soccer.  I study Italian often by watching films and have seen quite a few in the past few weeks.  I’ve been working with this language school down the street.  The teaching position is sans contract, on a week to week basis, so I cannot speculate about the length of my stay just yet.

A few notes from Mid November

Soccer with the Barese

On a mild Saturday evening I wandered down to the ancient quarter of the city to play soccer at the pick up courts by the sea.  I was later advised that this is equivalent to wandering into south Bronx to find a game of basketball.  A couple of young guys were getting a few touches in, and I asked them if I could play with them.  They waved me over.  With approaching a pick up basketball game, I can hold my own:  an unevolved form of technique, a common language, and awareness of street etiquette would keep my pants clean; however, this was a different story.  Besides being 16 year old “And One Mixtape” material, these kids were speaking in a strong Barese dialect of which I could understand nothing.  The Barese dialect is a mix of Italian, Greek and Arabic that fishermen in Greece still understand today.  Italian dialects are not as easily understood as American dialects because they are much older and incorporate many different regional languages from around the Mediterranean.

They Ruined Me

After playing for a few moments with these ragazzi it became obvious that having me in their game was not helping anyone.  Perhaps it’s like a European tourist playing a game of street ball at the cage in Greenwich Village.  I was in awe of these kids—the quickness, the dead accuracy of every shot, the turning of every volley towards goal, the foot skills, and the legitimacy of every tackle. It was another level of the game that I hadn’t seen before.   Despite my inability for the sport, I am usually pretty shameless about getting involved in a game that is way above my head.  Maybe it was the overwhelming foreign atmosphere, but I couldn’t keep up. I’ll stick to having a few touches with that 50 year old guy who plays on the dirt court next to my apartment.  Still, he’s sick nasty as well and constantly knuckles shots over my head when it’s my turn to play keeper.  These experiences enlighten my understanding of Italy’s rich legacy in the sport—they play very skillfully here and it’s a beautiful sight to witness.

Mafia Capitalism and Southern Italy

I was having a conversation the other day with Iside about the southern Italian economy.  We weren’t making scientific conclusions, just talking about government, economy and mafia.  She says that there is a lack of advanced capitalism in the south, defining the economy of the region as “mafia capitalism.”

From what I understand, corruption, organized crime and other pains of modernization post-Mussolini, have damaged the legitimacy of the Italian government allowing other organizations such as the church and mafia to consolidate power counterproductive to the economic development of region.  The “Mafia” label of the definition refers to the potent organized crime groups as well as the general black market way of doing business:  hiring sans contract, nepotism, etc. Personal contracts enforced by powerful individuals without checks and balances results in violent vendettas, inequality, extreme corruption, and other forces that resist sustainable economic growth.   Strict institution is a prerequisite for advanced capitalism. The inefficient government struggles to enforce these institutions and thus the mafia way of things takes over, putting power in the hands of corrupt individuals too often, preventing a healthy economy from developing properly. (1)

The side effects are seen in society and politics.  It’s why men and women are perceived unequal, why the president can have group sex with 17 year old girls in exchange for seats in the European parliament (Bill Clinton is Mother Theresa compared to Berlusconi), why job insecurity is rampant, why the family is a much stronger institution than it is elsewhere, why people drive the way they do without fear of being pulled over, why you have to always look both ways before crossing a street despite what the illuminated green man says, why my boss tells me to tell the police to “bother someone else” if they ever ask for my documentation, etcetera etcetera.  I won’t try and speculate about what needs to be done, I’m just trying to paint a picture of what the situation is like here from my perspective.  There is a lot more political unrest than I’ve seen elsewhere.  It’s not apocalyptic or any more dangerous than dc or nyc.  Maybe it’s a bit more disorganized, but it doesn’t take away from the beauty of the Southern Italian culture. My Florentine roommate Alessandro put it very nicely in a recent e-mail:

“for us Italy requires a difficult way of living, but in some part of me, I’m very proud and happy for the beauty you can find everywhere here, and I guess you’re realizing this too!”

Personally, I’m enjoying this environment for the time being, however, I am not the one feeling the negative effects of the situation.   It’s a healthy departure from the pounding and grinding machine that the American capitalist environment can often seem like, though at the end of the day, these two forms of capitalism are not so different.

“…now who’s being naive Kay?”

An aspect of southern Italy I’m enjoying

Pausa Pranzo- Like a Spanish siesta, the city pretty much shuts down between 1-4pm for an extended lunch break, providing time to enjoy the strongest meal of the day.  Most businesses re-open around 4 and stay open until around 8 or 9.  I believe eating lunch as the day’s premier meal provides for a healthier lifestyle and the midday break is representative of the Mediterranean lifestyle.

An aspect I’m struggling with

Lack of internet connection at home and in the city in general makes it difficult to work how I’m used to working.  However, I believe this will be a therapeutic experience in the long run. I walked to the bus station yesterday to find information about a Bari-Napoli line? fml.

Speaking of technology….

the red-handed bastard

My computer has grown to be disobedient in recent weeks as it refuses to acknowledge some of my suggestions.  Like a blank faced child staring at you lifelessly when you ask it to go to sleep, my computer refuses to go into standby or shut down upon my request.  In an act of pure spitefulness, it shuts down at some unspecified point in the future, usually when I am writing an important email or having a pleasant g-chat:  The defiance of adolescence… tsk tsk tsk

Allora… I leave you for now with a photograph from my balcony

A presto,

Craig

Footnotes and Musings

(1) I don’t mean to sound like an extremist arguing for the advancement of capitalism and the destruction of traditional society.  It’s not like that at all.  I personally like to think that the political instability is a symbol of the clash between modern capitalism and traditional society, showcasing that the two are not universally compatible.  I don’t know: incompatibility infers that they would be better off unmixed, left traditional.  I don’t know how much that would help the people here.

Our lifetime is merely a single negative on an infinite roll of film that ends in 2012 .  I don’t believe thirty years time can define a people’s inability to change.  Despite what we’d like to believe after hearing president Obama’s flowery speeches, sound transitions take time.  However, it is still important that we work as if we could save the world tomorrow, for it is these efforts that get the wheel rolling pian piano.

Perhaps the instability is a symbol of the pain of change.  Transition is never easy in personal, professional or political life; however, the only constant is change, and to resist change is to resist nature and to resist nature is to ignore one of our greatest sources of truth in this world.

I arrived in Bari on the 2nd of November after a 9 hour train ride from Florence.  Over the past ten days or so I have been exploring the difference of the Italian south: the land of my grandparents.  My paternal great grandmother was born here in Bari. When I walk down the narrow white corridors of the ancient city, it blows my mind to think that a part of my family once lived within the walls of this Adriatic town—a port city linked by trade with Greece that sustained itself on the bountiful fruit of the salty sea.  You can call me an off-key romantic for this, but I feel an energetic connection with this city:  a kind of subconscious homecoming.  Perhaps this is a self-inflicted imagination, but there is also some concrete evidence of my family’s roots in this town.

For example, my paternal grandmother is known for never minding her own business.  After being in Bari for a bit, I completely understand where this tendency comes from.  My roommate Betta and I were walking down the street the other day when I asked a question like, “Why is this neighborhood called Madonella?”  Before Betta could even open her mouth, a lady on the street was already answering the question as if she was part of the conversation.  Someone I was sharing an elevator with inquired about the cost of my laptop and I’ve been questioned about my clothes while waiting in line at the butcher’s shop (coming from NJ, this November is more tropical for me than the local residents).

I’ve read that the south hasn’t been integrated into the republic of Italy like the industrial north.  I’ve even heard some people say that southern Italy is less westernized than its northern counterpart.  I don’t think that one of the above statements can be taken as an absolute truth, like most things in life, but Bari harbors a different lifestyle than Firenze: one that reveals more clearly the roots of my family in the motherland.  Here’s a list of the most obvious differences I’ve gathered upon first impression:

The stronger presence of Catholicism—there are more public shrines to the Madonna and other various religious figures.  Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of Bari, is showcased everywhere in statues, pictures and paintings.  Most shops and kitchens have arrangements of religious paraphernalia, and Sundays are more of a sabbatical compared to Florence.  Still, this world can be an unholy place. During a Sunday stroll, I passed a half open door revealing a card game and smelt the aroma of marijuana during mass hours. When day dreaming about the romantic antiquity of old Europe, I often forget the characters of history were also subject to the same human fallacy we suffer and entertain ourselves with today.  However, it is interesting to be in a city that maintains its traditions in relative strength.  Also, giving to beggars is more commonplace as you will often see gypsies outside the supermarket with piles of bread and a healthy cup of change.

taken from the line at the grocery store

The weather—Although there is not much of a difference in degrees, the trade winds come from the north of Africa and are generally more pleasant than those in Florence.  It’s now approaching mid-November and it’s around 70 degrees at noon when the sun is strongest.  It will get colder, but apparently it never goes below freezing.

The cost of living is significantly less.  During my first week I spent €20 on living expenses.  This is the result of an increased expertise in the field of living on 3 dollars a day [pasta with butter and a side of celery for dinner (just kidding mom!)], but it also has to do with the lower prices, which come from a poor economic disposition and high unemployment. When you see massive plants of multinational corporations like Hyundai around, it’s a good sign of low-cost factors of production including labor.

a nearby food market

Attitudes:  My Florentine roommate Alessandro used to tell me how the market vendors in the south often sing while they’re at work, and it’s true.  Walking through the fresh food gauntlet of fishermen and farmers, you will hear many of them singing old Italian folk songs while gutting sea bass and weighing tangerines. This little detail is representative of a warmer, more relaxed attitude as a whole. I try to stay away from generalizations like this, ie. “oh my god, they’re sooo much nicer down here,” but people definitely have a more laid-back and “Mediterranean” attitude in Bari.

The Living Quarters

Once again I got extremely lucky with my housing in terms of people and setting.  I’m living with two highly intelligent women in their 30s.  Betta, (32 or 33) is pursuing her PhD in women’s studies, a field in which I share similar aspirations ; )  She has grown up in Bari, but has spent years studying in Ireland, Canada, The Netherlands and Germany.

Iside is a 36 year old lawyer who has a part in defending a prostitute involved in the Berlusconi sex scandals.  She’s originally from Albania but has lived the majority of her life in Italy.  Despite being skilled enough in Italian to practice law, she says that Italian wouldn’t be the language between her and her son.

Iside

These two have taken me into their palace of an apartment and have been very generous in sharing meals and accommodation.  We get along very well and we’ve become good friends over the past two weeks.  We speak Italian about 90 percent of the time around the house, sometimes taking an hour to do an English lesson. Their Italian can be too difficult for me to understand at times.  Conversations are often politically technical in ways that would be challenging even in English, but this allows me to really exercise my Italian. Fluency in a foreign language involves getting over subconscious nerves, and it’s a real confidence boost when I can explain the difference between using the word Communism in America and Europe.

Conscience: Don’t let this fool you, I’m still as awkward as a turtle with Italian, i.e. “May I please use your mobile phone in order to connect myself to the internet?”

Betta and Iside’s friends often stop by the apartment for lunch or a coffee, and joining their social circle has introduced me to a number of interesting characters.  The other day we had a well-published journalist over for lunch who recently spent 10 days locked in a hotel room in the north of Italy writing a book for 20 hours a day.  Later that night for dinner, we had an author who just had a book published on modern fascism in the western world.  Betta and Iside also have a pocket full of interesting stories about traveling scholarship and mafia jurisprudence.

The Madonella

We live in a neighborhood of Bari called Madonella, which gets its name from the Madonna piazza that is the centerpiece of the district.  Our building is about a block or two away from the beach in a residential part of town home to many middle class families and students.  It’s about a 15 minute walk to the old city and downtown Bari. So far, I like being on the periphery of the city more than being in the center, like I was in Florence.  This has to do with the difference between the cities in general, but being in an actual Italian neighborhood, where the normal people of the city work, study and raise families, offers a better window into modern Italian culture than the grand museum that is Florence centro.  There is a daily fresh food market right down the street where seafarers and farm vendors bring their fresh products, some of the octopus and fish still alive, flopping around in pans of shallow salt water.  This colorful market and the nearby beach make this apartment one of the best places I’ve ever stayed and I hope that I’ll have the chance to stay for a little while longer.

Streets leading to the sea

One problem about the apartment is that I’ve stumbled upon a new dependence named Nutella.  I don’t understand how I’d never surrendered to its glory before arriving in Bari.

You know that first thought that strikes your mind when you wake up in the morning?   When times are tough (slim pickins’), it can be the worst moment of your day.  For instance:  You wake up, half drowsy, half dreaming, and the first electric impulse that overwhelms your conscience is, “mother fucker, fucking work today… ughhhhh, please tell me my alarm clock is fucking with me (grabs alarm clock and begins shaking the reality out of it) Arghhhh!!”  Well, for me, as of lately, the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up is, “Nutella…baby.”  Despite being woken up by the 7am train that so conveniently passes right by my window every morning (remember that scene in My Cousin Vinny?), and the fact that I’m unemployed in a foreign country, the buttery chocolate pleasure of Nutella is what drives me to overcome the alarm clock blues.  Anyway, this recent addiction has me thinking about the most addicting things I’ve ever encountered in my life and I decided to make a little list of them here.

Top 5 addictions

-Nutella—If you look at the cap of most Nutella bottles, you’ll see that they are usually dirty with little bits of chocolate smeared across the white ridges of the lid.  This is because most people have to put their piece of Nutella toast down, mid-bite, and put the jar of Nutella away in an act of self-discipline, thus marking the container with the decadent hand still covered in chocolate

-Vicariously living my life through video games such as FIFA, football manager and Dizzy.

-Online Piracy—the thrill and treasure without going to Somalia

-YouTube: need I explain?

-Emotionally investing myself into professional sports—it’s like gambling, but using your emotions and relationships as the chips.  It’s a risk far more dangerous than any amount of money.  With gambling, the odds will prove that you’ll eventually run out of money. With following sports teams, it’s inevitable that you will lose your soul by the age of 40.   Redskins fans have until about 30 and over the past two years a generation of Newcastle United fans have been born without a soul.

Honorable mention:

Coffee—it’s living proof that marijuana is criminalized for reasons other than the well-being of society and the health of the individual.

That’s all I’ve got for right now.  I should find out in the next week or so what the future holds for me in the South of Italy.  I’ve had a number of interviews, and even a few job offers, but nothing has come through just yet.    If I can find a sustainable job teaching English or working at a bar (less likely) then I will stay here in Bari until next summer. However, because of the high unemployment and certain legal barriers to my employment in Italy, there is a good chance that I will not find a good job opportunity here in the south within the small time frame I’m giving myself, in which case I will be back in America for the holidays.  I will write as soon as I find out!

Un bacione,

Craig

written 11/10/09

In the last entry I described a hard working environment that sustained itself in relative peace, and that was certainly the way it was during my first two weeks.  Whether this was the norm or if I have perfect timing for dropping in at times of conflict, I don’t know, but there is definitely a grey cloud hanging over this ol’ farmhouse.

Conscience:  why don’t you get that ol’ shotgun and shoot yourself in the knee cap for that one?

The trouble is slightly complicated so I’ll provide a bit of background:

Nicla, the current owner of the house, is a strong personality.  She doesn’t hold back when it comes to saying what’s on her mind, or what she thinks is on yours.  I recall her once telling me, “you’re lying to yourself,” when I used slight equivocation in a job report.  I don’t blame her: You need this kind of forward personality when undertaking the project she is currently working on.  She works on this project of hers everyday from sunrise to sunset, and she will give you a job to complete if you don’t speak up about taking a rest or having plans.  When dealing with these strong personalities, it’s important you voice your interests clearly as to not get walked over by the dominating character.  She would like to work everyday because it is her project; her baby: Understandable. However, because the project does not have the same significance to temporary workers, it is not fair to expect the same passion, and workers need time off to stay sane.  I’m not saying she wouldn’t grant time off, but you definitely needed to ask for it.

Allora,

It was Thursday October 28th around 9am.  With the morning routine just finished and the day’s work about to begin, Nicla told Dan (the Romanian carpenter) to chop down a tree on the side of the house while she went out to take care of a few errands.  She told me to assist Dan with no further details as to what he was doing.  She left soon after and I went outside to see what I was supposed to do, but Dan was nowhere to be found.  Dan decided to take the morning off.  What he was doing, I didn’t know, but I decided to follow his example.  When Nicla came home some hours later, she discovered that nothing had been done and that Dan was inside taking a nap.  I was outside at the time taking pictures of the Kaki tree for the farm’s website.  I saw something snap in her head when she saw that nothing had been done.  I didn’t dare to enter the house as I heard her screaming at Dan in broken English that I couldn’t understand through the walls.  I minded my own business and got on with the day, chopping down the dead and insignificant tree which caused so much conflict.

Later in the afternoon I heard that Dan left the farm.  The rest of the day was tainted by dramatic scenes. I thought he was just taking a walk to let off some steam, but apparently he hit the road for some better place.  Throughout the evening I saw Adrianna running messages back and forth between mom and Nicla about going back to Romania.  She cried often at the exit of her father.  Violetta was in tears as she tugged on cigarettes outside of the garage while Nicla talked to her in that ever persistent Italian argumentative mood (“I’m not yelling, this is just how I talk”).  Adrianna, holding one of daddy’s t-shirts at the dinner table, hardly ate as she talked about Romania and finding her father.

I thought it was a strange thing for him to leave like that.  Although the working conditions may have been adverse, it was nothing to abandon your family for. However, they were a very strange family from my perspective.  Adrianna was showing me pictures from her parent’s wedding and other family moments and they didn’t smile whatsoever in the pictures.  The pic from the last post is the exception. I’ve never seen a wedding photo where all the parties were wearing funeral faces, and the best man a white t-shirt and jeans. Please don’t take this as an evaluative judgment. I’m just trying to demonstrate how their family dynamics are different than those commonly imagined in America.

I’m not going to take a side on this one because both parties were equally at fault.  Nicla shouldn’t have flipped out over something so insignificant, but Dan should have just asked for the morning off.  It’s crazy how stupid disagreements can escalate like this and cause so much unnecessary damage.  I know that emotions are strong, but I felt embarrassed to hear two adults acting so undisciplined towards one another.  Sometimes, we take ourselves too seriously and let our emotions get the best of us.   Violetta hasn’t been the same since.  She used to smile and laugh at my awkwardness around the house but her eyes turned red and baggy as she smoked twice as many cigarettes as she did before Danny left.  Violetta and her daughter left the farmhouse a few hours before I did on Halloween in route to Rome to meet up with Danny to discuss where the future of their family lies. What they’ve decided, I don’t know, but maybe I’ll find out sometime in the next few days. Anyway, I thought this was an interesting story, but let us move on to something a bit more light-hearted.

Lunch with Lido

Throughout the two weeks I was in Montepulciano, Lido, a friend of Nicla’s, repeatedly inquired about my labor.  We setup numerous appointments for me to go to his farm for the day, and he missed about 4 of them, but he finally came through a day before I left Toscana.

The morning was pretty straightforward:  we built a chicken pen, mainly erecting (huh huh) a fence to keep animals out of his beautiful garden. It was a very handsome garden with many vegetables and plants that had giant leaves perfect for dinosaur salad. The centerpiece was a seemingly weeping Kaki tree overlooking the rest of the vegetation; its branches weighed down by the brilliant orange fruits budding at its fingers.  I really enjoyed touring his garden, ducking through the wood framed tunnels laced with grape vines and listening to the screaming geese as they tried to bust out of their pen.  Still, it’s not the romantic imagery or pissed-off animals that I will remember about this day.

Lunch time

Around 1:15 Lido began talking about heading up to have lunch at his house.  He finally gave in around 1:30 and we took his car up the street to join his wife Marcella for the most memorable lunch hour of my lifetime.

We entered the dining room like two heavy weight boxers, Lido weighing in at around 300 pounds, and I around 135.  Marcella waddled out of the kitchen to greet us.  She was a very short and strange lady; low energy in her movements and drearily soft in her voice. With her head tilted to the side and a permanent wince in one of her eyes, she brought out round 1 to a table perfectly arranged.  As we sat in that dining room, illuminated by the giant glass window and its reflection on the light wooden furniture, I felt as though I was eating my “last supper,” and in a way, I believe it was because no meal will ever rival the gluttony of that sunny October afternoon.  Italian meals usually consist of multiple courses, a varying combination of:  antipasti, primi piatti, secondi, a vegetable, fruit, and dolce… Most people don’t follow this kind of traditional meal system everyday, reserving the custom for Sundays and holidays, but it’s a different story with this Ciccione (big guy).

Although the details aren’t completely clear to me, it went something like this…

Ding ding ding….

Round 1

In her infinite grace and charm, Marcella brings out a giant pot full of fresh pasta and pesto, giving Lido and I both an entire baguette to use accordingly. No problem!  The serving was the equivalent of a pasta dish you would get at an Italian-American restaurant.  We take the dish with a glass of wine.  I think to myself that life is good as I calmly scoop up the remaining pesto with a piece of my baguette.

Ding Ding Ding

Round 2

Marcella returns from the kitchen once again, placing two steaming pots on the table.  Lido reaches into container number one and serves me a healthy Florentine bistecca (steak).  I’m thoroughly impressed and excited at the prospect of having my first steak in months.  Lido tells me to aspetta (wait).  He then goes into the second pot and reveals the sauce:  a meat sauce (!!!) composed of mashed beef and zucchini.  Although I had a reputation in college for being a carnivore, I felt like a bunny rabbit nibbling on a carrot in mama’s dwelling when Lido presented this slaughterhouse of an entrée.

Round 2.1

I finish my few pieces of steak, now cleaning up the sauce with some bread as Lido serves another portion of beef and meatsauce on my plate.  I think to myself it’s no big deal as I must be polite and finish a heavy meal.  I compliment the meal between painful burps and Lido responds, “e cosi’ ogni giorni” (It’s like this every day).

I take another bite of carnivore’s delight and look at him while laboriously chewing, “no fucking shit.” He didn’t understand and we get on with the meal in relative harmony.

Round 2.2

Before I can finish the second portion, Lido mutters something I don’t understand in Italian as he slabs the third round of steak below my tired chin.  I consciously accept my fate like a soldier walking through Vietnamese jungles. I take my knife and fork like a rifle and go to work.  Halfway through the fight my vision becomes blurry and I start having hallucinogenic thoughts.  I’m metaphorically down on one knee being consulted by the referee.  Slowly, but surely I finish my portion and politely refuse Lido’s next serving.  I finish the bread and take my last gulp of wine as I think to myself that the victory lap has been completed.

Marcella gets up from the table mysteriously and soon returns holding the front of her shirt, the resulting pocket draped like a pouch, weighed down by about 11 pieces of fruit.  She spills apples, oranges, tangerines, pears and kaki onto the table recklessly.

Dinggggg dinnnnggg

Round 3

Lido puts an apple and tangerine in front of me.  I see Marcella once again approaching the cabinet out of the corner of my eye.   Lido looks at me and says, “mangia, mangia,” and I think to myself that I’ve reached the end of the line.  I start with the tangerine because it’s a gentle and small fruit: eating it feels like throwing up compared to the past 15 minutes of behavior that could have fed a small village in the Congo. Marcella returns to the table again unleashing 10 packs of little cakes and firmly places a bottle of liquor down on the table.  I wipe the tear from the corner of my eye and denounce the existence of god under my breath.

…Lido places two little cakes on my plate and pours an entire glass of liquor for me.

I’m like an open heart surgery patient waking up from heavy anesthesia as I slowly ingest the apple and cake while washing it down with sweet liquor. I’ve increased my chance of a fatal stomach failure by about 20 percent and it hardly matters to my delirious thought process.

After taking the last bite of the cake, Marcella comes out of the kitchen wielding a pot of fresh coffee and I sip it gently in hopes of sobriety like an 18 year old freshmen disabled in a dorm bathroom drinking cold water while leaning on the adjacent toilet seat.

————————————————————————————————————

My stomach was in pain as I stood up… I felt dizzy, my vision a bit blurry on the peripheral.  I felt euphoric but drowsy, giddy yet paranoid; and in complete disbelief of what just happened.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Lido got a phone call and had to bounce, so it was just me and Marcella for the rest of the day.

Marcella and I walked down to the garden and she told me to wait by the wine cellar while she got some buckets for collecting grapes.  Originally she was wearing a blue sweater and floral long skirt and slippers—some classy threads for an older woman. She returned wearing rain boots, long clashing argyle socks, a long dark brown trench coat and a blue polka dotted bandana.  I was too intoxicated from lunch to even consider humor, but I put the image in my back pocket for later.  I’m lucky we only had to pick grapes because there was no way that I could have done anything physically demanding that afternoon.

I’ve never really been into tattoos, but after that afternoon I rushed down to the parlor and gave up my ink virginity by marking my left breast:

Never forget

Lunch with Lido

10/30/2009

That’s the end for the countryside chapter and I’ll have something about seaside Bari in the next few days. Till then!

Craig

Living on a farm is just like that game on facebook: Farmville. Take for instance the other day, this really really lonely purple cow randomly wandered onto the property looking for companionship….

Nah, but for real…

The past ten days have been times of hard work, full stomachs, dirty hands, deep slumbers, early mornings, and red wine.  Rural Tuscany is a land of natural beauty and heavily romanced meals that attracts millions of people around the world who visit the region to take part in some form of agriturismo.

I could write a book on farm life in Tuscany, but I’ll spare you the pain by providing a little spark notes guide to my time here at Montepulciano.

Overview

I’ve been living a humble relationship with nature based on absolute resourcefulness and recycling—not in the sense of throwing your plastic and glass into a blue container and dragging it out to the sidewalk every Tuesday. We actually re-use everything—bread, water and ashes from burnt rubbish. Spending your time earning money to buy things vs. spending your time to make things is an interesting matter for a recent graduate and I’m happy to be on the other side of the fence for a little while—to learn the value of things for which I only know the price.   I’ve been working every day from sunrise to sunset in a storybook setting, enjoying family style meals, practicing Italian, and writing come moonlight. This countryside interlude has been a fine experience, but an interlude is all it is because the long term opportunity here is not promising and I will be hitting the road again this Sunday.

Setting & Characters

la casa

I’m sleeping my nights and working my days at an old farmhouse a few kilometers outside of the ancient hillside town of Montepulciano with 6 other people. Nicla, the current proprietor of the home is the host with whom I arranged this stay. Although I have not directly asked her, I deduce that she’s in her mid-fifties. She moved out to the farmhouse 4 years ago when she quit her job in Rome [because after 18 years of employment with this one company, they told her that they changed the retirement policy so that she would not be entitled to a pension after 20 years as previously promised (this world is a cruel place)]. The house belongs to her Uncle, but because of Alzheimer’s disease, he is no longer able to take care of the place by himself so Nicla and her mother moved in to take care of him while Nicla hacks away at the restoration process. Apparently, “Zio” (Uncle in Italian, as he’s called around the house) was living in very primitive conditions when Nicla and her mother arrived. For the past three years, Nicla has been restoring the property to its old glory and it looks pretty good.

Ciao Nicla

The gigantic property sits on a hill in the Val di Chiana of Southern Tuscany. There are two other houses on the premises, but both are quite far from being inhabitable and are works in progress. Also on the farm grounds is a pond, an under-construction swimming pool, chicken quarters, wood shed(s), bench areas, and a world-class back porch with an expansive view of the Tuscan landscape. Along with Nicla’s family, a Romanian family of three stays here in a work-exchange type of scenario. The mother Violetta and father Danny are in their early 30’s and their 6 year old daughter Adrianna goes to school in Montepulciano. From sunrise onwards, everyone is busy taking care of their respective chores and jobs. Come lunch and supper, all 7 of us are gathered around the kitchen table, sharing massive bowls of fresh pasta that nonna (Nicla’s mom) just finished making from flour and eggs. These family style meals are the cornerstone of the day and have provided some of the most pleasurable moments of my trip.

The picture above is the view from the back of the house. As pleasant as the photograph seems, it does nothing to justify what the eye does for this landscape. It’s surreal, sublime, heart-melting, picturesque—everything. There’s no point in wasting polluted words on such a sight. As mesmerizing as it is during the day, it is also captivating at night when the village and city lights fill the horizon in patches of glowing mosaic. Cars pass slowly along the country roads, major highways, and mountain passes, like little dots of light sailing gracefully across the deep purple sky. I’ve been told that Zio used to prefer taking a lawnchair out to the main highway to witness progress rather than relaxing by the beautiful valley. At first I was a bit taken back, but progress and the motion of humans, from social patterns to physical movement, is very inspiring when you take the chance to appreciate it from stillness.  Seeing the state the disease has put him in now, this thought has been pretty heavy in my mind lately.

Conscience: thanks, that was uplifting.

Plot Summary

In the past two weeks, I’ve been earning my bed and meals as a cook, lumberjack, marketing agent, website designer, grape harvester, baker and butcher. Working so closely with a farmer, experienced cook and carpenter, I’m picking up a lot of knowledge I wouldn’t usually come across on 36th avenue in College Park.  I’ve been carrying out a lot of tasks I’ve never tried before, picking up many tricks and skills that I can carry with me in the long run.

The Vendemmia–Friday October 16th

On my second evening at the farm, we got a phone call during dinner from Lido, a family friend and wine expert, saying that our vines needed harvesting asap. The next day we headed out around 9am to the vineyard down the street to perform the vendemmia (grape harvest in Italian). We worked down each row of grape vines for 9 hours and picked a total of 10 tons between 3 people. During the lunch break I was famished and ate a kilo of mortadella Panini and 3 green tangerines. The harvest had a very romantic aspect to it: here’s a scribble from my noteboook:

‘Tasting the fresh grapes off the vine as the sunny day of work presses on. Looking down the row of untamed vines, the hill gently slopes to reveal a lush countryside view of green hills rolling like cartoon waves in a sea of land.’  It’s moments like this that strike a powerful chord in your heart and put you in equilibrium with the natural environment, above the pains of labor and sorrow, and at peace with the mysterious world that surrounds you.

Whadup Lido

The day to day

7:10am—Alarm rings again and I actually wake up because I passed out at 11pm last night. I grab my work jeans from the dresser, put them on over my sweatpants, throw on my jacket and head downstairs.

7:30am—After making the chicken scratch in the wood shed, I’m now in the heart of the chicken pen, scooping heaves of wet bread mixed with grain and seeds into iron feeding bowls as chickens surround me, savagely “bocking” while I fill their plates.

8:30am—Breakfast (5 slices of fresh bread with jam and a banana) is over and I resume making the bread I started last night…85 year old grandma is laughing at me as I struggle to mix the flour and knead the dough, telling me to use some olio di gomito (elbow grease).  I tell her to fuck off and mind her own business.  (JK)

10:00am—Outside of woodshed, wearing a woman’s long jacket I found in the dresser, and a red checkered scarf, holding a sledgehammer in my hand, and asking Nicla, “Uh where should I put this?”

12:00 noon—Been working for about 3 hours now, moving land, cutting down trees, peeling the bark off trees I cut down, cleaning buckets of ash and water used to do the laundry, and other things I learned to do in college.

2:00pm—Adrianna comes home from school—lunch time. Brilliant! Eating pounds of fresh pasta in savory gravy, soaking up every drop with the bread my hands slaved over this morning. Dan, the Romanian carpenter, and I, get in trouble for giggling at Zio as he holds the tines of the fork in his hand, stabbing at the soup below him with handle.

2:45pm—Enjoying cup of coffee with Nicla

3:00pm—“Wow this fantastic,” I take a break from cleaning chicken discharge to admire the valley vista, as I go through countless ambitions in my head, whistling blissfully along the way.

4:30pm—Knees sunk in the muddy clay of the wet Tuscan earth, dejected, picking up sticks and thinking about how the dismal economy is the result of caffeine induced optimism rather than a bubbling market or greedy wall-street bigots.

6:00pm—Sun has set. Work is over. In my room reading Newcastle United headlines, contemplating the benefits of becoming a Geordie legend by murdering Mike Ashley.

7:00pm—showered and in the kitchen, waiting for dinner, my desire to have children is taking serious chops to the knees as I listen to Adrianna talk about every letter she learned today at school.

8:00pm—Dinner is over, I’m experiencing slight pain from eating so many meatballs, but I get on with the bread process, getting yelled at a few times along the way, “well you made a bigger mess tonight than you did on Tuesday, bravo.” I watch a soap opera until around 930 and head up to my room

11:00pm—In my room, wrapped in two fleece blankets because the heating system is broken. I give productivity a try, but quickly submit to my heavy eye lids.

Themes & Motifs

Between caffeine rage and depression, I am learning a lot from the experience, like how to: make fresh pesto, maintain a vegetable garden, construct a bench, care for lumber, silence children, and work more effectively with my hands (become better at “hand jobs,” as the Italians say). In Florence I made my living through writing and mental labor whereas Montepulciano demands the services of my body. I think my body appreciates it too. I feel solid and healthy when eating dinner after working all day on the land, re-affirmed in the idea that people aren’t made of glass.

Aside from the labor, I’ve been constantly charmed with the natural setting of my workplace. I really enjoy taking walks through country roads, along corridors of olive groves, passing ancient wine cellars and sampling fresh pomegranate fruit from the trees. Breaking from work and glancing over my shoulder, there is always a world class view to be admired. I feel a strong connection with the natural surroundings and organic lifestyle.

To spend your time making the things you need to live, instead of making money to buy the things you do, has always been a curiosity of mine and working here has been an enlightening way of exploring this interest.  It’s always healthy to take a step outside of your perspective and see it from another angle, and being here has definitely provided me with the chance to meditate on the things I take for granted all too often.

So this begs the question: Then why are you leaving so soon??

Conclusion

There are a number of reasons pushing me to move on from Belmondo farms at this point, but it all boils down to the timing. I’m on my last life, financially speaking, to try out a new city, and I don’t want to save it for January only to fail and fly home on February 1st at the expense of missing the holidays with my family. I want to take my gamble before December so that if things don’t work out, at least I will be home for Christmas. It’s a tender time of the year for decision making and I’ve got to be strategic with my moves, and leaving Montepulciano this Sunday is the most rational move I can make.

My brief sojourn here on the farm has been fantastic, but the timing seems mutually beneficial for Nicla and I to part ways as the cold weather kills outdoor work and I am strategizing my next move. Perhaps the abundance of sarcasm in the “day to day” section of this post is a reflection of a subconscious dissatisfaction with the hardships of living on the farm, who knows?  It doesn’t bother me too much when little green bugs crawl out from my pants, or when I discover a giant wasp spending the night with me under my sheets. I appreciate the soreness of a day’s work, but the soreness certainly comes from somewhere and maybe subjecting myself to this kind of labor over an extended period of time is not what my mind and body are calling for….

Where to?

This week I committed to a bedroom in the city of Bari for the month of November. Bari is the city from which my paternal grandmother’s family comes from and is located on the back heel of the Italian boot, right around the Achilles tendon. It is Southern Italy in the purest form and I’m looking forward to what this transition has to offer. I leave Montepulciano on Sunday and spend a day in Florence before making the 9 hour train ride down South. The next time I write, I will two blocks away from the sea on the beautiful Adriatic coast.

Nell’attesa,

Craigorio

Last time we spoke, it was the end of September and I’d just got home from the Liverpool v. Fiorentina Champions’ Leauge draw. When I returned from the stadium, I got the confirmation e-mail in my inbox that I could possibly come out to Montepulciano on October 15th. I had been weighing up this kind of transition since the beginning of September and the timing seemed right to make a move.

The biggest decision to make was between settling in Florence and adapting a more nomadic lifestyle. There were a few opportunities brewing in the city that enticed me to stay for the year, but a few fell through and the natural rhythm of thing seemed to be leading elsewhere. I remembered that I came here to live in the moment rather than establishing a career in American study abroad tourism. It wasn’t a difficult choice.

The part that I struggled with most was abandoning everything I built up during my time in Florence: most notably the friends I made. Still, I would have left the city eventually and goodbye was unavoidable: it was only a matter of time. That’s not to say I didn’t appreciate the relationships I had there, they were fantastic and I’ve made some quality connections I’m sure I will revisit in the future.

I spent the first two weeks of October enjoying my remaining time in Florence. I continued with my three jobs: writing for Party Earth, publicizing Fish Pub and waiting tables at Chiodo Fisso. Things were fantastic: I was making money, practicing Italian, meeting new people, going out and trying fresh experiences.

Some notes from a Florentine October

So I was doing a lot of Facebook work with Fish Pub towards the end of my tenure and I want to share a few scribbles from my notebook….I was mostly assigned the task of adding hundreds and hundreds of people as friends so that we could better promote our events. Here are some of my notes…

1. Remind me to divorce my wife if I have a daughter named “Hope”

2. Facebook just asked me to help Jimmy LeDouche find more friends, but I don’t think there’s anything I, or anyone else, could do. Sorry Jimmy, I know this wasn’t what you were expecting to hear when you google’d your name!

3. Chadly Stern: you’re the whitest person I’ve ever seen. Good luck in life.

4. I want to see the person taking the picture of Michael LaPorta alone on an empty beach throwing a rock with his shirt off

5. Hi, my name’s Daniel, as you can see, my interests include smoking hookah.

6. Wait, I’m sitting in Italy, getting paid to work on facebook while listening to Cumulus songs???

Poor Jimmy

Tying up all the loose ends in Florence went really well, and all the goodbyes were properly bittersweet, well, except for one that is. Chiodo Fisso guitar club has always treated me well and Andrea, the owner, had become a pretty good friend of mine.

A little background: Andrea is a singer-songwriter who spent his life on the road, touring the world and performing his songs. He’s now retired and manages this bar. He lives outside of the city in the Chianti countryside in a big house with a few horses given to him by the Cheyenne Native Americans (apparently he lived with them for three years or something). When I got the job, and while I was working, he had a woman named Danielle working at the bar and living with him. She is around 67 years old or so, but she was very beautiful. Easily the hottest “close to 70” chick I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. Andrea always complained to me about this relationship and how they were going to break-up pretty soon. He told me that when this happens he’ll need someone to move in with him and drive him to the city for work 5 days a week, since he’s had his driver’s license suspended for driving drunk. He asked me during the job interview if I would be interested and I said “I’ll think about it,” just so I would have a better chance at working there, but with no genuine thought about moving in with this dude.

Anyway, their relationship was strong during the month I worked there and I didn’t suspect that a break-up was imminent. So one night I was out with my roommate Marin, having a beer, and I was about to call the bar to inform Andrea I was leaving Florence. About 1 hour before I planned on doing so, he calls me. It’s about midnight. We can translate the conversation somewhere along these lines… My phone starts buzzing in my pocket as Marin and I are walking across the Piazza Santa Maria Novella. I look at him and realize what shit’s about to go down. I open my phone:

“Hello?” in a hesitant and cautious tone

“Craigorioooooo,” mixed with other random sounds

“Ciao Andrea, how are you? Everything in place?”

“She left me! I told you it would happen. Finally, she has gone. Now we can begin working together. Craigorio and Andrea! What are you doing? Where are you?”

“Ah….emmmmmm.. yeah. Uh. I’m at S.M.N… I’m not really doing much.”

“Come down here. I’m alone, she left me!”

“Alright, I’ll come by in a bit”

“Help! Help! Hahaha”

Click’

I took Marin’s bike and had a nice pedal downtown through quiet streets and empty plazas. I got to Chiodo Fisso to find an empty bar, a completely new arrangement and a black-out drunk 60 year old Italian singer-songwriter. He had those crooked eyes that two bottles of red wine can produce. He was talking about the same things he mentioned on the phone, saying things like, “we work now. Here you work. Bar man, waiter, you work here, remember that deal we made?” Eventually he asked me, “so what do you think?” I told him that I was leaving Florence, that I wasn’t able to pay the bills here even with three jobs, and that I had to leave. He interpreted this as “oh you found another job. You want to go work at that pub and listen to the POP MUSIC? Huh? That shit! That’s fine, I understand people like you, I understand all people, you have your own selfish interests and that’s fine!” He poured both of us massive glasses of wine and kept saying, “tonight, we drink!” I was trying to explain myself, but his drunken disposition would have none of it. An aimless argument took place in similar circles for about 15 minutes. Between insults and accusations he would say I was a good guy and cheers me. During this little tiff, another man walked into the bar: an older fellow with blond hair and a black moustache. Some people may say he had “good flow.” He stood at the bar patiently while Andrea and I argued occasionally requesting a glass of whiskey. Andrea would ask his opinion from time to time only to interrupt him seconds later. Andrea eventually poured him his glass of whiskey and left the room for a moment. I had a chance to sit down with this guy. His name was Marcello, a 65 year old man working at a nearby restaurant. We were sitting at one of the tables, he drinking his glass of whiskey, I, my third glass of wine.

He said something like, “—- my wife called me today from Los Angeles and told me that she’s found another man: she’s 58, I’m 65! I’m going to book a flight there tomorrow and kill them both! (makes gun with his pointer finger and thumb, simulates shooting with percussive noises from mouth) I’m 65 years old. You think that I give a fuck? I’ll shoot em both at dinner and then blow my own brains out. I’ve lived a fine life; I don’t give a fuck for making it to 70. (keeps reaching into jacket pocket as if he’s clenching a concealed weapon)” At this point, Andrea re-enters the room and begins talking nonsense again. He goes, “that’s fine, you’ve gotta pursue your own interests, I understand, but tonight, we drink!” He opens up another bottle of wine and pours Marcello another glass of whiskey. I’m think to myself, I’m sitting here with an deliriously upset boss and a 65 year old fucking maniac possibly carrying a gun, both of whom just got dumped by their respective significant others. I look at my cell phone and its 2:30am. I decide to stay and drink with these two wise men. We have another bottle of wine while discussing many topics ranging from politics, to murder, religion, to women and back. Eventually I made the bike ride back home a forever changed man.

Palazzo Vecchio

In comparison to this episode, everything went fine in regards to wrapping up my business in Florence. The wonderful Ms. Amy McGovern passed through town during the last week and we had a really great time touring the city.

The Proof is in the Pudding

I spent my last night in the city playing soccer with Alessandro and a group of his friends. We rented out this turf field under the lights across the river. It was a great game. I especially enjoyed it because I scored the first goal of the game and was offered to join their club that starts their season in November. It was a fantastic note on which to end my stay in Florence.

Okay, so this is a sufficient entry for now. I’m sitting here in my bedroom in a farmhouse in Montepulciano in a completely different position than I had in Florence. It’s a bit colder up here in the hills and away from the smog of the city. That, in combination with the lack of heating in the house, leaves me wrapped in blankets and sweatpants while typing this entry with sore hands darkened by the dirt stains of the vineyards. Despite certain fallen luxuries, moving to the countryside has brought a plethora of new experience on which I’ll elaborate further in my next post. The picture below is the view I see to my right, outside of the bedroom window. Forza Pinguini!

It’s about 2am here in Italy and I’ve just returned to my apartment from my last night out in Florence to sleep golden slumbers for the final time in this unforgettable flat. Although this may seem like a sharp twist in the storyline, it is a decision that has been developing soundly over the past 6 weeks. Towards the end of September and early October, a change seemed imminent. The opportunity to pursue a new venture became more tangible as time went on, and when the decision eventually presented itself, the choice was easy. Given all of the circumstances surrounding my current situation, this transition only seemed natural. Of course leaving Florence is a difficult thing. Tonight I have said my goodbyes to many friends with whom I was just beginning to connect. It’s sad to leave, but I’ve embraced my emotions and compromised with sadness, taking with me memories in exchange for a few uneasy smiles and reluctantly waving hands.

Tomorrow at around 1:15pm my train will be departing Florence in route for a small town southeast of here called Montepulciano. I’m moving into a farm just outside of the town to work on this season’s wine harvest. In Italian it’s called the “vendemmia.” I will be working for 5 hours a day, 5 days a week in exchange for room and board. I don’t know for exactly how long I will be staying there in the tuscan farmhouse. It depends on how I like the lifestyle.

I ultimately chose to make this kind of transition because I want to learn as much as I can from different experiences. I am only in Italy for a short time; I’d like to see other parts of the country and try my hand at as many kinds of different work that I can reach. Agricultural and rural life is something I’m looking forward to having a go at. There is a lot to learn from working with the land I’m confident it will be highly rewarding.

Florence has been very kind to me. The beautiful sights are heart-melting and the international cocktail of people here is infinitely interesting. It’s a truly unique city and I couldn’t be happier the two months I’ve spent amongst its beauty and charm. Blasting along the Arno River this evening on the back of Alessandro’s vespa, I was reminded of just how handsome the city is. While swerving around traffic and cutting through lanes of stopped cars at traffic lights, I got a good look of the scrolling skyline before heading into the city’s heart, racing through the narrow cobblestone streets, under vine riddled arches and ebullient piazzas. It was one of those moments where you literally pinch yourself, but don’t have the ensuing displeasure of waking up from the dream.

Okay, I’m going to cut this post off where it is because I just wanted to provide a little update in case this move to the countryside delays a proper posting. I’ll have all the details of the new situation as soon as I get around to it, but I expect that it will be sooner rather than later.

Amore e Pace,

Craig

]]> http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/welcome-to-the-new-october/feed/ 0 eurocraigorio http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/09/30/forza-viola-viola/ http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/09/30/forza-viola-viola/#comments Wed, 30 Sep 2009 15:19:29 +0000 eurocraigorio http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/?p=152 Continue reading →]]> Champion’s league Football—Get Stuck in!

Just as ticket acquisition for the 29th of September Champion’s League draw between Liverpool & Fiorentina looked dismal, a ray of sunshine broke through the clouds as the ticket ban for foreigners was lifted just days before the match. When I read this on the Fiorentina website, I grabbed my wallet and literally ran across the city to the ticket booth. The same lady was working who had already turned my ticket request down multiple times over the past couple of days. This time everything was fine and she smiled at me as I kissed my fingers and thanked her graciously for one of the last seats available in Fiorentina’s Curva Fiesole—the part of the stadium that is similar to the student section of a college football game. On the way home I was pretty much skipping like a schoolboy… I smiled at everyone, gave two euros to a homeless dude and burst up the stairs when I got home to show my roommates my new treasure. I felt like Charlie Bucket.

Unfortunately neither of my roommates had the money to join me on this adventure, and since I bought the ticket at such short notice (48 hours before kickoff), I had to go this one alone. Still, it was completely worth it and an absolutely sublime experience.

Curva Fiesole

I bought a purple t-shirt at the San Lorenzo market on the way to the bus stop and made it there just in time to catch a bus with a bunch of shit-hammered scousers heading up to the stadium. Jo JO—you would have been singing proud and loud with them brov:

Unfortunately for them, their singing didn’t get the Reds very far that night. Fiorentina completely dominated the first half with 19 year old Montenegrin wonder kid Stefan Jovetic banging in two goals within a ten minute margin. His pace was too much for the Reds in the first half and they weren’t looking up for it at all. They showed some home at the beginning of the second, but they failed to take their chances and Fiorentina weathered the storm on their way to an impressive victory. Labeled as heavy underdogs from the beginning, the viola were able to keep their Champions League dreams alive with an absolutely massive win. Check out the highlights below.

http://www.footytube.com/video/fiorentina-liverpool-sep29-24139

There are some things in this world that cannot be justified by recordings and televeised broadcasts. Things like grateful dead concerts and large music festivals. Well, let’s add to the list the Champion’s league theme song. Hearing it live was surreal and not even in the same league as the tv version… much more powerful and emotional.

THESE ARE THE CHAMPIONS……

Like Randolph High School hockey games, and University of Maryland football games of the past, the crowd erupted into a passionate and loving mosh pit when Fiorentina scored their goals. There’s nothing funnier than bouncing around exchanging hugs an high fives with a bunch of lunatic, football-crazed Italiani.

Even as I write this blog entry now at 1am on Tuesday night, I can hear the songs from the bars below floating up through the courtyard and into the kitchen window…. and I just realized that I should be down there having some lager to celebrate so I’ll continue this blog entry tomorrow!!! Forza Violaaa!

……………..

So last night I went downstairs and around the block to the bar there and had a beer with a mix of Fiorentina and Liverpool fans. The cops showed up and kicked the fuck out of these two Liverpool fans for singing too loud—absolutely insane…. Nah, I’m just kidding. But seriously, the Liverpool fans were in rare form in song and inebriation. You couldn’t stop them from singing. The cops came and the bar owners really yelled at them to stop. Still, every two minutes you would hear one of the guys, “BRING ON YOUR MANCHESTER UNIIITED…” Still, the groups of fiorentina fans and Liverpool fans drinking together was an amazing symbol of sportsmanship. At the end of the game, a few Italians ran over to the Liverpool fans section with a banner that said, in English, “Welcome Reds, To Us Your Story is a Legend.” Also, one of the finishing songs from the fan section was, Liverpool ti amo Liverpool (Liverpool I love you Liverpool). To see the fans coming together after the game like this was an uplifting sight symbolizing the potential of human compassion.

Fans showing their love

After the game finished, I stuck around the pitch while the crowd filed out. When the Liverpool players came out onto the pitch to do their post-game cool down, there were groups of Italians applauding and chanting Steven Gerrard songs as he took his jog around the field.

Steven Gerrard and Glen Johnson having a proper jog about the pitch

Outside of the stadium there was a nearby street lined with festival food stands where a mass of Fiorentina fans were enjoying sandwiches and post game drinks. I picked up a pork sandwich and began the long walk home. It was a warm night perfect for letting the memory sink in.

Some of you who know me very well may ask, “Craig, I thought that you supported Liverpool. How could you possibly go see Steven Gerrard, after you read his 500 page autobiography, with an opposing color on your chest?”

In this situation I opted for the “root for the home team” rule. If I got tickets in the Liverpool section, I would have been white and red all over. I know this sounds hypocritical, but the truth is that I’m a fan of the sport. Of course Newcastle comes before all in any situation. If it was Newcastle who came to town, I would have worn neutral white and rooted for them silently in my mind. Since I have no real connections to any of the clubs in Europe, I feel no guilt in putting on a purple shirt to root for Fiorentina. It’s a different story for the New York Giants though. I would never wear another team’s colors to their game no matter where I was.

Before I start spilling my blog guts all over this keyboard, I wanted to refrain from this Italy discourse for a moment of humorous solace.

Humanity—there’s no way to get around it.

These two videos account for a good two hours of work-time lost, but considering how much laughter they’re responsible for, I’d say it was well worth it.

Okay… so life here in Italia has been very nice over the past week. I’ve been juggling three jobs, studying a lot of Italian and making the best of life post-College Park. The change in lifestyle from college has been enjoyable. Although the free-flow, hazy drunk vibe of undergrad life was incredible, making ends meet and learning from the practical world is just as enlightening. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been in school for the past 17 years and I’m experiencing a bit of the Hawthorne effect (omg… Hawthorne Heights?!?!?!) , but it feels good in a cleansing kind of way to be financially independent and living from hand to mouth. Although I haven’t come to any ground breaking personal epiphanies, general questions about life become less cloudy from week to week.

A few notable things from the past week or so

I’ve been putting a fair amount of hours into this PR job with The Fish Pub. A lot of the work that goes into this position involves street promotion. Going around the city shoving flyers in people’s faces is far from the ideal job, and as a result I’ve got to go other places in my head to entertain myself. It’s actually a really interesting people study though, and has made me think twice about the art of walking down the street.

A street-promoter’s perspective: Cities are healthier places when people are receptive to their environment, so do you and your friends a favor and project good vibes upon your community. We’re all human and you’re never going to be above saying “no thank you” no matter how much your jeans cost. As a street promoter, I’m numb to these kind of things while working, so you’re not hurting my feelings or anything, you just make yourself look like an asshole. But hey, some people get a deep kind of satisfaction from that feeling, so to each their own. Still, if you’re interested in social welfare, be open to the people and things happening around you.

Fish Pub

As you already know, my attention tends to wander rather quickly and this job does nothing to help this phenomenon. Sometimes I walk two or three blocks down the street without handing out any flyers because I’m too busy thinking about peach pits or how to beat Dizzy, the classic NES game. It’s okay though because micromanagement isn’t an issue.

The unmistakable grace of Dizzy

On Wednesday night I hosted my first open bar party at the Fish Pub. The evening went well and I made about 70 Euros, but I have to admit that it was a bit lucky. None of the people who attended the party were those who were invited on facebook or attracted by my promotion work. There was an important soccer game that night and many people were already at the bar and drinking when the open bar offer began. There were also a number of groups who just showed up that night. It was Gonzaga’s first night in the city and they were all naïve enough to be persuaded by the flyers in the streets to give the Fish Pub a try.

Still, it was a cool experience to be in charge of an event, making decisions and keeping morale high.

Conscience: That’s classic resume bullshit if I’ve ever heard it…you know damn right that you were nothing more than the designated apologizer for the shitty scam your superiors setup for you to execute.

My job with the Fish Pub is to connect with American students here in town and bring them to the bar for this Wednesday night Open Bar Party. After about 3 weeks of carrying out this task, it’s safe to say that I’m not effective in the position. Like I mentioned before, none of my promotion techniques work and I have a very small contact list when it comes to American students. The job is designed for somebody who is currently an active member of the American student body, and my disposition outside of that demographic makes it difficult for me to succeed. I expect my employment to disintegrate there over the next week or so, or at least I’m hoping it will. My roommates joke about it a lot and think otherwise, but I just don’t see this working out for long. I have a few better employment opportunities brewing and the natural flow of things seems to be going away from Fish Pub.

I’ve got a confession to make…… I…. mmmm…yeah…..I own a man-purse. I didn’t buy it, I swear. My boss purchased it for me because I didn’t have a way of carrying the stacks of flyers while prowling the streets. That yellow Mayland bag, which has served similar functions over the years, has gone missing and I was left with no choice but to embrace this embarrassment. It’s hard to believe, but they’re very popular over here in Italy and it’s completely normal for a guy to carry some kind of satchel, usually over one shoulder and across the chest. It’s pretty useful too: being able to hold your camera, wallet, notebook and water bottle while keeping your hands free and pockets light. I’m not ashamed for picking utility over institutionalized gender roles. I’m human and therefore a product of my environment. However, I felt that it was necessary to let this skeleton out of the closet.

It was a tough pill to swallow

In addition to Party Earth and Fish Pub, I’ve found a third job at the Chiodo Fisso wine bar and guitar club. I had been to this place early in September to review it for Party Earth (Party Earth has been my gateway to this city; it’s how I’ve found my two other jobs and met so many people—what a stroke of luck). So I became friendly with the owner, Andrea, and I returned to the club for a follow-up visit. I was speaking with him after he finished his set and he invited me to try out some of his guitars, including a hand-crafted classical Spanish axe that was absolutely surreal. I played some songs for him, and he invited me back to play the next night. Afterwards, we were sitting down, chatting about things over a few glasses of wine, and he offered me a job there waiting tables. So as of now, I am working there on weekend evenings as a waiter. It’s definitely my favorite job right now because I get to work completely in Italian while listening to live guitar music in an aesthetically engaging environment. Also, riding my roomate’s bike home from work at 2am, passing by the Palazzo Vecchio and Duomo, never gets old and serves as a positive reality check: a reminder of the world’s beauty.

Great dome!

So yeah, that’s the formula for the way things are going over here in the boot. Between sleeping until 9:30, taking a power nap on most days, enjoying extended lunch and coffee breaks, and working some nights until 2 in the morning; I work about a 40 hour workweek between the three jobs. Vocation often blends with leisure in a freelancing kind of way that’s really pleasant. I’ve also been spending a few hours watching god’s favorite football team, The New York Giants, doing great things in the NFL. Spoiling the Cowboy’s opener at their new place is absolutely priceless. I can’t lie and say that life’s Russian Roulette exhilarating with lavish nights out on the town and expensive escort services, but it’s serene, fluid and didactic—I couldn’t ask for more.

Lunch!

What’s next?

The lease on my current residence expires at the end of this month which prompts me to make a decision about my next move. This is something I’ve poured some thought into over the past couple weeks and I’m working with a few options right now. Taking a quick look at the books, I can afford another month in Florence without dipping into my savings so that’s definitely a possibility. Florence is a unique city because of its international character. One could even argue that Florence, excluding the suburbs and outer city limits, is a more international than Italian. This certainly has its ups and downs. The international vibe provides a lot of opportunities for American workers like myself, and with such a diverse population of young people, Florence is a great place to meet people from all around the world. I’m making a lot of good friends here in the city and there isn’t much to complain about in terms of the quality of life. However, when I decided to come to Italy following graduation, I didn’t exactly picture myself handing out flyers to American study abroad students by the Duomo. That being said, I’m weighing up a few other possibilities as well. Nothing’s definite yet, but I’ve begun arranging a volunteer farmstay in a small hill town called Montepulciano. This venture would involve working about 5 hours a day picking grapes for the wine harvest in exchange for room and food. I’ve also contacted a few people in southern Italy and Sicily about available apartments for October and November. Each opportunity is equally appealing and I would be very happy to try any one of these ventures, so it’s very difficult to try and plan which one is best. In fact, there’s no point to it at all. If and when the right offer presents itself then I will make the decision at that moment. But for now, we have today and maybe tomorrow.

Montepulciano

Oh yeah…. I’ve been actively trying to get tickets for the Liverpool v. Fiorentina Champions League draw next week, however, they are not selling tickets to any foreigners because it is too dangerous to let English people go to this game. This branches out of Liverpool’s reputation for being a hooligan club. Since violence surrounding football games is a big problem in Italy, this is just too dangerous a cocktail in the eyes of the Florentine police. However, this is also a once in a lifetime opportunity for me. I know a few people that are close to the club and there may be some hope… keep your fingers crossed!

Workshop of Paolo the Printer--the old man who makes all of the flyers.

]]> http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/09/25/mid-september-2009/feed/ 1 eurocraigorio hh Firenze Septembre 2009 018 Firenze Septembre 2009 014 peach-pit Dizzy 1 Firenze Septembre 2009 064 Firenze Septembre 2009 010 Firenze Septembre 2009 012 Firenze Septembre 2009 031 Firenze Septembre 2009 004 giants cowboys 1 monte3 Firenze Septembre 2009 028 http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/09/09/what-ive-been-up-to-part-ii/ http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/2009/09/09/what-ive-been-up-to-part-ii/#comments Wed, 09 Sep 2009 14:53:35 +0000 eurocraigorio http://eurocraigorio.wordpress.com/?p=118 Continue reading →]]> So where were we again? Oh yeah, the average day of work. I really enjoy my job with Party Earth. The research process takes me all over the city, discovering new pieces of Florentine culture along the way. I speak with a good bit of interesting characters who shed light on the city and provide some inspiring stories. Whether sipping on a mojito with the owner of a crisp lounge or drinking red wine with a professional guitar player in the basement of a 14th century building turned cozy music club, I’m always learning new perspectives on the wide world while making my keep. It’s a dream-job and something that I’m really enjoying this month.

Chiodo Fisso Guitar Club

“So Craig, what is it that you do again? Get bribed into writing good reviews by clever businessmen?”

That’s part of it, but their generosity doesn’t way in too heavily at the end of the day. Most of my work involves updating previous reviews, spicing them up with a greater attention to detail. For example: here’s one of the old reviews that I had to update:

“The chicest of the chic lounges south of the river, the Caffe la Torre patio is a hot hangout for hip Italians. The modern, sleek interior consists of three rooms where the city’s in-crowd gathers for a bite to eat and a bottle of wine before hitting the clubs. The lounge also hosts many live performances, so it’s worth checking the schedule and spending an evening with the fashionable clientele.”

And here’s my update:

“Located a stone’s throw from the basin of Piazzale Michelangelo, Caffe La Torre is a chic Italian lounge perfect for a pre-club rendezvous. La Torre’s patio is a buzzing social on summer evenings as groups gather around tables and admire scenic views of the Arno River. The modern, sleek interior consists of two rooms where the city’s trendy and handsome crowd gathers for a bite to eat and a bottle of wine. Vivid shades of pink and yellow light emanate from the cupboard shaped shelves of the bar, giving the room characteristics of an upscale abstract art show. Pink polka dots containing photographs decorate the walls of the adjacent lounge room, and the waitresses dressed in contrasting black complete the artistically trendy vibe that reverberates from wall to wall of Caffe La Torre. Despite the appeal of the interior decoration, it’s tough to ignore the hopping outdoor patio frequented by trendy young Italians wearing their crisp diesel jeans and elegant designer dresses. Though the music is bumping and the atmosphere is bright, most of the energy stays contained in the laughter and conversation between people at their respected tables. Caffe La Torre is a great place for gathering momentum for the rest of the night that awaits you in Florence.”

September So Far

After spending the last week of August hustling around the city and writing reviews, September brought a welcome change of pace in the arrival of my two roommates. Although living alone in the flat gave me a lot of time and space to focus on work, it wouldn’t have been a healthy living arrangement for the long-run and I was very happy at their arrival. They’re men’s men, good dudes, and generous hosts.

Oy Marin and Alessandro

Marin, the guy on the right, is a 25 year old Croatian studying economics at the University of Florence. He loves eating nuts and playing basketball. We’ve been out a few times to Cascine Park to play at the city courts with the Asians. There’s an adjacent volleyball court where the Florentine latinos host intense co-ed volley ball games. They drink big beers while a few seemingly transsexual fans cheer them on from the top of parked cars. Marin’s been a welcoming host. He’s even taken me out to meet some of his friends. I couldn’t have gotten luckier.

Marin's Dog, unfortunately residing in Croatia because of his excessive nationalism

Alessandro is a 36 year old Italian dude studying architecture and working as a graphic designer. He’s also a practicing Buddhist. A fantastic sense of humor and laid back attitude make him an affable guy to live with. He has also been my personal Italian tutor, letting me know when I trip up and teaching me some hilarious sayings along the way. Watching Italian movies and soccer matches with him is great because he knows so much and is able to point out little things that I never would have picked up on otherwise.

The three of us are trying to get tickets to the Fiorentina Liverpool Champions League match on September 29th—could be brilliant!

…Random note: There is a general hatred between Fiorentina and Juventus fans. I really like wearing my Newcastle jersey around town, but because it looks so similar to a Juventus kit, the viola (Fiorentina fans) always shout horrible things at me. I almost didn’t get served at lunch today…

Through my job with Party Earth I was also able to get a public relations job with a bar down the street called The Fish Pub.

My position with The Fish Pub is an entertaining one. Basically my job is to connect with the American students who frequent the bar through online marketing, and good old fashioned street promotion. Three mornings a week I go around to the different university campuses here in Florence and post flyers on their bulletin boards and leave advertisements on their promotion tables. Like the job with Party Earth, this position takes me into some interesting corners of the city. For example, the other morning around 1145am, I found myself in a hotel owner’s office, drinking Becks and champagne with my boss and his Dominican friends. Sometimes I work at night as well, going around the bar, mingling with customers, and promoting certain events. I’ve been given the responsibility of hosting/promoting an open bar party on Wed. nights. Each person pays 15 Euros to get in, and I take ten percent of the revenue. It could prove pretty lucrative, but the first party isn’t until the 16th, so I won’t know until then. (Cough, professional drinker, cough)

"...we'll have to consult corporate..."

The autumn winds of September have brought some welcome changes to life here in Firenze. The arrival of my roommates adds a new dimension to the happenings of the day to day. Inward cash flow also has a positive effect on the way things are going and gives me the opportunity for a long-term stay here in Florence. Still, I have to ask myself if a long term stay in Florence is what I really want. Do I want to work as a public relations rep for an American bar? Is this what I came to Italy to do? Maybe if I stick around for longer I will stumble upon something with more long-term appeal. Maybe I should be thankful enough to have found the job to at least give it a chance… at least I’ll be paying the bills while living in Italy… Is returning to the States for the holidays a necessity? These are some of the questions I’m thinking about as I consider finding another apartment for the month of October. I have been considering/arranging some other options in the countryside so maybe a new chapter of my Italian pilgrimage is in the cards for me….

Conscience:  “Quit the drama fairy boy, go get a cup of black coffee, shut up, and go back to work”

Yes, sir.

Because I’m so dreadfully behind on time and would like to get caught up on the small details of everyday life in Florence, I’m going to give a segmented rundown of, “what has been good,” in the prolific words of Joe Grohowski.

August 10th—August 21st.

I arrive in Florence on a Monday after sleeping outside with gypsies and riding trains all over central Italy. I spend the first two days or so settling in—buying groceries, exploring my neighborhood, setting up a cell phone line, unpacking, and writing “don’t worry, I’m okay” e-mails. Wednesday and Thursday are a mixture of aimless job searching and environment acclimation which add up to a few interviews and a number of cultural follies committed by yours truly. An excerpt from the first interview at a leather shop downtown, the day after I got my phone setup:

Italian leather dude: “Okay, let me have your telephone number so Paolo can call you later on”

Me: “yeah, no problem.” I look down at my phone and realize that I have no idea what my phone number is. I realize how stupid I am, and continue scrolling through my empty phone book, hoping for a miracle.”

“you don’t know your phone number?”

“mmmmummmmmhhhh yeahhhhh, I just got this phone yesterday and”

“its okay, call this number and we’ll find it out”

I look down at my phone and begin to dial the number from the wanted ad I was responding to as he walks towards the front of the store to get reception. He’s looking at me awkwardly as I hold my cell phone to my ear and he asks, “its not working?”

“I’m calling it”

At that moment the landline of the store begins ringing and I realize that he actually slid his cell phone number under my face while I was rushing to call the store.

“NO, call THIIIS phone”

“Ah ah okay, no problem”

We finally discover my phone number, but I had already lost the job at this point and we were just painfully going through the motions.

THE awkward turtle

Turtles being awkward

Luckily for me, each interview/job pitch has improved slightly since. In these days I also began the interview process with an American company called Party Earth. They publish some guide books and a website on nightlife in different European cities and they needed an update on their Florence accounts. The interview process consists of a couple of writing samples and interviews that go on for about a week, but more on this later.

I spent 4 days alone in the flat, settling in and feeling out the job market before Maja arrived on Friday. She stayed for a week and we had an ebullient time wandering around the city, enjoying the amazing apartment and traveling to nearby attractions. Since I had been on holiday for about a month, I still needed some time to sit down and work on finding a job while getting on with the interview process with this American company. So during these hours of the week, Maja would hit the streets shopping the markets, getting harassed by Italian men along the way, and learning about the aggressiveness that is Italian courtship.

We went to art museums, scaled staircases in search of spectacular views, wandered into the hills of Fiesole to catch a bird’s perspective of Florence, drank red table wine at various piazzas and bridges at sunset, all the while eating unnecessary amounts of Italian food and imbibing a plethora of icy cocktails along the way.

Maja’s parents were actually on holiday in Siena. She hitched a ride down to Italy with them and we made the trip to their apartment for a night during the week. We explored the troughs and crests of the medieval hill city in the morning and frolicked in the swimming pool during the afternoon, drinking massive Tuborgs and staying fresh in the 100+ degree heat. By Friday it was time for Maja to head back up to Scandinavia to begin her education in becoming a journalist. It was the kind of goodbye you see in the movies. One foot on the step of the train pulling myself up into the carriage, head turned to the right and motioning one last wave of the hand, she, standing at the other end of the platform, returning the gesture. I’ll leave the sappiness of the rest of this scene to your imagination, but this 1940’s Hollywood moment made up for the handicapped awkwardness I enacted during my first job interview.

August 22nd-August 31st

I get back to my apartment and remember that I have to make a living. Somewhere between Siena and Michelangelo I landed the job with Party Earth. I get the initial list of places that I’ve got to review and I immediately begin planning my visits. I also begin my budget. After taking a look at my financial standing through weeks of travel and indulgence, I decide it’s prudent to live on 7 Euros a day, about 50 Euros a week. So I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner, and take care of other various living expenses (recent expenditures include 1.50 on a nail clipper, 2.50 for mailing letters, etc) on about 10 US dollars a day. It works well as long as long as I stay disciplined and modest. This means eliminating any beverage besides water and wine, buying bruised fruit from the discount guy at the market, getting whatever I can from the dollar store, and being resourceful with the purchases I choose. This being said, I still eat very well which means I could cut the budget if I decide to make any kind of rash economic decisions, i.e. putting my entire bank account on the Giants beating the Redskins on opening day (thinking about it). There is also a good chance I could expand my daily spending because the budget is constructed for an unnecessary amount of safety—it goes on the assumption that I don’t make a penny while I’m here and that I have 100 Euros more than the average plane ticket back home. I’ve also applied for a job with Morgan Stanley’s financial planning dept.

"Don't worry about me dude, I'm down for whatever tonight."

I spent the last week of August working for Party Earth and searching for a long-term day job. My average day would go something like this:

9:00am: Alarm rings, I hit snooze until about 9:45-10am…still have not grown out of that habit…Go downstairs and have breakfast, usually consisting of three slices of toast with jam and a peach. It’s good. I go back upstairs to begin the day’s work.

10:45am: Turn on computer

11:00am: Computer finally starts up and I can begin my work.

11:30am: Finish reading e-mails and sports headlines, time to start work. I take out my notebook and begin writing review of place that I visited last night. I write one review and decide it’s time to think about lunch. I put on some clothes and go to the mercato centrale and buy some food.

12:30pm: At the mercato centrale talking to the drunk old man who I buy fruit from. He always throws a little something extra in the bag for me, most of the time some half-black bananas and a rotten head of lettuce. His generosity and inebriated charm are enough to guarantee my return tomorrow.

1:00pm: Get home with some bags of fruit, poultry, prosciutto and mozzarella. I smile to myself and think of Ben Moody circa 2002.

2:00pm: Having finished a solid lunch, I’m at a crossroads: “power nap” or cup of coffee??

If you picked the power nap, you can skip ahead to 7:00pm

2:30pm: Back to work…. Spend the rest of the afternoon writing more reviews while chatting with TJ on gmail and writing about the various places I have visited throughout the week. I pass the rest of the afternoon writing and thinking about what’s going on here in Florence. Between writing reviews I look into day job opportunities while brainstorming ideas for any kind of money-making odd jobs I can conceive. I’ve tried private English lessons and I’m currently working on public relations for a bar down the block. I write numerous e-mails and chat with friends on Skype, holding normal office hours in the traditional sense.

7:00pm: Daytime work has found its close and its time for dinner. I go down to the kitchen, hit play on the ipod dock, and begin fixing up a light supper while drinking wine and looking out over the balcony view.

9:00pm: Having thoroughly enjoyed my dinner and an ice cold shower, I get dressed and figure out which bars I must visit tonight to do review research. On average I attend about 2-3 bars a night.

10:35pm: Sitting at bar x, having free drinks with the owner, talking about his last trip to the USA and the things that he did, his outlook on the global recession, and what he likes to do on Wednesday afternoons. His wife and/or mistress interrupts occasionally, sharing a story about her Dominican mother and multicultural background.

12:00am: I return to my apartment after a night of “research,” and fix myself a snack comprised of dollar store crackers and a glass of water. I then proceed to my loft and spend an hour or two writing emails and contributions to my blog.

2:00am: Get into bed (the ikea pull-out mattress next to my computer chair) with the fan in my arms, held tight against my chest, and wait for sweet, blissful sleep to overtake my senses.

Rinse & Repeat.

I’ve just realize that this blog post has become arduously long and I’ve decided to split it into multiple parts with the next posting coming sooner than usual. Until then, I leave you with this picture from Fiesole, a town on a hill overlooking Florence…

Che Bello!

Finally……….After 16 full days of living in Firenze I’m all caught up on the past and can begin writing on the happenings of the day to day.

(Pours massive glass of red table wine, rests right ankle on top of left knee in a relaxing seated position, and places folded hands calmly upon lap)

I arrived here in Firenze on August 10th to an amazing apartment exceeding any expectation I could have possibly formed beforehand. Since I arranged my stay on “Craigslist” for a price that was about 100 dollars less than my rent in College Park, my expectations were not too high to begin with, but still, the apartment is definitely the “coolest” flat that I’ve ever resided in (speaking in strictly aesthetic terms, of course Parkside is the best place I’ve ever lived).

The building is located on the corner of Via Guelfa and Via Panicale, about a block away from the mercato centrale and a 15 minute walk to the river Arno. It’s definitely a central location, but its conveniently tucked away between major streets so there aren’t mobs of people on the sidewalk during the day and it’s not a cluster fuck of noise in the evening. There is a small trattoria on the ground level, a neighborhood cafe across the street, and a group of alcoholics who like to hang out and drink on the corner whom I’ll probably join in a few minutes. If you squint your eyes a bit, you can kind of figure out what I’m talking about…

Miserably produced pan of the neighborhood

According to my landlord, the building used to be a nun convent up until the 18th century. I forgot to ask him when it was originally built, but the thought, like most, slipped my mind. Still, its pretty damn old. One of the historical remnants of the religious community is the bathroom that still stands in the flat today. Way back when, it was the only bathroom for the entire floor. Luckily thats not the scenario anymore.

All I can think of when I’m using that bathroom is 15 renaissance nuns waiting in line, pounding on the door, and telling me to “hurry the fuck up in there.”

"That Craig guy is really pissing me off"

So my landlord Pier, and his British wife, bought out and renovated the flat while they were both art teachers here in Florence. They tore down ceilings, built a loft, painted the living room a beautiful shade of adobe, re-tiled the entire apartment, filled the rooms with second-hand antique furniture, lined the walls with their professional paintings and designs, built a bookshelf into the wall with this mosic background, and even added a modern bathroom. The result is a well balanced mix of antiquity and modern art that is calming and comfortable to live in. The apartment is located on the fourth and final floor of the building. Walking in the front door there is an entrance room where you can kick your shoes off, take a deep breath and say something like, “what a day.” To the right is a bedroom that is facing the street and features a nice of the Duomo. To the left is the rest of the apartment. The first room is the living room, with the artistic paint job, mosaic book shelf and old leather sofas that your body frustratingly sticks to during most hours of the day. There is a dark wooden coffee table and a tv on which you can watch ridiculous German police dramas overdubbed in Italian. In the northeast corner of the room there is the wooden staircase that will eventually be the cause of a broken face in the ambiguous future. I live up those stairs in the wonderful loft consisting of a sofa, marble desk and den with a single mattress.

The living room was probably once used as an opium den

Sorry about the awkward formatting of the pictures; this blog making program is not very easy to organize.

Going back down the stairs and to the other side of the flat we come upon a hallway that has another bedroom, the nun’s bathroom and the newly renovated bathroom. After passing by these three doors we come upon the dining room which is packed with intriguing books that always interrupt my dinner. The room also has a lot of thought provoking original art like the massive gold canvas with a huge picture of Minnie Mouse in the middle. There’s a big dark wooden dining table and a few other various pieces of furniture, one of which holds a ipod player that has been blasting a lot of Beach Boys and Simon and Garfunkel as of late.

At the end of the dining room and to the right is the kitchenette with a rustic brick floor leading up to my favorite part of the apartment: the patio. Although there’s only room for one or two people out there, its such a beautiful space with a fantastic view of the lush garden enclosed by the buildings around the block.  Listen to me, I’m speaking like I just completed the Martha Stewart Writing Internship. There’s this outdoor seating area of the trattoria also in garden, right beneath my balcony. Sometimes, when the timing is right, I like to go out on the porch comepletely naked with a map of Florence in my hands and ask the restaurant clientele, enjoying their meal below, where I can find the Hotel California.  Their reaction is absolutely priceless. No, but in all seriousness, the patio is really awesome.  As square as this sounds, there is nothing more soothing than having a glass of wine during sunset on the porch, waiting for the water on the stove to boil, taking in the lukewarm evening air and remembering how lucky you are to be alive and well in this beautiful world.

Kitchen and Patio

View from the patio

———————————————————————————————————————————————-        As amazing as the view is from the patio, living on the fourth floor comes with the crippling disadvantage that you are closest to the merciless wrath of the Tuscan sun.  Because the sun is pounding on the roof all day long, the roof absorbs the heat like a sponge and it hangs around throughout the night.  During the day temperatures usually linger somewhere between 97 and 100, making the apartment a scorching blaze of heat throughout most of the day and night…

It’s so hot in my apartment that:

1.  I’m addicted to fans.  No getting around it, nothing else to it:  straight addiction.  When I’m working (more on my job later) at my computer, I have a fan on high blowing me (huh huh) from behind.  There is another fan on duty at the table where I eat most of my meals.  The saddest part of this dependence is that I keep two fans on throughout the night, at the edge of my bed, creating a whirlwind of cooling pleasure that is the key ingredient to getting any kind of sleep whatsoever.  I know that its horribly wasteful and a poor use of energy, but I cannot sleep without them.

2. The refrigerator doesn’t stay very cold, and most perishable food (produce, poultry, and dairy products) don’t last more than two days in there, which means I go food shopping for the day when I wake up in the morning.

3. I hardly do any laundry because the only time I wear any clothes is when I go out for an hour or two at a time.

Allllllright, thats about all I’ve got to share about the nun convent turned artsy apartment that I’m currently residing in.  I’ll write more about what I’ve been up to in the next few days or so… hopefully by the end of this weekend. For now, take a look at the ingredients for gastronomical equillibrium:

We left Rome on July 18th, robbed once, bellies full of pizza, dehydrated from various liquors, and optimistic about the rest of our family vacation. We actually almost got robbed a second time on the train out of the city (When gypsies begin speaking Italian to you without their hand in your face, consider it a sign). We arrived at the seaside after a couple hours of scenic Italian countryside decorated with medieval hill towns, majestic mountain ranges and “I would seriously….for one of those” oceanview villas. The town was called Monterosso, one of the small fishing villages that make up le cinque terre. We spent a day there relaxing in the sun and drinking cold glasses of beer that sweat like a fat kid in a Savannah summer.

Neil Metzgar in 30 years

After rejuvinating in a zenith of relaxation, we headed out for leg two of our Italy tour. We spent the next day touring the gauntlet of Renaissance grandeur which is Firenze (more to come on that place in the near future) and then train-hopped over to Venice to explore the canals of a sinking city. On a strictly aesthetic note, Venice was the most amazing urban city we saw during our holiday. There are few sights in the world that compare with Piazza San Marco. The first glimpse of the companile is powerful and exhilirating like the first time you ever used a water bottle ; ) During those moments of first impression I thought of Scott “Ice” Isley who once said that he felt like crying when he saw the Great Wall of China, it was that stunning. Jo Jo and I capped off our three day tour of Venice with a quick dip in the famous canals. There was a mixed public reception to this decision. ..

why not?

The Gondolier paddlers got a kick out of it and thought it was fine, but the pinky extending hotel clerks thought we would get immediate tape worms. “Its good because there is a hospital nearby.” I thought it was such a good idea. I said to Joe, “I really like swimming annnnnnnndd I really like this city, sooooooo…”–It just made sense.

From Venezia we took a train to southern Italy to catch an overnight ferry to Croatia. The ferry ride was pretty nice discounting the amount of times that Joey and I said, “I’m on a boat.” One notable memory from the ride was watching the sunrise on the deck with a bunch of Asian tourists doing their morning martial arts stretches. That was all fine and well, but there was this one really obnoxious woman whos whole routine was just burping: It was a filthy morning exercise and I couldn’t think of a reason why she didn’t just take a handful of Tums.

Croatia was an absolute blast. We visited the ancient coastal towns of Hvar, Split and Dubrovnik, spending some days relaxing in the sea and some others touring Roman ruins and breathtaking national parks. Hvar and Split each had their own Riviera walkways, which are like Jersey Shore boradwalks bought out by Real Madrid, that were flooded with the energy of young party-people and laced with the smell of sweet lavendar. The Adriatic sea was perfect for days spent swimming in the sun. The water was crisp, cool and salty enough to keep you thirsty all day long. What I liked most about Croatia and the Adriatic coast is that it reminded me so much of The Life Aquatic, my favorite movie. I believe it was shot somewhere in the area. Surrounded by such fantastical beauty and soothing pleasure, I was truly at a pinnacle of peace in Croatia.

The effects of paradise on the adult male

All Day Son

The Stuff Legends are Made of

All Day Son

I just realized how much the word Rome triggers a hatred in my head for Jim Rome.

I'm Going to ShaBooms!

Robberies, pizzas, Chelsea mugs, attempted robberies, train station dashes and a beautiful, beautiful city: Rome was a perfect way to springboard our two week Mediterranean vacation.

After days of preparation, two days without sleep and twelve hours of traveling, we arrived in Rome around noon on July 15th, 2009. Exhausted, hungry and sick of sitting on an airplane, we were buzzing enough to get out to the really ancient city to take a tour of the Roman Coliseum. It was colossal. Ha! But seriously, I wish I had the vocabulary to properly describe its magnificence. Leaving the plethora of rich history to the side, the coliseum stood majestically as a testament to the power of the human mind. To think that nearly two centuries ago, men sat around a table and engineered this monster is mind-blowing. I can just hear Marcus Augustus saying to his co-workers, “Okay, so I’ve got this idea…(fifteen minutes later) Yeah, just going at it. Antony, you still have that tiger you conned out of that African woman, right? Yeah, we’ll throw that thing in the ring with those Christians we locked up yesterday and just see what happens. Don’t worry, you’ll be too shitfaced to feel an inch of guilt.” Throughout our wanderings in the ancient city, my brother and I found ourselves imagining along those lines quite often. Its not that hard to get carried away with such fantasies: the city truly harbors an aurora of imagination that permeates your mind and takes you to some castle in the sky of your thoughts.

After soaking up the blaring heat of a Roman summer day, we wandered into a nearby café for a moment of refreshing solace. Time to test the Rosetta Stone. I’ve been studying Italian with Rosetta Stone since January and after completing two and half levels of their interactive computer program, I was anxious to see the results. The waitress addressed us in Italian and I was able to guide us through the afternoon café experience. After our drinks were finished, I started a small conversation with the waitress about working in Italy as a cameriere (waiter) and she understood me pretty well. The only problem was that I only understood 50 percent of what she said back to me. Naturally, I smiled and said grazie, paid the bill quickly and left.

Conscience: “Blah blah blah Craig, why don’t you shut the fuck up? Are you seriously going to elaborate on every hour of your vacation? Give me a fucking break.”

Okay… So Rome was really awesome. All of the sights were beautiful and thought provoking. In the three days we had there we toured Rome’s endless list of monuments, ruins, notable edifices, and museums while maintaining a relaxing balance of good humor in the city’s cafes and piazzas. The checklist for Rome is so extensive that you would need weeks there to do everything. However, for anyone making a trip to Rome, I would insist upon a visit to Trastevere, a cozy neighborhood across the river Tiber close to the ancient city. It’s a nice break from the hustle of modern Rome. The streets are a bit quieter, the food is more affordable and the atmosphere is less “disneyfied.” Go in the evening for a few drinks and dinner: you won’t regret it.

Trastevere

Trastevere also

A few things that cannot go unmentioned about Rome:

1. We were in the St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican one morning, admiring the precious frescoes and sculptures when I noticed that some little piece of shit kid was wearing his hat inside the basilica. I’m thinking to myself, “who does this kid think he is… wearing a hat in the Vatican, where are his parents?” At that moment, the kid turns around, and I notice that he’s wearing nothing else but a Chelsea Football Club hat. I giggle inside my head, feel sadistically satisfied, and immediately grab my brother… that’s another hysterical note: my brother in the Vatican, there was a good five minutes of our visit where he was explaining this idea to me: to have a gigantic party inside of the basilica, a keg of beer in every chapel, open bars all around, 11 on 11 pickup soccer in an open area, five dollars at the door, everyone’s invited. After hearing him out, I have to admit that it’s not such a bad idea. If you ever visit, just donate 30 seconds of your thought to it. If you’re sitting at home right now, frowning at your computer, take a look at the picture below and use your imagination for a second… it would be pretty sweet ….. anyway, he gets a kick out of it, and our focus shifts to getting a picture of this little devil wearing the hat in the Vatican. Here’s what we got:

typical...

Sorry about the quality of the picture… we were trying to maintain a little bit of respect while this little guy was giving god the cold shoulder. No, but seriously, what are the odds that on the day we, Joseph and I—Chelsea haters, visit the Vatican, this Chelsea fan is being disrespectful in one of the world’s holiest places: It’s like divine intervention. I left the Vatican that day a devout Catholic.

2. How to get robbed in Rome

a. Keep all your money in a Bank of America envelope.

b. Before getting on the bus, take the envelope out to count the correct amount for the fare.

c. Get on crowded rush hour bus.

This will result in a sketchy man asking you if you would like a seat when there is no seat available, and when you get off of the bus, you will notice that your pocketbook is unzipped: You’ve just been robbed.

Good idea for the future: Bring an old wallet and a healthy pile of monopoly money with you to Rome (write “fuck off” on the money if you’re feeling really spiteful). Put the said ingredients in your back pocket, leaving about 30 percent of the wallet hanging out of your pocket. Walk around the city and take buses until you feel the wallet has gone missing from your pocket. Feel good about yourself.

..but yeah, Rome is a classic city that should not be left off of any Italian vacation itinerary. Keep your purses close to your chest, balance sightseeing with relaxation, keep an open mind and I’m sure you’ll stumble upon treasured experience for yourself.

Imagine all the people...

Tuesday, July 14, 2009.  A day that will forever live in emphamy.  The day Craigorio leaves for the mother land.  Italy will have no idea what to expect.  I mean look at this kid: popped collar, Mark Hoppus bass, trendy Euro sun glasses, and a soon-to-be euro haircut which will undoubtedly rival that of Cristiano Ronaldo.  They’ll name a gelato after him for sure.

Here’s Craig the night before leaving for Florence for good.  His last night in New Jersey for months, so how does he spend it?  Sipping wine and conversing about the latest Milan fashion trends, of course.