For our sightseeing in Delhi, we got a car tour with Kavi’s cousin Bob, and they arranged a bus tour that took us all around the city. The bus tour was supposed to be in English, but their were three non-natives on the bus, so most of what was said was either in Hindi or heavily-accented English that was blaring from a microphone that was far too close to the guide’s mouth. But it was still a great tour. There was an Italian girl named Sara with us who was studying village architecture, so we wandered around together and exchanged stories. We went to the India gate and the President’s house where the lawn was being used by Army officials who were trying with everything they could to lift a hot air balloon into the air, the Kutab Minar where we saw some beautiful Arabic architecture and some precious puppies, a Hare Krishna temple where we were told that we weren’t circling an idol correctly and that the temple was where they turn western “hippies into happies,” the famous B’hai Lotus Temple where even Indians had to be completely quiet for the two minutes they were inside, a Swaminaren Temple that forced us to give up everything but our souls before we entered, the very crowded Indira Gandhi house where she lived and was assassinated, and the Gandhi memorial with its eternal flame. The tour driver tried to take us to the Red Fort, but apparently – a surprise to be the tour participants and the guide – the road and memorial were closed. It was the first of a few times that the glaring organizational disparities between American and Indian tour companies was made evident. But we went with it.
This tour was also the first time we figured out the system for the tour business in India in general. For shopping, the guides emphasize that we shouldn’t buy stuff from the street. It’s dirty, they’re trying to rip you off, it’s not good quality, they’re not good people, etc. etc. etc. Instead, they propose a shopping stop (that is never advertised in the tour information you get prior to the tour) where you go inside an air-conditioned building full of stalls where a staff is at the door to greet and guide you through shopping, and the prices are fixed at a considerably higher price than the hawkers you were just chatting with at a temple or memorial. In Delhi, Agra and Jaipur we were ushered into emporiums with promises of top-quality goods and cheap prices, and each time I found something that I had seen before marked up three or four times the original price. It is a great marketing scheme aimed at people who have no idea what prices should be, and it worked on our friend Sara – she left the emporium with a green silk salwaar kamiz that cost her probably as much as three of the same type of suits Kavi ordered later in the week. Kavi and I figured it out early on, and we waited to do shopping on the streets or with her family who could finesse a price to numbers that seemed so low that a profit to seem impossible. For eating, the guides usher us to restaurants that seemed to have opened just for us. In Delhi, in fact, we took a huge detour back to the bus depot because he wanted to take us to “good cuisine with north and south Indian food options”. Really, he just wanted to make us go to the restaurant that was owned by the tour company. The staff was ready to take our money, and the prices were once again some of the highest I had seen. It’s a good business being a tour operator.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Mumbai
So Mumbai was my first stop in India, and it was the only time in this trip that I was completely on my own. No one to meet up with, no one staying with me, not crashing with anyone. In a way, first the first time I felt like I was truly backpacking.
The week had its good and bad moments. Most of the bad moments happened during my first 36 hours in the city. My plane was an hour late, and my hotel was not there to pick me up. The information desk at the airport called a hotel for me, and they said they would come soon. Awesome. I waited as the sun was coming up. I got to a hotel and started to check in… they had no record of me, and the price I was quoted by email was not one of their rates. Theirs were all higher. Awesome. So I pulled out some information and realized that I was actually supposed to be checking into a different hotel. Apparently the information desk doesn’t know the difference between Hotel Airlines International and International Airlines Hotel. Go figure. I was sort of panicked because I didn’t want to pay, and I wasn’t sure how to reach the other hotel. But I think the concierge recognized my fright and called my original hotel. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way to the hotel I was supposed to stay in. I slept for the first time in two days at eight in the morning.
I didn’t sleep long because I wanted to get out and see the city. And because I was roused from sleep every ten minutes or so by the phone on my floor that is the front desk’s way of communicating with bellmen on other floors. It was about ten feet from my door and the walls were great conduits of sound. I got up at 11 or so and headed downtown. Two hours later, I got there.
I went first to the Gateway of India and Taj Palace and Towers. One was an arch to welcome arriving British officials, the other a hotel opened when Tata – a huge name all over India – was turned away from British hotels because he was India. Imperialism permeates tourism here. I was badgered from the moment I got out of my taxi. Postcards, Madame? Giant balloons with splatter paint, Madame? Map of Mumbai, Madame? Ice cream, Madame? Small metallic toys that make a junkload of noise when you throw them in the air constantly like this, Madame? NO! Then, my First Friend in India came to talk to me. She spotted me right away and started chatting. Aw, what a nice girl, I thought. She was from Mumbai and she spoke five languages (all the better to cheat international tourists). She asked me where I was from, first time in India?, by myself?, am I married?, do I like Mumbai?. She took a picture for me and tied flowers around my wrist. All at lightening speed. She was an eight-year-old who knew how to work it. I got out money to pay her, she said no charge. I insisted. Something small. She said, welllll, if you want to give me something you can buy me food. Fair enough. So after walking around for a while she took me to a small grocery stand. And she piled on rice, milk, oil… all to cook for her younger siblings. The grocery told me… almost $40 of food. What?! No way, man. I told her to take something off, and something else, and get a smaller bag. She was disappointed, but I was adamant. Finally we agreed on something and she took me where I needed to go next. Later I find out that little kids get you to buy stuff for them so they can resell it to the grocer and use the money for God knows what. Goodbye, new friend.
I was already tired, and I hadn’t been downtown for more than an hour. I started walking in the direction of a Modern Art Gallery and was stopped every ten feet by hawkers. The roads weren’t well marked, so I stopped every 20 feet to ask someone how to get to the road. It was a long walk. When I was looking for the gallery I met my Second Friend in India. I was wearing a salwar kameez that day, and a guy stopped me to tell me that I looked nice. He then started asking me about my travels, etc. He wanted to know where I was headed, and I wasn’t yet completely suspicious of everyone. I told him I was looking for somewhere to eat, and he led me somewhere. Cool, someone to guide me. Then he came inside, and I guessed we were having lunch together. We had a nice lunch – tandoori chicken for me and pasta for him – and exchanged info about families and such. He has met a lot of travelers from the west, and he said he liked meeting new people. Cool. So after lunch, we went to a nearby department store so I could get another outfit. I have limited clothes, and I knew I would go through my three outfits before I could do laundry. In the store, he insisted I try things on and show him, and that’s when I got a little uneasy. I got an outfit and then, just to make my escape, told him I needed to head back to the hotel. He was helpful and showed me where the train station was and how to take the train, but we ended up making plans for the next day that I just couldn’t follow through with. Nice as he was, he left me with an uneasy feeling that I shouldn’t be alone with him. And as a girl in India, I decided to trust that feeling.
I finally made it back to the hotel after my train ride through Mumbai burbs, and relaxed in my room. I was terrified of the water, terrified of the food, terrified of the streets after 4 p.m., terrified of anyone I met who seemed nice. It was not a fun night. Then, to top it off, I took my malaria medicine that night, and after about an hour threw it back up… along with everything I had eaten that day. Awesome.
That was the worst of the worst. I didn’t get up the next day until late, and it took all the energy I had to go back downtown. It just seemed so hard. But I did get up and did make it out of the hotel. And things got easier.
I think I got to see quite a bit of Mumbai. In addition to the Gateway and Palace, I made it to a museum on India, Elephanta Island, Nariman Point, Chowpatty Beach, Hanging Gardens, Nehru Museum, a Jain temple, Ghandi’s Mumbai residence and shopping in Bandra and Santa Cruz. I know I got chumped by taxi drivers who were either (a) lost and didn’t want to tell me, or (b) straight up lying to me about the meter conversion. So I stuck to the train, and most of the time made it up and back okay.
I met some really awesome people because I would just start talking to foreigners. After the first dreadful day, I met up with an American from Emerson and an Israeli who had just finished his military service. The American was headed back to her house in burbs, so the Israeli and I walked around for the rest of the day. He was very pro-American diplomacy, so I stayed quiet. He was funny though. As we walked around, he would say funny things to hawkers. If someone was trying to sell us drums, he would sternly say “No. We hate music.” If someone was trying to sell us jewelry, he would sternly say “No. We hate jewelry.” If someone was trying to sell us ice cream, he would sneer “No. Ice cream is disgusting.” I took him back to the Taj Palace and Towers because the first day I didn’t go inside, and we pretended we were trying to find meeting space for an important event (me wearing a salwar kameez without a dupatta… him in khakis and a beat-up shirt). We went to the top floor and looked at the restaurant, and then we went into the meeting space to see a view of the whole city. The staff of about 20 stood up as we walked in, and we started discussing how well the meeting space might work for our meeting. I was entertained. He was only in Mumbai for transit, so the next morning he was off to Nepal and I was off to find new friends.
The second day I happened upon two new friends, this time because of a taxi driver that worked in my favor. I walked out of the Gandhi house and tried to find a taxi. One was outside, and I told him where I wanted to go. He told me to come on. As I was getting in, two young guys who were in the museum when I was started yelling, “hey!”. Obviously I was stealing their cab. In the end, I ended up riding with them. They hired their driver for the day, and I just gave him some money to supplement. The two guys were in the French Navy, and only one spoke English (and only because he grew up in Senegal). We were driven all over the place, and at the end of the day we had dinner together at a nice restaurant where we were the first customers for the night. In typical European style, dinner lasted two hours and included beer and coffee. It was my second delicious meal, and the gentlemen treated me to it. Now that I can truly say awesome about.
The next day I met a Canadian girl on my ferry back from Elephanta Island. She had lived in the states and was traveling around south Asia for something like eight months. We talked standard travel talk, and then I went with her to meet up with her friend and go to dinner. We went to a fusion restaurant (read: they serve Italian, Chinese, French and Indian… and cakes). Another good meal, more good Kingfisher. We were quite a site: two white girls and one tall (a foot and a half taller than I am) Indian who didn’t speak any Indian languages and was considerably taller than anyone on the street. It was great. After dinner we headed to Chowpatty beach for the night. There were probably 200 people on the beach. Couples lounging, families strolling and picnicking. Men selling food, giant balloons and massages. Precocious girls who came up to us to practice their English and smile proudly when they finished a short conversation. It was neat to see the city so social after dark. We then sampled some fine Indian gelato and I headed back north to the burbs.
The last day I did shopping in the hood and went to dinner with the parents of a cousin of Neil. People I had never seen or talked to invited me out for a nice meal. It was great. We went to a restaurant that was playing to India v. Sri Lanka game (cricket’s March Madness is going on right now) and talked culture and travel for a solid three hours. I sampled everything vegetarian on the buffet and had mango ice cream with kiwi sauce. Yum. The mom was so sad we hadn’t gotten together sooner, and I was sad not to be able to spend time with some Mumbaikers who weren’t out for something. But at midnight I headed back to my hotel to fly out the next day.
Mumbai was great. It was hot and sticky – considerably more of both than Delhi. It was crowded and hectic, and I had my first taste of hard travel. I met cool people and struck out on my own.
The week had its good and bad moments. Most of the bad moments happened during my first 36 hours in the city. My plane was an hour late, and my hotel was not there to pick me up. The information desk at the airport called a hotel for me, and they said they would come soon. Awesome. I waited as the sun was coming up. I got to a hotel and started to check in… they had no record of me, and the price I was quoted by email was not one of their rates. Theirs were all higher. Awesome. So I pulled out some information and realized that I was actually supposed to be checking into a different hotel. Apparently the information desk doesn’t know the difference between Hotel Airlines International and International Airlines Hotel. Go figure. I was sort of panicked because I didn’t want to pay, and I wasn’t sure how to reach the other hotel. But I think the concierge recognized my fright and called my original hotel. Twenty minutes later, I was on my way to the hotel I was supposed to stay in. I slept for the first time in two days at eight in the morning.
I didn’t sleep long because I wanted to get out and see the city. And because I was roused from sleep every ten minutes or so by the phone on my floor that is the front desk’s way of communicating with bellmen on other floors. It was about ten feet from my door and the walls were great conduits of sound. I got up at 11 or so and headed downtown. Two hours later, I got there.
I went first to the Gateway of India and Taj Palace and Towers. One was an arch to welcome arriving British officials, the other a hotel opened when Tata – a huge name all over India – was turned away from British hotels because he was India. Imperialism permeates tourism here. I was badgered from the moment I got out of my taxi. Postcards, Madame? Giant balloons with splatter paint, Madame? Map of Mumbai, Madame? Ice cream, Madame? Small metallic toys that make a junkload of noise when you throw them in the air constantly like this, Madame? NO! Then, my First Friend in India came to talk to me. She spotted me right away and started chatting. Aw, what a nice girl, I thought. She was from Mumbai and she spoke five languages (all the better to cheat international tourists). She asked me where I was from, first time in India?, by myself?, am I married?, do I like Mumbai?. She took a picture for me and tied flowers around my wrist. All at lightening speed. She was an eight-year-old who knew how to work it. I got out money to pay her, she said no charge. I insisted. Something small. She said, welllll, if you want to give me something you can buy me food. Fair enough. So after walking around for a while she took me to a small grocery stand. And she piled on rice, milk, oil… all to cook for her younger siblings. The grocery told me… almost $40 of food. What?! No way, man. I told her to take something off, and something else, and get a smaller bag. She was disappointed, but I was adamant. Finally we agreed on something and she took me where I needed to go next. Later I find out that little kids get you to buy stuff for them so they can resell it to the grocer and use the money for God knows what. Goodbye, new friend.
I was already tired, and I hadn’t been downtown for more than an hour. I started walking in the direction of a Modern Art Gallery and was stopped every ten feet by hawkers. The roads weren’t well marked, so I stopped every 20 feet to ask someone how to get to the road. It was a long walk. When I was looking for the gallery I met my Second Friend in India. I was wearing a salwar kameez that day, and a guy stopped me to tell me that I looked nice. He then started asking me about my travels, etc. He wanted to know where I was headed, and I wasn’t yet completely suspicious of everyone. I told him I was looking for somewhere to eat, and he led me somewhere. Cool, someone to guide me. Then he came inside, and I guessed we were having lunch together. We had a nice lunch – tandoori chicken for me and pasta for him – and exchanged info about families and such. He has met a lot of travelers from the west, and he said he liked meeting new people. Cool. So after lunch, we went to a nearby department store so I could get another outfit. I have limited clothes, and I knew I would go through my three outfits before I could do laundry. In the store, he insisted I try things on and show him, and that’s when I got a little uneasy. I got an outfit and then, just to make my escape, told him I needed to head back to the hotel. He was helpful and showed me where the train station was and how to take the train, but we ended up making plans for the next day that I just couldn’t follow through with. Nice as he was, he left me with an uneasy feeling that I shouldn’t be alone with him. And as a girl in India, I decided to trust that feeling.
I finally made it back to the hotel after my train ride through Mumbai burbs, and relaxed in my room. I was terrified of the water, terrified of the food, terrified of the streets after 4 p.m., terrified of anyone I met who seemed nice. It was not a fun night. Then, to top it off, I took my malaria medicine that night, and after about an hour threw it back up… along with everything I had eaten that day. Awesome.
That was the worst of the worst. I didn’t get up the next day until late, and it took all the energy I had to go back downtown. It just seemed so hard. But I did get up and did make it out of the hotel. And things got easier.
I think I got to see quite a bit of Mumbai. In addition to the Gateway and Palace, I made it to a museum on India, Elephanta Island, Nariman Point, Chowpatty Beach, Hanging Gardens, Nehru Museum, a Jain temple, Ghandi’s Mumbai residence and shopping in Bandra and Santa Cruz. I know I got chumped by taxi drivers who were either (a) lost and didn’t want to tell me, or (b) straight up lying to me about the meter conversion. So I stuck to the train, and most of the time made it up and back okay.
I met some really awesome people because I would just start talking to foreigners. After the first dreadful day, I met up with an American from Emerson and an Israeli who had just finished his military service. The American was headed back to her house in burbs, so the Israeli and I walked around for the rest of the day. He was very pro-American diplomacy, so I stayed quiet. He was funny though. As we walked around, he would say funny things to hawkers. If someone was trying to sell us drums, he would sternly say “No. We hate music.” If someone was trying to sell us jewelry, he would sternly say “No. We hate jewelry.” If someone was trying to sell us ice cream, he would sneer “No. Ice cream is disgusting.” I took him back to the Taj Palace and Towers because the first day I didn’t go inside, and we pretended we were trying to find meeting space for an important event (me wearing a salwar kameez without a dupatta… him in khakis and a beat-up shirt). We went to the top floor and looked at the restaurant, and then we went into the meeting space to see a view of the whole city. The staff of about 20 stood up as we walked in, and we started discussing how well the meeting space might work for our meeting. I was entertained. He was only in Mumbai for transit, so the next morning he was off to Nepal and I was off to find new friends.
The second day I happened upon two new friends, this time because of a taxi driver that worked in my favor. I walked out of the Gandhi house and tried to find a taxi. One was outside, and I told him where I wanted to go. He told me to come on. As I was getting in, two young guys who were in the museum when I was started yelling, “hey!”. Obviously I was stealing their cab. In the end, I ended up riding with them. They hired their driver for the day, and I just gave him some money to supplement. The two guys were in the French Navy, and only one spoke English (and only because he grew up in Senegal). We were driven all over the place, and at the end of the day we had dinner together at a nice restaurant where we were the first customers for the night. In typical European style, dinner lasted two hours and included beer and coffee. It was my second delicious meal, and the gentlemen treated me to it. Now that I can truly say awesome about.
The next day I met a Canadian girl on my ferry back from Elephanta Island. She had lived in the states and was traveling around south Asia for something like eight months. We talked standard travel talk, and then I went with her to meet up with her friend and go to dinner. We went to a fusion restaurant (read: they serve Italian, Chinese, French and Indian… and cakes). Another good meal, more good Kingfisher. We were quite a site: two white girls and one tall (a foot and a half taller than I am) Indian who didn’t speak any Indian languages and was considerably taller than anyone on the street. It was great. After dinner we headed to Chowpatty beach for the night. There were probably 200 people on the beach. Couples lounging, families strolling and picnicking. Men selling food, giant balloons and massages. Precocious girls who came up to us to practice their English and smile proudly when they finished a short conversation. It was neat to see the city so social after dark. We then sampled some fine Indian gelato and I headed back north to the burbs.
The last day I did shopping in the hood and went to dinner with the parents of a cousin of Neil. People I had never seen or talked to invited me out for a nice meal. It was great. We went to a restaurant that was playing to India v. Sri Lanka game (cricket’s March Madness is going on right now) and talked culture and travel for a solid three hours. I sampled everything vegetarian on the buffet and had mango ice cream with kiwi sauce. Yum. The mom was so sad we hadn’t gotten together sooner, and I was sad not to be able to spend time with some Mumbaikers who weren’t out for something. But at midnight I headed back to my hotel to fly out the next day.
Mumbai was great. It was hot and sticky – considerably more of both than Delhi. It was crowded and hectic, and I had my first taste of hard travel. I met cool people and struck out on my own.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Poggio
I left Vienna on an overnight train, and once again the ride lulled me to sleep before 10 p.m. Coming from Venice I was lucky and didn’t have anyone in my cuchette. The trip back South, though, provided me with three Austrian roommates. An older couple headed to Venice for the weekend and a university student headed to Bologna to visit a friend. I left the station with the couple, who were immediately checking their watches to see how inefficient the time would be. We picked up the student in Linz, after I had fallen asleep, and I was immediately irritated that this newcomer had agitated my sleep. I was awake for maybe five minutes, irritated because I thought it was three in the morning, and I said nothing. The couple banged around for a while and student got her bags situated. I rolled over and let the trains rocking do its thing.
Later in the night – when it really was 3 a.m. – I was woken up once again. Full of attitude, I was thinking to myself, there are no other small, uncomfortable seat beds in here, so why is someone at the door?
They started talking in German and I got pissed. I assumed he was selling drinks or something. Are you kidding me? You want a freaking tea at this time of the morning? Jesus Christ. Once again, and with more pronunciation this time, I flipped over to go back to sleep. That’s when I was tapped. Oh my God! What do you want?!
The man gruffly asked for my passport. Ohhhh. Ok, here is my only official identification. Take it. Keep it if you would like. I’m legit. Just let me go back to sleep. After a minute, my passport was return and I was back asleep.
I didn’t process anything until the morning. I was cordially talking over breakfast with my three roommates that I was so angry with the night before, and they all thought it was strange that this man wasn’t in a uniform. I hadn’t even noticed. I’m glad I didn’t let him keep it after all. Who knows what it was all about, but people just shouldn’t disrupt my sleep. It makes me reckless.
We arrived over an hour late. The couple was uneasy from the moment they woke up. When we finally arrived, the student and I hung out while waiting for the train to Rome. We ate some disgusting gummy candy that I had been so excited to buy at the grocery store the day before. We chatted about travel and language. I helped her figure out her ticket, and we were off to our respective destinations.
I got on a full train to head back to Tuscany. I immediately pulled out my book. I knew I had at least an hour and a half before it would be safe to talk to anyone... the trip was three hours long, and I didn’t have an hour and a half’s worth of stuff to say to anyone. So I read and enjoyed myself. In Bologna, however, I was given no choice but to stop reading and start chatting. An Italian man from the South asked me what my book was.
Here we go. Not only was he going to speak Italian, he wanted to chat in Sicilian and swallow every other word. And contrary to many Sicilians, he didn’t want to speak loudly. No, he wanted to look down and ask a lot of questions. But I got through it. There were a few “Come?”s and “Scusi?”s (huh? and pardon?), and there were definitely a few times when I smiled or frowned because I had no idea what was going on and couldn’t ask him to repeat himself again. If he looked somber and I didn’t understand, I assumed it was about his wife Teresa. Maybe they weren’t doing so well in their marriage? Maybe the baby that is due in five months is keeping the mother sick? Maybe he is wondering if I have a husband? I couldn’t tell, so a somber nod seem appropriate. It got me through. We talked about the book and about travel – he has a brother like me who saves and travels and repeats. He works too much to travel, but he would like to. His son, a fifteen-year-old troublemaker (who has a cute school picture that I have now seen) wants to travel and probably will. He’s smart, he just doesn’t want to stick with stuff. By the time I got off, he knew I had family, I knew he had family and we both knew we were very different creatures. But both interesting and interested.
With that, I got to Florence. I then took my non-showered, unrested self to Poggio a Caiano, the small town I lived in after studying in Florence three years ago. I took the same bus I took often when I was here before, and it was like slipping back in time.
Chiara, the wedding planner I lived with, picked me up at the stop. After a big hug, we were off to the house to start laundry and check email. She had some questions about requests that she couldn’t understand, and I needed to shower. We unloaded, then headed back out to find Leo – her now 8-year-old son. Like clockwork, we went to the school to wait with all of the other Italian parents for the kids to get released. I saw the same parents who asked how I had been. I saw Milva, who was Chiara’s co-planner (if such a term exists), when I was there. She hugged me and held me and smiled at me. It felt nice to be back. Leo remembered me, but Elena and Mattia – Milva’s kids – raised their chins with a shrug. “Chi e questa?” (Who is this?) they wanted to know. But they warmed to me quickly.
We rode around town with me asking questions. Isn’t that where we went to the printer once? Isn’t that where we got gelato after going to the lake? Isn’t that Milva’s house? Is that the house you called a Horse House rather than stable and I thought you were talking about a whorehouse? Yes, I was back in my neighborhood.
When I first came, Leo was five years old. He was shy, and I was shy. We played soccer some, but didn’t talk to one another a lot because we couldn’t understand each other. He prattled in Italian sometimes, but mostly we coexisted. On particular nights when he didn’t want to go to sleep, tickling and wrestling wars would turn the living room into a danger zone. But it was all giggles and yelps.
Now Leo is older. After school he plays soccer with the boys in the playground. Everyone comes out every afternoon. Leo’s grandmom is there, and we come a bit later. Other parents mill about, watching their kids and talking about their kids. And the food their kids have eaten. And the homework their kids don’t have or don’t do. And the soccer their kids play. It’s very cute, but after a while I want to have a kid to talk about. And then I realize that something doesn’t fit.
Chiara wants me back. She wants me – or any diligent (laugh) person who speaks English – to come stay with her. As much as I love Poggio, I wouldn’t be able to do it on the same conditions. I’m a 23-year-old trapped in the life of married with children. When I stayed here, it was get up, take Leo to school, come back, check and respond to emails, sit outside and talk about idioms and grammar quite literally Under the Tuscan Sun, go to the store to look at overpriced shoes or shirt, go to the grocery store to buy dinner, go to the yard to watch Leo, fight with Leo about what time to come back home, make dinner, watch TV, go to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Variation on the weekend included birthday parties, shopping and school field trips.
As much as I would love to be back here to learn Italian and experience the culture deeper, I couldn’t do it again under someone else’s terms. I would want to get an apartment and a bicycle, and I would want to be able to come to work rather than live at work. I would want to go see Leo & Co. in the yard when I want to. The work was great because I did learn to teach and be patient, and I learned Italian through recognizing Chiara’s spoken mistakes. But I would need to discover the under-30 crowd that must exist somewhere in the greater Poggio area. I would want to have nights where I cook for friends and drink wine and don’t end the night by watching Rai Uno with poorly dubbed According to Jim episodes. In short, I would want to have my life.
I think it is possible. This short stay has been wonderful... it has given me enough time to see and visit with everyone without getting restless. But to come again for a few months? Only if my Saturdays are available for life beyond birthday parties where everyone eats over-salted fries and pizza and talks about who is going to sponsor the kids’ soccer team.
Later in the night – when it really was 3 a.m. – I was woken up once again. Full of attitude, I was thinking to myself, there are no other small, uncomfortable seat beds in here, so why is someone at the door?
They started talking in German and I got pissed. I assumed he was selling drinks or something. Are you kidding me? You want a freaking tea at this time of the morning? Jesus Christ. Once again, and with more pronunciation this time, I flipped over to go back to sleep. That’s when I was tapped. Oh my God! What do you want?!
The man gruffly asked for my passport. Ohhhh. Ok, here is my only official identification. Take it. Keep it if you would like. I’m legit. Just let me go back to sleep. After a minute, my passport was return and I was back asleep.
I didn’t process anything until the morning. I was cordially talking over breakfast with my three roommates that I was so angry with the night before, and they all thought it was strange that this man wasn’t in a uniform. I hadn’t even noticed. I’m glad I didn’t let him keep it after all. Who knows what it was all about, but people just shouldn’t disrupt my sleep. It makes me reckless.
We arrived over an hour late. The couple was uneasy from the moment they woke up. When we finally arrived, the student and I hung out while waiting for the train to Rome. We ate some disgusting gummy candy that I had been so excited to buy at the grocery store the day before. We chatted about travel and language. I helped her figure out her ticket, and we were off to our respective destinations.
I got on a full train to head back to Tuscany. I immediately pulled out my book. I knew I had at least an hour and a half before it would be safe to talk to anyone... the trip was three hours long, and I didn’t have an hour and a half’s worth of stuff to say to anyone. So I read and enjoyed myself. In Bologna, however, I was given no choice but to stop reading and start chatting. An Italian man from the South asked me what my book was.
Here we go. Not only was he going to speak Italian, he wanted to chat in Sicilian and swallow every other word. And contrary to many Sicilians, he didn’t want to speak loudly. No, he wanted to look down and ask a lot of questions. But I got through it. There were a few “Come?”s and “Scusi?”s (huh? and pardon?), and there were definitely a few times when I smiled or frowned because I had no idea what was going on and couldn’t ask him to repeat himself again. If he looked somber and I didn’t understand, I assumed it was about his wife Teresa. Maybe they weren’t doing so well in their marriage? Maybe the baby that is due in five months is keeping the mother sick? Maybe he is wondering if I have a husband? I couldn’t tell, so a somber nod seem appropriate. It got me through. We talked about the book and about travel – he has a brother like me who saves and travels and repeats. He works too much to travel, but he would like to. His son, a fifteen-year-old troublemaker (who has a cute school picture that I have now seen) wants to travel and probably will. He’s smart, he just doesn’t want to stick with stuff. By the time I got off, he knew I had family, I knew he had family and we both knew we were very different creatures. But both interesting and interested.
With that, I got to Florence. I then took my non-showered, unrested self to Poggio a Caiano, the small town I lived in after studying in Florence three years ago. I took the same bus I took often when I was here before, and it was like slipping back in time.
Chiara, the wedding planner I lived with, picked me up at the stop. After a big hug, we were off to the house to start laundry and check email. She had some questions about requests that she couldn’t understand, and I needed to shower. We unloaded, then headed back out to find Leo – her now 8-year-old son. Like clockwork, we went to the school to wait with all of the other Italian parents for the kids to get released. I saw the same parents who asked how I had been. I saw Milva, who was Chiara’s co-planner (if such a term exists), when I was there. She hugged me and held me and smiled at me. It felt nice to be back. Leo remembered me, but Elena and Mattia – Milva’s kids – raised their chins with a shrug. “Chi e questa?” (Who is this?) they wanted to know. But they warmed to me quickly.
We rode around town with me asking questions. Isn’t that where we went to the printer once? Isn’t that where we got gelato after going to the lake? Isn’t that Milva’s house? Is that the house you called a Horse House rather than stable and I thought you were talking about a whorehouse? Yes, I was back in my neighborhood.
When I first came, Leo was five years old. He was shy, and I was shy. We played soccer some, but didn’t talk to one another a lot because we couldn’t understand each other. He prattled in Italian sometimes, but mostly we coexisted. On particular nights when he didn’t want to go to sleep, tickling and wrestling wars would turn the living room into a danger zone. But it was all giggles and yelps.
Now Leo is older. After school he plays soccer with the boys in the playground. Everyone comes out every afternoon. Leo’s grandmom is there, and we come a bit later. Other parents mill about, watching their kids and talking about their kids. And the food their kids have eaten. And the homework their kids don’t have or don’t do. And the soccer their kids play. It’s very cute, but after a while I want to have a kid to talk about. And then I realize that something doesn’t fit.
Chiara wants me back. She wants me – or any diligent (laugh) person who speaks English – to come stay with her. As much as I love Poggio, I wouldn’t be able to do it on the same conditions. I’m a 23-year-old trapped in the life of married with children. When I stayed here, it was get up, take Leo to school, come back, check and respond to emails, sit outside and talk about idioms and grammar quite literally Under the Tuscan Sun, go to the store to look at overpriced shoes or shirt, go to the grocery store to buy dinner, go to the yard to watch Leo, fight with Leo about what time to come back home, make dinner, watch TV, go to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Variation on the weekend included birthday parties, shopping and school field trips.
As much as I would love to be back here to learn Italian and experience the culture deeper, I couldn’t do it again under someone else’s terms. I would want to get an apartment and a bicycle, and I would want to be able to come to work rather than live at work. I would want to go see Leo & Co. in the yard when I want to. The work was great because I did learn to teach and be patient, and I learned Italian through recognizing Chiara’s spoken mistakes. But I would need to discover the under-30 crowd that must exist somewhere in the greater Poggio area. I would want to have nights where I cook for friends and drink wine and don’t end the night by watching Rai Uno with poorly dubbed According to Jim episodes. In short, I would want to have my life.
I think it is possible. This short stay has been wonderful... it has given me enough time to see and visit with everyone without getting restless. But to come again for a few months? Only if my Saturdays are available for life beyond birthday parties where everyone eats over-salted fries and pizza and talks about who is going to sponsor the kids’ soccer team.
Pictures
I have started something new for pictures:
http://picasaweb.google.com/winnab
It's not edited, but it'll do. Enjoy!
http://picasaweb.google.com/winnab
It's not edited, but it'll do. Enjoy!
Vienna
One of my biggest fears is running out of things to say in a conversation or in a relationship. However irrational, I am terrified in most conversations of awkward pauses and I have convinced myself that all of my connections with people will come to an end because I will run out of things to talk about. Despite wanting to meet new people, especially on a trip like this, I often feel myself hesitating before starting a conversation. I think to myself, “We have this entire train ride. If I start talking now, I’ll have to talk until we reach the station or we both go uncomfortably quiet after I’ve found out the entire background of the person and his family. What more can I say once I realize that his mother is a shoemaker in Palermo? Do I even remember the word shoe? Whatever happens could be potentially catastrophic. I shouldn’t start a conversation now. I’ll just wait until we’re closer to where we are going. Good idea. But the train makes me sleepy...”
I mean, literally, this is what happens. Not all the time, mind you. There are those times – especially when my conversation partner initiates – that I am happy to muddle along with a language I don’t know well or talk slowly in English with people who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying. These conversations are triumphant and exhilarating because each time it’s like I’ve proven the impossible. Though I know this is the feeling I will ultimately have, I have hesitation every time.
I have met many interesting people already during those freak times that conversation does get started. So the only conclusion I continue to draw is that I have to force myself into uncomfortable situations in order to feel accomplished with people in new places.
Cities, however, are not the same. Cities I can love immediately. I can meet a city and after a few hours fantasize living there for years. I imagine my life in the city, bustling around with people I am afraid to talk to. It’s wonderful. I think I have a thing for cities because I love them all. Big ones, small ones, clean ones, confusing ones, crowded ones, rainy ones. After I spent time going around the U.S., I was asked which city I liked the most. Sheepishly, I had to admit that they all gave me something good.
Vienna is a city I loved immediately. From the day I arrived, I was enchanted. Coming from Italy there were things I noticed immediately. First off, it’s cleaner. From the train station to the city’s many churches and most points in between, the walls are clean and without garish graffiti. As a designer, I can be attracted to graffiti; in Italy, the graffiti is not attractive. Also, the roads and sidewalks are roomier. You can walk five-people wide without being on the street. It’s cleaner audibly as well, as many Viennese have cars but not many have motorini... the biggest source of noise pollution in Italy. Instead, next to the extra-large sidewalks are paved and sanctioned bike lanes. The pedestrian light system has icons for bikes and people showing just how much respect the greener-minded Austrians get.
Austrians, like any group of people north of Italy, seem more... anal retentive. I say this in the most affectionate way because I am probably more anal retentive than an small town of Italians. Austrians wait at stoplights for the green man to indicate they may cross (out of fear of the 7-euro charge they may incur if they misstep), and move about the city like they’re all part of a well-oiled machine. As soon as possible, I tried to fall in line.
But there isn’t a total sense of order. Like any city or culture, there are standards and expectations. The metro (a great system) treats its people like grownups: you buy and validate your ticket as needed. There are no turnstiles at every exit. Occasionally officers are posted to check tickets, and if you irresponsibly decide not to use honor, they charge you a fee of consequence. It’s that simple.
Simplicity is also part of the Viennese coffee house tradition. Vienna has a tradition of these houses that is said to be more than 300 years old, with the first location opening after the Turks were defeated in the mid-1600s. Shops full of coffee, tea and pastries (and liquors, wines and beers at night) are on every street, and you are invited to patronize as long as you’d like. Order a coffee, stay for a few hours to read the paper, talk about politics or (in my case) plan the rest of your time in the city with your guidebook and hot chocolate to assist. I sampled pastries at a handful of coffeeshops and wasn’t disappointed. I started with an apple strudel from the Diglas coffee house, tried a multi-layered chocolate torte at Eiles near the Parliament and had a crumbly treat near the Graben. Yum.
When I wasn’t opting for a pastry as lunch, I explored (mostly with Rishi’s help) eateries with traditional Austrian fare. The first night in the city we went to a brewery for wiener schnitzel and home-brewed beer. Yum again. At the end of another night I was treated to a hot dog – frankfurter with cheese snug in a crusty baguette. For a final lunch I had frankfurter, potatoes, sauerkraut and beer. I was kind of jealous of myself on that last day.
The food was sustenance that I need to traverse the city, which I did. Over and over. Outside. A lot.
I really had no choice. The weather was beautiful and the city center – i.e. where are the tourist stuff is – packs itself tightly and is marked well enough to navigate easily. I walked through the Museums Quatier, Maria Teresa Platz, down by the University and Parliament, over to see the Graben and Stephansdom, around the see Karlsplatz and over to see Belvedere. I went to the Jewish Quarters and where Mozart when he worked on Figaro. I saw Klimt’s kiss and a neat exhibit on Yves Klein at the MUMOK. I also explored the city’s Jugendstil architecture at Wagner’s apartments, the Succession building and at Karlsplatz. I love this design period with its angles, colors and lines, so it was great to see the architecture in person.
One night I went to wait for a standing seat (oxymoronic, I know) at the opera. I waited outside the opera house with my paper and guide book, waited inside to get a ticket, then rushed with everyone to get a spot. People were running in from outside, pushing and shoving, and I had no idea what was going on. I asked someone who seemed to be a veteran (he brought a collapsible chair with him for his post outside), and he recommended the balcony and recommended I hurry. So I did. I had to be guided by the calm ushers amidst the store, and my spot was acceptable. I tied a scarf to my area and wandered for a bit. The opera house is pretty majestic and I was glad I paid two euro (less than I pay for a hot chocolate) to see the show. I only wished that the show was better. It was a french opera with a pretty good female singer and no good actors. It was a modern opera that tried to hard with the acting. The German-speaking audience got translations on screens by their seats (and above our heads in the standing section). It was the first time in a long time that my English didn’t help me out in any way. It was actually kind of a nice feeling, though I may have enjoyed the opera at least a bit more if I had more of what was going on.
My last night, as I was wandering around the Graben before going to the train station, I heard a pianist, two classical guitarists, a quartet with a clarinet (it rhymes and it’s an instrument after my heart) and singers. Mostly students, all out enjoying the evening and practicing music that just makes the heart happy. I got on the Ubahn to head to the station with a smile. It’s how I like to leave cities. I think it’s inevitable I’ll get back to that city before too long.
I mean, literally, this is what happens. Not all the time, mind you. There are those times – especially when my conversation partner initiates – that I am happy to muddle along with a language I don’t know well or talk slowly in English with people who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying. These conversations are triumphant and exhilarating because each time it’s like I’ve proven the impossible. Though I know this is the feeling I will ultimately have, I have hesitation every time.
I have met many interesting people already during those freak times that conversation does get started. So the only conclusion I continue to draw is that I have to force myself into uncomfortable situations in order to feel accomplished with people in new places.
Cities, however, are not the same. Cities I can love immediately. I can meet a city and after a few hours fantasize living there for years. I imagine my life in the city, bustling around with people I am afraid to talk to. It’s wonderful. I think I have a thing for cities because I love them all. Big ones, small ones, clean ones, confusing ones, crowded ones, rainy ones. After I spent time going around the U.S., I was asked which city I liked the most. Sheepishly, I had to admit that they all gave me something good.
Vienna is a city I loved immediately. From the day I arrived, I was enchanted. Coming from Italy there were things I noticed immediately. First off, it’s cleaner. From the train station to the city’s many churches and most points in between, the walls are clean and without garish graffiti. As a designer, I can be attracted to graffiti; in Italy, the graffiti is not attractive. Also, the roads and sidewalks are roomier. You can walk five-people wide without being on the street. It’s cleaner audibly as well, as many Viennese have cars but not many have motorini... the biggest source of noise pollution in Italy. Instead, next to the extra-large sidewalks are paved and sanctioned bike lanes. The pedestrian light system has icons for bikes and people showing just how much respect the greener-minded Austrians get.
Austrians, like any group of people north of Italy, seem more... anal retentive. I say this in the most affectionate way because I am probably more anal retentive than an small town of Italians. Austrians wait at stoplights for the green man to indicate they may cross (out of fear of the 7-euro charge they may incur if they misstep), and move about the city like they’re all part of a well-oiled machine. As soon as possible, I tried to fall in line.
But there isn’t a total sense of order. Like any city or culture, there are standards and expectations. The metro (a great system) treats its people like grownups: you buy and validate your ticket as needed. There are no turnstiles at every exit. Occasionally officers are posted to check tickets, and if you irresponsibly decide not to use honor, they charge you a fee of consequence. It’s that simple.
Simplicity is also part of the Viennese coffee house tradition. Vienna has a tradition of these houses that is said to be more than 300 years old, with the first location opening after the Turks were defeated in the mid-1600s. Shops full of coffee, tea and pastries (and liquors, wines and beers at night) are on every street, and you are invited to patronize as long as you’d like. Order a coffee, stay for a few hours to read the paper, talk about politics or (in my case) plan the rest of your time in the city with your guidebook and hot chocolate to assist. I sampled pastries at a handful of coffeeshops and wasn’t disappointed. I started with an apple strudel from the Diglas coffee house, tried a multi-layered chocolate torte at Eiles near the Parliament and had a crumbly treat near the Graben. Yum.
When I wasn’t opting for a pastry as lunch, I explored (mostly with Rishi’s help) eateries with traditional Austrian fare. The first night in the city we went to a brewery for wiener schnitzel and home-brewed beer. Yum again. At the end of another night I was treated to a hot dog – frankfurter with cheese snug in a crusty baguette. For a final lunch I had frankfurter, potatoes, sauerkraut and beer. I was kind of jealous of myself on that last day.
The food was sustenance that I need to traverse the city, which I did. Over and over. Outside. A lot.
I really had no choice. The weather was beautiful and the city center – i.e. where are the tourist stuff is – packs itself tightly and is marked well enough to navigate easily. I walked through the Museums Quatier, Maria Teresa Platz, down by the University and Parliament, over to see the Graben and Stephansdom, around the see Karlsplatz and over to see Belvedere. I went to the Jewish Quarters and where Mozart when he worked on Figaro. I saw Klimt’s kiss and a neat exhibit on Yves Klein at the MUMOK. I also explored the city’s Jugendstil architecture at Wagner’s apartments, the Succession building and at Karlsplatz. I love this design period with its angles, colors and lines, so it was great to see the architecture in person.
One night I went to wait for a standing seat (oxymoronic, I know) at the opera. I waited outside the opera house with my paper and guide book, waited inside to get a ticket, then rushed with everyone to get a spot. People were running in from outside, pushing and shoving, and I had no idea what was going on. I asked someone who seemed to be a veteran (he brought a collapsible chair with him for his post outside), and he recommended the balcony and recommended I hurry. So I did. I had to be guided by the calm ushers amidst the store, and my spot was acceptable. I tied a scarf to my area and wandered for a bit. The opera house is pretty majestic and I was glad I paid two euro (less than I pay for a hot chocolate) to see the show. I only wished that the show was better. It was a french opera with a pretty good female singer and no good actors. It was a modern opera that tried to hard with the acting. The German-speaking audience got translations on screens by their seats (and above our heads in the standing section). It was the first time in a long time that my English didn’t help me out in any way. It was actually kind of a nice feeling, though I may have enjoyed the opera at least a bit more if I had more of what was going on.
My last night, as I was wandering around the Graben before going to the train station, I heard a pianist, two classical guitarists, a quartet with a clarinet (it rhymes and it’s an instrument after my heart) and singers. Mostly students, all out enjoying the evening and practicing music that just makes the heart happy. I got on the Ubahn to head to the station with a smile. It’s how I like to leave cities. I think it’s inevitable I’ll get back to that city before too long.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Vienna
I am in Vienna Carolina France Vienna
It’s been great staying in a city with someone who knows the city. I arrived on Sunday, and we went for a whirlwind walking tour to show the sites. He lived two blocks from the Museums Quatier, and we went to Maria Teresa Platz, HOfburg where the Chancellor lives, the Graben for shopping and to see Stafansdome, the Opera house, Schonbrunn a summer palace and finished the afternoon off with coffee, tea and pastries at Diglas. We had wiener schnitzel for dinner and a good beer to go with it. Since then, I have retraced steps and gone to theSuccession Building
It’s been great staying in a city with someone who knows the city. I arrived on Sunday, and we went for a whirlwind walking tour to show the sites. He lived two blocks from the Museums Quatier, and we went to Maria Teresa Platz, HOfburg where the Chancellor lives, the Graben for shopping and to see Stafansdome, the Opera house, Schonbrunn a summer palace and finished the afternoon off with coffee, tea and pastries at Diglas. We had wiener schnitzel for dinner and a good beer to go with it. Since then, I have retraced steps and gone to the
Fifth Day in Italy - Venice
We woke up early in Biassa to catch the train to
Italians like to strike at random times. When I was living in Poggio a Caiano, the teachers went on strike at least three times in two months. The bus system in
This Friday morning, we tried to buy tickets to
In our first stop, Sestri, I took advantage of the waiting time to buy a few more decks of cards so that I could teach
Before starting a new hand, as best I could I explained the rules and nuances. He had never seen the game, but liked the idea. We were going to continue to play, but a newcomer joined the cabin and our Italian friend wanted to chat anyway. He was a commander of an undercover drug unit in Genova, and he had been in the business for a long time. He was a paratrooper for the military in
For the rest of the way to
We arrived in
In most ways,
The streets everywhere are labyrinthine, with alleys that lead nowhere and water everywhere as a false point of reference. The alleys and streets were barely four people wide, and the buildings were tall enough and compact enough that it was usually only possible to see what was directly ahead and behind. Street names changed in a single turn without indication and few paths were straight for more than 50 feet.
Our hostel was in the area near
We retraced our steps to an Internet café that cost five euro for half an hour, and after frantically checking email I asked for assistance. The man, a local who was blaring American hard rock in the café and took five minutes to acknowledge us when we first came in, turned out to be much more helpful than I was expecting. He had never heard of the hostel – another strike against it – and was already suggesting other places to stay. Dammit. Before giving up completely, though, he phoned the number again, and they finally answered. He explained our situation, and the hostel owners said they would be at the hostel soon. After profuse thanks and paying 10 euro for the Internet, we maneuvered back to the hostel to wait. The owners’ children came 20 minutes later and admonished us for not calling, and then we finally had a room. It was quite a production for a highly underwhelming hostel, but we didn’t care.
We found dinner quickly after checking in, and – once again –
The next morning we woke up early to be able to see at least part of
We then found Piazza San Marco, with its gorgeous church and Palazzo Ducale set on the canal and showered with the morning sun. The piazza was quite beautiful with a clock tower accented with midnight blue and gold. The church has wonderful bas reliefs showing Saint Marc being carried inside. There were ornate columns and small statues everywhere. Inside the piazza, there were people and pigeons everywhere. It was barely
Erin needed to get back to
To end the day, I spend an hour or so waiting for my train and watching pigeons fly around the terminal. I left for
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