Recently, while trying to read an article from the New York Times Fashion & Style section, I got tricked into taking an online survey about banking. Tricked may be a bit strong, as I did willingly click to participate but to be fair I did think it was going to be about the New York Times. Ironic, I thought, as I answered questions about checking accounts, credit cards, loans, CDs, and a personal savings that I don't have. Ironic really,all the things in this world I: A. know the least about and B., am the worst at.
Then suddenly, without warning, the survey turned really nasty. Which of the following activities and interests do you and/or members of your household enjoy on a regular basis? the survey nagged me.
Foreign travel: YES!
Gourmet/fine food: YES!
Fashion/clothing: YES!
This is fun! I thought.
Physical fitness/exercise: Eh, well, John I guess can fullfull this checked box for the "household," ha... household.
Current events/news: Since I was trying to read Eric Wilson's most recent exposee "Oh, to Be Young and a Star" I think I more than qualify, I thought, patting myself on the back.
Wildlife/environmental issues: My mere association with parents such as mine more than qualifies me. Check!
Money making opportunities: I suppose if money fell into my lap I would accept it, sure, but what mean this "opportunities?" Doesn't this stupid survey know I would answer yes to the first three boxes, essentially ruling out entirely the possibility of this later one? I did specify my age at the beginning of this thing after all.
Book reading: I read a book this morning! I couldn't help but thank past Andrea for having such incredible foresight.
Self Improvement: What the.....
Watching or playing sports: What a well rounded pair John and I are, says the survey. I smiled here. What does "Self improvement" even mean?!
Charities/volunteer work: What?
Consumer electronics: I do want an iPhone, I thought guiltily, looking with a twinge at the box above.
None of the above:
Well, I thought, hastily taking my belated exit to glorious, materialistic reprieve, what a thoroughly offensive survey.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
In Hell
I am in internet-less hell. Hell because there is no Internet. No Internet, because this is Sardegna. I should have known it. I joked about it, that I would be without it, that I would have no choice but to suffer contact-less days and nights and here I am, suffering. Endlessly. This is day two, I remind myself.
Apparently, corrects my MacBook, Internet is a proper noun, emphasizing further the importance of its existence. Along with America, Carmex, and Vogue. Since I can’t live without these three, how then, can one expect me to live without the previous?
My Airport doesn’t find a single wireless network, protected or not. I am literally without options. My access to Internet comes only from the frame shop with an Ethernet plug-in that is a steep hike away in the town center. And today is Sunday. Not only do I know it is closed because it is the day of rest, but also because I am sitting next to the proprietor.
The hours drag on and I wonder if the days will ever change. I wonder how a person lives this way, how long they can endure. "How come there is no internet here?" I ask, accompanied by a practiced, forced smile. “We didn’t get around to putting in the Internet yet. I can use it at work and Valerio uses it at the shop, and so we didn’t see the need.” I nod politely, arranging my face into an expression that I think says, Ah, understandable. “And how long ago did you move into this new apartment?” I ask, my smile now a grimace. “In December.”
It is a cretinous lifestyle, to be sure. Day two, echoes ominously in my head. I can't spell “cretinous” off the top of my head and I try to look it up using my handy formatting palette: “Office cannot connect to the Internet,” it tells me. “Make sure that your computer is connected to the Internet, and press RETURN to try again.” Not only did it repeat the word “Internet” twice, it was even capitalized in the toolbox.
Apparently, corrects my MacBook, Internet is a proper noun, emphasizing further the importance of its existence. Along with America, Carmex, and Vogue. Since I can’t live without these three, how then, can one expect me to live without the previous?
My Airport doesn’t find a single wireless network, protected or not. I am literally without options. My access to Internet comes only from the frame shop with an Ethernet plug-in that is a steep hike away in the town center. And today is Sunday. Not only do I know it is closed because it is the day of rest, but also because I am sitting next to the proprietor.
The hours drag on and I wonder if the days will ever change. I wonder how a person lives this way, how long they can endure. "How come there is no internet here?" I ask, accompanied by a practiced, forced smile. “We didn’t get around to putting in the Internet yet. I can use it at work and Valerio uses it at the shop, and so we didn’t see the need.” I nod politely, arranging my face into an expression that I think says, Ah, understandable. “And how long ago did you move into this new apartment?” I ask, my smile now a grimace. “In December.”
It is a cretinous lifestyle, to be sure. Day two, echoes ominously in my head. I can't spell “cretinous” off the top of my head and I try to look it up using my handy formatting palette: “Office cannot connect to the Internet,” it tells me. “Make sure that your computer is connected to the Internet, and press RETURN to try again.” Not only did it repeat the word “Internet” twice, it was even capitalized in the toolbox.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Music Of This Street
In my apartment I am constantly being confronted with the pluses and minuses. Single bedroom: plus. Two bathrooms: plus. Freezer the size of a microwave: minus. Shower that shares a wall with a sleeping roommate: minus. Neighbor above in high heels: minus.
But recently, I discovered the two greatest plus of them all. And funny enough, it isn't even in my apartment.
People talk about the music of a city. The garbage trucks, the traffic, the shouts and hollers of pedestrians, car stereos. But I have found myself living in the apartment afforded the most music of all. Real music. No on in this apartment plays an instrument, and it isn't the apartment below me blasting theirs, it is the real, live pianist living in the building across from mine. His windows look directly into my own, and he is a he.
I found out last week when I awoke and opened the shutters. Putting on my slippers, wondering what combination of people might be present in the dining room, I went into the kitchen for my morning cappuccino. Seated at the table, not sour at all (at least not yet) was Giudy, hunched over her computer, oscillating between her thesis in a word document and the online social networking site we all know and love. She was playing music, a concert pianist, or at least I thought so. I complemented her music choice and instead of smiling politely and thanking me, her face contorted into a kind of grimace, the kind that says simultaneously, what on earth are you thinking and oh you like that? cause it's doing nothing for me.
"It's not me," she said, "it's the man across the street." I looked up and out the open window, to the one adjacent. Now I could tell. Clearly, this was no MP3, it was a live person, playing some wonderful piano cantata. "You don't like it?" I asked, slightly disgusted that she could be such a Grinch. "It's impossible to study when he plays, and he always plays in the spring and summer. What a nuisance." (Here, I paraphrase, and would like to note that her criticism was not so well mannered indeed it included several expletives, but seeing as no appropriate translation exists from Italian to English, I feel her point is better served in the way I have described it.)
I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it. How could someone dislike the sound of a piano, an uncomplicated, wordless tune? Here she was, practically in agony over the sound of a baroque masterpiece, and I felt I should thank this man. How could she call this a disruption? Live, free, moderately low-volumed music. I made my cappuccino and made a hasty exit, afraid that her colorless, repugnant attitude could be contagious. Back in my room, I threw open both windows.
Today finds me with windows flung open wide, reclined on my bed, looking out towards his window and up to the sky. I awoke at 9:30, relatively early considering the late hour at which I finally switched off the light last night. It was to the sound of the music, drifting through the shutters, not waking me but rather invading my sleep, pervading my dreams. When I rolled over into this realization, I opened the shutters immediately, to allow the music better entrance to my room. A nuisance? Never.
He plays daily, and for hours on end. Sometimes slowly, encumbered. Perhaps it is a new piece, I imagine. Sometimes quickly, expertly, as though he wrote the piece himself. He rarely loses his place, or stops abruptly, and each time he does, so too does my heart. Has the concert ended? When will the music return? It inevitably begins again, and I've usually stepped out by the time he finishes, an easier acceptance than having the music end on me. Today I heard the beginning as well as the end of the concert.
These private concerts, as I like to imagine they have become, are something I will miss greatly. This, and Friday evenings. Downstairs and across the street is Chet Baker, the restaurant, not the man. Every Friday evening, they arrange tables out on the terrace and serve dinner in front of a live jazz band that plays for no less than four hours. Somebody explained to me that the restaurant's namesake lived for a number of years in Bologna. Though only once a week, this concert lights my block ablaze. I love the music, followed by the applause. I love the applause as much as the music, because that too is live. It is in appreciation. It isn't Giudy's disapproving ear, and it isn't my roommate's boyfriend screaming "ENOUGH!" out the window, like he did today.
But recently, I discovered the two greatest plus of them all. And funny enough, it isn't even in my apartment.
People talk about the music of a city. The garbage trucks, the traffic, the shouts and hollers of pedestrians, car stereos. But I have found myself living in the apartment afforded the most music of all. Real music. No on in this apartment plays an instrument, and it isn't the apartment below me blasting theirs, it is the real, live pianist living in the building across from mine. His windows look directly into my own, and he is a he.
I found out last week when I awoke and opened the shutters. Putting on my slippers, wondering what combination of people might be present in the dining room, I went into the kitchen for my morning cappuccino. Seated at the table, not sour at all (at least not yet) was Giudy, hunched over her computer, oscillating between her thesis in a word document and the online social networking site we all know and love. She was playing music, a concert pianist, or at least I thought so. I complemented her music choice and instead of smiling politely and thanking me, her face contorted into a kind of grimace, the kind that says simultaneously, what on earth are you thinking and oh you like that? cause it's doing nothing for me.
"It's not me," she said, "it's the man across the street." I looked up and out the open window, to the one adjacent. Now I could tell. Clearly, this was no MP3, it was a live person, playing some wonderful piano cantata. "You don't like it?" I asked, slightly disgusted that she could be such a Grinch. "It's impossible to study when he plays, and he always plays in the spring and summer. What a nuisance." (Here, I paraphrase, and would like to note that her criticism was not so well mannered indeed it included several expletives, but seeing as no appropriate translation exists from Italian to English, I feel her point is better served in the way I have described it.)
I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it. How could someone dislike the sound of a piano, an uncomplicated, wordless tune? Here she was, practically in agony over the sound of a baroque masterpiece, and I felt I should thank this man. How could she call this a disruption? Live, free, moderately low-volumed music. I made my cappuccino and made a hasty exit, afraid that her colorless, repugnant attitude could be contagious. Back in my room, I threw open both windows.
Today finds me with windows flung open wide, reclined on my bed, looking out towards his window and up to the sky. I awoke at 9:30, relatively early considering the late hour at which I finally switched off the light last night. It was to the sound of the music, drifting through the shutters, not waking me but rather invading my sleep, pervading my dreams. When I rolled over into this realization, I opened the shutters immediately, to allow the music better entrance to my room. A nuisance? Never.
He plays daily, and for hours on end. Sometimes slowly, encumbered. Perhaps it is a new piece, I imagine. Sometimes quickly, expertly, as though he wrote the piece himself. He rarely loses his place, or stops abruptly, and each time he does, so too does my heart. Has the concert ended? When will the music return? It inevitably begins again, and I've usually stepped out by the time he finishes, an easier acceptance than having the music end on me. Today I heard the beginning as well as the end of the concert.
These private concerts, as I like to imagine they have become, are something I will miss greatly. This, and Friday evenings. Downstairs and across the street is Chet Baker, the restaurant, not the man. Every Friday evening, they arrange tables out on the terrace and serve dinner in front of a live jazz band that plays for no less than four hours. Somebody explained to me that the restaurant's namesake lived for a number of years in Bologna. Though only once a week, this concert lights my block ablaze. I love the music, followed by the applause. I love the applause as much as the music, because that too is live. It is in appreciation. It isn't Giudy's disapproving ear, and it isn't my roommate's boyfriend screaming "ENOUGH!" out the window, like he did today.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Smells In This City
Until four months ago, I had never lived in a big city in my life. The realities of such a life have been confronting me daily since I arrived. It's crowded. Everything is stone and concrete and brick. Its filthy. With few green spaces, all tucked out of the way in isolated corners, there is dog excrement everywhere, usually in the shape of a smashed skid from the shoe of the poor pedestrian who was so unfortunate as to step in it. There are homeless begging, and insistent street vendors who seem not to know I have a particularly large bubble of personal space because they seem always to be entering it. But worst of all presented itself just one week ago when all of a sudden the spring seemed to arrive all at once.
One night it was beautiful, and hot, and a whole new side of the city showed itself. The smell. The smokers were always here but it was one bus ride I took last Wednesday in particular when I realized the reality of living in a city is infinitely worse than I'd imagined. I rode this particular bus on a day that was hot though not unbearable. I could discern each distinct smell coming for each individual passenger.
As the heat increases each day, it gets worse. Sometimes it's better to stay home and starve than go out and confront my neighbors and fellow Pam Supermarket shoppers, their lack of hygiene a complete affront. But it's not just the people. It's the trash cans, the dog excrement, the plumbing in my apartment, the exhaust from a million cars. It's disgusting.
Please, oh please, take me to the Pacific!
One night it was beautiful, and hot, and a whole new side of the city showed itself. The smell. The smokers were always here but it was one bus ride I took last Wednesday in particular when I realized the reality of living in a city is infinitely worse than I'd imagined. I rode this particular bus on a day that was hot though not unbearable. I could discern each distinct smell coming for each individual passenger.
As the heat increases each day, it gets worse. Sometimes it's better to stay home and starve than go out and confront my neighbors and fellow Pam Supermarket shoppers, their lack of hygiene a complete affront. But it's not just the people. It's the trash cans, the dog excrement, the plumbing in my apartment, the exhaust from a million cars. It's disgusting.
Please, oh please, take me to the Pacific!
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Itch
Three weeks ago I tripped and I fell hard, on my face, skinning my elbow and my knee, ripping my jeans. It was a brilliant fall, both for its severity and its timely happening in a highly populous area. Utterly humiliating. Fueled by several cocktails and more than enough shots, I fell victim to one of the city's thousands of uneven side walks.
The next day over a cappuccino, I recounted for a friend the spectacular spill I had taken. I showed her my knee. And I got to thinking. When was the last time I had actually fallen hard enough to skin a knee? I had no idea. Sure, since then I've had rug burns and bruises, but a thick brown scab on my knee? I had no idea. I passed numerous early years with a seemingly permanent scab, a constant presence that smarted at the bend of a knee, and itched something awful as it dispersed.
Everything about the scab was familiar: the way it starts coming off first at the corners, the dryness, the itch. The constant temptation to pick it until a tiny prick of blood appears, and later hardens into a new scab. Only this time I didn't pick it. Well, not until it bled. But this time, I couldn't help thinking that this scab was for such a different reason than ever before. Sure, I tripped plenty but this time I was drinking.
I didn't play sports, I never threw myself after some superfluous ball in some sort of insane self sacrifice to prevent a goal being scored or an out-of-bounds call. I didn't pay tag, or tether ball or anything for that matter in a particularly violent way. I've never been in a fight. Tomboy simply never applied to me. But still, I had my share of skinned knees. A trip, perhaps a shove. I can remember a freeze frame of of a little knee with a tough, gnarled scab, but none of the motives behind it. I was a girl's girl. No, I was a boy's girl. The type who has millions of dolls that are all her children. Barbie only wore a wedding dress: she was always getting married. Outfits match. Sleeping Beauty lived in the VCR. I always wanted to be a princess. Not for the title or the real estate but for the prince. For the wonderful idea that one day a man, not just a man a prince would come into my life and then there would be nothing but happiness. After all isn't that what ever after means?
Princesses don't have skinned knees, it seemed, I realize now. Or maybe they did, and thus the need for the petticoats. My scab has already peeled off and I can see the fresh red skin exposed as well as the realization that I don't want to be a princess. I hope there are many a scraped knee to come. Perfection is boring, whatever that means. The knee in freeze frame is bigger now. My scab no longer attached I realize that even when it isn't sloughed off by a harsh city street, my skin is shedding constantly. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.
The next day over a cappuccino, I recounted for a friend the spectacular spill I had taken. I showed her my knee. And I got to thinking. When was the last time I had actually fallen hard enough to skin a knee? I had no idea. Sure, since then I've had rug burns and bruises, but a thick brown scab on my knee? I had no idea. I passed numerous early years with a seemingly permanent scab, a constant presence that smarted at the bend of a knee, and itched something awful as it dispersed.
Everything about the scab was familiar: the way it starts coming off first at the corners, the dryness, the itch. The constant temptation to pick it until a tiny prick of blood appears, and later hardens into a new scab. Only this time I didn't pick it. Well, not until it bled. But this time, I couldn't help thinking that this scab was for such a different reason than ever before. Sure, I tripped plenty but this time I was drinking.
I didn't play sports, I never threw myself after some superfluous ball in some sort of insane self sacrifice to prevent a goal being scored or an out-of-bounds call. I didn't pay tag, or tether ball or anything for that matter in a particularly violent way. I've never been in a fight. Tomboy simply never applied to me. But still, I had my share of skinned knees. A trip, perhaps a shove. I can remember a freeze frame of of a little knee with a tough, gnarled scab, but none of the motives behind it. I was a girl's girl. No, I was a boy's girl. The type who has millions of dolls that are all her children. Barbie only wore a wedding dress: she was always getting married. Outfits match. Sleeping Beauty lived in the VCR. I always wanted to be a princess. Not for the title or the real estate but for the prince. For the wonderful idea that one day a man, not just a man a prince would come into my life and then there would be nothing but happiness. After all isn't that what ever after means?
Princesses don't have skinned knees, it seemed, I realize now. Or maybe they did, and thus the need for the petticoats. My scab has already peeled off and I can see the fresh red skin exposed as well as the realization that I don't want to be a princess. I hope there are many a scraped knee to come. Perfection is boring, whatever that means. The knee in freeze frame is bigger now. My scab no longer attached I realize that even when it isn't sloughed off by a harsh city street, my skin is shedding constantly. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Weight
When it rains, sometimes it seems to do more than just pour. The clouds gather, the sky darkens, the winds whip everything into a frenzy. The earth trembles beneath your very feet. And elsewhere in the world you know that things, events, cataclysmic happenings are taking place. Hurricanes are swirling, fires blazing, volcanoes erupting. Hail pummels the earth and waves beat on the shores. Avalanches and mudslides and rockfalls smother everything in their path. And just when you think, logically, statistically that not another disaster could possibly occur, it begins to rain over the wreckage.
Sometimes it is you standing in the downpour, (the seeming apocalypse), and sometimes, you're standing protected by an umbrella, watching the debris fall around you onto someone else.
What a downpour it has been. I have an umbrella and my goulashes and I wait for the next cloud burst to wash away tentative progress. I wade through the waist high water to a friend stranded on a dry patch in the deluge. I sit on this isolated roof top and hold my umbrella over their head, too. It doesn't change the fact that their feet are wet, or that their house is underwater, but at least we're together. Their pieces are shattered in a million billion directions, but I'll look for every last one on every corner of the earth until we've got them all again. It is no trouble. I do it gladly, hoping to alleviate even a little tiny bit of their burden.
Sometimes it is you standing in the downpour, (the seeming apocalypse), and sometimes, you're standing protected by an umbrella, watching the debris fall around you onto someone else.
What a downpour it has been. I have an umbrella and my goulashes and I wait for the next cloud burst to wash away tentative progress. I wade through the waist high water to a friend stranded on a dry patch in the deluge. I sit on this isolated roof top and hold my umbrella over their head, too. It doesn't change the fact that their feet are wet, or that their house is underwater, but at least we're together. Their pieces are shattered in a million billion directions, but I'll look for every last one on every corner of the earth until we've got them all again. It is no trouble. I do it gladly, hoping to alleviate even a little tiny bit of their burden.
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Laser Pointer
The very first class I went to at the University of Bologna was Art History of China. Well, I suppose it was the second, but the first lecture I attended for Art History of Buddhism in India was also my last. The professor humiliated me by calling me out as a "straniera," a foreigner in front of the entire class. Necks craned, everyone got a look at me, the foreigner. Sure, there couldn't have been more than eight people total in the room, including myself and the professor, but humiliation is one thing I cannot tolerate. So I stayed for the remainder of the class, palms sweating, cheeks red, and left, never to return.
Let's begin again. In the context of classes-I-actually-took, Art History of China was the first. Besides the first, it is also the longest running class I am in. I began attending on Tuesday January 9th, a virtual lifetime ago. For the record it ends May 20th. Another small class, on the days when all students are present, there are 7 of us. Everyone sits in the front three rows of the classroom which could easily seat 125 students. Sometimes in the fourth row back, I feel like some sort of rebel, ostracized for my bad-ass reputation, which is completely erroneous: I totally made that up. Actually I sit alone and don't speak to anyone because I'm foreign. I'm just plain ostracized. People stare like I'm some sort of blasphemous offense in my shorts and sandals while everyone else still wears light outerwear. I don't even own a leather jacket. I'm some degree of loser.
That's ok. I'd rather be me, the loser, than the girl who clearly dies her own red hair (and her scalp too) or the girl with MC Hammer pants down to her ankles– the crotch that is. In fact, I have the confidence to strut in there two days a week, and sit for two hours, pretending not to notice all the looks Harem Pants and Reba McIntyre are stealing. While I can commiserate with their inability to focus on Professor Celli for two full hours, I do feel somewhat objectified. I used to overlook it, but now I return their stares until they become uncomfortable. Sometimes I smile at them, sometimes I frown, sometimes I open my eyes too wide without blinking till they look away. I'm clearly an eccentric curiosity so why not take liberties with my behavior? Exactly. After all, didn't their mothers ever tell them it's impolite to stare?
This usually all occurs at the beginning of class. That is to say, they examine me and my sartorial preference for that day, and then settle in to listen. After the initial interest of the staring contest, I settle in as well, watching the supplemental images projected before us. Not to say that I don't find this class fulfilling, but it is downright boring. And worst of all is the laser pointer.
Professor Celli has this laser pointer that, like my attention starts out strong. She turns it on, red pin prick visible. Celli points it at some detail on the slide, and slowly but surely, every lecture, it fades until it isn't visible within ten seconds. The laser pointer is on, and she swings it, I'm guessing, over the area she wishes to demonstrate. Except the tiny red dot has been completely extinguished. This however does not affect her zeal in using it. She holds it, gestures with it, she points. Repeatedly in each lecture, that evil little illusion appears to highlight a concept that I only vaguely grasp to begin with, to show a detail that the laser pointer never clarifies for me.
This tiny useless devise never fails to infuriate me. I see its impotence as a reflection of all things in Italy: ceremonial, customary, designed with some intended purpose, and yet, completely useless.
Let's begin again. In the context of classes-I-actually-took, Art History of China was the first. Besides the first, it is also the longest running class I am in. I began attending on Tuesday January 9th, a virtual lifetime ago. For the record it ends May 20th. Another small class, on the days when all students are present, there are 7 of us. Everyone sits in the front three rows of the classroom which could easily seat 125 students. Sometimes in the fourth row back, I feel like some sort of rebel, ostracized for my bad-ass reputation, which is completely erroneous: I totally made that up. Actually I sit alone and don't speak to anyone because I'm foreign. I'm just plain ostracized. People stare like I'm some sort of blasphemous offense in my shorts and sandals while everyone else still wears light outerwear. I don't even own a leather jacket. I'm some degree of loser.
That's ok. I'd rather be me, the loser, than the girl who clearly dies her own red hair (and her scalp too) or the girl with MC Hammer pants down to her ankles– the crotch that is. In fact, I have the confidence to strut in there two days a week, and sit for two hours, pretending not to notice all the looks Harem Pants and Reba McIntyre are stealing. While I can commiserate with their inability to focus on Professor Celli for two full hours, I do feel somewhat objectified. I used to overlook it, but now I return their stares until they become uncomfortable. Sometimes I smile at them, sometimes I frown, sometimes I open my eyes too wide without blinking till they look away. I'm clearly an eccentric curiosity so why not take liberties with my behavior? Exactly. After all, didn't their mothers ever tell them it's impolite to stare?
This usually all occurs at the beginning of class. That is to say, they examine me and my sartorial preference for that day, and then settle in to listen. After the initial interest of the staring contest, I settle in as well, watching the supplemental images projected before us. Not to say that I don't find this class fulfilling, but it is downright boring. And worst of all is the laser pointer.
Professor Celli has this laser pointer that, like my attention starts out strong. She turns it on, red pin prick visible. Celli points it at some detail on the slide, and slowly but surely, every lecture, it fades until it isn't visible within ten seconds. The laser pointer is on, and she swings it, I'm guessing, over the area she wishes to demonstrate. Except the tiny red dot has been completely extinguished. This however does not affect her zeal in using it. She holds it, gestures with it, she points. Repeatedly in each lecture, that evil little illusion appears to highlight a concept that I only vaguely grasp to begin with, to show a detail that the laser pointer never clarifies for me.
This tiny useless devise never fails to infuriate me. I see its impotence as a reflection of all things in Italy: ceremonial, customary, designed with some intended purpose, and yet, completely useless.
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