This last week, I was in Bend OR. It was kinda totally awesome.
So, a few months back, my very good friend Todd told me the girl he'd been seeing for a year or so had agreed to marry his sorry ass. He asked me to be his best man. Since I had never done that sort of thing before and I hate crowds to the point of xenophobia and I get bad stage fright, of course I said "SURE!"
So, last Friday he picked me up and we drove to Bend OR, where I got to stay at his kick ass pad and eat his kick ass food and meet his kick ass friends. It was... well, "great" is too small a word to describe how great it was. My reputation preceeded me and all of Todd's friends were really eager to meet me. Never a good sign. But, surprisingly, they liked me all the same! They were all very excited that I was coming because that meant some role-playing games to follow. I hadn't actually planned anything for D&D or anything, but I drudged the idea bank for scraps of copper that I tried to polish into pure gold and I ended up running two separate role-playing games while I was there. One was with Todd and his friend Marc - who quickly became my friend as well - and one with a much larger group: Marc, Todd, Joel, Lyryn, and Joel & Lyryn's 10 year old kid, Ally. At first, I was a little hesitant to let a 10 year old girl play, especially with a group of foul-mouthed hyper-egos like Marc, Todd, and myself. I am pleased to report that Ally put all of us to shame with her roleplaying skills. I mean, everything that the party casually missed that I planned on using against them later for forgetting, she picked up on and ran with. There were at least 4 times where the party had completely overlooked the obvious and Ally was right there to pick up the slack. It was a great example of how experienced game-players easily think within their own box (which makes them more experienced) while younger gamers have no boundaries (which makes them unpredictable and brilliantly inspired). Kids think waaaaay outside the box... and that was truly refreshing.
But, I did the math at one point during this marathon gaming run and realized that, within the span of 52 hours, I had been talking and gaming for at least 30 of them. Late nights of gaming until 4 am coupled with heavy on-the-fly storytelling threatened to run me down real quick like. At the end of it, I was sucking down Ricola and tea and popping Vitamin C pills like Tic-Tacs. On the plus side, apparently I'm a really good Game Master. It was shocking for me to realize that I hadn't run a group since I was about 16 or so. And everyone was really kind and forgiving of my rules mistakes when it came to the 3.5 D&D game I ran. They all kept talking about how it may have been the best game they've ever been a part of and how awesome it was... so that was nice.
I got to spend some good time with Todd and his new wife Amber prior to the wedding as well. They are stupid for each other. It's kinda great. She makes him a better person and that's saying something. For someone to make someone else who is already pretty fricking awesomesauce into someone even better, well... she's kinda amazing to say the least. And damn, she looked hot in that dress. Good for you, Todd. Here's wishing the best for you both. Oh yeah... I guess people really enjoyed my speech as well. Here's to knowing how to write a good speech. Hooray!
So, I've been riding the wave of happy-but-exhausted for a few days now. I have some homework to do but I'm drag assing on it right now (hence the blog instead of the mad dash to study study study). I just really enjoy feeling content right now. I have some plans to work on in the future concerning my future, but that's another blog to come, I suppose. For now, I'm gonna watch some stupid ass movie instead of the "classic" film I'm supposed to watch for class and probably eat some lunch and try and hold onto this happy for a little while. Yeah.
-d@n
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
It was a pleasure to burn
And so the first shot is fired. This, of course, is how it starts. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go get my fire extinguisher.
-------------------------------------------------
Yeah... so....
-d@n
-------------------------------------------------
As always, with all interpretation and critical analysis, any number of different approaches can alter the result. Critical thinking creates subjectivity so... it's perfectly okay that you disagree with me :) (re: I'm not mad, k? lol)
However, when you watch the film again, take time to consider that this is an American film made by an American production company that portrays an American who avoids taking sides (just as America did during the early part of World War II) who then changes his mind near the end (as the America did during World War II) and, as soon as he involves himself, is willing to make the Ultimate Sacrifice because he's just so darn noble and righteous (a view of America-at-war by Americans during World War II). Also, as told to us by the narration in the beginning of the film, America (the country) is portrayed as the last bastion of hope in a war-torn world: a "perfect place" for all the displaced children of Europe. (Of course, America actually DID open its doors with the Displaced Persons Act in 1948 for refugees of World War II Europe, so they were right at least about that. Only a mere 6 years after the war, no less)
Look, I realize my criticism of Casablanca might sound like I'm anti-American or something, which is so completely not the case by a long shot. The point I was trying to make with this blog was that all countries during World War II were using film for the dissemination of propaganda during World War II. I just think that Warner Bros. and Hal B. Wallis were better at doing it to the passive subconscious of an audience. Much better at it than Goebbels was, to say the least. Whereas most propaganda films of that era literally beat the audience over the head with the messages of its country's righteousness and steadfast assurance during a time of war, Hollywood put out a film with the same implications wrapped neatly in a romantic story about two star-crossed lovers.
Right? Wrong? I don't have an opinion about that. It's easy and dangerous to cast moral judgments from afar and I'm simply not the guy to do that. I don't think that the film is a "bad one" because of the propaganda aspect. But I look at Casablanca and see a subtext, especially considering the roles of the characters and who they represent in the film.
It is "fun" to look at each character and how they might represent the cultural politics of the time, as you mentioned. You have to do exactly that to see the propaganda aspect of this film. But also consider the time this film was made. Two weeks before the film was to be released, the Allies invaded the real life Casablanca. The film wasn't to be released until the spring of next year but the studio pushed it out for the public a mere two weeks later. I have to believe there was a motive there. And when there's a motive, there's an agenda. And an agenda through media, especially film, could be considered propaganda. Of course, it could have just been Hollywood capitalizing on current events to make a buck too. I don't know: I'm not a 1940's Warner studio exec so I can't really comment as to what their motives were :)
Of course, as I said at the beginning of this response, this can be the difficulty of critical analysis. Once one assigns a lens through which to view something, it's easy to see how everything fits into that view. As I mentioned in my blog post, this particular viewing's revelation is a new one to me. I'm not sure it comes because I'm capable of seeing those sorts of things more readily because I'm older now or if it's just a trick of my paranoid brain. Either way, that's what I got out of the film this time around. And after a dozen experiences of watching this movie, this was a new one; one that "struck me" (as the blog directions stated)... so I thought I'd talk about it.
Thanks for your comment. I'm always glad when something I write gets people to think about what they think, even if it's to disagree with me. It makes me think harder as well... and that can never be a "bad" thing, in my book.
Sincerely,
Dan
---------------------------------However, when you watch the film again, take time to consider that this is an American film made by an American production company that portrays an American who avoids taking sides (just as America did during the early part of World War II) who then changes his mind near the end (as the America did during World War II) and, as soon as he involves himself, is willing to make the Ultimate Sacrifice because he's just so darn noble and righteous (a view of America-at-war by Americans during World War II). Also, as told to us by the narration in the beginning of the film, America (the country) is portrayed as the last bastion of hope in a war-torn world: a "perfect place" for all the displaced children of Europe. (Of course, America actually DID open its doors with the Displaced Persons Act in 1948 for refugees of World War II Europe, so they were right at least about that. Only a mere 6 years after the war, no less)
Look, I realize my criticism of Casablanca might sound like I'm anti-American or something, which is so completely not the case by a long shot. The point I was trying to make with this blog was that all countries during World War II were using film for the dissemination of propaganda during World War II. I just think that Warner Bros. and Hal B. Wallis were better at doing it to the passive subconscious of an audience. Much better at it than Goebbels was, to say the least. Whereas most propaganda films of that era literally beat the audience over the head with the messages of its country's righteousness and steadfast assurance during a time of war, Hollywood put out a film with the same implications wrapped neatly in a romantic story about two star-crossed lovers.
Right? Wrong? I don't have an opinion about that. It's easy and dangerous to cast moral judgments from afar and I'm simply not the guy to do that. I don't think that the film is a "bad one" because of the propaganda aspect. But I look at Casablanca and see a subtext, especially considering the roles of the characters and who they represent in the film.
It is "fun" to look at each character and how they might represent the cultural politics of the time, as you mentioned. You have to do exactly that to see the propaganda aspect of this film. But also consider the time this film was made. Two weeks before the film was to be released, the Allies invaded the real life Casablanca. The film wasn't to be released until the spring of next year but the studio pushed it out for the public a mere two weeks later. I have to believe there was a motive there. And when there's a motive, there's an agenda. And an agenda through media, especially film, could be considered propaganda. Of course, it could have just been Hollywood capitalizing on current events to make a buck too. I don't know: I'm not a 1940's Warner studio exec so I can't really comment as to what their motives were :)
Of course, as I said at the beginning of this response, this can be the difficulty of critical analysis. Once one assigns a lens through which to view something, it's easy to see how everything fits into that view. As I mentioned in my blog post, this particular viewing's revelation is a new one to me. I'm not sure it comes because I'm capable of seeing those sorts of things more readily because I'm older now or if it's just a trick of my paranoid brain. Either way, that's what I got out of the film this time around. And after a dozen experiences of watching this movie, this was a new one; one that "struck me" (as the blog directions stated)... so I thought I'd talk about it.
Thanks for your comment. I'm always glad when something I write gets people to think about what they think, even if it's to disagree with me. It makes me think harder as well... and that can never be a "bad" thing, in my book.
Sincerely,
Dan
Yeah... so....
-d@n
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
blog for school
This is a blog I wrote for my ENG 304: Film Studies class. We are watching Casablanca for class and I had some things to day about it, so I thought I'd post it here as well. Enjoy! Oh yeah, SPOLIER ALERT for any of you who haven't seen this movie. You've been appropriately warned.
--------------
The last time I saw this film was in high school for a Film Studies class my senior year of high school, over 25 years ago. In that class, we focused our studies on the aspects of lighting, the use of shadow to highlight certain scenes of dialogue, the underlying themes of the setting, and each role represented by the various actors in the film. After watching the film for that class and trying to pay special attention to all the things my instructor told me to keep an eye out for, I remember thinking at the time that I had ended up looking at this film more than actually just watching it. I was determined not to let that be the case when I watched it again for this class.
Thanks for reading,
-d@n
--------------
The last time I saw this film was in high school for a Film Studies class my senior year of high school, over 25 years ago. In that class, we focused our studies on the aspects of lighting, the use of shadow to highlight certain scenes of dialogue, the underlying themes of the setting, and each role represented by the various actors in the film. After watching the film for that class and trying to pay special attention to all the things my instructor told me to keep an eye out for, I remember thinking at the time that I had ended up looking at this film more than actually just watching it. I was determined not to let that be the case when I watched it again for this class.
But, no matter how hard I tried to ignore those aspects of the film, I still found myself peering into the scenes trying to see where the cinematographer had placed the light so as to bounce off the shoulder of Ingrid Bergman so effectively. Or trying to deduce the implied meaning behind the shadow-box technique used to show Bogey getting the cash out of the safe. I found myself searching websites to find translations of the French quote on the wall painting featuring Vichy in the opening sequence when the refugee is gunned down in front of it.
This is the problem with Casablanca. We end up looking at it rather than watching it. This film has been praised and lauded over for so long by the Hollywood film critic that we've convinced ourselves that it's a good movie by believing the technical depth of it somehow outweighs the mediocre performances, a paper-thin plot device, and the subtle yet prevalent jingoist subtext. Technically, it is a very well shot film. The use of lighting techniques alone make this film a compelling watch. But, "One of the Top 5 Films of All Time"? I just don't buy it.
Bogey is a terrible actor and an extremely unattractive male lead. Bergman is gorgeous but her portrayal of a woman is laughable by today's interpretations. Claude Rains is.... well, Claude Rains is amazing so I don't really have any complaints there. I don't know if it's because I've gotten older and therefore more aware of the media presented reality that has colored my interpretation of a film like Casablanca, but when I finished watching it this time, all I could think about the film was: "Wow, this movie might be the most successful piece of American World War II propaganda ever filmed".
Here is Rick, the "every American": a reluctant hero who refuses to get involved with the foreign policies of a world at war all around him; who only acts when he decides it's the moral right and then selflessly sacrifices everything so that order can be maintained and hope can survive (boldface to indicate rhetorical "buzz phrases"). There is the eeeeevil dastardly German officer Major Strasser (who couldn't have been lit more horribly if they had put him under fluorescent tubing) making everyone's life miserable. And who could forget the French officer, Louis Renault; a truly corrupt cop who spends his days split between entertaining German soldiers and indulging his own hedonistic desires... only to turn on his "masters" at the last minute to help the American when the American finally decides to get involved. The Czech terrorist (read as: "underground freedom fighter") and the pretty girl from Oslo are safe and sound on a plane to America: a fabled land of gumdrop kisses and the warmest reception for immigrants and refugees fleeing their homelands to find hope in the American Dream. There might as well been a footer running along the bottom of the film with the saying, "America is the greatest country of all time and you're welcome, Europe. You owe us one!" and had flag pins handed out to audience members at the door.
Germany at the time was putting out plenty of propaganda films of their own, of course. War is funny that way. There's a deluge of information filtered into the common sector that helps everyone cope with the fact that horrible things are happening somewhere else between warring nations. I think that, at the time of it's release, America was just more subtle and more clever with the dissemination of their propaganda. It's so slick in this film that it practically slips past the viewer completely unnoticed, thanks mainly to the romantic plot. And it's effective! I, too, felt my heart rise with the emotional release of the singing of "Marseillaise" over the arrogant, outnumbered German soldiers in the bar. It's hard not to get wrapped up in the emotion of that scene, especially when trivia sources reveal that "many of the extras had real tears in their eyes; a large number of them were actual refugees from Nazi persecution in Germany and elsewhere in Europe and were overcome by the emotions the scene brought out." (www.imdb.com/title/tt0034583/trivia)
I guess the point of my blog entry here is that, when I was young, I looked at this film with a critical eye towards the technical. As I've gotten older and understand better the use of film as a medium to distribute emotive content for the purpose of informing one's emotional bias towards a thing, I examined this film with a critical eye towards its rhetoric.
And, as before when I was younger, I still didn't really get a chance to just watch the film. I was too busy looking at it.
---------------------Thanks for reading,
-d@n
Monday, July 19, 2010
So whatcha been up to?
Hey there. Remember how I said I'd try and blog more often so as to keep this blog thingy going and thus fill all you great people in on what my life is like, now that travel has come to an end? Yeah... about that.....
So, if you look closely at the date of the last post I put here, you'll notice cleverly that it was dated back in May some time. It's July now. That's two months of stuff that's been going on. Where do I begin? How much time should I spend going over every bit of minutia and melodrama that has gone on in the meager two months time it took to live it all? Well.....
... the truth is, it's life. I've been a busy little bee. So there. I started school last month so, yay for me. I think I even did pretty well in my Spanish class, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Tomorrow my online classes start and I'm a little reluctant about them. Mostly this comes from my inner turmoil at taking anything the internet has to say seriously. I have taken online classes before and always, always, ALWAYS, I manage to start flame wars in the discussions room. I don't mean to, I swear! It just sort of.... happens. Someone starts talking about something they know nothing about and I can't help but poke holes in the fabric of their reality... especially if that reality is founded on obviously non-objective reasoning and illogical conclusion. I don't know what they get so upset about, really.
But seriously folks: I don't know how people can get so offended on the other side of a computer screen at things they aren't even fully reading completely, without any kind of interpersonal frame of reference to draw upon, nor inflected tone to create rhetorical context with. Shit, half the time people just get mad because they just imagine you're being rude. Which is hilarious, considering: it's a computer screen and text on white background and very little else. Who knows... I'm just gonna sit back, turn my assignments in on time, and pretend like these types of things matter. I figure that's the best I can do, right? Right.
Speaking of things that matter, I'm headed to Bend soon for my best friend's wedding. No, not the silly Julia Roberts flick with that crazy-ass Cameron Diaz lady. No, my friend Todd is getting married. And guess what, bitches? That's right! Best Man status for moi! EAT IT! UNH! You like THAT?! HUH!?! YEAH!!! SUCK ON THAT, SUCKA!!!!!
Tell the truth, I'm a little terrified at having to be, like, responsible and stuff. But... Todd called and so shall I abide. I am looking forward to getting out of town for a little while. Ever since I got back from travels, it seems like I've been putting myself right back into the positions and ruts I was in before I left. And that's not very conducive to personal growth or Dan's ever-loving struggle to maintain sanity. I have kept busy with company though. The last couple of weeks saw a housewarming party followed by another BBQ get together the next day, Lupe's mom and sis coming to visit for a few weeks, a cousin-in-law I hadn't seen in a few years, her kid, Lupe's aunt, sis-in-law.. again, and basically a bunch of people in my house for a few weeks every day. Of course, now that they've all finally left, I am leaving too so.... yeah. Irony, I suppose.
Today we went and saw "Trek In The Park" featuring the Atomic Arts Performers including my co-worker/friend/guy-I-know, Adam Rosko. It was good. To tell the truth though, I preferred last years performance better (sorry,Adam). It was just tighter all around. But, then again, re-watching "Space Seed" in anticipation for this season's performance, I realized that this particular episode of Star Trek really wasn't very good. Oh, I know... technically, none of them are "good" but you know what I mean. It's a little... I dunno... thrown together? Yeah. That's a good way to describe it. The actors were great, the sets even better this year, and the fight scene is top notch. But still... "Amok Time" was better. Maybe that's just expectation talking. Dunno. Still, go see it if you get a chance. Atomic Arts has done something truly amazing with their little slice of the Portland performance theater scene and it's truly worth checking out.
It's late here in P-town and all the drunken punk hipsters are tucked neatly in their beds, their ill-fitting jeans and thrift-store hoodies piled in mosaic bundles on the floors of crappy, white-washed apartment rooms everywhere... so I shall bid adieu for now. Sorry it took me so long to come back. Are you even reading any more? Or have I put you off with my absence? Only the Internet Gods know for sure if this proverbial message in a bottle will reach your technological shores so.... keep an eye out to the distance and a sharp watch on the horizon. Who knows.... maybe I'll do this again sometime.
-d@n
So, if you look closely at the date of the last post I put here, you'll notice cleverly that it was dated back in May some time. It's July now. That's two months of stuff that's been going on. Where do I begin? How much time should I spend going over every bit of minutia and melodrama that has gone on in the meager two months time it took to live it all? Well.....
... the truth is, it's life. I've been a busy little bee. So there. I started school last month so, yay for me. I think I even did pretty well in my Spanish class, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Tomorrow my online classes start and I'm a little reluctant about them. Mostly this comes from my inner turmoil at taking anything the internet has to say seriously. I have taken online classes before and always, always, ALWAYS, I manage to start flame wars in the discussions room. I don't mean to, I swear! It just sort of.... happens. Someone starts talking about something they know nothing about and I can't help but poke holes in the fabric of their reality... especially if that reality is founded on obviously non-objective reasoning and illogical conclusion. I don't know what they get so upset about, really.
But seriously folks: I don't know how people can get so offended on the other side of a computer screen at things they aren't even fully reading completely, without any kind of interpersonal frame of reference to draw upon, nor inflected tone to create rhetorical context with. Shit, half the time people just get mad because they just imagine you're being rude. Which is hilarious, considering: it's a computer screen and text on white background and very little else. Who knows... I'm just gonna sit back, turn my assignments in on time, and pretend like these types of things matter. I figure that's the best I can do, right? Right.
Speaking of things that matter, I'm headed to Bend soon for my best friend's wedding. No, not the silly Julia Roberts flick with that crazy-ass Cameron Diaz lady. No, my friend Todd is getting married. And guess what, bitches? That's right! Best Man status for moi! EAT IT! UNH! You like THAT?! HUH!?! YEAH!!! SUCK ON THAT, SUCKA!!!!!
Tell the truth, I'm a little terrified at having to be, like, responsible and stuff. But... Todd called and so shall I abide. I am looking forward to getting out of town for a little while. Ever since I got back from travels, it seems like I've been putting myself right back into the positions and ruts I was in before I left. And that's not very conducive to personal growth or Dan's ever-loving struggle to maintain sanity. I have kept busy with company though. The last couple of weeks saw a housewarming party followed by another BBQ get together the next day, Lupe's mom and sis coming to visit for a few weeks, a cousin-in-law I hadn't seen in a few years, her kid, Lupe's aunt, sis-in-law.. again, and basically a bunch of people in my house for a few weeks every day. Of course, now that they've all finally left, I am leaving too so.... yeah. Irony, I suppose.
Today we went and saw "Trek In The Park" featuring the Atomic Arts Performers including my co-worker/friend/guy-I-know, Adam Rosko. It was good. To tell the truth though, I preferred last years performance better (sorry,Adam). It was just tighter all around. But, then again, re-watching "Space Seed" in anticipation for this season's performance, I realized that this particular episode of Star Trek really wasn't very good. Oh, I know... technically, none of them are "good" but you know what I mean. It's a little... I dunno... thrown together? Yeah. That's a good way to describe it. The actors were great, the sets even better this year, and the fight scene is top notch. But still... "Amok Time" was better. Maybe that's just expectation talking. Dunno. Still, go see it if you get a chance. Atomic Arts has done something truly amazing with their little slice of the Portland performance theater scene and it's truly worth checking out.
It's late here in P-town and all the drunken punk hipsters are tucked neatly in their beds, their ill-fitting jeans and thrift-store hoodies piled in mosaic bundles on the floors of crappy, white-washed apartment rooms everywhere... so I shall bid adieu for now. Sorry it took me so long to come back. Are you even reading any more? Or have I put you off with my absence? Only the Internet Gods know for sure if this proverbial message in a bottle will reach your technological shores so.... keep an eye out to the distance and a sharp watch on the horizon. Who knows.... maybe I'll do this again sometime.
-d@n
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Time is a funny thing. Not funny: "ha-ha"... more like funny: "oh-how-sad"
I told myself that I'd keep up on this blog even though the sole purpose of the blog has come to a conclusion and been put away to bed over a month ago. I guess this is what real life does to you. When I was traveling, I couldn't wait to tell get on my laptop and geek out at all the great things that I saw and did that day... no matter how mundane (re: Rome's stay-in-and-watch-bad-movies festival).
But that's just it: Now things are settling into a series of mundane tasks. Oh, at least there's no monotony, I suppose. And the static that is my new life in this apartment has been magically broken up by the visitations of old friends and new recently, whose company gave us so much laughter over the course of the last few days. But still... there's something that's eating at me and I can't quite figure it out. I commented today that I feel like I don't really have anything to do, which is great because now I can play video games or watch movies or catch up on TV series or read comics or do anything that I enjoy doing to my hearts content. So many ways to waste time, in fact, that I find I don't really have time to do them all. Which is not so great after all, come to find out. I figure, when laziness becomes work, you might as well get a job. At least then I could bitch about it and gain a tidbit of sympathy from others, most of whom bust their asses every day to make ends meet and probably don't want to come home to a messy blog that can't help but bitch about being bored all the time.
As it stands, I am waiting for school to start up in June. Until then, I have chores and plans and things to do to pass the time and let me feel accomplished. But that nebulous time in-between is starting to give me itchy feet. I really miss travel and the necessary distraction it brings. I guess, until I'm able to get going again, I will just have to take every day one at a time like the normal people do. Boo hoo for me, right?
Right.
Thanks for letting me ramble my maudlin thoughts across the vast wasteland of the internets for a few. I'll try to make sure one of the ways I waste time on a regular basis ends up being towards this blog.
Cheers.
-d@n
But that's just it: Now things are settling into a series of mundane tasks. Oh, at least there's no monotony, I suppose. And the static that is my new life in this apartment has been magically broken up by the visitations of old friends and new recently, whose company gave us so much laughter over the course of the last few days. But still... there's something that's eating at me and I can't quite figure it out. I commented today that I feel like I don't really have anything to do, which is great because now I can play video games or watch movies or catch up on TV series or read comics or do anything that I enjoy doing to my hearts content. So many ways to waste time, in fact, that I find I don't really have time to do them all. Which is not so great after all, come to find out. I figure, when laziness becomes work, you might as well get a job. At least then I could bitch about it and gain a tidbit of sympathy from others, most of whom bust their asses every day to make ends meet and probably don't want to come home to a messy blog that can't help but bitch about being bored all the time.
As it stands, I am waiting for school to start up in June. Until then, I have chores and plans and things to do to pass the time and let me feel accomplished. But that nebulous time in-between is starting to give me itchy feet. I really miss travel and the necessary distraction it brings. I guess, until I'm able to get going again, I will just have to take every day one at a time like the normal people do. Boo hoo for me, right?
Right.
Thanks for letting me ramble my maudlin thoughts across the vast wasteland of the internets for a few. I'll try to make sure one of the ways I waste time on a regular basis ends up being towards this blog.
Cheers.
-d@n
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Happy Days Are Here Again
Yesterday, my wife and I wrote a check for the first month's rent at our new apartment. After over two weeks of struggling to find a place to live that accommodated all the necessities we desire in a domicile, we finally found a great place on the corner of 15th and Hawthorne Blvd. Best yet? They take dogs.
So life returns slowly to normal. I signed up for classes at PSU yesterday morning where I plan to work on my degree. Lupe is back to full swing work, pulling a weekend show as well as a massive order for a big-time client. I worked the 50% off sale at Excalibur this weekend and have the aching back to prove it. We picked up boxes from my mom's house yesterday, sent from various locales across the globe. We ate at the food carts on 12th St with friends the other day. I still get my coffee from the same place I always have.
This is what passes for "real life" right now. I'm excited to move into our new place and look forward to getting a new kind of living underway: a life filled with friends and dinner parties and getting out to see the parts of Portland I've missed most. Maybe even see some parts I've been remiss in seeing. That'll be my saving grace, I think: the world I've yet to discover right here at home. There is so much this city has to keep you busy if you are brave enough to go out there and touch it. I've become more complacent about Portland in my last few years. This is something I need to rectify immediately. The anxiousness that comes with the 'hurry-up-and-wait" is hard to bear though. I feel like there is so much living I want to do but I'm stuck in a holding pattern while we figure out just how, exactly, we are going to do it. Luckily, I think that the new apartment is the first step of many that will get me back on the streets, soaking it in.
Spring is upon us. In Portland, that means sunshowers and cherry blossoms, Americanos and Powell's, hoodies and jeans. It means a rebirth in every sense of the word; my life starting over.
Here we go.
-d@n
So life returns slowly to normal. I signed up for classes at PSU yesterday morning where I plan to work on my degree. Lupe is back to full swing work, pulling a weekend show as well as a massive order for a big-time client. I worked the 50% off sale at Excalibur this weekend and have the aching back to prove it. We picked up boxes from my mom's house yesterday, sent from various locales across the globe. We ate at the food carts on 12th St with friends the other day. I still get my coffee from the same place I always have.
This is what passes for "real life" right now. I'm excited to move into our new place and look forward to getting a new kind of living underway: a life filled with friends and dinner parties and getting out to see the parts of Portland I've missed most. Maybe even see some parts I've been remiss in seeing. That'll be my saving grace, I think: the world I've yet to discover right here at home. There is so much this city has to keep you busy if you are brave enough to go out there and touch it. I've become more complacent about Portland in my last few years. This is something I need to rectify immediately. The anxiousness that comes with the 'hurry-up-and-wait" is hard to bear though. I feel like there is so much living I want to do but I'm stuck in a holding pattern while we figure out just how, exactly, we are going to do it. Luckily, I think that the new apartment is the first step of many that will get me back on the streets, soaking it in.
Spring is upon us. In Portland, that means sunshowers and cherry blossoms, Americanos and Powell's, hoodies and jeans. It means a rebirth in every sense of the word; my life starting over.
Here we go.
-d@n
Friday, April 30, 2010
Smaller and smaller
There's nothing like going out into the world to make you realize how small the community you live in really is. Now that I've been back for a few weeks so many things are constantly reminding me of this fact. Every time I mention my amazement at how small Portland really is people nod their heads knowingly and invariably say the one adage that has become like a mantra echoing in my brain:
"Portland. Big city: small town".
From the moment I returned, I saw customers who I recognize from New Comic Book Wednesdays. I run into people I've known from various jobs that I've held over the years. People who I never thought I'd see or hear from again are popping up everywhere I go or, stranger than that, end up being friends of people I've known for years. The other day, the wife and I went to Deschutes Brewing for lunch and my old manager from Pizzacato in Vancouver was our waitress. She tells me that she and this guy I used to work with a million years ago still kick it on the weekends. I haven't spoke or thought of either of them in over a decade-and-a-half. Bizarre.
Ok. Some of you out there might be thinking, "Well, yeah. That's how communities work, Dan. People get to know people and then they know people and so on and so on and so on. It's called 'society', dumbass! What's your point?"
The point is this. As silly as it may sounds, I moved to this city looking for a sense of anonymity. Way back when, over a thousand eons ago, I came like a pilgrim to a new land of possibilities far from the burnt ashes of my past. I built myself a neat, tidy little empire where I could escape from the diabolical clutches of Suburbia for ever and ever. Oh sure, I made friends. Heck, I even kept some of the ones I knew from those long ago days, though time and circumstance may have somewhat altered the dynamic of those relationships as we all have grown through the years. But still... I carved out a niche and called it my own. I maintained and supported Fort Tabayoyon for always and forever, Amen. I walked these city streets for years without ever being recognized once.
It was glorious.
But the years pass by. And more and more I realize now how small my little kingdom really is. This is disconcerting, in many ways. But it's also an eye-opening reminder that no matter how far you run, the past never goes away. It's juvenile to think that outrunning it is even possible. But, then again, my wife can attest to how much of a juvenile I am... just ask her :)
I dunno. I guess if I am going to live here, I guess I should just grow up and get used to it.
Sigh.
...
Oh, by the way: we got a place to live. Yep, we found an apartment that we love and go in and sign the papers on Monday. No more living out of a backpack for me, thankyouverymuch!
Still...
A part of me wishes I could hop back on a plane to nowhere right now. Traveling and the freedom it brings has infected my soul and it's changed me in a way that's hard to describe. I know that sounds all pretentious and stuff and I'm sort of looking at that last sentence I just typed with my finger hovering tenuously over the DELETE button right now... but damn: it's true. A part of me misses the smell of freshly bleach sanitized hotel room towels and breathing recycled airplane air. A part of me wants to be sitting on the beach in Phuket or standing under thousand-year-old buildings made of marble and glass. A part of me wishes I didn't understand the language. A part of me still has wonders to see and kingdoms to conquer.
Normalcy is hard to adjust to once you've seen the spectacular.
... I guess it's time to start saving my pennies for next time.
-d@n
30 April 2010
"Portland. Big city: small town".
From the moment I returned, I saw customers who I recognize from New Comic Book Wednesdays. I run into people I've known from various jobs that I've held over the years. People who I never thought I'd see or hear from again are popping up everywhere I go or, stranger than that, end up being friends of people I've known for years. The other day, the wife and I went to Deschutes Brewing for lunch and my old manager from Pizzacato in Vancouver was our waitress. She tells me that she and this guy I used to work with a million years ago still kick it on the weekends. I haven't spoke or thought of either of them in over a decade-and-a-half. Bizarre.
Ok. Some of you out there might be thinking, "Well, yeah. That's how communities work, Dan. People get to know people and then they know people and so on and so on and so on. It's called 'society', dumbass! What's your point?"
The point is this. As silly as it may sounds, I moved to this city looking for a sense of anonymity. Way back when, over a thousand eons ago, I came like a pilgrim to a new land of possibilities far from the burnt ashes of my past. I built myself a neat, tidy little empire where I could escape from the diabolical clutches of Suburbia for ever and ever. Oh sure, I made friends. Heck, I even kept some of the ones I knew from those long ago days, though time and circumstance may have somewhat altered the dynamic of those relationships as we all have grown through the years. But still... I carved out a niche and called it my own. I maintained and supported Fort Tabayoyon for always and forever, Amen. I walked these city streets for years without ever being recognized once.
It was glorious.
But the years pass by. And more and more I realize now how small my little kingdom really is. This is disconcerting, in many ways. But it's also an eye-opening reminder that no matter how far you run, the past never goes away. It's juvenile to think that outrunning it is even possible. But, then again, my wife can attest to how much of a juvenile I am... just ask her :)
I dunno. I guess if I am going to live here, I guess I should just grow up and get used to it.
Sigh.
...
Oh, by the way: we got a place to live. Yep, we found an apartment that we love and go in and sign the papers on Monday. No more living out of a backpack for me, thankyouverymuch!
Still...
A part of me wishes I could hop back on a plane to nowhere right now. Traveling and the freedom it brings has infected my soul and it's changed me in a way that's hard to describe. I know that sounds all pretentious and stuff and I'm sort of looking at that last sentence I just typed with my finger hovering tenuously over the DELETE button right now... but damn: it's true. A part of me misses the smell of freshly bleach sanitized hotel room towels and breathing recycled airplane air. A part of me wants to be sitting on the beach in Phuket or standing under thousand-year-old buildings made of marble and glass. A part of me wishes I didn't understand the language. A part of me still has wonders to see and kingdoms to conquer.
Normalcy is hard to adjust to once you've seen the spectacular.
... I guess it's time to start saving my pennies for next time.
-d@n
30 April 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Resurrection of the Blog
I have been toying with the idea of continuing this blog even though my travels have finally come to a close. My wife thinks it's a good idea and, after these many years together, one thing has remained constant and true above all other things: she is much smarter than I am.
Sooo yeah... Here I am again. With more to tell, apparently. Newer and improved. B.L.O.G. v 2.0-and-a-half. Let's see where we are now, yes?
We are... unhomed. I know that's not really a word. The red dotted line that sits underneath that word while I type this- silently mocking me like the Big Brother of the editing world, haunting me so that I might never stray towards the Carrollesque- tells me so. But, unfortunately, that's the most appropriate word I can think of to describe my current situation.
We're staying with some friends while we hunt the elusive prey known as (pause for dramatic effect) ... the Perfect Apartment. The Perfect Apartment is a wily beast. It sits just over the horizon from the last domicile you looked at. Its haunting melody tugs at you while you are at an apartment and taking that moment to decide whether or not you could a) stand to live there and/or b) fit all your stuff into it. It's a mean bitch. And it doesn't take dogs.
Meanwhile, Lupe and I have had a wondrous reception from everyone. Last week was Lupe's [edited due to content] birthday! Wow, I can't believe she's [edited due to content] now. Time sure does fly. Why, just 8 years ago, she was only [edited due to content. Has this joke been stretched far enough yet?]. Needless to say, we had a great time. Some of you were there, so you know. Others weren't and that's okay, too. We'll just remember that when your birthday comes around. Mayyyyybe we'll be washing our hair that night. Just sayin'.
No, but seriously folks. We've been trying to re-acclimate ourselves to normal life. Lupe's gone back to work. We've been shopping for new clothes as we have already burned most of our travel threads in effigy. I went and visited the Stumptown Comics Fest today and saw some familiar faces which is always nice... and a reminder of just how small Portland really is.
I love this city though. It's gained a few warts since I last saw her but some things stay familiar and the same. Breakfast at Jam on Hawthorne or Genie's on Division is still orgasm inducing. Cyclists still can't drive for a damn. Hippies still smell like patchouli. The West Hillers still can't parallel park their over-sized Lexus SUVs on any given side street in southeast (no matter how hard they try). Hipsters still dress like idiots and think they're being ironic. These things are as common as ever. But there was this moment today where I marveled at my little burg while I sipped an ice cold beverage on the corner of Hawthorne and 37th, across the street from the Bagdad Theatre. While the wife was scouring Buffalo Exchange for a new dress, I read "The Agony and the Ecstasy": a great book I picked up at Powell's Books for 5 bucks, used. Over the top edge of the book's yellowing paper, I watched my neighborhood. I watched tattooed punk kids trying to score change for beer. I watched pretentious newcomers from California pose in front of Starbucks, irritated at the homeless guy playing bad saxophone further down the street from their reverie. I watched teens from the local high school interviewing the gay fashionistas outside Red Light for a paper they were doing in English. Skaters sat around on their boards, smoking cigarettes and checking out tattooed girls in tattered jean shorts. Some earthy granola girl was singing under her breath as she passed me, raising her voice only once, briefly, as she spun around in her hemp dress, iPod headphones disappearing beneath a mass of blond dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. A former G.I. dressed himself in an American Flag and yelled at passers-by to end the War. The sun was shining even though it had rained earlier. It feels good to know that the weird is still alive and well and living in Portland.
Who knows... Maybe I'm not so unhomed after all.
-d@n
25 April 2010
Sooo yeah... Here I am again. With more to tell, apparently. Newer and improved. B.L.O.G. v 2.0-and-a-half. Let's see where we are now, yes?
We are... unhomed. I know that's not really a word. The red dotted line that sits underneath that word while I type this- silently mocking me like the Big Brother of the editing world, haunting me so that I might never stray towards the Carrollesque- tells me so. But, unfortunately, that's the most appropriate word I can think of to describe my current situation.
We're staying with some friends while we hunt the elusive prey known as (pause for dramatic effect) ... the Perfect Apartment. The Perfect Apartment is a wily beast. It sits just over the horizon from the last domicile you looked at. Its haunting melody tugs at you while you are at an apartment and taking that moment to decide whether or not you could a) stand to live there and/or b) fit all your stuff into it. It's a mean bitch. And it doesn't take dogs.
Meanwhile, Lupe and I have had a wondrous reception from everyone. Last week was Lupe's [edited due to content] birthday! Wow, I can't believe she's [edited due to content] now. Time sure does fly. Why, just 8 years ago, she was only [edited due to content. Has this joke been stretched far enough yet?]. Needless to say, we had a great time. Some of you were there, so you know. Others weren't and that's okay, too. We'll just remember that when your birthday comes around. Mayyyyybe we'll be washing our hair that night. Just sayin'.
No, but seriously folks. We've been trying to re-acclimate ourselves to normal life. Lupe's gone back to work. We've been shopping for new clothes as we have already burned most of our travel threads in effigy. I went and visited the Stumptown Comics Fest today and saw some familiar faces which is always nice... and a reminder of just how small Portland really is.
I love this city though. It's gained a few warts since I last saw her but some things stay familiar and the same. Breakfast at Jam on Hawthorne or Genie's on Division is still orgasm inducing. Cyclists still can't drive for a damn. Hippies still smell like patchouli. The West Hillers still can't parallel park their over-sized Lexus SUVs on any given side street in southeast (no matter how hard they try). Hipsters still dress like idiots and think they're being ironic. These things are as common as ever. But there was this moment today where I marveled at my little burg while I sipped an ice cold beverage on the corner of Hawthorne and 37th, across the street from the Bagdad Theatre. While the wife was scouring Buffalo Exchange for a new dress, I read "The Agony and the Ecstasy": a great book I picked up at Powell's Books for 5 bucks, used. Over the top edge of the book's yellowing paper, I watched my neighborhood. I watched tattooed punk kids trying to score change for beer. I watched pretentious newcomers from California pose in front of Starbucks, irritated at the homeless guy playing bad saxophone further down the street from their reverie. I watched teens from the local high school interviewing the gay fashionistas outside Red Light for a paper they were doing in English. Skaters sat around on their boards, smoking cigarettes and checking out tattooed girls in tattered jean shorts. Some earthy granola girl was singing under her breath as she passed me, raising her voice only once, briefly, as she spun around in her hemp dress, iPod headphones disappearing beneath a mass of blond dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. A former G.I. dressed himself in an American Flag and yelled at passers-by to end the War. The sun was shining even though it had rained earlier. It feels good to know that the weird is still alive and well and living in Portland.
Who knows... Maybe I'm not so unhomed after all.
-d@n
25 April 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Home, Home Again...
It has been a week since I left the life I knew on the road. The life lived out of a backpack shoved in the corner on the floor. The life whose time was kept by a train schedule. The life slept in airport terminals and hotels, eating whatever picture on the menu looked edible. One week has passed... and it seems like I never left at all.
Coming home was an act that I willed into existence because of all the things I missed about normalcy. Walking my dog. Watching movies with my wife. Cooking dinner for friends. But now that I'm home, I've yet to do any of those things. Because we gave up our apartment while we were traveling, I'm still living out of a backpack in the corner of the room on the floor. My schedule is based on meetings to see apartments instead of train schedules. My sleeping is due to the kindness of the very best of friends. Everyone is very happy we're back and we've received a homecoming unlike anything I've ever experienced before. There have also been those few who want to know every nuance of every sense explored while we were out traveling. Those people make me smile the most. They make me relive every moment and re-see every event with the kind of clarity that comes with the intoxicating aroma of nostalgia.
I thought I would have some grand epiphany here, writing this, what could be considered my "final blog entry". I imagined some new-found wisdom that I could process and assimilate into my being and then pass onto you, Dear Reader, like a grasshopper snatched deftly from an open palm. But, alas, no. Wisdom seems to escape me. All I know is that I'm not done with the world yet. And that my query posited at the very start of this blog has, in fact, been answered.
Before I left, I had such anxiety over the current state of America and its prevailing ideologies. I felt that this experience was purely limited due to the fact that the only sphere of understanding I had was from the perspective of someone in America looking at it from within. I wondered if the rest of the world was like this; that it shared my hostility and anxiousness and trepidation and mistrust. I felt that if I could just get over there, my perspective could realign itself with the Truth. I've come to find the solution of travel to be the cure I was seeking. I know now a wider perspective than I've ever knew prior to my travels. A sense of ease that comes with knowing better... or, at the very least, knowing more. I have seen wonders of the world that have humbled me. I have only had a taste of what every place has to offer.
I used to worry about traveling in simple terms: What about the language barrier? Where would I stay? How expensive it must be to go someplace. Can I eat the food? What should I bring? What can't I live without? I realize now that travel holds with it a lot of stigmas if you've never done it before. And there is a tendency to want to bring everything with you that you think you might need, cramming your suitcase full with all the modern conveniences you can't live without. Heck, it would just be easier not to leave at all, right?
Wrong. You can get everything you need while you're out there. Toiletries, clothes, shoes, food, warmth, shelter, vices, etc. Hell, if I had known then what I knew now, I would've taken a really small backpack for the computer and a change of shoes and gone with the clothes on my back and swapped them out when I had gotten tired of wearing the same things or when the climate altered drastically from one place to the other (like I ended up doing in Athens). There are pharmacies everywhere. There are shops everywhere. All it takes is money.
Now many of you are thinking: "Well, yeah! Money! No duh! Travel is expensive!" This is true. No bones about it. But think about how much you spend a month. Go ahead and get a calculator if you need to. I'll wait. Now, imagine that instead of paying for certain things every month, you paid for the cost of living overseas instead. Money spent the same way for the same thing, just over there. Getting there can be expensive too. But imagine saving $50 from every bi-monthly paycheck for a year. Half of that will get you a round trip plane ticket to London from Portland right now (less than that for a one-way). The other half will feed you and house you for the duration of your stay if you plan it right. Imagine you're really frugal that year and save $200 a month. Now your talking train tickets to anywhere in Europe for the duration of your stay. Now you're talking the really nice hotel rather than the box in the building. Go on the off-season and you can see the all the touristy sites for a bargain with that kind of money. Rent a car and get a Heritage Pass for 20 pounds and drown yourself in all the castles and churches and ancient sites in the UK for a month. There are tons of couch surfing websites and house swapping websites and travel-made-cheap websites to accommodate you. There are Bed & Breakfasts for as low as 20-50 pounds a night in the smaller cities. Or, save a few extra pennies and call a travel agent to plan it all out for you (Hi, Charles!). A good travel agent will only charge a small fee (if at all) since they make commission off the booking rather than off the customer. That way, you can get the very best deals and stay in the very best in affordability. The trick is to plan to travel, NOT vacation. And yes, there is a difference. If you want to vacation, your standards will tend to much higher and thus more susceptible to disappointment. If you plan to travel, you're a lot more prepared to roll with the punches and, hey! Who knows? Maybe even have an adventure whose memories will last forever and make you the envy and target of resentment from all of your peers. Hooray!
If, after 4 months of traveling, I have gained any real insight on the nature of travel, it is this:
The hardest part of travel is deciding to do it.
That's it. That's the secret. It's the same secret as the one for success or the one about doing anything well, really. Once you decide that travel is what you want to do... that's all it takes. Everything else is just logistics and math. I know many of you have kids or mortgages or jobs you feel you can't get away from and I get that, I really do. But while I was traveling, I saw families with babies (plural) out there. I saw parents with small kids, backpacks all geared up, wandering the streets of Venice at one in the morning. I saw people from all ages and all classes and all lifestyles out there seeing stuff that was knocking their socks off. It's easy to feel like you'll never have the time or the money or the break from life you feel you need to truly enjoy such an undertaking. But these thoughts are simply untrue. When someone tells me that they don't think they'll ever get to go anywhere, all I think is, "You're simply not trying hard enough". I understand that it's hard to believe that getting out is a possibility for everyone, especially for You, Dear Reader. I had it that feeling too. Then I got on that first plane to Australia and, lo and behold! I was traveling.
There is no such thing as "the right time". Money is just something you spend on other things rather than doing what you want to. There is no "big break"... just living. It goes on and on until you die, so make the very fucking most of it while you can before you are physically incapable of doing anything you want to.
Go travel.
If you want to amazed, if you want to experience life beyond what you know, and you aren't afraid to get some on you... close the tab on your computer that you have pulled up to read this blog and open a new tab and start looking at travel websites and destinations and how much money it'll cost to get there. Put the date in mind on your calendar. Count your pennies. Leave your trepidations at the door. And go.
That's it.
This has been a real fun thing, this blog. I've gotten so many responses from people who said they really liked it and I am truly glad. It's a weird feeling to be typing in a room somewhere away from everyone and everything you know and not knowing if anybody is even out there in cyber-land reading it. It's good to know that some of it got through :) Thanks so much for letting me ramble on and on at you for these last four months. My wife tells me I should keep doing this but it seems a little misleading to blog about travel when I'm sitting right next door to you. So, until I figure out what I'm doing next, I'll simply say "ciao!, ta!, cheers!, adios!, adio!, adieu!, au revoir! arrivederci! sawatdi! buh-bye now!"
See you out there.
-d@n
20 April 2010
Coming home was an act that I willed into existence because of all the things I missed about normalcy. Walking my dog. Watching movies with my wife. Cooking dinner for friends. But now that I'm home, I've yet to do any of those things. Because we gave up our apartment while we were traveling, I'm still living out of a backpack in the corner of the room on the floor. My schedule is based on meetings to see apartments instead of train schedules. My sleeping is due to the kindness of the very best of friends. Everyone is very happy we're back and we've received a homecoming unlike anything I've ever experienced before. There have also been those few who want to know every nuance of every sense explored while we were out traveling. Those people make me smile the most. They make me relive every moment and re-see every event with the kind of clarity that comes with the intoxicating aroma of nostalgia.
I thought I would have some grand epiphany here, writing this, what could be considered my "final blog entry". I imagined some new-found wisdom that I could process and assimilate into my being and then pass onto you, Dear Reader, like a grasshopper snatched deftly from an open palm. But, alas, no. Wisdom seems to escape me. All I know is that I'm not done with the world yet. And that my query posited at the very start of this blog has, in fact, been answered.
Before I left, I had such anxiety over the current state of America and its prevailing ideologies. I felt that this experience was purely limited due to the fact that the only sphere of understanding I had was from the perspective of someone in America looking at it from within. I wondered if the rest of the world was like this; that it shared my hostility and anxiousness and trepidation and mistrust. I felt that if I could just get over there, my perspective could realign itself with the Truth. I've come to find the solution of travel to be the cure I was seeking. I know now a wider perspective than I've ever knew prior to my travels. A sense of ease that comes with knowing better... or, at the very least, knowing more. I have seen wonders of the world that have humbled me. I have only had a taste of what every place has to offer.
I used to worry about traveling in simple terms: What about the language barrier? Where would I stay? How expensive it must be to go someplace. Can I eat the food? What should I bring? What can't I live without? I realize now that travel holds with it a lot of stigmas if you've never done it before. And there is a tendency to want to bring everything with you that you think you might need, cramming your suitcase full with all the modern conveniences you can't live without. Heck, it would just be easier not to leave at all, right?
Wrong. You can get everything you need while you're out there. Toiletries, clothes, shoes, food, warmth, shelter, vices, etc. Hell, if I had known then what I knew now, I would've taken a really small backpack for the computer and a change of shoes and gone with the clothes on my back and swapped them out when I had gotten tired of wearing the same things or when the climate altered drastically from one place to the other (like I ended up doing in Athens). There are pharmacies everywhere. There are shops everywhere. All it takes is money.
Now many of you are thinking: "Well, yeah! Money! No duh! Travel is expensive!" This is true. No bones about it. But think about how much you spend a month. Go ahead and get a calculator if you need to. I'll wait. Now, imagine that instead of paying for certain things every month, you paid for the cost of living overseas instead. Money spent the same way for the same thing, just over there. Getting there can be expensive too. But imagine saving $50 from every bi-monthly paycheck for a year. Half of that will get you a round trip plane ticket to London from Portland right now (less than that for a one-way). The other half will feed you and house you for the duration of your stay if you plan it right. Imagine you're really frugal that year and save $200 a month. Now your talking train tickets to anywhere in Europe for the duration of your stay. Now you're talking the really nice hotel rather than the box in the building. Go on the off-season and you can see the all the touristy sites for a bargain with that kind of money. Rent a car and get a Heritage Pass for 20 pounds and drown yourself in all the castles and churches and ancient sites in the UK for a month. There are tons of couch surfing websites and house swapping websites and travel-made-cheap websites to accommodate you. There are Bed & Breakfasts for as low as 20-50 pounds a night in the smaller cities. Or, save a few extra pennies and call a travel agent to plan it all out for you (Hi, Charles!). A good travel agent will only charge a small fee (if at all) since they make commission off the booking rather than off the customer. That way, you can get the very best deals and stay in the very best in affordability. The trick is to plan to travel, NOT vacation. And yes, there is a difference. If you want to vacation, your standards will tend to much higher and thus more susceptible to disappointment. If you plan to travel, you're a lot more prepared to roll with the punches and, hey! Who knows? Maybe even have an adventure whose memories will last forever and make you the envy and target of resentment from all of your peers. Hooray!
If, after 4 months of traveling, I have gained any real insight on the nature of travel, it is this:
The hardest part of travel is deciding to do it.
That's it. That's the secret. It's the same secret as the one for success or the one about doing anything well, really. Once you decide that travel is what you want to do... that's all it takes. Everything else is just logistics and math. I know many of you have kids or mortgages or jobs you feel you can't get away from and I get that, I really do. But while I was traveling, I saw families with babies (plural) out there. I saw parents with small kids, backpacks all geared up, wandering the streets of Venice at one in the morning. I saw people from all ages and all classes and all lifestyles out there seeing stuff that was knocking their socks off. It's easy to feel like you'll never have the time or the money or the break from life you feel you need to truly enjoy such an undertaking. But these thoughts are simply untrue. When someone tells me that they don't think they'll ever get to go anywhere, all I think is, "You're simply not trying hard enough". I understand that it's hard to believe that getting out is a possibility for everyone, especially for You, Dear Reader. I had it that feeling too. Then I got on that first plane to Australia and, lo and behold! I was traveling.
There is no such thing as "the right time". Money is just something you spend on other things rather than doing what you want to. There is no "big break"... just living. It goes on and on until you die, so make the very fucking most of it while you can before you are physically incapable of doing anything you want to.
Go travel.
If you want to amazed, if you want to experience life beyond what you know, and you aren't afraid to get some on you... close the tab on your computer that you have pulled up to read this blog and open a new tab and start looking at travel websites and destinations and how much money it'll cost to get there. Put the date in mind on your calendar. Count your pennies. Leave your trepidations at the door. And go.
That's it.
This has been a real fun thing, this blog. I've gotten so many responses from people who said they really liked it and I am truly glad. It's a weird feeling to be typing in a room somewhere away from everyone and everything you know and not knowing if anybody is even out there in cyber-land reading it. It's good to know that some of it got through :) Thanks so much for letting me ramble on and on at you for these last four months. My wife tells me I should keep doing this but it seems a little misleading to blog about travel when I'm sitting right next door to you. So, until I figure out what I'm doing next, I'll simply say "ciao!, ta!, cheers!, adios!, adio!, adieu!, au revoir! arrivederci! sawatdi! buh-bye now!"
See you out there.
-d@n
20 April 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Scotland
Scotland is NOT merely part of the UK. If you accidentally make the mistake of lumping the Scots in with the United Kingdom, they will very politely insist that you are wrong. The Scots have a tradition and a history that is all their own. And, if you give them a pint and an inch, they will tell you all about it.
Last night, at the Hotel Calendonian, we stood in queue to get a couple of pints behind some rowdy revelers who were celebrating the local Ross County team's victory over the bigger, more experienced Celtic team. It was, as I said last post, a major deal. One of the drunken revelers saw us standing there looking sheepishly out of place and struck up a conversation about where we were from and why we were there. When he found out we were Americans, he bought us a couple of glasses of Scottish whiskey. After I downed mine like a shot, he looked at me and said, "What kind of animal are you?! It's not a god damn cheeseburger, man... bartender, pour 'im another!" which the bartender kindly did. He took my arm, and, like a marionette, proceeded to position me properly and said, "Now, lift yer arm like so. Bring the glass to your lips. Take a wee sip. Now say, 'ahh, that's a mighty foine taste now, 'int it? Lovely". Which I did. And it was. Then he bought us some crisps: Haggis and Pepper for me, Cheddar and Onion for Lupe. Then he proceeded to sit next to us and ask us where we were from again. We had a laugh. The locals had us on for a bit but, being as we are not folks to take ourselves too seriously, we laughed along and it endeared us to them. He then told us he was going to give us a proper piping... lifting a wooden chair upside down over his shoulder like a pair of bagpipes and pretending to tune the contraption. He asked for requests. Then he said, "I cannae do anything new though. So, no Beyonce, ken? O! But I can do a foine Lady Gaga, if ya like!" We laughed. He was hilarious. What a welcome.
After he and his bunch left us alone to wander the streets of Fort Augustus, a kinder, gentler man came over and sat next to us asking us what we were doing in their fine village. We chatted him up over pints and, after an hour or so, we shared introductions. His name was Duncan. He is 50 years old, with 5 kids, working as an electrician. He was very curious about our perceptions of life in America having never been there himself. He was baffled as we talked racism, politics, education, poverty, and all things in between. Later on, he and the bartender, Mike, regaled us with a history lesson of the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charles, the war with England, and all the rest. They were very interested in what we had to say about London. They were surprised how much we liked London. Duncan said, "The problem with London is that it's full of English!" Laughter ensued.
This is what it's like to travel to Scotland. The most openly and sincerely friendly people in the world. No joke. Everywhere I have been in my travels in these past four months has been full of people of all ken and kind and here, at the very last leg of my journeys, I come to find the Scots: a people of history and pride and identity who welcomed us with an ease unlike any I have experienced before.
The Highlands are rich in scenery, akin to the Canadian Yukon in scale and scope. The hills are heathered, spotted with big, fluffy sheep and burly cows and horses of pure strength and muscle. The people are sardonic, sly, and speak so fast it's hard to keep up. They also know their shit when it comes to their shit. They can name members of the clans and their spouses, share news from neighboring areas, and can trace their heritage back generations and generations. The Lochs are sheets of cobalt sitting stoically between mountains of golden rock. They sit completely still: glassy and cold. One of them has a monster in it, apparently. The pubs are lively. Filled with local music that is in no way a put on for the tourists. These people are real. As real as it gets. And they are so very fucking awesome.
Scotland is unlike any other place. And I've seen some places, believe you me. Next time we come here, we're renting a car and a tent and wandering the countryside like the locals. Absolutely lovely.
So that's Scotland. Gorgeous. And worth visiting more than just a stop-and-see. I'll be back, no question.
Now I am in the hotel across the street from the airport. I fly out of Glasgow in a mere number of hours now. Back to home. Now that I've met people who live in their home so well, it makes me look forward to getting back to my own home place even more than before.
I think that I have one more blog in me when it comes to the whole Travel Around the World thing. Call it a recap. Or a review. I've done enough "Holy Wow!"-ing and hotel description, I think. I need time to reflect on what the hell has just happened in this far-too-quick/far-too-long four months of jaunting around the world. When I get back to Portland, I will need a day or two to soak it all in, all the while looking for a new domicile to inhabit so... bear with me one more time, Dear Friends. I will tell you what I think if you give me time to think it.
Once more then no more... til next time I travel again.
Thanks for your patience.
-d@n
Last night, at the Hotel Calendonian, we stood in queue to get a couple of pints behind some rowdy revelers who were celebrating the local Ross County team's victory over the bigger, more experienced Celtic team. It was, as I said last post, a major deal. One of the drunken revelers saw us standing there looking sheepishly out of place and struck up a conversation about where we were from and why we were there. When he found out we were Americans, he bought us a couple of glasses of Scottish whiskey. After I downed mine like a shot, he looked at me and said, "What kind of animal are you?! It's not a god damn cheeseburger, man... bartender, pour 'im another!" which the bartender kindly did. He took my arm, and, like a marionette, proceeded to position me properly and said, "Now, lift yer arm like so. Bring the glass to your lips. Take a wee sip. Now say, 'ahh, that's a mighty foine taste now, 'int it? Lovely". Which I did. And it was. Then he bought us some crisps: Haggis and Pepper for me, Cheddar and Onion for Lupe. Then he proceeded to sit next to us and ask us where we were from again. We had a laugh. The locals had us on for a bit but, being as we are not folks to take ourselves too seriously, we laughed along and it endeared us to them. He then told us he was going to give us a proper piping... lifting a wooden chair upside down over his shoulder like a pair of bagpipes and pretending to tune the contraption. He asked for requests. Then he said, "I cannae do anything new though. So, no Beyonce, ken? O! But I can do a foine Lady Gaga, if ya like!" We laughed. He was hilarious. What a welcome.
After he and his bunch left us alone to wander the streets of Fort Augustus, a kinder, gentler man came over and sat next to us asking us what we were doing in their fine village. We chatted him up over pints and, after an hour or so, we shared introductions. His name was Duncan. He is 50 years old, with 5 kids, working as an electrician. He was very curious about our perceptions of life in America having never been there himself. He was baffled as we talked racism, politics, education, poverty, and all things in between. Later on, he and the bartender, Mike, regaled us with a history lesson of the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charles, the war with England, and all the rest. They were very interested in what we had to say about London. They were surprised how much we liked London. Duncan said, "The problem with London is that it's full of English!" Laughter ensued.
This is what it's like to travel to Scotland. The most openly and sincerely friendly people in the world. No joke. Everywhere I have been in my travels in these past four months has been full of people of all ken and kind and here, at the very last leg of my journeys, I come to find the Scots: a people of history and pride and identity who welcomed us with an ease unlike any I have experienced before.
The Highlands are rich in scenery, akin to the Canadian Yukon in scale and scope. The hills are heathered, spotted with big, fluffy sheep and burly cows and horses of pure strength and muscle. The people are sardonic, sly, and speak so fast it's hard to keep up. They also know their shit when it comes to their shit. They can name members of the clans and their spouses, share news from neighboring areas, and can trace their heritage back generations and generations. The Lochs are sheets of cobalt sitting stoically between mountains of golden rock. They sit completely still: glassy and cold. One of them has a monster in it, apparently. The pubs are lively. Filled with local music that is in no way a put on for the tourists. These people are real. As real as it gets. And they are so very fucking awesome.
Scotland is unlike any other place. And I've seen some places, believe you me. Next time we come here, we're renting a car and a tent and wandering the countryside like the locals. Absolutely lovely.
So that's Scotland. Gorgeous. And worth visiting more than just a stop-and-see. I'll be back, no question.
Now I am in the hotel across the street from the airport. I fly out of Glasgow in a mere number of hours now. Back to home. Now that I've met people who live in their home so well, it makes me look forward to getting back to my own home place even more than before.
I think that I have one more blog in me when it comes to the whole Travel Around the World thing. Call it a recap. Or a review. I've done enough "Holy Wow!"-ing and hotel description, I think. I need time to reflect on what the hell has just happened in this far-too-quick/far-too-long four months of jaunting around the world. When I get back to Portland, I will need a day or two to soak it all in, all the while looking for a new domicile to inhabit so... bear with me one more time, Dear Friends. I will tell you what I think if you give me time to think it.
Once more then no more... til next time I travel again.
Thanks for your patience.
-d@n
Roadtripping
After London, we rented a car and drove through the UK. Here's what we did.
Our first stop was Brighton, south of London, at one of the most famous beaches in the world. It was cold. The beach is comprised of rocks, not sand. The pier was filled with a gambling arcade. The food was great. From Brighton, we drove east to Dover.
In Dover, we got in late and caught a room at Blake's of Dover: a bed and breakfast named Best Ale House in 2006. The cider was a nice refreshing nightcap to a heavy day of driving and the hospitality was fantastic. The room was clean, cozy, and cheap at 50 pounds. Great place. Totally comfy. While in Dover, we went and visited Dover Castle atop the white cliffs, beneath the blue skies, just as the song says. I geeked out at the Chapel of St. Mary's in Castro: a military chapel for the fighting forces of the British Army and at the winding staircases through the castle towers to the roof. Dover is also the place where they received the Miracle of Dunkirk, where British forces transported thousands of soldiers over the channel from the northern part of France under siege by Hitler's army. In the secret underground tunnels of Dover is where the planning for D-Day occurred. After studying a surviving copy of Hitler's Last Appeal to Reason, we toured the tunnels at great length, fascinated at the cramped spaces where hundreds of British soldiers lived as bomb planes fought overhead during World War II. Amazing.
That night, we drove to Salisbury and stayed in a wonderful inn called the White Horse where more cider and some football welcomed us. The room above was 60 pounds, clean, warm, and very relaxing after another long day driving. The next day, we visited the Salisbury Cathedral where one of the four copies of the Magna Carta is housed. The church is under some repair but stands as a community center for all residents, hosting crafting fairs for the children of Salisbury and also holds a ton of history in its walls. The Magna Carta was pretty neat to see.
Then it was off to Stonehenge.
Stonehenge is a hendge. It's also made of stone, which makes its name pretty self-explanatory.
Who am I kidding? Stonehenge is... well, words can't describe it. You can't help but wander around it, studying its architecture, and remarking, "There's no fucking way!" every five minutes or so. Lupe and I still say.... aliens. Aliens must've put those stones there. There is no other logical, reasonable explanation. Thus: Aliens. Must be.
From the henge, we drove to Manchester and stayed at a roadside Travel Lodge just south of the main city.
A quick word about the highways and byways of the United Kingdoms:
The UK has driving down. There are no highway patrols. There are CCTV cameras that no one pays any attention to. Instead, they drive smoothly and steadily and with purpose, averaging speeds of 90-100 mph or so. They leave lots of space between them, so maneuverability is greatly improved. Everyone also takes their time. No one rushes the guy in front of them. When merges and on-ramps come along, people have already moved to the far lane to let in new cars in so there's no stress. When two lanes merge, people have already queued miles ahead of time in one-after-another fashion so everyone gets a go. There's no cutting people off or honking or crowding. It is amazing to see people drive with that much courtesy and ease. Everybody gives a wave. When people pass, they do so quickly, without verve, and return to the outside slow lane to let others going faster than them to get by. It's fantastic. The rest stops are many and well designed. There are shopping centres, McDonald's, KFC's, and plenty of room for everyone. Several stops have Travel Lodges and Little Chefs (think Denny's but with good food and young, pretty people working them). The food centres are clean, well-employed by friendly staff, and full of families eating picnic lunches on park benches. Muslims pray, facing east towards Mecca on the grass and no one bats an eye. There is none of the stigma associated with the American Rest Stop with its urban legend of shady vagabonds and serial killers waiting in the bushes. The toilets are clean and cleaned regularly and equipped with all the necessities demanded by the road. The BP gas stations are mini grocery stores, complete with frozen food for camper vans and packaged foods for the casual roadster. Unbelievable.
From Manchester, we drove far to the north to Glasgow and decided to pass right on through. Instead of staying in Glasgow, we headed north to the Highlands of Scotland and, of course, Loch Ness. The night we arrived, we found a great hotel called the Hotel Caledonian. Apparently, we arrived on the right night. The local football team of Ross County had beaten the Celtics which, according to the locals who were reveling in the bar and buying us glasses of whiskey and chips to welcome us, is akin to some minor league AAA baseball team going to New York and whupping the Yankees.
The room at the Hotel Caledonian was 40 pounds per person, and was... well, it was right up there with any Westin we've ever stayed at. It was warm, rustic, friendly, with a huuuge room and amazing bed. This is a must stay place, as far as I am concerned. If you are ever going to the North of Scotland, stay here. There is none of the kitchiness of the tourist trap of Loch Ness involved here. Just friendly staff and stories and locals abound. The bartender, Mike, who also ran the front desk, told us of how a local firefighter in the neighborhood decided shortly after 9/11 to host the families and friends of firefighters who had lost their lives when the Twin Towers fell. He got the whole town involved and they raised the money to bring every single one of those people all the way to Fort Augustus, all expenses paid, all services rendered. They didn't pay a dime the entire time they were there. They stayed in the hotel we stayed in. Amazing. The bar downstairs was lively but small and we met several locals, including a man named Duncan from farther north who sat with us through the night, drinking pints, and getting to know us. The next day, we rounded Loch Ness and headed back south to Glasgow.
Tomorrow, I fly home.
I realize now that I have talked a lot in this particular blog about what we did and haven't really said much about the experience. I think I will have to take a moment and think about what i want to say before posting again so... bear with me. I'll be back soon with another post very very soon.
Thanks for listening. I promise more in a little bit.
Cheers!
-d@n
Our first stop was Brighton, south of London, at one of the most famous beaches in the world. It was cold. The beach is comprised of rocks, not sand. The pier was filled with a gambling arcade. The food was great. From Brighton, we drove east to Dover.
In Dover, we got in late and caught a room at Blake's of Dover: a bed and breakfast named Best Ale House in 2006. The cider was a nice refreshing nightcap to a heavy day of driving and the hospitality was fantastic. The room was clean, cozy, and cheap at 50 pounds. Great place. Totally comfy. While in Dover, we went and visited Dover Castle atop the white cliffs, beneath the blue skies, just as the song says. I geeked out at the Chapel of St. Mary's in Castro: a military chapel for the fighting forces of the British Army and at the winding staircases through the castle towers to the roof. Dover is also the place where they received the Miracle of Dunkirk, where British forces transported thousands of soldiers over the channel from the northern part of France under siege by Hitler's army. In the secret underground tunnels of Dover is where the planning for D-Day occurred. After studying a surviving copy of Hitler's Last Appeal to Reason, we toured the tunnels at great length, fascinated at the cramped spaces where hundreds of British soldiers lived as bomb planes fought overhead during World War II. Amazing.
That night, we drove to Salisbury and stayed in a wonderful inn called the White Horse where more cider and some football welcomed us. The room above was 60 pounds, clean, warm, and very relaxing after another long day driving. The next day, we visited the Salisbury Cathedral where one of the four copies of the Magna Carta is housed. The church is under some repair but stands as a community center for all residents, hosting crafting fairs for the children of Salisbury and also holds a ton of history in its walls. The Magna Carta was pretty neat to see.
Then it was off to Stonehenge.
Stonehenge is a hendge. It's also made of stone, which makes its name pretty self-explanatory.
Who am I kidding? Stonehenge is... well, words can't describe it. You can't help but wander around it, studying its architecture, and remarking, "There's no fucking way!" every five minutes or so. Lupe and I still say.... aliens. Aliens must've put those stones there. There is no other logical, reasonable explanation. Thus: Aliens. Must be.
From the henge, we drove to Manchester and stayed at a roadside Travel Lodge just south of the main city.
A quick word about the highways and byways of the United Kingdoms:
The UK has driving down. There are no highway patrols. There are CCTV cameras that no one pays any attention to. Instead, they drive smoothly and steadily and with purpose, averaging speeds of 90-100 mph or so. They leave lots of space between them, so maneuverability is greatly improved. Everyone also takes their time. No one rushes the guy in front of them. When merges and on-ramps come along, people have already moved to the far lane to let in new cars in so there's no stress. When two lanes merge, people have already queued miles ahead of time in one-after-another fashion so everyone gets a go. There's no cutting people off or honking or crowding. It is amazing to see people drive with that much courtesy and ease. Everybody gives a wave. When people pass, they do so quickly, without verve, and return to the outside slow lane to let others going faster than them to get by. It's fantastic. The rest stops are many and well designed. There are shopping centres, McDonald's, KFC's, and plenty of room for everyone. Several stops have Travel Lodges and Little Chefs (think Denny's but with good food and young, pretty people working them). The food centres are clean, well-employed by friendly staff, and full of families eating picnic lunches on park benches. Muslims pray, facing east towards Mecca on the grass and no one bats an eye. There is none of the stigma associated with the American Rest Stop with its urban legend of shady vagabonds and serial killers waiting in the bushes. The toilets are clean and cleaned regularly and equipped with all the necessities demanded by the road. The BP gas stations are mini grocery stores, complete with frozen food for camper vans and packaged foods for the casual roadster. Unbelievable.
From Manchester, we drove far to the north to Glasgow and decided to pass right on through. Instead of staying in Glasgow, we headed north to the Highlands of Scotland and, of course, Loch Ness. The night we arrived, we found a great hotel called the Hotel Caledonian. Apparently, we arrived on the right night. The local football team of Ross County had beaten the Celtics which, according to the locals who were reveling in the bar and buying us glasses of whiskey and chips to welcome us, is akin to some minor league AAA baseball team going to New York and whupping the Yankees.
The room at the Hotel Caledonian was 40 pounds per person, and was... well, it was right up there with any Westin we've ever stayed at. It was warm, rustic, friendly, with a huuuge room and amazing bed. This is a must stay place, as far as I am concerned. If you are ever going to the North of Scotland, stay here. There is none of the kitchiness of the tourist trap of Loch Ness involved here. Just friendly staff and stories and locals abound. The bartender, Mike, who also ran the front desk, told us of how a local firefighter in the neighborhood decided shortly after 9/11 to host the families and friends of firefighters who had lost their lives when the Twin Towers fell. He got the whole town involved and they raised the money to bring every single one of those people all the way to Fort Augustus, all expenses paid, all services rendered. They didn't pay a dime the entire time they were there. They stayed in the hotel we stayed in. Amazing. The bar downstairs was lively but small and we met several locals, including a man named Duncan from farther north who sat with us through the night, drinking pints, and getting to know us. The next day, we rounded Loch Ness and headed back south to Glasgow.
Tomorrow, I fly home.
I realize now that I have talked a lot in this particular blog about what we did and haven't really said much about the experience. I think I will have to take a moment and think about what i want to say before posting again so... bear with me. I'll be back soon with another post very very soon.
Thanks for listening. I promise more in a little bit.
Cheers!
-d@n
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
London Calling
I wrote a blog earlier when we got into London which never made it to post because the internets here are so poor on the third floor of the George Hotel on Cartwright Gardens, just minutes away from St. Pancras Station. The room on the third floor was tiny; uneven floor, dipped ceiling, furniture that slid when you touched it. There is no lift to make your way up the steep, narrow, harrowingly uneven stairs. The shower is shared. The loo is as well. The room is also 56 pounds a day which makes it a total win in my book. So much so we decided to stay here another night.
They moved us downstairs to the first floor and even moved our bags for us while we took the double decker tour bus around the cool sights today. The internets have greatly improved (hence the blog tonight). And we get our own shower! (the size of a small closet, but still...)
London is kinda awesome. I kinda want to live here. I kinda want to get a work visa and stay here for four months during the summer instead of the states. Scratch that... I kinda want to stay here forever and not come back. I am glad we decided to come here last. The food is so fatty mcfatty good. I even ate some black pudding today. It tastes like sausage. I kinda thought it was really good.
Last night we spent the night walking around the East End on a Jack the Ripper tour which was really really cool. Today we hit the sights. The day before, we shopped. A lot.
Sorry I'm being a little short right now. I'm a tad bit ill and it's hard to formulate thoughts as coherently as I'm sure you're used to from me. All-in-all, there are no words to explain how much I love it here. The weather is as fickle as it is in Portland: sunny and warm one second, rain and gray the very next. The pubs are quiet, quaint, full of good food and families sharing time together (yes, kids too). The shopping is shamefully good. The scene is very cool. There are so many people from everywhere here. The area we're in has everything I could ever want in life: pubs, grocery stores, convenience stores, a noir-only cinema, three bookstores, and a shopping strip for clothes and stuff. Russel Square station is a whopping 5 minutes away. The city opens up with the London Underground and no corner is too far away.
In 6 days, at this time, I will be in Portland again. That's a little hard to bear. To think: it's already been three months and change of living out of a backpack. I've seen enough of the inside of airplanes and train coaches and buses and metro rail stations to last me a while. I'm ready to go home. There is no doubt about that. But this trip has been one of a lifetime. I will have these stories to share forever and ever.
I'm sure I could have blogged more specifically or been more expressive in my experiences. But the truth is it's very hard to describe what passes for the mundane when you're out here. We begin our drive through the rural parts of the UK tomorrow, on our way to the destination of Glasgow where we fly out to the States. I am assuming that the internets may be few and far between here and there and that I will be spending most of my free time in the car. I promise I will blog again to wrap it all up once I get a chance, even if that means it'll be from the comfort of my own borrowed bed (yes, it's true... we won't have a place to live when we get back. The hunt for a home starts the day after we get in).
This is how the story of travel ends.... not with a bang but with a very tired, slightly ill, spaced out rant on a blog that could've been longer but probably couldn't be better. I hope you have enjoyed reading along. I will have a lot to say when I get home. I have memories of things that have happened to me that cannot ever be forgotten. I hope you'll still be interested to listen.
For now, I'm going to watch "Mock the Week", take some Sudafed, and hope I can think again tomorrow.
Cheers!
-d@n
They moved us downstairs to the first floor and even moved our bags for us while we took the double decker tour bus around the cool sights today. The internets have greatly improved (hence the blog tonight). And we get our own shower! (the size of a small closet, but still...)
London is kinda awesome. I kinda want to live here. I kinda want to get a work visa and stay here for four months during the summer instead of the states. Scratch that... I kinda want to stay here forever and not come back. I am glad we decided to come here last. The food is so fatty mcfatty good. I even ate some black pudding today. It tastes like sausage. I kinda thought it was really good.
Last night we spent the night walking around the East End on a Jack the Ripper tour which was really really cool. Today we hit the sights. The day before, we shopped. A lot.
Sorry I'm being a little short right now. I'm a tad bit ill and it's hard to formulate thoughts as coherently as I'm sure you're used to from me. All-in-all, there are no words to explain how much I love it here. The weather is as fickle as it is in Portland: sunny and warm one second, rain and gray the very next. The pubs are quiet, quaint, full of good food and families sharing time together (yes, kids too). The shopping is shamefully good. The scene is very cool. There are so many people from everywhere here. The area we're in has everything I could ever want in life: pubs, grocery stores, convenience stores, a noir-only cinema, three bookstores, and a shopping strip for clothes and stuff. Russel Square station is a whopping 5 minutes away. The city opens up with the London Underground and no corner is too far away.
In 6 days, at this time, I will be in Portland again. That's a little hard to bear. To think: it's already been three months and change of living out of a backpack. I've seen enough of the inside of airplanes and train coaches and buses and metro rail stations to last me a while. I'm ready to go home. There is no doubt about that. But this trip has been one of a lifetime. I will have these stories to share forever and ever.
I'm sure I could have blogged more specifically or been more expressive in my experiences. But the truth is it's very hard to describe what passes for the mundane when you're out here. We begin our drive through the rural parts of the UK tomorrow, on our way to the destination of Glasgow where we fly out to the States. I am assuming that the internets may be few and far between here and there and that I will be spending most of my free time in the car. I promise I will blog again to wrap it all up once I get a chance, even if that means it'll be from the comfort of my own borrowed bed (yes, it's true... we won't have a place to live when we get back. The hunt for a home starts the day after we get in).
This is how the story of travel ends.... not with a bang but with a very tired, slightly ill, spaced out rant on a blog that could've been longer but probably couldn't be better. I hope you have enjoyed reading along. I will have a lot to say when I get home. I have memories of things that have happened to me that cannot ever be forgotten. I hope you'll still be interested to listen.
For now, I'm going to watch "Mock the Week", take some Sudafed, and hope I can think again tomorrow.
Cheers!
-d@n
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Two very long days of walking
Hello from gay Paree!
Paris is crazy cool. To tell you the absolute truth, I wasn't really that thrilled to go to Paris when we first started working out this whole travel around the world thing. I couldn't tell you why. It was just "meh" in my book. But Lupe really wanted to come here so I figured "what the hell". I would like to officially state that Lupe is, as always, much smarter than me.
Paris is one helluva place. It's a major metropolis like New York with all the history that a place like New York lacks. Unlike Rome, who has so much history crammed into every step you take it's easy to miss it when it's right on top of you, the French got history... and they aren't shy about showing it off.
Yesterday, we walked from the quaint and comfortable Hotel Pavilion Bastille (located across the street from the very modern chrome and glass Bastille Opera House, a short walk to the Metro) to the Louvre (about 30-45 minutes walk away) where we saw all the sights there are to see. The nicest thing about traveling in the "off season" to most of these places we've been to? No lines. No wait. No hassle. The line into the Louvre took us a whole 5 minutes to navigate. The ticket booths are automated so, coat check and pre-exploring bathroom trip aside, getting in to the museum itself took maybe 5 more minutes. We high tailed it to the Mona Lisa as quick as we could, having heard the line can be ridiculous long and that they shuffle you through in 10 second intervals to find, lo and behold: no line, a small, manageable crowd, and all the time in the world to examine that frickin' smile.
It's smaller than you expect it to be. At least, that's what everyone had said to me when telling me of the painting. But, it's really just regular portrait size. The mystery about the painting is a tad overrated since anyone who understands what sort of mastery it takes to produce a work of art that contains within it such dimension that it creates an illusion of depth that produced that smile and those cheekbones (all without the help of photoshop, no less) can tell that Leo pulled out all the stops in creating this masterpiece. It's pretty impressive to see up close. And it requires a close examination. Like Michelangelo's "David", it's nothing like the pictures you've seen and so much more.
We explored the Louvre for as long as our feet could allow, stopping in the room with the Code of the Hammurabi for my own personal edification. That is some slab of rock. When the proverbial 'they' say that something is 'set in stone', they're (knowingly or otherwise) talking about this particular rock. Ever since I was a history student, I have wanted to see that thing. It did not disappoint.
After the Louvre, we walked around some more then went home. So beat. Legs hurt so bad. The cure for this? Why, more walking today of course!
Today was Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame was suprisingly small and relatively unimpressive to me. Don't get me wrong, it's still a sight to behold. What's really strange is that the Notre Dame has bravely accepted the future and all the conveniences of technology. Automated offering machines. Coin-op medallion dispensers. All the lighting rigs of a rock concert and the sound system to match. The confessional booths are sound-proof glass rooms where people queue just outside waiting their turn to speak to the priest who sits inside under incandescent fluorescent lights and invites them in for all to see. Talk about 'transparency in the church'. All-in-all, it was definitely a sight to see, disappointment aside. I guess I have just been spoiled with cathedrals since Italy. The duomo in Milan with it's garishly massive Gothic design alone was far more menacing and impressive. But it is Notre Dame... and the bells were ringing while we were there so that was cool.
We made the very long walk along the Seine to the Eiffel Tower and were wiped when we got there. They left a light on for us though... the place went bright the moment we came around the corner to see it in all its glory. That was cool. When the lights flash off and on like a strobe light, the whole city "ooos and ahhs'. They actually turned off the lights for about an hour for Earth Hour to help conservation efforts. Neat.
The lines there were a little excessive and the French are brutal when it comes to ignoring the etiquette of a queue. Worse than Americans at the box office any day. We had also hoped to dine in the restaurant there but the top floor was closed due to stormy weather and we simply didn't plan well enough ahead. That was a bummer. But the sight from the Tower is unlike anything else in the world. Looking down over the city of Paris you can see so many world renowned structures it actually puts Rome to shame. The French are cutting edge when it comes to the importance of their buildings and the history that surrounds them and the sheer space they allow for their growth. Simply breathtaking.
Afterward, we made our way down to a cafe on the corner where the food was so fantastic I could have blown the rest of my cash there. So good. So full now. Teresa got escargot. Like a champ! Apparently they were quite good. I'll take her word for it.
Elvia and Teresa leave us tomorrow: back to Alaska where their lives go back to normal. I know that Elvia really had a great time here. Teresa was really homesick after a few days. She has no idea. Three months is a long time to be away from home. It gets harder and harder every day. It'll be worse now that we've had a taste of home with our family being here for the short time that they were. I'm glad they got to come and experience this though. It was great to live vicariously through their excitement about being somewhere foreign and new.
Elvia, in particular, is fearless. Whereas my wife and I will argue over where to eat for three hours before we finally concede to a place that we both agree looks good enough, Elvia is the food decision queen! Every place she's said, "let's eat here" has been incredible. I guess it can't be that hard to find good food in France. She is also fearless when it comes to meeting people. She will wander up to complete strangers and strike up conversation. Tourists, police in riot gear, street performers, scam artists: she talks to them all, telling them she's from Alaska, giving out postcards from Sitka with her address on it, telling people that if they ever come to Alaska to give her a call and she'll put them up. Like I said... fearless. That, too, is refreshing.
I have yet to experience any of the famed French rudeness first hand. Well... anything rude enough to feel anything less than what you get in America, I guess. There've been a 'tsk' here and a few looks there but, honestly, it's about as bad in rudeness here as it is anywhere in the U.S. Like America, if they don't understand what you are saying, they don't care about you. Kind of like how most America is with anyone who doesn't speak English. Like the Americans, they don't really like foreigners and that's apparent. But it honestly hasn't been anything worse than the kind of rudeness you can get from any American on the street. In most cases, the people have been quite friendly, pretty helpful even if resentfully, and funny funny funny. These folks can take a joke, I'll tell you that much. If they can understand you, that is.
Paris is great. I would still rather go back to Italy if given the choice... but I can see why people like it here so much. Food is amazing, people are pretty, the sights are phenomenal, and the price is not so ridiculous it's unbearable. Sydney still holds as the most expensive place we've been to, in my opinion. Speaking of this: we met a great woman from Atlanta, Georgia who was visiting Paris. She had won a contest from a travel site and was here for a good while, hotel, plane travel, etc: all paid. She told us she had also won a trip to exclusive Australia but couldn't afford the taxes to go there. So they gave her a cash equivalent reward instead. So she bought a house with it. Yeah. We all rubbed her for good luck. Holy crap, what a story she told. Crazy.
It is very late here in Paris and I am totally wiped after the last two days. Time to kick back with some MTV France (where they still play music videos!) and drink some wine.
So sore. So beat. So ready to come home now. A few more days here in Paris then it's off to London. Funny... we started this trip in a place where they still speak English enough for us to get by, went to all these places where they don't speak much English, and now are going to finish up this trip in a place where they speak English again. Weird.
Must go. Photos available on facebook soon.
-d@n
Paris is crazy cool. To tell you the absolute truth, I wasn't really that thrilled to go to Paris when we first started working out this whole travel around the world thing. I couldn't tell you why. It was just "meh" in my book. But Lupe really wanted to come here so I figured "what the hell". I would like to officially state that Lupe is, as always, much smarter than me.
Paris is one helluva place. It's a major metropolis like New York with all the history that a place like New York lacks. Unlike Rome, who has so much history crammed into every step you take it's easy to miss it when it's right on top of you, the French got history... and they aren't shy about showing it off.
Yesterday, we walked from the quaint and comfortable Hotel Pavilion Bastille (located across the street from the very modern chrome and glass Bastille Opera House, a short walk to the Metro) to the Louvre (about 30-45 minutes walk away) where we saw all the sights there are to see. The nicest thing about traveling in the "off season" to most of these places we've been to? No lines. No wait. No hassle. The line into the Louvre took us a whole 5 minutes to navigate. The ticket booths are automated so, coat check and pre-exploring bathroom trip aside, getting in to the museum itself took maybe 5 more minutes. We high tailed it to the Mona Lisa as quick as we could, having heard the line can be ridiculous long and that they shuffle you through in 10 second intervals to find, lo and behold: no line, a small, manageable crowd, and all the time in the world to examine that frickin' smile.
It's smaller than you expect it to be. At least, that's what everyone had said to me when telling me of the painting. But, it's really just regular portrait size. The mystery about the painting is a tad overrated since anyone who understands what sort of mastery it takes to produce a work of art that contains within it such dimension that it creates an illusion of depth that produced that smile and those cheekbones (all without the help of photoshop, no less) can tell that Leo pulled out all the stops in creating this masterpiece. It's pretty impressive to see up close. And it requires a close examination. Like Michelangelo's "David", it's nothing like the pictures you've seen and so much more.
We explored the Louvre for as long as our feet could allow, stopping in the room with the Code of the Hammurabi for my own personal edification. That is some slab of rock. When the proverbial 'they' say that something is 'set in stone', they're (knowingly or otherwise) talking about this particular rock. Ever since I was a history student, I have wanted to see that thing. It did not disappoint.
After the Louvre, we walked around some more then went home. So beat. Legs hurt so bad. The cure for this? Why, more walking today of course!
Today was Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame was suprisingly small and relatively unimpressive to me. Don't get me wrong, it's still a sight to behold. What's really strange is that the Notre Dame has bravely accepted the future and all the conveniences of technology. Automated offering machines. Coin-op medallion dispensers. All the lighting rigs of a rock concert and the sound system to match. The confessional booths are sound-proof glass rooms where people queue just outside waiting their turn to speak to the priest who sits inside under incandescent fluorescent lights and invites them in for all to see. Talk about 'transparency in the church'. All-in-all, it was definitely a sight to see, disappointment aside. I guess I have just been spoiled with cathedrals since Italy. The duomo in Milan with it's garishly massive Gothic design alone was far more menacing and impressive. But it is Notre Dame... and the bells were ringing while we were there so that was cool.
We made the very long walk along the Seine to the Eiffel Tower and were wiped when we got there. They left a light on for us though... the place went bright the moment we came around the corner to see it in all its glory. That was cool. When the lights flash off and on like a strobe light, the whole city "ooos and ahhs'. They actually turned off the lights for about an hour for Earth Hour to help conservation efforts. Neat.
The lines there were a little excessive and the French are brutal when it comes to ignoring the etiquette of a queue. Worse than Americans at the box office any day. We had also hoped to dine in the restaurant there but the top floor was closed due to stormy weather and we simply didn't plan well enough ahead. That was a bummer. But the sight from the Tower is unlike anything else in the world. Looking down over the city of Paris you can see so many world renowned structures it actually puts Rome to shame. The French are cutting edge when it comes to the importance of their buildings and the history that surrounds them and the sheer space they allow for their growth. Simply breathtaking.
Afterward, we made our way down to a cafe on the corner where the food was so fantastic I could have blown the rest of my cash there. So good. So full now. Teresa got escargot. Like a champ! Apparently they were quite good. I'll take her word for it.
Elvia and Teresa leave us tomorrow: back to Alaska where their lives go back to normal. I know that Elvia really had a great time here. Teresa was really homesick after a few days. She has no idea. Three months is a long time to be away from home. It gets harder and harder every day. It'll be worse now that we've had a taste of home with our family being here for the short time that they were. I'm glad they got to come and experience this though. It was great to live vicariously through their excitement about being somewhere foreign and new.
Elvia, in particular, is fearless. Whereas my wife and I will argue over where to eat for three hours before we finally concede to a place that we both agree looks good enough, Elvia is the food decision queen! Every place she's said, "let's eat here" has been incredible. I guess it can't be that hard to find good food in France. She is also fearless when it comes to meeting people. She will wander up to complete strangers and strike up conversation. Tourists, police in riot gear, street performers, scam artists: she talks to them all, telling them she's from Alaska, giving out postcards from Sitka with her address on it, telling people that if they ever come to Alaska to give her a call and she'll put them up. Like I said... fearless. That, too, is refreshing.
I have yet to experience any of the famed French rudeness first hand. Well... anything rude enough to feel anything less than what you get in America, I guess. There've been a 'tsk' here and a few looks there but, honestly, it's about as bad in rudeness here as it is anywhere in the U.S. Like America, if they don't understand what you are saying, they don't care about you. Kind of like how most America is with anyone who doesn't speak English. Like the Americans, they don't really like foreigners and that's apparent. But it honestly hasn't been anything worse than the kind of rudeness you can get from any American on the street. In most cases, the people have been quite friendly, pretty helpful even if resentfully, and funny funny funny. These folks can take a joke, I'll tell you that much. If they can understand you, that is.
Paris is great. I would still rather go back to Italy if given the choice... but I can see why people like it here so much. Food is amazing, people are pretty, the sights are phenomenal, and the price is not so ridiculous it's unbearable. Sydney still holds as the most expensive place we've been to, in my opinion. Speaking of this: we met a great woman from Atlanta, Georgia who was visiting Paris. She had won a contest from a travel site and was here for a good while, hotel, plane travel, etc: all paid. She told us she had also won a trip to exclusive Australia but couldn't afford the taxes to go there. So they gave her a cash equivalent reward instead. So she bought a house with it. Yeah. We all rubbed her for good luck. Holy crap, what a story she told. Crazy.
It is very late here in Paris and I am totally wiped after the last two days. Time to kick back with some MTV France (where they still play music videos!) and drink some wine.
So sore. So beat. So ready to come home now. A few more days here in Paris then it's off to London. Funny... we started this trip in a place where they still speak English enough for us to get by, went to all these places where they don't speak much English, and now are going to finish up this trip in a place where they speak English again. Weird.
Must go. Photos available on facebook soon.
-d@n
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Been a while...
I realize that it's been a little while since I last posted about my travels. I'm in Spain right now, having left Madrid and the really nice Hotel Atlantico (located on Gran Via: a trendy shopping district just north of the Plaza Mayor) and arriving in Barcelona yesterday. Our trip in Spain has been much shorter than most of the other places we've been to, therefore, much more hectic. Thus: less bloggy, more sightsee-y.
Madrid was incredible. The first night we arrived, Lupe and I went out carousing at 12:30 am or so, looking for food and drinks. We found food in the form of a pizza stand right on the strip but decided that the nightlife was wayyyyy too hectic on a Friday night to try and do the drink thing. So, instead, we cracked open the bottle of wine we bought on our last day in Rome and made a night of it in our own way.
The hotel room at the Atlantico was on the 8th floor (top floor for rooms with a veranda lounge on the 9th overlooking the city) and it was real nice. The blankets alone made the room fantastic: soft and warm like no others before it. The staff was friendly and the location was unbeatable. The next day, we awoke well rested and made our way through most of the surrounding area, splitting up to wander the streets in search of shopping (for Lupe) and sightseeing (for me). That night, we dined at a really nice restaurant on Calle de Tre Cruces. On our way back to the hotel, we stumbled upon a great local bar off one of the side streets where Lupe and I proceeded to drink Cuba Libres for many hours. Back at the hotel, we finished off the bottle of wine and stayed up far too late than we should have. I finally hit the hay at about 5:30 am. Lupe's mom and sister joined us the next day and we took the Metro to the airport at around 7:00 am or so to meet them. Wheee, still drunk! They wanted to go see the Museum of the Americas to see an exhibit on Alaskan Native American artifacts "aquired" by the Spanish during their "colonization and exploration" of that area. I opted to head back to the hotel and guard the bed. Y'know... just in case.
The next day was spent sightseeing, eating paella at a neat little off-the-path restaurant, and checking out the Plaza Mayor and the Cathedral. Very, very cool. We headed up the street, passing the Teatro Real and making our way through the boulevards to the Gran Via again. We left the day after and arrived in Barcelona.
Sadly, the hotel in Barcelona has been... well... why mince words? The place is a hole. The HCC Regente is dingy: bleach stains on the carpet, cracked wallpaper, base boards cracked along the floor. In Elvia and teresa's room, I found a blood splatter on their closet. Yeah... Pretty shitty. This might actually be the worst place we've stayed in (sorry, Charles :P). Luckily, we are only here for two nights.
We spent the day exploring Barcelona today, cruising the crowded La Rambla and it's plethora of street performers and artists, stopping off at the end of the street to hit the MareMagnum shopping mall. Then I split off and went exploring. I found the Cathedral de Barcelona and had a peek inside at all the frescoes and the Gothic architecture. Then I also stumbled, quite accidentally, across a collection of Salvador Dali museum which was amazing! What a lucky find. Holy crap, that was cool. We have been eating tapas like it's going out of style. So much good food here!
I know that this blog hasn't been the same since I stopped posting photos on here but the process of uploading onto this site takes for. ev. er. So, please, come and check out all the photos fit to print on my facebook page. Not all of them are there but I try to update it when I have the time. Send me a friend request if you need access. I'm an addict to the book of faces, so I check regularly.
We leave for Paris tomorrow. I am both excited for the sheer fact that we are going to Paris and that this next flight will be the last flight I have to take until the flight home. We take the Chunnel from Paris to London then rent a car for the remainder of our trip to explore the UK on our way to Glasgow. Apparently there's been some volcano chaos in Iceland where we're supposed to grab our flight home so... that'll be interesting.
I'm ready to be home. Don't get me wrong: this experience has been of the utmost spectacularness and I don't regret it for a nanosecond. But I'm tired of travel. It'll be a while before I get on a plane again after this is all over, that's for sure. Every time I look at my backpack before I have to pack it up again, I groan. This life is taxing. It's great. It's exciting. It's something everyone should do. It's also time for it to be over. I miss my dog and my neighborhood. I miss my kick ass job and all my kick ass friends.
I have been remiss to you, dearest friends: I promise we will be spending more time together when I get back. Lupe and I have been planning for our lives together when we return and it's exciting to have options again. School really put a cramp on our lives. Saying that is putting it lightly. I gave up all things so she could pursue her goals. I didn't realize how much that meant taking myself away from all of you. And she is looking forward to the freedom to do the same after three long years away from anything in her life that gave her joy. We have been talking about our life together when we get back and it makes us want to come back right now and get it started. I can't wait.
Soon enough, I suppose.
-d@n
Madrid was incredible. The first night we arrived, Lupe and I went out carousing at 12:30 am or so, looking for food and drinks. We found food in the form of a pizza stand right on the strip but decided that the nightlife was wayyyyy too hectic on a Friday night to try and do the drink thing. So, instead, we cracked open the bottle of wine we bought on our last day in Rome and made a night of it in our own way.
The hotel room at the Atlantico was on the 8th floor (top floor for rooms with a veranda lounge on the 9th overlooking the city) and it was real nice. The blankets alone made the room fantastic: soft and warm like no others before it. The staff was friendly and the location was unbeatable. The next day, we awoke well rested and made our way through most of the surrounding area, splitting up to wander the streets in search of shopping (for Lupe) and sightseeing (for me). That night, we dined at a really nice restaurant on Calle de Tre Cruces. On our way back to the hotel, we stumbled upon a great local bar off one of the side streets where Lupe and I proceeded to drink Cuba Libres for many hours. Back at the hotel, we finished off the bottle of wine and stayed up far too late than we should have. I finally hit the hay at about 5:30 am. Lupe's mom and sister joined us the next day and we took the Metro to the airport at around 7:00 am or so to meet them. Wheee, still drunk! They wanted to go see the Museum of the Americas to see an exhibit on Alaskan Native American artifacts "aquired" by the Spanish during their "colonization and exploration" of that area. I opted to head back to the hotel and guard the bed. Y'know... just in case.
The next day was spent sightseeing, eating paella at a neat little off-the-path restaurant, and checking out the Plaza Mayor and the Cathedral. Very, very cool. We headed up the street, passing the Teatro Real and making our way through the boulevards to the Gran Via again. We left the day after and arrived in Barcelona.
Sadly, the hotel in Barcelona has been... well... why mince words? The place is a hole. The HCC Regente is dingy: bleach stains on the carpet, cracked wallpaper, base boards cracked along the floor. In Elvia and teresa's room, I found a blood splatter on their closet. Yeah... Pretty shitty. This might actually be the worst place we've stayed in (sorry, Charles :P). Luckily, we are only here for two nights.
We spent the day exploring Barcelona today, cruising the crowded La Rambla and it's plethora of street performers and artists, stopping off at the end of the street to hit the MareMagnum shopping mall. Then I split off and went exploring. I found the Cathedral de Barcelona and had a peek inside at all the frescoes and the Gothic architecture. Then I also stumbled, quite accidentally, across a collection of Salvador Dali museum which was amazing! What a lucky find. Holy crap, that was cool. We have been eating tapas like it's going out of style. So much good food here!
I know that this blog hasn't been the same since I stopped posting photos on here but the process of uploading onto this site takes for. ev. er. So, please, come and check out all the photos fit to print on my facebook page. Not all of them are there but I try to update it when I have the time. Send me a friend request if you need access. I'm an addict to the book of faces, so I check regularly.
We leave for Paris tomorrow. I am both excited for the sheer fact that we are going to Paris and that this next flight will be the last flight I have to take until the flight home. We take the Chunnel from Paris to London then rent a car for the remainder of our trip to explore the UK on our way to Glasgow. Apparently there's been some volcano chaos in Iceland where we're supposed to grab our flight home so... that'll be interesting.
I'm ready to be home. Don't get me wrong: this experience has been of the utmost spectacularness and I don't regret it for a nanosecond. But I'm tired of travel. It'll be a while before I get on a plane again after this is all over, that's for sure. Every time I look at my backpack before I have to pack it up again, I groan. This life is taxing. It's great. It's exciting. It's something everyone should do. It's also time for it to be over. I miss my dog and my neighborhood. I miss my kick ass job and all my kick ass friends.
I have been remiss to you, dearest friends: I promise we will be spending more time together when I get back. Lupe and I have been planning for our lives together when we return and it's exciting to have options again. School really put a cramp on our lives. Saying that is putting it lightly. I gave up all things so she could pursue her goals. I didn't realize how much that meant taking myself away from all of you. And she is looking forward to the freedom to do the same after three long years away from anything in her life that gave her joy. We have been talking about our life together when we get back and it makes us want to come back right now and get it started. I can't wait.
Soon enough, I suppose.
-d@n
Friday, March 19, 2010
Some thoughts on Italy
Italy was very kind to us.
When I used to talk to people who had gone to Italy, I used to get overcome with curiosity as their eyes glazed over with fond nostalgia, their breaths deepened, and yet were still unable to put words to feeling when I asked them what it was like. I understand that now. Italy is... well, there are just no words to describe it. But, that would make for a pretty pointless blog if I left it at that so... here's the best I can do.
Italy is different. And yet, Italy is very much like the stereotypes that cross your mind when you think about Italy. It is a romantic country: from the misty back alley that opens to a small cafe off the beaten path in Venice to the overflowing cobblestone streets of the metropolis' of Milan to the college town feel of Florence where the party goes all night. It's a place that is used to travelers from all over the world: representatives from Japan, the UK, Spain, both Americas, Canada, Israel, and Germany can be found everywhere, all with their camcorders and their cameras and that same amazed look in their eyes.
In particular: it is impossible not to be a tourist in Rome. Every step taken is one underneath or across or within camera focus of an archeological discovery. In our last days in Rome, we crammed every second with the Pantheon, the Sistine Chapel, the Musei Vaticani, St. Peter's Basilica and the Square, the Fontina di Trevi, the Piazza Navona, the back alley churches, and too many randomly stumbled upon sights to name. There's stuff everywhere. Half the time, you don't even realize you're standing right next to it until you look up. The streets are crammed with vacationers, students, class trips, and lovers of all ages. The shopping is insane and the food is fantastic everywhere you go. No one could ever go hungry in Rome as long as they have a few euro in their pockets.
Italy is a place with people who are infused in a sense of self-importance. It's not that they're pretentious (far from it). It's just that they are blatant in their opinion, fiercely haughty, and unafraid to simply be who they are. Women will walk by other women and flat out stop in their tracks to check out the passing person's shoes with a critical eye. Men check out women like each is a trained beauty contest judge. Wine isn't just something to drink with dinner, it's a part of life. (An Italian friend we made was floored at the U.S. attitude towards drinking alcohol. When we told him that the drinking age was 21 in the States and that all alcohol consumption was illegal to those under the legal age, he baffled, "What? Not even wine? That's absurd!") Food is an event that last all night. The Italian culture is rich and beautiful and, although I am not the first person to ever use those words to describe it, this is something that is uniquely theirs. They are graciously kind and patient with foreigners (at least that was my experience). They also drive like they mean it. No kidding.
We left Rome this morning and I already miss it more than I've missed anywhere else we've traveled to on this trip. Lupe and I were both wondering if this means we've peaked. We flew to Madrid, Spain today and, although we haven't experienced much of it, it seems like a pretty cool place. I want to give it a chance, I really do. I know this city is full of life and culture and experiences yet to be had.
Still...
Italy was the best place I've been to so far. This is not an exaggeration. This is not just a fanciful gush. This is me, falling in love with a place so much I actually consider how I can get back there as soon as possible at least once a day. We've been to Venice, Milan, Florence, and finally Rome. It wasn't enough. It wasn't even a fraction of what this country has to offer. We were lucky to give up many conveniences and live like a local for much of this portion of this trip, shopping at the grocery, buying meats and cheeses from the deli, grabbing a slice of pizza at the snack bar. Choosing which bottle of wine we wanted to drink that night over soup. It was great to really get some on me. I think it stuck. I can't wait to go back there.
We are in the Hotel Atlantico in Madrid right now. It's a pretty great hotel. We are on the top floor, overlooking the trendy Gran Via, the major shopping center of Madrid. The view is something else. Speaking of which, the girls here as just as beautiful as the ones in Italy and more varied in color (which is surprising to realize when it hits you that you haven't seen more than a handful of black people in almost two months) but not nearly as stylish. As far as fashion goes? Italy wins hands down. (Australia comes in a close second. Way to go, Aussies! :) )
Lupe's mom and sister are coming to meet us tomorrow and we are both very excited to see familiar faces. It's hard to remember what it's like to know anybody else except for each other any more. We were lucky to have met a man named Lior who was our guide in Florence. I'll tell you more about him later, if I can remember. Other than him, it's just been me and Lupe in a hotel room together for 3 months now. And, while being with each other was hard thing to adjust to at first (considering for the last three years we only saw each other in between class projects), I have Italy to thank for rekindling the romance in my relationship. We are happy and ready to come home now. Just a few more weeks left to go.
See you soon.
-d@n
When I used to talk to people who had gone to Italy, I used to get overcome with curiosity as their eyes glazed over with fond nostalgia, their breaths deepened, and yet were still unable to put words to feeling when I asked them what it was like. I understand that now. Italy is... well, there are just no words to describe it. But, that would make for a pretty pointless blog if I left it at that so... here's the best I can do.
Italy is different. And yet, Italy is very much like the stereotypes that cross your mind when you think about Italy. It is a romantic country: from the misty back alley that opens to a small cafe off the beaten path in Venice to the overflowing cobblestone streets of the metropolis' of Milan to the college town feel of Florence where the party goes all night. It's a place that is used to travelers from all over the world: representatives from Japan, the UK, Spain, both Americas, Canada, Israel, and Germany can be found everywhere, all with their camcorders and their cameras and that same amazed look in their eyes.
In particular: it is impossible not to be a tourist in Rome. Every step taken is one underneath or across or within camera focus of an archeological discovery. In our last days in Rome, we crammed every second with the Pantheon, the Sistine Chapel, the Musei Vaticani, St. Peter's Basilica and the Square, the Fontina di Trevi, the Piazza Navona, the back alley churches, and too many randomly stumbled upon sights to name. There's stuff everywhere. Half the time, you don't even realize you're standing right next to it until you look up. The streets are crammed with vacationers, students, class trips, and lovers of all ages. The shopping is insane and the food is fantastic everywhere you go. No one could ever go hungry in Rome as long as they have a few euro in their pockets.
Italy is a place with people who are infused in a sense of self-importance. It's not that they're pretentious (far from it). It's just that they are blatant in their opinion, fiercely haughty, and unafraid to simply be who they are. Women will walk by other women and flat out stop in their tracks to check out the passing person's shoes with a critical eye. Men check out women like each is a trained beauty contest judge. Wine isn't just something to drink with dinner, it's a part of life. (An Italian friend we made was floored at the U.S. attitude towards drinking alcohol. When we told him that the drinking age was 21 in the States and that all alcohol consumption was illegal to those under the legal age, he baffled, "What? Not even wine? That's absurd!") Food is an event that last all night. The Italian culture is rich and beautiful and, although I am not the first person to ever use those words to describe it, this is something that is uniquely theirs. They are graciously kind and patient with foreigners (at least that was my experience). They also drive like they mean it. No kidding.
We left Rome this morning and I already miss it more than I've missed anywhere else we've traveled to on this trip. Lupe and I were both wondering if this means we've peaked. We flew to Madrid, Spain today and, although we haven't experienced much of it, it seems like a pretty cool place. I want to give it a chance, I really do. I know this city is full of life and culture and experiences yet to be had.
Still...
Italy was the best place I've been to so far. This is not an exaggeration. This is not just a fanciful gush. This is me, falling in love with a place so much I actually consider how I can get back there as soon as possible at least once a day. We've been to Venice, Milan, Florence, and finally Rome. It wasn't enough. It wasn't even a fraction of what this country has to offer. We were lucky to give up many conveniences and live like a local for much of this portion of this trip, shopping at the grocery, buying meats and cheeses from the deli, grabbing a slice of pizza at the snack bar. Choosing which bottle of wine we wanted to drink that night over soup. It was great to really get some on me. I think it stuck. I can't wait to go back there.
We are in the Hotel Atlantico in Madrid right now. It's a pretty great hotel. We are on the top floor, overlooking the trendy Gran Via, the major shopping center of Madrid. The view is something else. Speaking of which, the girls here as just as beautiful as the ones in Italy and more varied in color (which is surprising to realize when it hits you that you haven't seen more than a handful of black people in almost two months) but not nearly as stylish. As far as fashion goes? Italy wins hands down. (Australia comes in a close second. Way to go, Aussies! :) )
Lupe's mom and sister are coming to meet us tomorrow and we are both very excited to see familiar faces. It's hard to remember what it's like to know anybody else except for each other any more. We were lucky to have met a man named Lior who was our guide in Florence. I'll tell you more about him later, if I can remember. Other than him, it's just been me and Lupe in a hotel room together for 3 months now. And, while being with each other was hard thing to adjust to at first (considering for the last three years we only saw each other in between class projects), I have Italy to thank for rekindling the romance in my relationship. We are happy and ready to come home now. Just a few more weeks left to go.
See you soon.
-d@n
Sunday, March 14, 2010
It wasn't built in a day, I can tell you that much.
As for the last time I blogged, it should ease your very worried mind that all things worked out in the end. The hotel relocated us to a room around the other side of the building, away from the construction and the loud old lady across the hall. The room we have now is larger than the last and at the end of the hall, away from the rest of the rooms. So, hooray for complaining to the hotel staff!
We spent a few days lounging around, to tell the truth. Rome is a big city with a lot to see and we have a very long time here so we thought we'd skip the immediate rush into the city to see what it's all about. Yesterday we finally did some wandering. And what to our wandering eyes should appear? Oh, just the Colosseum sittin' there at the end of the road. Yeah. Kinda breathtaking.
We also took in one of those attractions where the seats move all around while you watch stuff on the screen. You know the kind. This one was called "The Time Elevator" which neither went up or down through time but did sort of jostled around while bad actors read bad lines and we attempted to learn stuff. Lupe and I try to take in these rides as much as possible, having been on the one in OMSI a ton of times. But this time, Lupe got a little motion sick and so it was a hard one to bear through. To tell the truth, it was kinda the suck. And not in that kitchy way where it's kinda cool by sucking. And if you can't find childhood joy at cheesy motion rides then they're doing it wrong. After it was over, we got some waters in front of the Victor Emmanuel Memorial and caught our breath. It was from there we saw old Rome and the Colosseum beckoning us.
There is so much history represented on the streets of Rome. But it is also a major modern metropolis. So what happens is a strange combination of the old and the new; of the ancient and the present. Next to ruins of columns and ancient brickwork sits a Starbucks. Scaffolding hides structures under renovation which have stood for 2000 years. Unlike the majority of Italy I've seen, Rome doesn't suffer from the graffiti that plagues most of the European world. But there are a lot of police everywhere you go. So, yeah.
Last night, after seeing downtown Rome, we ate dinner at a small restaurant called "La Lampada" and had a nice bottle of white wine to go with it. Gnocci in a gorgonzola cream sauce for me and an insalata mista and minestrone for the wife. Wonderful atmosphere and friendly staff. Apple pie and tiramisu for dessert.
We made our way back to the hotel and decided to get a drink at the bar downstairs where we met a lovely couple of people: two east Germans (well, just "Germans" sans direction now... but you get the idea), a Scot, and a Brit. The Scot, Aiden, is a flight crew member for British Airways on vacation with his friend Bea (the Brit) for a few days here in Rome for the hell of it. We've met a few Brits down in Rome for the weekend. It's a strange feeling to know that the European world is so much smaller than all the space we have in the States. We had a wonderful time comparing notes on politics, health care, Doctor Who, and the Brit's uncanny ability to queue like pros over one too many drinks. They were quite lovely. We agreed to meet up for breakfast and a visit to the Vatican for Sunday Mass to see the Pope the next morning but the last Cosmopolitan of the night completely did us in. So, when we finally crawled out of bed at 1 pm or so, we were in no shape to see anyone. Turns out Bea and Aiden did make it out to the Vatican that day and got a wave from the Pope from his Pope-mobile by pure happenstance of location. Jealous.
For our hangover, I did the most touristy thing I could think of and took us to the Hard Rock Cafe where we watched music videos and ate greasy American food to our hearts' content. I did not realize just how much I had missed nachos and burgers. Yum. I even got myself a t-shirt. Yes, I'm that kind of sucker. Worth it in every way.
Tomorrow we hit Vatican City and some chapel that some Italian painter painted once a long, long time ago. Should be neat. I've posted some new photos on facebook from Florence and Milan. I'm working on the pictures from today's Rome excursion but uploading is taking forever. I'll have them soon. Thanks for your patience.
Talk soon. Sleep now.
-d@n
We spent a few days lounging around, to tell the truth. Rome is a big city with a lot to see and we have a very long time here so we thought we'd skip the immediate rush into the city to see what it's all about. Yesterday we finally did some wandering. And what to our wandering eyes should appear? Oh, just the Colosseum sittin' there at the end of the road. Yeah. Kinda breathtaking.
We also took in one of those attractions where the seats move all around while you watch stuff on the screen. You know the kind. This one was called "The Time Elevator" which neither went up or down through time but did sort of jostled around while bad actors read bad lines and we attempted to learn stuff. Lupe and I try to take in these rides as much as possible, having been on the one in OMSI a ton of times. But this time, Lupe got a little motion sick and so it was a hard one to bear through. To tell the truth, it was kinda the suck. And not in that kitchy way where it's kinda cool by sucking. And if you can't find childhood joy at cheesy motion rides then they're doing it wrong. After it was over, we got some waters in front of the Victor Emmanuel Memorial and caught our breath. It was from there we saw old Rome and the Colosseum beckoning us.
There is so much history represented on the streets of Rome. But it is also a major modern metropolis. So what happens is a strange combination of the old and the new; of the ancient and the present. Next to ruins of columns and ancient brickwork sits a Starbucks. Scaffolding hides structures under renovation which have stood for 2000 years. Unlike the majority of Italy I've seen, Rome doesn't suffer from the graffiti that plagues most of the European world. But there are a lot of police everywhere you go. So, yeah.
Last night, after seeing downtown Rome, we ate dinner at a small restaurant called "La Lampada" and had a nice bottle of white wine to go with it. Gnocci in a gorgonzola cream sauce for me and an insalata mista and minestrone for the wife. Wonderful atmosphere and friendly staff. Apple pie and tiramisu for dessert.
We made our way back to the hotel and decided to get a drink at the bar downstairs where we met a lovely couple of people: two east Germans (well, just "Germans" sans direction now... but you get the idea), a Scot, and a Brit. The Scot, Aiden, is a flight crew member for British Airways on vacation with his friend Bea (the Brit) for a few days here in Rome for the hell of it. We've met a few Brits down in Rome for the weekend. It's a strange feeling to know that the European world is so much smaller than all the space we have in the States. We had a wonderful time comparing notes on politics, health care, Doctor Who, and the Brit's uncanny ability to queue like pros over one too many drinks. They were quite lovely. We agreed to meet up for breakfast and a visit to the Vatican for Sunday Mass to see the Pope the next morning but the last Cosmopolitan of the night completely did us in. So, when we finally crawled out of bed at 1 pm or so, we were in no shape to see anyone. Turns out Bea and Aiden did make it out to the Vatican that day and got a wave from the Pope from his Pope-mobile by pure happenstance of location. Jealous.
For our hangover, I did the most touristy thing I could think of and took us to the Hard Rock Cafe where we watched music videos and ate greasy American food to our hearts' content. I did not realize just how much I had missed nachos and burgers. Yum. I even got myself a t-shirt. Yes, I'm that kind of sucker. Worth it in every way.
Tomorrow we hit Vatican City and some chapel that some Italian painter painted once a long, long time ago. Should be neat. I've posted some new photos on facebook from Florence and Milan. I'm working on the pictures from today's Rome excursion but uploading is taking forever. I'll have them soon. Thanks for your patience.
Talk soon. Sleep now.
-d@n
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Rude Awakening
We are staying in a 4 star hotel called "The Hotel Oxford". We arrived yesterday during a heavy rainfall which was uncharacteristic for the week, considering it was 18 C degrees and sunny the day before. We were happy for the cozy room with its hardwood floors and its firm yet comfortable bed. Like most European hotels we've frequented on this trip, the room itself is relatively small, its bathroom even smaller.
We had been spoiled in Florence at the J & J Historic House: a spacious room that stretched out into a space similar to the living room in my last apartment but, y'know... with a bed in it. The room was warm, low lit, and a general joy to stay in. The service was staffed with what seemed to be one house boy and a few front desk men and very little else. Lupe and I, weary of travel and seeing things, gave our last two days there over to the contentment of sitting on the bed and watching movies on the one English speaking movie channel in existence. It was grand.
Lupe and I have rediscovered our common love of movies in the last few days. While she was in school, we never really had the time nor inclination to go and see movies at the theater let alone the time allotted for us to watch movies in the comfort of our own home. With her overly hectic schedule, taking two hours to slow her pace down enough to sit through even the shortest of films was just not happening. We watched a lot of episodic television because a) it was episodic and b) it was at least something. During these last three years I had somehow mistaken her inability to watch movies as an unwillingness to do so. As a film kinda guy, I actually thought this sucked quite a lot. But, as it so turns out, she never stopped wanting to watch movies with me, she just couldn't. There are many things she is rediscovering for herself now that the ominous oppression of education is finally at an end.
So we wanted to watch movies again. We decided that since we have so long a stay in Rome (10 days!), we would spend the first two continuing our habit of trying to reestablish a sense of normalcy in our lives by foregoing the usual touristy sightseeing and stay up late watching movies. The special offer here at the Hotel Oxford is 12 euro for 24 unlimited access to all the movies, internet, and programs you can muster, mister. Since single movies cost 7 euro a piece, we figured, "Here's a chance to make some of our money back, baby!" We plugged in and vegged out.
The first night, we designated "bad movie" night. Appropriate, sadly, considering we found out that Corey Haim had died of an overdose at the age of 38 later that evening. G.I. Joe, Transformers 2, and X-men Origins: Wolverine.
Dan's Quick Capsule Review:
- G.I. Joe was very bad but was, at least, consistent in its awfulness. It was very C-list, but almost with a sort of Corman-esque flair to it.
- Transformers 2 was god awful. I will dare to say it: it was actually worse than G.I. Joe. A 2 and a half hour testosterone-fueled masturbation fest by Michael Bay. Words cannot describe how fucking god awful this movie was.
- Wolverine was actually a lot better than I had been told. If I knew nothing about the character or the story of Weapon X, I would find this movie pretty fun to watch. I think that most people who didn't like it were mainly upset because their fanboy crush on Deadpool was sorely misrepresented. But still, as far as a movie about mutant killing machines goes, I actually quite liked it. Not a great movie, not horrible. But fun. And cohesive. Which is more than I can say about Transformers 2. Did I mention that movie was a total piece of shite? It was, it was.
Now, you may be asking yourself, "What the heck is this guy who is on this amazing world trip, staying in Rome, ancient capitol of the world, doing watching movies and blogging about them rather than blogging about all the cool shit he should be seeing right now instead?"
Well, Dear Reader... the point of all this was that, like we do, we stayed up wayyyyyyy too late that first night. 4 am or so. It was great. We figured we'd sleep in, catch another full day of movies after we hit the supermarket for some groceries, and call it good. At 9 am, the construction in the condominium above our room began in earnest. A good solid two hours of intense hammering and metal sawing. Then our neighbors across the hall decided it would be best to air their grievances with each other in the hallway right in front of our door in loud, biting, rapid fire Italian at the top of their lungs. It was like a convention was going on right outside our door. I finally yelled out for them to stop and they got a little quieter... but not by much. By this time, we were awake and decided to get out and get groceries. When we returned, it was more of the same until it finally tapered off sometime around 7 pm or so. It was brutal but we figured, "Hey, that's life, right?" Wrong.
So we spent the night watching more movies. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (totally pointless movie unless you are a big enough geek that you want to see if the movie really does follow the books faithfully... in which case you really need to get a life), I Love You Beth Cooper (Chris Colombus is no John Hughes), 500 Days of Summer (a brilliant film if for nothing but the intro alone. Amazing), and Julie and Julia (again. Yeah, that makes it twice now).
Again, a long night that we capped off by talking in the dark together for at least another hour afterward. 5 am? Sure, why not.
This morning, I awoke to the sound of heavy drilling. Like the sound metal slugs make as they grind their way into concrete, slow and pulsating. They teased me our of sleep at first: short bursts of trepidatious drilling followed by loooooong, heavy, muscle laden attempts to drill that fucker home. Palin and McCain would've been proud. Then the neighbor starts up again with her daughter. I furiously get ready, slam open my door, barrel past the feuding neighbors who are, in fact, RIGHT in front of my door when I open it, and go downstairs to find out what the fuck is going on. Turns out, there's nothing the hotel can do. They offer to move us. I say yes, dear god, yes. They tell me to go upstairs, wake my slumbering wife (who can sleep through a nuclear bomb detonation), and pack all my shit up. I do just that. Then they tell me it will be another hour before the room is ready. So glad I woke my wife up for the packing then. So glad. Yay!
They just knocked at the door to see if we're ready to go. So, here I am... getting ready to go.
The room is prepaid, so leaving isn't really an option. Here's hoping the other room is at least a little bit quieter since it won't be, y'know... right underneath the construction or across the hall from loud Italian lady and her arguing family. Crossing my fingers but not counting on anything. this is the first experience I have ever had of this kind. I hope to God it is my very fucking last.
2 days down. 8 to go. Hooray Rome.
-d@n
We had been spoiled in Florence at the J & J Historic House: a spacious room that stretched out into a space similar to the living room in my last apartment but, y'know... with a bed in it. The room was warm, low lit, and a general joy to stay in. The service was staffed with what seemed to be one house boy and a few front desk men and very little else. Lupe and I, weary of travel and seeing things, gave our last two days there over to the contentment of sitting on the bed and watching movies on the one English speaking movie channel in existence. It was grand.
Lupe and I have rediscovered our common love of movies in the last few days. While she was in school, we never really had the time nor inclination to go and see movies at the theater let alone the time allotted for us to watch movies in the comfort of our own home. With her overly hectic schedule, taking two hours to slow her pace down enough to sit through even the shortest of films was just not happening. We watched a lot of episodic television because a) it was episodic and b) it was at least something. During these last three years I had somehow mistaken her inability to watch movies as an unwillingness to do so. As a film kinda guy, I actually thought this sucked quite a lot. But, as it so turns out, she never stopped wanting to watch movies with me, she just couldn't. There are many things she is rediscovering for herself now that the ominous oppression of education is finally at an end.
So we wanted to watch movies again. We decided that since we have so long a stay in Rome (10 days!), we would spend the first two continuing our habit of trying to reestablish a sense of normalcy in our lives by foregoing the usual touristy sightseeing and stay up late watching movies. The special offer here at the Hotel Oxford is 12 euro for 24 unlimited access to all the movies, internet, and programs you can muster, mister. Since single movies cost 7 euro a piece, we figured, "Here's a chance to make some of our money back, baby!" We plugged in and vegged out.
The first night, we designated "bad movie" night. Appropriate, sadly, considering we found out that Corey Haim had died of an overdose at the age of 38 later that evening. G.I. Joe, Transformers 2, and X-men Origins: Wolverine.
Dan's Quick Capsule Review:
- G.I. Joe was very bad but was, at least, consistent in its awfulness. It was very C-list, but almost with a sort of Corman-esque flair to it.
- Transformers 2 was god awful. I will dare to say it: it was actually worse than G.I. Joe. A 2 and a half hour testosterone-fueled masturbation fest by Michael Bay. Words cannot describe how fucking god awful this movie was.
- Wolverine was actually a lot better than I had been told. If I knew nothing about the character or the story of Weapon X, I would find this movie pretty fun to watch. I think that most people who didn't like it were mainly upset because their fanboy crush on Deadpool was sorely misrepresented. But still, as far as a movie about mutant killing machines goes, I actually quite liked it. Not a great movie, not horrible. But fun. And cohesive. Which is more than I can say about Transformers 2. Did I mention that movie was a total piece of shite? It was, it was.
Now, you may be asking yourself, "What the heck is this guy who is on this amazing world trip, staying in Rome, ancient capitol of the world, doing watching movies and blogging about them rather than blogging about all the cool shit he should be seeing right now instead?"
Well, Dear Reader... the point of all this was that, like we do, we stayed up wayyyyyyy too late that first night. 4 am or so. It was great. We figured we'd sleep in, catch another full day of movies after we hit the supermarket for some groceries, and call it good. At 9 am, the construction in the condominium above our room began in earnest. A good solid two hours of intense hammering and metal sawing. Then our neighbors across the hall decided it would be best to air their grievances with each other in the hallway right in front of our door in loud, biting, rapid fire Italian at the top of their lungs. It was like a convention was going on right outside our door. I finally yelled out for them to stop and they got a little quieter... but not by much. By this time, we were awake and decided to get out and get groceries. When we returned, it was more of the same until it finally tapered off sometime around 7 pm or so. It was brutal but we figured, "Hey, that's life, right?" Wrong.
So we spent the night watching more movies. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (totally pointless movie unless you are a big enough geek that you want to see if the movie really does follow the books faithfully... in which case you really need to get a life), I Love You Beth Cooper (Chris Colombus is no John Hughes), 500 Days of Summer (a brilliant film if for nothing but the intro alone. Amazing), and Julie and Julia (again. Yeah, that makes it twice now).
Again, a long night that we capped off by talking in the dark together for at least another hour afterward. 5 am? Sure, why not.
This morning, I awoke to the sound of heavy drilling. Like the sound metal slugs make as they grind their way into concrete, slow and pulsating. They teased me our of sleep at first: short bursts of trepidatious drilling followed by loooooong, heavy, muscle laden attempts to drill that fucker home. Palin and McCain would've been proud. Then the neighbor starts up again with her daughter. I furiously get ready, slam open my door, barrel past the feuding neighbors who are, in fact, RIGHT in front of my door when I open it, and go downstairs to find out what the fuck is going on. Turns out, there's nothing the hotel can do. They offer to move us. I say yes, dear god, yes. They tell me to go upstairs, wake my slumbering wife (who can sleep through a nuclear bomb detonation), and pack all my shit up. I do just that. Then they tell me it will be another hour before the room is ready. So glad I woke my wife up for the packing then. So glad. Yay!
They just knocked at the door to see if we're ready to go. So, here I am... getting ready to go.
The room is prepaid, so leaving isn't really an option. Here's hoping the other room is at least a little bit quieter since it won't be, y'know... right underneath the construction or across the hall from loud Italian lady and her arguing family. Crossing my fingers but not counting on anything. this is the first experience I have ever had of this kind. I hope to God it is my very fucking last.
2 days down. 8 to go. Hooray Rome.
-d@n
Monday, March 8, 2010
Leaving Florence
I don't know how much time I have since my computer is about to die so, I'll try and make this quick.
I dream in Italian. I wake up and it feels like it's just another cold day at home. I think, "I'll wake up Lupe and we'll go get some breakfast at Jam and then maybe hit the comic store" before I realize that those place are thousands of miles away from here. Is it just because I'm homesick that this happens? Maybe it's the fact that there are enough Americans here in Florence that it's easy to get confused. Or is it because, deep down, I'm feeling more at home than ever?
That last one scares me a little.
I have such great friends at home who are just as excited to see me return as I am to see them when I get back. I have a job that kinda kicks ass and a willingness to see what sort of future awaits me now that my wife is no longer burdened with school. Heck, I might even go back for myself. I don't want to give those things up.
But Italy is...
Well, Italy is not home. It lacks the frustrations that come with being in a country whose head is so far up its own ass it can't see a war it's been in for almost 10 years now. It didn't blink when that war went from one enemy to another without so much as a sigh. It refuses to teach its young or venerate its old. It continues to believe that it is the most important thing in the room. It suffers from the "disease" of obesity yet can't feed the homeless. And still, despite all evidence to the contrary, it believes itself better than everyone else.
Oh, I know... Italy isn't perfect. It, like the whole world, has its fair share of problems and social injustices and poverty and imperfections. I am not naive enough to believe otherwise. And I'm not saying I want to be here more than I want to be home because, dammit, I miss Jam breakfast more than anything right now. But, things don't look so hot from where I'm sitting. If nothing else, we could be doing so much more than we are now. Then again, the only interaction I have with the outside world is through the internets: a place that remains a constant black hole of intelligence and morality. So maybe my judgment isn't the most rationally objective.
(p.s., Arguing on facebook is for lame-os. Do yourself a favor and stop feeding the trolls. Just sayin'.)
I do know this: Italy has been wonderful so far. In my mind, I'm already trying to figure out a way to get back here as soon as possible. Already, I'm wondering if I can take "Italian" for my '2 years of foreign language requirement' at school. Already, I'm deciding out of those same previously aforementioned friends which ones I want to bring over here to visit (psst! Don't worry... you are definitely in the running).
We leave Florence tomorrow to train it to Rome where I am going to have a heart attack at all the sites we want to see. I have already had a taste with Michelangelo's "David" and such amazing paintings as "The Birth of Venus" and the "Primavera". Those are experiences that no book or picture can prepare you for and that my meager words cannot, no matter how hard I try, describe. There comes a point when art transcends words. Seeing the works of masters such as I have seen is beyond verbosity.
I must be on my way. I still have to pack. March will go quicker than I imagine and April is quickly approaching as well. Soon, Portland will be on the horizon and friends long since seen will be embraced once more. And god damn if I won't get that Jam breakfast the first thing when I get back to Southeast Hawthorne and 22nd.
Ciao!
-d@n
I dream in Italian. I wake up and it feels like it's just another cold day at home. I think, "I'll wake up Lupe and we'll go get some breakfast at Jam and then maybe hit the comic store" before I realize that those place are thousands of miles away from here. Is it just because I'm homesick that this happens? Maybe it's the fact that there are enough Americans here in Florence that it's easy to get confused. Or is it because, deep down, I'm feeling more at home than ever?
That last one scares me a little.
I have such great friends at home who are just as excited to see me return as I am to see them when I get back. I have a job that kinda kicks ass and a willingness to see what sort of future awaits me now that my wife is no longer burdened with school. Heck, I might even go back for myself. I don't want to give those things up.
But Italy is...
Well, Italy is not home. It lacks the frustrations that come with being in a country whose head is so far up its own ass it can't see a war it's been in for almost 10 years now. It didn't blink when that war went from one enemy to another without so much as a sigh. It refuses to teach its young or venerate its old. It continues to believe that it is the most important thing in the room. It suffers from the "disease" of obesity yet can't feed the homeless. And still, despite all evidence to the contrary, it believes itself better than everyone else.
Oh, I know... Italy isn't perfect. It, like the whole world, has its fair share of problems and social injustices and poverty and imperfections. I am not naive enough to believe otherwise. And I'm not saying I want to be here more than I want to be home because, dammit, I miss Jam breakfast more than anything right now. But, things don't look so hot from where I'm sitting. If nothing else, we could be doing so much more than we are now. Then again, the only interaction I have with the outside world is through the internets: a place that remains a constant black hole of intelligence and morality. So maybe my judgment isn't the most rationally objective.
(p.s., Arguing on facebook is for lame-os. Do yourself a favor and stop feeding the trolls. Just sayin'.)
I do know this: Italy has been wonderful so far. In my mind, I'm already trying to figure out a way to get back here as soon as possible. Already, I'm wondering if I can take "Italian" for my '2 years of foreign language requirement' at school. Already, I'm deciding out of those same previously aforementioned friends which ones I want to bring over here to visit (psst! Don't worry... you are definitely in the running).
We leave Florence tomorrow to train it to Rome where I am going to have a heart attack at all the sites we want to see. I have already had a taste with Michelangelo's "David" and such amazing paintings as "The Birth of Venus" and the "Primavera". Those are experiences that no book or picture can prepare you for and that my meager words cannot, no matter how hard I try, describe. There comes a point when art transcends words. Seeing the works of masters such as I have seen is beyond verbosity.
I must be on my way. I still have to pack. March will go quicker than I imagine and April is quickly approaching as well. Soon, Portland will be on the horizon and friends long since seen will be embraced once more. And god damn if I won't get that Jam breakfast the first thing when I get back to Southeast Hawthorne and 22nd.
Ciao!
-d@n
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Florence
We got into Florence yesterday afternoon and were pretty wiped so we napped out. At about 8:45 or so, we decided to get some food and walked down the street from our hotel at the J & J Historic House (a full-on room for us to spread out in, located an easy 7 minute walk to the Duomo). We ate some amazing food at a swank restaurant on the corner who had pictures outside of various celebrities who had frequented there over the years. I think the conversation went something along the lines of "If George Lucas can eat here and stand to make that awkward face he makes when he's getting his picture taken, then, by golly! SO CAN I!"
The food was incredible. I'll try and find out the name of the place, but it was wonderful. The best damn minestrone I have ever eaten. No joke.
BUT! As we were sitting there waiting for our pastas, four girls walked in looking oh so lame. They sat and began talking English. East coast Jersey guidettes, if I'm not mistaken. They begin talking about The. Most. Asinine. Shit. Ever. And taking it soooooo seriously, Lupe and I couldn't even laugh at them.
Example:
... ahem...
Lady 1: (dead serious) "She had the most perfect eyebrows I've ever seen"
Lady 2: "I'm wondering if I should wear a skirt or go with, like, more of a casual business look?"
Lady 1: "Well, it is an interview in, like, fashion, so... they're going to be looking at your choices pretty seriously. They already know what they're looking for, so, just, like... be yourself but, y'know... fashionable."
Lady 2: "Well, I did wear the skirt the other day and I walked by this group of guys who really looked at me, y'know. And they were, like, business guys, not just, like, boys so... I mean, they really looked so..."
Lady 3: "Well maybe you should go with that then. But are you wearing that hat?"
Lady 2: "No, of course not. Unless... do you think I can wear this hat to the interview?"
Lady 1: "Absolutely not. You can't be that casual at an interview. You want them to take you seriously, right?"
Lady 4: (to the waiter) "Do you have a something like the pasta with Gorgonzola and pistachios but without the pistachios? Or maybe not penne? I only eat white pasta."
Continue for an hour or so.
Now, I don't mean to be judgmental...
Okay, that's a lie (as you all well know)....
But these ladies were something else. And then, as if that wasn't enough, another group of vapid people came in and at in the restaurant, also loud and empty and ridiculously embarrassing and, lo and behold, American.
We think to ourselves, "Is there a convention going on or something?"
We eat our wonderful food and try to ignore the rest of the very serious conversations about absolutely nothing and leave well satisfied to find a neat little corner bar called Eby's Bar where Eby, the old and grizzled burnout, serves a hundred different rum drinks from all over the world! It was amazing! We had this drink that I will absolutely have to show my friends when we get home: some strange concoction of coffee, kahlua, coke, and dark rum, started with a blood orange slice dipped in raw sugar and coffee grounds, slammed, shot, and finished with a slice of banana sprinkled in poppy seeds. Un. Believable.
Lupe and I got our drink on and met two gorgeous Russian girls; one of whom was there studying for a month; the other who worked in the city. The drunker of the two got very cozy with me while complaining in slurred Italian about the stupid, loud Americans who were leaving the bar. I commiserated with her as best I could, considering I couldn't understand a lick of what she was saying and it was obvious to her that I didn't speak any Italian. We laughed. It was grand.
The next morning, Lupe was still recovering from the rum and fruit slices we ordered to end the night and I went in search of some food. I found this great sandwich shop across from Eby's Bar where I stood in line behind a couple of American girls and in front of some American guy who complained the line was taking too long.
All around us, this entire time, I have been surrounded, passed by, and bothered by Americans. I mean, they are fucking everywhere! I keep thinking, "Is it spring break? There can't be these many people on vacation. What. The. Fuck?!" I ask Joe American "Hey, I noticed there are a ton of Americans everywhere I go here. What's up with that?" He tells me that Florence is an exchange student town: that a lot of kids learning Italian or studying abroad come to Florence.
Ohhhhhh! So that's why there are so many young, loud American youth wandering the streets and yelling in their ugly, slurred, rude, obnoxious way! I get it now!
Florence is an amazing city. Already, just casually wandering around, I have seen some amazing architecture and art, some wonderful shops, and eaten some great food. But there are Americans here. Lots of them. There have been more Americans here than anywhere else we have traveled to. And the experience has not been the most pleasant. They are, indeed, loud. They are, indeed, stupid. They are, indeed, a pain to be associated with. By sheer guilt of language, I am lumped in with them and it would be truly hard to bear... if I gave a shit about them. I want to apologize to every single local I meet. I want to say, "We're not all like that" to every shop owner who has to endure their raucous, poor mannered behavior. Not to mention their drunken excess.
Now before you all go running off to tell Keith Urban and Kenny Chesney to get the keel-haulin' lynch ropes ready, hear me out.
People may read this and think that I am ashamed of my country or, worse, not patriotic enough to stand by my country or my fellow citizens. This is simply not true. I just hate it when stereotypes apply. We should all be greater than our perceived inadequacies, don't you think? Shouldn't we all want to be better than the lowest common cultural denominator? I can't stand anything that perpetuates the disparity between people and there is no reason to act like a jackass on your own soil, let alone somewhere where it's expected of you. I think that America is pretty darn great, which is why it makes me sad when people act like such pieces of shit. Or worse, subscribe to ideals that continue to separate us from each other and from other cultures. I'm not a fan of anything that gets in the way of the 24 hour block party we should all be engaging in and enjoying all the time. Things like racism, discrimination, homophobia, and basic no-good ignorance or ignorant behavior make no fucking sense to me. I think 'rudeness' absolutely applies.
To quote MY guardo comino: "I love America. But not in the 'Archie Bunker marching off to war' sort of way. I love America because Miles Davis comes from here. Jimi Hendrix comes from here. Otis Redding comes from here. Let's face it: James Brown could have never come from London, England. No fucking way".
So yeah. Sorry if I seem a little judgmental in this one. Being surrounded by Americans again has worsened my temper.
Gotta run, the internets are about to shut down for the night. More later.
-d@n
The food was incredible. I'll try and find out the name of the place, but it was wonderful. The best damn minestrone I have ever eaten. No joke.
BUT! As we were sitting there waiting for our pastas, four girls walked in looking oh so lame. They sat and began talking English. East coast Jersey guidettes, if I'm not mistaken. They begin talking about The. Most. Asinine. Shit. Ever. And taking it soooooo seriously, Lupe and I couldn't even laugh at them.
Example:
... ahem...
Lady 1: (dead serious) "She had the most perfect eyebrows I've ever seen"
Lady 1: "Well, it is an interview in, like, fashion, so... they're going to be looking at your choices pretty seriously. They already know what they're looking for, so, just, like... be yourself but, y'know... fashionable."
Lady 2: "Well, I did wear the skirt the other day and I walked by this group of guys who really looked at me, y'know. And they were, like, business guys, not just, like, boys so... I mean, they really looked so..."
Lady 3: "Well maybe you should go with that then. But are you wearing that hat?"
Lady 2: "No, of course not. Unless... do you think I can wear this hat to the interview?"
Lady 1:
Lady 4: (to the waiter) "Do you have a something like the pasta with Gorgonzola and pistachios but without the pistachios? Or maybe not penne? I only eat white pasta."
Continue for an hour or so.
Now, I don't mean to be judgmental...
Okay, that's a lie (as you all well know)....
But these ladies were something else. And then, as if that wasn't enough, another group of vapid people came in and at in the restaurant, also loud and empty and ridiculously embarrassing and, lo and behold, American.
We think to ourselves, "Is there a convention going on or something?"
We eat our wonderful food and try to ignore the rest of the very serious conversations about absolutely nothing and leave well satisfied to find a neat little corner bar called Eby's Bar where Eby, the old and grizzled burnout, serves a hundred different rum drinks from all over the world! It was amazing! We had this drink that I will absolutely have to show my friends when we get home: some strange concoction of coffee, kahlua, coke, and dark rum, started with a blood orange slice dipped in raw sugar and coffee grounds, slammed, shot, and finished with a slice of banana sprinkled in poppy seeds. Un. Believable.
Lupe and I got our drink on and met two gorgeous Russian girls; one of whom was there studying for a month; the other who worked in the city. The drunker of the two got very cozy with me while complaining in slurred Italian about the stupid, loud Americans who were leaving the bar. I commiserated with her as best I could, considering I couldn't understand a lick of what she was saying and it was obvious to her that I didn't speak any Italian. We laughed. It was grand.
The next morning, Lupe was still recovering from the rum and fruit slices we ordered to end the night and I went in search of some food. I found this great sandwich shop across from Eby's Bar where I stood in line behind a couple of American girls and in front of some American guy who complained the line was taking too long.
Ohhhhhh! So that's why there are so many young, loud American youth wandering the streets and yelling in their ugly, slurred, rude, obnoxious way! I get it now!
Florence is an amazing city. Already, just casually wandering around, I have seen some amazing architecture and art, some wonderful shops, and eaten some great food. But there are Americans here. Lots of them. There have been more Americans here than anywhere else we have traveled to. And the experience has not been the most pleasant. They are, indeed, loud. They are, indeed, stupid. They are, indeed, a pain to be associated with. By sheer guilt of language, I am lumped in with them and it would be truly hard to bear... if I gave a shit about them. I want to apologize to every single local I meet. I want to say, "We're not all like that" to every shop owner who has to endure their raucous, poor mannered behavior. Not to mention their drunken excess.
Now before you all go running off to tell Keith Urban and Kenny Chesney to get the keel-haulin' lynch ropes ready, hear me out.
To quote MY guardo comino: "I love America. But not in the 'Archie Bunker marching off to war' sort of way. I love America because Miles Davis comes from here. Jimi Hendrix comes from here. Otis Redding comes from here. Let's face it: James Brown could have never come from London, England. No fucking way".
So yeah. Sorry if I seem a little judgmental in this one. Being surrounded by Americans again has worsened my temper.
Gotta run, the internets are about to shut down for the night. More later.
-d@n
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Well, if you call film theory fun anyway.
2 Author: Daniel Tabayoyon