Thursday, February 23, 2012

I just finished watching the first two episodes of Desperate Housewives, filmed on the backlot of Universal Studios, in Los Angeles, California, where I used to live. The perfectly framed images of the women of Wisteria Lane standing in warm sunshine and cool breezes on their immaculately groomed street, brought me back to the tram tour I took through there, and immediately I was reminded of what was beyond the frame. High above the heads of the Housewives a T-Rex was assaulting sight-seers and nearby Scooby and the gang were taking pictures with dozens of tourists. In front of the ladies, beyond the cameraman, was greater L.A., a sprawling, smog thickened, asphalt-and-concrete blanketed wasteland. The perfection of Wisteria Lane could only be found some thirty miles away, in Pasadena, or a little further south, in San Diego. But the immediate surroundings of what Hollywood magic made into the form of quintessential domestic American aspirations was far from the perfectly manicured lawns on T.V.

I was never eager to go to L.A. I'd spent some time there before and had developed a distaste for the urban sprawl and hovering smog. Flying over Los Angeles I could see the seemingly endless expanse of homes, thousands upon thousands of homes, and thousands, yet again, of cars jamming the surprisingly wide freeways. Everywhere, two-level shopping plazas--but only a small handful of small malls. Everywhere, solid. All concrete, asphalt, glass. Barely a green thing in sight, all is grey or a gut-turning yellowish-beige. And everywhere, everywhere, are houses. Maybe it's having come from the New York City area, where either people are stacked away in apartment complexes or a spread distantly in traditional suburbs, but the sudden, bold awareness of all this...humanity stretched out, teeming, as it were, through the valleys, just overwhelmed me and made me--makes me--somewhat nauseous to think about.

Catherine and I landed and got right into a rental vehicle and hit the road. But that's it. We hit it, and stopped. The infamous L.A. traffic, which I had not had a chance to experience my last few times in town, yet had heard all too much of (yet believed could only be myth) was all too extraordinary. What in New York, even during rush hour, should only take twenty minutes, could easily take upwards of an hour, hour and a half in L.A. Think of the worst, tanker-just-blew-up-on-I-95 traffic you can imagine. Now paste that image and frustration onto every single major road (not just the highways) during nearly every single hour of the day. Traffic could occasionally be standstill at two in the morning. Every time I think longingly back to California, idealizing certain aspects of what life was like back there, I just remember the traffic and it straightens me out. In fact, I might go so far as to say that the traffic had a large part in driving me out of L.A.

We ended up in a hotel in Sylmar, in the North Eastern corner of the county, and just a minute's drive from what might as well have been Mexico. Just beyond our hotel gringos like us could not tell the difference between America and Mexico. Every street sign, every advertisement, every noticia was in Spanish. Every person was Hispanic. We even drove through a fairly nice area, a real "Main Street USA" looking place, only to see that everything was written en Espanol. Very strange.

We quickly set out to find three very important things: a car, a home, and a job. There were a number of Outbacks in the surrounding area, but we narrowed our search down to just three we were interested in. One of them, situated central to most everything and conveniently in a shopping center, had so many employees scrambling for the job that we'd have never gotten the hours we needed. The next one, in a more fashionable part of town was, well, fashionable. The hostess had an earpiece and talked to the manager in the back office like a member of the Secret Service--and she expressed her disdain for us in a truly fashionable way. But, far away, just past Pasadena, in a place called Arcadia, was an Outback which, though distant, was just right for us. The manager was accommodating, and the employees were friendly. We were working just a few days later.

The next thing to be checked off was the car. We knew we wanted a fuel efficient, affordable Toyota, so that meant the Yaris. The whole dealership process doesn't leave much to discuss here, but I'd like to think that Catherine and I held our own pretty well against the sly car salesman...who continues to call to see how we're doing to this very day. We didn't get ripped off, and managed to get what we wanted within our budget. Brand new car, too!

Searching for a home proved more difficult. Many places were already off the market, too far away, had hidden costs, or just didn't look very nice compared to their pictures. We finally found the perfect studio in Van Nuys, along Sepulveda Blvd. The apartment was massive, with a sloped roof, separate kitchen, and a small hallway leading to a desk nook and the full bathroom. Not to mention the two massive closets. And the rent was cheap.

But despite the lithe palm tree towering in just in front of our window, it was still planted in soil surrounded by concrete, and something about that unsettled me.

We had everything set up, and I only ended up working about three shifts at the Outback before I finally found myself on the set of a Hollywood production as a P.A.

But more about all that, later.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

There's little I can say about London that I didn't mention in my very first posts, during my first visit. Yet, this time I did get to see a different face of London, a sub-culture that few may have the pleasure of experiencing.

We jumped a train from Southampton straight to Victoria Station in London, and spent the next few hours being accosted by a severely intoxicated Brit. While unsettling, to say the least, it was a very amusing bit of conversation that played up every boozing Englishman stereotype you can think of. He swilled cheap vodka from a half empty bottle that he brought out of a bag that held an empty forty. He was insistent on me drinking some with him. I tried to refuse, but this guy was...persistent, and outright refusal seemed like it might be seen as an insult, and might lead to some unwelcome belligerence. So I pressed the bottle to my lips, made a few dry swallows, and licked the burning away with my tongue.

At some point he realized that, in filling us in on his challenged life and recent divorce, he had missed his stop and he left us in quite the hurry.

After getting to London Cat and I settled into a hostel and began exploring. It was wonderful to be back, and to be in a place far across the globe that I knew well enough to recommend restaurants and lead Catherine around without a map. It's a level of worldliness that sits as a great achievement in my mind.

Went spent, I think, three days just wandering--I was far too nervous to actually start doing any performance. We spent one day down by the London Eye just watching others and scoping out the scene.

Finally, I dressed up in my absurd garb, pith helmet and all, and stood near the Globe Theatre. My leather pouch, filled with cards and ropes and balloons and coins, hung heavy from my belt as I drew out two brilliant silk scarves. I began in on a carefully scripted, and over-rehearsed set of lines to accompany my manipulations. It was some silly thing about having traveled the world and found all these magnificent tricks. My speech promised those who might stop the great wonders of the world, right before their eyes. I thought it would be amusing, an opportunity for some modern day folk to experience something like a 19th century bit of stand-up theatre, imported across time from the Age of Exploration. A very small handful of people stopped to watch--but just for a moment. My silk work is not my best, and I have little passion for it anyway. My words were loud, bold, and clear, but the tricks themselves were muddled together, pointless, and weakly executed. When a dissolving knot failed to dissolve the paltry audience departed as I struggled to tear the silks apart.

I had dove into that first part of my routine like a swimmer into water. It was the only way to get going--to just freakin' do it. I began thrusting the words out of my throat without thought--the rehearsals would do their work. I began moving my hands without true thought--the practice would take care of it. I kept my eyes unfocused, a hundred yard stare keeping me from seeing any crowd, or lack thereof. But, still, the tension had risen in me, choking me, bloating my veins with adrenaline, and when the knot had failed, and my attentions dissolved instead, I felt defeat unlike any I've ever felt before.

Catherine would later describe it as "watching a puppy being kicked." Apparently, all she wanted to do while I stood there was come over and give me a hug, but she couldn't, since I was still "performing." When I finished, and my meager crowd dispersed, I look over to her, the terror and anxiety welling up in my eyes--she said I'd never looked quite so hurt.

But, as I should have known, doing it once, and failing as miserably as possible, only prepared me to do it again, and better. I had faced, frankly, the greatest humiliation of my brief life, and I was, more or less, unscathed. A big ol' "fuck it" attitude dawned in my head, and I tore the pith helmet off my head and dropped it with Catherine. I walked to a new spot, just a few meters away, with my back to the Globe. And then I went of script.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD AFTERNOON LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!!!" I cried, pushing deep from my belly, channeling no small bit of Robin Williams, and so began my success. Seven minutes later I had ten pounds (almost fifteen dollars) in my hat.

The next day I went to the same spot but was chased off by the bobbies. So, with no other area seemingly good to perform, I went off to the London Eye area, where dozens of performers come daily to peddle their talents (slight as some of those talents may be). Fresh fear soaked my yet again. Here were thousands of people passing by, and the watching eyes of the experienced street performers. And also the danger of treading someone's territory. I bumbled a bit, and didn't perform at all, wandering around and watching show after show, too unnerved to ask for help until I saw one bald, cockney Brit with a fake French accent escape from chains with a smile on his face. I asked him what the hell I should do.

It was that simple. For the next month I had a mentor. This guy gave me tips on how to draw crowds, get tips, and perform better. He showed me who to stay away from, and introduced me to quite a few good guys. In fact, after meeting some more magicians I was invited to perform with them at the main space in front of the museum at Trafalgar Square. They lent me a microphone and amplifier and set me out to do what I could.

About a week later I mustered the courage to perform at Magician's Corner on James Street at Covent Garden. That's where the big boys go. That's where solid talent meets real experience. And, while I may hnot quite live up to that, I threw myself to the wolves and came out of there with a loot quite comparable to that of some of the best guys there.

Catherine and I ended up staying at a hostel in a suburb of London and commuting in to the city every day for a little over a week. She started performing too, spinning plates at the London Eye and along the wings of Trafalgar. By the time we had figured out how to make enough money to live, we were broke and exhausted.

Going out for hours a day and performing is rough business. It's physically taxing and it drains you emotionally--especially a guy like me, who is capable of meeting new people and engaging them, but doesn't enjoy it much. It's constant tension, nerves, and shouting. It's begging, pleading, and joking. It's being quick on your tongue and sharp with your feet...or is it the other way around? Anythign can happen. Frankly, it's a bit scary when a large group of Danish high-schoolers, led by their imposing hyper-alpha male companion encircle you--you don't understand them, and this big guy just keeps grabbing your shit, and egging people on, and every one encircles you tighter, tighter, until you figure something out, like finding the alpha-female, and playing off of her while you humiliate the alpha-male with a really good slight. But that sort of stuff is unplanned, potentially dangerous, and would often leave me begging for a few minutes or hours of respite after such a confrontation. But usually it just drew more crowds. One day I walked away with sixty pounds.

We enjoyed all that London had to offer. Sweltering heat, freezing rain. We enjoyed the open markets and Pizza Express. We explored the Tower of London and Southwark Cathedral. We wandered the Tubes underground and found food in the early hours of a beautiful Sunday morning. That London experience has very few details impressed on my memory the way it has for the first time I was there. This trip, with Catherine is a few flashes of imagery, and the rest is a painting in warm tones, dabbed with sensation like a Manet with a piano playing in the background. I remember the Relentless energy drinks, the closed magic shop, waiting in line for Oyster cards, the British Library with its exhibit of Science Fiction over the centuries. I remember running outside a restaurant to ask a passerby how to tip a waiter in their country. I remember walking across the London Bridge at midnight. I remember turning over in out small bunk at five in the morning, eager, wide-eyed and whispering, "I'm not sleepy." I remember mushroom pate, and the company van we saw periodically which advertised it's radish business. And Ryman's Stationers, and Catherine's awesome drawings on the stationary purchased therein. I remember McDonalds and long, daily walks along the Thames. I remember men with metal detectors, and men making sand sculptures during a big street fair. But these are all like photographs. They lay against, as I said, what feels like a painting, colored in warm tones with a short brush and only the idea of form in mind. These memories feel like summer.

But, soon it was clear that we couldn't support ourselves, monetarily, physically, and emotionally. I wanted to get moving on my screenwriting and on Hollywood, and I didn't have the free time I needed whilst sticking to a fledgling performer's schedule. So Catherine and I booked a flight to Los Angeles, California, via Germany. We were gone in three days.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

I'll say this much: Buffalo has some very nice clouds. Perhaps the nicest clouds I've ever seen--ever.

Yet, as I stare out the window of this Panera, I'm distracted from my cloud-musings. How the hell did I end up here?

I left this blog off a long while ago. I left you all in New York City, preparing a journey. Was it as epic as hoped? No. Was it epic nonetheless, and in some very interesting an unexpected ways? Abso-freaking-lutely.

I remember that I took this laptop out several times while aboard the Queen Mary 2, intending to write, but the volume and intensity of my experiences was somewhat intimidating and overwhelming. So now, with my memories distilled by time and distance, what can I tell you of that great oceanliner?

First, that it is, indeed, and oceanliner, not a cruise ship. This was more or less drilled into us by the onboard historian, who, from the moment we cast off from the dock in Brooklyn, began speaking over the loudspeakers about the grand and elegant history of Cunard ships, and the immensity and importance of the QM2.

At first, the grandeur of the ship itself was eclipsed by my experience of drifting away from the coast itself. I remember staring in awe at the Statue of Liberty, at the imposing Manhattan skyline, at the extraordinarily urbanized shoreline. This was the viewpoint of pilgrims, invaders, and immigrants. This was the experience of the old, of the past. In days long past the only way to "jump the pond" was to watch one continent slowly slip below the horizon as you were fed into the daunting expanse of ocean towards the lands beyond.

But, I've gotten ahead of myself! The gangway and the first steps aboard may be the most impressive of all. Long, winding bridges guide you to the "front-door" of the ship where bright carpets and immaculate bellhops welcome you aboard. Sitting here now I can almost feel the sensation of the ship rocking beneath and with me. White gloves gesture for you to join them and you pass into the main hall, two stories, all glass and shops. As the sound of waves splashing against the dock recedes behind you, the music of a piano, a cello, a harp fill the atrium. Below, on the first floor, which is fed traffic by two sweeping staircases and a glass elevator from the second floor balcony live music will be played almost continuously during the seven day journey. This is no Carnival.

Where there are not shops, advertisements, or art hanging from the wall, there is history, plastered across on informative boards like a floating museum. Even the lowliest stateroom, in which Catherine and I stayed, was akin to the nicest hotel rooms (sans windows) I've been to.

Meals are served just beyond the great hall with the main elevators, past the lounge and a bar, in a restaurant that recalls the Titanic, but greater--and this is third class seating. Two levels of the restaurant are accompanied by spacious arrangement of meticulously attended to tables. In the center of the room and two story mural rises above the hungry to a ceiling spread overhead in wood tones reminiscent of early 20th century grandeur. The food itself is, unsurprisingly, incredible.

Amusement is provided almost around the clock, where alternative restaurants are available, shops are in abundance, movies are playing, games are conducted, bars are settled into innumerable nooks, clubs are popping, the library is stocked, and even the planetarium is sold out.

At midnight, Catherine and I play tennis and shuffleboard on the top deck by moonlight. In the early morning I find a deserted and somewhat hidden outdoor deck and witness the most incredible rainbow I've ever seen. It's a transcendent experience--the rainbow glides along with the Queen Mary, so close that I believe I could touch it if only I leap. It's perfect, with distinguished bands of color curves like you see in children's books. How could some not see this a God's own promise? I rush to wake Catherine, who is most unamused in her sleepiness.

But every voyage ends, eventually, and soon we landed in Southampton, England, ready for the next great event of our lives.

But, how did I get here? I feel like the dad in "How I Met Your Mother." I'll continue next time.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The time is coming.

Soon, I will depart from Brooklyn aboard the Queen Mary 2, heading across the Atlantic to the storied shores of the United Kingdom where I shall commence a new journey in the Old World. This trip, unlike my previous Australian and European tours, will be both more specific and broad, more personal and yet a partnership.

It will be more specific in that I have a small handful of major cities I wish to see; it is more broad in that I wish to live in these cities for a longer period, absorbing their culture and vibe. It is more personal in that it will challenge me to limits of my creativity and gumption; it is a partnership in that I will be travelling alongside Catherine.

And, for once, I travel with a specific purpose in mind. Whereas any great excursion I have ventured upon in the past has been predicated upon a desire for some undefined personality revamping, I now head out with clear goals. I have chosen to travel overseas with only enough money to support myself for about two weeks. My survival will be entirely dependent on my ability to busk (i.e.street performing for money) as a magician effectively. The availability of food and lodging will lay upon the crucible of my talent, focus, and drive. Furthermore, I will use my time abroad to complete work on a series of screenplays I have mulling about in my brain (hopefully while lounging on the banks of the Seine and the shores of the Mediterranean). And, finally, with this more relaxed approach to travel, I hope to immerse myself more fully and deeply in the cultures and histories of some of the world's greatest cities, absorbing the philosophies of French greats, the classic literature of Spain, the ancient history of the British Isles, and learning the language and texts of the old Roman empire.

I sit here writing and stealing glances off to my right where a table is stacked high with books on magic, and covered in tools of the trade; I sit here with great trepidation and a quiver in my stomach (or is that the needless can of Monster I just consumed?). Will he do it? Will he succeed? Who knows.

June 10th--it begins.

Friday, November 26, 2010

12:22 PM
Venice, Italy
Marco Polo Airport; Gate 20

I am writing now from the end of my journey. I am sitting aboard a British Airways plane preparing for my inevitably bumpy flight to Heathrow Airport in London which I will fly from to JFK in New York, New York.
I won’t be able to write for much longer as I will have to shut this off for the airplane, but it felt necessary to write an entry now, while still on the ground, on the continent of Europe.
I wanted to write and say that I am satisfied. That I am prepared to return home. That I have accomplished all that I set out to do, see, experience. I have achieved the personal solidarity of mind that I hoped would come with this intense experience abroad. I am ready for the next steps along the path which I wend along.


3:13 PM
London, England
Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5, Gate B45

So where were we? Oh, right—CERN. I’m not going to go into the details of the obscene difficulties encountered on attempting to get to CERN and find a place to stay. It turned out that there were very few hostels and they were very expensive and far away from where I needed to be. For only a few more euros I booked myself a room at a hotel, near the airport. When I arrived at the airport and looked at my map, I quickly discovered that the hotel was exactly at the furthest point from me, literally diagonally across the entire airport tarmac and all. The map was hard to read, but I took a gamble, and at around 11:00 PM, I started walking along a road that ran along the outside of the airport, by the runway. My intuition was right, and there was a tunnel that went underneath and pretty much right up to the door of my hotel. After a few more mishaps I finally settled in and went to sleep.
The next morning I was off for the bus and was jittery with excitement. When the bus said we were arriving at CERN I had to double check with the driver because I couldn’t believe that was it. There was virtually nothing there. The world’s foremost physics research center was denoted by little more than a large, wooden globe. Across the street was the visitor office, where I went, checked in, and began to tour their museum exhibition, Microcosm, familiarizing myself even further with the finer details of CERN before I took my tour. Before I knew it I was in a small auditorium watching a video on the history of CERN and then being guided by a physicist with a very thick French accent (he had no concept of the letter “r”). We would be visiting ATLAS, one of four observations points along the LHC. Lucky too, because this one was right across the street and was currently running experiments on lead ion collisions. The control room was just like something out of a movie. The display screens were…well, sexy. They had these excellent 3-D rendered images of the detector that showed exactly where the particles which were ejected from the collision had been detected. There were at least a dozen people working at various computer workstations, moving between each other and chatting. I wish I could have heard them. I really would have liked to have engaged more, spoken with the tour guide, but I was sick at the time. My stomach was being wracked with paralyzing pain every five or so minutes, and my ability to concentrate was significantly diminished, to the point where I couldn’t do much critical thinking beyond going, “Ooooo.”
The next day I decided it was time to head back into Italy (I was sick of the cold again; little did I know that Italy was just as cold by now). I had to switch trains at Lyon where, as I was reserving a ticket, I saw police officers flood the station, crying, “Evacuee!” That was unsettling. The ticket attendant tried to explain it to me. All I got was that a gas or poison or something had been released in the station. Honestly, I still have no idea what happened. In just a half hour everything was cleared up and I was on a train to Milan—with no idea where I would sleep that night.
I got to Milan and started looking for hostels, but I didn’t see any. I saw a lot of one star hotels, so that looked promising. I stopped off for some pizza where a nice, VERY Italian guy helped me find cheap place to stay, cuz, you know, he’s got friends, cuz he’s Italian. After I got settled into my room I rejoined him at the pizza place where I somehow ended up at some Turkish girl’s birthday party. Apparently I have a natural aptitude for pronouncing Turkish. Are we surprised? Marrhabah!
I didn’t waste any time in Milan. I had been told it was a commercial dump and it looked like one. I jumped a train back to Rome where, once again, I had no idea where I would sleep; but, I knew there were plenty of hostels.
I ended up staying at the 2 Ducks, where they took me from the main office to an apartment in a completely different building. It was fairly private and comfortable, and near the train station. It was a hassle getting back to the office for internet, but whatever. The next day I saw some new sights (namely the Pantheon), took in a few old ones, and walked along the Via Appia Antica—the Appian Way, the great Roman highway!
I walked for easily three miles or more along this ancient path, in perpetual use, lined with ruins. It was easily one of my top ten experiences this trip, if not a top five. Granted, on the way back it began to rain. At first lightly—but then I made a joke in speaking aloud to Jove. That’s when the lightning began. I jokingly spoke aloud to Jove again, and like a movie (or as if Jove truly is the god of the sky), the heavens opened. It was a downpour. I figured it would clear soon. After about five minutes of walking and no clearing up, I said one more joking “prayer.” Bad idea. If I thought it was raining before, well, I had no idea what it meant to rain. It was like being in a shower. Not a normal shower. One of those showers with the special head that you turn and it becomes a super high powered jet stream of solid water. I sweat I could’ve swam if I tried.
I felt my clothes, and at least the back of my pants were dry, and beneath my jacket I was still dry. That’s when a car drove by and splashed me. Instant bath. Well, soon enough someone took pity on me (St. Christopher battling Jupiter?) and offered me a ride back to Roma Termini, the train station right near where I was staying. I swear, a hot shower has rarely felt so good.
The next day I tried for Ostia Antica, and, after forty minutes on two trains, and ten minutes of walking, I arrived to discover that it was closed. By the time I got back to Rome proper, it was too late to do anything else. So I went to the hostel office and whiled away some time on my computer.
The next day I went to Naples (stayed at the Welcome Inn, and absolutely brilliant place with the most friendly and giving people I’d met in a long time). After dropping my stuff off and eating a little of what was left of breakfast I set off for Pompei.


2:20 PM (Eastern Standard)
Over the Atlantic; ~2100 miles from NYC; Altitude: 36,000 ft.

We are chasing the sun. This may be the longest sunset of my life. For over two hours I have watched a horizon-wide rainbow slowly slim. We are losing, and while it is surely bright at home, from where I sit, it shall soon be too dark to see the wings outside.
Pompei was a mix of being more and less than what I expected. It’s a city, preserved in a wonderful way for over two-thousand years. Some, though very rare, buildings still have their original roofs attached. he same cobbled streets which held up panicked feet at the eruption of Vesuvius held my calm stroll. I preferred to think of Pompei when its citizens walked as I did—calmly, no doubt going to the store, or to visit a friend, or seal a deal. I visited the home of the senator who laid the first strike against Julius Caesar, sat where ancient scholars sat, and ran my fingers along Latin inscriptions when perhaps some Roman child, waiting with his mother in the Forum, idly ran his fingers. I saw drawings scratched into the walls, political messages scrawled along the streets. There were perfectly preserved paintings inside some houses—beautiful paintings, of a form that would not be rediscovered for a thousand years.
It is true that Pompei is not cared for properly. Many priceless images on the buildings, once covered by glass panes to protect them, are now exposed, their covers being broken. Something like that should be fixed within an hour of its being damaged. Many entrances to restricted areas were guarded by only flimsy wooden gates which were closes with a simple bolt. Some of these gates were broken down anyway. Where some buildings were covered over with metal roofing, most were not. For one of the greatest cultural treasures of the world, is it too much to provide proper shelter for its treasures? Just two weeks earlier the Hall of the Gladiators collapsed in the early morning, presumably from rainwater inundation in the cement. And yet when I had arrived no measures seemed to be taken to protect the other structures. You would think that someone would have scrambled to patch things up as quickly as possible. Even if we disregard the historical richness of the site, let us consider if the Hall had collapsed just three hours later, when the area opens to tourists? What if an entire building of stone collapsed on some poor cruise-goers on a day trip? It’s not like they expected the Hall to collapse. Any other structure is just as likely to fall.
Well, Pompei is the one place that I do wish I had my good camera, as there were so many things that I simply couldn’t get my head around. I also wish I had arrived earlier, just to be better able to put myself in the Pompeian mindset, to reconstruct the life there in my head (using my extraordinary research in Roman life owing to a thorough viewing of HBO’s Rome) and to become in some sense a part of it for that brief moment of daydreaming hallucination I am so keenly capable of.
Que sera. I ended up getting lost in the city as it got darker and darker, and was utterly creeped out. I didn’t find my way out until forty minutes after it had closed. Christ, you could make a home there and no one would be the wiser.
Anyway, on my way back to the hostel it began to rain and I knew for certain that I couldn’t stay any longer abroad. I was too tired of being cold and wet and not knowing where I was going to sleep. I was tired of cities and tired of towns. Tired of people and being alone. Tired of seeing just how damn similar we all are—tired of that overwhelming understanding of one species, all made of the same starstuff (as Sagan would have it), unified in riding spaceship Earth (as Asimov would have it). And tired of bad customer service.
But while I weighed the pros and cons of not seeing Greece and Morocco, I knew that I had to see Venice before I left. To return before such a visit would be deeply lamentable, and no matter how exhausted I felt, no matter how much I wanted to grab my bag and head straight for the airport, I organized myself to arrive in Venice the next day and to stay for two nights.
I fell asleep on the train and awoke in Venice. When I stepped out of the carriage and into the terminal I realized that it looked like every other terminal in the Western world. This being my first thought I immediately guarded myself against my consuming jadedness, and forced myself to renew a spirit of adventure.
The thing is, I knew right away that I needed to go home. Walking through Venice to my hostel, all I could feel were two things: one, that Venice was…well, nifty if the only way I can think to put it; and two, that I was bloody irritated that the layout was so complicated I was having a hard time finding my lodging.
I dropped my stuff off at an old Doge’s palace (i.e. my hostel, which was, admittedly, awesome) and since I couldn’t pay yet since it was too early, I went for a characteristic wander about the city.
Now, truly, Venice is like no other place in the world. Composed of over a hundred small islands all separated by only a few meters of water, it is remarkable. But it’s not particularly beautiful. I know it wasn’t the weather, since it was dry, sunny, and only slightly chilly. The atmosphere was alive and well, with the gondoliers out and people dressed up in Venetian costume to advertise concerts and operas. I got food (again, not surprised) and spent a long time staring through the window of a paper shop where they sold the most beautiful old pen and ink sets I’ve seen, with some beautiful handmade journals. I wandered the Rialto, and walked to San Marco Piazza, which was completely flooded. I walked the planks and visited the church. I went back to the hostel. I sat on my computer making plans for my return home the day after Thanksgiving.
That night dinner was served at the hostel, and I ate briefly before rushing off to San Marco for a Vivaldi concert.
The next day I tried to buy tickets for a showing of La Traviata, but it was cancelled that evening. So I boarded a train to Verona—which was as much of an extraordinary disappointment as I expected (and not the good, fun disappointment like the Mona Lisa—just plain, sad, how-can-a-city-that-embodies-the-deepest-beauty-and-tradgedy-of-romance-be-such-a-dull-spot kind of disappointment). So I did the only next logical thing: I jumped on another train to see the one last thing I truly wanted to see before returning home: Bologna. Or, more specifically (because Bologna, too, is a dump) the University of Bologna, founded in the eleventh century and now the oldest continually run university in the world. I got an Il Pecorino from McDonalds (f-ing BRILLIANT sandwich, by the way) and set out in search. I found the school of mineralogy, the school of ecology (yes! I was in the science area), and finally the school of mathematics, which I entered. I slipped past the guard station and began to explore, snapping photos of a bust of Leibnitz, sitting in what looked to be an antique bench, and reading scientific journals in the halls. Then it was time to head back to Venice for dinner.
I enjoyed my dinner, and had some god conversation with a really nice Aussie (made me nostalgic for Oz; kinda want to go back again) and some others. Then I hit the sack and prepared for my journey home the next day—today.
When I awoke I realized immediately that the good weather had broken and it was cold inside the hostel and I could see through the windows that it was wet outside. I knew then that any doubts I had about returning home were out the window. As I walked in the rain, with each slippery step further soaking my feet in cold Adriatic through my boots, I knew that I could not wait to get home. I imagined walking not to the bus to the airport, but rather to the train to Athens, and I knew that I would have been grieving such a decision.
Soon I was at the airport and bought a meal, checked in, passed through security without incident (they didn’t even take my toothpaste away!), and bought three kinds of proscuitto. I waited for the plane. I began this day’s entry. I flew to Heathrow. I watched Annie Hall. I ate prosciutto. At Heathrow I encountered minor difficulties with securities, but still managed to retain my toothpaste. Score one against the terrorists. I bought all the candy that I had not yet tried in England. I waited. I boarded. I just watched Die Another Day, possibly the single most unintentionally funny Bond film ever, and ate my British candy. Now I’m typing.
But I think I’ll save the reflections, the wrap-up, the epilogue, for home.

Monday, November 22, 2010

11:34 PM
Rome, Italy
2 Ducks Hostel Kitchen

I’d like to bitch and reflect, but I feel that I need to catch up on the story thus far before I can really do that. I won’t write much now because I must get some sleep, but I’ll at least try to get us out of France.
Anyway, so I went to my room, settled in and went out for some food. I never did eat, tired as I was, and I soon found myself back in bed. Only to be awoke about an hour later by the guy running the hostel at that time. He had come in and was questioning one of the other guys in the room and I only really woke up when I realized he was staring at me. “Yes,” I said. The man proceeded to grill me, asking me if I had paid for my night. I said of course I had, and then he asked me for my name. I gave it to him and he said I didn’t pay. Well, now I was pissed off. I grabbed my receipt and thrust it at him. He looked at it and sheepishly said, “Fine.” I crawled back into bed and went to sleep.
I woke up late, having done that wonderful trick I do where I shut my alarm off in my sleep. I bolted for the train and made it with only about two minutes to spare. The train was from Paris to Irun where I’d transfer to a train going the rest of the way to Madrid. Well, my train never made it to Irun. With absolutely no translation of French (on a train presumably filled with Spanish speakers), we were apparently told to get off a full stop before Irun. I had no idea until a kindly drunkard informed my in slurred and severely broken English to get off and go to my left. At least I figured out he had said left later, after I had gone to an information desk to find out just what the f happened. It turns out there were transferring us to the metro system to go the rest of the way. Of course, they never told me which stop to get off once I got on the metro. So I ended up all the way in San Sebastian, lucky enough to find some Kiwis just as confused as I, but who had realized that San Sebastian was the stop after Irun and that we could get on there.
I explored this unexpected city for a bit, enjoying the warm air and waves crashing violently from the Atlantic against the shore. I finally got on the train and, if memory serves, slept most of the way to Madrid. Once at my true destination I had no trouble finding the hostel and was extraordinarily pleased to find it welcoming, warm, and friendly. A far cry from the Parisian nightmare I had so recently come through. All the same, the next day I headed to Barcelona since Madrid didn’t look very exciting.
Barcelona was nice. I enjoyed a comfortable room, dinner, and the next day wandered around the city, taking in the vibe and experiencing all the Gaudi architecture, including the unfinished cathedral (quite a sight!). But, Barcelona just wasn’t doing it for me and if I headed back to Paris I’d be just in time to spend a full day at the Louvre and attend a writer’s circle at the Shakespeare and Company bookshop. So that’s what I did.
I hoped a train to Cerbere where I had an hour wait for the night rail to Paris. I explored the very tiny Mediterranean town of Cerbere. There wasn’t much to see, but it was very quaint. I skipped rocks on the water.
In Paris, again, I went to a writer’s circle, wrote some stuff that is going to make for an awesome story, and hung out at an American bar with some awesome American writers. The next day I finally went to the Louvre. The Louvre is indeed huge, but after spending a lot of time at the Met I felt I could handle it, though I can understand how some inexperienced museum-goers could be overwhelmed. I already know what sort of art I like and I’m able to brush by what I’m not a fan of. I saw the great works. The Mona Lisa, as stunningly a letdown as I have been led to believe. It was wonderful in how anticlimactic it was. A tiny painting on a wall separated from the viewers by about eight to ten feet by a barrier, with two guards at either side. The sculptures were the true winners at the Louvre, especially the “Winged Victory of Samothrace” and at least two of the pieces depicting the love of Cupid and Psyche (so glad I read Metamorphoses before I left).
I also took another visit to the Sacre Couer as I have been wanting to, and finally saw the Moulin Rouge. The next day I jumped on the first random train and went a few stops until I was in the country. I walked around Creil, where I landed, got on another train, and kept going. I landed in a town I can’t remember the name of at the moment, and explored for about three hours. Really, incredibly quaint. Like, dirt roads, old walls and buildings, curing around and up over tiny hills, nestled against a small mountain. One bakery, one restaurant, one school. I hiked up a trail and found a mansion at the end. It was a really magical sort of place in that it was the place I’ve seen a million times in movies.
After Paris it was time to head for CERN.

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Saturday, November 20, 2010
1:38 PM
Milan, Italy
Train from Milan to Rome

I’ll be honest—I’ve been putting off writing here for a while. I’ve been rather grumpy again and most of the time simply haven’t felt much like writing. But now seems a good time to return, hopefully with proper consistency again, as I am currently repeating the action which I was last describing.
My last time to Rom I arrived fairly late in the evening and set off, iPhone map in hand, for my hostel. There wasn’t much to see. In the dim streetlight glow of night Rome looked much like the rest of Europe. My hostel turned out to be on of the loudest I’ve ever been in. All night there were people in the hallways shouting and whooping it up. I found rest only by my severe exhaustion.
The next day I grabbed a map from the reception desk and set out to find the great ruins of the ancient world. Working my way south-west, towards the central river and the Coliseum, I found Rome increasingly peppered with historical sights and I was making frequent unexpected stops to investigate sites, such as some old Roman baths. I found my way to the Forum and stood near a small British tour group, listening to their Irish guide explain some of the finer details of the history. It was a rather incredible experience, seeing the original triumphal arch, at first built as a proud monument, then neglected, and thereafter buried in a garbage dump, only excavated around two hundred years ago. There were the steps where supposedly Julius Caesar had been stabbed by every member of the senate, and there was the spot where the Vestal Virgins kept a flame perpetually burning. These were the stones which great thinkers trod, their intellects expressed in discourse, those words vibrating the path along with their steps.
I next went to the Coliseum, a truly magnificent structure, especially when viewed in the context of the time in which it was built. To picture it in its heyday brings to mind an almost inconceivable image of grandeur and beauty. I bought my ticket and an audio guide and proceeded to make my way around. As I read the information boards and listened to the audio, I set my mind to musing over the realities of life in the stadium. As I climbed the steps between levels I focused on the two millennia past jostling of crowds as they made their way to their seats, discussing business, family, and the games-to-be in a tarnished, colloquial Latin. As I looked down to the area I thoughts of the floors splashed with blood, the thousands of men who must have looked up desperately into the crowds as they bled out, as knives sliced open their skin, as blades tore through their organs, as darkness closed over their eyes as the roar of an appreciative audience grew dimmer. I studied the graffiti, the drawings of great fighters. I thought of Stone Cold Steve Austin and The Rock, Kane and the Undertaker, and their inevitable dissolve into obscure history, as the great showman-fighters of Rome did. Such passion, such great fame—and we know next to nothing of it.
I thought of going on to the Via Appia Antica, but the sun was already setting and I made my way towards the Circus Maximus, where I knew I could also find a subway back to the hostel. I got dinner near the subway and then returned to my bed where I worked some more on applications, made phone calls, and eventually went to sleep to the sounds of screaming in the hallway.
The next day I spent in the library, typing up my Barrett application essays. That night I wandered around the neighborhood of my hostel, ordering dinner at a restaurant where no one spoke even the smallest bit of English. I got some gelato. I wandered in the dark, listening to my podcasts. Eventually, I went to sleep, prepared for a visit to the Vatican the next day.
I woke up late and instead of walking across the city to the Vatican I took a subway. I found Vatican City easily enough and was surprised to find that “crossing the border” is nothing at all. You just walk into the plaza from the street. I was immediately accosted by persons trying to sell me a tour, but I turned them down. Well, at least until I saw the line to get into the museum. I thought about the cost of the museum and the relative inconvenience of standing in line and soon found myself back at the tour person, asking them to sign me up.
The tour itself wasn’t particularly great. I couldn’t understand the guide very well since he spoke with a very thick Italian accent, but I got in quickly and learned a few amusing facts about the world’s smallest country. I wasn’t a huge fan of the museum itself, but perhaps I simply didn’t have enough time to explore it as it deserves. The highlights were finally seeing some to the great originals of works of art that I have seen many times over in many other places. Seeing the Sistine Chapel in person was astounding. Viewing the sheer immensity of Michelangelo’s work was really powerful—the opportunity to step up close to the painted figures and see the detail of the delicate brush strokes that formed the bodies was awesome.
After the museum I went to the cathedral which was large and impressive as far as pure engineering prowess goes, but fell a bit flat as far as artistic excellence goes. Not exactly the Sacre Coeur. Inside I had the chance to see the Pieta, which, after all the hype, was not quite as mind-blowing as I was hoping. The stone from which it is carved was described to me as milk white, absolutely pure, but, well, it was just stone, in my opinion. There were some nice paintings and sculptures around the rest of the building but I didn’t quite get a “wow factor” from any of it. The intellectual recognition of the history of the place had far more of an impact than anything else.
With nothing left to do I took a long walk through the rest of Rome all the way back to my hostel, passing through a variety of famous piazzas and wandering down commercial avenues and planning for my return to England for Guy Fawkes’ Day (it’s also worth mentioning that during my walk, near the opera house, I encountered a presumably homeless man walking my way who was pointing furiously to his right and shouting at me. Not wanting to upset the crazy guy I stepped off to that side to let him pass, but this was clearly not good enough for him as he thereafter grabbed me violently by the arm and swung me into the street. A woman on the opposite sidewalk stopped, stunned at the interaction, and I, admittedly terrified, bolted down the street, looking back only when I had reached the corner and a more populated area. The guy was still back there, shouting at me).
The next morning I headed for the train and wound up in Pisa. I was unable to secure a night train anywhere from Pisa and discovered that I would have to find somewhere to sleep. I was lucky in finding the only hostel in all the city, but they told me they had no room for me. A sad, puppy-dog face, however, got me a bed. With my things dropped off in my room I set off to find the famous Leaning Tower.
As I made my way north it seemed to me that I had found yet another city in which I was comfortable. There was nothing quite remarkable about Pisa, but it was small, old, and surrounded by a medieval wall. The Tower of Pisa poked its head above a few colorful buildings before I was even prepared to see it. A lot of great pieces of architecture seem to do that. The Tower Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower. Now that I write it out, this seems to be a matter of towers more than anything else. But I appreciate that quality, the way it peaks its head to greet you. It’s a very real glimpse of something that faced at first head-on might render itself just another postcard image. I went to the tower and was really taken with it. It’s a dull white, and shows clearly the signs of its formidable age and angle. It does lean, and the further back to you step to look at it, the more precipitously it appears to.
I was hungry by this point and stepped off to a nearby restaurant and sat down with my notebook and started to write a story. I stopped writing to enjoy a few courses. I ordered gnocchi first, and afterwards…well, I can’t remember at the moment. I had a single small glass of the house red wine, and finished off with dessert, a handful of almond cookies with a very small portion of sweet white wine. Then I enjoyed two cups of espresso while I continued to write. When I finally decided to leave I wandered around the Tower and the church, walked along the wall, and briefly beyond it. I listened to Richard Feynman’s “Surely You’re Joking Mr. Feynman.” I walked down to the river and say by it. I crossed the bridge and walked to my hostel. I made some brief phone calls and then decided I need to walk some more. It was drizzling, but I didn’t care and I continued to listen to the Feynman book as I ate Kebab, and wandered back to the river, walking to the city’s eastern edge, and back around, poking my head in abandoned, Medieval-looking buildings with no markers. All while listening to the book whose text has now become intrinsically connected to my experience in Pisa.
The next day it was raining—hard. I ran for the train station and prepared for a long series of trains that would take me back to Paris. A train to Genoa. A train to Nice (where I watched “The Social Network” while waiting for the night train). A train to Paris. I met with one host in the morning and spent nearly the whole day in her house, reading and studying. In the evening I went to a very nice library (I’ll have to find the name and insert it here) which was large, dark, and full of books, The main reading room had levels of shelves, and was oval shaped with a very high ceiling. That library closed early so I went to the Library at the Centre Pompidou, an incredible library, full of information and young minds, and free internet! The next day I met my next host who would not let me go to my libraries, but insisted that I join her and her friends at a bar. I acquiesced, considering it a good opportunity for an authentic Parisian experience. It was indeed a good time and I enjoyed the company of her friends well enough, but the next day I made my plans for England.
I walked all the way along the Peripherique of Paris to the bus station at Gallieni and book a night bus for the next evening. Then I took a metro to the city center to return to the libraries.
The next morning I set out early and went to visit yet another library which I had heard of, said to be the repository of all texts printed in France (again, I must find the name and put it here). It was a marvelous library, with four large, book-like towers, at its four corners, mostly empty, waiting to be filled over the years. Daunting dark stone steps led up to the main level of the library and then escalators took you into the center, where a forest grew. Inside they had massive reading rooms for everything you can think of, but you had to pay to use it. And I don’t believe in paying for libraries, so I left and walked all the way to my favorite libraries, crossing a magnificently curved bridge, and descending a set of stairs that had a waterfall built into it in the process.
My night on the bus was simply too horrible to describe my utter frustration and anger at it. The ladies behind me spoke loudly throughout the entire trip, while the bus driver in front blasted his music so terribly loudly that it vibrated my seat. The exchange at the border was a joke. One leaving France (I guess) had us go in, put our bags in an x-ray machine and show our passports. I say bravo to them for not patting me down, or putting me through a metal detector. No K-9’s around either. Smuggling virtually anything into the country would be a joke. Then, going into England (I guess), we we told to leave the bus again. This time sans bags, to be questioned by a man holding my passport, asking the most absurd questions.
When I finally arrived in London I went across the street to a place that looked like it served breakfast, what with its advertisement sign standing outside, its lights on, and the door open. I was told to come back in an hour. I asked if there was a bathroom. They said there was in the train station. It was closed. I was pissed. No sleep and in soggy London, I walked around Hyde Park in the dark of the early morning as I made my way to my hostel. At the hostel I was told I was not allowed to check in yet. Then the internet didn’t work. I was getting ready to lose it so I asked them to hold my bag as I went for a walk to, you guessed it, the British National Library. When check in time came around I went back dropped off my stuff and planned out where I would go for Bon Fire Night. There were a ton of options and I decided to go with a small community affair that would include performers, a bonfire complete with effigies, and fireworks. Plus it was free.
After a frustratingly challenging trip on the Tube (not to mention that the headphones I had bought in Nice were now broken in one ear as I tried to listen to the next Feynman book, “What Do You Care What Other People Think”) I ended up stuck in the wrong place with little time left until the fireworks display. I tried to follow my map, but I was just off the edge. I wandered blindly for around forty minutes until I somehow stumbled onto a street with a name I recognized from studying my map. I turned down and found the party.
The performers were terrible. First, you had two guys in bright jester outfits eating fire and trying to engage the audience. It was painful to watch. But while they were bad, they at least had some spirit. The performers in the next area over were as deficient in skill and even more lacking in showmanship. The two women were dressed up in dark, striking costumes meant to be alluring and sexy, and they weren’t too bad looking either, if a little old for the shtick. They were of the fire poi spinning brand, I suppose, although they somewhat mindlessly brought out fire staff and fire fans and other tools which they clearly (at least to me) did not know how to use. On top of being incapable with their props, with which one performer nearly burned the audience with her fire staff, they had no idea how to perform, going through the motions of a routine they had rehearsed, but with no music. When a traditional drumming group started up nearby the lady had the perfect opportunity to integrate, but she let it pass, going through the same banal motions over and over.
Soon they lit the bonfire, which was comprised mainly of stacking pallets stuffed with wood, and with wooden panels (the kind you see outside construction sites) bordering it. On top were a few effigies which began the inferno. Oh, and it was stuffed with fireworks. No, seriously. That’s why the wood panels were there, to block the fireworks from mowing the audience down. But someone didn’t think that the panels would burn and render them useless as a defense and soon there were fireworks shooting at the feet of the crowd who began dancing backward. The fireworks were amusing, but again, there seems to have been a misunderstanding of how to most effectively entertain. You can’t just have a guy strap himself onto a wheel that spins as fireworks shoot out. You have to have some presentation to it. The fireworks shot out, but with no pattern, without any rhyme or reason. They were nice, and amusing, but not striking as an American fireworks display might be. Then again, perhaps if I had gone to on of the larger displays I might have thought differently.
The next day I headed up to Oxford to stay with Sam Sussman for a few days. I met him at his house and we enjoyed some tea as I described my experiences in Europe. Then we set out on the streets, Sam giving me a tour of the Medieval colleges, taking me on a walk along the river, then to a famous old pub, and ending up by taking me to the Christ Church dining hall for dinner (where Harry Potter was filmed for the Hogwarts dining hall). Everyone wore traditional academic robes, and the food was incredible, served to us at long tables by waiters.
After dinner we left to go to one of Sam’s friend’s homes for a housewarming party. There we mingled with some of the college’s intellectual elite—Harvard grads studying at Oxford with envious internships and experiences lining their resumes. I had the opportunity to learn a bit about the physics research going on there, discuss Medieval paleography, and listen in on intense political debate.
The next day I wandered about town and enjoyed the Christ Church library, and on Monday I went to one lecture on formal logic and another on peasant women in England from 1000-1300 AD. Then, after one more night of good conversation with Sam, it was time to head back to the Continent. I ended up on a nicer bus ride this time, and we crossed the English Channel by ferry, allowing me the opportunity to watch the white cliffs of Dover shrink away, and muse over the many adventures made on those choppy seas of the millennia as I watched the dark water crest white and spray in the rough wind.
I spent the night in Paris where I encountered the worse customer service of my life. Upon entering the hostel I was told at the desk that I needed to wait twenty minutes because they were changing shifts (mind you, this is ten at night now, clearly check-in time). When I went back at the appointed time I was ignore—blatantly—as the man behind the counter folded sheets and put them away. When he finally deigned to help me, he was curt, and I went off to my room quite irritated.