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.