Ok, pictures!

Here are some pictures of my new place. It is an old 16th century stable house. It has wireless internet. Yay! The door on the left of this picture is my apartment. Up the stairs is where my friend Jordan and his girlfriend live. Elena, Jordan's girlfriend, owns the house, and is my landlady. Currently Jim and I split a studio. This whole place is an artists' colony. There are many fascinating people living here. My neighborhood, Tor Pignattara, has the ancient aqueducts running through it.

I hope these post in the format I'm trying to get them to post in.








Yours truly,




















There is a little bit of color.



















Our bathroom. I know how interested all of you are in our bathroom.

New Post... With Pictures!

Not a lot, granted, but a few. These are from the Wine Festival here in Marino. La Sagra dell'uvo. I'm in an internet cafe, so again I'm paying good money to smuggle this information back to the United States, so I won't really caption any of them other than to say that most of these pictures were taken by my friend Jordan's girlfriend Elena, and the people in them are friends of mine. Jim is sitting to the left of me in the picture of me (which I appear to be in some sort of prolonged ecstatic state or something) and the rest of the people are the only other English speakers in town (as far as I know). The pictures of the people dancing were taken from the balcony in the Cantina where we were sitting. A cantina is a place where they make wine. This one is 400 years old. An old man sitting at our table brought his accordian and started wailing on it at one point, and the entire place went nuts. Everyone was singing and getting up to dance. It was fun.

Here, let's see if this works...

OK, well nevermind. Coming soon, to a computer screen near you... pictures!

La Casa Nuova

Ladies and Gentlemen, my phone and internet have finally passed away. I should be moving soon, but cercando per un appartamento è piu difficile quando si non ha il internet o un telefono. Si dice, "Merda!"

Communications from here on out will become increasingly sporadic as I plunge into Rome's heart of darkness surrounding Termini-- tis a land of anonymous foreigners, kebab shops, internet points, hostels, and travelling college students. In other words, No Man's Land. Wish me luck. I have ample supplies.

As long as I'm forking out this exorbitant amount to use the internet for a half an hour, I might as well take the opportunity to fill you all in on my life: it is exactly the same as the last time I posted. I have a good job that I enjoy (but which unfortunately ends after next week), I spend all my free time exploring the insides of church, or finding new areas of town to venture into. The other night I wandered into the Jewish Ghetto; I've been there before but never spent much time. The Jewish population in Rome is the oldest in the world outside of Israel. I could tell many stories about their historical persecution in Rome, but I won't go further than to say that in 66 AD, there was a revolt in Jerusalem which ended in the destruction of the entire city, except for the West Wall, or Wailing Wall. Thousands of slaves were brought back to Rome. This is around the same time that Vespasian starts building the Colosseum. Hmm... why don't we use these Jewish slaves to build it?

I think it is now one of my favorite places in town. It's in the center, but buried in a tangled mess of vicoli (alleyways) so that the general tourist would never find his or her way into it. Or out if that be the case. This means it is quite and relaxing, but still maintains the same charm as the neighborhoods surrounding it. There's even an ancient pagan temple there, dedicated to Octavia, the sister of Augustus.

I wandered through there for a little while, waiting for some friends to show up. Eventually I stumbled into a piazza with the infamous "Turtle Fountain" in it. I'd read about the fountain: it was made by Carlo Maderno, one of the few friends of Michelangelo. It's small and very Rennaisance, and therefore not nearly as famous as Nicolo Salvi's offensively Baroque Trevi Fountain (not saying it's ugly, I know that would be a sacrilege, just that there are too many people around and it is so imposing that, with these large crowds, one has a tendency to get claustrophobic) or Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, but I liked it more. It was well lit and in a nice, small piazza. The basin was shallow and set into the ground so that the actual fountain was mostly eye level. It was interesting to stumble onto unexpectedly, especially since I had read about it before and knew it at once.

I decided to buy a beer there. A small one, while I waited for Jim and Yashar. The girl at the small bar in the piazza, the small EMPTY bar, said, "Sei". Sei can mean several things. It can mean, "You are," or "Are you", or "if", or, and this is the last thing I thought she said, "Six." I thought I didn't hear the first part and that she said "Di dove sei?" which means, "Where are you from?" Common enough question. So I replied, "Alabama." "No," she said, "Sei EURO." You never, ever, ever, pay that much for a small peroni. The ones twice their size would run, at an establishment like that, about 3-4 euros.

I forked it out and drank in bitterness while I waited for Jim and Yashar. Eventually they called me and I met up with them on the main thouroughfare in the Ghetto (did I mention this is where we get the word ghetto?). They led me to an old middle school buried in the ghetto; this old school had been converted into a multi-purpose club. I'm not much into clubs, but this place was undeniably one of the coolest places I've seen in Rome. In Philly it would be famous. It's in the heart of the Jewish Ghetto, every room had some different feel or type of music playing, it was four stories high, in the center of the whole thing was a giant courtyard where the children presumably used to play games. The lunch room was the bar. The place was also inhumanly packed. I saw a friend of mine there and talked to him for a bit-- he was en route to Tuscany for a meeting with the director Spike Lee. He was going to be a translator for Spike Lee's next movie-- a World War II film set in Italy and centered around a squadron of black soldiers. I was impressed, a little.

I talked to several other people there, but didn't dance or anything. Not my style. But maybe I'll go back one day.

This is a pretty typical day here.

Well, I'm going to catch a train back to Marino now. Hope everyone is good.

Poor guy.

http://edition.cnn.com/2007/US/09/27/immigrant.money/index.html?iref=mpstoryview

Happy Birthday Augustus Caesar!

Yes, folks, today is the birthday of Augustus Caesar, full name: Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. Gaius Octavius Thurinus, if we're referring to him before the year 27BC. If he were still alive, he'd be 2,070 years old. During his reign Jesus Christ was born. Among his descendents were Nero, Caligula, Tiberius, and Claudius. Basically a bunch of lunatics (excepting Claudius). But he was a pretty good guy. As far as emperors go. He was also the first emperor. Let's all pour a little out for our dead homey. I mean, this is the man who virtually invented the calendar we use today, and I mean, not many people have an entire month named after them (I can only think of one other, being July, after Julius Caesar). What a guy. Maybe one day they'll change the name of the month of February to Justinuary. One can only dream, right? Did you know that the months September through December were originally the 7th through the 10 months, hence the roots septem-, octo-, nove-, dece-, which are, respectively seven, eight, nine, and ten in Latin. Augustus changed the calendar from an unreliable Lunar one to a Solar one. I believe he also started the world's first fire department, but don't quote me on that.

I am currently listening to Dave Brubeck. Time Out. And today is Sunday. My roommates are gone to some distant place, and I am alone.

Tomorrow I have an 8 hour tour of Rome, starting at the Vatican, then to the Colosseum and Forum, and finally through all of the piazzas and fountains. My friend told me Joanna Newsome is playing tonight in Rome, and I'm hoping that maybe this private tour is with her, just so I can rub it in the face of everyone I know. Another of my fellow "Cultural Historians" (our preferred nomenclature) got to give a tour to Chelsea Clinton. Being British and none too knowledgeable about the finer details of American politics, she made a joke about Bill Clinton (there is an ancient Roman statue in the Vatican that looks an awful lot like Slick Willy). Her boss was none too happy about that. I've yet to walk anyone through the Vatican, but the other two I've done, and I've become quite proficient with the Forum and Colosseum (if I do say so myself). Obviously this is a lot of information I have to keep in my head, so I've been busy studying up on it all. It's basically like delivering a 6 and a half hour lecture (since we travel a bit in the taxi and also stop for lunch). This is why I've been so lazy in terms of posting. For that, I apologize. My days and nights are spent trying to remember the differences between Baroque architecture and Renaissance; between Carlo Maderno, Domenica Fontana, Carlo Rainaldi, and Giacomo della Porta; between the Pamphilj popes, della Rovere popes, Farnese popes, and the Barberini popes; etc.

Since Jim has arrived, however, I've been much more active. Before I was staying at my house, with my nose in books or on the internet (I've filled an entire Moleskin with notes). He's probably the best person I could have here at the moment, since he enjoys walking around and finding new stuff just as much as I do; and since his background is in Art and Art History, he can tell me about the processes through which bronze doors are cast, or what materials artists used to glue gold leafing to the ceilings. Meanwhile I tell him about the history of the founding of the church, institution, or beliefs depicted in the art. Together we are building our knowledge and teaching each other how to read the art, something quite difficult for me, who's always seen a painting as a painting. Saints and Pagan gods are always depicted with some sort of prop to distinguish them from other Saints or Pagan gods (Hercules always has a lion's skin, St. Peter is always holding keys, St. Paul, a sword, St. Agnes is always with a lamb, Hera is often with a peacock, Venus an apple, etc.). I have now read the New Testament from cover to cover, and plan on starting the Old Testament soon (whenever I get a chance). We've also revived the process of "Church Hunting," which is like treasure hunting, only better. Knowing that Caravaggio's three masterpieces of the lives of St. Matthew are in San Luigi dei Francesi is a good start to the day. From there we walk around, going into church after church, looking for them. That particular example took two days for us to find (turns out it was right around the corner from the Pantheon).

At night we get a bottle of wine and sit in the piazzas, trying to talk to girls, with varying degrees of success. Both of us are trying to learn Italian. Since I've been here longer, I feel it would be embarrassing if he mastered it first. So far I speak it better than he does, but he understands it better than I do. Between us we can hold a decent conversation with someone. He has the advantage of being really good friends with several Italians, whereas I only have some acquaintances, most of whom want to practise their English with me. Regardless, his presence is going to motivate me to start really learning this language, if for no other reason than the shame I would feel if I didn't.

I realize that my blogs lack a very important entertaining element: humor. Again, I apologize. I swear I'm funny. Sometimes. I'm just usually so exhausted mentally that I just write out the dryest of details about my life. Keep reading, however, and I swear one day you'll at least crack a smile. Maybe.

Now on to the Gallery of Candelabrae! I can't remember which pope set it up (I think it was Gregory XIII in 1575, but I can't say, "I think" on a tour... too improfessional). Wish me luck, everyone. I'll need it.

Rollin' with the homies...

I'm working again, folks. This is fantastic. I make 25 Euros an hour, and generally give tours around 5 hours long. Then I get tips. I've only given one so far, and it was a 3 hour, and for the rest of the week I'll only be giving 3 hour tours, but next week I'll be getting into the big bucks. Five hours, eight hours. The good stuff. Still, 100 Euros a day isn't half bad. This is good, especially since I still owe my roommate a little bit of money, and I want to move out by the end of the month. We'll see how it goes. In November I'll have to go back to teaching, so most of this money I make will probably set aside for a rainy day, but as soon as the season starts back up in March, I'll be able to actually live and breathe a little. Hoorah.

In other news, my friend Jim lives here now. So now we are two.

I know I've been lazy about posting lately. I actually have about 4 or 5 unposted drafts, but I've been so busy studying that I haven't had time to run through anything and make corrections, etc. Though that's never stopped me before...

Is Cixous a Sick Sue? Philosophical Musings on Theory and the Role of Art in the Modern Community

ok, i'll go ahead and post part 1, since if i extend it much more no one will ever read it...

During the past week, as you may be aware, I have been engaged in a crash course in the art of the Italian Rennaisance. From Bramante to Titian, on through Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo (the namesakes of all four Ninja Turtles), the architectural and sculptural philosophies of Bernini to the mad brawls of Michelangelo Merisi (the other Michelangelo, otherwise known as Caravaggio) or Cellini-- my dreams have been infected with the characters I have been forced to memorize the lives of. Apart from one obligatory Art Appreciation course at Troy State University, from which I learned probably less than the stupid jocks and cheerleaders who sat bored around me, I have no experience in Art Criticism. My only exposure to anything approaching a scholarly understanding of Art and its various roles in society or any of the philosophical questions underlining our approach to it, has been in classes about literature or film. Music, the most important art form I have omitted in the above sentences, I have a more natural inclination towards; though even with music there are problems in defining boundaries which I am incapable of understanding, due to my insuffecient knowledge of Music Theory (read a definition of Baroque vs. Classical and you'll understand the impossibility of anyone less than a genius in truly understanding just what makes up each). All of this being said, I have continually been challenged during the course of my studying to understand just what defines a "Masterpiece," or a "Master." This disadvantage of mine has proven to be quite an obstacle, but, as I hope to illustrate in some way in due course, has also been advantageous in several crucial ways.

Generally we all agree that Michelangelo was a "Master," but not many of us can really explain why without pointing towards the obvious magnitude of his works, such as the monumental 17 foot David chiselled out of a single block of marble, or the 300 figures of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling. When trying to explain why we all universally admire a work like Botticelli's "Birth of Venus," we are posed with more difficulties, since the work is not immediately striking to the eye acquainted with someone like Michelangelo. In short, we do not understand the context, or the innovations that made these paintings famous to begin with. Indeed, most people are unaware that several of the paintings lining the walls of the Sistine Chapel were made by the infamous Botticelli; we tend to look at what's famous. Of course, not being any sort of art snob, I don't blame the people who look at it without knowing a damn thing about it: it's naturally impressive and there is a worldwide familiarity with it. In fact, I take a fair amount of comfort in the bovine expressions of the tourists craning their necks and sneaking snapshots to show off to the folks back home. There is something calming about it, like listening to the ocean in a seashell.

Let's move on to the term "Art Fag." This term has become ubiquitous in the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st, and in some circles has even been embraced. Part of this starts with the insufferable elitism of the art community and their deliberate attempts to alienate their perceived intellectual inferiors, and, by virtue of those very elements, the audience attracted has tended to be the disenfranchised or countercurrent, in other words, kids who never really fit in with a taste for fashion. "Fag" or not, the image that most modern Americans have of art and artists nowadays is the complete opposite of what it once was in other times and places. Art has lost its masculine connotations. In my research, the artists I am familiarizing myself with were, in their days, like the rock stars of today. They were famous and admired; though a Rennaisance wench was still unlikely to throw her bra at him while he was painting, the artists still affected a certain amount of charm on the ladies. One of Caravaggio's contemporaries noted that "after a fortnight's work he will swagger about for a month or two with a sword at his side and a servant following him, from one ball-court to the next, ever ready to engage in a fight or an argument, so that it is most awkward to get along with him." Drinking, fighting, gambling, and women: these are some of the characteristics of the famous painters of the Rennaisance era. Both Caravaggio and Celini (whom I mentioned together earlier) were guilty of homicide. Even the great Michelangelo got into fist fights. In one little known incident, he and Leonardo da Vinci (with whom he had a fierce rivalry with), when commissioned to paint opposite walls in the same chapel, started throwing paint at each other. Imagine that. Two of the greatest geniuses ever to live, two men whom the term "Rennaisance Man" was invented for, throwing paint at each other in a temper tantrum. I'm reminded of the snide insults that would pass between Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain when they would pass each other, or even the lyrical jabs that passed between Neil Young and Lynyrd Skynyrd (to state a few examples most of us our familiar with).

I'm not trying to form any opinion about these details, just including them for my argument. When I say that art has lost its masculine side, I am not saying it should move back towards it or that it has any more validity or any less validity than the more feminine art, or even the sexless, abstract kind that cram our museums nowadays to confuse the paying patrons. The question I am attempting to raise is about the universality of art.

Though I am beginning to realize what a difficult task I've undertaken, I'll press on, hopefully illuminating at some point my main point. And please, forgive any ostensible tangents, I promise they have some purpose.

The art of the Rennaisance coincided with the birth of Humanism. Finally the potential and strength of the toiling peasants had been realized (note: irony)! Even in the Roman Republic voting was never popular, it was a mere charade. As far as the Empire goes, people were too busy watching the gladiatorial matches of the Colosseum or the chariot races of the Circus Maximus to be too concerned with politics, and indeed, these were some of the noted functions of the various arenas: to distract the masses from the corrupt political process (does this principle have any relevance today?). The buildings designated for voting soon became theaters of base entertainment(note: no irony). Through the Middle Ages Rome was too devastated by wars and plagues to worry about either art or the political potential of the masses. As the upheavel left in the wake of the fallen Empire gradually began to settle and powerful families and rich merchants began to take over, the quality of life began to improve. Aqueducts were repaired or built providing drinkable water, trade routes re-established bringing in a traffic of products and ideas from around the Mediterranean, building materials imported to build stronger houses, etc. Those in charge were forced more and more to rely upon the common citizens. In the affluent period that followed, there could only be one more step: beautifying the city; making it worthy of all the thousands of pilgrims who came to see where St. Peter was crucified upside down, where St. Lawrence was burned alive (reported last words, doubtlessly apocryphal, were, "I am done on this side! Turn me over and eat," or something to that effect), where St. Paul was beheaded, the fragments of the cross Jesus was crucified on St. Helena brought back from Jerusalem, or any of the thousands of other things that are either located here or happened here. To do this would require an army of ambitious young artists.

Down and Dirty

Meet Jon. What a fun looking guy, huh? (Maybe funny looking, hee-haw). Though it's mostly true, I still had to make him do some pose for the picture. Of the 3 or 4 other pictures I took of him, he looked rather bored.

I met Jon on Halloween of 2003. He was dressed up as the Marvel Comics character, The Punisher; I did nothing but wear a stupid hat and tell everyone I was this man: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peisistratos_(Athens) Peisistratus, ruthless dictator of Athens. He is originally from West Philadelphia (Jon, not Peisistratus), and so is one of the few people I know who can sing the opening lines to "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air" without irony. Though I didn't really talk to him then, I overheard him talking to my friend Lori. Both of them, apparently, had gone to Tulane University, in New Orleans, around the same time, and both of them had studied philosophy. Though they didn't know each other, they conversed about different teachers and fellow students. Small world, it turns out. Smaller still, I realized, when Jon told me one of his best friends is from Montgomery, and that her father owns a music store there. A little investigation revealed that his friend is the daughter of, presumably Art, of Art's Music Shop (her last name is... Freihling?). She went to The Montgomery Academy, and is friends with the only people I know from that school.

Jon is enroute to Seattle, where he will pursue his PhD in the epistomological branch of philosophy. Before starting school there he came to Italy to backpack around. His plane arrived in Milan and he took a train from there directly to Venice. After a few days there, he came down here to Rome. He stayed here for a week, and I tried to show him all of the highlights of Rome and Italian culture. After that week, we went together to Naples and to Pompeii. Though I splurged and bought us both tickets on the fancy Eurostar train-- wanting a nice ride in a comfortable train-- it broke down a half hour outside of the city, and we were forced to return to Rome and take one of the cheap, dirty Intercity trains, which meant we got there too late to go to Capri, as we had originally intended (the man who announced the train's malfunction said, in English, "The Large Driving Machine Number 1 has stopped working. We will now use The Large Driving Machine Number 2 to return to Rome."). Instead we spent that afternoon and evening wandering around the streets of Naples. Naples is a city as old and as rich in history as Rome, but Naples is also one of the most filthy cities in Europe. Though with a good cleaning it could be quite beautiful, no one there seems to care. It seems sometimes to me that the people who have the least respect for Italian history and culture and the beauty of the country are the Italians themselves. Not always true, I know, but tourists are not getting off the boat with cans of spraypaint and bags of garbage to cover the streets with. The piazza two blocks from our hostel had a statue of one of the heroes of Italian unification: Camillo Benso, conte di Cavour. In typical Italian fashion, it is covered in spraypaint and the base is strewn with trash--broken beer bottles and cigarette butts, empty bags of junk food, etc. And I wonder if even the most spiteful street thug in America would ever spraypaint a statue of Benjamin Franklin. It is a possibility, but not something you see. Even if it happened, the day wouldn't end without someone coming to clean it up. The next day we went to Pompeii. I've been there before, but it's something one can't complain about seeing twice. Afterwards we returned to Rome. That was yesterday.

This morning he left to go to Florence. He will stay there 2 days and then back to Milan, where he will stay for a day before flying back to America. In Philly, he will stay for just 4 more days before driving across the country with his dog, a friend, and all of his belongings. Part of me envies his adventure, until I realize I'm pretty much in the midst of one myself.

This week has been really nice, and couldn't have come at a better time for me. I've been locked away in my apartment for so long that I think I was starting to go a little stir-crazy.

Here are some pictures of ours from Pompeii. The one on the left is of the interior of one of the baths. The girl on the right is a French girl who was staying in our room at the hostel, and who kept appearing wherever we went (we even saw her outside of Termini, in Rome). The picture on the right is of me and a German girl we spent the day with, hanging outside of a baker's shop. You can see behind us the oven where the bread was made. The conical concrete object to the left is a mystery to me; there were usually several of them in each baker's shop, and there are around 38 baker's shops in Pompeii.

Jon's visit coincided with a new job for me: that of a Tour Guide. Yes, capitalize that 'T' and that 'G' because this is not any ole' tour guide job, but one for one of the most expensive companies in Rome. My last blog was an introduction to a longer blog I intend to eventually write about my exploits in a different tour company, but that job didn't work out. My boss was an incompetant bufoon and, after a simple communication problem on the phone during my second day, he started screaming at me before firing me. There was no compromising or explaining to him what had happened, he completely lost his temper and started insulting me before telling me he "can't have ----- like [me] working for [him]." For the first time in my life I was fired from a job. Though I'd already been to an interview with another company that looked promising, there was no gauruntee, and I was a bit worried, since both tour companies sounded like great jobs for me (except for the slightly pyschotic manager of the first one, who should have been heavily medicated), and they both paid extremely well. Jon arrived right in the middle of my worries and helped distract me from my stress and gave me some sound advice both before and after my second interview with company B, henceforth known as Through Eternity (the name sounds like a crappy romance novel, but whatever).

Through Eternity wanted me to go through 2 interviews. The first one was with an American, and I was to give a 15 minute lecture on The Transfiguration of Raphael. The picture below. Though I was nervous through the entire interview, the man doing the interview could tell that I was smart and could handle myself well once I got the hang of it. The problem with studying a painting like this is that I have to study thirty different, seemingly irrelevant or unnecessary things just to be able to talk about it with confidence. I have to study the New Testament story that it represents. Since the scene also has Moses and Elijah (and I'd never even heard of Elijah), I also have to go through the Old Testament. Then I have to familiarize myself with the various techniques that set this painting apart, such as the strong use of chiarascuro (the play between light and shadows), what Raphael's contemporaries were up to at the time, the different art movements represented in the painting (such as something called "Mannerism"). I have to study the life of Raphael, the life of the painting, the life of the man who commissioned the painting. I have to be comfortable discussing the contrasts of this painting, with its rich, dark colors, and tight brush strokes, as compared with the rest of Raphael's works. It really is a mind boggling venture.

If I wasn't having problems again uploading pictures, I would upload Caravaggio's "David with the Head of Goliath," which was the painting I had to discuss in my second interview. Far less interesting in terms of the number of figures or the details of the background (of which there isn't one), the painting presented more of a challenge. Again I had to study all of the things mentioned above about Raphael, but then I also had to study even more art movements, such as German Naturalism, Baroque, Venetian Poeticism, etc. Also I had to delve into modern Art, since Caravaggio marks one of the earliest breaks from traditional style. In short, I need to know the significance of every little detail of the painting and the painter and the time period in which it was painted. The second interview was with an Italian. His apartment was decorated with paintings which I assumed, due to the easel in one corner, were his. There was also a grand piano with sheets of music everywhere. He seemed eclectic and highly intelligent; I doubted I could hoodwink him. He also suprised me with a lot of hardball questions, questions he told me he didn't expect me to know the answers too, but which he wanted to see what sorts of guesses I'd come up with. I should get my Masters in B.S., because I think I did admirably well (example question: "What is the significance of David to the Rennaisance?"; think about that one, reader)But I persevered and beat the other 4 candidates for the job.

Now. Now now now. This is going to be a great job, but if you think the amount of studying I had to do for those two paintings is a lot, consider the fact that I'm going to be giving 5 hour tours of the Vatican museums. That is 300 minutes. Assuming I can manage to talk for 15 minutes about a single painting, I still have to stop in front of 20 paintings. That's boring, so let's cut down the length of each presentation to 5 minutes, that's 60 sections. Subtract 45 minutes walking... blah. Basically I'm doing a crash course in Rennaisance art, in Christianity, in Judaism, in the history of the Catholic Church, I need to know which popes commissioned which paintings and sculptures and basilicas and what years these popes lived in, what families they were from, how they were all related. I need to study Latin and Roman history, medieval Rome, modern Italy. I need to study different periods and movements in architecture and the functions of features. I need to know my Saints, who they are and what they're famous for; I need to know the revolutionary figures who united Italy. I need to know the architects of the piazzas and the years in which they were alive. I need to know enough to be able to do some guesswork if a question is thrown at me that I don't know the answer to. My manager gave me 5 books to read for starting out. I've already finished one and am well into the second.

Finally, never before have I felt more thrilled to be learning.

Adventures in Babysitting.

My phone rang at 10pm the other night. I had forgotten what the ring sounded like, and so didn't even answer it the first time, having wrongly assumed it was that of my roommate. When it rang the second time, however, I walked into my room and found it, buried underneath a pile of books on my bed. The number was restricted.

"Hello? Pronto?" I asked.

Rapid fire Italian accent (this should have all the spacing between words omitted to emphasize the sheer speed of this man's speech, but that would be a distracting device; instead I have omitted punctuation): "Hello Justin this is Jerry Whatshisname I run a tour company you emailed me your CV last month we spoke one day or maybe we didn't either way it is not important are you busy tomorrow morning I need you to give a tour to 24 people of all the piazzas of Rome and of the Forum and the Colosseum and the Vatican it will last 7 hours."

Me, scratching myself while coming out of my internet daze and trying to remember which company this was: "Uh... OK."

"Good show up outside of the Hotel Blahbityblah tomorrow at 9:30 you will meet a girl named Eliza and together you will give a tour of ancient Rome the fountains and the Vatican OK good Ciao-Ciao!"

I swayed on my feet for a minute, digesting what had just happened, before becoming flushed with panic and fear, the primordial, colorless type typical of a cornered Neanderthal. I rushed to my bookshelf and started flinging my way through texts, cramming dates and names into my head. Seutonius. Tacitus. Livy. Plutarch. On to the more modern! Wainright and Boatwell! Wikipedia! Hotel Blahbityblah? I'll Google Earth it! Great, right near the Ottaviano Metro stop. That will take me... 1 hour to get to. Let's see... the Vatican? Oh hell... the piazzas... grr... and I still need to shave. I covered a 1000 years of history in one wreckless hour before falling asleep fully clothed on top of a large stack of books I carried with me from the US of A. Or as I like to call it, the "us of A."

(I have a lot I'd like to put in here, so I think I'm going to rush through quite a bit)

The next morning I awoke bright and early and took the first train into town. Not knowing what to wear, I went with my basic polo and khakis-- the most inoffensive clothes I wear. Not that jeans and a t-shirt are offensive, but some might see them as unproffessional (note the emphasis on "some"; personally I'd trust a tour guide who appreciated the value of comfort more than one who seemed to have no concept of it). There was no hot Italian girl waiting for me; in fact, there was nobody waiting for me. I waited for a half an hour before two vans suddenly pulled up. Both of the drivers got out and started smoking. I approached and asked them in Italian if they were there for the tours, which they were. I asked a few more questions about where we were going, what the tour was like, etc. They just shrugged and kept smoking. One of them, noticing my look of panic, listed off which piazzas we would "probably" see. I looked at the two vans and realized that I'd probably have to give a tour (with a microphone!) to one of the vans, and then, with a horrifying revelation, I realized I couldn't remember the names of the architects of the Trevi Fountain or the Spanish Steps (generally the two most crowded places in Rome, and therefore my least favorite). I sent a text message to my probably sleeping roommate asking her to find this essential information on the internet for me; I could work from that. (afternote: she "never got a text message")

Another 10 minutes passed before the other girl arrived with a man known as "The Professor" (which I still pronounce with an ominous voice in my head before punctuating it with imagined claps of thunder) and "Jerry," the man from the phone. The three of them ignored me until all of the tourists came out of their hotel and started filing into their respective vans. Then Jerry turned to me and introduced me to "The Professor"(ka-POW!) and Eliza before patting me on the back and telling me I'd probably be giving the tour of the Forum. Though I know the Forum pretty well by now, it was still nervewracking to think that I'd be guiding these 24 people around. This Jerry shook my hand and turned away to get on his motorino and drive off, probably to some cafe somewhere where he could do what most Italians seem to do with their time: nothing.

Eliza started speaking to me in Italian and, not wanting to betray my insufficient understanding of the language this early in our relationship, I nodded and followed her, cramming myself into a van of tourists I soon learned were going to about 8 cities in 15 days. Each one would be a crammed, whirlwind tour of whatever most people wanted to see. In short, it was a nightmare.

To wrap up this element of the story, I will say that "The Professor" (BOOM!) decided to stay for the entire tour, so my job was limited to hovering around the fringes of the flock and nipping at the heels of anyone who strayed too far or decided to take time to frame a picture decently. I was told to keep everyone together, and the sheep-dog metaphor sorta dominated my entire day, so that I don't really feel I learned a single new thing.

Ok, well I have a good deal more to this, but since I've been such a slacker lately on the blog posting issue, I think I'll get back to it next week (tomorrow I return to an entirely different job I've started, but I'll get to that). This weekend I'm going to Naples and Pompeii, with my friend Jon, who is visiting from Philadelphia. But just you wait...

More of Tuscany

Here are some more pictures. It takes a really long time to upload each one of these (at least it takes me a really long time), so I've only had the patience to do a few at a time. Above is Russ, the sound guy, in the town Anhiari, where we took some fantastic shots. The valley in the distance is the Tiber river valley, and if this picture were larger I think you could see the mountains in the distance. The mountains in the distance are where we made most of our shots, since that was where the monastery was located, as well as the house of the people we were filming. Both of them were published writers. One of Lucinda's books can be found Here . One of her husband's books is Here .

These are just snapshots of around the place.

Tuscany

Apparantly I'm an idiot. Either that or Blogger is. Either way, I can't get my photos to line up correctly. They look fine in the "Edit" window, but as soon as I post the thing, they go all over the place. Regardless, here are some pictures from my trip to Tuscany. Enjoy:

This one to the left is of the very colorful market we went to on the Sunday after they arrived. It was given to them as a jet-lag day, and so we decided to spend it in Florence. Most of them wanted to do some shopping at the market. We explored a little bit of Florence.

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This is one of my favorite sculptures in Florence. It is a pretty gruesome representation of Perseus cutting off the head of Medusa. It was made by Benevuto Cellini, considered by some to also be the founder of the autobiographical style. He was quite an interesting character, always challenging people who offended him to fights, or backstabbing companions to get a commission. The only thing redeeming about it is that the man is outrageously funny. And he was good at what he did. This is his most famous work.

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This is the back of the house we were doing the feature on. It was used for several hundred years after it's abandonment around the 15th century as a sort of weigh station for pilgrims, until this Canadian couple came in and renovated it. The road on the front side of the house is an ancient road from the Roman times. It's just gravel and dirt now, but you can see the large stones that used to give it form. This house was around 1000 years old. The picture below it is another angle of the house that show's its positioning among the hills somewhat. The "garden" they're standing in grows all sorts of herbs naturally. When we arrived, I took one look at the place and thought, "They flew all the way here to film a bunch of weeds?" Apparantly, and I'm not taking sides on this argument, but the lady says that she believes a garden should be left alone, that it should grow naturally.

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This house is used as a spiritual retreat center for people from all over the world. A plethura of seemingly incongruous religious icons dot the land and house; though the people who run it are primarily Catholic. The inspiration for all of this is St. Francis of Assissi, who very likely walked the road in front of it, towards his monastery up the mountain.

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In the 110 Tuscan heat, this is what we spent all of our time doing: creating shade. That is Russ, the sound guy on the left. Linda to his right. Barry, the director, is just visible beneath the umbrella, which is being held by Giulia. We rotated this chore.

This last picture is a shot we were taking of John, the man of the house we were filming, riding his scooter away from the house and towards the small, medieval town of Sansepolcro, where he went to mass everyday.

Tomorrow I'll post some more photos.

Only in Italy...

ROME, Italy (Reuters) -- A Sicilian mother took away her 61-year-old son's house keys, cut off his allowance and hauled him to the police station because he stayed out late.

Tired of her son's misbehavior, the pensioner in the central Sicilian city of Caltagirone turned to the police to "convince this blockhead" to behave properly, La Sicilia, one of Sicily's leading newspapers, reported on Thursday.

The son responded by saying his mother did not give him a big enough weekly allowance and did not know how to cook.

"My son does not respect me, he doesn't tell me where he's going in the evenings and returns home late," the woman was quoted as saying. "He is never happy with the food I make and always complains. This can't go on."

Police helped the squabbling duo make up and the two returned home together, with the son's house keys and daily allowance restored.

Most Italian men still live at home late into their 30s, enjoying their "mamma's" cooking, washing and ironing.

Allow me to be pedantic...

Welcome to the Circus Maximus.

Allow me to be annoyingly pedantic. And, I fear, some of what I'm about to say may be incorrect, so I apologize for any amount of authority in the tone, if, that is, it detectable at all. The truth is, one can never be too sure about these things.

The Circus Maximus is one of, I believe, the more interesting historical sites of Rome. Many of the early scholars on ancient Rome misread certain key historical texts, and erroneously assumed that where these texts said most of the early Christians were killed in the "Arena", what they meant was "Colosseum." Though there is still much scholarly debate about this, from what I gather as an amateur historian is that the argument is tilting more and more towards the Circus Maximus. The Colosseum was for more professional sports; killing Christians was no sport at all. For mass killings they needed larger areas. Using their line of reason, it was probably much more fun to watch a lion chase a man over the large distance offered by the Circus Maximus, than to watch one go round in tight circles at the Colosseum. This is what my professional historian teachers have told me, at least. What is unfortunate about the Circus Maximus is apparant in the picture: there is nothing left. Nothing. Not even a stone. There aren't even any markers indicating the historical importance of the place; if indeed my teachers' arguments can be trusted, this is a travesty. What can be seen in the distance are the ruins of the Palantine hill, the hill upon which Romulus famously (though mythically) established Rome. It is also where we get the word "Palace." Beyond that is the Capitoline hill, where we get another important word, "Capitol."

In 1749, Pope Benedetto XIV ("Benedetto" literally means "well read"; for all intents and purposes, we shall now refer to him as "Pope Wellread the 14th") declared the Colosseum a religious monument. The Colosseum still stands today because of this assumption that Christians were killed in there, maimed, crucified, burned, fed to lions, and all sorts of other generally unpleasant things. There is a fair chance that they were, especially in the middle years of the Roman Empire (ho-hum estimation: 150-250) but the most revered group of these early martyrs, died in the Circus Maximus, which is not standing. The Circus Maximus was about 2000 feet long and about 400 feet wide. It could seat a quarter of a million spectators: 5 times as many as the Colosseum. I imagine it was pretty spectacular.

When (and if) Nero famously burned Rome to the ground, he did not play the violin, since the violin would not be invented for another 1500 years, but he very well may have played the lyre. One way or the other, some believe his intention was to clear out a section of Rome, where he wanted to build his "Domus Aurea," or, "Golden Palace." The area of Rome burned? Mostly right where the Colosseum stands today. The fire started just a little ways behind where I stood when I took this picture to the right. This is no coincidence. Nero succeeded in building his Golden Palace. A few years later, under the emperor Vespasian, the Golden Palace was largely demolished. On top of it, the Colosseum was constructed. But the Golden Palace, in its day, was one of the most decadent buildings of the ancient world, something sure to be costly and sure to generate a fair amount of unrest in a populace whose homes had just been burned. In order to save himself a little bit from an angry mob, he declared quite simple that it was the Christians who set fire to Rome. It was a brilliant political move, almost as brilliant as when, some 200 odd years later, another emperor, Constantine, would declare Christianity the official state religion. At the time, the Christians were a small, growing religious group who operated in secrecy and who were led by two names I'm sure we all know: Peter and Paul. After Nero used them as a scapegoat, the Christians were rounded up. Here is a passage from the Roman historian Tacitus:

Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus, and a most mischievous superstition, thus checked for the moment, again broke out not only in Judaea, the first source of the evil, but even in Rome, where all things hideous and shameful from every part of the world find their centre and become popular. Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind. Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to crosses, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired

The place where much of this happened, it would appear, is in the Circus Maximus. The fire was in 64AD; the Colosseum would not be built for another decade, would not be completed for another 2.

Fleeing the city, Peter had his famous "Quo Vadis" vision in which Jesus appeared to him as he walked along the Appian Way (which is what I drive along when coming into the city in my roommate's car), heading towards Rome. Peter asked him "Where are you going?" to which Jesus replied something along the lines of, "To be crucified again." Peter, ashamed of himself, turned and walked back to Rome, to be crucified upside down.

I believe most of the Christians were killed on the other side of the Tiber, near where St. Peter's stands. But the possibility that much of it happened here, in Rome's first and largest circus, cannot be ruled out. Even if these assumptions are incorrect, there must've been a helluva lot of amazing chariot races.

This is where I go to read books in the afternoon.

The End of July

The subways are gradually getting thinner, as is my class schedule. Next month I have only two students left. One would think that, given the urgent tone of the tour guide ads I keep replying to, that someone would email me back, or return my phone calls. But this is Rome. I have learned not to expect expediency in anything Italian.

I've said goodbye to each and every one of my students, and now I'm saying goodbye to my fellow teachers, most of whom are going back to the US for the month of August. Turns out I picked the worst time to start a mini-career as an educator: the summer. In September the year starts again, and I will be flooded with work. Even three French guys I made friends with have all left; the last one called this morning to say that he wasn't sure if they'd be coming back: their tenure at Telecom Italia is over. I'm not really upset about everyone leaving, in fact it will make August more pleasant (since everyone will be gone and the streets, excepting the tourist areas, will be relatively empty). But there is a weird apocolyptic feel to it, as if everyone is evacuating.

I've taken to spending my nights watching and re-watching Life is Beautiful. I watched it twice with the English subtitles, twice with the Italian subtitles, and once with my headphones while lying in bed, without watching it at all, just listening. If I don't learn Italian, I'll at least be able to quote this movie ver batim. It's a good movie, there are some flaws, but it will suffice. Since it is depressing as well, I tend to re-watch the first half a lot, and neglect the whole segment of it that makes a concentration camp look like a playground. If ever I'm in a conversation that I lose the thread of, I can just start spouting off lines from this movie. I've learned such useful words as "tank," and "bellybutton," but for the most part, Roberto Begnini speaks at a thousand words per minute, so it is difficult. It is, unfortunately, the only Italian movie we have in my house. My roommate also owns The Motorcycle Diaries, Amelie, Forrest Gump, and the Godfather part 3. Oh, and Moulin Rouge. Though I can watch any of these movies in Italian, I really want a just plain ole Italian movie. La Vita è Bella it is, then.

My Belgian roommate is the mediator of the house, but she is gone right now, leaving me with two women whom I'm beginning to realize more and more each day, hate each other. I make a mediocre mediator, so I've been avoiding the whole scenario by staying in Rome a little longer than necessary and going straight to my room when I get home. I don't like having one or the other unload a laundry list of complaints onto me about the other; that's not why I'm here.

In short, soon I would like to find another place to live. But first, I need to secure a new job for the month of August.

The people who run my school have an intellectual aptitute slightly better than inbred chimps. That has yet to be tested, but I'm pretty sure it is right around there. Today I'm sitting in one of the offices, and Celina, the American girl who got me the job, said, "God, they're so annoying," referring to the loud chatter of the four women who run the school in the next room (the man who owns it is always mysteriously absent), "All they do all day is sit in there talking to their moms or about boys."

News to me, since I thought they were busy in a meeting or something. 20 minutes later they came in telling me I shouldn't have forgot the registers, blah blah blah. What registers? Oh, you mean the ones you people keep forgetting to give me? The ones I keep pestering you to give me? Yeah, about those... uhh, could I please have them? Can you put down your McDonads for a minute (yes, they eat McDonalds everyday, to my horror), and actually do some work? I can't very well get my students to sign them when I don't have them, now can I?

These people know what they're doing. They laugh and hoot and holler all day long in their offices and then get angry with me when they haven't done their job. I have absolutely no respect for them, as business people. I'm sure they're pleasant people outside of work, but here I feel abused and taken advantage of, because I need them more than they need me. AND (and this is the best part), they don't speak English! How, pray tell, can one run an English speaking school and not speak English? Any misunderstaning they have with me they can write off as my inadequate Italian, but it works both ways too.

Tonight I am going to find something entertaining to do. I don't know what yet, but something. Wish me luck.

10 Posts

When I make it to 10 posts, I can join this community of expat blogs that might boost my readership. The problem is I can't even complete one post (read the previous blog).

Anyways. Anyways isn't actually a word, but I use it all the time with full knowledge that it doesn't really "exist." Funny way of thinking about it.

Anyways. Last night my friend Jordan returned from his trip to Florida with his girlfriend. I had never met her before, and it was interesting. She didn't speak much English, so I was forced to speak in Italian. I complain a lot that my Italian isn't improving as fast as I'd like it to, but this is really my problem because I never speak it except to order food or to tell the people at the front desk of where ever I'm teaching who I'm there to see. With my roommates I speak English, but will say certain things in Italian, which sorta restricts me to just what I already know. At first, with Jordan's girlfriend (whose name I have shamefully forgotten) I was extremely timid. After we all ate dinner and went out for a crepe, though, I started babbling in Italian to her. Babbling. What an unappreciated art that is! To be able to babble, one must first have demonstrated some profficiency. I was drunk on my own words. I kept speaking and speaking about everything that came to mind. Granted, some of it I had a lot of difficulty with, but for the most part I got my point across.

The night before that, as I was walking down the street, past the park, I heard a couple of Americans conversing at the bar. Americans? In Marino? I thought me and Jordan were the only Americans here. Furthermore, they weren't just speaking English, they were speaking it with a thick southern accent. Che cos'è questo? So I sat down with them and started talking to them. One was from Knoxville, Tennessee, the other from Florida, I think Miami. They were on their Peace Corps mission in an African country I'd never even heard of, near Burkina Faso on the west coast. Ian, the guy from Tennessee, was visiting his step-father's sister, who lives in Grotta Ferrata, and Jesse was just looking for a nice vacation. I took them out and showed them around Marino, finding several places I never even knew existed, since I restrict myself a good deal to my living room. Last night I introduced them to Jordan and his girlfriend. Jordan took us up to the top of his house (which used to be the Pope's library) and we drank a beer while watching the lights of Rome twinkle in the distance. The night was a lot of fun. I don't meet many Americans where I live, so it was different, and for a moment I felt like I had myself a community here, even though Ian and Jesse leave tomorrow morning and are spending the night at the airport.

Today I made phone calls to several companies to try to find more work for August. I will be meeting up with one of the guys on Wednesday to see about becoming a dreaded tour guide. I have mixed feelings about it, but my lessons in August are scarce.

I think I need about 3 more posts before I reach the minimum 10 requirement for this network. I think i can pull something out.

7 Days in Tuscany

I woke up this morning with the desire to do nothing all day but lounge in my underwear around the house. Maybe find a good movie on Italian TV and drain myself in front of it. The past week was fantastic, but exhausting. We worked 12 hour days in the harsh, Tuscan sun, moving heavy film equipment around or climbing up mountains to get the best panoramic of the location. It was over 40 degrees here, which means it was over 100 degrees Farenheit. Being home is a mild blessing, and I plan on being as lazy as possible today. Tomorrow I return to teaching; my "real world" isn't half bad, but it's not the dream that Tuscany was.

This plan has worked excellently so far. Now I'd like to start a blog about my past week. My writing on this blog has been sloppy, I'd like to put some effort into it, get it right (or get it "write"). I have a bad tendency to post rough drafts, things written hastily. Normally I regret it in the morning. But it's good, because it exposes the flaws. When writing for myself I don't consider any perspective but my own. Once I know someone else has read it, I see all sorts of problems. My week in Tuscany, however, was as wonderful as you would think, and I'd like to do it a little bit of justice. In short, this blog might undergo several incarnations. There are also more pictures I ripped offline. Same difference, just a different person pushed the button on the camera, right? Joking.



The late afternoon sun shone through the trees like sparkling diamonds and cast a foilage of dancing shadows onto the curvy, Tuscan road. The restful silence had turned into a contented slumber for everyone in the van but me, the driver. Our road sliced through the valleys of the Apennines, going over creeks of spring water and through olive green forests, occasionally breaking out into a yellow field of brilliant sunflowers or misty grain, before plunging back into the dense, mountain forests. I drove with the window down and listened to the wind and the birds.

Behind us, growing steadily more distant, was Florence. I'd been to Florence a few times before, I like the city, but it only takes a few hours to become well-acquainted with it. The scorching summer heat and the unbearable crowds made it intolerable to me my first visit, but when I returned for a second visit in the middle of October, I had a fantastic time.The air was crisp and cool, the crowds manageable, and my company pleasant. This third visit was only for a day; my team wanted to do some shopping and sightseeing. It was their only day off, given to them as a jet-lag day. The heat and the crowds were even worse than I remembered, but I couldn't complain about a free trip to Florence.

When we arrived there, we all split up to go our own ways. Barry, the director, wanted to go to the flea market, while Russ, the sound guy, wanted to do his own thing. Giulia stuck with Barry for the most part, while I tagged alongside Linda, the camera assistant. We did a little shopping-- I needed a new t-shirt and she needed a hat-- but spent most of our time sightseeing. I knew nothing of Florence my first two trips, but have since read several books about the city, and so gave a haphazard tour to Linda. She had been patient with me during my search through the colorful and chaotic market for a t-shirt and so I tried to be amicable, despite the heat and the languor I felt.

She spoke always through a smile that arched the timbre of her voice towards benevolence; also she had a healthy laugh and a sense of humor. But she was always calm too. The day before, Giulia and I were a half hour late to the airport-- they were waiting on us, it was 7 o'clock in the morning and they'd flown all night to Rome. Then, to top it off, the rental car wasn't under any of our names. I left Giulia to deal with the car people while I went to find the group. They seemed, if anything, bored. Not the sightest irritation. Linda was the first one I spoke to and it was the quality of her smile that first struck me. Barry came up a few moments later and waved it all off, saying "I've been in this industry for over 30 years, nothing ruffles my feathers anymore."

I could not have asked for a better group of people to spend my time with for that week.



crap. gotta go.

Recreating Eden - Baha'i Gardens - Haifa

As you may know, next week I will be driving a Canadian production team around Tuscany to film gardens. I wanted to see a clip of the show, and I found this, as well as several others in a similar vein. I thought I'd post it. It's a little cheesy, but will doubtlessly be interesting. I leave tomorrow morning at 5:30. Hopefully we don't run into any problems.

Here's a link to the website of the company (I hope all this stuff actually works, I'm still new to the game): Merit Motion Pictures

Some Pictures!

Many of you have been asking me for pictures, so I thought I'd start. The photos of Marino are ones I've found online and yanked from several people. This one to the right is of one of the Porchetta stands that are famous here. Porchetta is a type of pork exclusive to this region. It is fantastic, and cheap. For €2 one can get a sandwich, and for an additional 50 cents, a glass of wine. Marino is known as the "Citta' del Vino", which means, "City of Wine." Most of it is made locally.

It is difficult to find pictures of Marino online, since the search brings up pictures of "San Marino," which is a different, larger city in the north. Most of the picture of Marino are of the wine festival. Here is another one:

This is the fountain in the center of town from which all of the wine comes during the famous wine festival. After the wine is emptied, the grapes which are strewn about come down, and everyone has a grape fight. I live only a few blocks straight down the road to the right of this picture.

A typical block in Marino looks a bit like this:

A rather interesting picture of the turret in the center of town:

I only wish I could take credit for these. Soon enough I'll have my own pictures. They may not be talented, but they'll be mine.

In the course of my online search, however, I found lot's of interesting pictures of "San Marino." Maybe I'll go there one day.

Here are some pictures of the Lago Albano:

I hope you enjoyed the preview. I know I sure did.

Brainstorming

After the excitement of making the 4 dollars, I decided I would look up some of the more popular blogs to familiarize myself with various formats and perhaps dig up some ideas. What I found was fascinating. Most people who make their living off their blogs have come up with great ideas. One man whom I came across would find photos and write brief little short stories about them (which were expertly executed) and then ask other people to write their own. This is ingenius, since it encourages interaction and people check the blog more frequently. His page also contained hundreds of links to other blogs and websites, each divided up by category. The blog had style, but wasn't overstylised. By comparison, my blog is childish.

This is encouraging rather than discouraging, however. It has swarmed my head with ideas, none very good, but the wheels are turning in new ways, and I'm confident I will eventually come up with something. Any ideas?

In the course of my research, I have also found that there are a lot of "professional bloggers" who make their entire living off of their writing. The particular gent I mentioned above just moves around Europe, writing blogs and hanging out with friends from various countries. I don't think I can make it to that level of comfort, but I'm not doing so much else with my time, so I see no harm in trying. One thing I have to do is figure out how to adjust this cheap layout. Again, any suggestions?

Anyways, last night I watched "Dirty Dancing" for the first time. I promised myself at one point in my life (and probably many times afterwards) that I would never watch that movie, but I needed Italian, and so I figured it wasn't really "watching" it as "studying" it. Today, like every other day, I woke up fulfilled, and lively (that's an alteration on a favorite Rumi line of mine, so don't accuse me of plagiarism); the sun was high in the sky, not a cloud to be seen. The past few weeks have been cooler than my first couple. Now I think I'm going to go to the lake and do some writing.

Ciao tutti!
-justin

I'm the best driver you've ever met.

I have several saved drafts of blogs, but nothing I care to post yet, if ever, but I want to post something (especially after my shameless canvassing of my friends). I guess a good place to start is here:

She counted out the money onto the table in front of me. Where I thought it would keep going, she stopped. I asked her if that was all, and she nodded. Taxes? I asked. Again, she nodded. My situation was looking a little desperate: this was an entire month's pay sitting in front of me, and it covered the barest necessities. I sighed and collected the stack of bills and thrust them into my wallet. Time to start coming up with a plan D (A wasn't working out; B never got off the ground; C I had had no reason to believe would ever become more than just a plan). I was in the office of the school and decided to check my email to see if I had gotten any replies from the various companies I'd applied to, or perhaps (and this seems even more unlikely) if one of my friends emailed me [jab]. Everything in the inbox was shaded read and I began to fret. I hadn't even thought about my blog in recent days (I've been too preoccupied), but I decided to check and see if it had made any money. It had: 4 dollars. Four dollars! I couldn't believe my eyes. Four whole dollars! This is no large amount of money, by any stretch of the imagination, but what excited me about it was that it was the first time I've received any money for writing something. I know that this blog is sort of corny, and the only people who check it are a few friends and some family, so the 4 dollars wasn't earned because of some merit of mine, but I couldn't get over it.

It was such a good feeling that I packed up my stuff, went to the park, and got myself a gelatto. I sat watching the rowers in the lake thinking about the 4 dollars, and why it excited me so much. A part of me has always doubted my abilities in any endeavor; I have never experienced a moment of total confidence. Every action is marred by self-doubt. But recently I felt I had finally started to shed all of that off, the 4 dollars merely proved something to me: that if I worked hard enough at it, I could really actually make some money. Part of me was being silly, but I wasn't worried about it.

I was feeling pretty dandy when an American friend called me to see if I was in town for the night. I had no plans, so I agreed to meet her for aperitivo in Campo dei Fiori at 8. After I got off the phone with her I decided to start walking, somewhere, anywhere. It was a delicious afternoon, the air was calm and cool, there were no clouds in the sky, everything seemed sleepy, like a Sunday. I strolled through the ancient streets, deliberately trying to get lost, but by now I have an internal compass in this town, and no matter how narrow the strip of blue sky is above the rooftops, or how directionless the streets seem, I can always find my way. The money, I started to tell myself, wasn't bad. Cutting out the gelatto and the occaisional beer would set me straight. No indulgences and I'd be fine. Wasn't being here indulgent enough? Wasn't the Roman air an ointment for my frustrations? Yes, the money wasn't really a problem at all, I thought, and suddenly realized it wasn't. The more I walked, the better I felt. I had forgotten about the 4 dollars, or pushed it aside, and was rambling out whole, fantastic yarns in my head; I was writing a novel every block and I was miles from a pen. Instead of trying to remember any of these threads, I usually just surrender myself to them and let them carry me along; in their wake I will perhaps remember a cluster of words or an idea that occurred, but nothing rivalling the initial force of my imaginative rambling.

At 8 I met up with Giulia and we went to a bar to get apperitivo. Generally one pays for a drink and then there is a buffet opened to you, but occasionally I just pretend I am with people and eat for free. But this place was too nice and not very busy, so I bought a drink and got dinner. The apperitivos are generally really good, and I was happy to gorge myself. There was a nice quiche and several panini with prosciutto and mozarrella, there was bread with several spreads, a salad. Together with the glass of wine, it made a nice meal.

Giulia I met 2 years ago here. I knew when I met her that she'd be a useful contact to have, and so far she has been. One cannot walk half a block with her without running into someone she knows. I've always suspected she inherited a lot of money; there's no other way to explain how she supports her lifestyle. Her tastes are expensive, and, as a result, she wines and dines right along side all of the American businessmen, diplomats, journalists, etc. In her company I have met everything from sculptors to actors. This is the reason I will occasionally fork out the money for a drink with her.

However, Giulia and I are only acquaintances, and sometimes it is a strain to be around her. The conversation started out slow and clumsy before she asked me if I had a driver's license. She asked me as if it were an afterthought. I told her I did but didn't ask why she wanted to know, and the conversation quickly moved on. After about 20 minutes she told me about the job she has for a week in Tuscany: driving a Canadian production team around to various gardens in Tuscany. They worked for a show that did features on different gardens around the world.

"I don't know if I'm going to take the job. The money's not great, but they pay for the hotels and my food and everything," she said.

"How much do they pay?" I asked. She told me and my jaw dropped. This was the best indication of how wealthy this girl must be, if she described this as "not a lot of money."

"That's more than I make in a month!" I exclaimed. "And you said you don't know if you want to do it?" I was incredulous. She was visibly tickled by my reaction. "You get to drive people around Tuscany, eat for free, and hang out with a group of, probably very cool people, and you get paid for it!"

"Well, that's why I asked you if you had a driver's license." My jaw dropped even lower.

"You want to know if I want to do it?" I felt light at the possibility. So much could come from this possible outcome.

"Well, I'll have to contact the people who hired me and see if it's alright," she told me, "I'll probably know by Monday."

This idea was too much. I could take a week off from work easily and make a lot of money while having a fantastic time. Giulia's phone rang and she excused herself. She had to go and meet some friends. I was welcome to come along, but I needed to catch my train, so we parted ways. Later I sent her a text message: I'm the best driver you've ever met.

To be continued...

St. Peter in Chains

I've spent the last week and a half shuffling between my home in Marino and my classes in Rome, with no real R n' R in between (other than my weekend trips to Lago Albano and my daily strolls through Marino). I spend almost all of my time waiting for the train, riding the train, waiting for the subway, riding the subway, waiting for the bus, riding the bus, walking from the bus stop to my lesson, waiting for my lesson; repeat steps a-z in reverse, then rinse, lather, and repeat. By the time I am finished each day, I am exhausted. On the particularly hot days (particularly hot days are the ones that spike over 100 degrees Farenheit; those that remain in the 90's being just average) I come home delirious. Usually I have to cook dinner for myself and about twice a week I have to do laundry (all walk and no play makes Justin a dirty boy). This is to say that, recently I've begun to question my past judgement about moving back here.

Friday morning I woke up at my usual hour, only to find out that my morning class was cancelled. Around 2 in the afternoon I left for my afternoon class and walked down the mountain to get my train. Unfortunately, the ticket machine was broken. A man stood smoking a cigarette on the platform; I approached and asked, in my scrambled egg Italian, where I could buy a ticket. He reply was as frenzied as a fencing match, and I only understood the words "Top" and "Hill." I thanked him and turned to make the 300 stair trek to the top of the hill, only to find that everything was closed for the mid-day fiesta. I asked someone where I could buy a ticket, and he pointed me further up the mountain. After finding a place, I raced back down to the bottom of the mountiain to catch the train. The train never came. I waited for 45 minutes before a man came out onto the platform and told everyone waiting that the train wasn't going to come. He led us onto a bus and drove us to another train station. From here I got on a train to go to Rome. It was completely packed with people and there were no seats. The trains also have no air-conditioning. This was a "particularly hot day." The stench was suffocating. This train made it most of the way into the city, but then broke down, with Termini in sight. Twenty minutes went by before they finally pulled us in.

After I finished my lesson, without thinking, I started heading back to Marino. Claudio, my one Italian friend, has been busy with school, and my three French buddies were on vacation, so I had nothing to do. As I stood at Termini Station, I decided I'd go out, walk around. I needed an adaptor for my computer, so I had a little bit of an objective, but it wasn't imperative, and I wasn't going to be frustrated if I couldn't find one. I turned left out of the front of Termini; the streets all around are lined with peddlers from all over, trying to force onto pedestrians bootleg bags, shoes, sunglasses, etc. The taxis beep and honk and screech by each other, the red-faced drivers yelling at each other in a language I can barely understand; the motorinos buzz by, sounding like overgrown gnats flying into your ear. All around are travellers of every size, shape, color, creed, age, sex, religion, etc., each dazed by the glare of the Roman sun and dizzied by the fumes of the motorinos, some arguing about directions with each other, some just crouching pinch-faced over their little tourist maps. In short, I hate this place. Termini is easily my least favorite place in Rome, and it is also the place I see the most of. I quickly made my way away from it, heading south past all the internet cafes and kabob shops. Some of the internet cafes and kabob shops have joined forces, so that as you check your email in between sweaty strangers in an un-airconditioned room, you can smell the processed meat of the kabobs from the next room, and hear the Turks yelling out orders to each other. An unpleasant experience, at its best. A few blocks away, though, and I reentered the city I'd fallen in love with. I walked past the Piazza Cavour and looked at the giant, 16 century basilica that stood there. A woman sat feeding some very delicious looking bread to the pigeons, and I was tempted to snatch it from her. What a waste! To give bread to the flying rats when all around you people are starving and suffering. Take me for instance! Here I was, starving under the fierce blare of the sunlight. That is a joke, but what about the crippled gypsy woman sobbing at the trunk of the tree next to me, holding out her hand and begging for spare change. But, I diverge from my topic.

The day after I arrived in Rome the first time, my roommates and I set out to see the Colosseum and the Forum. None of us had had a chance to explore the city yet, so we didn't even know where to get off the subway. We ended up getting off at Cavour. As I walk past the square and look down the roads I can remember the magic of that first encounter with the heart of Rome. We had left our apartment just as a storm had errupted, but fortunately it was just a quick, summer storm, one that drenches everything before evaporating and leaving a blue sky behind. By the time we stepped out of the tunnel at the subway station the clouds had parted and the wet, brick streets gleamed like fish scales in the afternoon glare. Somehow, it seemed, the storm had momentarily stunned the city, and no one was outside; the silence was profound. We wandered down the same street I was walking down, looking for anything familiar, that is to say, anything we'd seen on postcards. It's funny, because an image like the Colosseum is so familiar to us that we don't even remember becoming acquainted with it-- it is something that has just seeped into our memories slowly and without fanfare. That is why, when my friend Joe suddenly said, "Look over there!" we were all dumbfounded for a moment. It was appropriate that he didn't say, "There's the Colosseum!" because it was so sudden and striking as to make us all forget momentarily where we were. I think I'd been busy looking down an alleyway, and Tom was looking in a storefront. To our left was one of the most famous and oldest buildings in the world. It was huge, much larger than any postcard had ever made it look, and it seemed to shine, though I'm sure that was merely a result of the sun and humidity.

After staring at it for a few minutes, we continued our trek down the main avenue, towards the Forum. The glimpse of the Colosseum was from over a wall, which prohibited us access. The Forum was deserted. I have been to the Forum at least a hundred times, and I've never seen it that deserted. We were the only people left. The rain was still fresh on the ground and the aroma of dew rose and drifted through the ruins. The Forum, to me, is one of the most fascinating places on Earth. I believe it is also my favorite, purely because of that first visit. I go back every once and a while and affectionately touch some of the pillars or duck my head into the shed where Gaius Julius Caesar was cremated (and where, to this day, people leave fresh flowers), and though people are all around oggling the arches and old temples, not knowing what they're looking at or what happened there, I still feel a certain quiet pride in this place, as if it is mine alone. In these strolls I simply imagine that first visit, and I blot all the tourists out.

But Friday I decided not to go to the Forum. I took a left down an alleyway and up through some stairs that went beneath an overhanging building. The alleyway was innocuous-- I had never noticed it-- but I saw an old German couple taking pictures, so I thought I'd give it a try. The walls were covered in ivy and some of it hung down in front of the stairs, like beads in front of a fortune teller's door. The stairs opened up into a small, fairly colorless piazza, on the left of which stood an old church. Considering it's bland facade, the concentric arches that made up its front side, and the lack of a dome, I guessed the church was built sometime in the early Rennaisance/Late Middle Ages. The Rennaisance is a difficult time period to define, since it started and ended at different times in different countries. In Italy, it blossomed early and petered out late. I put this church somewhere in the 1400's. I'd seen another practically identical to it in Florence, and if I remembered correctly, that was when it was built. I believe that that was the same church in which Galilleo, Boccaccio, Michelangelo, Petrarch, and many others were buried. A veritable Westminster Abbey of Italy. A few people milled around outside and I decided to go in.

Originally I had also assumed the building wasn't originally meant to be a church, but rather some more official, office type building. I have no idea if it was or wasn't, but if it had been, all traces of that had been removed and replaced with religious ornaments, frescoes, marble floors, small alters off to the sides for praying or lighting candles. Looking at some of the art I wondered if I had been wrong about the date of the building, but after reading a sign, realized I had guessed right-- it was built in the 1460's-- while Colombus was just a boy. The paintings and frescoes had all been added later. The church was unremarkable as far as Roman churches go, but as I walked down the ancient alleyways I noticed a small group of people taking pictures in a corner. I walked up and looked around-- it was Michelangelo's Moses. The last of his major works I had yet to see.

It was remarkable. Breathtaking. Serene. And a bit absurd.

Absurd? The experience was absurd. Joe and I had set out on a mission one Saturday long ago to find this sculpture. We peeked in every church we came across with no results. It was a half-hearted attempt, true, but we spent a large portion of that day looking. In the end I think we gave up and decided to get gelatto near the Circus Maximus (another time I'll write about the Circus Maximus). We could have found it on the internet, but where was the fun in that? We thought of it as "Church Hunting," like a treasure hunt, but better. And as I stood there, I thought, "What are the chances of this?" In Rome, very great. A better question would be, "What are the chances that I'll look into some random church and NOT come across something spectacular?" That's just the way Rome is.

I turned to the left and looked to see what was at the center of the altar-- the chains which bound St. Peter up after he was imprisoned by the emperor Nero. The authenticity of the chains is questionable (fake religious relics used to be "all the rage"), but they were undoubtedly old.

I left feeling a bit redeemed for my week and a half neglect of Rome. I walked back to Termini, no longer bothered by the throngs of people that bled from it. The initial magic I felt that first August day here, stepping out of Cavour into the steamy afternoon light, was still here, lurking, so to speak, in the dark alleyways.


-justin