Buonasera, Buonanotte, Ci vediamo, Ciao, In Boca Lupo

This is it. This is the last post.

It's just about 2 in the morning here, and I can't possibly sum up everything that is happening/has happened. Life in the past few weeks has been like water speeding up before cascading over a cliff.

43 hours until touchdown in Seattle.

It's all got a bit of a "what do you want to do with your 48 hours to live?" vibe to it. I need to say goodbye to the Duomo. I need my favorite gelato just of Via di Citta, near Piazza del Campo. I need my good ol' pesto, mozzarella, tacchino and pomodori sandwitch from Internet Train near the University. I snuck in my favorite restaurant meals already.

I am really going to miss this place.

Yes, I'll be returning to all that fresh water, fresh air, baseball, friends, family, trees and mountains, but I'm going to miss all the stone, all the old things, the expanses of thin Tuscan forests and hills. They're repetative, but I'll miss all the Catholic art too. I'll miss the pizza by the slice. I'll miss the Frizzante water, the wine, the soccer, the shirts with weird English phrases that the Italians wear anyways ("Bobobobo What's your address?" is my favorite), the program-mates, this room.

Today I made a four-hour commitment to San Giminiano. It's the city of Towers, smaller than Siena but very similar and worth the trip. Cinque Terre was exhausting and dominated by Americans holding Rick Steves guidebooks. Those towns own him a statue.

And here are some things long overdue:

VENICE is disappointing. Yup, there are the canals. But where are the Italians? I guess they're running the shops, but all those people are speaking English . . . but anyways, ask me all about it.

ASSISI rests upon a hill like a very holy town. The church of St. Francis is breathtaking and stacked upon itself, and the tomb is quite a sight to behold. On the way back, we stopped out in the middle of nowhere at University of Alcatraz - the counter-culture 60s brainchild of free love, yoga and tarot card-inspired art in a camp-like setting in the hills of Tuscany. Ask me all about it.

ROMA is too big to describe. It was the only city without an easy explination. It's bustling. Ask me all about it.

But what I really want to tell you about is Siena. It's my little oasis. I'm a bit of an expert in its art and history now. I will fight you to the death if you say Florence is better. Don't even try it. Remember 1260? That's what I thought.

I never got to share the little tricks of the language, like the word for preschool: "Asilo Nido" - literally "Toddler Birdhouse" because, as Franco told us, "they are like little baby birds." To say good luck, "in boca lupo" - literally "in the mouth of the wolf" - to which one would respond "crepi" - the wolf must die. And there's a lot more where that comes from.

Your postcards are in the mail, but I will surely be beating them home.

The bus to Florence leaves at 4:10, then there's a bus to Pisa. Sunday morning, 7:30 pm, I leave Pisa. There's work to be done.

It's all been so busy, and I'm scrambling just to take it all in.

Until we meet again - ci vediamo. I have some fun little slide shows for you, just like you feared.

Arrivederci.

Spelunking

"Neccesary Evil, Lemons and Ash" now with pictures! (That's the one about the Amalfi Coast)

"Torino II" now exists! (Dated February 28h, look for the link below the picture over there on the right).

I'm plugging away at Roma, Venezia, Assisi, but I've got to get ready to go underground this afternoon. There's no river near Siena, and the construciton of aquaducts was just asking to get poisoned by Florence. So they built fountains deep beneath the earth. Way deep. We'll be at least ankle-deep in water the whole time. I'm crossing my fingers for helmets with lights attatched.

Pretty Fly for a White Guy

"I had to change our plans, I had to change our itinerary," said Professor Mauro Mussolin in his usual Italian-accented splendor, "because so many of you wanted to - see this. I must ask you, please, it is very important, why you, why Americans are so crazy about this? You are absolutely nuts. Everyone is crazy about David."

Field trips are great. Field trips to Florence are better. The Art History class took off today, having all finished our final papers in the wee hours of the morning, meeting the professor outside the cathedral two hours away by train.

We visited Florence's famous Pitti Palace first, which is exactly like every gaudy palace you have ever imagined. Crystal chandeliers, rooms with textured green or blue or red wallpaper, countless gold-framed paintings up and down every wall. The backyard, better known as the Boboli Gardens, is the blueprint for every other palace garden that came after it (those of France and also Buckingham Palace). In a word, it is fancy. It defines fancy.

From there it was to the Academia, the first building ever constructed with the intention of displaying a masterpiece. Though several doors now block the entryways, passers-by used to be able to look in from the street and see the masterpiece framed by several doorframes. You know the guy. Pale, naked, and staring vainly at nothing, his slingshot draping over his left shoulder and down his back. Did you know he's huge? David was originally going to be displayed on a high platform in front of windows (I can't remember if it was in a church or not), so Michelangelo purposefully made his hands, feet, and head bigger as to not lose their outline in the backlighting. Now they just look too big. At the time, it was the biggest piece of marble to be worked upon. Celebrate by buying a watch or a bookmark or a pen or a postcard or a shirt or a random piece of cardboard for your pocket or a tote bag at the end of the hall, labeled "DAVID MANIA - 500 Anni." A cool thing about the hall that leads up to him (on your walk through the museum, you'll see him quicker than you think): it is lined with unfinished works of Michelangelo, half-emerging out of the front of the giant stones, fuzzy and without detail.

The coolest place I have ever turned in a homework assignment was at the feet of David, where I handed over 6 pages on the Basilica di San Francesco in Siena.

Rome is tomorrow, so I will to bed. Wish me luck.

What Pigeons Are Used To

Things are moving fast now.

I'm writing all kinds of updates on days long past (they're for my own personal reflection, too), but homework and touristy things are taking a front seat. As it should be.

This afternoon, a group of us hopped around to museums, each about 5 miniutes after they had closed. We made it to the Museo dell' Opera del Duomo just in time, and scampered up some severely steep spiral castle stairs to the top of the unfinished facade of the "New Duomo" (history lesson: back when Siena was still one of the most populated and prosperous and powerful cities in all of Italy, it had the idea to make it's already giant Cathedral into the biggest of its time - by turning the naive into the transect and building a whole new naive that was never finished thanks to the plague. You can still see where it would've been, and the skeleton of the mighty facade still stands and can be stood upon). From here, we could pretty much see all of Tuscany as the sunset was bright pink and red. It was the first time I'd seen the city as a whole. Its small, yes, but I could pick out all the memorable spots. My apartment. The University for Foreigners. The walk up from the southernmost gate I took the first day. The Australian Pub. The San Francesco church that is a bit of a hidden treasure. The hills that lead to Florence. The train station. The grocery store. The area of the giant public market, held each Wednesday.

I've got two weekends left, the next being in Rome, the following possibly to Chinqua Terra, and then the third weekend - I come home.

I shoud send out the postcards!

Sorry the photographs aren't working.

Take a Breath

Any other time, the words "Amalfi Coast" spell a most certain doom for whoever utters them. It is the land of Pompei and Napoli, the former being dangerous between 61 and 79 A.D., the latter being dangerous, grimy, and disgusting since 1879 A.D.

But I'm ok.

In this case, the words "Amalfi Coast" mean that I'm back in town after a week of travelling (half of which was spur-of-the-moment) and that I am going to sit down and tell you all about it. All about it. Even the stuff that happened over a month ago.

They will be posted back when they should've been, which means some creative navigation on your part. Venice will be January 30, Assisi will be February 4, a little diddly about Florence and a castle will be February 21, Torino II will be February 28, Amalfi Coast will be today, March 6th. Got it? That's right, I can manipulate time and keep these in sequential order, so you'll need to use the links on the right to navigate to each story.

I'm going to sit down with this pistacio gelato and a small glass of wine (a responsible little glass) and start with the most recent weekend, working backwards.. Buon fortuna and happy reading!

Necessary Evil, Lemons and Ash

Whatever you do, don't ever go to Napoli. Or Naples. They're the same, and they're both terrible, terrible places. Unfortunately, Napoli is the gateway to all the ruins, lemons, and seaside towns of the Amalfi Coast. So I had to pass through.

I went because I wasn't going to get another chance, and because a friend of mine was going alone. She had the whole thing planned out location-wise, but no particular order to it all. After a two nights at home, I was hitting the road again.

Cydney and I (she's a center-midfielder from Eastern Oregon, and pretty much a no-nonsense professional-type traveler. . . almost moreso than ol' Unlce Jon. Almost.) set out midday Wednesday for the first trip south we had ever taken. My first glance of Rome (our program's weekend there is this next weekend) was the Roma Termini train station with plasma flatscreens on every platform with a loop of commercials playing.

The Napoli Giribaldi train station is composed of three levels, each serving a different kind of train. The top floor was the basic Tren Italia I've come to know and love, the middle was the city subway-type trains, and the basement was the Circumvesuvia, which followed all sorts of paths around Mt. Vesuvius to the south. All of these trains, the platforms, the inhabitants and their thoughts were grimy, smelly, and not giving a darn about the well-being of anyone else as they hurry about. Cydney put it best: Napoli is "dirty, running people." (Sound at all like the Mafia? Because this is the town that they got their start in)

Sorrento was our little oasis, the preferable choice of residence for the coast. Trust me. At the end of the 90 minute Circumvesuvia south, there are large expanses of lemon trees, some groves covered in green canvas, some trees lining the streets. Bridges come up unexpectedly, and the shopping was above par, a happenin' stretch by the sea. It's about an equal distance from Napoli and the coral coastal tourist traps to the south, and Pompei is halfway to Napoli. Very easy, very clean, and this is the end of the brochure.

Sorrento at night.

After a stay in my first ever hostel (called "La Sirena" aka "The Mermaid"), Thursday was Pompei day. It has it's own stop on the Circumvesuvia, called "Pompei - via dei misteri" which accurately describes the street it is "on" - the street of mysteries. Rick Steves - nestled snugly in the jacket pocket of Cyd and becoming a little dog-eared - told us not to pay more than 11 euro for a guide book from the many vendors that offered them on the walk over to the entrance. The initial road in this city of the dead was steep, leading up to the columns-only temple of Jupiter, the wide forum, the temple of Apollo, and all sorts of shabby parts-of-walls and columns that were clearly little houses. The weather was overcast (it would eventually rain, then be sunny) and there were only a few tourists. We followed the orange and yellow map that came inside our book (clearly printed in the 1960s) around the open spaces and into the baths. It was in and around here that we saw our first real threat besides the storm clouds - a pretty sizable pack of Japanese tourists. In the summer, they would be a welcome, disciplined, orderly bunch in comparison. They were half the population now. Stray dogs are also apparent in Pompei, and what a life they must lead. They are all well behaved, napping in quiet corners just past the fences that keep us out of sacred buildings and approaching you politely if you open up any food.

I will never know how he got up there.

Our guide book said the most interesting marble carving is on the back of this altar. Figures.

I don't usually photograph dead bodies, but this isn't a body. It's the plaster that filled the void left by the body in the lava. Still with me? At any rate, it's haunting.

The baths.

The House of the Faun was quite a show, too. It is named for the bronze statue that greets you as an enter, and houses two very impressive mosaics - one of which is a battle scene of Alexander the Great, violent and active and shaded very well.

It was about this time that I realized that there are so many pictures to show, I may have slideshow gatherings when I get back. Of the whole trip, that is. I know it is the cliche, boring, Aunt Selma from the Simpsons thing to do, but I think you might have some fun.

The other highlights for me were probably the same highlights for the inhabitants of this Roman town right up until the mountain blew and buried/burned them all. These were the theater (with perfect acoustics, as demonstrated by every guide by clapping), the gladiator training grounds (this was really just for the gladiators, and their little apartments surround the field), and the stadium.

In the training grounds for the Gladiators, which is nestled right up against the theater, Cydney and I decided to get cool shots of us doing as the Pompeisians did. That is, fighting.

Are you not entertained?!

I challenged a fellow American, and below is the moment worthy of a mosaic.

Mortal Kombat!

The stadium is a quiet little ordeal where people walk in, look around, and exit the way the came, not choosing to do some creative fence and wall hopping and climb into the seats like we did. I recommend it. You really aren't hurting anything, and the view is great.

It's never this empty. Ever.

We had walked a long way over the five hours we were there, and still had to trek to (shudder) Napoli to see all the artifacts. That's how they get you: Pompeii now is just the skeleton, the structures with some copies of the relics and some preserved painting on the wall, but the original goods are in a museum in the city that deserves to be covered in lava does not deserve to be found. We set out on foot from the Napoli train station among the people acting like cars and the cars acting like people, amid the packs of mangy dogs sleeping in bushes and the piles of garbage sacks at least 3 feet high at every corner. The shops are sketchy and cheap, and I actually, technically, got hit by a motorcycle. He thought the sidewalk was a shortcut since people move out of the way a lot faster than cars do. He wheelied and revved and braked hard, at one point brushing up against me as he opened up the throttle.

The street names did not match those in our book. Figures. We retreated to the train station and tried our hand at the crowded, late subway with eventual success. The museum was an impressive affair with original mosaics from Pompei (including the one of Alexander), all sorts of vases, an actual preserved piece of bread, and an extensive section of - ahem - erotic artifacts from Pompei and its brothel. I'd be happy to tell you about it sometime.

Friday was the trip south, away from Napoli and into the hills and cliffs - these are the beaches near Capri, if you're familiar with that rich vacation spot of Emperors turned tourist trap. Amalfi is only a little better - plenty of starfish refrigerator magnets - so we kept walking up the road and around the cove to Atrani, which is Amalfi without the tourists. And it's only 10 quick minutes walking up and around to the neighboring bay. It's always good to see the ocean. A man painted one of his wooden boats on the "sandy" beach and Cyd and I ate our pears and crackers as we sat out among the rocks.

How'd that rock picture turn out?

The walk up the road in town was quiet, save for a rooster on the hill and some creepy cats sitting on the cars, which are all fairly new and nice. A man sands down some white stone at the back of his dark garage, a little girl works the money book in a produce shop as dad watches on, a double-layer butcher shop that looks like a diorama from the street, and a waterfall at the top of the hill fronted by a rusty cross, just as the sidewalk becomes gated and private leading up into the green and rocky hills. This was Atrani.

We explore Amalfi before getting on the bus back, and discover the church where St. Andrew's tomb rests. The Cathedral was the quietest I've ever been in. It's size is unusual in that it seems just as big as any other in Italy, even though every building and street in this (and the other) town are smaller and precariously perched on hills.

St. Andrews in Amalfi.

The bus ride back was like the bus ride in, which I failed to mention was, in a word, precarious. In more than one word, here is an example: a biker in front of us refusing to yield as the road leads slowly uphill before turning sharply at about 170 degrees back around the hill where it slopes down again. The bus driver is gesturing Italianly at the cyclist with one hand, steering the bus in and out of the oncoming lane with the other. He is pretty much guessing when a car will come at us around the bend, and is getting less time to guess as we get closer. These roads are all blasted out of the cliff, and drop sharply into the rocky sea. We finally reach the bend alive, and the driver has not passed the biker. He pedals and coasts around the turn smoothly, gliding away. But our driver won't let him get away with it. His fellow driver had brought us in at a quicker-than-safe pace, but this was ridiculous. He was trying to keep up with the biker for quite awhile at the risk of about 23 lives.

The least steep of the hilly cliff towns.

Having survived the chase on what could be one of the most deadly roads in the world in summer (we may never get the courage to look up that stat), we celebrated with 5 euro jackets (marked down from 40) on a winter close-out rack in Sorrento.

Going home Saturday required one more trip through Napoli and the train station, which had become familiar but remained gross almost behind comprehension, like a wart on your front teeth. A man who knew English shadily stood right up against us, showing us how to use the very simple ticket machines. I was bumped from behind once, but my huge backpack and empty back pockets (and menacing glare as he faked a "scusi") left him a little tail-between-the-legs. Score one for the Americans. We were asked to buy burned CDs, and were offered a gold necklace wrapped in a kleenex. Such is Napoli. Avoid it.

But the coast is wonderful, and Pompei makes it all worth it.

"Cave Canem" means "Beware of Dog." I definately included this very mosaic in a report on Italy I did in 6th Grade.

AMALFI COAST

Torino II

If this was going to work, then a lot of things were going to have to go very, very right. I had planned out the journey like this, starting at the crack of dawn: 6:30 - 7:46 was the bus to Florence, 7:50 - 1:00 was the train to Torino, 1:10 - 2:00 was the train to Oulx, 2:14 - 2:55 was the bus to Sestriere Colle, the sight of the Men's Downhill, which starts at 3:00.

Needless to say, it was all a dozing-off-but-waking-up-when-the-neck-hurts blur. I had to wear my long underwear and polarfleece underthepants (not confused with underpants, which were also being utilized) due to no time for changing. So it was all pretty toasty, pretty bulky, pretty far, and pretty amazing that it all worked out. This was a sign, seeing as how many planned things worked against us last time.

In that 14 minute pause in the expansive Oulx parking lot on the side of the lonely freeway leading to France, I was able to find a British scalper to give me the 40 euro ticket for 50. Not bad.



Aah, the event. Rowdy Italians were everywhere, painted sheets with "Forza Rocco" (tha's basically "Go Rocco!" but translates directly into "Strength Rocco") or whoever their main man was, though I would learn that they were all secretly longing for USA's Bode Miller. The granstands were huge, and the standing area up and to the side was packed down and slippery from all the spectators.



From where I stood up next to the finish line, it was very difficult to figure out what the heck was going on. The french and english and italian voices (that's right, three different men all trying to talk at the same time) on the loudspeaker were cancelled out by their own echo before reaching our precarious perch on the hillside, and the video screens were only visible to the massive grandstands as well. All we knew for sure was that when someone fell, it was a dissapointment. And that we were directly oppoiste the crane camera, which means if you paused your live IV after a racer crossed the finish line, you might've seen me.

Then there was a sort of halftime. Not because racers stopped coming down the hill, but because everyone just sort of walked down the hill and into the food and lounging area. The men left on the hill were bad racers, I guess, because nobody paid them any attention. Down in the fun area, the infamous Torino Cheerleaders danced around, pepole bought hot dogs and traded pins, and these things showed up:




Are they yaks? Are they yetis? They are crazy. They scream. They bite your hat and try to run away. I can't even do them justice. Their "handler" is the fellow dressed in what looks like their hair, and he spoke a language that doesn't exist while trying to corral them and give them drinks of water. I have video, and that's the only way you're going to get the full effect. In the background there, in the upper-right corner, you can see where the spectator section is.

Around the hill a little ways was a stage, and on this stage you could hear two of the most glorious words in the Italian-accented English language being shouted: "Snow Party." The party was goverened by your standard International Snow Party Federation rules: songs like "Space Jam," and Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" were the staples, Australians were expected to climb the stage's scaffolding, the mascots were to show up and try in vain to perform the "YMCA" around their giant heads, a congaline was downright required, and the MCs were to shout out different country names and hope that the representing dancers in the crowd of ski coats and cowbells would "holla back." The did, the Americans being the second noisiest behind the home team. I can't even begin to describe the fun we had.

Snow. Party.

After the party was over, we all climbed up into our seats to watch the big boys do what they do.

I got my old spot back thanks to an Italian man who let me squeeze in next to him. What would follow was easily enshrined in the top-5 highlight pantheon. I talk with him for awhile, your standard Italian class textbook dialogues about nationality, school, etc. I understand him a lot better than I can speak back, but we're pretty clear with eachother when the conversation moves beyond the basics. During the break in the conversation, the man starts to talk with the Carabinieri standing between us and the skiiers. I had never seen a police officer outfitted for the slopes before. The man started to brag to the officer about his new friend. "He's American" he said in Italian. The sunglassed and helmeted police officer replied with a smile "Does the Amercian know that when a Carabinieri asks him to give his hat to me, he must do it?" The hat in question is my Root's toque with "USA" on the front and sides, with the flag on the back (I had been approached down and around the yaks and snow party many times about trading my hat . . . USA stuff is appparently pretty cool). I've understood everything they've said, and I reply with a smile through mime and pointing and rough vocab that we could trade: my hat for his police helmet. He laughs, and replies with words I really don't know, but the handcuffing motion with his hands is very clear. "If you are seen in the helmet, the others will arrest you." "That's too bad" I reply.

On an Italian adrenaline rush, I turn to the guy standind downhill to my right, who looks the same age as myself. "Come stai?" I ask. He looks worried, shakes his head, and replies with an accent in English "I'm sorry." "You don't speak Italian?" I ask. "French and English" he says with a smile. Turns out he came over the mountainous French-Italian border for the day to see this, about the same distance from Seattle to Vancouver. We talk about the racers, who the French favorite is, their team's luck in the Downhill winner, and how everyone misses Bode Miller. "With him, it was always a show" he says. "You just don't get that with other racers."

From there, the Italian man gets involved in the conversation, and I become the translator between them as they talk trash about the racers. Some of the more famous words in each language are known, and I don't need to translate (nor should I repeat). It was all good-natured, and the Carabinieri was getting a kick out of it.

Sadly, the Italian man left with his son before it was all over. The Frenchman and I kept our cowbells ringing until the Austrians had swept and he departed with my email address. I invited him to come visit in four years, when the show w0uld be in my backyard.

Me and the Frenchman. I still need to email him this picture.

The Austian sweep. That's not the same officer, but see the helmet in the foregroud?

As I left the race site (nobody but me, the Austrian fans and the Swiss stuck around for the whole thing), fireworks shot off from the hill just outside of the spectator area. The snow was faintly lit by the race course lights, but would light up with each blast. The hillside on the other side of the entrance is littered with condos and hotels, and it too would glow pink and green and yellow and blue with each firework before fading back into the pale light from the course.

What would follow would indeed be a long night. I walked up and down the steep hills of Sestiere Colle, coming across the Austrian headquarters where a party was raging and the words "Gold! Silver! Bronze!" were lit up on the side of the building, but looking for a place to sleep. I found one vacancy: 200 euro for the night. I boarded the bus to Oulx and then the train to Torino, the good ol' two hour mountain journey through villages and wilderness.

The search for a room in the city was in vain. I was either laughed at straight-up or answered with "Yes. Oh, wait, tonight? Ha! No." So the waiting room at the train station would be the only option. However, before I would give in, I was going to participate in "the Olypmic Night" - a program the city set up for the Saturday nights of the Opening and Closing weekends in which various museums and bars would stay open unti 3 in the morning or until dawn.

This was the only time I will ever be in the Tornio modern art museum until 3 in the morning. It was surreal but very very enjoyable. There was more than just modern art: old sepia photogrpahs of Italian explorers in the Alps, some really impressive 18th century landscapes, art dedicated to the metropolis (including a German black-and-white marathon of a film about the daily routine of Berlin that was way ahead of its time), and a wing with everyday objects of all sizes laying all over the floor, each painted half green and half pink. I suppose that's what modern art is.

In the interest of time, here is the rest of the weekend in photographic form. Know that the sleep at the train station was with many many other people, all over the floors and chairs, always with polizia watching over us. This is how I slept for two nights. Sunday was the Egyptian museum and scalping a ticket for the closing ceremonies - which were quite a show. I sat next to two flight attendents from Portland. Monday was a walk around the city before setting off for Siena.

The Egyptian Museum.

The Olympic Flag and some Italian soldiers for the National Anthem.

My view of the athletes.

The logo for the 2010 Olympic Winter Games. Canada was there in full force, including Vancouver's wheelchair-bound mayor, chiefs from local tribes, and Avril Lavigne. She's in this picture if you look closely.

Ooooh. Aaah.

While my bad seat could not see most of the video screens, I got a great view of the fireworks . . . beind me.

Vancouverites! They love Seattle!

The party's over.

Monday's hike up to a hill across the Po River. This is how I looked for most of the weekend.

Hey birds.

No way! Is that . . . is that KING 5's Alan Schauffler?!

The top three things about returning back to Siena were 1) a shower 2) a bed 3) finally changing my pants.