Jon Goes to France

I've seen of the French, and from now on I will only permit three complaints:
1) Their inability to get things done at any time other than one that is most convenient for them, namely construction projects. Like when the roof caves in. On mother. When she is in bed.*
2) The greatest tragedy in French life: breaking a bill. When I handed over a five Euro bill to the man at the subway ticket window to cover a price of three-eighty, he asked if I had anything smaller. If I wasn't in a hurry, I would've risked more than a loaded sigh and an eye rolling and replied "No, my three-ninety bill went through the wash."
3) The calendar that permits them to keep Christmas trees up as late as January 22nd.

Other than that, my ear had better not catch a wicked word from your direction about Paris. I don't care if you are a Londoner. I don't care if you were beheaded. I don't care if your city state fell victim to Napoleon's conquest and the most precious work of art by your favorite native son now sits in a back room of the Louvre. I will not hear of it.

Paris is the greatest city in the world.

The bus to Florence and the flight to Paris were flawless, save for the Americans I sat next to on the plane that told the worst stories I have ever heard.** There was a "simple" woman from New York (that city should've eaten her alive by now) who ended up next to this man from D.C. who absolutely dazzled her with his story about how inappropriately Italians touch each other and how he had to tell them what kind of touching was ok. I'm not even sure what this means. Do you see the stereotype I'm up against here?

As the Air France bus approaced Paris, I could see a dark sky with sunbreaks over the north of the city. A brilliant light shown through the steel beams and gained form as the fog refused to lift; my first memory of Paris was thick sunbeams through the Eiffel Tower.

This was Saturday, four hours after Marco had landed from Boston. Needless to say, the time difference was in my favor for the who-will-fall-asleep-next-to-an-active-drumset game. He met me at the bus stop after reportedly sprinting two blocks to greet the wrong bus. The talks were Hawks as we walked back to and toured the Basile aparment (complete with a view of the top third of the tower from the back balcony, as well as close proximity to the Arc d'Triumph - "We're building one in Seattle if we win" said Marco). Mrs. Basile was the only resident for the weekend, a most wonderful host. The guestbook proved that I was not the only one to take an unfair advantage of their generous offer. Marco made me an amazing sandwitch with fresh supplies from his mother. Pampered.

The first destination was Notre Dame (no Irish in sight). It definately evokes the fear of God, and/or tourists, but, uckily, this wasn't tourist season (every season is God season) and we were able to enter and walk the loop without hinderence. The French kept the giant rosary glass windows as the main lighting source, leaving much of the cavernous cathedral dark. A giant semi-transparent cloth hung in the transect, presumably to show videos on. The statues of apostles and saints stand on the outside of our path, silhouetted by the tinted glass mosaics.

As breathtaking as all of this was, nothing took my breath away quicker than the spectacle out in the courtyard. Two old men stood near a grove of short shrubberies with a duffel bag full of bread crumbs. For a thrill free of cost, the men would entice tourists to stand with bread on their hood for the ravenous pigeons to land on and eat, or bread to hold for the small birds to perch and peck at. Should a pigeon land on the hand and attempt to muscle out the little birds, the man standing closest would uncross his arms from behind his back and swing his open palm, connecting with the pigeon's chest and producing a sound that is exactly what you are envisioning. Thwap.



I couldn't contain my joy. This was unofficially my favorite part of Paris. Bar some.

We walked along the river, finding the palace (it really is) in which a group of Frenchmen legislate the language - they are the lords of French, they who decide which words do and which words do not become official parts of the language.

Montmartre was the neighborhood at the end of our trail. From the stairway up to the butte of Montmartre, leading up to Basilique du Sacre Coeur (a quick side note to explain that this is the exact location described by Rufus Wainwright in the song Complaint de la Butte on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. This film is, of course, a lay-low obsession of mine, but we continue: "The stairway up to the butte can make the rechid sigh" refers to the fact that you have a nearly perfect panoramic view of Paris from this large white stairway. I lived the song.) Marco and I watched the sunset and told pleanty of jokes to ease the fact that the moment was incredibly romantic (made complete by the man with the guitar doing his best "Sound of Silence," "Lady in Red," and James Blunt's "You're Beautiful").



This area also looks down upon the park and neighborhood that Amelie takes place in. We climbed down the endless staircases and entered the world again, stopping to photograph me at the cafe from Amelie. One major interior change has occured since the movie came out (I thought it was the fish vendor outside), but I shant tell what it is.

From there, we did what was neccessary: get a photo of Jon in front of the Moulin Rouge. Yes it's the red light district, yes there are tall buildings all around now, and no there are no courtyard nor elephant. But it was the Moulin Rouge.

The last dash of the day - after a pasta dinner from Paris Mom - was back to the Latin Quarter for a night at a jazz club. Had their been a rug, the French would have done much more than cut it. Viciously fast swing dancing among many people doing the same in a tight space is not for me, but these folks were really cooking. One thin old man, wearing an orange-tinted plaid shirt and Seahawk blue (omen) worker overalls, got up twice to twist his body while he wore a twisted face of concentration. Before the night was over, Marco did, in fact, doze off on my shoulder, despite the fact that our backs were nearly touching the drumset.

I was to see the Louvre by myself the next day, hoping to get up at a reasonably early hour of the morning and whip through, sparing Marco another trip before meeting him for lunch. He ended up waking me at noon by opening my door and laughing at the fact that no alarm could've woken me.

I went anyway. I had a very strict time limit before our next journey, and ended up running a quick path to the Mona Lisa and back out in 30 minutes. Say what you want about underwhelmment (a word?), but I was transfixed by her. I can't explain why. She was smaller than I imagined, yet I couldn't take my eyes off of the Mona Lisa. I managed to snap an illegal picture with the help of a human shield of Japanese.



Apparently, during heavy tourist season, French secret-service style men stand around the crowd and show no reserve when charging through and swatting down raised lenses. Think the pigeon man.

I found Marco in the smaller courtyard (note: I was more on time than he was) and we headed south on the . . . no, wait, we headed north first. In our rush, we scampered down the steps of the subway station and boarded the wrong train. I was simply following my guide, who looked up and exclaimed "this is our stop" after heading three stops in the wrong direction. I didn't even notice that we got out and simply walked up through the tunneled corridors to the other side of the platform and boarded the same line in the other direction. I even asked "which stop do we get off at" when we had returned to our original point of departure. Marco broke the news a few hours later.

A little closer to our final destination, the train went dark and came to an abrupt halt just outside of our station. The French stayed calm, and we followed suit. After a few moments and a request by the driver for patience, we were on our way again. These delays, however, were not just silly occurances. As we surfaced and saw the green-painted steel shack that housed the entrance to the catacombs, a man was placing a sign that stood about 5 feet tall behind the last people in line to enter. The sign explained that the people in front of the line were guaranteed entrance to the catacombs (which close at 4:30, this being 3:45) but that everyone on our side of the sign might not be so lucky. The man made a point of asking us to stand exactly where we were on the sidewalk as he picked up the sign and moved it every time the line moved.

At this point in the weekend, on this time on "game day" (a phrase often used by us as justification for unneccesary althetic behavior such as taking the stairs or running to beat traffic), everything was being taken as an omen. Would we Seattlites be stopped after finally making it this far? The man reached the doorway and signaled to us by facing his palm upward and curling his finers. "We waited 30 years to pass the sign" said Marco. Seahawks get it.

After an unspoken debate with the ticket lady about my age being under or over 27 (student ID but no birth date), I headed down the very narrow staircase. So long did this stairway descend that one is excused for being tired even after walking down. It was a slow and steady centrifugal force for minutes on end, until we finally reached the final elevation.

The walk through the tunnel was even longer. The path was no wider than six feet, no taller than six feet, and no shorter than six kilometers. The air was cool and damp with the unique smell of the earth's crust lingering in every crack and ominoiusly gated off-chute. A black stripe on the ceiling remained from the days before electricity when tourists followed their own candlelight and used the line for reassurance.

Finally, a doorway at the end of a room, after several angles and smaller rooms. The phrase above the door read: "Arrete! C'est ici L'Empire de la Morte" - Stop! Here is the empire of the dead.

And then you are surrounded by human remans, stacked in a precise and tight quilt of femurs and skulls, with an occational pattern of a cross or a heart, for the entirety of the next 45 minutes of your mortal life.



I dare not show you more, as the experience is yours to have. I demand it.

The wall of bones is always around five feet high, and can reach back very deep. There is substance to this kingdom of , glory in this portrait of death. The path is long, very very long, and littered with cement signs, engraved with poetic statements regarding every man's greatest fear and only fate. For this hour, it is your tomb. It is humbling and inspirting and one of the coolest things this Ghostbuster has ever experienced. It is the ending scene in a fantastic horror movie, the middle pages of a best-seller, and the highlight of my day.

"Silence, etres mortels. Vaines grandeurs silence"

Our thoughts turned to the hour after midnight. We were very careful not to touch a single deceased soul as to not recieve most certain bad luck. We didn't need it. There was a good hour spent in the Basile home reading articles and going through superstitious rituals (I never explained to Marco why he found me in the complete dark at the foot of my bed, kneeling on the floor with my iPod on, yet he knows) before a fitting meal from the land called home: salmon pasta. Hats off to you, Mrs. Basile. You understood.

After getting off the subway in the dark, we inexplicably (ok, it was "game day") ran most of the way to the only bar that promised to stay open until the game was over. Marco and I ended up catching the Broncos - Steelers game at the end of the first quarter. There were other Americans in the bar, some of them sporting their colors like us. The Steelers at the back were not to be messed with, and the men from Denver left before it was over. We congratulated the steel folks, who were amused by our faith in the team all by itself up there in the northwest.

The Panthers flowed in. We sat at the front by the projector screen, off to the left as to not obstruct anyone's views when we celebrated. Anyone who has watched the Seahawks with Marco knows the violence he channels from the men on the field. Despite our location, a man with greased back hair and a Jake Delhomme jersey made a point of walking in front of us and laughing - high pitched and dripping with "The Seahawks? Please."

Besides a few loud claps, he said nothing the rest of the night. The only other person in the bar (besided the three of us) celebrating the boys in blue was a South African getting drunk. A group of black guys came in and proceeded to call Steve Smith - I quote this directly and it is part of the story - "the Negro warrior" and act . . . in a very . . . intimidating manner . . . ok?

Never had we felt more like Seahawk fans. No respect from anyone that wasn't our neighbor. None. Hated by those that refused to acknowledge us despite the fact that we watched them all climb the stairs with their heads hung low. Isolated and comletely alone in the once-packed room, we toasted champagne: mother, son and Jon. The Seahawks.



So I conclude. The city was alive. It had a personality. I could've spent four weeks on any given street on the ground floor alone. Every inch was interesting as it was charming, and the nutella crepes and salted french bread (Italian bread is terrible) will be missed dearly.

I had one Parisian observation that sums up the quality of her character. I had to ask a music major that loves the Opera for help, but here it is:

Every time the subway took off, I swear I could hear the first six notes of Verdi's "The Brindisi" (you've heard it) coming from the squeaky breaks and wheels.

I would go back in a hearbeat to hear it again.


*This is a true story, but not my mother.
** Marco did end up telling one story at dinner that went something like "I found this book once. I started reading it, and I finished it." These three sentences are quite close to the originals. His mother and I had a wonderful time dissecting this epic tale.

Je t'accuse!

Concerning yesterday's post:

I Love Paris. Loved, Love, and will Love Paris. It's the greatest city I've ever been to. And I'm from Seattle.

There's a whole lot to tell, and it will show up under this title sometime tomorrow or the next day. It's going to be huge.

But I've got a lot things to do right now. Sorry.

Bittersweet Symphony

On Sunday, I saw Paris.

I saw the incomprehensible catacombs.

I saw the triumphant Eiffel Tower.

I saw the Mona Lisa.

I saw the Arc d'Triumph and Winged Victory. Fitting?

But lo and behold, the most beautiful sight in the world

Was 6000 miles away.

Bring it In

This is rediculous! I'm in a city with a documented history dating back to the thirteenth century (the 1200s . . . the 12th man . . . there it is) and all I can think about is those dang Seahawks!

"We have ten minutes to get to San Maria dei Servi. You have . . . the wings on your feet, like Hermes, eh? Fly."

- Professor Mauro Mussolin, Art History, approximately 30 yards from the preserved head of St. Catherine, before pushing through our crowd and acroos the naive at a brisk pace. He has a wonderful Italian accent and only stopped smiling to half-whisper the word "fly" as he strided forwards. It was inspiring.

That's the kind of attitude this weekend needs.

Tomorrow morning, as the 12th Man flag flies silent and proud above the Space Needle (I've been reading my SeattleTimes.com), I board the 6:25 bus to Florence that will arrive in the city at 7:40 for a 10:15 flight to Paris, due in at 12:10. Marco Basile, Europe's other resident Seahawk fan - to whom I pale in comparison - will meet me at the bus stop.

I'm in the "capital of the world" for only 51.5 hours, and at least 50 of those hours will be spent discussing the Seahawks.

They go to work at 00:30 Monday morning here.

I just ran the ESPN.com gauntlet of articles, and be warned: there is no love for the boys in blue. There is hatred and spite.

Nothing puts me in a worse mood than hatred and spite. Especially when the weather just got clear but stayed warm like there was cloud cover (I saw the need to write something about Siena. So there it was.)

So as some students head for Pisa for the day, and as some watch AC Milan play at Siena on Sunday, my thoughts will be with you, #12.

This city is beautiful. I wish there was more to tell you now.

Go Seahawks.

(Seattle Times)

It's a Boy

I walked into the bathroom - where the washing machine is kept - and realized with great joy that I needed to get that washer to a hospital . . . its water broke!

Mike's laundry had finished and he went to open the door. Nothing had drained, save our faith in the machine. All over the floor, and there was plenty more where that came from.

We ended up tipping the dang thing backwards. I held it as Mike fished his clothes out of the deep pool. His clothes are in the shower.

I sure thought I would have more interesting things to talk about.

Oh - well I did see the actual head of St. Catherine on display in San Dominico down the street.

Teamwork

The road to Torino is slowly unfolding before us. It was never paved and there is no vacancy all along it, but at least the fog is . . . check that, was . . . letting up.

As many as 13 people - a good omen already - are making the trip from AHA's headquarters in Siena to fun's headquarters in Toriono.

After a brief period of political uncertainty, I was able to run on the platform of reckless enthusiasm to be named President of the Siena Olympic Committee. What does this mean? It means I find the hotel. For 13 people. During the weekend of the Opening Ceremonies. With 20-something days to go.

It has become apparent that I was elected to take the fall.

So I weilded my power and split up the people into three teams - Gold, Silver and Bronze. Team Bronze was comprised of the folks that had their precious, oh so precious and deserving of envy tickets to events. They wanted a hotel. I sent them on their way, pointing them in the direction of the computer. Team Silver was the four folks most likely to say "I don't want to pay that much" when given a resonable offer. The requirement to join Team Gold was a correct answer to the question "Would you wash an old man in order to go to the Twentieth Olympic Winter Games in Torino, Italy?" Each team has a captain in charge of getting what they need. Team Silver going through the same steps as Gold, but they will bail sooner.

I have looked at every hotel in the city. I have checked the Olympic website, as well as those of several National Olympic Committees. I have clicked, written, and faxed information for days. I have been hung up on and laughed at.

Just as I started to write this, the phone that never rings and never works right . . . rings. Here's how it goes: after an exchange of "prontos," a string of a Italian and a soothing "parla inglese," the woman informs me that the hotel we want is not available and that I would have to go through the extensive website search and re-fax the application form.

Even worse? The 5-person Team Bronze claims to have a hotel.

The torch is dim. But not out.

Citius, Altius, Fortius.

Four Score

Want to send me presents?

Jon Axell
c/o AHA International
Piazza La Lizza 10
53100 Siena, Italy

Give me your address and you will get a postcard. There are at least 7.2 trillion postcards to choose from, so if you want one with horsies you need to speak up.

26 days until the Olympics. This apartment gets EuroSport, a channel with English commentators and German text and graphics that will show the Olympics live. No Bob Costas here. I've watched bobsledding and ski jumping qualifications so far. So far.

Zero Consecutive Days of Rain Here

I saw the game.

(Atta boy, Matt.)

[chandelier falls with a crash]
RAY: I did that! That was my fault!
PETER: It's ok. The table broke the fall.
- from Ghostbusters

In relation to the events of the last 15 hours: the table is Matt Hasselbeck, I am Ray, and the chandelier is Shaun Alexander.

I jinxed him. On my walk to the Walkabout Pub, I jinxed him. The papers and sports channels always talk about Shaun's ability to avoid the big hit. Deep down inside me I knew that if I should ever bring up that point while discussing football, Shaun would get hurt.

I did that. That was my fault.

(Somebody should get that fixed)

What was not my fault was losing the table in the back of the pub - situated perfectly behind a short wall and directly under a TV - to a group of Italians with strange faces and haircuts drinking Fosters out of a pail.

The atmosphere in the pub was anything but Qwest Field. Myself, a Husky named Adley, and Tim (you may remember him from such films as "The Last Post") sat at the next closest table on the other side of the wall, rigidly upright as to see the screen. During the game we were mocked by the hidden Italians every time we cheered. When they realized that their mocking was childish, they ceased to jeer and switched to throwing coasters, straws, and empty cigarette boxes up and over the wall. We calmly collected all of them, walked over to the table, and returned them to their rightful owners by placing them on the edge of the table. Score one for the Americans.

Around and behind us sat a gaggle of fellow Americans. Some were fans, some were there to be with Americans, and some ("Purple Mouth" Jeremy) were there to drink. I did my best to read the crowd and distribute high-fives as needed and get everyone involved. I convinced Robin the Patriot that she was nothing but a Seahawk with rings. I told Chuck Norris jokes to unite us. I bet Tessa that if the Seahawks won, she could put eye makeup on me and Tim. I would be too happy to care, and she and Jennie seemed to watch the game a little closer. Thousands of miles away, I was manufacturing 12th men and women.

A guy named David with cold eyes was in Italy "on his own program" (I took this to mean he was a jerk) and had money riding on the Redskins. His first time speaking to me was to say "How will it feel to get your asses kicked?" Things got ugly in my head.

In the end, everyone got a hug. There were even some Italians from a table near the door that got into it and wanted hugs from the Seahawks. Everyone understod when I pointed at my jersey and the TV and said "molto bene."

Molto bene indeed.

By the by, I didn't realize you had to be a registered blogger to leave comments. That problem has been fixed. Just don't be anonymous.

(Seahawk photos from the Seattle Times, not my zoom lens)

Here to Learn

It's extremely hard to focus on an update when the biggest football game in Seattle history is only eight hours away and I am nowhere near it (I do, however, possess and am wearing the only 12th man jersey on the continent). I will try and keep a one-track mind.

Suitcase the second is in the door and safe. I can only imagine the atrocities it has seen.

Monday night: two gentlemen set out from an Irish pub in search of destiny. They were myself and Tim, a politically savvy (so called because 1) he is well-read and 2) I agree with his views) red-headed poet who just left UW behind for good. Somewhere out there, for the both of us, were two fedoras - one grey and one green. Mike Holmgren. I have wanted a fedora since my days at the high school newspaper - one with a ticket in the band that says "press" just so I can crowd the steps of city hall, hold up my pencil and shout things in that voice they invented in the 20's.

I digress. Tim (the Enchanter) leads me on a mildly wild goose-chase for a hat store that is not moving, unlike an actual goose would be. It's right near Piazza del Campo (Italy's Red Square) and it is a delight - three and a half walls of floor to ceiling fedoras and newsboy-style hats. There were even Peter Pan hats with a long front of the brim and a long feather - not the brittle felt hats you find at Disneyland. These are the real deal. Lofa Tatupu. We checked out the discount rack right in the front to gage our size and then engaged the old man with the newspaper. He quickly called over his wife and hat-runner boy employee to deal with our pointing and attempts to say "fifty-nine" in Italian. The first two they laid out for us were perfect as soon as the tissue was removed. Walter Jones. We were strictly instructed to bend the front of the brim down before placing the hat on our head. We did as we were told.

Monday was also the first day of Italian class. La professoressa di italiano cominica solomente en italiano. Sei chiama Silvia Ceasarini. È italiano di Siena (la contrada Istrice). Parla italiano piano, e capisco. [end fractured attempt at italian] Since then we've done the basics - your name, from whence you came, talking to those more respectable than you, etc. Spanish is a buddy in my head for this. Matt Hasselbeck. The class is overwhelmingly American (Pac NWers, Massachusettsians) with one Brit, one Australian and one Cyprusese . . . Cyprisian? The island of Cyprus off the coast of Greece. She's Greek.

Travel writing will be great. Professor McNamara is well-thought of back at UW and he is verypleasantt here. Our first assignment is to walk one of four assigned routes and write what we see. Jordan Babineaux. That's the kind of homework I can get behind.

The art history teacher is Italian and very passionate about his work. The three hour classes will entail 10 minutes in the classroom followed by a sprint to a museum or place of interest. ThisItaliann? He moves very fast. Shaun Alexander. He told us to bring small backs and running shoes to class as we are expected to get anywhere in Tuscany within seven minutes. He's a slightly portly mid-30's man with stubble on his scalp and face. Steve Hutchinson. We stand before the art as he unleashes his multitudes of information quickly and passionately - might I add that from now on, anyone who tries to teach me art history will have to speak with an accent . . . any one works.

Cross cultural class had the potential of being cheesier than America's Mexican food (did you see that? - one trip abroad and I act like I know the world) but it turns out to be an insider's look at the city and culture. We're going to visit both a contrada headquarters and a secret underground fountain that you need a special appointment months in advance to see. Joe Jurevicious. On the first day, we watched a German short video in black and white called "Schwarzfahrer" in which a slew of people of different walks of life board the same trolley. A black man sits next to an old woman who begins a long string of racist andjudgmentall remarks about everyone she sees. No-one says a word. When the ticket taker approaches, the calm young black man snatches her ticket and eats it in the blink of an eye. Her excuse to the conductor translates loosely into "the African ate my ticket" to which the black man, cool as ice, flashes his frequent rider card. Marcus Tubbs. The woman is escorted out. I think we learned that Germans are racist.

Quite a few girls from the UC system have moved in and 1) cooked 2) broken the glass stove cover and 3) left piles of plates and pots around. They have also beendrinkingn wine religiously, if religion means starting your "prayer" at noon every day and concluding when you go to bed. They have, however, cooked for me once. All is well. Grant Winstrom. D.J. Hackett. Mack Strong.

A guy named Chris just came to visit us with his courier-delivered packagecontainingg six tickets to various Olympic events, the official spectator guide to the games, and invisible heaping piles of jealousy. Oh my God I have work to do.

I will be in Paris next weekend.

Take care, 12th men and women.

Please Comment Please

A few notes.

1) Every photograph you see on this blog was taken by me (and possibly cropped in Photoshop) unless noted otherwise. Respect.

2) You should be commenting! Click on "O Comments" or "1 Comments" at the bottom of a post to leave me a message. Please. It makes me feel good. Plus, I can tell you cool secrets if you ask. So ask.

Alright, today marks the first day of class. Yesterday was placement tests for everyone that had taken Italian before, which means I pretty much had the day off. Today, however, will be long.

The Week Behind

As you can probably tell from the reprive in posts, the last few days have been increasingly busy. Let's see if I can re-cap.

Things went sharply downhill after the last post. I decided to take a siesta nap and ended up sleeping for eight hours, just enough time to wake up and regret it. I decided to lay in a half-sleep for the rest of the night without eating, and when I finally found some breakfast in the morning my stomach imploded (you could hear it when it happened) and I was out of comission until afternoon.

Having been off my feet for some 21 hours, it was quite a task to switch from my own personal room to the four-bed (at the risk of sounding morbid, they were all coffin-sized) room of the same size.

All us Americans got together later in the afternoon, learned what we were doing, and set out upon the city like a tiny tiny plague that clogged the narrow streets. For dinner, about half of the 35 person group decended upon one tiny restaurant and prevented at least eight locals from entering. Feeling adventurous, I ordered what translated into "Charcol Flowers" according to my pocket guide. Our server, when asked "parla inglese?" corrected us with "parlo itliano." This led to me trying to order a 4 kg steak. It ended up being just about that size. The price tag matched.


(The holiday lights in Siena's streets)

Friday entailed a brief walking tour of the town, just to know where everything was. I learned of an opera to celebrate epiphany from Mark, a music major from South Oregon. Only he and I went to the very very old theater with very old Italians, and it was more than worth it. Mark knew of most of the music, so watching it was like watching Seinfeld with Larry David (my similies . . . they're rusty). We came back to the hotel to follow a trail of noise to my room and discover roughly 31 Americans, wine in hands.

Saturday marked the end of my stay at the Golden Cannon and the move to the apartment - exactly 211 steps away, by farthest the most centralized living of anyone in the program. It's on a street called paradise - via del paradiso - and rightfully so: wireless internet, weekly changed sheets, and a balcony that offers a view of rooftops, San Dominico (the church where St. Catherine's head resides) and the Tuscan horizon (if you lean around the corner).

It's a dorm-style layout with six bedrooms on the 4th floor (four girls from the program live one floor down) and no occupants as of yet besides me and Mike to use the common kitchen and living space. Look for pictures very soon. For now, here's the view from our window.



Those bright lights are the soccer stadium, there's a large patio (possibly for us) just out of the shot(s) at the bottom, and that pale yellow building across the street on the right is the police station. We hear the sirens.

The roomate: Mike Green brought one backpack (a backpacking backpack) and one laptop bag. I brought two suitcases, a backpack, and a small carry-on. I will continue to feel sheepish.

For more on Mike (and to experience Siena in blog stereo, in conjunction with this) visit his blog at mikegreen.org.

Saturday was ended with a tour of the city by a native Sienese, starting in the Piaza del Campo (Siena's Red Square) and ending after the Duomo (Siena's Zebra Cathedral). We asked a lot about the contrada she was from, and she gave us a lot of cool insider info - like the fistfight schedule before il palio.

Attendance at dinner was 100% as it was paid for. One pasta course had something sweet like apples in it. One side of one table got cut-off from wine. I learned that the loud American stereotype is not only true but also loud.

Sunday was a day of reckoning. After much fear and doubt about ticket availability for the AC Siena - Inter Milan match, a few of us headed up the street and underground into a room that looked like this for most of the day:



And I waited through it twice for a grand total of two hours. I volunteered to brave the mass for seven tickets, only to reach the front and realize that I needed seven passports. So I pushed my way out, creating a brutal vaccuum behind me, and sent everyone off to get their ID. I rejoined the mass and waited for the second hour. Success.



AC Siena only moved up to serie A (Italian for "the men") a short while ago, but they are comfortable in the middle of the standings now despite having to play tough teams like #2 Inter Milan. Two of our fellow Americans (Mike included) ended up with tickets in the visiting (and rowdier) section to our left where the chants were louder and the fires were . . . well, there were just fires. AC Siena pulled a bit of an upset by forcing a 0-0 tie to the chants of "Si-en-A! Si-en-A!" in the final minutes.

Consider The Streets Hit

It took a lot of courage to get out of the hotel. Having only eaten two airline meals (a meal of two triangles and two circles from Paris to Florence) and three granola bars in the past eternity, it was my stomach that finally dragged me out. The day got off to a great start when my "buon giorno" was good enough to completely fool the front desk. Having emptied my Italian arsenal, I fired a victory "parla inglese?" One guy stood up and left, the other said "yes" as he fished out a map for tourists. He said he'd take in my bags if Air France ever made it this far, and wished me luck.

And then I walked. Oh, did I walk. The hundreds of people up and down the streets looked straight ahead as I smiled and looked in every direction. I couldn't get enough of it. Every cracked stone wall with holes for pigeons, every street sign built right into the building, every moped that sent an echoed warning in the caverned streets (motorists are greatly outnumered) was perfect. I came to a tall wall at the end of a street, the first clearing for a while. I headed for the park bench at the small part of the wall and there, spanning out as far as I could see, was Tuscany.

I doubled back south, heading for the Siena's famous campo. After gawking with so many other tourists, I ate at the Italian fast-food pizza place with a meal consisting of a quarter of a pizza, a coke, and golf-ball sized fried tear-drops filled with what seemed to be spaghettios.

Then it was time for University hunting. Had I known what "stranieri" meant, then Universita per Stranieri would not have been my second try. Through large-doored tunnels was a garden that reminded me of summer. And I sat down and wrote most of what you just read.


(This picture seemed like a cool idea at the time)

I timed the reprive poorly. When I finished, everyone in the city was off to siesta. I wandered souther and souther, and spent more time in the construction zone of the "Ospedal Psichiatrico" than I would've liked. I ended up on the very southmost wall of the city before heading up (uphill and up north) the looooong dirt road called via di porta giustizia, which is Italian for "is this some sort of park?" There were geese in a pen.

Back at il campo, I searched for a bottle of water. I peered in through the door of a small souvenir shop to scope out the beverage situation, and the doors flew open faster than any door I have ever encountered. There were eleven people in the tiny shop, chatting or owning the place, but all glancing at me. There was no walking away from this one. I did my best shy Italian impression as I looked at the gum rack, finally pickng out a "Big Bobol." It cost me a small fortune.

When Was January 2nd?

Let's get to it. Here's what it took to get here:

I slept through the midwest, and I don’t regret it. I sat next to a red-headed navy boy that was headed for some big-game fishing in Jacksonville. We talked a lot about teaching younger brothers their place.

The sky leading into Atlanta was one of the most amazing cloudscapes in the history of Georgia. Clossal towers that looked like high-altitude snow-packed trees stretched on for miles in every direction. I was tired and it was a big deal to me.

A tiny bit of moisture on the runways was enough to get twenty plains backed up on the taxiway. A Seattle-worthy storm had just passed through the southeast and set us back a half hour. As we flew up and around it, everyone on the port bow was treated to a spectacular lightning show all across the horizon. It was footage of nature films - visible electric cracks along the ridges of the storm with bright flashes from deep inside, all coming in at two bursts per second. Anyone else who was tuned in to Delta Radio’s “DELecTronicA” had Air’s “Surfing on a Rocket” to complete the show. Awesome.

The seat next to me was empty, but in the aisle seat sat Khaki the Destroyer (so named for his clothing and hair being Khaki colored) - an old englishman who said little but managed not only to open (and fail to close) every overhead compartment for eight rows in both directions just before takeoff, but also rip his safety guide in half while simply trying to read it. He was kind enough to pass me a water and a tea later on, and also wave out the window once.

I woke up from nap two as we passed over Halifax. I never expected us to pass over Halifax. At least I got to wave goodbye to Canada.

Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit was delightful.

I woke up from nap three to look out the window past the ice-spiders to see Ireland. The light clusters were few and far between, yet Dublin sparkled enough to change my perception of Ireland’s ability/desire to sparkle.

The on-screen map of England was like looking at a map of Middle-Earth, only with Birmingham thrown in. I seem to remember a lot of black people being terribly upset there back in the 60's - a long way to travel to fight for American Civil Liberties. London was nothing more than a broad glowing patch on the white quilt.

As we crossed the channel, I made my first contact with Europeans. Rather, they made contact with us - four pilots, each one coming from a different direction on the compass, were descending on the city noir with long trails of either black or orange smoke, depending on how the sunrise hit them. I’m still not sure if it was a regal airshow or cocky pilots all vying for permission to land. We looped around once, delaying us further.

The runway they sent us to was practically in Nantes, and during the longest drive an airplane has ever taken I got some good glimpses of France: funny van-sedans, angled concordes, and dead grass were visible just off the wing, creeping out of the extremely dense fog.

Just about 20% of Charles De Galle is occupied by regular guys in plain clothes behind construction walls building new duty-free parfume shops. The other 80% of us missed our flights thanks to some unattended baggage that shut down most of 2D Hall. As we are being told about a suspicious piece of luggage, I saw a bright pink floral bag move on its own - either a miserable dog or a mysterious beast. Either way, I wanted to report it. Or open it.

A long wait in line at the Air France re-direct desk with Americans that make Americans look bad was exactly what I didn’t need. I tried to stay quiet and even fake a French accent, all to no avail. A gentleman from Dixie felt the need to share his views with me, leaning heavily on the phrase "bullshit, man."

The Florence airport was a silly place where as many as three incoming flights would all land at the same time and use the same baggage carusel. Every German, Frenchman, Italian, and American would stand on top of eachother (literally) to get right up against the conveyor belt, making the whole process impossible.

When the madness cleared, I was the only thing still in the room. I watched the empty belt scroll by for a while, delaying my walk to the lost baggage desk.

The woman with too much makeup told me that my bags were in Paris, but they had sent a note ahead. I was glad to know that they had taken the time to write me, despite being suitcases.. Air France would deliver the bags to Siena soon.

The customs process consisted of two doors: one green, one red. Red meant you were admitting to being up to something and had to go into an office with a man whose suit, mustache, eyes and hair were all grey. Green meant nobody gave you what-for, and you could stroll right into Italy. The green door even opened for you.

Four hundred taxis and one purple bus waited oustide the building about the size of a high-school math wing. I knew there was a bus that would take me to more buses, so I took a chance on the only option. I frantically scanned my phrasebook, mouthing some key words. All it took was a "prego" from the driver to freeze me up. I dove back into the book for help and protection, squeezing out a "duv'e . . ." before the man said with a smile "City Center. Four Euros, please." "Gratzie" I said. "You're welcome" he said.

At the adorable little bus terminal, my Italian got trounced again. "Prego" from the young ticket man led to a "un biglietto de Siena" from me. His expression changed to one much stranger as he switched over: "One for Siena. That'll be six fifty." I went down swinging with a "gratzie." "You're welcome" he replied.

The Florence I saw was dark but and landmark-less. I did manage to get a glimpse of a Ford dealership and a Blockbuster, which wasn't very cool.

The drive to Siena was took us across some barren nothingness (I hear that nothingness is gorgeous in the summer), save for extremely enticing clusters of glowing forest on hilltops. I sure hope I didn't dream them.

I woke up just in time for Siena. After a half-accidental walk around the soccer stadium, I headed in the opposite direction, amid streets that all look the same. Being male and a foreigner, asking for directions was mathematically impossible. And I found the Canon d'Oro anyway, thank you very much. It was a bright green sign at the end of a long stonte tunnel whose only light source was said sign. In the lobby, a gold cannon points at at you as you enter. The room is white with a high cieling and a shuttered window that looks out over the alley. The furnature is old school and I love it. Did I mention the heated towel rack? Heated towel rack.


(The tunnel up to Canon d'Oro)

Elapsed time since leaving my front door: 29 hours.

Cominciare!

Greetings from Siena, one and everyone!

First and foremost, congratulations on finding Jon Goes To Italy. Like all blogs, it's a work in progress, but this one is especially so. I think the papyrus look is a little dull.

Nextly, if you wish to write to me directly during this long hiatus, you can do so using the following aliases and hypertext market language:

AOL Instant Messenger: Ectoboy9
Email: jpa9@u.washington.edu

If you long for the sound of my voice, head for www.skype.com and download a thing of beauty: Skype is essentially AIM with voices, a free phone on your computer.

Skype: jonaxell

Plenty of entries are already written, but don't sit there with your finger on the refresh button - they'll go up when they go up. Right now I'm hungry and moving from hotel to apartment, but updates won't be far behind.

The time difference, by the by, is 9 hours. Noon you is 9:00 pm me (if you is Pacific Standard Time).

Ciao for now!