I'm never coming back...

I've moved.

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Thu, 15 Sep 2005 17:02:00 +0200

Since this blog is now obsolete I've moved to a new one:

bolognalagrassa.blogspot.com

Check in there for Miss Adventure's misadventures in Bologna, sponsored in part by Cafe Zamboni, where they never complain that I'm occupying a table writing email on their wireless network and only buying a coffee.

arrivederci!

vacation from blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 16:55:00 +0200

yes, I haven't posted in a while. I'm back in the US for a bit, until the beginning of September. Getting cavities filled, filing paperwork with the university, seeing my advisor, etc.

I'm officially taking a vacation from blogging until I get back to Bologna. Sorry all. I am listening to a lot of new music, so I may put together some new podcasts for you. If you've subscribed to the first one iTunes will update it for you if I do.

Come back in September!

addio a bologna (for now)

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Mon, 8 Aug 2005 09:55:00 +0200

I'm off. wrapping up my computer cables and emptying the fridge. the frigo, rather.

I'm excited to be in Rome again for the next few days. I'll have a chance to get in some beach time, eat some good spicy food, and see my Roman peoples who are already back from vacation. I haven't seen the sun in days, it has been cloudy and ominously dark here.

Then, the long flight home. Get ready New York.

strutto

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sat, 6 Aug 2005 13:26:00 +0200

a correction: I clearly have not fully grasped Romagnol food. When I wrote that piadine must be made with olive oil - a dead giveaway that I am more accustomed to central and southern Italian cuisine. In fact, the griddle cakes typical to the region are full of lard. Hence delicious, and to be consumed sparingly.

cryptofascist gastronomy

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sat, 6 Aug 2005 08:52:00 +0200

At this point in my gastronomic life, I understand well which cheeses I can and cannot eat, thanks to a serious mold allergy. Soft ripened and blue cheeses are perilous for me. I haven't yet suffered any cheese-related symptoms worse than mild asthma from some gorgonzola or an irritated mouth after a camembert. Yet. I usually throw caution to the wind and eat all but the moldiest. The potential reactions are uncomfortable at best but potentially fatal in the case of severe asthma. Who wants to be remembered as "struck down in the prime of her life by a morsel of Roquefort"?
Tonight, we add Taleggio to the list of cheeses I cannot consume without risk. I really know better, I just can't help myself. The stinky fuzzy cheeses are the best. This particular taleggio had at least three discrete colors of fuzz. Deliciously creamy, with a bite, slightly asphixiating. My handy-dandy asthma inhaler saved the day again. sucks to my asthmar. When they invent the gene therapy for my allergies I'm going to throw a party with acres of stinky cheese and kittens.
Apropos noses, why is it that American fragrances are so offensive? This question comes from the pleasant suprise that I like the scent of my Italian fabric softener. In the US I don't use fabric softener because I find it noxious. Here, line-drying and very hard water makes it necessary, but the scents are light and natural. Being an allergic person and also one with a highly developed palate has made me hyper-sensitive to smells. And crypto-fascist about them: the jerk who invented Lush cosmetics should be shot. There is a store here on one of my favorite streets in Bologna that I can hardly stand to walk past, it is so foul. Fake fruit scents and heavy florals, repulsive. I could happily reside near a fish market; I want desperately to develop a taste for durian; I adore the scent of horse manure...but "strawberry" bath gel makes me want to vomit.

This all brings me to the problem of taste. I confess to profound intolerance: it is hard for me not to demote someone who proclaims a dislike for onions to untermenchen. What bothers me the most, I think, is not that people have tastes different from mine, but that they use "taste" without further explanation. How do onions feel in your mouth? What is your experience of the flavor? What memories are linked to the flavor or smell or texture? I dislike chammomile, but I am aware that this is because it became linked in my mind to illness, that the scent recalls for me the feeling of nausea. My friend Maggie can't stand egg whites - she can explain a visceral reaction that I accept without thinking less of her (also because I suspect it is an allergy). Furthermore, "taste" becomes an excuse to not learn and develop and explore. In my Inferno, the ninth circle is inhabited by the non-adventurers and closed-minded of the world.

vitamin news deficiency

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Fri, 5 Aug 2005 09:16:00 +0200

I continue to be amazed by the provincialism of Italian news. Watching the telegiornali while reading the NY Times and Guardian online is particularly instructive. There is, of course, plenty on al-Zawahiri, but most of the terrorism news turns on the extradition of Hussein Osman from Rome. We've at last exhausted the details on Italians (and only Italians) killed at Sharm el Sheik that fed the headlines last week. Incredibly, the other dozens of victims went unnoticed, in favor of shmaltzy pieces on young fiancees on vacation and Sicilian girls celebrating graduations.
Lately I'm taking in images of demonstrating soccer fans, endless footage of holiday traffic congestion and weather, and a bewildering amount of cocaine dissolved in the Po River.

neither here nor there

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Wed, 3 Aug 2005 11:12:00 +0200

August is an uncomfortable month. I have plans through December, but August is a black hole. Ideally I'd be working hard in the archives or vacationing on a beach somewhere, but the archives are closed and I can't afford a vacation away from BO. When I do leave, it will be to take care of all sorts of obnoxious tasks in New York: dentists and doctors and paperwork for the university and trips to the Italian consulate. I'm looking forward to seeing my people again, but it won't be under the best of circumstances. Reverse culture shock makes me cranky and unsociable. I'll try not to spend the whole time being disgusted by the food and going through real coffee withdrawal...

In the meantime I have a routine of early mornings spent taking care of the house, leisurely breakfast, reading, talking to my plants (they're anglophones, because they're succulents. the rationale: in Italian they're called piante grasse, or fat plants. since Americans are fat, my plants understand American English). My shower is brief; the water heater seems to have a capacity measurable in teaspoons. I watch a little news, check email and the NYTimes, and start out on the goal of the day: writing the Fulbright application.

I might punctuate the day with a pilgrimage to il Gelatauro for almond-orangeblossom gelato, or browse a bookstore. I'm not out much in the evenings lately, since everyone is on vacation.

A quiet life, for now.

bologna is hot and deserted

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Tue, 2 Aug 2005 10:01:00 +0200

when will I learn?:
1. You cannot overemphasize "not too short" with hairdressers. I went for my emergency haircut with a photo in hand of a model with the perfect cut for me. I now have no hair, and do not resemble the photo in the least. TOO SHORT! it's cute anyway and I can show off all my dangly earrings. Italian hairdressers have it in for me.
2. You can overdo it with anchovies.
3. When Romans tell you a place is hot, it is very very hot. I was warned about BO.
4. Nothing happens in Italy in August. Disregard any advice that says ferragosto (aug. 15) is the beginning of vacations.
5. The library opens when it opens, not when it is supposed to open.
6. I cannot consume a kilo of apricots. Breakfast, lunch, snacks, dessert...there are still too many to eat before they go bad. They just look so pretty I can't resist getting a sackful.

what have I learned?:
1. I like tube tops. I would never have imaginged it, but I'm skinny enough to pull it off. And there are positive side effects like better deals at the produce market (I'm terrible, I know, don't be so scandalized, mom). Negative side effects: catcalls from 12 year olds.
2. I love bicycles. With my roommates gone I have the run of the household AND the use of their bikes. I'm liberated! pedaling around the city quickly.
3. Buying extra pairs of linen pants on sale is a good idea. I found a great pair that looks good on me and went back to get more in another color. I'm living in them.
4. When Dad made us wake up before dawn on the farm to do work before the sun got too strong, he was right. This makes sense on a farm. He's taken to a ridiculous nth degree. Here, I have trouble sleeping past 6:30 lately; by 10 I have to flee the apartment in search of a cooler place to work.
5. Moms are moms. I had to reassure Marta's that she hasn't been taken hostage by terrorists, she just left her cell phone charger in Rome - so isn't answering.

labor issues

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sat, 30 Jul 2005 10:42:00 +0200

I found this interesting - from the NY Times this morning

Third Union Is Leaving A.F.L.-C.I.O.

Any of my friends in the movement have any thoughts? I'm completely disconnected these days.

random heat-induced observations/delusions

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Fri, 29 Jul 2005 09:10:00 +0200

It's been a quiet week, my friends are mostly out of town and I'm in isolation writing fellowship proposals. I'm really happy I didn't plan to be here all of August - things really have closed up in the past weeks.

Over lunch near the (air conditioned!!!) library: I was lured into an alleyway bar by a sign advertising la vera piadina romagnola – I’ve been eying these flat sandwiches and ‘the real thing’ was too tempting. From the list of offerings including il nonno (grilled vegs and brie), bolognese mortadella with cheese, lettuce and mayo, violenta (wurstel, ie. hot dogs with ketchup and mustard – a reference to either Germans or Americans, I suppose, the violent hotdog eaters of the world), I picked the fantasia (prosciutto, brie and arugula). I know, brie doesn’t sound too authentic. I wasn’t expecting much, but I was pleasantly surprised. A piadina resembles a fat tortilla – about a half centimeter thick, pale, with browned patches. It was pleasantly salty and must be made with olive oil on a griddle. Typically Romagnola, which, I’m informed, is very different from Emilian cuisine. My friends couldn’t explain exactly why, but they insist the two regions (politically one region) are very different. They also couldn’t explain why they hate the Modenese, they just do – that’s how Bologna and Modena are. I’ll keep asking – I am sure the history is centuries old.

************************************

There was an American tv commercial a while back in which a woman is jogging entirely in the shade, following truck traffic that blocks the sun, crossing streets at the point at which a tall building casts a shadow. I’ve been trying to do the same only while walking very slowly. A thermometer on the street registered 35 yesterday, that’s 95 Fahrenheit. The sun is unbearable. It is humid. My tan has faded and I feel suffocated. The upside is that there’s an excellent gelateria near my apartment.

*************************************

I’ve been on the lookout for a good salon, since I’m approaching the emergency-haircut stage. Around the corner I found one with the worst name I have ever seen: Slimery. I have no idea what the hell they are thinking that means. I’m tempted to go in and explain how repulsive it sounds in English.

**************************************

Some of the kids in the university quarter give a new meaning to "shady characters". This coming from someone who's been living in New York. My friends call the type panca bestia, because they're all accompanied by a beast - mangy pit bulls or mutts that are underfed and more pathetic than frightening (though a hungry pit bull is pretty frightening). I'm more or less immune to the piercings and tattoos and dreadlocks, it's the squalor I can't get used to. These are filthy people with no flesh left on them and no occupation besides shooting heroin and stealing bicycles. There is apparently a trade circle - bicycles are stolen from students, sold to students for cash, cash purchases heroin, addiction drives further thefts... I've been advised not to buy a bicycle I won't mind being stolen. And my quest to find a non-stolen used bike, as a way of not supporting the panca bestia drug habits, is laughable.
I can't help but wonder if these kids came here straight, ordinary students and got sucked into this world, or if they came here already distrutti. Columbia would look very different if all the drop-outs were still hanging around, begging for money to buy heroin. I'm sure the same thing exists - where do they hide them?

where in the world is miss adventure?

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 10:45:00 +0200

at the festa dell'unita on friday night in Carpi, near Modena:
I went with a group of friends to hear the Bluebeaters, an Italian rocksteady band that they're all fans of, in this little town that inexplicably has the second largest piazza in Europe. We had to stop to ask directions five or six times, but arrived in enough time to sit down at the makeshift osteria and eat fried specialties and drink very cold lambrusco. We had plates of prosciutto and mortadella with gnocco, which is a big flat fritter, various types of fried polenta, tigelle, which look like little pancakes and are not unlike english muffins - griddle cakes. The tigelle came with pesto - but pesto alla Modenese, which is the furthest thing from the pesto from Genoa we know in the States. In Modena, it is a paste of lardo, mortadella, garlic, and other tasty things. Basically, flavored hog fat. Delicious. I was skeptical about lambrusco, but in this context, really really cold and very dry, it was perfect.
the concert was great, it reminded me of going to ska shows in high school. we danced and enjoyed ourselves and passed out in the car on the way home.

Saturday there was a party for Cipio and some others who just graduated. This has been a great time to be in Bologna, seeing the graduates around town wearing laurel wreaths on their heads. Cipio and his friends rented a place in the country, a cottage behind a nursery. It was a little strange to approach a party through the rows of potted plants, past guard dogs, but the outdoor space was lovely. There were animals and gardens and a gorgeous pool under a domed greenhouse, surrounded by tropical plants. I made friends right away with the goat, admired the chickens and geese, sampled the salad greens directly out of the garden. I found a corner where there were black raspberries growing and snuck off periodically during the evening to eat a handful. There was swimming and lots of dancing and throwing people into the pool. The night degenerated fairly quickly and at the end I found myself riding back to town in my friend's car next to a laureate who'd tucked his shirt into his boxer shorts and pulled his black socks up to his kneecaps, improvised a tie out of a strip of plastic ribbon, but had lost his pants at some point. I told him it was very rock and roll.

My archivist is now on vacation. I have to make due with the other libraries in town for a couple of weeks, which gives me time to hassle the people at the Salaborsa to have their wireless network repaired. Although the network tech is probably on vacation.

bologna

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 21:09:00 +0200

I'm beginning to think my choice of blog address wasn't very well thought out. First, I'm not in Rome anymore, and second, I'm settled into Bologna for a long haul.
which makes me very happy.

Knowing that I can buy houseplants or install hooks in the wall or put a print on the wall changes the whole experience of being here. Living here. I have a kitchen, I don't use someone else's kitchen. Right now I have the apartment to myself: one roommate just left and the other doesn't arrive for some weeks.

everyone wants to show me something or teach me something.
Letizia introduced me to a Sicilian gelateria where we had watermelon-jasmine gelato. They also make bergamot-jasmine, fennel seed, pistachio-almond, ginger.... dangerously good stuff.

Zimmi and Jacopo insist that despite my ability to recite the ingredients of a real ragu, and the way to make a good broth, I know nothing about Bolognese cuisine and have to be tutored over dinners.

My archivist gives me big smiles when I arrive in the morning and starts in on a lecture about the Italian left in the late 40's or the pagan origins of Ferragosto.

Enrico taught me the history of the Cassero, the national seat of Arcigay and the most incredible nightclub I've ever seen in the city's historic salt market, the story behind radio kappa centrale, and explained his coffee dependence stems from when he was 3 years old, when he'd make his cappuccino and smoke a cigarette while his mom cooked lunch.

Alvise has introduced me to everyone, gotten me involved in a video project by a collective of artists, taken me out to an agriturismo restaurant in the hills above the city with his friends....

I'm busy and content to be settling here.

today's lesson in Italian expressions

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Tue, 12 Jul 2005 12:37:00 +0200

"ogni riccio, un capriccio" -- Every curl, a caprice.

(Let's hope not.)

comments?

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Mon, 11 Jul 2005 10:31:00 +0200

I've been hiding from this morning's rain in my room but it has now stopped so I'm off to do real work. When I get back, I'd like to see some feedback - has anyone tried to subscribe to the podcast? Do you like it?

podcast!

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sun, 10 Jul 2005 20:13:00 +0200

I've been playing on the computer this weekend and have surpassed my wildest dreams of technolgical competence. Here is my podcast.

What this means is, I have a little radio show you can download onto your computer and iPod. The latest version of iTunes supports podcasts, so you can subscribe to mine and it will automatically update whenever I make a new podcast. Do this by pasting the following URL into the dialog for "Subscribe to Podcast..." under the "Advanced" menu:
http://feeds.feedburner.com/missadventure

This first attempt is just a series of songs I've been listening to lately, love, and want to share. Let me know what you think! If I enjoy doing this, I can get a microphone and add my voice to the feed.

The playlist:
Kunek, "Good Day"
Sufjan Stevens, "The Lord God Bird"
Regina Spektor, "Samson"
Kunek, "Bright Eyes/The Swell"
Sufjan Stevens, "Sister"

fun with language

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sun, 10 Jul 2005 13:01:00 +0200

a laugh for your sunday morning:
The English idiom "wants to have his cake and eat it too" in Italian is "vuole la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca" translates: "he wants to have the cask full and his wife drunk too".

the pacifist

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sat, 9 Jul 2005 09:34:00 +0200

I was sitting at my post next to the cash register at my neighborhood wine bar the other night, nibbling a plate of cheeses that Giacomo had composed and chatting with the waitresses when I heard a loud English voice over my shoulder barking, "Give me another beer." I rolled my eyes in solidarity with the waitress who was enduring this treatment, happy I could blend in enough to not attract the attention of the Anglophone. Italians aren't fooled at all by my I-don't-understand-English trick, but foreigners are usually oblivious; in my linen pants and sunglasses I do a credible non-American. Dutch maybe? French (rarely)? Some Scandinavian type? I think I look Croatian, but nobody ever comes up with that one.

The loud Englishman was shortly abandoned by his friends and came to sit at the counter next to me. "Godamnit!" he bellowed, "after two thousand years a man can't smoke in this city! What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? Is that what you do, do you take drugs?", looking to me. I shrugged to suggest maybe I didn't understand what he was saying, or maybe I did but didn't care to comment. The new Italian law banning smoking indoors in all public places, by the way, is marvelous. Bravo! Who'd have thought Italy would be the first with such a comprehensive ban?

The Englishman persisted, "Do you understand English?". I quietly answered, yes. "Oh, good. Italians never speak English." This despite the fact that the waitress he'd been haranguing all night speaks as if she'd attended Cambridge.

I answered that I am, in fact, American.

"Really?!" He went on to tell me how he's Irish but not really and he's lived in Paris writing books and making films for the past 15 years, except when his wife got a job in Belgium, then they lived there. Who cares.

The explanation of what I'm doing in Italy launches this man into a diatribe on Nietzsche...

"So Plato was asking, what does it mean to be a being? What does it mean to be a being? Do you understand what I'm saying? Are we speaking the same language here?"...
"And Nietzsche said, "Curse you! How dare you! How dare you challenge the gods, how dare you call into question existence. You've undermined all of civilization. Damn you a thousand times! Do we understand each other? Are we speaking the same language?"

Clearly the man is inebriated and in love with the sound of his own voice. I'm enduring this jerk, out of boredom or politeness or some combination.

Then begins, "I've done things you can't even imagine. I was in the military, you know. I was in Yemen. When I think about the things we did, it's just all so...amusing. These war films have it all wrong, they have no idea what they're talking about."

"We used to take diazepine and then have to stay up all night. We'd have diazepine at 8 and then stay awake until 5 am. Because if you didn't, you were fucked. You'd be dead if you didn't stay awake. It's all so hilarious. And this is the way it was. But it was all covered up. You have no idea, no idea what goes on, and it's all covered up."

Then he rolled up a sleeve to show me a jagged scar, crude stitch marks tracking the entire length of his arm. This is where "so amusing" goes horribly wrong.

"It was all covered up. I did things you can't even imagine. Killing 40 people in one night, can you imagine? Of course you can't. Of course you can't. Shooting 40 people and throwing grenades to finish them off. In one night. And no one has any idea, it was all covered up."

"And then, back in England, you'd go to the pub and they'd ask, how are things in the Middle East. And you'd answer, nothing happened. Nothing happened. Because if you say, great, I killed 40 people in one night, they look at you like you're nuts. And then the nightmares, I still have nightmares." Here his eyes well up with old man tears.

"And my marriage, of course was total shite. I couldn't tell her what happened. Then I couldn't even live with her, the nightmares."

"I couldn't talk to anybody"

Now fully weeping, "I'm such a horrible person. I've done things you can't imagine. You can't imagine killing 40 people in one night. I'm terrible. Terrible. You do things, you know, and then you have to live with them the rest of your life. And now I'm a terrible person."

Uncomfortably human.

italicized

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Fri, 8 Jul 2005 13:39:00 +0200

my morning shopping. cherries from ravenna, almost too sweet; peaches and tiny green-gold plums; eggplants and zucchini; a sack of rughetta and cicoria and lollo for salad; a bunch of basil. total: 5 euros.

I am such a rockstar.

Really, see how well this lifestyle suits me. I'm not really an Italian but I play one on my blog.

here's a more familiar Laura.

sinking in

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Fri, 8 Jul 2005 10:50:00 +0200

the mood in my neighborhood last night was "we're next". no one seemed too preoccupied though, i had to keep explaining why i was a little sad. of course, in recent memory: the synagog bombing here, the brigate rosse, the assasination of Aldo Moro, so many judges and officials murdered by the mafia, the bologna train station... are they just accustomed to the idea of terrorism or is there a failure to empathize? i found my roommate in fetal position in front of the tv. i went out instead to find my artisan friends, had a little too much wine and made them promise to get rid of berlusconi and do something about these lega nord jerks.
in return i've offered my brother as business partner to a carpenter here. seriously, buy a ticket, Brad, you've got a job.

earth is not a nice place to live

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Thu, 7 Jul 2005 19:19:00 +0200

I feel like I've been pretending otherwise, working at living well here in Italy, bumping along on my research and writing about everyday things. Then, senseless violence.

To top it off, I was hit by a bus today. I'm fine, not even bruised, but (pardon my language) I was hit by a fucking bus!!! The cretin driving was too close to the curb and caught me with the side mirror in my shoulder.

I don't think cheese and wine are going to provide much comfort. I'm sending lots of love to all my friends and family and everyone else.

help?

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Thu, 7 Jul 2005 10:09:00 +0200

What is to be done? My allergies of cats have become so severe that they're seriously interrupting my social life. I was over at a friend's house yesterday and as difficult as it was, did not pick up and cuddle his two tiny grey and white kittens. I popped a Claritin and hoped for the best. Regardless, within minutes I was wheezing and coughing. My head doesn't get too congested if I take the Claritin but I get sudden asthma attacks. I'm still not 100% today.

I spoke with a pharmacist yesterday. She was very sensible, "Stay away from cats. Make new friends. Nothing else works and it will keep getting worse and worse. You can't mess around with asthma." That wasn't what I wanted to hear but I was glad she didn't just try to sell me something that wouldn't work.

So is that it? Make new friends? Refuse invitations to people's homes? Remember to ask if they have cats before going for dinner? No more visits to Nellie or my other good friends with cats?

maybe that would have been better

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Wed, 6 Jul 2005 19:49:00 +0200

I accepted an apartment offer that Alvise had facilitated yesterday. The girls - I've written about this - had posted an announcement on a website I was using; I’d answered their post and then heard from Alvise that they are really cute friends of his and that the situation is perfect for me.

I met Letizia Monday and saw the place - a newish building with a doorman, a cute kitchen with apricot-colored cabinets, a big room (ahhh, with a human-sized bed) with azure walls and drapes. The rent is very affordable and Letizia at least, I haven't met Marta, is great. Both are from Palermo. Letizia speaks about 1000 words a minute, which made our first meeting a little awkward until I asked, so where are you from???

She laughed, "You can tell I'm Sicilian?"

"I’m just having a hard time with the velocità."

If the doorman gives me a hard time - mi rompe le palle (literally, breaks my balls, not as ugly in Italian as it sounds in English) - I'm to report I'm a cousin of Letizia. I already have a story planned out about our fathers being brothers, mine having immigrated to the US and having American children. I'll see how far I can push adopting Palermitan relatives. If I'm charming enough maybe I'll convince them.

Alvise was a fantastic host. Right before I left he made me a great lunch of tagliatelle and meat sauce, we talked about Bach cello suites and cannibalism and other favorite topics of mine. He's a photographer and collects fototessere, the little ID fotos you get from automated booths. I saw the books of them he's made; the effect of the pages of faces without labels or context is fascinating. Dominique, who is featured prominently in the books, had warned me to bring him one, which I didn't understand but faithfully followed orders. I got the explanation when I presented it; I also left him with an extra library card with possibly the ugliest photo of me in existence. That's how much I like Alvise, that I give him ugly fotos.

He also has the most endearing accent I've yet heard in Italian. Like Dominique, he speaks with soft throaty r's not hard rolling ones.

Before I left the Bologna train station I enjoyed a perfect caffe shakerato, (I have Matthew Sohm to thank for introducing me to this treat). I requested mine from the barista wearing the nametag "Mohammed B.". This handsome Arab man commenced a ten minute project of shaking my espresso with ice and sugar until it was a thick foam. I've seen this done before, but never with such care: he listened to the shaker to check the status of the ice and sugar, continued shaking, continued shaking, continued shaking until I was convinced I was going to miss my train. Finally he presented me with the glass, delicious. The other baristas were astonished - that's not a coffee, that's a capolavoro, a masterpiece, they joked. The other barrista gave me a look, then a double, and triple take when I laughed along at their joke - "oh, you understand, you're Italian?” incredulously. “No, no, but I understand perfectly.” I left an obscene tip and bowed to Mohammed on my way out the door instinctively, as one might in the presence of a great artist.

Annoyed with the lateness and the inexplicable layout of the train station I stopped to ask a Trenitalia employee, “Scusi, dove avete nascosti i servizi?” Where have you hidden the toilets? He unfortunately lacked a sense of humor.

I've decided from now on I'm only buying tickets for trains that are scheduled to have already departed in Bologna. Today I stood at 3:50, waiting for the 3:00 trains to depart so my train could get into the station. If I'd arrived at the station a half hour late, I'd still be there in plenty of time. Although sometimes the 15:46 train departs before the 14:46 train. That's just unlucky. Trenitalia is trying to get passengers to reserve seats more in advance. How can you be expected to reserve seats when you never know in what order the trains will actually depart?

Overheard, two nuns hopping quickly off the wrong train:

“Oh dear, we would have wound up in Venice instead of Rome!”
“Maybe that would have been better.”

I was eager to tell them their train was the next on that track. Something about talking to nuns just makes me happy. Habits.

9 days and counting.

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Wed, 6 Jul 2005 14:46:00 +0200

I've been in Bologna continuing my search for a home for the past days. My sublet is up here the 15th of July.

I found, with some help from Alvise, a great place to live with two friends of his. More on this later. Alvise is at the top of my list of favorite people. I've been fairly flighty about my move to Bologna, and he made it very easy to be in a strange town. Not only is he a great host, with a marvelous apartment he's refurbished, he can cook and he's tall and curly-headed. The best type of person!

more later...

to market to market then eat some roast pig

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sun, 3 Jul 2005 17:25:00 +0200

After a little too much sun at the beach yesterday, I forbade going today. Somehow I rubbed off the suncreen on weird patches on my belly and one thigh, which are rosy but not badly burned. So this morning I woke up early to go to Porta Portese instead.

Porta Portese is a Trastevere market that stretches along several kilometers of Via Portuense, including some side streets and piazzas. It is hot and noisy and crowded and full of pickpockets; it is also one of my favorite things in the world. Housewares and clothes, new and used, antiques and CDs and complete junk fill up stalls that go on and on seemingly forever.

On my approach from a side street I encountered a booth full of parakeets and lovebirds and cockatiels. They had canaries singing as if they know full well that's their only reason to exist, and tiny angora bunnies startling at every move. I'm not sure how you're supposed to take a parakeet home from the market, it's not like a goldfish you could just throw in a plastic bag.

Today I was picking through piles of clothes with dozens of other women like so many pigeons scrabbling over crumbs. The hawkers sat or stood on the middle of their tables where they can watch everything and from where they scream out:

"AiO! due euro, due euro, due, due, due euuuuuuuuurrrrrroooo!"

"belle merce, belle merce, tutte belle merce"

"tre euro al pezzo, bella roba americana, tre, tre euro"

"ragazze, ragazze, vede questa parte qui, tutto solo due euro. ragazze, ragazze"

I wish I had a recorder.

One vendor made a particularly ugly scene when a Sinti Roma woman came to look through her piles of used clothes. "Get out of here," she screamed, "I see your bag already open. Get your dirty hands off my things, thief." Another gypsy girl passed me, a lithe young woman, maybe 15 years old, max, as stunning as any supermodel, with her toddler slung over a shoulder. More gypsy girls with babies were camped out around a CD vendor playing mesh, Eastern dance music. An older man displayed oozing sores on his ankles as he scooted down the pavement on his butt, unable to walk. Is that leprosy?! I watch them with a combination of pity and fascination and repulsion: I deplore the phenomenon of child brides and panhandling as a profession, I can't blame them. If my wallet went missing at the market I'd assume it was a Sinti Roma pickpocket. "Watch out for the Albanesi," I'm warned. (I don't know if that's an ellision of all poverty-striken peoples from parts East, or specifically about Albanians - and are these people from Albania at all?). I don't know to what my x parts prejudice and y parts legitimate concern add up.

I had a great conversation about fabrics with an antique linen dealer; I came home with ideas and addresses and without caving in to his sales pitch on a truly beautiful silk skirt from the 1950s. The price wasn't bad, I just don't really have much use for it. I was also tempted by an antique silver ex-voto, an offering made, usually to the Virgin Mary, representing her intervention in someone's life. In some churches you'll see a chapel filled with seat belts, motorcycle helmets, little paintings and silver objects, standing for the ways the offerer felt Mary saved them. I've always loved this tradition, and the idea of having an ex-voto to display seemed cool, but also creepy. I walked away wondering why it wasn't still hanging in a church.

After a few hours under the sun, I was experiencing Porta Portese overload. I was starting to sympathize with the African purse vendors near the entrance, with their sad, tired faces. I left in search of a good porchetta sandwich and a beer, which I found at Aristocampo in the corner of Campo dei Fiori. Good porchetta, a kind of roast pork with just the right amount of creamy fat left on, is the most divine sandwich meat. Aristocampo makes a particularly good one, full of garlic and herbs and often with a sliver with crispy skin still on it. On a crisp ciabatta with a cold beer -- I defy anyone to come up with a better one ingredient sandwich. It doesn't need condiments: the pork is flavorful and the fat melts out of the meat onto the roll, making the whole thing moist and savory.

Serving suggestion: follow with a nap.

mind the generation gap

noreply@blogger.com (Miss Adventure) — Sun, 3 Jul 2005 17:03:00 +0200

warning: this post contains descriptions of scenarios involving homosexuality. it is not appropriate for relatives over the age of forty, or for others infected with homophobia.

A typical Saturday in Rome involves a trip out to the beach; trains leave every half hour for Ostia full of people already suited up and ready to sun themselves. The beach at Ostia is crowded and dominated by stabilimenti, private lengths of beach where you must rent your space and pay to use toilets and changing rooms. These can have very nice facilities, fancier bars and fresher snacks than places that don't charge admission.

I prefer to take a bus further down the coast to the gay beaches. There are a few advantages: first, I can go alone as a single woman and not be harassed. There is quite a pick-up scene, just none of the pickers are looking at me. Second, I love the anything-goes-ness populism of it. Go naked, wear a Sumo wrestler's thong, who cares! There are pre- and post-op transexuals sporting bikinis, body-building heterosexual couples with terrifying amounts of plastic surgery, fat people, skinny people, foreigners, Italians, everyone is welcome. Except, another plus, children - or at least very few and usually buck naked which makes it more ok somehow when then run by and kick up sand in their wake.

This time was a little different because right off the bat the lifeguard was flirting with me. Huh? He wasn't too creepy, so I chatted with him a bit. He turned out to be Rumanian, only been in Italy for one month. He was very nice when I signalled I didn't want to talk, but if I stood up he'd rush over to see what I needed.

African and Bangladeshi vendors came around on the beach to offer sunglasses and towels and other beach accoutrements, some carrying cold beverages. There were also Chinese women who offer massages. I'd seen this before and watched curiously. Yesterday I asked the prices, and upon seeing the woman in the chair next to me enjoying hers, accepted a 15 euro massage. A little treat for myself. Aside from the inevitable grit of sand, a massage on the beach is great. I just listened to the waves and went limp.

After this afternoon of relaxing in the sun, a nice breeze off the water keeping me just the right temperature, I was ready to return to the city. On my way back to the bus a Roman man presented himself to me, to my chagrin. I was very sharp and said, yes, I'm taking this bus but listen, I have a boyfriend so I'm not interested in anything like that. Ok. He said, fine, but continued to talk generally about the beach etc. It turns out that he's quite nice, an astrophysicist (how many astrophysicists can a girl know? I must know almost all of them by now between Maurice and Paolo and this Costantino). We had a pleasant conversation about American vs. Italian universities and then took a detour on the way home to take a walk through Garbatella.

Garbatella was fascinating! It is a suburb of Rome begun in the fascist era and has marvelous examples of architecture of the 1930's. 'Find the fascist iconography' makes a fun game there. Many of the streets are shaded by tall pines, homes have gardens and fruit trees growing in back. It was very charming. I'll include pictures when I have them. Today it is a strongly left-wing area, as evidenced by the institutions and graffiti I saw there - hammers and cicles,
refounded communist party branches, the democratic party of the left, etc.

So I returned home having had some unexpected adventures, having made new friends; I was exhausted, and slathered myself with fake tanning cream for good measure. Mission accomplished.