So we’re slumped despondently in the Glasgow Central Station tickets center. Wanna hear the story? Yeah, you better, because it’s the only decent thing we’re getting out of all this.
Alright. So we woke up this morning, checked out of the youth hostel, and hit the road nice and early, almost two hours before our train was leaving. Seeing as we had so much time, we stopped for breakfast at the Willow Tea Rooms on Sauchiehall St. (in case you every need to find it yourself). We had a nice leisurely breakfast, warm scones and all, then decided we should probably head for the station, as our train was leaving in half an hour and we also had to get our luggage out of the lockers.
We arrived at the station, retrieved our luggage, and tried to find our platform. Finally, unable to do so, we decided to ask one of the station staff. She pointed out that the train to Belfast was in fact leaving from Glasgow Central Station, not the Queen St. Station. She pointed us outside to where we could find a bus to the central station. I thanked her and took a moment to glance at my phone as we made our way to the door. 11:39. For an 11:47 train ride. With a ten minute bus in between. Well shit.
As quickly as possible we rushed into a very friendly cab and told him to floor it, but alas to no avail. 11:47 came and went, and our train went with it. At 11:52 we dashed inside to discover that now we wouldn’t be getting into Belfast until 9:30 tonight. We already have tickets to leave again at 7:30 in the morning. Not even 12 hours there. Fantastic, isn’t it?
It would be nice to say that at least we have some extra time in Glasgow, but the truth is that with all our luggage we’re pretty much incapacitated. So we’ve now spent our extra hours in Glasgow at internet cafes and regular cafes. In that time we’ve lost both our Europe guidebook and Sierra’s cell phone. My pen died also, but I bought some more. In short, the adventure continues.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Chapter 51: Ach! The feet!
So yeah, we came to Glasgow. I suppose I should start with the morning, though, back when we were in Edinburgh. We got up early enough, all ready to go to the Castle, only to arrive and discover a formidable 11 pound entrance fee between us and the Stone of Destiny (I’m still wondering what that is, but was not willing to pay $22 to find out).
Miffed, we turned away and decided to hunt down breakfast instead. Then we came to Glasgow, despite total uncertainty as to where we would spend the night. We walked around a lot, suffered the terrible bummer of arriving at the cathedral about 14 minutes after closing time, and then eventually stumbled exhaustedly to dinner at an all-vegetarian restaurant, the downside being that we didn’t notice the prices until we were already too far in to back out. Good food anyway.
By that time our bodies were starting to get pretty cranky about the whole thing. We had loaded our backpacks with just the things we really needed, and left the suitcases in overnight storage at the train station, the plus side being that we had no horrible hefty luggage to deal with, the down side being that we were lugging some pretty heavy backpacks all day. Thus our feet were pretty unhappy, especially given how much walking we’d already done in Edinburgh.
After dinner we stumbled around for a while until we FINALLY found the youth hostel which was in about the most confusing location ever, though we were still hoping for a free place to stay with my dentist’s daughter, who we were having a hard time reaching. By that time night had fallen, so we mustered up the courage to go out one more time and try and find somewhere to hang out (live music please!) until we could figure out for sure where we were staying. Alas, we found absolutely nothing interesting and not a single note of a fiddle before our feet gave out entirely, even though this is supposed to be the live music capital of Europe, and we staggered back to the hostel defeated. (If you listen to Beethoven as you read this, the whole thing becomes much more intense).
Luckily, the hostel turned out really nice, even if we had to pay for it, and in general I’m quite satisfied with the day (though I’m still bitter about that lack of live music thing). And so tired its amazing. Tomorrow morning we’re on to Belfast.
Miffed, we turned away and decided to hunt down breakfast instead. Then we came to Glasgow, despite total uncertainty as to where we would spend the night. We walked around a lot, suffered the terrible bummer of arriving at the cathedral about 14 minutes after closing time, and then eventually stumbled exhaustedly to dinner at an all-vegetarian restaurant, the downside being that we didn’t notice the prices until we were already too far in to back out. Good food anyway.
By that time our bodies were starting to get pretty cranky about the whole thing. We had loaded our backpacks with just the things we really needed, and left the suitcases in overnight storage at the train station, the plus side being that we had no horrible hefty luggage to deal with, the down side being that we were lugging some pretty heavy backpacks all day. Thus our feet were pretty unhappy, especially given how much walking we’d already done in Edinburgh.
After dinner we stumbled around for a while until we FINALLY found the youth hostel which was in about the most confusing location ever, though we were still hoping for a free place to stay with my dentist’s daughter, who we were having a hard time reaching. By that time night had fallen, so we mustered up the courage to go out one more time and try and find somewhere to hang out (live music please!) until we could figure out for sure where we were staying. Alas, we found absolutely nothing interesting and not a single note of a fiddle before our feet gave out entirely, even though this is supposed to be the live music capital of Europe, and we staggered back to the hostel defeated. (If you listen to Beethoven as you read this, the whole thing becomes much more intense).
Luckily, the hostel turned out really nice, even if we had to pay for it, and in general I’m quite satisfied with the day (though I’m still bitter about that lack of live music thing). And so tired its amazing. Tomorrow morning we’re on to Belfast.
Chapter 50: Scotland
Today, as promised, we came to Edinburgh. We got a very early start. Precisely one hour and a half after I went to sleep, in fact, as a result of me needing to finish the book I had borrowed whether I was even enjoying it that much or not. I couldn’t just take it with me, because we were not to pass this way again (read that in an epic movie voice-over prologue voice).
We finally made it here to Edinburgh, marveled at the absolute awesomeness of this city, found our hostel, which is uncannily like being at college except with twenty people to a room instead of two, and spent the rest of the day wandering the streets and becoming increasingly tired. For some inexplicable reason we ended up at this totally bizarre slightly creepy Italian place for lunch. We were the only ones in there, but the place was entirely mirrors, so it was kind of like eating in a very large, mostly empty restaurant with copies of yourself having lunch in every corner. Copies of yourself that were always looking at you. Weird sensation, I say. Anyhow, we made up for it by getting fudge afterwards. Mmm, Scottish fudge.
Basically Edinburgh is probably the most beautiful city I’ve seen yet, though we kind of get the feeling that by not being drunkards we are probably missing out on a large part of it. There’s something about going into a pub and ordering water that just doesn’t quite work. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Oh well. We have a very short stay anyway. Tomorrow morning we intend to visit the castle (THE Castle) which is literally right outside our door, and then we’ll catch the train to Glasgow. One night there, then we hope to make it on to Belfast. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it, right?
Anyway, it’s way past my bedtime considering last night’s slumber total, so I bid thee all a fond goodnight.
We finally made it here to Edinburgh, marveled at the absolute awesomeness of this city, found our hostel, which is uncannily like being at college except with twenty people to a room instead of two, and spent the rest of the day wandering the streets and becoming increasingly tired. For some inexplicable reason we ended up at this totally bizarre slightly creepy Italian place for lunch. We were the only ones in there, but the place was entirely mirrors, so it was kind of like eating in a very large, mostly empty restaurant with copies of yourself having lunch in every corner. Copies of yourself that were always looking at you. Weird sensation, I say. Anyhow, we made up for it by getting fudge afterwards. Mmm, Scottish fudge.
Basically Edinburgh is probably the most beautiful city I’ve seen yet, though we kind of get the feeling that by not being drunkards we are probably missing out on a large part of it. There’s something about going into a pub and ordering water that just doesn’t quite work. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Oh well. We have a very short stay anyway. Tomorrow morning we intend to visit the castle (THE Castle) which is literally right outside our door, and then we’ll catch the train to Glasgow. One night there, then we hope to make it on to Belfast. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it, right?
Anyway, it’s way past my bedtime considering last night’s slumber total, so I bid thee all a fond goodnight.
Chapter 49: Yesterday
Yesterday. Yesterday we… uh… what did we do yesterday… ah! Went to spend the afternoon at Inger’s where we had lunch and jumped about on the trampoline with Alexander and his friend Daniel. Good times. We then walked about Norwich a bit, perused a book shop or two where we chuckled at travel books for Santa Fe, had dinner at a Thai restaurant (F for vegetarians, A for carnivores), and then went to a late night show of 300 which was oh my god it was such a dumb stupid incredibly hilarious super male movie. Terrible film, but everything is fun in the Norwich theater I tell you. Oh, somewhere during all that we also managed to figure out our youth Rail Discount cards which are truly amazing at the discounting I tell you.
Today we exploited our beautifully reduced prices and went to Cambridge. Absolutely fantastic town, beautiful architecture, and oh man you should see the university campus (I smell a semester abroad…). We had lunch at a little tea shop with scones and cream and good tea and all that sort of thing.
In other news, tomorrow we go to Edinburgh. Haha, Scotland, here we come.
Today we exploited our beautifully reduced prices and went to Cambridge. Absolutely fantastic town, beautiful architecture, and oh man you should see the university campus (I smell a semester abroad…). We had lunch at a little tea shop with scones and cream and good tea and all that sort of thing.
In other news, tomorrow we go to Edinburgh. Haha, Scotland, here we come.
Chapter 48: Viking Poetry
Today we got lost, got no help from public transportation representatives, and eventually went to the castle. That’s right THE Castle. The Norwich Castle. It was quite cool, and naturally I forgot my camera. There was a section on the Vikings in England. Sierra created the following poem out of Viking themed magnetic poetry:
the blunder of your queasy sheep glitter pretty fierce
I think that puts up a good fight against any other poem that has come out of either Vikings or England. Now that it comes to it I actually have no idea what the Viking magnetic poetry was all about, but whatever. It’s still an excellent poem.
At the castle we took a tour of the battlements, which was fine and nice and pretty cool to see Norwich from above, though the actual tour itself was pretty middle of the road as far as tours go, what can I say. He did not tell us anything about the British washing their togas in urine, I am disappointed. We actually tried to get a tour of the dungeons, which would totally have been cool, but alas it was sold out. I guess other people were also of the same mind. “Hmm… birds eye views of all of Norwich, beautiful sunsets, and rolling English country side or creepy dungeons full of torture devices and mold?” As I said, too bad the dungeons were sold out.
We then went out for a fabulously mediocre Chinese dinner at a place that honestly had the nastiest floor I have ever seen in my life, and yes I’ve been to India if you recall. The carpet at the back had such a thick layer of black grime on it that I honestly thought I was walking on a wooden floor before I looked down to see why it felt sort of sticky. I left footprints in the bathroom. Not dirty footprints on a clean floor. Indented footprints pressed into the dirt.
Well enough of that. I’m back in a nice clean bed with a little flowery comforter and lace curtains, and verily and forsooth it is time to sleep.
the blunder of your queasy sheep glitter pretty fierce
I think that puts up a good fight against any other poem that has come out of either Vikings or England. Now that it comes to it I actually have no idea what the Viking magnetic poetry was all about, but whatever. It’s still an excellent poem.
At the castle we took a tour of the battlements, which was fine and nice and pretty cool to see Norwich from above, though the actual tour itself was pretty middle of the road as far as tours go, what can I say. He did not tell us anything about the British washing their togas in urine, I am disappointed. We actually tried to get a tour of the dungeons, which would totally have been cool, but alas it was sold out. I guess other people were also of the same mind. “Hmm… birds eye views of all of Norwich, beautiful sunsets, and rolling English country side or creepy dungeons full of torture devices and mold?” As I said, too bad the dungeons were sold out.
We then went out for a fabulously mediocre Chinese dinner at a place that honestly had the nastiest floor I have ever seen in my life, and yes I’ve been to India if you recall. The carpet at the back had such a thick layer of black grime on it that I honestly thought I was walking on a wooden floor before I looked down to see why it felt sort of sticky. I left footprints in the bathroom. Not dirty footprints on a clean floor. Indented footprints pressed into the dirt.
Well enough of that. I’m back in a nice clean bed with a little flowery comforter and lace curtains, and verily and forsooth it is time to sleep.
Chapter 47: The Land of Tea and Cakes and Monty Python
Ah, Norwich. My adventures. So.
My first “official” day in England consisted of my accompanying George (my first cousin once removed in law), Inger (my first cousin once removed), Eva (my great aunt), Saskia (my second cousin), Alexander (also my second cousin), and Felix (my brand new two-week-old second cousin) out to a farm house in the country to celebrate a triple birthday with all of George’s parents, sisters, nieces, nephews, and in-laws. Despite the absolutely horrific tangle of familial terms, it was great fun and probably the most British that anything can ever possibly be. I have to admit that I felt a little silly with my sad American accent. Why is it that everything sounds just slightly less intelligent when you’re American? I mean I could be explaining the science of quantum physics for forty five minutes, then some English bloke could wander in and mention that he’s put the kettle on, and that guy would sound smarter. Unfair, I tell you. In one small attempt at self defense I will point out that no one on the planet can pull off the word “dude” except for America. Justice is served. Anyway, moving on.
From there we came back to Norwich and I picked Sierra up from the bus station. The next day was Easter Sunday which we treated as Do Nothing But Recover From Jetlag Day. At least Sierra recovered from jetlag. I watched her recover and painted little pictures.
Today we ventured outside and for the first time saw the floods of people that apparently have been hiding away in their attics for the past four days. Every single person we saw was wearing green and yellow for some Norwich team spirit thing for some game or something that was happening somewhere sometime (we are obviously well informed, eh?). No but seriously, it was almost eerie how many people in the town were wearing the exact same shirt. We found an internet café (connection with the outside world!), a really fantastic cathedral (remember, this is truly something coming from cathedraled out me), saw a bunch of the cutest streets ever, and finally came home and made ourselves… QUESADILLAS! Then we went out to see Blades of Glory which was oh my god it was funny. For all you people shaking your heads sadly and pointing out that it was rather on the dumb side, I maintain that you did not see it in the Norwich movie theater surrounded by British people, and if you had, you would understand me completely, so why don’t you just run along and stay out of this, alright?
My first “official” day in England consisted of my accompanying George (my first cousin once removed in law), Inger (my first cousin once removed), Eva (my great aunt), Saskia (my second cousin), Alexander (also my second cousin), and Felix (my brand new two-week-old second cousin) out to a farm house in the country to celebrate a triple birthday with all of George’s parents, sisters, nieces, nephews, and in-laws. Despite the absolutely horrific tangle of familial terms, it was great fun and probably the most British that anything can ever possibly be. I have to admit that I felt a little silly with my sad American accent. Why is it that everything sounds just slightly less intelligent when you’re American? I mean I could be explaining the science of quantum physics for forty five minutes, then some English bloke could wander in and mention that he’s put the kettle on, and that guy would sound smarter. Unfair, I tell you. In one small attempt at self defense I will point out that no one on the planet can pull off the word “dude” except for America. Justice is served. Anyway, moving on.
From there we came back to Norwich and I picked Sierra up from the bus station. The next day was Easter Sunday which we treated as Do Nothing But Recover From Jetlag Day. At least Sierra recovered from jetlag. I watched her recover and painted little pictures.
Today we ventured outside and for the first time saw the floods of people that apparently have been hiding away in their attics for the past four days. Every single person we saw was wearing green and yellow for some Norwich team spirit thing for some game or something that was happening somewhere sometime (we are obviously well informed, eh?). No but seriously, it was almost eerie how many people in the town were wearing the exact same shirt. We found an internet café (connection with the outside world!), a really fantastic cathedral (remember, this is truly something coming from cathedraled out me), saw a bunch of the cutest streets ever, and finally came home and made ourselves… QUESADILLAS! Then we went out to see Blades of Glory which was oh my god it was funny. For all you people shaking your heads sadly and pointing out that it was rather on the dumb side, I maintain that you did not see it in the Norwich movie theater surrounded by British people, and if you had, you would understand me completely, so why don’t you just run along and stay out of this, alright?
Chapter 46: Vienna
Vienna—Well last I wrote I was in Jaipur. Quite a while ago. Got a lot of ground to cover (both literally and figuratively speaking). Phew.
So I left India and got back to Vienna, la dee da. Food is great. Clean sheets (and streets for that matter) are great. I’ll just hit the highlights.
The first interesting thing I felt I actually wanted to write about was the Nausch Markt, which, when it comes down to it, I must admit I have no idea how to spell, or even what it actually sounds like in spoken German for that matter. Well hey, I just googled it and apparently it’s Naschmarkt. Not too bad for a wild guess, if I may say so myself. Anyway, it was quite fun and actually reminded me a lot of Pike Place market in Seattle. Stands everywhere selling fruit, cheese, olives, chocolates, kebabs, meat, juices, pizza, vegetables, snacks, clothing, flowers, honey, vinegar. Yes, there was an entire vinegar stand which sold vinegar out of these large bulbous bottles that looked like they had been transported out of a medieval alchemist’s workshop. There was another shop that sold sauerkraut and pickles out of barrels. Ok, let me repeat that in case you missed it. Sauerkraut. Out of barrels. Honestly this was the point at which I realized I needed to start writing some of this down. I mean seriously. A heaping barrel of sauerkraut?
There were many fruit stands which basically all sold the same things at similar prices, but among these same things at similar prices was the largest selection of completely bizarre and unidentifiable fruit I have ever found in one place at one time. Naturally, being the sort of person that I am, I had to buy one of each and every fruit whose name and/or appearance I did not recognize. This resulted in a rather heavy bag of mostly purply fruits that tended to have all sort of odd appendages hanging off of them. Once I took them home and tried them all I found that they tended to be whitish inside and to resemble eyeballs, but of course I’m generalizing severely here. They also tended to be on the more-bland-than-one-would-hope-for side. The combined eyeball consistency and plain water flavor I think might account for the fact that one rarely finds these fruits in normal places of fruit purchase.
Later that same night I went solo to the Volksoper to see the premiere of two short operas—a Ravel and an Orff, though it was of course the Orff that lured me there in the first place. It was absolutely fantastic. One of the more enjoyable shows I’ve ever been to in my life, enough so that I went to see it again two nights later. Orff is just genius. I mean, he can make a melody that literally has only three notes in the entire thing and still make it so epic that you’re gripping the edge of your seat. I have no idea how he does it. The seating arrangements were the really incredible part though. Would you like to hear the tale? Yeah, I bet you would.
So anyway. Not having an advance ticket, I showed up at about 6:15 to try and see if any of the cheapest seats were still available (Swan Lake was going to be my one expensive night out, and my wallet didn’t really feel up to another one). The woman at the counter told me to wait ten minutes. Ok fine. So as I’m waiting ten minutes I was approached by a man who had an extra ticket he was trying to sell. Unfortunately at 56 euros, it was the most expensive seat in the house. I explained to him that sadly I was not in that sort of financial league for tonight, but thank you anyway. Then we were both just sort of standing there, me waiting for ten minutes to pass, him waiting for a potential sale to walk by. He asked me where I was from. Shockingly, I answered New Mexico. He was absolutely delighted to hear that because his son had studied at the United World College in Las Vegas. I mentioned that I had played in the symphony with some kids from the United World College. At this point he decided the coincidence was just so fantastic that he was suddenly inspired to sponsor my night at the opera. He handed over a front row seat free of charge and absolutely would not hear of taking any payment for it. Well I couldn’t complain. What can I say, it pays to be from Santa Fe sometimes.
Ok, moving on. Actually I forgot what I was talking about, or rather what I was going to talk about. Ok think. I suppose I should mention how we went to see Swan Lake another night. Ah yes, I should mention how we went to Schönbrunn, a palace built in the style of Versailles though not nearly as large and pretty irritating to sketch if you dislike windows the way I do. How it had lovely views and made me want to wear a dress and waltz in the garden. How I think it’s the place where I lost 13 euros worth of stamps. Grrrr, still bitter about that.
On my last day in Vienna we were all the way downtown before I realized that I had forgotten my camera yet again. I had already been there fourteen days, so…. Zero out of fourteen? That’s kinda grim. Considering it was my last day and I did not have a single picture of Vienna, I decided it would be worth it to take the extra hour to go back for it. I didn’t want Lisi to poison me in my sleep when I went to put my pictures on the internet and there was not a single bit of evidence that I was ever in Austria. As you can see, I am still living, so it was obviously a worthy venture.
So then I came to England. Flying Ryanair involved taking a 6:00 am train to Bratislava, a space-age looking sort of thing with windows that were astonishingly large and almost unsettlingly clean. The fields were greener than any combination of yellow #5 and blue #10 could possibly conjure. I also passed a field filled with enormous rabbits. Maybe those are hares, I don’t know. But they looked like rabbits and they were about the size of dogs. And no I don’t mean dogs that are the size of rabbits, I mean large, normal dogs. Which means they were very large rabbits. Everywhere. Except they blended in like prairie dogs, which was weird. With prairie dogs you’re looking at what you think is an empty field and then suddenly some of the dirt moves and you say, “Hey, a prairie dog!” With giant rabbits you’re looking at an empty field and suddenly an entire hill ups and hops away and you say, “Hey, a giant rabbit!”
Then I got to Bratislava, which was intriguing. Right at about airport security, Bratislava ceased to be intriguing and started to be just plain unpleasant. I enjoyed it not. I did, however, enjoy the British security announcement they gave us on the plane: “Luminous floorpath lighting will guide your way to the nearest exit in the case of darkness.”
Awesome.
So I left India and got back to Vienna, la dee da. Food is great. Clean sheets (and streets for that matter) are great. I’ll just hit the highlights.
The first interesting thing I felt I actually wanted to write about was the Nausch Markt, which, when it comes down to it, I must admit I have no idea how to spell, or even what it actually sounds like in spoken German for that matter. Well hey, I just googled it and apparently it’s Naschmarkt. Not too bad for a wild guess, if I may say so myself. Anyway, it was quite fun and actually reminded me a lot of Pike Place market in Seattle. Stands everywhere selling fruit, cheese, olives, chocolates, kebabs, meat, juices, pizza, vegetables, snacks, clothing, flowers, honey, vinegar. Yes, there was an entire vinegar stand which sold vinegar out of these large bulbous bottles that looked like they had been transported out of a medieval alchemist’s workshop. There was another shop that sold sauerkraut and pickles out of barrels. Ok, let me repeat that in case you missed it. Sauerkraut. Out of barrels. Honestly this was the point at which I realized I needed to start writing some of this down. I mean seriously. A heaping barrel of sauerkraut?
There were many fruit stands which basically all sold the same things at similar prices, but among these same things at similar prices was the largest selection of completely bizarre and unidentifiable fruit I have ever found in one place at one time. Naturally, being the sort of person that I am, I had to buy one of each and every fruit whose name and/or appearance I did not recognize. This resulted in a rather heavy bag of mostly purply fruits that tended to have all sort of odd appendages hanging off of them. Once I took them home and tried them all I found that they tended to be whitish inside and to resemble eyeballs, but of course I’m generalizing severely here. They also tended to be on the more-bland-than-one-would-hope-for side. The combined eyeball consistency and plain water flavor I think might account for the fact that one rarely finds these fruits in normal places of fruit purchase.
Later that same night I went solo to the Volksoper to see the premiere of two short operas—a Ravel and an Orff, though it was of course the Orff that lured me there in the first place. It was absolutely fantastic. One of the more enjoyable shows I’ve ever been to in my life, enough so that I went to see it again two nights later. Orff is just genius. I mean, he can make a melody that literally has only three notes in the entire thing and still make it so epic that you’re gripping the edge of your seat. I have no idea how he does it. The seating arrangements were the really incredible part though. Would you like to hear the tale? Yeah, I bet you would.
So anyway. Not having an advance ticket, I showed up at about 6:15 to try and see if any of the cheapest seats were still available (Swan Lake was going to be my one expensive night out, and my wallet didn’t really feel up to another one). The woman at the counter told me to wait ten minutes. Ok fine. So as I’m waiting ten minutes I was approached by a man who had an extra ticket he was trying to sell. Unfortunately at 56 euros, it was the most expensive seat in the house. I explained to him that sadly I was not in that sort of financial league for tonight, but thank you anyway. Then we were both just sort of standing there, me waiting for ten minutes to pass, him waiting for a potential sale to walk by. He asked me where I was from. Shockingly, I answered New Mexico. He was absolutely delighted to hear that because his son had studied at the United World College in Las Vegas. I mentioned that I had played in the symphony with some kids from the United World College. At this point he decided the coincidence was just so fantastic that he was suddenly inspired to sponsor my night at the opera. He handed over a front row seat free of charge and absolutely would not hear of taking any payment for it. Well I couldn’t complain. What can I say, it pays to be from Santa Fe sometimes.
Ok, moving on. Actually I forgot what I was talking about, or rather what I was going to talk about. Ok think. I suppose I should mention how we went to see Swan Lake another night. Ah yes, I should mention how we went to Schönbrunn, a palace built in the style of Versailles though not nearly as large and pretty irritating to sketch if you dislike windows the way I do. How it had lovely views and made me want to wear a dress and waltz in the garden. How I think it’s the place where I lost 13 euros worth of stamps. Grrrr, still bitter about that.
On my last day in Vienna we were all the way downtown before I realized that I had forgotten my camera yet again. I had already been there fourteen days, so…. Zero out of fourteen? That’s kinda grim. Considering it was my last day and I did not have a single picture of Vienna, I decided it would be worth it to take the extra hour to go back for it. I didn’t want Lisi to poison me in my sleep when I went to put my pictures on the internet and there was not a single bit of evidence that I was ever in Austria. As you can see, I am still living, so it was obviously a worthy venture.
So then I came to England. Flying Ryanair involved taking a 6:00 am train to Bratislava, a space-age looking sort of thing with windows that were astonishingly large and almost unsettlingly clean. The fields were greener than any combination of yellow #5 and blue #10 could possibly conjure. I also passed a field filled with enormous rabbits. Maybe those are hares, I don’t know. But they looked like rabbits and they were about the size of dogs. And no I don’t mean dogs that are the size of rabbits, I mean large, normal dogs. Which means they were very large rabbits. Everywhere. Except they blended in like prairie dogs, which was weird. With prairie dogs you’re looking at what you think is an empty field and then suddenly some of the dirt moves and you say, “Hey, a prairie dog!” With giant rabbits you’re looking at an empty field and suddenly an entire hill ups and hops away and you say, “Hey, a giant rabbit!”
Then I got to Bratislava, which was intriguing. Right at about airport security, Bratislava ceased to be intriguing and started to be just plain unpleasant. I enjoyed it not. I did, however, enjoy the British security announcement they gave us on the plane: “Luminous floorpath lighting will guide your way to the nearest exit in the case of darkness.”
Awesome.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Chapter 45: Throats
Oh, and the sore throat turned out to be tonsillitis. They said my tonsils looked like pizzas and then they put me on antibiotics. Glad we cleared that one up.
Chapter 44: Elephants and Infernos
Our day’s touristry in Jaipur. Man it is hard to write on an Indian train. Anyway. We started with breakfast, which isn’t really worth mentioning, but look, there I’ve gone and mentioned it anyway. We then met our tour guide, who had been recommended to us, and then we were off. The man explained interesting historical tidbits about Jaipur as we drove along, almost all of which has slipped my mind, naturally, but of course you don’t want to read about those things anyway because those are the sorts of things that you find in a crusty book in a library and not in the weblog of an easily amused youth, which tends to involve more things like cobras. Yes, you guessed it, there was a cobra waiting for us when we stopped along the side of the road to take the quintessential touristy shot of the Amber Fort along the ridgetop. That’s right, a cobra in a basket, a snakecharmer, and a baby elephant.
The baby elephant I liked—elephant hair is hilarious. The snake charmer was kinda like what, oh come on. Nobody actually does that. But I guess they do, and that cobra looked like it would sooner write a Shakespeare sonnet than lash out lethally at a passing tourist or small furry rodent.
We then took an elephant ride up the maharaja’s private driveway to the fort, a ride which I’m sorry to say I severely disliked. Aside from the basic moral implications of elephant slavery, it was pure torture just trying to stay on the thing as it careened up the hill at about twice the speed of any of the other fifty or so elephants making the climb. A maniac, our elephant was. I think I dislocated my hip hanging on for dear life.
We then went and saw the fort which was pretty neat and historically fertile but unfortunately very hot. I officially hate Jaipur for the weather alone, regardless of how interesting anything in it might be.
After the fort we took a stop by a textile croblyn. I have absolutely no idea what a croblyn is, but that’s what I seem to have written in my book, so until I work on my legibility skills, I’m just gonna go with it. Now that I liked. First we watched them block printing big sheets and tablecloths and the like. It was pretty cool to watch the big bedspreads that I’ve always had being printed right there, all by hand with carved wooden blocks, little old guys lining up the designs by eye and hammering them onto the cloth. We got to try our hands at it ourselves, adorning a little square of cloth with a green elephant labeled “
We then went around the corner to the rug looms where these three little guys were furiously knotting away. We were invited to sit down with them on their little benches and give it a go, which I personally thought was way cool. I was assisted by a little old man with the most cheerful toothless smile in the world. I then went over to watch various people stretching the rugs to dry, hemming up the edges, combing them, trimming them, burning and scraping them, and washing them with big wooden paddles. The actual rug making process of course goes in an entirely different order than that, but that’s the order I saw them in and anyway, I don’t know what the correct one is. Then we met the owner, got marketed to for a while, and ultimately left having purchased much more than intended as per
Titbit fact: Jaipur holds the Guinness world records both for the finest rugs and for the largest sundial, which is where we proceeded to go after we were done at the croblyn. The old observatory, more accurately, which happens to include the world largest sundial. The observatory was built over two hundred years ago by one of the maharajas and is, quite frankly, amazing. All the instruments are hand-carved perfectly out of marble, still accurate up to two seconds. Oh come on, don’t try and tell me that’s not way cool. A different instrument for every sign of the zodiac, instruments for tracking the constellations, the seasons, the moon, and of course, the really freaking huge sundial which was so tall that my right leg gave out when I got back down from climbing to the top of it. No really, it was a pretty bizarre sensation.
We saw the textile and craft museums (ho hum) and then went to a gem shop (you can’t go to Jaipur and not look at gems) where I discovered that blue topaz is gorgeous beyond all measure.
I guess I don’t really have much more to say about the day. It was fascinating, it was hideously, monstrously, heinously, grotesquely, obscenely, punishably hot (and it’s only March, mind you), and now I’m on a train back to Delhi. My trip is almost over, and I’m ready for it. Two (well, three) more days and then
Chapter 43: Way Out of Order
In other news, my mother’s camera is still missing, despite many searches through the car where we know it was left. Also, one morning that I forgot to write about back in the day in Anandpur Sahib we did sadhana at the “Pink Fort” and there was the funniest cutest puppy I’ve ever seen, like a penguin, except a puppy. The moment I saw it I just had to point and laugh. You’ll have to see the pictures to understand.
Chapter 42: Me a Salad?
I’m sitting on a private terrace at the Neemrana Fort-Palace (fancy sounding, eh?) overlooking an amphitheater filled with a movie crew shooting one of them dance scenes Bollywood is known for except that this is actually some music video and not a Bollywood movie. I’ve heard the opening few lines to this song at least a million and a half times since this morning. This is a hell of a lot of work for one cheesy dance scene.
I just got done with a spa treatment where they gave me a facial, which was nice, a full body massage, which was awkward, and the warm oil dripping on the forehead thing, which smelled like salad dressing. The funny thing is that even as I was in the middle of my treatment I was thinking to myself, “Later I’m going to write about this, I’m going to misquote myself, and I’m going to firmly set the record wrong in my own head once I put it all down into words.” And now I’ve gone and done it. Funny how that works. The simplification of thought into language reforms the thought to fit that language. I can read a book and be unable to decide whether I liked it or not, and then it’s ultimately the words I choose when telling other people about it that make the choice about how I feel about it in the end. Ok, not relevant, I know.
Now I suppose it’s time for me to complain about the sorrows of writing by hand. On second thought, maybe I’ll just go paint a picture instead.
Chapter 41: Diseased
Ok, the time has finally come to get off my butt and write this all down. Only problem is I can no longer remember where I left off or what exactly happened anyway. So I will now proceed to set it all down to the best of my ability, but I cannot guarantee that it will be in civilized chronological order. In fact, I am almost willing to promise that it won’t be. Whatever I write will almost certainly be taking the most convoluted and thickly wooded route possible to reach its point. And with that disclaimer having now been set straight, I begin.
Actually, the lights just went out and I am severely averse to the idea of moving into a more well-lighted area from this appallingly comfortable bed, so I’m actually just killing time instead of beginning and waiting for the light to find me. Alright, we compromised, I now have a reading light, and I can begin.
Sheesh, I just checked back to see where I left off, and it’s been so long that I don’t even feel like writing it anymore. Ah, sigh. Grit teeth. Here goes.
So my camera (which had gone missing) just turned out to have been locked away by the maid for safekeeping. A nice relief, though all my cash is gone. Not exactly sure where along the road that happened, but I’m almost too tired to care, so I just try to avoid thinking about how many teapots I burned my fingers on in order to pay for some random Indian to win themself a guilty conscience. Luckily this is not too difficult as I’m generally too tired to do much thinking at all, and in fact that’s actually the first time that the thought even occurred to me. If you’re not getting the hint, I’ve been feeling unwell and horrifically tired ALL the time. I’ve had a headache for the past two days and a sort throat for the past three. But, as promised, that’s all totally out of order, so let’s go back in time a bit to the last time I was feeling like this, back in Anandpur Sahib. Ugh, just thinking about it makes me want to puke all over again—just like I did a couple days ago for the first time since third grade, but again I digress. We’re trying to get to the part where we clambered aboard a sickening bus, drove to the spot where Guru Gobind Singh wrote Benti Chaupaee, and recited eleven of them there. I honestly had a bit of a hard time experiencing the power of it that everyone later described, for a few reasons.
- I was still too tired sick to have much of an easy time focusing on the task at hand.
- I was distracted by monkeys.
We don’t often get monkeys back in good ol’
Then at some point the sickness miraculously disappeared and was replaced by energy and a burning desire to do gatka, so my mother and sister and I set ourselves to the task of building an obstacle course with gusto. Then we had a fabulously muddy training day in the rain (makes it feel authentic) and I did nothing but my left hand the whole time because my mom is very good at breeding a sturdy little army of right-hand addicts—dominant-hand addicts, I should say—a phenomenon which I am stalwartly trying to thwart and am obviously still bitter about.
One morning we had the first ever all-women Amrit ceremony in history. Now I know that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to lead up to, but I really don’t have the energy just now. I was on the panj, which was quite interesting, having myself only taken Amrit less than a year ago. It was really nice, though. A great ceremony, and for me it felt like taking Amrit all over again.
Then we came back to
Oh yeah, that’s what happened. Went to Parents’ Day at MPA and ate a food which I cannot write down because looking at it on the page will make me want to barf again, which is exactly what I did with it the next morning upon arriving back at the school, and all over the flowerbeds too. Ok, too much information, I know. This is the censored version, be glad. What’s actually written in my little black book is quite graphic. Anyway. I then watched a bunch of cool performances while feeling horrible, then I felt awful, then I continued to feel dreadful, then I took some antibiotics, and by the evening I was feeling fine, fine meaning that I could reasonably stand up without fear of imminent vomit, fine also meaning I was unable to accompany the crew to pizza hut.
After all that I thought I was finally better, but obviously I wasn’t because here I am moaning, not feeling terribly bad, but just not feeling in any way good and feeling like everything is an enormous effort. Raising my eyes to look at the air conditioner is an effort. Remembering the sentence I was originally planning to put here is an effort, and one that I’m not willing to make, though I know there was a better one than this in mind. I’m only able to continue writing this because now it’s the momentum I’m going with, and to stop would be an effort. Plus, I figure its taken me so long to get myself here to these blank pages that I better have something to show for it.
Well I think I’ve showed it. Anything else that’s worth mentioning will probably be brought up when the cross-references refer back anyway, and if I don’t end up with any cross-references to refer back, then I figure it wasn’t worth mentioning. That’s my feeling on
Chapter 39: Axes and Rickshaws
A guy just drove past—well, two actually, together on a scooter. The one behind just happens to be holding a rather evil looking axe right against his buddy’s shoulder. What with the
Chapter 38: Guh...
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Chapter 37: So… Sleepy…
I know this isn’t a word you would usually use in conjunction with sadhana, but this morning was obscene. I was so tired I could cry. It seems like all I ever do in my free time is sleep because I’m always so tired.
We started this morning (the second morning, the one that comes after sadhana) with sword shopping (if I’d known I’d need a sword for this camp I would have bought a nice one earlier, but whatever). My sword is filled with some strange black powder that falls all over everything whenever I move the hilt. It’s very strange. After the swords, we packed off quickly to Keshghar Sahib for the starting of the two akhand paths—one for this yatra and one on behalf of Khalsa Council. One of the readers was an old man with the most intense vibrato in his voice ever. It was awesome.
Later in the day we went to see Taraghar Sahib, the fort where Guru Gobind Singh’s soldiers meditated. It was really nice. We had langar with fantastic pakoras (again a view I would no longer hold in a week’s time), we chanted in one of the unfinished rooms, we did some kirtan, we climbed around. You know. That sort of thing.
After the fort we got in the bus (yet again) and drove five minutes to where five hundred of the Guru’s soldiers had lived and defended against the hill Rajas. It was so nice. It felt so familiar, like I already knew my way around. I touched the tree at the top of the hill and it just felt like touching it all over again.
And then we came back and I of course slept for eternity. When I woke up it was time for our official camp opening circle, which was honestly lame. I mean we had fun, but as a check in circle it was worth a pile of fermented beans. (We were split up into groups, my group being the “youth” group if that gives you any ideas). We finished the evening with a brownie session in the kitchen. Mmmmm. Brownies.
We started this morning (the second morning, the one that comes after sadhana) with sword shopping (if I’d known I’d need a sword for this camp I would have bought a nice one earlier, but whatever). My sword is filled with some strange black powder that falls all over everything whenever I move the hilt. It’s very strange. After the swords, we packed off quickly to Keshghar Sahib for the starting of the two akhand paths—one for this yatra and one on behalf of Khalsa Council. One of the readers was an old man with the most intense vibrato in his voice ever. It was awesome.
Later in the day we went to see Taraghar Sahib, the fort where Guru Gobind Singh’s soldiers meditated. It was really nice. We had langar with fantastic pakoras (again a view I would no longer hold in a week’s time), we chanted in one of the unfinished rooms, we did some kirtan, we climbed around. You know. That sort of thing.
After the fort we got in the bus (yet again) and drove five minutes to where five hundred of the Guru’s soldiers had lived and defended against the hill Rajas. It was so nice. It felt so familiar, like I already knew my way around. I touched the tree at the top of the hill and it just felt like touching it all over again.
And then we came back and I of course slept for eternity. When I woke up it was time for our official camp opening circle, which was honestly lame. I mean we had fun, but as a check in circle it was worth a pile of fermented beans. (We were split up into groups, my group being the “youth” group if that gives you any ideas). We finished the evening with a brownie session in the kitchen. Mmmmm. Brownies.
Chapter 36: Intrigue and Pakoras on the High Road
Last night, as I mentioned, we finally broke into the torrone. It was… *starts drooling and forgets to talk*. I also showed off my mask to Saibi, tried to ask someone a straight-faced question while wearing it (supreme failure, I really must work on my poker face), and ultimately went to sleep in a squished bed (at least I didn’t have middle), all the while setting the alarm progressively later as the dark hours marched steadily forward without us. My mom finally suggested I turn it off altogether, but I was having none of that. I would not go any later than 4:30.
When 4:30 rolled around, of course, I was pretty darn reluctant, though still had some feeble sense of determination. My mom got up and out of bed, and I was about to follow her glorious example, when she promptly clicked on the TV to the Golden Temple channel and crawled straight back in. Somehow my early morning logic managed to consider this more than ample justification for a couple more hits of the snooze button, one of which must have inadvertently been the off button, as it was suddenly 6:30 and I was the last one left in the room.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my clothes, already feeling slightly guilty about my acrobatic mental politics of the amrit vela, and then practically ran down the stairs and across the street to the Golden Temple. I was frantic because at this point I basically had time to run in and bow, rush back to the hotel, finish stuffing everything into my suitcase, engage in the battle to close my suitcase, haul it all downstairs to load up my bag on the bus, and then maybe possibly grab a parantha on the way out, though I had a suspicion that breakfast this morning might not extend past prashad, a tradeoff I was happy to make.
In this hurried sort of panic mode I turned in my shoes and rushed across the marble steps to the parkarma, passing BK along the way (which just made me more nervous as it confirmed my fears that by this time I should be leaving not entering). Then I stepped onto the parkarma, touched my forehead to the marble, and it all just melted away. I felt suddenly so peaceful and relaxed.
It was a little funny because as nice as the Golden Temple is, I’ve always felt somewhat cheated of the homecoming experiences that everyone describes having. I never really got that. But here on this one hurried morning, it ironically managed to find me. I suppose that’s how it goes.
I made my way around the parkarma and suddenly saw myself behind a group of four nihangs, absolutely decked out to the brim in their weaponry. Just massive spears, swords, weapons I don’t even know the name of. It made a beautiful picture, the pink sunlight foggily illuminating these four blue warrior saints, the long shafts of their weapons bristling uncontrollably in all directions. I watched as each tapped a weapon on one of the orange-robed flagpoles before making their way out of the complex. I headed across the bridge towards the Guru.
The sunrise was so peaceful as it glowed warmly through the fog and haze, birds flying in lilting arcs over the water. Once inside, the bowing was as jostly as ever, maybe more so if that was possible. I bowed my head, battled my way outside, and made my way up to the roof gurdwara. I sat briefly, then went out and stood on the center point of the Golden Temple where an inlaid flower marks the crown.
It was incredible. I felt like a balancing weight, a plumb line was pulling from my feet all the way down through the earth, out the other end, off through the infinity of space, lining it all up in perfect symmetry, like a morning eurhythmy exercise that actually works. It was one of those feelings that makes your face automatically break into a smile, regardless of how silly you feel. Then I stepped off the point and immediately felt like I was on earth again. Neat. At that point I headed back to the hotel where I was informed that I had been spotted on the TV. Well ain’t that dandy.
Chaotically we all clambered aboard the bus and cars and headed out of there, soon on the road to Salindran’s village. Turns out the driver, despite all his insistences to the contrary, had no idea where we were going, so we got completely lost and ended up spending a very unnecessarily long time in that bus, a thing to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. If you happen to be in an aisle seat (as I was) you spend most of the ride concentrating really hard on staying in your seat. The whole thing is slanted inwards. The seats are made of very smooth wood and are exactly the size of a person’s bottom, so there’s not a lot of sliding room as you’re floundering, desperately trying to stay seated as you’re careening along the viciously battered roads of rural Punjab. The view is also enough to cause claustrophobia in the most stalwart of persons. One poorly angled and significantly blocked view of green streaks of Indian countryside is attainable through your seatmate’s window. Otherwise it’s just seats, heads, bags, the person across the aisle, the two of you leaning ever dangerously closer to one another as your respective seats slowly eject you further and further.
The village was cool. We started in the langar hall with a “snack” of absolutely awesome pakoras (I was not to be thinking this the same time next week). We then went over to the gurdwara where the entire village had turned out to see us. I stepped out of the blinding sunlight into the shadow of the gurdwara’s entrance and blinked as the images materialized themselves. On the left were the ladies who had gone in before me. In front was, of course, the Guru. It was the right side that had the view.
All the village women from the newest little girls to the oldest wrinkled crones were assembled there in possibly the most dazzling sea of hues I’ve ever laid eyes on. The brightest possible colors of every shade packed into every inch of the gurdwara with hundreds of shining faces looking back. It was gorgeous. We talked a little about ourselves, played a little kirtan, and finished up the gurdwara (because we were so late we had to keep it short). BK got a huge fly in her prashad (it was her birthday), cause for much merriment both among the small Punjabi children and my mother, who was unable to continue leading the chanting as she was virtually crippled by an excess of mirth.
Then of course it was lunch time. We had to scarf down our food in record time and leap back onto the bus (did I mention we were late?). Upon arriving back at the vehicle, however, it because apparent that Nirinjan’s cell phone had gone missing. After searching every possible corner of the bus, we began to piece some clues together. Well first, the cell phone was missing. On a second check through, Nirinjan was pretty sure she’d had another 500 rupee bill in her wallet. We also soon uncovered that Nirinjan’s bag had actually been discovered in a different location than the one she’d originally left it in. In the process of searching the floor for the missing cell phone, well also came across a discarded swatch of fabric lying on the floor. Nirinjan identified it as the one she had stuffed into her bag just before leaving the bus. In short, someone had definitely gone through her stuff. Discussing it fervently along the way, our complex powers of deduction led us to suspect the driver.
We stopped at Haveli’s for dinner (best lassi ever, I tell you). And then it happened. Someone actually caught the drivers red-handed, looking through people’s luggage. They stopped immediately when they saw her, but that was enough for us. Nirinjan was furious at this point, but the powers that be (namely the camp staff) wanted to wait until Anandpur Sahib to deal with the situation. When we finally did arrive in Anandpur Sahib our first stop was Keshghar Sahib, the main gurdwara, where we were going to temporarily install the Guru and have an akhand path read.
As we were waiting for the Guru to arrive, a scooter zoomed by with a guy wielding a thick metal tube, out of which was streaming a viscous white cloud. The cloud rose up into the air, billowing towards us, bearing down upon us, expanding exponentially it seemed, without losing any density. It was a terrifying, spellbinding sight to behold. DDT for the mosquitoes, someone mumbled apprehensively. But to see this cloud racing towards you, opaque with viscosity, looking like that one famous picture of the jeep outrunning the cloud from Mount Saint Helens but white instead of grey, man it was intense! I desperately felt like I was supposed to hide from this cloud, but I could not! Oh, the terror! And then it was over.
So then we finally brought the Guru in, bowed, got back on the bus, and finally made it to the Siri Singh Sahib’s house, Dashmesh Sadan, a.k.a. home. Where they fed us yet again. Before dinner my mom and I were coming down the stairs to my room and we could hear some pretty intense Punjabi yelling coming up from the driveway. Whatever it was about, they were arguing HARD, screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs. As we were sitting at the table eating about ten minutes later, one of the guys came up and handed over Nirinjan’s phone and 500 rupees. So there we had it. Turns out it was indeed the driver’s sidekick, who was immediately fired from the job and kicked off the premises.
So now it’s 12:40 and I’m on wakeup duty at 3:15. I just keep getting better at this, don’t I?
When 4:30 rolled around, of course, I was pretty darn reluctant, though still had some feeble sense of determination. My mom got up and out of bed, and I was about to follow her glorious example, when she promptly clicked on the TV to the Golden Temple channel and crawled straight back in. Somehow my early morning logic managed to consider this more than ample justification for a couple more hits of the snooze button, one of which must have inadvertently been the off button, as it was suddenly 6:30 and I was the last one left in the room.
I dragged myself out of bed and into my clothes, already feeling slightly guilty about my acrobatic mental politics of the amrit vela, and then practically ran down the stairs and across the street to the Golden Temple. I was frantic because at this point I basically had time to run in and bow, rush back to the hotel, finish stuffing everything into my suitcase, engage in the battle to close my suitcase, haul it all downstairs to load up my bag on the bus, and then maybe possibly grab a parantha on the way out, though I had a suspicion that breakfast this morning might not extend past prashad, a tradeoff I was happy to make.
In this hurried sort of panic mode I turned in my shoes and rushed across the marble steps to the parkarma, passing BK along the way (which just made me more nervous as it confirmed my fears that by this time I should be leaving not entering). Then I stepped onto the parkarma, touched my forehead to the marble, and it all just melted away. I felt suddenly so peaceful and relaxed.
It was a little funny because as nice as the Golden Temple is, I’ve always felt somewhat cheated of the homecoming experiences that everyone describes having. I never really got that. But here on this one hurried morning, it ironically managed to find me. I suppose that’s how it goes.
I made my way around the parkarma and suddenly saw myself behind a group of four nihangs, absolutely decked out to the brim in their weaponry. Just massive spears, swords, weapons I don’t even know the name of. It made a beautiful picture, the pink sunlight foggily illuminating these four blue warrior saints, the long shafts of their weapons bristling uncontrollably in all directions. I watched as each tapped a weapon on one of the orange-robed flagpoles before making their way out of the complex. I headed across the bridge towards the Guru.
The sunrise was so peaceful as it glowed warmly through the fog and haze, birds flying in lilting arcs over the water. Once inside, the bowing was as jostly as ever, maybe more so if that was possible. I bowed my head, battled my way outside, and made my way up to the roof gurdwara. I sat briefly, then went out and stood on the center point of the Golden Temple where an inlaid flower marks the crown.
It was incredible. I felt like a balancing weight, a plumb line was pulling from my feet all the way down through the earth, out the other end, off through the infinity of space, lining it all up in perfect symmetry, like a morning eurhythmy exercise that actually works. It was one of those feelings that makes your face automatically break into a smile, regardless of how silly you feel. Then I stepped off the point and immediately felt like I was on earth again. Neat. At that point I headed back to the hotel where I was informed that I had been spotted on the TV. Well ain’t that dandy.
Chaotically we all clambered aboard the bus and cars and headed out of there, soon on the road to Salindran’s village. Turns out the driver, despite all his insistences to the contrary, had no idea where we were going, so we got completely lost and ended up spending a very unnecessarily long time in that bus, a thing to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. If you happen to be in an aisle seat (as I was) you spend most of the ride concentrating really hard on staying in your seat. The whole thing is slanted inwards. The seats are made of very smooth wood and are exactly the size of a person’s bottom, so there’s not a lot of sliding room as you’re floundering, desperately trying to stay seated as you’re careening along the viciously battered roads of rural Punjab. The view is also enough to cause claustrophobia in the most stalwart of persons. One poorly angled and significantly blocked view of green streaks of Indian countryside is attainable through your seatmate’s window. Otherwise it’s just seats, heads, bags, the person across the aisle, the two of you leaning ever dangerously closer to one another as your respective seats slowly eject you further and further.
The village was cool. We started in the langar hall with a “snack” of absolutely awesome pakoras (I was not to be thinking this the same time next week). We then went over to the gurdwara where the entire village had turned out to see us. I stepped out of the blinding sunlight into the shadow of the gurdwara’s entrance and blinked as the images materialized themselves. On the left were the ladies who had gone in before me. In front was, of course, the Guru. It was the right side that had the view.
All the village women from the newest little girls to the oldest wrinkled crones were assembled there in possibly the most dazzling sea of hues I’ve ever laid eyes on. The brightest possible colors of every shade packed into every inch of the gurdwara with hundreds of shining faces looking back. It was gorgeous. We talked a little about ourselves, played a little kirtan, and finished up the gurdwara (because we were so late we had to keep it short). BK got a huge fly in her prashad (it was her birthday), cause for much merriment both among the small Punjabi children and my mother, who was unable to continue leading the chanting as she was virtually crippled by an excess of mirth.
Then of course it was lunch time. We had to scarf down our food in record time and leap back onto the bus (did I mention we were late?). Upon arriving back at the vehicle, however, it because apparent that Nirinjan’s cell phone had gone missing. After searching every possible corner of the bus, we began to piece some clues together. Well first, the cell phone was missing. On a second check through, Nirinjan was pretty sure she’d had another 500 rupee bill in her wallet. We also soon uncovered that Nirinjan’s bag had actually been discovered in a different location than the one she’d originally left it in. In the process of searching the floor for the missing cell phone, well also came across a discarded swatch of fabric lying on the floor. Nirinjan identified it as the one she had stuffed into her bag just before leaving the bus. In short, someone had definitely gone through her stuff. Discussing it fervently along the way, our complex powers of deduction led us to suspect the driver.
We stopped at Haveli’s for dinner (best lassi ever, I tell you). And then it happened. Someone actually caught the drivers red-handed, looking through people’s luggage. They stopped immediately when they saw her, but that was enough for us. Nirinjan was furious at this point, but the powers that be (namely the camp staff) wanted to wait until Anandpur Sahib to deal with the situation. When we finally did arrive in Anandpur Sahib our first stop was Keshghar Sahib, the main gurdwara, where we were going to temporarily install the Guru and have an akhand path read.
As we were waiting for the Guru to arrive, a scooter zoomed by with a guy wielding a thick metal tube, out of which was streaming a viscous white cloud. The cloud rose up into the air, billowing towards us, bearing down upon us, expanding exponentially it seemed, without losing any density. It was a terrifying, spellbinding sight to behold. DDT for the mosquitoes, someone mumbled apprehensively. But to see this cloud racing towards you, opaque with viscosity, looking like that one famous picture of the jeep outrunning the cloud from Mount Saint Helens but white instead of grey, man it was intense! I desperately felt like I was supposed to hide from this cloud, but I could not! Oh, the terror! And then it was over.
So then we finally brought the Guru in, bowed, got back on the bus, and finally made it to the Siri Singh Sahib’s house, Dashmesh Sadan, a.k.a. home. Where they fed us yet again. Before dinner my mom and I were coming down the stairs to my room and we could hear some pretty intense Punjabi yelling coming up from the driveway. Whatever it was about, they were arguing HARD, screaming at each other at the tops of their lungs. As we were sitting at the table eating about ten minutes later, one of the guys came up and handed over Nirinjan’s phone and 500 rupees. So there we had it. Turns out it was indeed the driver’s sidekick, who was immediately fired from the job and kicked off the premises.
So now it’s 12:40 and I’m on wakeup duty at 3:15. I just keep getting better at this, don’t I?
Chapter 35: Swords
A couple India stories to add to the classics:
Well the sheets were covered in snot. Not really a great story, but it was gross anyway.
Here’s a story.
Ok, so Salindran wanted to call Hardeep, the sword guy, and make sure he was still planning to come display his swords and kirpans as they had agreed to, and if so, what time? She dials the number and, I presume, it starts ringing. This is what we hear:
“Hello? Hardeep? Is that you, Hardeep? Are you coming? Yes, this is Salindran Kaur from the CJ hotel. Are you coming to show us your swords? Yes? Hardeep? Are you coming to the CJ tonight...?”
And on. Turns out she’s talking to some totally random guy in Amritsar for a good minute or two before she figures out she has the wrong number. Oh, it was priceless! Ahahaha! Just imagine Salindran asking some random Indian if he’ll come to the CJ Hotel to show her his swords. Man. We will be joking about this for decades to come.
Well the sheets were covered in snot. Not really a great story, but it was gross anyway.
Here’s a story.
Ok, so Salindran wanted to call Hardeep, the sword guy, and make sure he was still planning to come display his swords and kirpans as they had agreed to, and if so, what time? She dials the number and, I presume, it starts ringing. This is what we hear:
“Hello? Hardeep? Is that you, Hardeep? Are you coming? Yes, this is Salindran Kaur from the CJ hotel. Are you coming to show us your swords? Yes? Hardeep? Are you coming to the CJ tonight...?”
And on. Turns out she’s talking to some totally random guy in Amritsar for a good minute or two before she figures out she has the wrong number. Oh, it was priceless! Ahahaha! Just imagine Salindran asking some random Indian if he’ll come to the CJ Hotel to show her his swords. Man. We will be joking about this for decades to come.
Chapter 34: History or Something Like It
Today, as often seems to happen when you put a whole bunch of women together, we set out to make history, or something like it. I hardly think I need to explain that India is a heavily patriarchal society. So you put a bunch of women together in India… well history or something like it can hardly be avoided.
I woke up JUST in time to eat some soggy cornflakes and dash over to the Golden Temple for our little meeting outside the Akal Takhat. We had a circle meeting every morning. The thing that was important this morning was that we had planned a procession around the parkarma. I was supposed to be a photographer (yay cool cameras!).
After our circle dispersed, the chosen crew (plus photographers) made our barefoot way across the Amritsar streets to the little bookshop where we would pick up our new Siri Guru Granth Sahib that one of the ladies had purchased. We all filed into the little back room to work out the logistics of traveling with the Siri Guru Granth Sahib and to make the exchange. As we made our way back out, chanting gobinde mukhande, my job of darting and dodging in my attempts to document the event began.
Our barefooted crew of women made our way back through the streets of Amritsar, chanting, bearing the Guru under a red umbrella chandoa, already drawing gaping stares. We came down the stairs to the parkarma where the rest of the women were waiting to meet us, not to mention a very large crowd of fascinated Indians. The women of course stepped in right behind us. But the Indians did not hesitate either. Their faces were glowing as we approached the parkarma and we had hardly gone a hundred feet before they had dropped in behind us. Every step that we took around the nectar tank people would be stopped in smiling amazement and every step brought more and more to the following crowd until soon there were well over fifty Indians eagerly keeping pace.
By the time we made our second loop around the Golden Temple, the crowd had grown to the size where all you could see of the Guru was the little red umbrella bobbing up and down over the multicolored sea of turbans. By the time we ascended the stairs back up to the street, we had even attracted the attention of one of the TV cameras.
We made our way back to the hotel, the whole sangat following along behind us, all the way into the hotel, all the way up the stairs, where we completely crowded the stairwells, stairways, hallways, and small room as we said the ardas. The bole so nihals (and corresponding sat siri akals) resounded through the building with such force that I think everyone within a half-mile radius must have been inadvertently blessed. At any rate, it seemed loud enough to knock down the “unstable” building that’s been next door for years.
The event came to a close when the entire building simultaneously decided that it was lunch time. Me and Nirinjan (ahem, Nirinjan and I) discovered the fabulous wonder of Kulcha Land, got a couple of suits adjusted (YAY!), and then went to go shopping for Nirinjan’s wedding reception shoes. There was a point at which I believe a specimen of each and every possible gold shoe in the entire store was strewn about at Nirinjan’s ankles as she delicately slipped her foot back and forth between them, trying to decide which would best suit the occasion and her soles.
When we got back to the hotel I was so tired I dropped immediately into a very deep, three hour nap. When, at the end of that time, Nirinjan came in to show me her wedding dress, I was fully convinced she was waking me up for sadhana, and I was rather confused about the manner in which she was going about it. Why she was carrying this dress around at three in the morning and why she seemed so bloody alert were both mystifying questions that took me a good foggy few minutes to work through. I had to ask her both what time it was and what day it was, and when I got the answer I had the distinct feeling of having traveled backwards in time. It was all very exhausting.
Saibi and Ruby showed up, we broke into the absolute wonder that is torrone from Florence, we chatted about this and that and took forever to go to bed, and now here I am at 12:21 (good time, eh?) with a 4:30 alarm set on my phone. Oh well, I had a nap, right?
I woke up JUST in time to eat some soggy cornflakes and dash over to the Golden Temple for our little meeting outside the Akal Takhat. We had a circle meeting every morning. The thing that was important this morning was that we had planned a procession around the parkarma. I was supposed to be a photographer (yay cool cameras!).
After our circle dispersed, the chosen crew (plus photographers) made our barefoot way across the Amritsar streets to the little bookshop where we would pick up our new Siri Guru Granth Sahib that one of the ladies had purchased. We all filed into the little back room to work out the logistics of traveling with the Siri Guru Granth Sahib and to make the exchange. As we made our way back out, chanting gobinde mukhande, my job of darting and dodging in my attempts to document the event began.
Our barefooted crew of women made our way back through the streets of Amritsar, chanting, bearing the Guru under a red umbrella chandoa, already drawing gaping stares. We came down the stairs to the parkarma where the rest of the women were waiting to meet us, not to mention a very large crowd of fascinated Indians. The women of course stepped in right behind us. But the Indians did not hesitate either. Their faces were glowing as we approached the parkarma and we had hardly gone a hundred feet before they had dropped in behind us. Every step that we took around the nectar tank people would be stopped in smiling amazement and every step brought more and more to the following crowd until soon there were well over fifty Indians eagerly keeping pace.
By the time we made our second loop around the Golden Temple, the crowd had grown to the size where all you could see of the Guru was the little red umbrella bobbing up and down over the multicolored sea of turbans. By the time we ascended the stairs back up to the street, we had even attracted the attention of one of the TV cameras.
We made our way back to the hotel, the whole sangat following along behind us, all the way into the hotel, all the way up the stairs, where we completely crowded the stairwells, stairways, hallways, and small room as we said the ardas. The bole so nihals (and corresponding sat siri akals) resounded through the building with such force that I think everyone within a half-mile radius must have been inadvertently blessed. At any rate, it seemed loud enough to knock down the “unstable” building that’s been next door for years.
The event came to a close when the entire building simultaneously decided that it was lunch time. Me and Nirinjan (ahem, Nirinjan and I) discovered the fabulous wonder of Kulcha Land, got a couple of suits adjusted (YAY!), and then went to go shopping for Nirinjan’s wedding reception shoes. There was a point at which I believe a specimen of each and every possible gold shoe in the entire store was strewn about at Nirinjan’s ankles as she delicately slipped her foot back and forth between them, trying to decide which would best suit the occasion and her soles.
When we got back to the hotel I was so tired I dropped immediately into a very deep, three hour nap. When, at the end of that time, Nirinjan came in to show me her wedding dress, I was fully convinced she was waking me up for sadhana, and I was rather confused about the manner in which she was going about it. Why she was carrying this dress around at three in the morning and why she seemed so bloody alert were both mystifying questions that took me a good foggy few minutes to work through. I had to ask her both what time it was and what day it was, and when I got the answer I had the distinct feeling of having traveled backwards in time. It was all very exhausting.
Saibi and Ruby showed up, we broke into the absolute wonder that is torrone from Florence, we chatted about this and that and took forever to go to bed, and now here I am at 12:21 (good time, eh?) with a 4:30 alarm set on my phone. Oh well, I had a nap, right?
Chapter 33: Hello, India
It’s definitely nice to be back in India. The smell, the chaos, the cultural familiarity, the Golden Temple, friends, family, SAIBI!! It was fantastic to see her again, naturally.
It’s also fun to be back with an awesome camera this time. I don’t even have to pay attention. I just sort of lackadaisically click at things out the window as I’m passing by and fantastic pictures just sort of manufacture themselves. It’s great. As are the paranthas, the tiki prgbersg what? That is supposed to be burgers. And the burfi. Mmmm.
Yesterday we took a bunch of school kids out for dinner at a crappy yet apparently popular place (it’s new and American, what can I say?) called Bakes and Beans. What kind of a name is that? Nevermind, you can’t start asking questions like that when you’re in India, it’s much too exhausting. Anyway, in addition to the very odd conjuration of quasi American food, they have about ten different ways to order a chocolate coffee shake, all of which produce the exact same drink. We tested it. Well, ok, I’m being a bit harsh, there are in fact two varieties among those ten options. Plain chocolate and chocolate with so little coffee that it doesn’t really taste much different than the plain chocolate. And I believe that a Chocosparkle is slightly more watery than a basic Icy Mocha, though I personally would be willing to bet on that not being intentional. Well anyway, the point is, that between these homogenous chocolate shakes and my reunion with a bunch of awesome people, it was a very entertaining evening.
I should probably fill you in on the deal here. It’s a fairly simple one. The plan goes thus: I meet my mother in India, we pick up my sister from school in Amritsar, and then we spend a week doing Khalsa Ladies Camp Anandpur 2007. We return to Amritsar, the camp disperses, my father arrives, we spend Saibi’s spring break going somewhere. Where? Well we don’t know yet. Just somewhere. Got it? First half, women’s camp, second half, family vacation. Y’all are doing good. Ok, let’s move ahead.
It’s also fun to be back with an awesome camera this time. I don’t even have to pay attention. I just sort of lackadaisically click at things out the window as I’m passing by and fantastic pictures just sort of manufacture themselves. It’s great. As are the paranthas, the tiki prgbersg what? That is supposed to be burgers. And the burfi. Mmmm.
Yesterday we took a bunch of school kids out for dinner at a crappy yet apparently popular place (it’s new and American, what can I say?) called Bakes and Beans. What kind of a name is that? Nevermind, you can’t start asking questions like that when you’re in India, it’s much too exhausting. Anyway, in addition to the very odd conjuration of quasi American food, they have about ten different ways to order a chocolate coffee shake, all of which produce the exact same drink. We tested it. Well, ok, I’m being a bit harsh, there are in fact two varieties among those ten options. Plain chocolate and chocolate with so little coffee that it doesn’t really taste much different than the plain chocolate. And I believe that a Chocosparkle is slightly more watery than a basic Icy Mocha, though I personally would be willing to bet on that not being intentional. Well anyway, the point is, that between these homogenous chocolate shakes and my reunion with a bunch of awesome people, it was a very entertaining evening.
I should probably fill you in on the deal here. It’s a fairly simple one. The plan goes thus: I meet my mother in India, we pick up my sister from school in Amritsar, and then we spend a week doing Khalsa Ladies Camp Anandpur 2007. We return to Amritsar, the camp disperses, my father arrives, we spend Saibi’s spring break going somewhere. Where? Well we don’t know yet. Just somewhere. Got it? First half, women’s camp, second half, family vacation. Y’all are doing good. Ok, let’s move ahead.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Chapter 32: Disaster Strikes Again!
I just passed an absolutely terrifying moment in which I thought I’d misplaced this very little black book. I cannot explain the terror that inevitably seizes me if ever I think that something terrible has befallen my work. Other artists must know what I mean. I watched Love Actually yesterday. There is a scene in which Colin Firth is a writer typing away outside on an old-fashioned typewriter when a gust of wind comes up and blows half his novel into the pond. My knuckles were white from squeezing the blankets in fear. It was horrible!
Well anyway, here I am and I have my little black book. I’m sitting on a plane that has picked orange and green for its color scheme, at least for all those items that are not the trademark scarlet of Austrian Airlines. I quite like it. I think it’s one of the more attractive planes I’ve been on. I find this amusing because the last time I was on a plane I was inspired to write a little paragraph to be inserted into something somewhere, a paragraph basically poking fun at the complete unavoidable horribleness of virtually all plane upholstery and décor. So now I go and board an aesthetically pleasing plane. It’s hilarious, I love it. Well ok, it’s not THAT aesthetically pleasing….
I’ve spent that last week in Graz, which has been nice and relaxing. I’ve been able to finally sit down and get some writing done (yay laptops!), stop carrying my camera with me every second, watch some movies (the Departed!), and generally chill out, etc. Unfortunately after two relatively mild weeks I was overdue for a disaster (if you remember my journey’s start you should know what I mean), and find me it did.
To fly from Vienna to Delhi I unexpectedly revisited the 80s and had a prepaid ticket instead of an electronic one like every normal passenger in the world. This meant I had to physically pick up my ticket from the Air India office in Vienna. As I have mentioned, I was not actually in Vienna, but in Graz. Now, as I’m sure you can deduce on your own, Air India is an airline. Would it not seem fairly natural to have an office at the airport? No, of course not. It is infinitely more logical to locate the office across from the Vienna State Opera. What this means is that in order to compensate for the extra trip, I would have to go to Vienna a day early and pick up my ticket on Saturday afternoon to be prepared for my flight out on Sunday morning.
Friday evening rolls around, we’re chillin’ in Graz, going out for coffee, watching movies, and I think to myself hey, it would be good to know what time the Air India office closes tomorrow, seeing as they probably close a little earlier on Saturdays. I call up my father since I remembered him telling me that he’d get the hours and the address from the office when he booked my ticket. Apparently he remembers me telling him that I would call the office and find out the hours and the address. Half an hour later I get a call back from him. They’re not open on Saturday.
My brain: Uhhhh….
You can’t get on the plane without that physical ticket in your hand.
My brain: Uhhhh….
The office is closed.
My brain: Uhhhh….
There’s no way to get the ticket except from the office.
My brain: Uhhhh….
Basically I just lost my ticket.
My brain: Well shit.
Several hours and many gray hairs (well, no) later I had a completely different flight reserved on Austrian Airlines, not for Sunday, but for Monday now. I was supposed to go to the airport and argue with them over youth rates and such things and try to plead with them to let me fly on Sunday. Well anyway. What it came down to was making the commute to the Vienna airport, engaging in a fruitless bilingual, semi-comprehensible argument with the Austrian Air representative, and ultimately submitting to the fact that I would not be flying until Monday and thus would lose my shopping day in Delhi (*sniff*).
From there we bought some over-priced bare necessities like bread, milk, and cheese. (Well Lisi did while I fended off German-speaking beggars and tried to look inconspicuous. I should add that trying to look inconspicuous while wearing a turban in Europe is basically equivalent to trying to place an elephant in your grandmother’s china vase. It’s just not going to happen.) And we finally arrived at Lisi’s flat, Venetian mask still intact.
We were surprised to find company awaiting us and company was surprised to find us joining him, but nevertheless we enjoyed a good evening of feasting on garlic butter pasta and wondering why Lisi’s TV made Hugh Grant’s head squished and his voice sound like Darth Vader. The Darth Vader thing we just couldn’t deal with so we switched to a silent movie which was very convenient because good ol’ Buster Keaton’s voice could have been as Darth Vadery as anything and we’d never know.
The next morning we slept in. WAY in. Well ok. The next afternoon we slept in. And spent the day watching the world skiing championships which the Austrians won yet again (shocker). We followed that up with Love Actually (Hugh was better today, he’s just touchy about which screen you put him on) and YouTube (just a bit). Having then watched a little bit of every screen in the apartment, Lisi went out with a friend and I worked on my blog forever until I suddenly realized forever had passed and time to panic had arrived. So I panicked, and once I was done with that I actually stuffed my things into my suitcase and got ready for bed, at which point I proceeded to sleep.
Very early start in the morning. Flat to subway, subway to bus, bus to airport, airport to plane. I was seated by a mother with a very young daughter. The walking but no talking age (coherent talking, that is). The arrival was fine and welcome, and when I got to Soorya’s house my Venetian mask was still intact. This was somewhat miraculous because the little girl was quite a jumper, climber, and shoe thrower. To make a long story short (well really to keep a short story short) it was a harrowing flight.
At the baggage claim there was a moment (more like several minutes) of dread as I thought that my luggage had been lost yet again, a prospect which was infinitely worse to think about when on the Indian subcontinent. I soon realized that it was actually the entire plane whose luggage was taking forever (I had confused my flight with the flight before mine) but I still wouldn’t let myself breathe fully until I held the scuffed green handle in my hand and my eyes were comfortingly blinded by a hot pink luggage tag.
*An afterthought: I have no idea what magically happened in the middle of this entry. In the beginning I’m sitting on a plane, then I tell the story of how I got there, and suddenly I’m already in a house in Delhi. Your guess is as good as mine.
Well anyway, here I am and I have my little black book. I’m sitting on a plane that has picked orange and green for its color scheme, at least for all those items that are not the trademark scarlet of Austrian Airlines. I quite like it. I think it’s one of the more attractive planes I’ve been on. I find this amusing because the last time I was on a plane I was inspired to write a little paragraph to be inserted into something somewhere, a paragraph basically poking fun at the complete unavoidable horribleness of virtually all plane upholstery and décor. So now I go and board an aesthetically pleasing plane. It’s hilarious, I love it. Well ok, it’s not THAT aesthetically pleasing….
I’ve spent that last week in Graz, which has been nice and relaxing. I’ve been able to finally sit down and get some writing done (yay laptops!), stop carrying my camera with me every second, watch some movies (the Departed!), and generally chill out, etc. Unfortunately after two relatively mild weeks I was overdue for a disaster (if you remember my journey’s start you should know what I mean), and find me it did.
To fly from Vienna to Delhi I unexpectedly revisited the 80s and had a prepaid ticket instead of an electronic one like every normal passenger in the world. This meant I had to physically pick up my ticket from the Air India office in Vienna. As I have mentioned, I was not actually in Vienna, but in Graz. Now, as I’m sure you can deduce on your own, Air India is an airline. Would it not seem fairly natural to have an office at the airport? No, of course not. It is infinitely more logical to locate the office across from the Vienna State Opera. What this means is that in order to compensate for the extra trip, I would have to go to Vienna a day early and pick up my ticket on Saturday afternoon to be prepared for my flight out on Sunday morning.
Friday evening rolls around, we’re chillin’ in Graz, going out for coffee, watching movies, and I think to myself hey, it would be good to know what time the Air India office closes tomorrow, seeing as they probably close a little earlier on Saturdays. I call up my father since I remembered him telling me that he’d get the hours and the address from the office when he booked my ticket. Apparently he remembers me telling him that I would call the office and find out the hours and the address. Half an hour later I get a call back from him. They’re not open on Saturday.
My brain: Uhhhh….
You can’t get on the plane without that physical ticket in your hand.
My brain: Uhhhh….
The office is closed.
My brain: Uhhhh….
There’s no way to get the ticket except from the office.
My brain: Uhhhh….
Basically I just lost my ticket.
My brain: Well shit.
Several hours and many gray hairs (well, no) later I had a completely different flight reserved on Austrian Airlines, not for Sunday, but for Monday now. I was supposed to go to the airport and argue with them over youth rates and such things and try to plead with them to let me fly on Sunday. Well anyway. What it came down to was making the commute to the Vienna airport, engaging in a fruitless bilingual, semi-comprehensible argument with the Austrian Air representative, and ultimately submitting to the fact that I would not be flying until Monday and thus would lose my shopping day in Delhi (*sniff*).
From there we bought some over-priced bare necessities like bread, milk, and cheese. (Well Lisi did while I fended off German-speaking beggars and tried to look inconspicuous. I should add that trying to look inconspicuous while wearing a turban in Europe is basically equivalent to trying to place an elephant in your grandmother’s china vase. It’s just not going to happen.) And we finally arrived at Lisi’s flat, Venetian mask still intact.
We were surprised to find company awaiting us and company was surprised to find us joining him, but nevertheless we enjoyed a good evening of feasting on garlic butter pasta and wondering why Lisi’s TV made Hugh Grant’s head squished and his voice sound like Darth Vader. The Darth Vader thing we just couldn’t deal with so we switched to a silent movie which was very convenient because good ol’ Buster Keaton’s voice could have been as Darth Vadery as anything and we’d never know.
The next morning we slept in. WAY in. Well ok. The next afternoon we slept in. And spent the day watching the world skiing championships which the Austrians won yet again (shocker). We followed that up with Love Actually (Hugh was better today, he’s just touchy about which screen you put him on) and YouTube (just a bit). Having then watched a little bit of every screen in the apartment, Lisi went out with a friend and I worked on my blog forever until I suddenly realized forever had passed and time to panic had arrived. So I panicked, and once I was done with that I actually stuffed my things into my suitcase and got ready for bed, at which point I proceeded to sleep.
Very early start in the morning. Flat to subway, subway to bus, bus to airport, airport to plane. I was seated by a mother with a very young daughter. The walking but no talking age (coherent talking, that is). The arrival was fine and welcome, and when I got to Soorya’s house my Venetian mask was still intact. This was somewhat miraculous because the little girl was quite a jumper, climber, and shoe thrower. To make a long story short (well really to keep a short story short) it was a harrowing flight.
At the baggage claim there was a moment (more like several minutes) of dread as I thought that my luggage had been lost yet again, a prospect which was infinitely worse to think about when on the Indian subcontinent. I soon realized that it was actually the entire plane whose luggage was taking forever (I had confused my flight with the flight before mine) but I still wouldn’t let myself breathe fully until I held the scuffed green handle in my hand and my eyes were comfortingly blinded by a hot pink luggage tag.
*An afterthought: I have no idea what magically happened in the middle of this entry. In the beginning I’m sitting on a plane, then I tell the story of how I got there, and suddenly I’m already in a house in Delhi. Your guess is as good as mine.
Chapter 31: Friendly Dark
This house is one of the very few in which I actually enjoy walking around in the dark after the rest of the house has gone to sleep. I think humanity has a sort of innate fear of the dark, and whether or not they admit it, most people can probably relate to the apprehension of a dark house alone, the tense expectation of a sudden face at the window. Anyone with a modicum of imagination can think of something while alone in a dark house that will make them want to step up the pace if not actually run back to the safety of their own warm and illuminated room, making sure to close the door very firmly behind. This house is just cozily darkened, like a friend, leaving you peacefully in the company of yourself and the shadows. It’s nice.
Chapter 30: MASKS!!!
Our morning yesterday started with epic window leanings to obtain canal views and photographs of said canal views. That is a horrible sentence to try and comprehend. I apologize. Oh yeah, and of course me smacking my head straight into a window whose existence I was unaware of until facial contact was made. That was genius. And, sadly, rather typical.
We then had the best free breakfast any hotel has ever bothered to provide, made doubly awesome by the fact that it was, well, free. And then we were back in Venice. We briefly considered actually tracking down some specific sights but got about as far as pulling out our map before saying nah, screw it. We were having so much fun just standing on the street that why on earth would we want to go search out some stuffy crumbling building that was going to burden us with things like history and culture? No thanks.
So then I finally bought myself a mask after scoping them out for centuries—a nice green and gold one with a spray of green feathers bursting off the top. Oh my god, Venice during Carnivale is SO MUCH FUN. Just absolutely fantastic, fun, outrageous, mysterious, without feeling fake, cheap, or forced, like every single other carnival or fair I’ve ever been to. I mean Venice IS carnival. Everything else is just an imitation of this one. And trust me, this is where it’s at. There was a troupe of medieval musicians playing old wooden oboes and bagpipes and recorders and things with other medieval folk dancing around (I knew the tune, which made me feel cool, hehe), there was one of them “I’m painted like a statue” guys as Elvis who was pretty funny, there was a juggler, there was some strange comedian, a thousand fabulous costumes…. I mean I don’t know why I’m trying to list any of this, it really doesn’t work.
And there were SO MANY PEOPLE! Lisi and I took turns going into the main basilica (no backpacks allowed, thus the turn-taking) and checking out the view from the top. You could see over the whole square, all the tiny little people running around. It was awesome. Later we got some pizza and sat in a square (with a church and a well) where we listened amusedly to the violinist from… well I have no idea but Lisi recognized him. He had the best laugh ever, enough to keep us laughing through two pizzas each.
In the evening we went back to the Piazza San Marco where we managed to catch the finale to the day’s staged events. It was huge masquerade of all the lords and ladies and jesters and maidens and soldiers and dancers and other things like that who’s titles I can’t keep straight, all parading about in the most fantastic costumes you’ve ever seen, waltzing, performing, you name it. Then suddenly there was a massive explosion and thousands of little paper strips burst into the sky, so many of them fluttering around that for a moment you couldn’t even see the square. It was so much fun.
Unfortunately the rest of the night sort of degenerated from there. There was some weird modern dance performance on the side of the clock tower which kind of just looked like some people dressed in black waving pillows around halfway down a brick wall. For the heck of it we took a taxi ride to Lido and back (gotta love misty night-time water), and when we got back everything was DEAD. It was actually pretty eerie how quickly everything died down. Just a little while ago we had been among thousands of screaming people as the paper rained down on us and now a mere forty-five minutes later there was not a soul to be seen. We wandered forever, trying to find the Rialto bridge, getting lost, and hoping to find a café, a hope which was fading fast into the ominous abyss of the night. Then suddenly we turned a corner and found ourselves smack in the middle of a young crowd gathered a piazza watching a live band who’s guitarist was dressed as a cow. No, a bear, sorry. Cow, bear, whatever. Anyhow it was such a relief after having been stuck endlessly in the creepy grip of the abandoned misty streets—normal people, loud music, and two open bars just waiting to serve me a nice, strong macchiato.
Soon enough we decided it would be best to head back to the hotel and give ourselves enough time to get lost. We retrieved our luggage, made it smoothly to the train station, and then set ourselves to the gnarly task of simultaneously waiting for our midnight thirty train and staying awake. We did this mostly by having me lose at cards a lot.
Finally after nine hours, four trains, a few candy bars, and not very much sleep (all with a feathered Venetian mask that I was desperately trying to keep intact) we walked up the freezing hill to Lisi’s family’s pink house and collapsed into sleep immediately. It’s cool to be back here (Graz, Austria for those who are unable to keep up with my severe lack of explanation), to see her family again and to try and remember German words like kuchen. Sigh, Italian is SO much easier, but we’ll see how I do. (Another omnipotent interjection from the distant future: not well).
We then had the best free breakfast any hotel has ever bothered to provide, made doubly awesome by the fact that it was, well, free. And then we were back in Venice. We briefly considered actually tracking down some specific sights but got about as far as pulling out our map before saying nah, screw it. We were having so much fun just standing on the street that why on earth would we want to go search out some stuffy crumbling building that was going to burden us with things like history and culture? No thanks.
So then I finally bought myself a mask after scoping them out for centuries—a nice green and gold one with a spray of green feathers bursting off the top. Oh my god, Venice during Carnivale is SO MUCH FUN. Just absolutely fantastic, fun, outrageous, mysterious, without feeling fake, cheap, or forced, like every single other carnival or fair I’ve ever been to. I mean Venice IS carnival. Everything else is just an imitation of this one. And trust me, this is where it’s at. There was a troupe of medieval musicians playing old wooden oboes and bagpipes and recorders and things with other medieval folk dancing around (I knew the tune, which made me feel cool, hehe), there was one of them “I’m painted like a statue” guys as Elvis who was pretty funny, there was a juggler, there was some strange comedian, a thousand fabulous costumes…. I mean I don’t know why I’m trying to list any of this, it really doesn’t work.
And there were SO MANY PEOPLE! Lisi and I took turns going into the main basilica (no backpacks allowed, thus the turn-taking) and checking out the view from the top. You could see over the whole square, all the tiny little people running around. It was awesome. Later we got some pizza and sat in a square (with a church and a well) where we listened amusedly to the violinist from… well I have no idea but Lisi recognized him. He had the best laugh ever, enough to keep us laughing through two pizzas each.
In the evening we went back to the Piazza San Marco where we managed to catch the finale to the day’s staged events. It was huge masquerade of all the lords and ladies and jesters and maidens and soldiers and dancers and other things like that who’s titles I can’t keep straight, all parading about in the most fantastic costumes you’ve ever seen, waltzing, performing, you name it. Then suddenly there was a massive explosion and thousands of little paper strips burst into the sky, so many of them fluttering around that for a moment you couldn’t even see the square. It was so much fun.
Unfortunately the rest of the night sort of degenerated from there. There was some weird modern dance performance on the side of the clock tower which kind of just looked like some people dressed in black waving pillows around halfway down a brick wall. For the heck of it we took a taxi ride to Lido and back (gotta love misty night-time water), and when we got back everything was DEAD. It was actually pretty eerie how quickly everything died down. Just a little while ago we had been among thousands of screaming people as the paper rained down on us and now a mere forty-five minutes later there was not a soul to be seen. We wandered forever, trying to find the Rialto bridge, getting lost, and hoping to find a café, a hope which was fading fast into the ominous abyss of the night. Then suddenly we turned a corner and found ourselves smack in the middle of a young crowd gathered a piazza watching a live band who’s guitarist was dressed as a cow. No, a bear, sorry. Cow, bear, whatever. Anyhow it was such a relief after having been stuck endlessly in the creepy grip of the abandoned misty streets—normal people, loud music, and two open bars just waiting to serve me a nice, strong macchiato.
Soon enough we decided it would be best to head back to the hotel and give ourselves enough time to get lost. We retrieved our luggage, made it smoothly to the train station, and then set ourselves to the gnarly task of simultaneously waiting for our midnight thirty train and staying awake. We did this mostly by having me lose at cards a lot.
Finally after nine hours, four trains, a few candy bars, and not very much sleep (all with a feathered Venetian mask that I was desperately trying to keep intact) we walked up the freezing hill to Lisi’s family’s pink house and collapsed into sleep immediately. It’s cool to be back here (Graz, Austria for those who are unable to keep up with my severe lack of explanation), to see her family again and to try and remember German words like kuchen. Sigh, Italian is SO much easier, but we’ll see how I do. (Another omnipotent interjection from the distant future: not well).
Chapter 29: Farewell, Hello, OH MY GOD HI!!
Today we woke up early for our last morning in Passano. It was actually a gorgeous morning outside as we watched it lighten, the sun quickly chasing the mist up to the stratosphere, leaving the whole valley glowing in the moistened aftermath. Should I say… afterbath? Ahahahaha! Ok, that was the WORST pun I have EVER heard, much less created. Aha… aha… ha… sorry. Let’s move on, shall we?
The morning went smoothly and nicely (a short message from the Redundancy Department of Redundancy) aside from my battle with my suitcase (see above). This was no ordinary suitcase battle. It lasted about twenty minutes and left me completely out of breath, perspirating and burning from the exercise, with a red sore spot along my finger from hauling on the zipper that is still smarting now as I’m writing this eighteen hours later. Basically, that was one tough suitcase, but I showed it who’s boss. Maple syrup will never prevail over me! Enough said.
And then we went to Arezzo and caught a train to Venice la dee da dee da. Nice train ride. I liked the mist. Our arrival in Venice was quite an adventure. We had to go to three windows to figure out our ticket to Graz the following night, two windows to get a map of Venice and directions to a camera shop, then over one of those crazy Venetian bridges to get a new memory card, then back to where Lisi was waiting with the luggage, then through a line to buy a 36 hour travel pass, then to the right water taxi station which we thought was the wrong one, then to the wrong water taxi station which we thought was the right one, then to the bus station which goes back to the mainland, then quickly away from the bus station which goes back to the mainland, then significantly farther down the canal and over significantly more bridges than necessary, and then finally onto the correct boat where we lay panting with exhaustion while it ferried us right back to the station where we had started it all in the first place. We then struggled our way to the hotel following directions we were reading from a series of text messages from my dad:
papa/: Hotel is Ca’ Angeli, Calle del Tragheto della Madoneta, 1434
Well that was simple enough.
papa/: Take the boat #1 (a water bus) in the direction of San Marco. Ask at the information point actv. Get off at San Silvestro boat stop.
Not quite so simple.
papa/: From the boat stop you need to
papa/: walk 10 min to the hotel. Walk straight from boat stop to a square with a church and a well in center called Campo San Aponal. Turn left
This boat stop has only one way off of it: straight. If you take straight, it does not bring you to a square with a church and a well. It brings you to an underground tunnel where you can go right or left. We picked right. We came into a square with a church and a well. A little ways down the road we could see a square with a church and a well. Turning in the other direction we could see down another street to a square with a church and a well. Every single square in all of Venice is equipped with a church and a well. You see where I’m going with this?
papa/: turn left onto Calle de mezzo. Go to end. Another little square called Campiello Meloni. Take street to left of pastry shop “Rizzardi”.
As if there is a single street sign anywhere in all of Italy.
papa/: Turn right, then left. After 10 meters you will be at Ca Angeli. Those are some crazy directions! Have fun.
Yes, but it turns out that Ca’ Angeli shares the street with a hotel called Casa di Angeli, or something like that. Sheesh the whole thing was as confusing as an abstract mathematics class. Luckily, we win at abstract mathematics, and we won at finding the hotel. Eventually.
So there we were standing outside, trying to figure out how to get in when suddenly there was a loud buzzing noise and the gate opened itself. Intrigued, we wheeled ourselves up to the door and were about to give it a nudge when it mysteriously opened of its own accord. We crossed the threshold to find no one inside. A small sign pointed to the lift—the old fashioned kind with two doors. Another sign prompted us to the third floor where once again the door was magically opened for us. This time there was finally a face to greet us when we stepped through. It was all rather like one of those movies that takes place in a haunted house where all the doors keep opening themselves and the staircases walk around and there is never anyone there. You know? You know.
So we settled in a bit in our very cute absolutely perfect little room, and then decided to hit the town. Oh, did I mention it’s Carnivale? That’s right. Carnivale in Venice. Boo yeah.
We took the Actv (no idea what that stands for but it translates into “how you get from here to there”) to what looked like a popular stop and just started walking around, heading in the general direction of the famed Piazza di San Marco.
It was absolutely so much fun I have no idea what to actually write. When we finally did get to San Marco it was just so fun I couldn’t even contain myself. I was just walking around with this ridiculous smile plastered on my face, unable to do anything about it, and then I’d frequently burst out laughing because it was all just so cool. The city, the buildings, the lights, the canals, the multinational tourists, the crowds, the people, the costumes, the Carnivale, everything! Venice! Ahhh! It’s just so fantastic I can’t write it down! WOOOOO!!!
The morning went smoothly and nicely (a short message from the Redundancy Department of Redundancy) aside from my battle with my suitcase (see above). This was no ordinary suitcase battle. It lasted about twenty minutes and left me completely out of breath, perspirating and burning from the exercise, with a red sore spot along my finger from hauling on the zipper that is still smarting now as I’m writing this eighteen hours later. Basically, that was one tough suitcase, but I showed it who’s boss. Maple syrup will never prevail over me! Enough said.
And then we went to Arezzo and caught a train to Venice la dee da dee da. Nice train ride. I liked the mist. Our arrival in Venice was quite an adventure. We had to go to three windows to figure out our ticket to Graz the following night, two windows to get a map of Venice and directions to a camera shop, then over one of those crazy Venetian bridges to get a new memory card, then back to where Lisi was waiting with the luggage, then through a line to buy a 36 hour travel pass, then to the right water taxi station which we thought was the wrong one, then to the wrong water taxi station which we thought was the right one, then to the bus station which goes back to the mainland, then quickly away from the bus station which goes back to the mainland, then significantly farther down the canal and over significantly more bridges than necessary, and then finally onto the correct boat where we lay panting with exhaustion while it ferried us right back to the station where we had started it all in the first place. We then struggled our way to the hotel following directions we were reading from a series of text messages from my dad:
papa/: Hotel is Ca’ Angeli, Calle del Tragheto della Madoneta, 1434
Well that was simple enough.
papa/: Take the boat #1 (a water bus) in the direction of San Marco. Ask at the information point actv. Get off at San Silvestro boat stop.
Not quite so simple.
papa/: From the boat stop you need to
papa/: walk 10 min to the hotel. Walk straight from boat stop to a square with a church and a well in center called Campo San Aponal. Turn left
This boat stop has only one way off of it: straight. If you take straight, it does not bring you to a square with a church and a well. It brings you to an underground tunnel where you can go right or left. We picked right. We came into a square with a church and a well. A little ways down the road we could see a square with a church and a well. Turning in the other direction we could see down another street to a square with a church and a well. Every single square in all of Venice is equipped with a church and a well. You see where I’m going with this?
papa/: turn left onto Calle de mezzo. Go to end. Another little square called Campiello Meloni. Take street to left of pastry shop “Rizzardi”.
As if there is a single street sign anywhere in all of Italy.
papa/: Turn right, then left. After 10 meters you will be at Ca Angeli. Those are some crazy directions! Have fun.
Yes, but it turns out that Ca’ Angeli shares the street with a hotel called Casa di Angeli, or something like that. Sheesh the whole thing was as confusing as an abstract mathematics class. Luckily, we win at abstract mathematics, and we won at finding the hotel. Eventually.
So there we were standing outside, trying to figure out how to get in when suddenly there was a loud buzzing noise and the gate opened itself. Intrigued, we wheeled ourselves up to the door and were about to give it a nudge when it mysteriously opened of its own accord. We crossed the threshold to find no one inside. A small sign pointed to the lift—the old fashioned kind with two doors. Another sign prompted us to the third floor where once again the door was magically opened for us. This time there was finally a face to greet us when we stepped through. It was all rather like one of those movies that takes place in a haunted house where all the doors keep opening themselves and the staircases walk around and there is never anyone there. You know? You know.
So we settled in a bit in our very cute absolutely perfect little room, and then decided to hit the town. Oh, did I mention it’s Carnivale? That’s right. Carnivale in Venice. Boo yeah.
We took the Actv (no idea what that stands for but it translates into “how you get from here to there”) to what looked like a popular stop and just started walking around, heading in the general direction of the famed Piazza di San Marco.
It was absolutely so much fun I have no idea what to actually write. When we finally did get to San Marco it was just so fun I couldn’t even contain myself. I was just walking around with this ridiculous smile plastered on my face, unable to do anything about it, and then I’d frequently burst out laughing because it was all just so cool. The city, the buildings, the lights, the canals, the multinational tourists, the crowds, the people, the costumes, the Carnivale, everything! Venice! Ahhh! It’s just so fantastic I can’t write it down! WOOOOO!!!
Chapter 28: Wait, No, Nevermind.
I totally lied about the working zippers thing. Turns out my suitcase only functions when wet. Yes, my bag has transformed into a whale. For crying out loud.
Chapter 27: The Moment of Truth
Well today I finally got down on my knees and set myself to the task of soaking the maple syrup out of my suitcase. It turned out to be not so bad, and the zippers are working again even if they are a bit sticky in a couple spots. However, I also found another thing to add to my list of totally crushed. My neon pink luggage tag. That’s right. Smashed, scuffed, and broken. Sigh. Don’t know how I missed it the first time.
Chapter 26: Oh. Wait.
I just realized I never wrote about my first time in Florence! Sheesh! Oh wait. Yeah I did. Huh. Genius. Just didn’t write very much….
Chapter 25: Round Two
So today we went back to Florence. It was actually much improved the second time. We started with just wandering through some streets as Lisi excitedly relived (out loud) her class trip (“Oh yeah! So then we went down this street where we found…”) and I much more mellowly eyed the designer outfits that people who know me often think I don’t eye, but let me break it to you once and for all—I’m a sucker for those designer outfits. Ah, Italia. Love the boots. But anyway. Back to Florence.
We stopped in a little café across the river where I got the best caffe macchiato I’ve had yet. Remember, this is Italy. And I’ve been having like three macchiatos a day (sshhh…). So that’s really saying something. It was PERFECT.
From there we found the church of Santo Spirito. It looked like a cardboard cutout. A do-it-yourself, glue-by-number church kit that the Florentines picked up at the local Hobby Lobby (which there isn’t one, by the way). Behind the cardboard church was a crazy homeless guy who started belting out an Italian song at the top of his lungs the first time I walked by. Not to me, I might clarify, just to the world in general, which, in that part of Florence, mostly consists of a bunch of back walls. The second time we walked by he began yelling things in indiscernible English. Again, not to us, but more to the pavement.
On the way back towards familiarity we stopped in a little art supply store which wasn’t too different from an American one, but it’s art supplies, so of course I got really excited for about twenty minutes and then purchased a lovely portable watercolor box which left me in a state of glee for the rest of the day. In fact I’m still really excited about it now. I hope to test it tomorrow. Lugging around TUBES of paint while on the international go just doesn’t cut it, man. And those silly little Prang boxes make me want to hurl a boulder at them thanks to the colors they produce. But again I digress rather far from the topic at hand, uh… Florence.
We next decided to shell out the €6 to climb to the tope of the tower by the Duomo. 414 steps and worth every one of them. Florence is amazing from above. Weather-wise it was a splotchy day, which actually makes for the most beautiful views. The mottled sunlight hits the rusty hues of the town at random, indiscriminately shining the spotlight on some, leaving others softly under shadow. All of Florence is colored in oranges and yellows, beiges and reds with red tiles roofs sprinkled over everything as though they were stacked dishes waiting for sorting. The surrounding hills were almost glowing in the rainy sunlight. A sea of luminous green cradling an orange city.
My favorite thing about the Italian countryside is the randomly organized variety. Over here is a clump of olive trees, over there a tangle of some other bush, there a neat row of cypress, here an orderly orchard grid, the trees perched in well behaved lines like fat balls lined up across the hill, there the wild untamed forest. The seamless interplay between the cultivated and the rogue, the thoughtfully-placed and the random, is what makes the country so beautiful here.
Well sheesh, that was poetic. Back to my more casual tone.
From the tower we made our way over to the church of Santa Croce, which had been recommended to us and is a popular tourist spot because several pretty cool dead guys are buried there and thus it’s a convenient way to kill eight birds with one stone, so to speak. Yeah, I just made up the number eight. Don’t read too much into it. Nor into killing birds with stones for that matter. Anyway. Unfortunately winter time is restoration time, and every single place we’ve been has been undergoing repairs. This was no exception. Today was “Dismantling the Scaffolding” day at Santa Croce church. Thus you walk in, and between the hammering and the crashing and the dust and the tarps and the ropes and workers, you feel more like you’re in a downtown construction zone than a stately tomb-filled church. But we saw Dante, we saw Michelangelo (yay!), we saw Leo da Vinci (well we think, but various placards confused us).
Next we walked to Lisi’s favorite place in Florence, a church up at the top of a hill above the Piazza di Michelangelo. The view from up there was phenomenal. Do I really have to keep clarifying that? I mean has there been a single time when I’ve gone, “Yeah, we looked out over the whole valley and thought ‘meh, I’ve seen better…’? Has there? My point exactly.
The church was really neat too. Not your typical set up. (An interjection from the omnipotent voice of the future: It was to be the last church I was really able to appreciate. I think it sent me over the edge. After that I was basically like, “Alright, show me one more cathedral and I may pass out from an overdose of stately and awe-inspiring.”)
We watched some Italian guys posing in front of the church for a picture and managed to sneak a picture of our own. Man, they were hilarious. I have never in my life seen anyone who thinks more of themselves or takes themselves more seriously. Ahahaha. Oh, we also wondered about the fact that we saw about four different guys who all looked almost identical. Actually it was more like me wondering about the fact that the same guy kept popping up everywhere we looked. He was omnipresent or something. Took me a while to figure out what on earth was going on. Finally it dawned on us. Ooooh, it’s a group of Dutch kids who all look exactly the same, not a glitch in the Matrix, I get it.
And after that it was about time for us to head back to the train station. I wanted to make a detour to see if I could find that pasticceria where I had gone with Vanya so I could get some torrone to bring back with me. Funnily enough I did find it. Wow. Didn’t realize I had a sense of direction.
We went home from there. Had a terrifying moment in which we were convinced that we were on entirely the wrong train and had been for the past hour, then suddenly found ourselves in Arezzo where we met the Sada Sats, got a gelato on the way home, and managed to make it a late night before a rainy morning.
We stopped in a little café across the river where I got the best caffe macchiato I’ve had yet. Remember, this is Italy. And I’ve been having like three macchiatos a day (sshhh…). So that’s really saying something. It was PERFECT.
From there we found the church of Santo Spirito. It looked like a cardboard cutout. A do-it-yourself, glue-by-number church kit that the Florentines picked up at the local Hobby Lobby (which there isn’t one, by the way). Behind the cardboard church was a crazy homeless guy who started belting out an Italian song at the top of his lungs the first time I walked by. Not to me, I might clarify, just to the world in general, which, in that part of Florence, mostly consists of a bunch of back walls. The second time we walked by he began yelling things in indiscernible English. Again, not to us, but more to the pavement.
On the way back towards familiarity we stopped in a little art supply store which wasn’t too different from an American one, but it’s art supplies, so of course I got really excited for about twenty minutes and then purchased a lovely portable watercolor box which left me in a state of glee for the rest of the day. In fact I’m still really excited about it now. I hope to test it tomorrow. Lugging around TUBES of paint while on the international go just doesn’t cut it, man. And those silly little Prang boxes make me want to hurl a boulder at them thanks to the colors they produce. But again I digress rather far from the topic at hand, uh… Florence.
We next decided to shell out the €6 to climb to the tope of the tower by the Duomo. 414 steps and worth every one of them. Florence is amazing from above. Weather-wise it was a splotchy day, which actually makes for the most beautiful views. The mottled sunlight hits the rusty hues of the town at random, indiscriminately shining the spotlight on some, leaving others softly under shadow. All of Florence is colored in oranges and yellows, beiges and reds with red tiles roofs sprinkled over everything as though they were stacked dishes waiting for sorting. The surrounding hills were almost glowing in the rainy sunlight. A sea of luminous green cradling an orange city.
My favorite thing about the Italian countryside is the randomly organized variety. Over here is a clump of olive trees, over there a tangle of some other bush, there a neat row of cypress, here an orderly orchard grid, the trees perched in well behaved lines like fat balls lined up across the hill, there the wild untamed forest. The seamless interplay between the cultivated and the rogue, the thoughtfully-placed and the random, is what makes the country so beautiful here.
Well sheesh, that was poetic. Back to my more casual tone.
From the tower we made our way over to the church of Santa Croce, which had been recommended to us and is a popular tourist spot because several pretty cool dead guys are buried there and thus it’s a convenient way to kill eight birds with one stone, so to speak. Yeah, I just made up the number eight. Don’t read too much into it. Nor into killing birds with stones for that matter. Anyway. Unfortunately winter time is restoration time, and every single place we’ve been has been undergoing repairs. This was no exception. Today was “Dismantling the Scaffolding” day at Santa Croce church. Thus you walk in, and between the hammering and the crashing and the dust and the tarps and the ropes and workers, you feel more like you’re in a downtown construction zone than a stately tomb-filled church. But we saw Dante, we saw Michelangelo (yay!), we saw Leo da Vinci (well we think, but various placards confused us).
Next we walked to Lisi’s favorite place in Florence, a church up at the top of a hill above the Piazza di Michelangelo. The view from up there was phenomenal. Do I really have to keep clarifying that? I mean has there been a single time when I’ve gone, “Yeah, we looked out over the whole valley and thought ‘meh, I’ve seen better…’? Has there? My point exactly.
The church was really neat too. Not your typical set up. (An interjection from the omnipotent voice of the future: It was to be the last church I was really able to appreciate. I think it sent me over the edge. After that I was basically like, “Alright, show me one more cathedral and I may pass out from an overdose of stately and awe-inspiring.”)
We watched some Italian guys posing in front of the church for a picture and managed to sneak a picture of our own. Man, they were hilarious. I have never in my life seen anyone who thinks more of themselves or takes themselves more seriously. Ahahaha. Oh, we also wondered about the fact that we saw about four different guys who all looked almost identical. Actually it was more like me wondering about the fact that the same guy kept popping up everywhere we looked. He was omnipresent or something. Took me a while to figure out what on earth was going on. Finally it dawned on us. Ooooh, it’s a group of Dutch kids who all look exactly the same, not a glitch in the Matrix, I get it.
And after that it was about time for us to head back to the train station. I wanted to make a detour to see if I could find that pasticceria where I had gone with Vanya so I could get some torrone to bring back with me. Funnily enough I did find it. Wow. Didn’t realize I had a sense of direction.
We went home from there. Had a terrifying moment in which we were convinced that we were on entirely the wrong train and had been for the past hour, then suddenly found ourselves in Arezzo where we met the Sada Sats, got a gelato on the way home, and managed to make it a late night before a rainy morning.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Chapter 24: Further Adventures and Misadventures
Yesterday we went to Perugia, which was really nice. We spent the whole day exploring crooked little streets and generally wandering around. We saw an ancient Estruscan well which was interesting enough as a historical site, but the neatest thing about it was the air. It was moist and steamy down there, by no means a temperature at which you'd normally be able to see your breath, but we could see it anyway. And unlike breathing into cold air, the clouds didn't disappear. Letting out a long whistle would emit this eerie echoing sound that would twist out of your throat in the form of writhing steam. It was very cool.
We also saw a sort of old official building which almost gave Lisi a heart attack because it turned out to be filled with blue chairs. A lovely old Renaissance building, and the chairs inside were bright blue. I think she was ready to declare war over the matter if not choke up her own spleen in shock.
Later, according to my notes, we had a good lunch and had a nice time spending a couple hours in a safe latch. I'm not sure what this means, other than that I need to work on writing more legibly. I do remember spending a couple hours drinking some super intense hot chocolate in a little cafe, though I'm not sure how that becomes a safe latch. On second glance, we may have spent a couple hours in a cafe latte, though that doens't sound so great either. Anyway.
The train ride back to San Guistino consisted mostly of us laughing our heads off at various memories and reminiscings from when Lisi was in New Mexico. As we're sitting there cracking up and talking rather loudly like any good pair of Americans (yes Lisi is American when speaking English is involved), the train pulls to a stop at some small town and a few people get up to get off the train. This guy approaches us with a grin like nothing you've ever seen.
"You speak English?" he asks Lisi, absolutely thrilled at the very idea.
"Yes, we are English speakers." Her eloquent response.
"I no speak English." This guy is really excited about this.
"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear that." She has no idea what she's talking about but is trying to be nice anyway.
"I'm sorry."
And he turns around and walks away as though we were just the highlight of his year. I spent most of the conversation ready to duck because the whole time he's talking his entire set of teeth are flopping back and forth as though they will fall on me at any moment. All in all it was quite the adventure.
So that was yesterday. Today we got briefly sidetracked on our journey to Cortona (freaking Piazza Garibaldi) and spent the rest of the day wandering around and trying to find lunch, which we eventually did in a little pastry shop. You have NO idea how hard it is to find lunch in Cortona. Well, actually, how hard it is to find a single living person in Cortona, much less one who's ready and willing to feed you. There was one construction worker guy who watched amusedly as we passed back and forth probably eight times on our epic search for vittles, but unfortunately he was unable to provide any. FINALLY we found lunch (at about 5 pm) in a little pastry shop (wait, I already told you that). Ok rewind. BEFORE the epic quest for lunch we saw... oh no wait. That was after lunch. Yeah. AFTER lunch we went to this church which was the second tourist attraction I've now come across which was cool because of whistling. The acoustics in there were so incredibly awesome. Which is, I suppose, true of any cathedral, except normally you don't have all those acoustics to yourself and therefore the ability to stand around whistling in them. I would let out the tiniest little whistle and it would continue ringing for eternity. Man it was awesome. It made me want to burst out into song and sing a round with myself, but somehow I didn't think that was entirely... kosher? orthodox? which religion are we discussing here? Anyway yeah. When I grow up, I want a cathedral in my back yard so I can sing in it.
BEFORE the church, we had lunch, guess where, yes, in a little pastry shop. But BEFORE that we hiked to the top of the hill (Cortona IS a hill) to an epic looking castle thingy which had an awesome door which was unfortunately rater epically locked and couldn't be entered. We did find a friar and a nun having a conversation by a little mini stonehenge thing. We took picture of them when they weren't looking, and then we went back down into Cortona where we eventually managed to find lunch. In a little pastry shop.
Ok, I think it's about time I tell you about this little pastry shop. They had crappy pizza. But very good pastries. And chocolates. And I discovered the ultimate wonder food. This was like the best dessert I have ever had. It was like somebody designed this amazing thing to be perfectly tailored to my tastebuds. Unfortunately I can't for the life of me remember what it was called, and thus will never find it again. Oh well.
That's it for the pastry shop. AFTER lunch we eventually left. But first saw a whistling church. And then left. With corn nuts. Yes, I bought corn nuts in Italy. They were tasty.
Tonight it got really windy. I first noticed when it was rattling the window in the bathroom. When I came back to our room I wanted to look out the door to try and see the wind. I opened the door and stuck my head outside and was seized with a sudden unimaginable terror. I'm not sure why. Outside was entirely black except for one section of light visible through the clouds down in the valley. Light rain. Heavy wind. But it hit me with this feeling of "oh my god something is going to get me if i do not close this door right NOW." Naturally this was intriguing and naturally I went back several times to scare the living daylights out of myself. Once I even decided to go back with the lights off, in the pitch dark. This was particularly frightening as all the doors in the rest of the house began moving about of their own accord as soon as lights were off. This turned out to be-- well no, I don't want to tell you what it turned out to be because then it doesn't sound as cool or as scary. The doors were moving by themselves in the dark. And creaking. And howling. End of story.
We also saw a sort of old official building which almost gave Lisi a heart attack because it turned out to be filled with blue chairs. A lovely old Renaissance building, and the chairs inside were bright blue. I think she was ready to declare war over the matter if not choke up her own spleen in shock.
Later, according to my notes, we had a good lunch and had a nice time spending a couple hours in a safe latch. I'm not sure what this means, other than that I need to work on writing more legibly. I do remember spending a couple hours drinking some super intense hot chocolate in a little cafe, though I'm not sure how that becomes a safe latch. On second glance, we may have spent a couple hours in a cafe latte, though that doens't sound so great either. Anyway.
The train ride back to San Guistino consisted mostly of us laughing our heads off at various memories and reminiscings from when Lisi was in New Mexico. As we're sitting there cracking up and talking rather loudly like any good pair of Americans (yes Lisi is American when speaking English is involved), the train pulls to a stop at some small town and a few people get up to get off the train. This guy approaches us with a grin like nothing you've ever seen.
"You speak English?" he asks Lisi, absolutely thrilled at the very idea.
"Yes, we are English speakers." Her eloquent response.
"I no speak English." This guy is really excited about this.
"Oh, well I'm sorry to hear that." She has no idea what she's talking about but is trying to be nice anyway.
"I'm sorry."
And he turns around and walks away as though we were just the highlight of his year. I spent most of the conversation ready to duck because the whole time he's talking his entire set of teeth are flopping back and forth as though they will fall on me at any moment. All in all it was quite the adventure.
So that was yesterday. Today we got briefly sidetracked on our journey to Cortona (freaking Piazza Garibaldi) and spent the rest of the day wandering around and trying to find lunch, which we eventually did in a little pastry shop. You have NO idea how hard it is to find lunch in Cortona. Well, actually, how hard it is to find a single living person in Cortona, much less one who's ready and willing to feed you. There was one construction worker guy who watched amusedly as we passed back and forth probably eight times on our epic search for vittles, but unfortunately he was unable to provide any. FINALLY we found lunch (at about 5 pm) in a little pastry shop (wait, I already told you that). Ok rewind. BEFORE the epic quest for lunch we saw... oh no wait. That was after lunch. Yeah. AFTER lunch we went to this church which was the second tourist attraction I've now come across which was cool because of whistling. The acoustics in there were so incredibly awesome. Which is, I suppose, true of any cathedral, except normally you don't have all those acoustics to yourself and therefore the ability to stand around whistling in them. I would let out the tiniest little whistle and it would continue ringing for eternity. Man it was awesome. It made me want to burst out into song and sing a round with myself, but somehow I didn't think that was entirely... kosher? orthodox? which religion are we discussing here? Anyway yeah. When I grow up, I want a cathedral in my back yard so I can sing in it.
BEFORE the church, we had lunch, guess where, yes, in a little pastry shop. But BEFORE that we hiked to the top of the hill (Cortona IS a hill) to an epic looking castle thingy which had an awesome door which was unfortunately rater epically locked and couldn't be entered. We did find a friar and a nun having a conversation by a little mini stonehenge thing. We took picture of them when they weren't looking, and then we went back down into Cortona where we eventually managed to find lunch. In a little pastry shop.
Ok, I think it's about time I tell you about this little pastry shop. They had crappy pizza. But very good pastries. And chocolates. And I discovered the ultimate wonder food. This was like the best dessert I have ever had. It was like somebody designed this amazing thing to be perfectly tailored to my tastebuds. Unfortunately I can't for the life of me remember what it was called, and thus will never find it again. Oh well.
That's it for the pastry shop. AFTER lunch we eventually left. But first saw a whistling church. And then left. With corn nuts. Yes, I bought corn nuts in Italy. They were tasty.
Tonight it got really windy. I first noticed when it was rattling the window in the bathroom. When I came back to our room I wanted to look out the door to try and see the wind. I opened the door and stuck my head outside and was seized with a sudden unimaginable terror. I'm not sure why. Outside was entirely black except for one section of light visible through the clouds down in the valley. Light rain. Heavy wind. But it hit me with this feeling of "oh my god something is going to get me if i do not close this door right NOW." Naturally this was intriguing and naturally I went back several times to scare the living daylights out of myself. Once I even decided to go back with the lights off, in the pitch dark. This was particularly frightening as all the doors in the rest of the house began moving about of their own accord as soon as lights were off. This turned out to be-- well no, I don't want to tell you what it turned out to be because then it doesn't sound as cool or as scary. The doors were moving by themselves in the dark. And creaking. And howling. End of story.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Intermission 2
Another break in the general flow of the story, this time to send out a greeting from Edinburgh, Scotland. We have like no internet ever and then when we do I inevitably forget my trusty little black book, so of course this blog will never get under way and the rest will consist of intermissions. Whoa out of internet time. See what I mean? Ok, Edinburgh rocks and maybe next time I will not forget my little black book. Keep your fingers crossed. Yes, for days.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Chapter 23: Genius
Today we tried to go to Cortona. We went to Castiglion Fiorentino instead. We are dumb.
In all fairness, the main piazzas with the main bus stops look almost identical in the two different cities, and the bus goes to both of them. So if you’ve never been there before and you’re looking on the map for the semicircular Piazza di Garibaldi (yes they have the same name, too) with the ring of cypress trees on the edge, the town wall on the other edge, and the monument of Garibaldi in the middle… well how the heck are we supposed to know which town is the right one?
So we did finally make it to Cortona, which was nice but totally deserted and had the greatest little pastry shop ever.
We still feel like idiots.
Chapter 22: Finally
Today we went into Sansepolcro, saw a bit of the market, saw a chocolate shop where the owner made me a custom sample which was basically a decadent oozing mass of molten chocolate and hazelnuts, wandered the streets a little, and then sat down at a restaurant for lunch, by far the most important part of the day as all Italians know. I had complained to Sada Sat Singh that I had not yet had a fabulous Italian meal, so he took me to a little restaurant they know in Sansepolcro.
Before I continue any further I would just like to point out that alas, I am not Brian Jacques, and though I will do my best to describe this food as worthy of a Redwall feast, I know that I will fail horribly. And having put out that little disclaimer, I now set forth with gusto and determination towards certain doom.
For my antipasti I ordered honey-soaked pear with gorgonzola garnish, neatly lined up on a tripod of skewers like a sort of shishkabob, however the heck you spell that, I’m not even going to try to correct myself.
I’m not a professional food taster. I can’t tell you which sensation hit my tongue first or what kind of texture it had or what flavor should have been added or removed. The sensation that hit my tongue first was the taste of honeyed pear with gorgonzola, the texture was, well, pears and gorgonzola, and the only thing that should have been removed was the pears and gorgonzola from the skewers and into my mouth. How’s that for an analysis? To keep it simple, it was really good, ok?
My main dish was orrechiette (I have no idea where the double letters belong) with zucchini, pine nuts, and pecorino Romano, a particular kind of sheep cheese which will totally rock your world. It was a fabulous dish but I don’t have time to describe it because really what I wanted to talk about was dessert.
We each ordered a dessert so we could try some of each. 1 tiramisu and 1 chocolate soufflé. The tiramisu was excellent tiramisu. End of story. The chocolate soufflé however. I took one bite and almost died it was so good.
It’s brought out on a large white platter, the soufflé in the center looking innocently like a sort of chocolate cupcake thingy, drizzled artistically with creamy dark ganache. I dig my spoon into it to get a bite and whole thing sort of sags with warm chocolaty goodness. Then you put the bite in your mouth and it’s like your entire body simultaneously goes “CHOCOLATE!!” with a warm, moist explosion of chocolate flavor. No, I really mean explosion. I’m not just using that word because other people do (like craggy).
Ok get this. [The following story is based upon actual events] You’re sitting at some Japanese restaurant in
For anyone who’s reading this and has tried wasabi, I hope you just clutched your nose in pain as you read that. Because you know what it inevitably must feel like, right? All that spice slamming upwards through your nose and into your brain like a freight train? I mean it’s no longer a flavor, it’s physical force.
Ok, well that’s what I mean when I use the word explosion. This warm chocolaty flavor is so intense it hits you like a spoonful of wasabi. Except… chocolate. It’s that good. I mean, need a say more?
After that I spent the rest of the day recovering from lunch.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Chapter 21: The Eighth Wonder of the World
The greatest achievement of
Chapter 20: Morning
I’m up on top of the ridge again. It’s morning. When I woke up a little after
As I came to the top of the ridge and was walking along it, I stopped to take some pictures and got to listen to a sound I’m not sure I’ve heard before—frost melting. It was delicate and fabulous. I walked along the frost-hardened mud, the dampened grasses, and here I am at the top where if I listen really closely I can hear the last of the frost sinking into itself. The valley is sending little tendrils of mist creeping up the canyons. I can hear a rooster, a car, and the occasional whir of the chainsaws of the woodcutters who live up here. The tiny town below me looks quietly asleep, though I don’t think that illusion will change with the further arrival of the day. There is a helicopter somewhere.
I think it’s amazing how I can be here at what is probably the least attractive time of year possible, and yet it’s still so beautiful. Everything’s asleep for winter, but there’s still no crowning glory of snow. The leaves are brown and dried. The branches are bare. The flowers are invisible. The grass is yellow and tough. Abandoned snail shells are littered everywhere. And it’s still gorgeous. Man, I gotta come back in the spring time.
It’s actually amazing how much I can hear from up here, especially considering how little I know to be around me. Down in the village I can hear a dog barking, even down to his smaller whines. I can hear a door closing. I can now hear traffic from pretty much all directions, which is surprising. I’m sitting up a road that has exactly two neighbors who share it. On the other side are two villages which combined are about thirty houses, one tiny country road between the two of them. Down in the valley we have the bustling metropolises (not) of San Giustino, Citta’ di Castello, a couple other tiny townships, and Sansepolcro a little further on. None of these are a whole lot bigger than, say, your average Wal-Mart. Maybe there’s a highway over the western ridge.
Chapter 19: Villages
Today Vanya and I went on a walk up the ridge. Nah, paths are for losers. When I say up the ridge, that’s exactly what I mean. Straight up the ridge. It was quite an adventure (it’s impressive how often I say that, is it not?). Had quite a fun time.
The view from the top was phenomenal. There was still mist sitting all through the valley, so from up there all the hills and peaks looked like islands jutting up out of a white puff of ocean. We could see a couple little towns over the other side of the ridge as well. One was probably ten houses, the other was maybe twenty-five. Very cute. We could see the one single winding dirt road which takes them down into town in the valley. It’s probably a two hour trip just to go to the grocery store, so they probably don’t, at least not often.
On the way down (we took the road this time) Vanya was telling me about the village and the family she stayed with in
Chapter 18: Dude
Today we saw a guy biking with no hands. Ok, big deal, we’ve seen it before. Except the reason this guy was using no hands was because his entire arm was in a cast. Yet here he is in full bikers’ spandex training away. Now that’s hardcore.
Chapter 17: Rome, Day 2
Early start today. We caught the bus to the
Then just for the heck of it we saw the Sistine Chapel again with some sunlight this time. Honestly, because of the foggy windows it looked almost identical to the Sistine Chapel on a rainy day. Ah well.
We then got to see some Roman statues (snicker), Egyptian art (love that stuff) and Estruscan art, a wing which was completely empty, probably because no one can for the life of them remember who the Estruscans were. I also saw the statue of that god Minas I believe his name might have been, but I could very easily be wrong, the one slaying the bull with his Phrygian cap. Well, he’s slaying the bull with a knife, but he’s wearing a Phrygian cap as he’s doing it, right Mr. Gollogly?
From the
1. The engineering involved in building a dome with no center back in the day is absolutely phenomenal, not to mention it’s a beautiful effect.
2. It’s free.
Then we wended our way towards what looked like an important building on our map and was conveniently located at the head of the old Roman Forum, which was where we were trying to get to. The important looking building turned out to be the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and also turned out to be within sight of the Coliseum, a straight shot down the road. Thus the realm of the gladiators seemed like a fairly obvious place to head to next, so we did. We stopped to have lunch outside before going in (this time we brought lunch with us. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that earlier). After being offered an English tour about fifty million times (“And you get to skip straight past the forty-five minute queue!”) we got in line and had tickets in our hands within fifteen minutes if that. Psh, forty-five minutes, freaking marketing people.
Let me tell you something about tours in
So then we saw the Coliseum (which I could’ve sworn had a double letter in it at some point in my education), a somewhat somber visit because it’s a very serious place. It’s also an oval. I was surprised by this. It also takes a lot of imagination to try and picture what it would have looked like, though I suppose it’s in pretty good condition for a BC building. The section of tour which we eavesdropped on was talking about the stage manager of the Coliseum and his nifty set of pulleys and levers and contraptions so that if at any time he felt the fight needed a bit more spice he could suddenly open a trapdoor for a gladiator to fall through or launch up a set of spikes for a gladiator to run into, or release a starved beast for a gladiator to be eaten by. Basically it wasn’t a level playing field, excuse the pun. That sort of information and the place in general was getting a bit depressing so we decided to go hunt down some of the glory of
I wanted to find the catacombs but had no idea where we should begin, so we just headed towards ancient
We decided to head up the Palatine Hill. Not that we had any idea what the Palatine Hill was, but the €11 ticket we had purchased for the viewing of the Coliseum included entrance to the Palatine Hill, and the thought of free sightseeing was too much to resist, so we climbed the stairs. The first thing we came to was a totally awesome moss-encrusted fountain thing all lumpy with rocks and moss and dripping everywhere with overhangs and crevices and caves and I’m making it sound really gross but it looked like a fairy house, it was very cool. We each want one in our gardens.
From there we climbed more stairs and suddenly found ourselves entering a beautiful orange grove which I would love to say smelled fragrantly of citrus, but unfortunately that would be lying. Of course we wanted the oranges, but all the fruit remotely within reach had already been plucked away, illegal as that may be, hehehe. I went down some stairs into a dark tunnel thing which Vanya didn’t really want to follow me into, so she didn’t. I went all the way through the long tunnel, which turned out, upon reaching the other side, to be some sort of crypt, but the signs were bad and our touristy knowledge was worse, so I must admit I really have no idea what it was. I saw more of the gardens, I saw a cat walking around (he was very cool), and then Vanya found me at a terrace that has a fantastic view overlooking the whole Roman forum down below. From there we went across to some more ruins (wow!) but we were really starting to get wiped out and had little to zero idea of what we were looking at even if it was all cool anyway. We were also beginning to feel a little guilty, as in “Man, we’ve spent how many thousands of hours on Ancient Rome in that lovely Waldorf school of ours and we still can’t recognize one single historically important landmark when we see it?” Seriously, all I could remember was that time I wrote a story about a gladiator in sixth grade. Actually I don’t remember the story at all but I remember the little picture of a gladiator that I drew in my main lesson book. It was a cool picture. I also had many, many Norse myths popping into my head, but they seemed neither very relevant nor very helpful at the time. Sorry, Mr. Johnson.
We were just about to head down to what looked like some cool and colossal ruins, when we stopped for a moment to listen in on an English tour that was passing by. He was telling the legend of the establishment of
After the fabulous tour we meandered down through the forum, marveled at a lot of broken columns with stories behind them, and then reemerged out into regular
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