far too much writing, far too many photos


Travels: Italy, 2004

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

This morning found me wandering around a sprawling northern Italian city, the urban thing a bit of a letdown after a fine weekend spent even further north (views of snow-capped mountains, stellar pitstops in local restaurants). This evening finds me back in my comfy, austere Madrid hideyhole, the space feeling pleasingly homelike. Glad to be back.

There's a lot to go into. For now, this limited summing-up will have to suffice:
Italian food -- good.
Italian television -- bad.
Italian women -- yowza!

Details to follow.


Billboard -- Milano

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

It's a strange life, this, skipping around the western world like a stone across a lake. There are those moments -- often after a bout of skidding around the Earth's surface, with resulting insufficient sleep (a potent combo that can produce plenty of feelings) -- when I am not sure where the hell I belong, what I want to be doing, who I want to be doing it with. Generally a good time to remind myself how fortunate I am, that my life is swimming with blessings -- a simple process I do often, actually. After which I turn my attention to things that need to be done, whatever they may be, and get the carrying-on of life underway. The day moves along, my state of mind moves on with it, before I know it I'm absorbed in my existence, often a bit clearer about myself, about what I want for this extravaganza that passes for my little life.

I've done some releasing of tethers during these last few years, moving away from a relatively settled situation in favor of one where I increasingly follow the flow of my impulses. It's been a conscious choice, one I've arranged my resources to support, and it's produced a fluid existence that's taken me places I don't think I could have pictured in earlier years, both internally and externally. The goal is not necessarily to be moving about, more to be paying attention to where I am and the information contained in my ongoing stream of responses -- that information is me communicating with me, part of what some might call the inner voice. It speaks clearly, and it doesn't mislead. And the more I pay attention to it, trusting the counsel of my own feelings, the clearer I become about who I am and the more interesting, the more satisfying my journey on this planet becomes.

I babble, I know -- the result, I'm afraid, of a weekend spent with a friend that included abundant philosophical blab. Blab and a heap of extremely decent Italian food, against the backdrop of northwest Italy. Pretty good backdrop, as it turned out.

Flew out of Madrid early Friday afternoon, this end of the trip fast and smooth. The leg from Linate Airport into Milano and north from there to the 'burb of Merate (40 miles? something like that) took as long as the trip from my front door to Linate. (*#"@%Ç!!!)

Milano: an enormous, sprawling mother of a city. Industrial, high-density. The bus from the airport to the Central Railway Station (the grass along the highways the brilliant, shining green of spring) wound its way through old neighborhoods, along tree-lined avenues and the longest, most extensive display of graffiti I have ever seen, even more than in the New York City I remember from the late 70s/early 80s, and that's saying something. Without the wild, colorful creativity of the Big Apple's graffiti explosion -- just pedestrian, ho-hum tags along the sidewalk level of every building, giving the impression that come nightfall the streets are overrun by hordes of teenagers armed with cans of spray paint and minimal imagination.

(Pause for an inquiry: Why are European busses so much more comfortable and well cared for than their U.S. counterparts? I ask the question out of genuine curiosity. I have yet to plant my adorable butt in an American bus that comes close to the body-friendliness of its continental cousins -- and I use that modifier 'continental' to exclude busses my butt has experienced in London, which are wonderful vehicles just by virtue of being in that swinging burg but not necessarily designed for comfort. To speculate on this or compliment my adorable posterior, please send a note to runswith at runswith dot com. End of question pitstop.)

The Stazione Centrale is the real item, a huge, majestic transit crossroads, a bit overwhelming in its scale, or at least it was to this poor bastard, trying to thread my way through the beginning of evening rush hour to the right ticket window, then to the right train. The ticket guy dealt with my Spanish with good-natured ease, tossed a ticket my way, told me the platform number, warned me I'd have to change trains in Monza.

Found the train, found a window seat. The coach filled up around me with commuters headed home, the train pulled out as Milan's early darkness fell.

Stations were not announced -- me aware I'd have to change trains, with no idea where Monza was, I kept an eye peeled as each successive station appeared, ready to jump up, drag bags down from luggage rack, push my way through commuting Italians, toss myself out the door. Did that when Monza rolled along, found myself out on a cold platform, Italians pushing past.

Followed the crowd down some stairs, through a concrete hallway, up another flight of stairs and into what passed as a station where an extensive, cryptic train schedule covered much of a wall. Stood there studying it until I thought I might have found the listing I needed, then did it all over again just to be sure. Then again just to make real damn sure. Finally headed back out into the night, pushed my way downstairs, through corridor, up other stairs onto platform. And waited as one train after another passed through, listening to the stationmaster's announcements, asking people on each likely train if it would be stopping in Merate. The correct train -- the one I'd found on the schedule -- showed up 30 minutes late. Me and my bags got on, got off four stations later in Merate.

Cars picked up travelers, voices greeted each other in Italian. And then they were all gone, leaving me looking futilely about for a taxi. None appeared, not even at the taxi stand across the narrow two-lane that cut between the station and a small bar/convenience store. After 20 minutes of standing about in the cold, damp dark hoping a ride would materialize, I stepped into the store, asked the counter guy for help. He handed me the local taxi company's card, showed me to a phone. I dialed, a woman picked up. I addressed her in Spanish, she commenced yelling at me. Thirty seconds later the shouting continued, my hand quietly hung the phone up. The counter guy cocked an inquiring eyebrow at me, I shook my head in the negative. He came over, took the card, dialed. The same woman answered, I could hear her starting up with him -- he waded through it, got her to send a cab. Hung up, looked at me, said, "Horrible!" I could only agree.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Ten minutes later, an unmarked vehicle pulled up: my taxi. Piloted by a smiling 70ish type who spoke no English and pretended to understand nothing I said in Spanish, even words that are identical in Italian (notably '¿Cuánto?' -- 'How much?'). Pretended in such exaggerated fashion that I found myself practically falling about in the back seat, hoping my enjoyment of the show wouldn't cause offense. And after a drive of maybe two minutes to the hotel, he charged me 10 euros then tried to grab one of my two small bags and drag it into the lobby in hopes of extorting a tip.

From there, the way became far smoother. The hotel staff -- friendly, efficient, with more than enough English/Spanish under their collective belts to get the job done -- rang the room of my friend B., he and I arranged to rendezvous a bit later for the first installment of the weekend's fine eating.

We'd last hung out in 3-D about two years ago. Next thing I know, we're shaking hands in a hotel lobby in northern Italy. Kind of a rush.

B.: personable, articulate. Tall, thin, slightly rumpled, with a narrow, intelligent face -- a distinctive-looking individual. And, on this occasion, tired after a long, overnight flight, in no shape to get behind the wheel of his rented car. The hotel had a restaurant a mile or two off premises, they had someone pick us up, ferry us there. We walked into an elegant, extensive, nearly empty dining room, past a substantial antipasta spread, to a table by a long bank of tall windows. Commenced eating, began talking: the weekend was out of the starting gate.

A killer meal, one that went on for quite a while. Somewhere between the first and second plate, customers began flooding into the place, the ambient noise level soared. When we turned down our hard-working waiter's inquiries re: a dessert course, he brought a complimentary plate of fruit, then another of excellent cookies. (A great guy, who wound up with an extravagant tip.) When we'd had enough, we got driven back to the hotel, I stumbled to my room, digestive system at capacity.

Next morning: the world outside lay awash in sunlight, with a chill that burned off like mist. I joined B. for a big breakfast, primed my system with a couple of cappucinos. Midday found me in B.'s rented car, being driven out narrow, winding roads to the Montevecchia Regional Park, a beautiful spread of land out in the Lombardy countryside -- rolling, terraced hills dotted with vineyards and villages, flanked by mountains that extend off toward larger, snow-covered peaks.

B. had visited the area several weeks earlier with other friends, investigating something with a mystical slant, something that he realized after the fact had piqued his interest in a surprisingly deep way, to the point that he felt compelled to return for further nosing around. Me, I was there for the fun, for the pleasure of hooking up with a friend away from what some might consider the beaten track. Happy to stumble along in his more focused wake, exploring a part of the world I'd not previously set foot in -- overjoyed at simply being there, whatever it might bring -- and of course shoveling down plates of Italian food and inhaling cups of cappucino whenever the opportunity presented itself.

B. piloted the car up into a small, gravel parking area off the curve of a two-lane, we stepped out into a spectacular November day, bicyclists whizzing by on the road, the sloping land behind us stretching skyward, toward a small group of poplar trees. With each step up that hill -- the first of the three hills B. was investigating -- the view of the surrounding countryside became more arresting, me feeling so obnoxiously content with my lot that I knew I should keep it mostly to myself (or risk becoming toxically tiresome).

Mountain bikers passed, heading downhill in a way that made me hope they were sporting thickly padded underoos beneath their slick outfits. A smiling 30ish Italian couple went by, saying hello. My camera repeatedly found its way into my hand, far too many photos were taken.

From there a hiking path wound west-northwest, rolling up and down with the land. We moved along it, toward the second hill. Church bells came and went on the breeze, birds sang out now and then. Down in a large, terraced bowl formed by the land to the southwest of the path, someone worked away in a vineyard, the faint sound of a tractor drifted up through mild air.

(As I said, far too many photos. So sue me.)

We walked, we chatted. B. pondered aloud about the hills, what they might mean, where he might find something of any significance. He'd come equipped with two cameras, the first a faithful companion of many years' use, the second a brand spanking new digital jobby. Faithful C. showed signs it might be reaching the end of its road: a growing problem with the shutter spring that rapidly became debilitating. B. stroked it, fretted over it, wrestled with it, finally reaching the point of resignation and acceptance -- laying an old friend to rest, giving the next generation its shot.

Everything changes.

Last rites

Saturday, November 20, 2004

We ambled on and off the trail, stopped at overlooks, pushed through high grass, stands of trees, thickets of brush to peer at parts of the hill clearly marked as private property (places B. thought might be fruitful venues for exploration). The air was alight with sunshine, alive with winged critters, falling leaves, bits of milkweed-style fluff. And from here a linear description of the afternoon begins to break down because, in a vaguely Seinfeldian way, nothing much happened. We drifted. We talked. We snooped around. For a while, we sprawled on a high stretch of hillside soaking up sunlight. We sat on a small stucco bench in front of an old, weatherbeaten stucco utility building that hugged the hillside just below the hiking path, the valley stretched out below. A tiny lizard darted briefly into view, hanging on the wall not far from my head in casual, gravity-defying fashion.

You get the picture. A string of unexpectedly pleasing moments, a beautiful afternoon.

Then back to the hotel.

(Pause for near-scatological inquiry: Why is it that hotels insist on gift-wrapping toilet seats with paper ribbons? How exactly is that supposed to assure us of cleanliness? In the last two hotels I've passed through, the toilet-seat ribbons were emblazoned with red crosses -- what does that mean? Are they suitable for use as dressings on major sucking wounds when not festooning the bog? Something else I've noticed: most hotels take the trouble to fold up the ends of toilet paper rolls into a V-shape. What in God's name is that about? Is there a necktie fetish thing going on I should know about? It can't be for aesthetic reasons, because listen up: there is NOTHING ARTISTIC about folding the end of the toilet paper roll INTO A V-SHAPE. It produces less surface space to grab onto, and that's about it. Someone, somewhere, who teaches hotel folk all sorts of secrets-of-the-trade is probably laughing over a triple piña colada right now, telling friends about how they've convinced an entire industry that folding up the ends of toilet paper rolls is sophisticated and refined.)

And speaking of the near-scatological, an unexpected side-effect of the big breakfast, with its multiple cups of cappucino & glasses of juice and water, was a growing state of bladder hyperproductivity, a strange cranking up of my little body's natural functioning that sent me off into the bushes several times during the early to mid-afternoon. Given the setting, not a major disruption of life. Had more pressing impact later on, though. (Foreshadowing! No, I am not above delving into cheap literary devices now and then.)

B. retired to his room to rest up before the evening's foodfest. Restless, feeling the urge for a slice or two of the local pizza, I hiked to a nearby shopping center, wolfed down some very decent pie. Watched shoppers, listened to the music of the language. Went back outside for some fresh air where I watched the sunset, appreciated Italian women, noticed that an impressively high percentage of them had cellphones in hand, either in use or at ready.

Had a fine dinner that evening at a local joint, me once again providing a shining example of untrammeled gluttony. A high point: B.'s attempt to order ice cream -- on the face of it as simple a communication as one could undertake. Leading, in our case, to a scrum of six people -- me and B., two members of the wait staff, plus a 30ish Italian couple at an adjoining table who knew a little English, a little Spanish -- all going back and forth trying to get across an order for a scoop of gelato. Noise, arm waving, the biggest flurry happening during B.'s attempt to find out the flavor (they only had one).
"Milk," they said.
"Milk?" said B. "You mean vanilla?"
"Vanilla?" the wait people asked, perplexed.
"Vainilla," I said, ever ready to inflict Spanish on everyone, no matter how unhelpful or pretentious my contribution.
"Ah!" said the husband of the couple next to me. "Vaniglia!"
"Vaniglia?" said the wait people. "No, milk!!"
Two minutes of this, me laughing harder and harder, the husband of the neighboring couple laughing with me.

The ice cream finally arrives, one lonely white scoop in a white bowl. Vanilla.

I can't tell you how happy all that made me.

Next morning: another big breakfast, heavy on the various liquids. B. took me on a hike into Merate center, during which the bladder thing started up again. Kind of the day's first warning shot across the bow, sending me into a local establishment to use their facilities, which turned out to literally be a hole in the floor, white porcelain inlaid in the tiled surface around it (including porcelain treads for foot placement). And a support handle on either wall for those who've really been putting the coffee away and might be feeling a touch shaky.

The day's main event was to be a drive up to Lake Como, by midday we were en route, B. doing an excellent job of dealing with local highways, signage, etc. The roads heading into the heart of Como feed down from the hills around the town into a natural basin, heading directly to the lake from there, where my generally reliable parking karma lined up a space another car was abandoning. B. pulled in, fed meter, etc. -- I disappeared to recycle more of the morning's cappucino. When I reappeared, we began a saunter along the lake, the beauty of the place slowly sinking in.

We traced a long, leisurely loop, eventually moving into what might be Como's oldest section, an extensive zone of long, narrow streets, punctuated by plazas, enough people about to suggest how overrun with humans the town must get in season. A beautiful place that gradually took ahold of us, had us walking around with mouths half-open as we soaked it in. A place, it dawned on me, that I would enjoy living in.


Monday, November 22, 2004

Of course, a hefty percentage of the global population that's had any first-, second- or third-hand exposure to Lake Como and the surrounding area feels a similar attraction -- hence its popularity and the growing presence of big money and famous faces.

A nice part of the world. A place that would be a good spot to call home.

I was interested to hear B. saying similar things, could see him feeling powerful intangibles at work. Could even hear it in his voice, at times blended with a strange, almost plaintive note of wonder at finding himself registering something of this inexplicably powerful variety. Got me thinking about the whole idea of home, all the different things that word can represent, how the feeling of home has been a curiously elusive quantity during this life of mine.

I have moved about like you wouldn't believe during my (mumble, mumble) years, and during the ongoing swing of it around the map, I've experienced brief pangs of what at times seems like the simple possibility a place might hold something that could come to feel homelike. Or the possibility that a town or a living space or a person or group of people might provide some part of whatever that sensation of home is, even just a small, transitory suggestion of it. I longed for that at times, could clearly feel that the wanting it was one of the elements that drove me from one place, one situation to another.

Late in 1986, I flew to London, my first time overseas. The first time,I think, that anyone in my nuclear family had been overseas. (My parents never crossed the Atlantic, never left the country, apart from a brief incursion or two of my mother's up to Montreal. They never went west of the Mississippi, a fact I find amazing.) British culture had made an impression on me during my early years, had expanded in later years into something important, something that finally moved me to make my first foray across the water.

When I reached Heathrow, I took a bus into the city, wanting to see everything, soak it all up and let it out through my pen into a notebook as I rode, rather than make the trip in the sensory-deprivation chamber of the Underground. And after a gratifyingly eye-filling ride, the bus let me off on the High Street in Kensington. I stepped out, my foot touched the sidewalk. And I found myself swept with a visceral, overwhelming sensation of coming home, feeling almost like an electric current coursing through my body, my mouth opening in surprise, my hand almost dropping my bag. Not even remotely like anything I'd never experienced.

On hearing this story, different people come up with different possible explanations, all of which have their validity. It's easy to slap any one of several labels on an experience like this, all of which will sound reasonable to someone. Myself, I've never tried to force that moment into a tidy little verbal container -- there was too much going on, it was too big. I've simply let it be, assuming it will show its meaning (or not) in its own time.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Thirteen, fourteen years later, following a sudden impulse to book a cheap mid-February flight to Madrid, I found myself in the heart of a big Spanish city, experiencing something similar to what I experienced in London. Different, but similar. With a huge impact, channeling much of my existence over to the far side of the Atlantic, a part of the planet that's come to feel increasingly homelike.

Not a development I'd foreseen. But then, that's life, isn't it? Packed with surprises. I didn't expect to be so affected by Como either, nor to find B. so affected. He's been talking about returning to northern Italy in the spring. "I am likely," he says, "to study Italian in advance, too, paying particular attention to restaurant dialogue."

Dude, I am so with you re: the importance of mastering restaurant dialogue.

Case in point: we experienced our one and only restaurant disaster that night in Merate -- post-Como love affair -- investigating two local joints recommended by hotel staff. The first greeted us with a full front parking lot, no available nearby street spaces. A favorable sign on one hand, popularity suggesting decent chow. On the other hand, if you can't come up with a parking space, who cares how good the chow is?

After two unsuccessful passes, B. tossed in the towel, we drove to the other place. Plenty of parking there. Inside, despite an abundance of empty tables, they immediately seated us next to another couple, elbow to elbow. The folks after us -- clearly locals -- were ushered to a table free of neighbors. Bad sign. The place turned out to have no hard-copy menus, which might have been fine if we could communicate. The woman who came to take our order spoke no English, no Spanish, immediately called over the in-house English pro. Who, it turned out, spoke almost no English, and had us pegged as American tourists -- not worth exerting for -- offering only the most basic menu options (spaghetti, roast beef, veal).

And me? Unhappy. Big time. With a major desire to get up and get the hell out of there, a signal I usually pay attention to. Instead, I stayed put, motivated, I think, by not wanting to come across as an obnoxious, ill-mannered tourist. Silly me.

B. and I. both ordered a plate of spaghetti. While we waited, two males were seated to our other side, were given far more dining options, got served almost immediately, a good-looking plate of risotto and mushrooms appearing in the front of the guy next to me (not an option presented to us, I reminded myself, smoke beginning to billow from my ears). B. and I had ordered bottled water with our tourist food, his still, mine carbonated. They brought him a big honking bottle, brought me a little teeny toy-sized one. I stared at mine, massively displeased, knowing I had no one to blame but myself. B. was willing to bolt, head off to more promising dining -- I'd kept us there. And through all of this, B. acted like a bona fide mensch, willing to do whatever I wanted to make things better. The spaghetti showed, we ate, refused more courses, got the bill, paid up, fled. Went back to the place we'd been the night before -- the ice-cream comedy joint -- making everything better. Whew.

Me: much happier. And grateful to B. for being a class act.

Friday, November 26, 2004

And that display of major dining contrast was my last evening in Merate.

Next morning: a far more restrained breakfast, me wanting to give my bladder a chance to calm down, not make the trip to Milano more exciting than it needed to be. Like the mensch that he is, B. carted me to the train station, stood with me on the platform until the train showed. The weather had turned gray and cold -- I, however, having gotten used to the previous days' golden weather, went out dressed for warmer conditions. By the time the train pulled in, my little body had begun to shake, my nipples standing painfully at attention. I gave silent thanks for heated transport all the way into the big city.

Among the abundant grafitti seen spray-painted on train stations along the way (in English):
(This being northern Italy, I assume the rich would be served with a white sauce instead of red.)

Other English-language signage seen in Merate and Milano, all names of businesses:
(That last was shuttered, dark, locked up, looking like it may served its last beer.)

Milano: Big, crowded, cold, gray. Took far longer than I expected to locate my flop for the night, tucked away on a gated side street so neatly that I walked by, completely oblivious, not spotting it until a slower, more painstaking search, 20 minutes later. The hotel: more of a hostel -- basic, small, tight, the room wildly austere. Bit of a shock after the more hotel-like hotel in Merate. A 20-something woman was the sole desk person (a glorified term in this case, the desk more of a cubbyhole), fielding both Spanish and English pretty well, her manner easy, good-humored.

Check in, shlep luggage up to room, head back out into the chilly air to get an eyeful of Milano.

It's an industrial city, with heavy traffic, dirty air. Not overlain with the kind of beauty that can be found in Rome, Florence, Como. But loaded with life, and peppered with eye-catching examples of the old colliding with the new. For instance: Il Duomo, the spectacular cathedral located in the heart of Milano's downtown. Huge, impressive, undergoing renovations that have completely covered the piazza end of the structure with scaffolding. As happens here in Spain, the scaffolding has been put to use for oversized advertising, providing a strange, jarring visual -- what some might describe as the sacred meeting the profane.

The Church gets down with the youth market, yo!

It's a company town for the fashion industry the way L.A. is for the film industry, its influence could be seen everywhere, from the local women's dress sense, to individual examples -- both male and female -- of out-there street attire, to individuals pushing handcarts stacked with clothing, to enclaves of high-end stores dealing in clothing and furnishings, from the quirky to the slick, many trading in fare both quirky and slick.

Wandering around the area north of Il Duomo brought me to a narrow east-west street -- lined on both sides with high-end shops dealing in clothing, accessories, furnishings, jewelry, its length crossing three or four main drags. A few access portals led to courtyards which housed production businesses, either designing their own fare or servicing the industry in some way, the folks walking in and out dressed sleekly, men often sporting ponytails. A steady stream of people walked along in the fading late-afternoon light, staring into display windows, young Asian women comprising a major element, carrying bags of purchases, visible inside some shops trying on items of clothing. Some windows drew steady attention, groups of passersby pausing to stare and comment.

Others showcased items outrageous enough that strollers passed silently by, staring, perhaps murmuring a comment to a companion. Briefly slowing their pace, but only briefly, before moving right along, as if unnerved, intimidated.

Later, back at the hotel, I got a suggestion for a place to eat a short walk away, headed back out in search of the trip's last dinner. Folks passed carrying bags of groceries, heading home, moving in and out of supermarkets crammed into the street level of otherwise residential buildings. As with many other areas of the city, grafitti covered the first floor walls of most structures. Many of the locals seemed to be immigrants, clusters of young men -- Middle Eastern, African -- stood outside long-distance telephone shops, talking loudly.

An attractive 20-something Italian woman walked quickly by at one intersection, a group of 20ish Italian male knuckleheads stared with no pretense of subtlety, making loud comments, one or two whistling.

Some bars were open, but not many eateries. The one suggested to me was closed, dark. I continued walking until I found an open joint with a good-looking menu, went inside. The owner appeared to be Middle Eastern, dealt well with me speaking Spanish. I took a seat, ordered, began to eat as other diners entered and the place got busy. Three males sat at the table in front of me -- one Italian, two Middle Eastern types -- ordering a sizeable platter piled with slabs of sizzling meat and grilled vegetables. One cut into the meat, decided it was too pink, they called the owner over for an extended conference. Several animated minutes later, the diners accepted his shrugging explanation, the meal got underway.

The space had been hung with a variety of art so bad that the more I studied it the happier I became. I hadn't seen a collection of visual muzak like this since spending far too much time in certain Indian restaurants in Central Square, Cambridge, Mass. One painting in particular caught my attention, a portrait of an extremely sad female clown in front of what looked like a rendition of one of Monet's paintings of the British Houses of Parliament. She sported a teeny black top hat (adorned with two of the perkiest daisies one could wish for) and a gigantic, floppy bow tie of an indefinable color -- mauve? Fuscia? Got me. Whatever it was, the neck ornament alone would be sufficient grounds for depression.

The food: pretty good. The artwork: easily worth the price of admission.

Back at the hotel. Each little floor had two or three little rooms and a little bathroom. An intense little bathroom, in my case, completely done up in its intense little way.

I had my first encounter with the bathroom on my floor during the wee hours. One shouldn't have to deal with something like that at 4 a.m. Simply being up at that hour is punishment enough.

That last morning in Milano dawned sunny and cold. I got out early to see a couple of things before heading to the airport, the first being the museum of modern art. Which turned out to be undergoing major work, so that only small groups of people were allowed entry, at two assigned times each day. Museum personnal herded us from gallery to gallery, allowed us to see one room at a time, allowing no one to wander. Kind of oppressive. One piece made it worth it: a clay pitcher by Picasso, decorated with a black bull. Beautiful.

Went through the public gardens, groups of schoolkids passing by, on their way into the museum of natural history. Got something to eat. Called it a day.

Among the abundant graffiti seen on the trip to catch the airport bus, written by someone who apparently didn't get the contradiction:
[Social War
World Peace]

After I'd gotten settled on the bus (as comfortable and body-friendly as it had been on the trip into town a few days earlier), I noticed a couple that had shown up, standing just outside the door engaged in a long, lingering good-bye. Him: a slender, silver-haired, mid-40s bookish-looking type. Her: looking 20 years younger than her partner, wearing a stylishly-cut suit, skirt falling to just below her knees. The slightest bit zoftig, in sunglasses and high heels. They talked, kissed, held hands, remaining there until just before the bus pulled out, when she gave him one last, long smooch and he got on board. She waited until he found a seat, waved, turned away, walked off into the afternoon.

The sun was dropping below the horizon as our plane lifted into the air. We followed it toward Spain, touching down in Madrid just as the last light in the western sky had begun to fade.

Back home, Spanish being spoken all around, its music so different from that of the Italian I'd been surrounded by in previous days.


London '01
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Italy '04
La Sierra

Madrid -- arrival
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


fudge it
fear not
idle words
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
dave barry
human clock
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


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