la serenissima

Last Friday, I fled the office, fled the city and caught a train to Venice. Everyone I spoke to raved about the city: my mother always returned to Montreal with elegant photos, Angela spoke highly of her time in Venezia, Carly has been back numerous times and Matilde repeated the fact that the Italian city is quite unlike anything else. Here I was on the train to this magical city, expectations whirling in my head, wondering how could it be. I had written about Venice in the Let's Go guide of Western Europe last summer, rewriting the introduction to a city I had never visited, saying it was best to get lost in the city of Venice (La Serenissima, the peaceful one) a town of winding canals, curving streets, and deteriorating stucco palazzi. Getting into the train station I was confused, I had water on one side and cars on a highway on the other. The weather had been overcast and rainy, the air thick with grey and dampness. I walked out onto the platform, not thinking this could be it. I met Carly and we walked out of the train station. It was then that I understood. Before me was a canal lined with rose coloured glass lampposts, a bridge to my left and a domed church right in front of me. My first moments in the city, or my entire first day rather, I couldn't really grasp the concept of this city. I didn't know where I was going, my map was useless, city of bridges, canals and buildings rising out of the water. As I sat in my room the first night, the melody of an accordion teased into earshot and as I looked out my window a gondola passed by and a woman snapped a picture of me looking (perhaps longingly) out my window at the passing boat, a new kind of passing vehicle, waterway traffic. That night we visited the tourist-packed Rialto bridge and went to dinner at Carly's Venetian mainstay La Trattoria alla Madonna where she witnessed the secret to creamy risotto (perhaps the best I have ever tasted) which is not cream but pan-flipping. We proceeded to get lost on the way home, following signs, discovering sidestreets, meeting stray dogs, and finally arriving home to our cave-like hostel. After a licorice-tasting absinth, we went to sleep giggly and happy.


Waking early, we headed out for the Saturday morning markets in Campo S. Margherita and at the Rialto. The streets were empty and the light shone warmly on the buildings as if in greeting. After a cappuccino, we stepped into the campo to see men setting up their fish stands complete with black eel, scampi, octopus and the like.

People warned me that Venice smells bad in summer, gladly, I think we were early enough in the summer to avoid nocive and ubiquitous stench but I could understand that most of Venice smells a little fishy... it is after all a port town on the water. Go figure. We walked around near the Rialto, before any of the shops on the bridge were open and before hoards of tourists flooded the area. The markets for me were magical, buzzing with life and locals.

Arriving in Piazza San Marco, already invaded by tourists, after a winding path from the Rialto, Carly and I headed to the top of the campanile (bell tower) to breathtaking views of the islands of Venice and the packed rooftops unimaginable from the tall and narrow streets below. So much of this city gives you a new view of life as it really should be: the streets you travel aren't straightforward or retraceable (or when they are retraced, they are completely unfamiliar), canals don't make sense, the spaces are varied, from wide open campos to narrow tall alleyways with low arched entrances. I took Venice as an allegory for everyday life, winding, unpredictable, rife with loss, and at times surreal. From the campanile with its wonderful breeze, I saw the Guidecca, a region suggested to me to visit by Daria at the office and the Chiesa S. Giorgio on its own island, that also seemed a point of interest. Wanting to take the vaporetto around town that day and buy a 24hr ticket, we arrived at the vaporetto stop only to discover that there was a vaporetto strike. Quintessential Italian experience number 5, great. Unphased we decided to go on foot, we would see as much as Venice as possible, without swimming.

We headed back to the Rialto to do a bit of present shopping, spending most of our time with Giorgio and Wanda Scarpa at their shop Rivoaltus. Wanda slaves away as Giorgio tends the one-room shop. It was so nice to be warmly greeted and welcomed. The books that are sold in the shop are gorgeous, made from leather and Amalfi paper... entrancing designs. Good purchases. After a lunch stop on the go, we headed for a museum afternoon complete with the non wow-worthy Accademia (although they did take me for an EU student) and the wonderfully peaceful and stimulating Peggy Guggenheim collection. I loved the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, if not for the Angel of the City with the removable erection but for the peaceful and inspired atmosphere that reigns in the museum. You walk into another world, of thought-provoking art, a type of art that you can't understand completely but makes your mind bubble, chatter. Venice is thus a perfect setting for the collection. Beside the cool stone trelis-covered table in the courtyard, I loved the photos of Peggy in her house (because that's what it was) because it gives a personal touch to the spaces, a history. Too bad I checked my bag and camera and couldn't take any pictures... I shall return, one of my favorite museums in a whimsical city. After wandering around with screaming feet to a church and a gelateria (to have a gianduiotto da passaggio, which I would NOT recommend although chocolate hazelnut icecream in dense whipping cream sounded amazing), we headed home on a free vaporetto and collapsed.

Within half an hour I received a phonecall from my dear friend Ayten, she had arrived in Venice and we discovered, excitedly chattering, that we were indeed close to each other and would meet each other within an hour. I had never seen Ayten outside of Cambridge, MA so I was excited to see her and see how Italy was treating her so far. Waiting for her on the street next to our neighbours, the Ristorante ae Cravate (with ties hanging from the ceiling), we were given plastic bowls filled with eye-rolling-with-pleasure scented mussels for free, because the owner of the restaurant had lost a bet that Italy would not make it to the finals and had to hand out free mussels to passers-by. Delicious and hilarious. I spotted Ayten looking around and wandering down the street, I yelled out and ran over to hug her as best as I could with a bowl of mussels in my hand. We wandered the streets of Venice, quiet and tourist-less, stopping to vist her apartment before wandering to finally find a restaurant on a canal in the jewish part of town (complete with chanting hasidim as we walked passed the kosher restaurant Gam Gam on our way to the now functional vaporetto). It was so nice to catchup with Ayten, we get along so well, dream of my future visit to Turkey, talk about our lives at Harvard, wrestle with life problems. We said goodbye as I embarked on the right vaporetto down the Grand Canal to San Marco.

Venice at night is completely unreal with palazzi that look like they are either rising up from or sinking into the water. Magical, ephemeral, peaceful. The boat rocks as I snap pictures in the darkness and catch glimpses of chandeliers, paintings or rich red walls through open windows to lit rooms. I walked off the vaporetto feeling like I had lived a dream, walking towards the music of San Marco, street lamps lighting up the night, silver tipped gondolas bobbing in the water, resting from a day of peaceful gliding. I met up with Carly, ran into some other Harvard folks and headed home on the vaporetto (after getting lost and not wanting to be stuck in the dark, the silence, with no real trusty map and nothing but lapping water). I drifted to sleep after checking out the scene in the student-busy Campo S. Margherita near our hostel and witnessing some more Italian beauties, bronzed, stylish (greek style lace up sandals, aka hotness), and smiling. A nice square to hang out in.
I had wonderfully peaceful dreams that night of rising from the water to witness a panorama of still coloured-stucco palazzi and woke up with the sun. This place really is quite peaceful and so much you have to experience for yourself: the touch of stucco, the narrow tall streets, the gentle incline of the bridges, the visibility of time's passing.

Carly and I arrived at Caffé Florian before they opened on Sunday morning and took in the cool wind breezing through piazza San Marco, the world's largest sitting room. Sipping cappuccino (the trip's best) and a Bellini we bid adieu to Venezia in style along with dipping our hands into the water to feel the soft seaweed growing on the cold marble steps into the water. On the train (although we hadn't validated our tickets, we didn't get fined as I thought we would. unforseen travel expenses: 100 euro I thought as Carly uttered 'For everything else there's Mastercard'), I tried to come to terms with the trip, its unreal quality (throughout the weekend I kept telling myself I was in Venice and afterwards I told myself that I had just been in Venice), like a dream and truly, unlike anything I have ever experienced, feeling much more in touch with life thanks to the city's unrestrained quality, floating delicately on the surface.

incredibile

We won. Gli azzuri sono campioni del mondo. Del MONDO. Forza Italia (the official name of the Italian team) took the World Cup last night 6-4 when the game was forced to penalty shots, the ultimate final preuve to decide the winner in a tied situation after 30 minutes of overtime. Honestly, I am exhausted this morning having spent a weekend in Venice (which has to be put on hold because of more immediate news), having gone to sleep at 3am last night (well, this morning), getting up to a stubborn hot water heater, and arriving at work to be kicked off my adopted home computer. But all that is besides the point.

We congregated at Marina's house in her spacious living room with an international crowd (two dutch men, an american girl, a canadian, and four italians). A real world cup gathering. Although we missed Shakira's performance, we were, well no, I was glued to the TV for the rest of the match. The others (except for Davide's brother and I) grew bored after the first hour of the game. It all started with a visible will on both the Italian and French side to win. Players were being more aggressive and both throwing themselves into the game to win and at other players to avoid scoring goals enemy goals. That last tactic started badly for the Italians giving the French a penalty kick by the super star Zidane that bounced off the top of the goal into the net. 1-0. For France. Shit. At first France seemed the more skilled team, passing the ball to each other accurately and quickly and in formation. I wasn't optimistic. Not until a corner kick 12 minutes later that ended in a beautiful head shot by Materazzi. 1-1. Good. Dai dai dai Italia. Forza ragazzi.

The game continued with close calls (a goal by Italy that was barely, just barely, offside), tense moments, plenty of aggression, and a couple of yellow cards. As there wasn't much action, the rest of those gathered went to chat on the balcony but I stayed, with only Davide's brother and my tall Heineken can as company. Yelling at the TV, I wondered why people weren't more excited to watch every second of the game. Why was I? Soccer is terribly exciting, I've decided: agile, skilled, emotional. Full of swearing and instinct, soccer appeals to a raw-er side of me than my other favorite tennis. Soccer is also wonderful to watch. But I digress.

The game was forced to overtime where tensions mounted again. This match was French soccer star Zidane's last and he sure went out with a bang. After some sort of scuffle with Materazzi, he proceeded to headbutt the Italian player in the chest, an action that was followed by a red card expulsion from the game. Way to end your career, Zidane. It seemed like Italy could really step it up now, but France continued to maintain the pressure even with one less player (their star player at that). The second overtime period ended and it was all left up to the outcome of the penalty kicks. Italy started and scored and so did France. France missed their second shot, with the ball bouncing off the top of the goalpost, bouncing down but just outside the zone where it would be considered a goal. The rest of the players continued to get their shots in the net. The final Italian player, Grosso, had to score a goal to win the game since France had missed one and couldn't beat 5 successful penalty kicks. And, as you all know, he scored.














The neighbourhood erupted in cars honking, dogs barking and people yelling in a refrain from the semi-final win. Tonight however, it would continue for a long time. We at Marina's apartment hugged and jumped up and down and yelled for ourselves all while watching the Italian ragazzi on TV go ballistic, don their flags, cut Camoranesi's luckly locks of hair and realize that they had indeed done it, won the World Cup.


What do you do when Italy wins the world cup besides the requisite yelling and cheering? There were a couple of options: head to the city center and celebrate (bringing horns, flags, pots, beer, anything), drive around in your car honking and waving the flag out the window for a couple of hours, or just be happy and try to sleep. We opted for choice number one and headed to the center of town, snapping photos along the way (I got back at 3am people, don't be angry that there isn't anything visual up today), cheering with everyone on the metro (repeating either ITALIA clap clap clap , Francia Francia vaffanculo, po po po po po po po [you had to be there to understand the rhythm of that one...actually, its from the white stripes song] and something else that I can't really remember).


I have never seen so many flags of any country so densely packed in one place. It was a literal sea of flags and people. Such happiness. Hugging, couples kissing, people running around in tri-colour underwear, and vigorous flag-waving. If I were Italian I probably would have been crying with joy, waving my flag because it was the most intense sign of my patriotism and the only way I could really celebrate besides yelling at the top of my lungs. The metros were free, people let off fireworks (some quite loudly exploding in garbage cans), piazza duomo was densely covered in beer bottles and beer cans. A whole bunch of people were also standing on the base of some monument in the piazza with a victorious horse-riding captain on top. Of course we went on top to start cheers and look across the sea of people and flags, packed densely with cheers, towards the duomo. Intense. I could cheer at cars or people in their apartments and they would break into a smile and yell back, intense community.


Soccer brings this country together, which I think is the case for a lot of Europe. In Italy, gli azzurri are national heros and soccer a national sport that kids play in piazzas and learn about in their baby carriages. With the recent scandal of match-fixing penalizing illustrious teams such as Juventus and Lazio to lesser leagues, lesser prestige and lesser funding. This victory affirms (backed by player Gattuso) that although this scandal and trial may still be going on, soccer still drives the Italian people and the integrity of the game itself continues.















After a toast of champagne, I was ready to wish honking Milan goodnight after quite an experience. Auguri Italia! I crashed at 3am (only to have to get up 4.5 hours later) content for my new home country, its patriotic people, and its azzurri, champions of the world.

Nice Cold Rain

Breaking the heat of Milan, yesterday it rained. I was downtown when the city got a sneak preview of weather to come, sprinkling large drops from the sky. As if it were a drop of detergent on an oily surface (you know how the oil just runs away), everyone ran for cover in the covered walkways. I did too at first, but then, looking around me at the people waiting out the water, I decided they were dumb. "Vain... ridiculous" I muttered as I walked across the abandoned Piazza Duomo. Fashion conscious, aesthetically driven, why can't they all just live a little? The rain quickly finished and I went home.

After returning from a swim and Matilde had gone out to find some shoes downtown, the sky became menacingly dark and wild thunder storms broke loose. Sheets of water fell from the sky, what seemed like tons of vertical streams. In the wind you could see plenty of water being transported across the red roofs of the apartment complex. And with the rain came cool breezes. Thunder relieved the heat with satisfying intensity. All the while, Matilde was still out there somewhere. Within half an hour she returned, soaked but beaming. See, Mati absolutely loves the rain, and wandered the streets amidst the downpour.

So today it is nice and cool out, beautiful sunny weather. A promise of a nice weekend. I head for Venice in 2.5 hours, I couldn't be more thrilled. There will be plenty of adventures to recount next week, so for now I keep it short and sweet. Ciao.

Escaping

"The only way to cure longing for others is to first cure longing for yourself" - La Carly

Italy for me has been an emotional rollercoaster, not much different thatn regular life I guess. Thus, it may be sort of comforting that I feel so much at home that I can have mood swings :P. After the novelty of tourism and arrival wears off, your real life comes back, you start being able to say no and realize that, sometimes, you really are tired. I am not lamenting this state, I think, rather, I praise it. In this way, I can be more conscious of where I am and feel like my travels abroad aren't a dream but a continuation of my life (I know that seems straightforward, but travel sometimes feels like a vacation, a respite). Friendships can last, impressions I make aren't recklessly done, banking on the fact that within a few weeks I'll be gone never to return again. A healthier mode of travel has been ushered in by this digital age with the Internet, email and blogging. Understanding that this world is one complete unit, a pretty abstract concept that doesn't realize itself by watching the nightly news, solidifies when the progression of your time changes location. This change of location also encourages open-minded and curious individuals. Only 10% of Americans have valid passports, and you wonder why they are falling back into fervent conservatism. If you are never forced into that uncomfortable zone where you cannot express yourself effortlessly or are never confronted to question your daily lifestyle by having minute changes in daily life introduced (as little as eating at different hours), then you don't develop a fresh awareness of another people, free from those stereotypes you may outwardly denounce but, before immersing yourself, couldn't avoid. You also don't develop a new awareness of yourself, seeing how you cope with distance, language, communication. Your values solidify themselves more when you are outside of that comfort bubble where you can just forget about ever considering the crux of your everchanging life more easily.

Whoa, Stefan, deep, what the hell is going on? If you know me well, you know that I am an introspective and thinking person who recently, being in Milan and just growing up, started figuring out those things important to him: family, laughter, honesty, communication, respect, awareness of others, regretting (if at all) what you did instead of what you didn't do, uninhibition, being a solid, strong assertive individual, aesthetics dosed with personality and sincerity, writing, yoga, sun and water. As my old friend Katy used to say: 'All you need in life is love and water'. I have really enjoyed my time in Italy thus far, it has promoted so much thought, writing, stimulation. This experience up until now has forced me into discovery, as travel should, others, myself, my world. Things may change at home, relationships fall apart and you can't talk to the person face to face but in a broken long distance connection, people get married and you can't be there to share the special moment with the family (yay Ali and Matt! boo for my missing the wedding), time continues no matter if you want to stop, think and catch up or want to run away. Seconds continue ticking.

So yesterday I decided I am going to go to Venice this weekend to both visit my dear friend Ayten and hang out some more with my twin of another mother, Carly. Mentioning Venezia to Daria launched her into praise, saying there is nothing like the city anywhere else in the world. My mother's first suggestion of where to go was to ripe the vaparetto. Carly said she got lost last time she was in Venice and loved it. The only way to experience Venice is to get lost and lose yourself in the sway of the boat. It will be a nice escape from Milan, my Internet connection to the rest of the world for 2 days before returning for the final showdown between Italy and France in a predictably packed Piazza Duomo. I cannot wait to be charmed by Venice, only before praised by Angela and depicted in the delicate photos of my mother. What I need this weekend is a little escape and a bit of the cradle-like rocking that harkens back to those thoughtless days of infancy.

Evviva L'Italia!

All the office is achatter. Last night, Italy won themselves a spot in the finals (of the World Cup, if you're isolated enough not to know). It was an evening that contrasted very much with that wherethehellamI? emotion I was feeling Monday and Tuesday morning.

I had a really nice day yesterday before the evening, rediscovering Pandora.com, a free online music 'radio' that tunes into your musical tastes and plays songs similar to artists you enjoy (thanks VanBuren for the introduction). I finally defined my taste in music: poppy with an undertone of rock and full of potent soulful lyrics (think Rufus Wainwright, Phantom Planet, Nina Gordon, Anna Nalick, Shakira, Sarah McLachlan, Gavin DeGraw and Alanis Morissette). After a long day of non stop music that fit right into my tastes, I headed home to help Carly shop for her 4th of July dinner. Dorota enlisted the American visitor to cook dinner for the holiday for which Carly didn't really care. But Carley loves cooking (hamburgers and potatoes we decided together, go to hell pasta and tomatoes! [at least for one evening]), so it's all good. And she bought sprinkles because they reminded her of fireworks. After heading to the pool to swim laps with Niki (25m laps in a very crowded and badly paced lane, they were all that way), I returned home with enough time to collect myself before the game.

Seeing that the game was on and dinner was ready, there was no way possible that we were going to eat at the table. This was the first time I assure you that we had a picnic on Dorota's bed since the game superseded decorum in event of the semi-final. Never have I yelled so much at the TV, yelling NO to the Germans whenever they had the ball and screaming DAI DAI DAI (literally give give give) at the little azzuri players on the screen whenever they had the ball, tensing with the approaching tedeschi (germans) and groaning at the close calls by Italy. Dorota kept predicting that the Germans would score a goal and I kept reproaching her (in the nicest of ways of course, Ma Veramente Dorota! But Really Dorota!). I was so involved in the game that even when they replayed missed opportunities at goals (rebounding shots of goalposts, SO close) I was groaning again in defeat. Even when Dorota and Matilde told me that the first replay had already happened, they showed a second replay to which I also reacted with groans and then complete laughter realizing I was yelling at the past, let alone at the TV. The entire neighbourhood seemed to be erupting at every move, dogs barking at the omnipresent noise.

The entire game went without a goal but constant intensity. By the end of the first overtime half, it looked like this game might have to go to penalty kicks. It wasn't until perhaps the last 2 minutes that Italy came in for the win. Whereas all their previous corner kicks had gone straight to the german goalie, a corner kick was now shot a bit farther away from the net, bounced around and then launched to the upper corner. GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!! The courtyard went up in screams, dogs started barking, cars honked from the streets, and a bunch of men kept yelling goal from their apartments. Of course our household, now comprised of Dorota, Matilde, Carley, Marina, Niki and I, went nuts, yelling excitedly, running around to see how other people were reacting, whistling out the window (I have no idea how Niki does it). Exciting right?, 1-0, with a few minutes left, it's possible that Italy could win, but Germany could tie it up. Before any of us were really conscious of it, with seconds left in the game, gli azzuri broke away from the germans, deeked out their defense and launched another pallone up into the upper right this time. GGOOOOOAAAALLLLL! We were dumbstruck. Non è possibile (It's not possible) exclaimed Dorota. We jumped up for joy, hugged each other, went a little crazy.

The entire boot must have erupted in joy as the germans started to cry (quite sadly and depressingly I might add). Cars were honking outside, people were yelling out their windows (Andiamo in Finale! We're going to the Final!), the barking dogs now drowned out in the noise. Before long cars were queueing for downtown, waving their flags out the window, screaming. Of course we had to go be a part of this mess of a celebration, yelling and honking. It must have continued at full volume for at very least an hour. Carley tells me that the honking lasted in smaller doses until 2.30- 3.00am, a good 3 hours after the game had ended. We walked down the street, cheering on the celebrants waving our arms and letting out our lungs. At one point, we were on the corner, a car passed by yelling but paused as Carley reponded in excited cheer. The man yelling out of the car paused and then yelled quite nonchalantly 'bella figa (beautiful babe for lack of a better translation)'. Marina doubled over in laughter and congratulated Carley... a truly Italian experience.

The patriotism, the pride, it was palpable and unreproduceable in photographs or movies. For a country that loves its soccer team so much and just lvoes the game so much, this victory is a beginning of a dream, a final against either France or Portugal depending on tonight's outcome. It truly is an experience, I couldn't be here at a better time. I've been utterly transported. Yesterday I may have asked Where am I? but now I cannot deny, as I wear red underpants, white pants and a green tshirt along with tricolour hair elastics, that I am in Italy.

where am I?

For the first time in two years, I have that feeling again. That WhereamI? feeling. The Last time I felt it was at Harvard where the elusiveness of the name and the high standard of the entire experience left me a bit dumbstruck on a daily basis. I would walk by Widener library with its monumental white columns and think, wait wait wait, I am at Harvard. Harvard. After about six months and being asked by directions by tourists (a signpost meaning I must belong if I actually know where to point people). Year two was just like returning home, familiarity lived once before.

I am constantly amazed at the fact that I will just pick up and go, decide to travel, work abroad, study in the states, without really considering where it may put me emotionally, away from family. Some people find this assertiveness admirable, and I too think it something special. At the same time, however, I find myself on the other side of the Atlantic for an extended period of time, starting in at a new place in life and learning once again. I don't know how to say little words, I don't know where to buy certain things, the supermarket is an experience, I marvel at what people simply call the everyday. I find myself transplanted, surrounded by nothing familiar. I've got emails from friends and phonecalls from mom, but being so far away, in a new routine feels incredibly new, incredibly strange. perhaps when my parents come for their italian sojourn, I'll feel like the world holds together a little more.

By no means am I depressed or in the dumps, just reflective, reevaluating life in this world, experiencing the sheer number of people that live on this planet. I continue to be me, I continue to do yoga, but at the same time I am swimming in Italian, surrounded by people more bronzed than what I am used to. The feeling has kicked in these last two days that I am living a bit of a dream. The feeling is no different than the WhereamI? feeling I get when I am at school, but add a whole new world to it and it feels even stranger. Up at 730, shower, breakfast, yellowline, greenline, work, home, sleep. It's only when you stop to think about it, that you realize life to be quite strange: the sensation of being awake, the touch of hot water, the rhythm of the daily commute. When everything feels so strange you ache for something familiar and hold on to a memory of home or childhood. I just remember my steadfast friend Henderson the teddybear, wearing his Canadian flag sweater, cheering me on from home. Someone who will never leave me, most likely because he doesn't have a brain or a heart and can't really move. When life moves so fast, you need those steady constants to remind you that you existed and by default still exist.

Saint Rocco Incarnate

My weekend reads as strangely as the dream I had last night which was about preparing a presentation about my Polish identity through teddy bears (an american invention... but whatever). This morning also feels like a dream, my morning becoming routine but punctured with strange occurences: the temperamental hot ater while in the sitting-down shower, the same song that plays on the radio, other english songs that speak to me with their lyrics (There's a light at each end of the tunnel and you're just as far in as you'll ever be out), and doors on the metro that just kept opening and shutting. So much of my life here feels like a dream, my noticing of details from an intense reproaching glance of an old woman towards a black man on the metro to the spinning of a leaf downwards and upwards, a vivid spiral. The feeling is heightened by the language barrier, I am able to wrap myslf in english and just think, completely unfettered. All these people in my life feel strange, the routine I've adopted almost instant and almost four weeks old, all I've got of my life back home are my mother's voice on the telephone and emails of newfound love flashing bright on the screen. And my heart slowly nurses with the words from my twin of another mother and music pressed close to my ears.

But I digress much more than I should. It all started on Friday with another week of work done (a good one at that) and a visit to the Museo Poldi Pezzoli. This was no conventional museum but a palace re-outfitted to showcase all its cultural jewels: paintings, china, statues, and magnificently frescoed and marbled rooms. The instant we walked in, we were greeted by a fountain full of goldfish, fed by a leafy old man sculpted in marble. That night Carly and I sat at a bar, getting bitten by mosquitoes once again, and witnessing as the hot nightspot remained empty for most of the evening.

It all continued on Saturday when sales hit Milan and I decided I needed to find linen pants. The search was hot long and difficult. Everyone seemed to be shopping, the lines to try on clothes were not healthy and the buzzing energy was everywhere (except for the steps of the closed post office where Carly and I took a much needed break). After sending Carly away from the madness, I went at it alone, determined to find these damned pants. it truly is amazing that, when focused, the rest of the world falls away and all you see are linen pants. Any pair I tried on were either too tight or just right with pant legs flowing down past my feet. I am obviously not built like an Italian, or else I would be 4 inches taller and perfect for all their pants. Luckily I did find my pants and headed home successful but exhausted and fed up. That night, of all things paradoxical, we went bowling. Besides the Italian-style pizza being sold at the counter, it was exactly the same decor as the bowling alley at home with its bowling-pin populated space landscape.

Sunday morning started with the crisply and skillfully-played tunes of a trombone player in the courtyard at 10.30 am. At first I cursed him like Niki, but then was shaken awake by the skill of the musician. Other people came to their windows and watched this Sunday morning musician play, having been let into the courtyard by someone, sometime earlier... Being up, I decided to iron at the amusement of everyone in the house (somehow it is a constant source of amusement that I like ironing). We headed to Melgnano to hang out by the pool for the rest of the day. I firmly vowed I would get a tan and blend in more with the Italians as did Carly. We seem to be closer twins than we think: matching white bathing suits with flowers on them. After getting a mosquito bite within 5 minutes of laying on my towel, I later felt a sting and shooed away, to my surprise, a bumblebee. Instinctually I removed the sting and watched as it flared up over the next few minutes. Never having been stung before, I didn't know whether I was allergic. Yet, being able to breathe and walk, I walked over to the bar with Mati and Niki to get some ammonia and ice and later to the bagnino (lifeguard) to get some after-bee sting spray.

I found it incredibly funny. Not only was I getting stung by every insect possible (sono sfigato, come dice Dorota), I had been stung by the bee at my upper upper thigh. Think crotch area. Walking back with ice on my bite, it seemed like I was hlding myself all the way. Last weekend Carly and I had seen a painting at the Pinacoteca di Brera with a saint named Saint Rocco who was dressed in doublet and leggings quite normally except for the fact that one of his leggings lay expressly fallen revealing his upper upper thigh. Scandalous, thought Carly and I. Upon looking him up, we found out that on his upper thigh there was the mark of the plague and he was a survivor. Somehow in his post-disease, he had become proud of his survival and uninhibited in showing it off. I too became the same way, checking on the sting in the questionable area, being called Saint Rocco incarnate by Carly. After my swim the swelling went down completely and I was quite content, bites and all, with the day in the sun (even though I missed seeing my dear Sarah who happened to be in Milan).

That feeling of contentment is always strongest for me after swimming focused laps (beating that first killer 8) or doing yoga and then laying calmly in the sun and doing my true sun salutations. If I could lead that life everyday in the summer I would, there's no better feeling than just feeding your body and letting yourself just relax and drift away from it all.

heading for halfway

Another day at the office, another hot sunny day in Milan and, today, I can't seem to wake up. I slept more than I have in the last few days, the temperature was much cooler than the last few days. I don't get it. It may very well be because of the fact that I did not have a shower this morning owing to the lack of hot water. There isn't any sort of chronic shortage or anything, it's simply that, unlike Niki, Dorota, and Matilde, I can't make the hot water heater turn back on. This is no one button pushing action. This water heater is intense. Think the flames of hell, but blue and on a smaller scale. When hot water isn't needed and the heater is on, you can see a single blue flame through the little open window. When the water turns on, the flames ignite (like those on a gas stove) and you see a row of flames before your eyes and hear gas burning as if it were a violently ignited fume from hell (i make it sound like i've ben to hell, and, I assure you, that is not the case). So this morning, no flames were going, and trying to reignite them by turning the switch just was not successful= no hot water for me. I'll have to get the real lesson in hot water heating from Dorota (she has been showing me her tricks in the kitchen, learning lessons from a real cook ;).

Speaking of Dorota, last night Carly and I, after declaring our love once again for the GS supermarket and heading over there to get some clams and wine for dinner preparation and deciding to hit the town together later that night after eating aforementioned items (although you don't eat wine...), ended up staying in the apartment and chatting for a good 2-3 hours with Dorota about just about everthing but with a focus on life and travel (yea, I know, real specific...). As we have dinner around 8 or 9, by the time we are just chilling and chatting the sun's light wanes and the apartment darkens. A nice ephemeral passing of time, a reminder that time treks stoically forward. It was only when I started talking in Dorota's general direction instead of looking Dorota in the eye because things were getting dark that Dorota turned on the lamp in the room and we continued on our way. It was nice to spend a night at home instead of heading out, since the previous three days have been a Marina marathon in anticipation for her long trip (which, unfortunately and fortunately, got cut short, so we'll see Marina again on Monday).

Now I have woken up... it only took two hours, oi. I am very happy now at the office, doing tasks that are challenging to me, using my Italian writing skills, and working with someone who seems to care about my productivity and my learning here at the photo agency. I sat through a meeting this morning, completamente in italiano certamente!, a sort of progress report on things going on in the office, with other agencies, with daily work. I am happy that I moved up to the top floor because I have much more visibility if I am not doing anything or if I am not tremendously productive. I've been doing a lot of writing for myself, so I look busy, but I have also been doing a lot of cool work more often. I get to struggle with Italian too, writing turquoise instead of turkish and writing that mongolian people looking for gold wear bathtubs on their back instead of saying they wear deep pans on their back. It has made for some laughs, and laughter is really the best thing.

So another week has ended and I am leading to the half-way point of my sojourn in Milan. Sales start tomorrow in Milano and I've been on the quest for linen pants and a pair of shoes... tomorrow's price chop should be just what my wallet needs to get high quality clothes at highly desirably prices. Sunday I may take a trip, who knows, it's just that easy when you're in Europe. Depending on Carly's job situation she may be leaving on Sunday :( but as she exits, Matilde comes back from her adventures in Scotland. A lunedì!

turn right around and let those eyes follow

A rainy morning in Milan, and I thought it would never be possible. It did however rain throughout the night last night and a bat flew into and out of the house (milan has upped the number of bats in town to take a bite, quite literally, out of the mosquito population, which I can attest 6 itchy times to be a problem). So perhaps in the spirit of turnaround also seen in my life, Milan has decided to give us all a break from weather bordering on 40°C (100°F, which as a Celsius-reader really freaks me out) to give us a bit of thunder and lightning... well speak of the devil, there it is.

I came to realize yesterday that I would not be the most busy person in this office, I would not be a superstar by any means, taking on projects of my own and impressing those around the office. I have come to terms with being a foreigner with Italian not quite good enough to kick photo ass and constantly be learning. So I've undertaken more writing, aside from this blog, because I have the space to think. I have even more space to do so because of the language barrier, I get to enclose myself in a little English bubble of my own, letting my mind spill out rich, specific-filled phrases in the effort to construct something or other. So we'll see what another 3 weeks at the office will give me... a collection of essays? a novel? At the very least I will have this blog, I 'll have to keep having adventures after Carly leaves on Sunday for Florence and after Marina leaves this afternoon for Amsterdam and other locations TBA. Although I will miss them dearly (we've hung out everyday for the last three days, with mosquitoes as well come to think of it), Matilde (aka Gongina) will return this Saturday from Scotland, so perhaps the adventures will just get started. But, nonetheless, I will continue observing this continuously fascinating life.

On more than one occasion, while walking down Corso Vittorio Emmanuelle II or Via Dante, I've noted tourists (their pale skin flags them as foreign) sitting at cafés and watching the people as they pass by. I don't blame them for their fascination with the people here, the environment overflows with aesthetics: design, fashion, personal aesthetics, and the general pleasant apperance of the people... if they were wearing potato sacks (think toga) they would still be attractive. The thing that I find funny about these people watchers is how obvious they are, positioned towards the oncoming people traffic, taking their sweet time to take in every single detail of the look on two legs passing by. If you were a Milanese, I don't think your head would swivel in admiration (unless of course you are an Italian man attracted to a passing woman, who stoically tries to ignore the hooting, hollering, looks, and faces).

If you are a Milanese, the whole process is much more subtle. The eyes scan that look on two legs much more quickly, shoes first and a quick sweeping flick of the eyes back up to the face, and away. I can understand that they've perfected this glance having grown up in an environment full of visual overload always. I have to say I am glad I anticipated the potential overwhelming sight of Milan with its architecture, design, fashion, people. Otherwise, I might just have been floored, dizzy with too many places to look. My slow eyes would not have been able to flit and register it all. I can only imagine what how powerful the Milanese glance in love or lust must be, giving attention for more than just that quick one-two punch assessment but settling and quietly taking much more in, connecting.

Cambiamento, the turnaround

Last night, I was on a boat. But, wait, you say, Milan is a landlocked city, how on earth were you on a boat last night? Well children, there is this thing called the Navigli, a canal that used to run through most of Milan that, now unfortunately only runs through very little of it. It is in no way a Venetian beauty of a canal or a scenic walk of a Lachine canal, but it's a center for nightlife in Milan (seems like everywhere I go seems to be a center of nightlife eh? well, there's a lot of night life, so there). The canal is lined with bars and little gelaterie and cute hangout joints. And boats. So Marina and Carly, seeing my child-like excitement, or subtle awe, decided to make my day and hang out on a boat. We three get along pretty well, although Marina and Carly share an affinity for rap, hip hop and american slang. We had a very nice night, chatting, drinking... seems to be a nice pasttime.

My change in mood from yesterday's more mellow state has chiefly to do to finding my lost sock (I lie, it has to do with my more challenging job at work). But I thought I had lost one of my socks yesterday, a nice wild striped one. I've never lost a sock before. It was a defeat. Anyways, the REAL reason for the change is moving to another floor at work where the activity is more and the jobs are more challenging. I get to hear more Italian, see more of the action, write more Italian, learn more skills. Now, the real internship begins. I am now working with a super sweet, beautiful and positive woman at the Picture Desk, completing tasks that are immediate, always changing. I just discovered, on the hunt for CDs the digital archive for which I was working the last two weeks but never knew. It is a super cold room with the office's network within and shelves of CDs, so thus the analog archive of file folders is getting replaced with shelves of CDs... oh the new perspectives I am getting. To sum it all up, perfect.

At the end of the day yesterday, having changed jobs, I was feeling a bit odd, still having that bitter taste in my mouth from the previous two weeks of archive digitization. Arriving home, straight from work, I was drained, weight pressing down under my eyes, throbbing body, exhausted mind (that's what happens when you have an actual job). So, as I have every day, I decided to do some yoga. While there might not be very much space in the house, there is this perfect spot in the room where I sleep on one of two bunkbeds (Niki's got the other one) and where there is just enough room against the closer to do forearm stands and, eventually, hand stands. After doing yoga in the early evening, completely sweaty and slightly dehydrated, I feel in control, at peace, and strong. The thing about yoga is that you only have your body to work with, you are tapping into your own strength, no weights, just you. And there is just something about the flow of movements in tune with the breath that is completely spiritual. So even if you are sweaty and hot by the end of it (humid hot Milan doesn't help the situation any), you don't really care that much because you are ready to do things, your mind is clear, your confidence high.

But sometimes you do mind the heat, not that it outweighs the benefits of an inner calm, but, hell, hot, sticky underwear is just no fun at all. I've grown to hate underwear, really, I have. Sticky, restraining, tight, waist-changing, and just plain entrapment. Why can't there be a light underwear that isn't tight and hardly feels like it's there... that's the way underwear should be, at least in the summer. I will go on a quest, or perhaps I'll start manufacturing underwear. I'm definitely in the right place to start an undergarment revolution. Now, if only I could pin down Dolce or Gabbana...

So I leave you with a fun fact about Italy which sort of fits into a plan I have to do a mini photo project with the common street signs of Milan... if you own a tabbacheria (a tabacco shop) and the carabinieri or polizia come in to check out the place and you don't sell salt, you'll be getting a fine. Or so says La Marina, but I trust her as a reliable source.

travel is the thing

quick news recap: luckily the No side of the Italian Referendum to change the constitution won, so that things will remain as they are right now instead of dismantling and reorganizing the political system. and, yes, Italy won their soccer game yesterday. Gladly I wasn't in the mood for most of the game, because the most intense part of it all was definitely the last 10 seconds where with the game tied at 0-0, Italy was given a penalty kick and well of course Totti scored. Niki lept up for joy, the courtyard of our building erupted with cheers and shouts of GOAL as did the streets below for a good half hour. Evviva l'Italia.

While things have been a bit tough here in terms of adjusting to a new culture and trying to be all I can be (no I am not in the army) in the workplace within a new culture, I have learned new things about myself through the process of traveling. Carley and I chatted this over when we were eating gelato near La Scala. Picking up and plopping yourself down half way across the world from home puts you in a situation where you shed your everyday relationships, your everyday expectations, your everyday routine. Here, wherever here may be, in this case, Italy, you need to learn everyday, learn to communicate again, learn to orient yourself and to navigate. The warm padded and present comfort of instinctual unthinking language abruptly disappears as you find yourself not knowing how to say floor, tan or second. Thus you try and rely on your observations of body language, of interactions, of friendships all in an attempt to understand the culture you have entered, the underlying principles and any issues that also may exist. Often times you don't understand. There will always be the universal effervescent sound of a laugh or the welcome sight of a smile, but the entire way you view yourself and the way you will have to interact may change completely. You've entered another world.

All the while, however, you still have yourself. I know that I've been tracking my feelings and reactions in all these new situations. What type of person am I? What do I enjoy? How do I interact with people? When really all you have is your physical self in a foreign environment, an intimate observation of your thoughts and emotions takes place. I learn to become reacquainted with myself and observe as if at a distance. I note my want of proud confidant posture, my desire to present my best sophisticated yet simple (Marina knows all about this one) self forward, the want for connection, for sincerity, for creativity and expression. Beyond finding a life mission, or a life partner, travel is foremost a personal journey (no, I am not going to sound like that cheesy book The Way of the Traveler, bear with me) in which you learn more about that person who has always been with you. It's in this new environment, that a new presence of identity bubbles to the surface. The process fascinates me and can be emotionally taxing, a weary journey of reacquaintance, seeing how you get along with yourself.

I've been shifted in jobs at work, doing editorial research it seems, summarizing incoming projects and translating them into Italian. So this flow of blog posts may change in schedule and may change in frequency given this change of circumstances... we shall see.

yet another encore

Brace yourselves, this week the mercury will creep up close to 40 as Saharan heat presses into Milan. It is said that this week will be the worst of the summer, the hottest, and then it will be a different sort of heat. I find myself sweating more than I am used to, wiping off the liquid from my forehead as I entered the Metro this morning and other times as well. Somehow, I don't mind the heat that much. I know that if I keep drinking water and staying hydrated that I'll be okay. And I know that sweating is natural. In a way, it makes you feel alive.

So the weekend was nothing short of amazing, fun, and busy. It all started on Friday, as weekends usual do. I ventured forth to find a modern art museum, La Permanente, only to find that it did not exist and did not stand on the street and at the address where I thought it would. The address itself didn't exist. Great. Would this be the beginning of an awful weekend? I wandered around the public gardens (with certain spots looking as if they should be in Maine and not Milan) seeing dogs tredding through fountains, Italians lazily and oilily (not a word probably) lying in the sun and kids running around, before heading home. Upon my return, I learned that Carly, my old friend from 4 years ago at PSYL (a leadership camp), would be arriving within 20 minutes from Bellagio. What I didn't know was that Carly, fed up with the abusive children she was taking care of and the uncaring mother who wouldn't introduce discipline (boys will be boys), had packed up all her bags and come to Milan. She had decided that she would find a new job and place to stay and that everything would work out. Although I was a bit apprehensive at first, as anyone who hasn't seen someone else in 4 years should be, we immediately hit it off and continued chatting throughout the weekend whenever we weren't in museums or discouraged from conversation by loud public transportation. That night we went to see a free Sting concert as part of the Cornetto Free Music Festival. Standing in a packed Piazza Duomo with people huddled together, lip synching to Negramaro and then Sting, the wholse scene was a good time. From the little children who really couldn't care less, to the man selling beer and water out of a plastic tub on a cart covered with a light and an umbrella to the girls with whom we made fun of Sting's Italian, Carly and I had a wonderful music filled night (with mosquitoes looming above in the bright lights). Three encores later and we finally navigated our way home, awaiting a night of sleep and a weekend of tourism ahead.

I cannot tell you how happy I was to be able to talk in English, communicate effectively and, even, intelligently with another human being. I could speak a language all my own, well no, not really, but you get my drift. I was getting to the point where I needed a bit of a holiday from the English language so that what I have learned would sink in more effectively. At the end of the weekend, it would be back to Italian for me.

Saturday we headed to the Castello Sforzesco for perhaps the best cultural deal in town. Not only do you get to see an old fortification built by the Viscontis (later bombed and rebuilt... an exact replica says my guidebook) but you can also admire over 20 rooms of sculptures and paintings (including michelangelo's pieta rodanini and some canalettos) for only 1.50 euro (student price). Feeling cool (both temperature-wise and culture-wise), Carly and I headed off to Piazza Santo Stefano to have lunch at cente pizze (a hundred pizzas, although they don't actually have a hundred pizzas) and a visit at a latin-american church (who would have known). In the afternoon, we wandered in the heat to the Leonardo Da Vinci Science and Technology museum.
For 6 euro, we thought we had been cheated because the displays were nothing but juvenile and uninteresting (and one room was particularly rancid). However we figured out that we could have a little presentation in Italian about Leonardo Da Vinci with some of his reconstructed machines. With some elementary Italian and a venture into physics, Carly and I learned quite a bit and even built a Da Vinci bridge quickly enough to beat out the ten year olds and get a Evviva Ingliterra (Long live England!) from our guide. The skies broke out in thunder showers after Carly and I had bought melon and prosciutto (which came with free golden kiwis... what?! we still can't figure it out), and Carly, Niki and I went out to dance in the rain and celebrate a temporary end to the heat. In the cool night, Carly and I hit the fashion stores for La Notte Bianca, a full night of shopping, music, and special events around town until 6am (even though we called it quits at 2am).

I want to digress. On this lovely Saturday, at one point we were heading in a metro direction I hadn't gone before. I was convinced, after consulting my guidebook that we were indeed headed in the right direction for Cadorna. A woman came up to me as we waited for the train and asked if the train was headed for Lima. I said I had a guidebook and would check. Seeing Lima in the opposite direction, I told her that she should take the other train. Also, just as the train arrived an Italian woman asked if the train was going to Cadorna, and I said yes, for sure, that's where we are headed. Sure enough, that is not where we were headed, at least on the train that we got on. Not only was our trip a bit longer, but I had instructed two others wrongly because I thought I knew where I was going. I should just give up, I am Canadian I do not know Milan, screw it. Non lo so, I don't know. How do you ever know to trust that random person you ask for directions? You can't unless they have a store, or live here. Don't trust the random person for directions.

Anyways Sunday Carly and I went to the Pinacoteca di Brera, were struck by the scandalous Saint Rocco and the popular-with-the-ladies Saint Ursula, and taken aback by Hayez's The Kiss, Bronzino's Andrea Doria Waiting for Neptune and the final work by da Volpedo's Fiumana. I legitimately got my 2.50 euro entrance from my ATM (metro) card and somehow, unknowingly, I made Carly an EU student and she too got in for 2.50 when she probably should have paid double. Sweet deal. Wandering down Via Spiga towards La Scala, we had some lunch and then hit up the second sweet deal of the day: a 5 euro ticket to a concert at La Scala, the reknowned horseshoe shaped opera house in Milan. We waited around with a bunch of fancily dressed Italian elderly people and got our tickets. After a gelato and people-watching we headed back for the concert. I managed to snap a few photos before being told that I could not actually take any pictures. From our seats we could not see the stage, we could see all the box seats that could probably see the stage, we could see the other people on the other side who also couldn't see the stage, but, however, we could see the stage if we leaned over on a red velvet bar in front of us. La Scala (see interior photo care of Carly), basically, is white, gold, and red velvet, with a chandelier in the middle. Although luscious at first sight, if you look closer, some of the decorations hanging from the red velvet drapse above all the seats are wood painted gold, a bunch of lightbulbs in the chandelier were burnt out and the seats in front of the stage looked like they could have been in a high school auditorium... a lesson in costume jewelry i thought (to which Dorota would later put me down saying La Scala was one of the most famous opera houses in Italy). Once the music began, I would concede that the acoustics were indeed amazing. From my seat where one can see absolutely nothing, I could hear crisply the single violin or the single flute playing their part. Standing up and watching the small chamber orchestra as the played Rossini, Mozart, Rota, and Gershwin, I was moved. The skill of the musicians, the experience of this concert venue and fanning myself as if I were some sort of lower class gentleman from 400 years ago all came together to make it well worth the 5 euro. And at the end there was a sultry gorgeous Argentinian tango complete with a lengthy and riveting accordion solo played as one of the two encores. Of course, they had to play more than one.

We came home, went out to witness the referendum voting and have dinner, before coming home and chatting wildly with the new addition to the household (aka Carly) and anticipating a week of work for some, finding work for others, and utter sweating heat. Thus ended the activities of one of the most enjoyable weekends I've ever spent: full of culture, conversation and connection... really, who could ask for more?

sit back, relax, enjoy

Note on the D&G ad: it's everywhere in Milan, in all the Metros, on all the streets... World Cup madness continued.

Just when you think you've gotten tired of this place, you discover that you are indeed taller than almost all the cars in the city and that today is friday. I am so glad that week 2 at the ol ufficio is almost over, this weekend there's a free Sting concert, a night when all stores are open all night long, a referendum on the Italian constitution, and the visit of Carly a PSYL friend from 4 years ago. The weekend is waiting to be enjoyed, and it starts at 4.30pm.

Yesterday at 4pm, over the sound of my iPod singing continuously in my ears, I heard the blaring of a TV and more specifically a soccer announcer. The office had come to a standstill for the deciding match in the World Cup which would determine whether or not Italy would advance. It was a sort of bonding experience, yelling at the TV, swearing in Italian, rooting for the home team. It's kind of amazing how involved the Italians get, jumping up and down, yelling and cursing at the TV, and then, at the end, going back to work and moving on with their lives as quickly as they switched on the TV. It was nice to have a day at work that did not end with me being frustrated or pissed off, I actually stayed until 6 yesterday but, granted, I was watching a soccer game for the last two hours, ma dai (but come on)!

Two new things on my lifetime menu last night: pasta with nut sauce (sounds so much better in italian salsa di noci) and carpaccio (with the usual lemon juice, rocket lettuce and cheese). The pasta was quite nice, reminded me of the addition of chopped almonds my mother had made to our pasta at home. She had thought it a great invention, but, sorry mom, the Ligurians had a one-up on you. And the carpaccio, I was apprehensive. Raw meat. I've never had raw meat before. Hm. But since I've been in Italy, really I have no clue how to say no or to refuse any sort of new cultural experience. And it wasn't so bad, a light cool estival dish. I think it made me a bit nuts last night because I was thinking that every slightly uneasy feeling I was having must be from the raw meat. I don't think I'll be trying that stuff for a while, raw meat makes me nuts. Or perhaps the nuts made me nuts. You know what, I think I am just nuts to begin with, food excluded.

So I should get back to work, turns out that it is actually time consuming now that they've given me new tasks to do. Glory be, things may be turning around on this side of the world. Ciao.

how to be an italian

With music, work goes a little better. And that's where I stop talking about work.

Last night I went out with Matilde and Davide to the two hip hangout spots in Milan for highschool and college students: Le Colonne and Mom (no, this is not a bad your mamma joke, it's a small hill where literally swarms of people assemble). Both spots were full of people chatting, smoking, drinking, playing soccer. Aside from the fact that it was pretty hard for me to follow conversation because I don't hear well on top of the fact that Italian is my third language, le Colonne was a beautiful spot framed on one side by ancient Roman columns and on the other by this beautiful stately old building and Mom was just a wild scene with Milanesi of all kinds passing the night away (Wednesday's night is Mom's night).

Observing the people and being a bit outside of conversation (Matilde ran into some highschool friends and was swept away in a flood of catching-up conversation. I only caught a few jokes, but was content nonetheless), I reflected on my Italian integration experience thus far and wanted to formulate a top ten, with a bit of help from Gaia and my insight into life thus far. So here it is à la Letterman, Stefan's list of top ten ways to be like a Milanese:

10. Watch soccer, whenever it's on, whoever is playing

9. Complain. About the weather, about work, complaining is the key

8. Go shopping, for at least three hours, if not an entire day

7. Wear clothing with brand names on it, or distinguishable patterns. A D&G belt would be a must, a pair of sunglasses (of course), and don't forget the shoes

6. Perfect the quick appraising glance of others, make sure that the outfit matches, don't forget the shoes

5. Come to work at 9, maybe 9.30, don't start working until 10 or 10.30, take cigarette breaks often, a little more than an hour for lunch and leave work early

4. Drink coffee, smoke and drink, as much as possible. You can even start when you're 12 if you like, it's not as if there are any laws against it in Italy

3. Talk with your hands: scratch your neck for I don't give a damn, motion with your palm to split your face in half to indicate stupidity, put your hands in prayer position and motion up and down without moving your wrists to indicate supplication, put all your fingers together on one hand and shake them back and forth for general emphasis (i think) and finally hold the left hand up in a stop motion and slice it in half parallel to the floor (figuratively speaking) with your right hand to say to throw away.

2. If all else fails, just curse and call to the Madonna. I've been told that there are very few Italians who don't swear (some examples: oh la madonna, non mi rompere le palle, che cazzo fai? and the innocent ma dai!)

1. Take the day off work when Italy is playing an afternoon match at the World Cup, because, come on, it only happens a few times once every four years

It's also an important lesson that food should be Italian, it's of a high enough quality. Sushi in Italy, as I learned yesterday, not exactly fantastic. When in Italy, do as the Italians do. Speak Italian, curse Italian, sweat Italian, speak only of and argue loudly about politics Italian (referendum on the constitution this sunday), love Italian, and, most importantly, eat Italian.

I've learned that the secret to learning a language is also to perfect those instinctual responses and little noises. For pause or thought an extended eh is more suitable than an ummmm. To say sorry, I've someimtes defaulted to automatic French because I know they won't understand English, really I should just say scusa. To say please in the sense that you want to let someone pass or allow another to do something you say prego and to say please in response to someone's question to render you a service you can say si grazie. But really, the most valuable lesson is to just swear whenever you can.

hotness, not the good kind

Yesterday I was all proud of being alla moda (in fashion) and wearing white pants. By the end of the day, after the sun came out and everything heated up, I was regretting that decision trying to drain drops of water from my water bottle as I once again felt like I was being groped (when in fact it was just someone's bag) on the packed metro.

Before yesterday there hadn't really been a day where I felt hot and bothered. It could be that sto sempre tranquillo (I am always relaxed) and it could be that it hasn't been that hot. The family has marvelled at my claims of not being hot and always happy with the weather. I even ironed some of my clothes the other night (granted I took the breeziest spot in the house). Truly, I was not hot.

But yesterday, oh lord. It could also be that I was tired and, by consequence, frustrated and angry. But I think long sleeves and long pants were the culprit for my general state of unhappiness. I've come to realize that pretty much all the long pants that I have brought to Italy are useless except for the flight home. The material in those pants is simply to heavy for a climate that is constantly hot and where it seems never to rain (my boston umbrella has been aging in the boredom of uselessness). So today I am in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, wishing for the same heat, because if it is cold today, I am not having very good luck. I even picked up a local paper today in the hopes that I would find a weather forecast, but alas, the Italians only live in the present and I can only know what today will be like.

Last night was the first night that I was interrupted in the middle of the night. Interrupted by my sweating body. It would have been really nice to sleep on an ice cube. Here you sleep with a bottle of water by the bed and all the windows and doors open. That way whatever breeze may exist comes in and makes things bearable (although, i haven't found things too unbearable to date thanks to my nalgene, which a lot of people stare at, and gelato, which I haven't indulged in too much). Normally, the last week of June, so claims the family, is the hottest in the summer. And I always ask.. e poi? (and then?) and the answer always is: it's hot for the rest of the summer. I find it funny that they focus so much on this one week when the entire summer is insane, but perhaps I've spoken too soon.

So I find myself at work again, and as Boris and Natasha (I've been scanning all the B movies in the world it seems) are scanning, I am going to get a cappuccino (and give caffeine another shot). Ugh, caffeine... I'll try caffe collatte next week. Perhaps me and coffee were never meant to be. I'm not a very good Italian (well, yea I'm Canadian) because I don't smoke, I don't drink coffee and my skin isn't tanned enough. I also like to work, not very Italian. They come in check their email for half an hour (okay granted, I check mine all morning long, but my job is plate (boring in french) go out for coffee, yell ciao to each other, yell pronto on the phone and work in between. At least they're content.

Me at my job right now, pretty far from content. But, as always I am trying to see the good in it. I've been reading other people's blogs and work for them sounds fun and exciting (or in Allen's case, thoroughly complicated but he's enthralled so it's great), for me I can't really say the same. So far (and for the next week and a half) I will be in the digital archive in the morning, scanning slides from old english movies (all of which start with the letter B) for the digitization, and in the afternoon I am in the analogic (read: normal) archive sorting through slides to get rid of, to send back to firms we no longer represent (yea I used the we as if I felt like I belonged, which I kind of do), and to give back to the photographer. In theory, this is tremendously exciting: I am at the forefront of the digitization process, the evolution into a high speed digital 21st century. Wow, right? High speed, eh? Let me tell you, the process is slow, extremely slow. Pick the slides, scan the slides, identify the slides.... each batch of 5 takes perhaps 10 minutes. And in the afternoon, I am going through every single folder (Abacus, Aquiloni, Babysitter, Balletti, Balli... alphabetical order) and looking at every single sheet of slides looking for slides from 5 companies we no longer represent. AIE. So today, armed with my iPod (grazie a dio [thanks be to god, to borrow from Anna's arabic phrase] for music), I will try to tackle the archive. I've been leaving work early (I am supposed to work until 6) because truly, I don't believe in anything but 9 to 5. And, in addition, I can't support the torture of me myself and I in the archive. I've been thinking about the future, about the joband the people in the office etc.

But wait, everything may not be illuminated but there is light within this experience. I am learning that, in life, I do not, at any cost, want to be at a job where I do nothing all day (like the poor woman who sits behind a desk all day in the photo gallery here) and I also do not want to do mindless tasks where I feel like my brain is rotting (as I do now) but I would rather be creating, thinking, doing. If I had a project here, a higher sense of purpose, I'd be happier. I couldn't have been more thrilled when another intern came to me for help with her English translation of meeting minutes. I like helping people. I always have. I need to be visual, but actively so, not like I am now. Being here, in Milan and at Grazia Neri, have also made me realize that I need to be surrounded by a certain aesthetic environment to be stimulated and satisfied, a busy everchanging environment, that helps others, that serves a worthwhile purpose. And making that realization, if only to give me a better sense of direction, is well worth the torture of the archives and the digitization process.

high fashion, high life

Note: I will try to put up photos from yesterday, so check back for high fashion photos... for now an archival view of the Duomo (and its uncovered facade).

Today I decided to dress in true style, crisp pink shirt, white pants, brown belt and shoes. Today I mean business. People are pretty impressed it seems already. Matilde noted the dapperness before I left and Gaia mentioned it moments after arriving. Watch out Milan.

Speaking of fashion, yesterday I went to the Golden Square and walked around its periphery. The Golden Square, framed by via Manzoni, via della Spiga, Corso Venezia, and via Monte Napoleone, is filled with chichi (no idea how to spell that, nope) boutiques with eccentric and elegant window displays. The interiors of the stores (into which I need to go back and play the role of high fashion conoisseur) are feats of architecture, they are so aesthetically designed. But the clothes, and especially their prices, I thought were all pretty useless. Uselessly expensive. Okay, maybe I wouldn't mind an item or two, but to have such an imposing aesthetic order (where the primp salespeople look like feats of architecture themselves and the window displays and clothing racks look like art exhibits) truly intimidates the casual viewer, the temporal tourist. I went into D&G (blech, for all those brand whores in Milan who flaunt text and names and scream D&G from their belt buckle or sunglasses) and was impressed by the cool design but just didn't dig their desire for edgy raw streetwear that is grossly over-priced. Perhaps there's an upcoming sale? One can only hope. After I left that mirrored madness, I caught a glimpse of some wild chandelier through a courtyard window of Corso Venezia... hidden elegance, the high life of the road of high fashion. Dorota would later tell me of a similar experience where she caught a glimpse of the Barilla family home in the Golden Square which had peacocks strutting about. Mamma mia. Around the corner on Via Monte Napoleone and I found myself in the courtyard of the Armani store with two shallow simple black pools filled with flowers before a coolly aesthetic men's store. It's no wonder the Milanesi have a solid confident attitude, they've got the stores to match. It is something to see, a bit ostentatious, a bit over the top, but then again, it is also the cutting edge of design and an aesthetic wonderland... I'll be sure to return.

The rest of my evening was spent practising a bit of yoga, relaxing, ironing (which the family finds extremely funny eventhough they approve... I think they just appreciate this wild creature who doesn't quite understand Italian but has a way of his own) and chatting with Dorota. We had the meandered from work to Italian politics to the status of women in Italy and the status of queer people in Italy to the duality of nouns in English (Dorota has a theory, and well I couldn't really tell you what it is because I was a bit tired, but it has to do with the arabic duality or something). What I find truly interesting is that Italy is so open with its emotions and so easy-going but at the same time there is a subtle chauvinism that underlies everything. Only when you dig deeper do you discover it. Dorota keeps telling me of the amazing (amazingbad not amazing good) things that students of hers say in class (this one Napolitano said he has never done dishes, doesn't do dishes and will never do dishes, that is the job of the woman). If you come to Italy for a week, you could miss that subtlety. Also, since the Church is pervasive (é dappertutto as I like to say) although no one GOES to church, there are intrinsic ideas that casual sex is bad, mastubation will make you blind and queer people should be shot (the men in Dorota's class upon being asked if their son told them he was gay responded that they would kill him), there is an underlying conservative and intolerant view. It's interesting because the big names in fashion, Valentino, Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, are all gay. But, since they have made a name for themselves, they're alright. Interesting no?

I love sitting down and chatting with Dorota, who claims I am the only one who listens. We get along so well, laugh a lot, and discover things about each other's societies in the best most natural mode of conversation and connection. She's a pretty awesome woman, with lots of language skills, plenty of knowledge and tons of care. Bellissma.

Alright tutti, I am going to read some Italian to learn some more (it's a constant process) but I can feel myself becoming more fluent, already I am starting to think in broken English. Thank god for your emails and this blog :)

trippy

Monday morning and week number one has officially been declared completed. I am back at work, now more optimistic having had a comprehensive tour on Friday afternoon (you would think they would give that on the first day, eh?). I know what happens in every place in the office, I now know what I am doing, and I know there is a light at the end of the tunnel: my days in the archive will end within a week or two. hoorah.

Finishing work at 4.30 on Friday afternoon, I headed to do my first bit of touristy activity and went to the top of the Duomo, a beautiful medieval cathedral that took 400 years to build. The Milanese are constantly restoring the cathedral (currently the facade is covered) and there are parts that are white and pink, fresh to the world once again. I took 150 photos at the top of the Duomo (before editing) and immensely enjoyed my first foray in tourism... there are so many beautiful statues up on the roof (3400 on the whole church to be exact, in true international medieval style) I went a little nuts.

Saturday, after cleaning the house and learning that both sweeping and filling up the gas tank have alternate meanings in Italian that find themselves deep into the night and minds of the Italians (if you know what I mean, which I think you may not... they're dirty people), I decided to hit up the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana and be a tourist. I gladly found the museum pretty empty, silent, beautiful. I entered one room, dimly lit and as I turned the corner I witnessed a full wall sketch of Raphael's School of Athens. It was breathtaking, the air was cool, the shadows subtle. I was in quasi ecstasy and I then knew why I was an art history major. Throughout the rest of the museum there were similar moments like these with a Dante-inspired stained glass window and a small impressionist Francesca and Paolo from Mose' Bianchi that all left me a bit numbed, in the best way possible. The feeling is as if your eyes cannot take in as much as they want to and your chest just fills with lighthearted wonder. In short you feel sort of otherworldly. So I guess I had an out of body experience at the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana. Well worth 7.50 euro.

Sunday we escaped the forno (oven) that was to be Milan to head to Celle Ligure, a beach town in the province of Liguria. From the car I was able to witness the yellow wheat and green grass countryside of the Piemonte, flat farm land all around with a farm house here and there and the extremely photogenic (although I was not successful) single tree alone in a pasture. We went through the Apennines and into Liguria where coloured stucco houses dot the hillside that ultimately end at the coast with beautiful blue beaches. Although parking was nothing short of a nightmare (though everything here doesn't really phase me to worry), the subsequent cloud-like brioche (think warm sugared cloud) and genovese focaccia made everything alright, as did the clouds parting to reveal glorious sunshine. I, of course, was il bianco (the white one) among my newfound family and they laughed really hard when I pulled out my 45 sunscreen lotion. They of course were using 2 (italians usually probably just slather themselves in olive oil... although some were using tanning oil). I started off with 20 and worked my way down to 10 with a little venture into the land of 6. By the end of the day, I was nicely tanned but not nearly as much as the others who were running away from me in terms of skin tone, escaping into the exotic and sensual world of a deep golden brown. People here are just naturally darker, and the contrast to their white parts is almost blinding, as I was to witness from the car one man standing out on the point with a strip of blinding white contrasting against the deep luxurious brown. In my picture taking, I've ventured into suspiciously taking pictures of other people without them being aware. There are some cute shots of people I don't even know, displaying a real life that already exists here without me: the tourist. What is wonderful about the beach and about the Italian culture so far, in general, is that anything goes. Want to go topless on the beach ladies? Fine. Men, want to wear speedos? Va be' (Fine). This liberated spirit that doesn't really worry about what goes and what doesn't but just lives will be something I will live up to the fullest and bring back with me for sure. With pure emotions and a raw sense of aesthetics, it isn't hard to see how Italy appeals to so many.

In parting, a few more shots of la vita Italiana...

the honeymoon is over

Note: I have been getting a lot of comments on the blog, which I appreciate but I'd really love for this to be a space for free writing (that's why the first few posts were so free and funny). I guess it's up to me to distance myself a bit from commentary, so, I guess what I mean to say in all this is use the blog as a source of information, and post your comments, but leave the commentary in cyberland. If there's anything worst, it's having the blob (as some like to call it) and the internet invade your daily life. Anyhoo, I'll be off for the weekend.... stay tuned, more adventures to come on Monday.

I think the initial high of being in Milan and the novelty of the experience have worn off after five days. The reality of this city is starting to seep through: I am starting to notice beggars on the street, the prostitutes who linger late into the night, the male dominance and conservative ideology that reigns, and the subtle xenophobia that is also here. It isn't as if I am starting to hate Milan, it is only that I am starting to see a more comprehensive view of the city (which is quite fitting because today I am going to get a full view of the city from the top of the duomo).

Yesterday, I gladly spent a quiet evening at home chatting about the cheap and easy travel that Europeans enjoy, the politics of Milan, the Middle East, George Bush and Canada with Dorota, all while doing the dishes and cutting watermelon (anguria). Earlier in the evening, when I arrived home, I had held the elevator for an elderly woman in our building coming towards the elevator. When she saw me she made some sign with her hand, as if she were scratching her neck. Of course, I had no idea what that meant and was unphased. When she indicated that she lived on the same floor, I went into the elevator, no problem. I later asked Matilde and co. about the gesture and if there was anything else typically Italian I should know about. They were aghast because scratching your neck usually means 'I don't give a f*$£' which is, well, rude. Dorota suggested that she may have just waved her hand away at me in some sort of shooing motion to indicate she didn't need the elevator. I really don't remember what I saw. But now, I know.

The Milanese have this way of appraising you and what you are wearing in a very quick manner. It's odd because people here are very warm once you know them, but there is no way you will meet random people. Matilde was telling me that if you go to a party, you go with your friends, you stay with your friends, you leave with your friends. E cosi (that's how it is). So there is a coldness that reigns here, Milan is a city of individuals, much like New York. But the contrast is so great between those people you know and those you don't. It is kind of surprising. But I digress. Since Milan is a city of fashion and status, it seems, what you wear occupies spot number one on the list of priorities. Other than men's rotating and focused appraising glance for a beautiful woman, some Milanesi will give you a quick look over, a top-to-bottom scan with the eyes. I guess it's a very subtle compliment, or at least that's how I've been taking it. It might be an insult for all I know, since it is so subtle. For now, I am alright with it, but I'll let you know when it starts getting on my nerves, because it's one of those things that could be flattering on a good day and like daggers on a bad day.

The other thing the Milanesi do a lot is say ciao. Everyone at the office says Ciao! to everyone else, whenever someone enters a room everyone says Ciao! and you say Ciao! when you are leaving too. When in doubt, say Ciao! unless of course you are in a solemn place like a cemetary or a church. Although it might be alright to say Ciao! in the monumental cemetary, that place is simply nuts, since it is so crazily baroque and uncontrolled with huge tombs... like a city of the dead. Anyways, I think it's nice when people say ciao to each other and know each other but saying Ciao! Ciao! Chee-owa! gets on my nerves sometimes because it seems like a call for attention. Ciao I am here, Ciao hear me, Ciao I exist. Which I guess is kinda nice in a way, no one really gets lost in it all.

Well back to work for me and thus ends my blog post on a lower note. No, I am not depressed. Yes, I still like Italy. It is perhaps only due to a bit of tiredness yesterday that everything rubbed me the wrong way. Hey, it happens, even in Italy.

...but i like bananas better

Off goes the scanner and here I am to type out my saga yet again. It truly is nice that this job allows me time to write and keep the world up to date. This morning I feel as if I've forgotten something, it's one of those mornings, and in fact (infatti) I forgot to bring my allergy medication to fend off the evil dust of the archive. So we'll see what happens this afternoon when I go down into the land of filing cabinets.

After a successful afternoon in the archives yesterday, finding exactly what I needed to find all along (in previous days, I had failed utterly in comparison to yesterday's results), the Grazia Neri office held a cocktail party opening for the exhibit being shown in the gallery right next to the office. The show was ten photos of ten objects from Hermes, each with a story or poem by an Italian author. If any of you are in Milan and read Italian, you should go. The exhibit is wonderfully poetic and moving. Now, the cocktail party was quite an event. It was one of those fancy catered events with waiters and all, but, unlike all the others I had been at in the past, this one was in Italy. The servers were nowhere as pushy as those in North America and just stood around with their platters waiting to be approached. Once you did approach, they said prego (kind of the equivalent to please, but, hell, it sounds so stupid in english). It seemed curious at first that the servers were not more assertive in approaching people standing around, but, soon, I understood why.

Whenever a platter of food would come out and be put on a table, the Italians would flock to the the platter and clean it off. It was as if it were some sort of attack. I quickly observed that one should never get between an Italian and his food. Platter after platter and the Italians would flock, devour, and retreat. The wine was being downed and the people were having a good time... e cosi (that's how it is). As I ate lunch at the Osteria del Gambero Rosso (yea, the one from Pinocchio), I also noted that the Italians aren't stingy when it comes to food: order wine, bread, whatever, all for the good cause of enjoying life through food. The waiter seemed a bit offended when I ordered nothing to drink (and I was afraid he would be even more offended if I dared to drink water from my water bottle).

Back home (in Porta Romana, I think the quartiere is called), I jumped at the chance to buy milk and yogurt at the GS. I think I am going to have to go back with my camera to document the crazy-wonderful things that the supermarket sells... hazelnut yoghurt, rabbit, carpaccio, pesto... I think the Gavronski family thinks me a bit nuts for enthusiastically jumping on the chance to go to the GS, but it really is one of the best ways into understanding a culture, or at least experiencing more of it. Food, as Naila continually affirms, is such a large part of life, a fundamental block of existence. No food, no life= important.

Over dinner, while Dorota wasn't running back to her room to check on the World Cup game between Poland and Germany and being yelled at by her children to return to the table, my first cultural misstep happened. Now, that sounds monumentally bad, but, not to worry, it was a cultural mishap of the hilarious kind. Dorota asked me if I liked melon since we were having prosciutto e melone (ti piace?), to which I answered: si, mi piace ma amo di piu le banane (yes i like it but i like bananas more). Enter uproarious laughter. Now, to me, this didn't seem like something deserving of laughter. Although I was laughing too, because laughing is contagious, I was horribly confused. Melon (cantolope) is a fruit, so is the banana, hence comparing them shouldn't be funny. But here, melon is usually eaten as an antipasto (before the meal) and is thus considered more of a vegetable (yea, of course... wait! excuse me?). Yes, melon is in a different category than fruit, because you don't eat prosciutto with banana.

That evening Mati and I went out with her friend Davide out to the country to what looked like an abandoned farmhouse where some indy rock kids were playing. Since the mosquitos were more exciting than the high school children at this gig, we decided to go to a swingercafe (god knows what the Italians think it is) called leCoq (all signs point to a swingers' cafe) where we had some cocktails and nice conversation. The evening concluded late after a tour of Milanese sights by car in a completamente vuotato (empty) Milan. All the while, cheesy old Italian pop music played as our soundtrack.

This morning I awoke to no hot water (and thus, no shower). Matilde showed me, upon waking in the house where many things don't work (her words not mine), that you had to turn the hot water on. Okay, should just be a button, right? Turned out to be a switch that when turned correctly are accompanied by blue gas flames. I've been learning little things about how to work things around their home in the past few days: the lights in the kitchen don't work with the switch, the toilet flush handle needs to be held a certain way, and the door. The door can only be opened with a certain number of turns of the key (in the correct of the two locks) and I have still to get it open.

So the adventures continue, even when I don't expect them. Yesterday, I was worried I would have nothing to write this morning, but of course Milan comes through yet again. Hopefully tonight I'll get a good night's rest and I'll have nothing to write tomorrow (although you know I will, because work me fa un po schifo [annoys me a little], perhaps something reflective on the Milanese method of visual appraisal...)