ciao milano

After my horrendous attempt to reflect on Milan and my time spent here, life fed me its own retrospective. After wishing Carly adieu until a possible Tuscan rendezvous and realizing that she was indeed on her way to the next phase of this trip, I headed home to yoga myself and get ready to head out for a dinner of my two families, my real one and my Italian one.

...a woman in her apartment raised her shutters to walk outside and drape her Italian flag over her balcony to let it drape in the wind...

We picked up my parents and thus started the excited chatter of getting to know you and urban navigation (where are we? where are we?) to Il Doge di Amalfi, a nice restaurant in the tradition of Salerno. It was at this point that I started having pretty bad abdominal cramps and general malaise, so I tuned out for a bit but thanks to the bathroom, bread, lemon tea and plain penne pasta, I came back to find the families chattering away, enjoying each other's company. It made me very happy. When people you value very much get along, it's really nice, feeling as if there is some sort of connection in the people you value.
Our waiter was a bit insane, a man from Amalfi who joked around with us and made my father enthusiastically order una tete della monaca (a nun's breast), which is a dessert and not some sort of lewd joke. I had the most satsifyingly sweet lemon sorbet that was liquidy and wonderful. We had a nice time, laughed, reminisced, chatted.

Along the drive home I saw sights that tied together my evenings here in Milan:

... the 'swingersbar' where I went with Matilde and Davide for the first of many late night excursions...


... the bavarian restaurant where I had the heartiest and hottest meal of my Italian life and witnessed the Italian phenonmenon of bavarian beer love...

... the late night monuments flashbulb memories of my late night ride with Matilde and Davide...

... a last glimpse of Tijuana, our local watering hole and hangout with Mati, Marina and Carly...

After one last ride around the block in the airconditioned car we walked back to 14 viale bacchiglione for some sweet calm sleep.
My time in Milan quickly comes to a close and I couldn't be happier with the time I've had here: the adversity of work turned pleasure and learning experience, the warmth, laughs, shopping, cooking, and tanning with the family, the art and aesthetics of the people and the friends and little experiences along the way. On to new adventures...

already?

My parents arrived yesterday and one of the first sentences from my mother was: Milan, what an ugly city. Granted by the end of the day she had reconsidered her judgment, I started reflecting on this city. At lunch with Grazia and the other student interns we had discussed whether Milan was a nice city. And it is. It's no Rome with fountains and history seeping out from the mortar between the stones, it's more of a big city, it has a different soundtrack than the peaceful Tuscan town, it has a rich aesthetic.

At first I was turned off by Milan, slightly industrial, slightly cold. That Italian warmth of spirit seemed absent from this urban landscape. But, after a time, I discovered that once you meet a Milanese and break that cold IknowwhereIamgoing exterior, you find a really warm and kind person. You just have to dig.

Somehow Milan is aesthetics central, people dress just right, simply but put together. And thus it wows. People dress with confidence, having the attitude to match the outfit. Cosmopolitan style. Everyone dresses pretty nicely, so everyone is on the same level, no one sticks out. Unless of course they are all legs or super built or something of the like. A man wearing pearls for instance.

I've felt very much at home in Milan, falling right into routine the Monday after the Sunday I arrived and being welcomed warmly by the family I have been staying with. It's hard to believe that within 2 days, I will be driving in a car with the parentals down to Tuscany.

I'll miss the family very much, we had fun, laughs, expriences together. Everything from cooking paella, to laughing at my desire to iron, to strategizing how low I could go with my SPF. Many evening were spent chitchatting with Dorota, with her claiming that I am the only one who will listen.

Geez, I can't even write this, I don't know what to say. I give up. To sum up, I've had a nice time, I will miss the family, Milan is hella aesthetic. That is all.

fire in the kitchen

No, not literally. So a few days ago, in the heat and exasperation of making yet another dinner in the hot kitchen, I suggested to Dorota that we make gazpacho. In response to the suggestion of gazpacho, Dorota said we should make paella then to make a whole dinner. And thus began our online search for a recipe for each spanish dish. We made a list of ingredients to buy and said we would make it Tuesday night, technically the last night before my parents arrived in town (eee! as Jeremy would have said last summer in glee).

Yesterday afternoon I received a text message from Carly and Dorota saying that I needed to get home as soon as possible to get chopping, we had a dinner to make! I could just imagine those two women at home laughing about chopping as I worked. I gladly left work at 4pm (I don't think anyone really cares), swung by the pharmacy to get some meds before heading home for the cookfest.

I arrived home to find my home vacant of my assistant chef, or rather the captain of the kitchen, Dorota, who was out shopping for ingredients. Within 20 minutes she was home and we consulted on our recipes, got chopping and blending. We expelled Carly from the kitchen when we got to the bell pepper (she's allergic) and created our gazpacho, blending and adding another tomato, another cucumber, more vinegar and salt and pepper to taste. For some reason we thought our recipe wouldn't create four servings... In the fridge to chill and out to the supermarket, we didn't have paprika for the paella.

Carly and I trekked (walked rather, there aren't any uphills or anything) to our beloved GS for the jar of paprika. It was pretty funny in the checkout line. We couldnt go to the trolleyless line because it was too long with people with overflowing baskets, thus we waited in a line with trolleys (carriages, no shopping carts thats the word). Two people. One bottle of paprika. €1.30. Sounds like a movie. It was a hilarious transaction, I almost dashed away without taking the receipt. Carly keeps telling me that it's some sort of law in Italy that one cannot be within 50 metres of a place of purchase without a receipt. Ridiculous.

So we returned home to make paella. Dorota and I compared our two paella recipes, mixed and matched. No, we would not turn on the oven. Yes, tomatoes go in a paella. They are in there you just can't see them. What do we cook first? What else do we cook? When? I was confused but, Dorota took charge and delegated the chopping tasks to me (and I accepted quite gladly, chopping an onion without crying among other things). We made our paella, improvising along the way, fearing for the overflowing of the pan (to which I kept telling Dorota that it would be fine), stirring when the recipe said we shouldn't and, by the glorious end, when I had gone to another room to check the internet quickly, Dorota walked in and said it was fabulous. Truly the best paella. I took a picture (I'll post it soon). We had our dinner, accompanied by Spanish music. Paella being Niki's favourite dish and Niki being in Greece and having gloated about his night spent with a bonfire on the beach, Dorota sent a message proclaiming the authenticity of our meal. With a glass of sangria made by the Matilde (aw geez this La Matilde business is rubbing off into my English, oi), that later turned into an alcoholic macedonia, we toasted a great meal. Success. Dorota told Carly 'you don't know what you are missing' with regards to the gazpacho, chunky light and delicious. Carly responded: 'yea, death.' and we had a good laugh. Watch out for allergies, they are no laughing matter, unless of course the allergee (completely invented that word) makes the joke :P Dorota will hold onto the recipes though we didn't really follow either one very closely, to recreate our night of food made with love, laughs and cooperation. Buon appetito!

modern visual culture

As I wind down my last week here at the photo agency in Milan, I thought I might as well do a retrospective. I feel so affected with my title and first sentence, sorry, I am going to be a bit academic. Deal. Yesterday, the woman after which the photo agency is named came in and asked me if I now understood how a photoagency worked. I responded yes and we went about our business. But the question got me thinking.

Before I arrived, I only imagined that the manipulation and trafficking of images (sounds like drugs no? sorry.) was fast and copious thanks to the digital age. Concepts like digital archiving and the trajectory of image from receival (is that even a word? no, reception. ha, receival, that doesn't even exist, thank you academic brain) to printing were both undefined, abstract. Arriving and being stuck on the forefront of the digitization process was, in theory, exciting. I was part of the digital age, ushering the agency into the 21st century for quick easy access to images, goodbye analog. Well, the process proved interminably (where are these words coming from?) boring, scanning images from movies starting with B from Borstal Boy to Bloodsport. I kept telling myself that this is an exciting process as I waited ten minutes to scan and identify 5 slides. The afternoons were spent sorting through the analog archive, one slide sheet at a time, looking for slides from certain companies we no longer represented. Though music alleviated the drudgery a little, the going was still slow. On the verge of insanity, and rethinking life, I finally changed jobs, not wanting to wait another week before switching up the all-day archive routine.

Upstairs in the sunlight, I worked with current photo projects coming in that needed preparation to be sold in Italia (wow that was instinctive writing, I was thinking Italy). Contact sheets, summaries in Italian, dog-earing magazines with marketable materials, burning CDs of images, in sum editorial research. My Italian improved with more conversation and my understanding of the flow of images from the picture desk to sales and into the archive now all made sense. Images move quickly here with reportages coming in, the world changing, movies coming out, people doing interesting things every day.

The amount of photos that come in here is astounding. Yesterday, for instance, I processed two scientific servizi (services, which is basically a dossier), two movies to be released and a reportage on children in Bangladesh rummaging through trash to find metal to sell in order to eat. Photographers have the power, by making connections in their community or when they travel, to uncover human interest stories and little known phenomenons. Then, they can capture that world and broadcast it to the world. Whether it be the gold-searching ninjas of Mongolia, the women of the PKK, or Cézanne's Provence, there is an even more immediate power of communication between photographer and audience. There is so much that happens in this world; while images don't really do anything to help, spreading the message to the world raises awareness and social consciousness. One would hope others live differently with that awareness of others. Photos become a marketable message, while also, on the other hand, serving simply as a means of visual draw to promote and illustrate a movie or a scientific breakthrough.

Nowadays, many more people can just snap a picture. It isn't that simple. There is a visual language, a way of capturing life, light, in order to transmit and provoke emotion, communicate message, or simply create a visually interesting picture. Or, perhaps, just take an image that illustrates an article. Just like words illustrate our way of seeing and feeling through text, photography transmits point of view in a more raw manner. Photos concretize the photographer's journey, what catches his eye, how she sees light. Each project that goes beyond the banal, communicates an individual view silently. Witnessing that clear enunciation pushes you back in reaction if only mentally but instinctually, realizing that the photo you are seeing goes beyond image on paper to art.

weekend of sweat

Friday night began my crash into some sort of muscular pain and general achiness that would prevent me from adventuring to Como on Saturday. After heading downtown to do some field research into my personal style with Marina (in case you all haven't noticed, she's awesome) and finding some cool quality finds at Zara and an entire mess of what I cannot pull off at Guess and seeing Ben Harper chilling in Piazza Duomo, I headed home slightly achy to a home of people who all didn't want to do the requisite shopping for the vening's supper. So we headed for Bavarian food. Right. It was the heartiest meal I've had for my entire trip, meat and potatoes. Argh, yes, delightful. Besides the oggling of the waiter from all parties being served by this man named Jacopo, the atmosphere at Kapuziner was skewed Bavaria with strong beer and waiters who look like they've all walked out of a Ricola commercial. And the Italians just love it.

Saturday I woke up sweating like mad (think pools) and with aches all over my body and a general feeling of unwell, but still I managed an adventure to the Esselunga (a cheaper and much more friendly version of GS) with Dorota and Matilde. I don't know what it is with me and supermarkets. Centers of wonder and meeting... food, it brings people together, it sustains life, how much more important can you get? The rest of my day was spent with 'In Praise of Slow', my sweat, and painkillers. I slept plenty, took a bath, listened to crazy Italian music and proceeded to go to sleep at 10.30pm.

Which brings us, most gladly, to Sunday at 7 am when I woke feeling energized and ready to start my trip to Como. I had originally planned for Saturday but due to health reasons and 'weather forecasts' (which said rain although the entire weekend was blue-sky sunny) decided to postpone/cancel the trip. But I was happy to wake up in good energy on Sunday. Before I knew it, I was fed, showered and dressed and on a train to Como and arrived by 10.05am. Arriving in the mountain and lake dominated lake country with coloured stucco houses perched on the mountainside (in sum, picturesque), I toured around a bit to visit the Duomo, the lake side and some sidestreets before heading uphill for a hike.
I wanted to go to the lighthouse dedicated to Alessandro Volta, the inventor of the battery and a native of Como. Although Let's Go has pointed me in the direction of great deals and beautiful monuments, they unfortunately failed this time only giving me the oh-so-specific directions of 'turn left at the pink church' in order to find my hiking trail. Instead, I decided that perhaps the lighthouse would be on the way to Brunate, the only advertised hiking route around. Stubborn stupid Stefan, in your manliness, you should just suck it up and ask for directions. I thought I knew where I was going. After 10 minutes I met a French 19 year old guy who seemed to be the only other person attempting the vertical climb. We chatted along the way, going ever higher and getting to no real destination without signage anywhere. I thought I would be done within a half hour.

An hour and a half of climbing and drenchfully sweating (I should have taken off my shirt to tan instead of the triangle that I achieved from my V-neck shirt), we finally arrived a Brunate for a panorama of Como. Nothing breathtaking or thrilling, but it was the journey that mattered not the destination (oh life lessons abound in this crazy trip, eh?).
I tried to speak French with Jerome when we met but it kept coming out as Italian (with mais coming out as ma among other things) so we just ended up, strangely enough, speaking to each other in Italian. He is in Italy completing a month of work in some sort of engineering company before heading back home to Normandy. Anyways, at the top we decided the funicular would be a better mode of trasnport down to food and wandering about Como. (TIP: take the funicular to Brunate if you really want to go, unless you want to hike forever aimlessly)




Once again, my boat plans in foreign places were thwarted. Unlike the strike that happened in Venice, this time there was an F1 International Championship of Powerboat racing in the basin of Como (picture rocketships on water racing around like F1 cars). Goodbye Bellagio and Villa Carlotta! The closest boat stop, to which Jerome and I walked in the afternoon, was about an hour away walking, leaving no time to return for my train home.
Anyhoo, the afternoon we just wandered about, passing villas by the sea (more upscale land version of Venice), bridges, boats, and people watching the race (along with one enraged bicyclist complaining of the traffic). I snapped plenty of pictures and headed home on the hottest train I have ever been on. Como was pretty and awesomely located, but I wasn't tremendously impressed. Perhaps I should postpone my judgement of the lake country until I see Bellagio and the like.


I returned home to upload my photos and fell in love (more to come tomorrow). I don't usually rave about my photos, but wow, there were really too many to love. I had taken 100 photos that day and a good 30 were really nice. Good light, good mood I guess. It concluded a wonderful day: early morning of good feelings, a crazy hike, a new friend, leisurely strolling, more suntanning, beautiful photos. Oh yea and a crazy amount of sweat, both from Saturday's strangeness, Sunday's hike and trainride home and the evening's night of crazy dancing with Matilde, Davide and Emmanuelle at a truly fun and wild outdoor club close to where I have been living. We had a great time admiring the people, taking in the club, and dancing to hiphop, saccharine pop (and some cartoon music) and house. Oh the hotness, it just makes you sweat a little more.

...I could eat a horse. I did!

No wait, I'm stupid, I didn't.

[DISCLAIMER: Although I thought I ate horse yesterday, I, in fact, didn't. For all your reference, thanks to my anonymous italian poster, bresaola is beef. boo, I've been deceived.]

Yesterday I ate horse. Bresaola, kind of like prosciutto (which is ham like, but so much leaner and more exotic), but, well, horse. I came home not to the daily question from an exhausted Dorota: What are we having for dinner? (because today I went to a war photo exhibit at the PAC, thoughtprovoking and well appropriate with the outbreak of war in Lebanon), but instead I came home to pasta bolognese (or what we call at home pasta with meat sauce) with prosciutto, bresaola and melone. In Italy there is only one type of melon really, cantaloupe, but they call it melon.

Anyways, Italy has been a culinary adventure and there are moments that I savour and remember: the brioche in Celle Ligure, hot from the oven, sweet and soft like a cloud, the risotto at Trattoria alla Madonna in Venezia, the capuccino, rich with foam at Caffe Florian also in Venezia, the pasta with rich tomato sauce I had when meeting an architect friend of my father's, the golden kiwis that came in promotion with prosciutto from GS, and the powerful mojito (yea, i know not italian, but its imbedded in my memory) I had at tijuana one of the many night I've been there.

There have been staples to my diet here in Italy. First and foremost is pasta, it's easy, it's healthy, you can change the sauces, you can change the type. Perfetto. Then there is the mighty and ubiquitous tomato, also coming in many varieties and morphing its cut or cooked form from salad to pasta to bruschetta to caprese. Beautiful cheese comes next with the mighty parmeggiano, unlike any I have ever tasted (you can bet I am declaring this at customs). Olive oil is the staple for cooking. Dorota has a bottle of the quality liquid in the kitchen, this one not for cooking but for more appropriate moments. Rucola (called Rocket in North America) can be bought in bags like lettuce at my beloved GS and packs a punch whether it be in a salad or with carpaccio. Which brings me to meat... they sell it all: horse (of which I saw a horrendously large tongue at the supermarket), rabbit, chicken, pig... all parts, all cuts.

Sometimes at home, we get sick of pasta, tomatoes, balsamic vinegar, carpaccio, melon and just opt for stir fry or order out chinese. Regardless it truly is wonderful to see fine quality food around, in the supermarket, on your plate. Knowing that the carpaccio I am eating is paper thin with spicy cheese and meat makes my stomach happy. I've noticed that I also feel healthier and more in shape thanks to the change in diet. I have no idea how I will ever go back...

Sorry for the crazy post, but I am being moved around the office today without much time to really sit and compose and reflect. So deal with it folks.

personal style

I put on my jeans this morning, and then, took them off. The heat of Milan and the idea of being miserable in heavy pants have both prevented me from wearing my canvas mates. Taking out my jeans this morning, still freshly pressed from Montreal, I cannot even begin to tell you the longing I felt to wear them. People here do where jeans, somehow, but I think I would die if I tried to pull of the same. I had such a sense of longing for my jeans, a prolonged desire to wear them, pants that were such a staple in my daily fashion in North America.

It's hot here, 35°C. Jeans just don't seem like viable two-legged solutions to fashion dilemmas. In this type of weather, it is really nice to feel like you are wearing nothing. If you sweat then, like I do at night (which I love, cradled by warmth into sleep, a small breeze is always welcome. Something about heat feels great, it might be that I get sick so often in winter or air conditioning... not a nice feeling. but i digress...), then [yea, go look back to the beginning of the sentence to continue the train of thought] it is not any fault of yours or your clothing. It is just the heat of the night. To make a long story short, I haven't worn jeans since I have arrived.

Funny side note, as I was writing this I was given a photo project profiling the Martelli group, an Italian company that makes stonewashed jeans for Diesel, Replay, Gucci and Armani. The universe works in mysterious ways...

Yesterday I went downtown after work to shop around, see what is still on sale, what might be good purchases. I fell in love with a very strong green at United Colours of Benetton that unfortunately didn't fit and looking at the shape, cut and fit of the light pants I was wearing, was catapulted into thinking what is my personal style? what would be suitable to me? what should i own, what are essentials, what can't I pull off?

Being in Milan, more than any other city I have spent an extended period of time in, develops my eye for clothes, fashion combinations and overall looks. I've zeroed in on interesting details: lace-up sandals, string of pearls as a bracelet, hair mullets that actually look good, colours that stand out (yellows, greens...). What I like in other people doesn't necessarily work on me, as Carly nicely pointed out when I tried out a pair of jeans a few weeks ago that were Italian in its many details: 'The jeans are so Italian, but it just isn't you'. I admire many people here for being well groomed and put together, for wearing clothes that fit and that show off their good traits and tastes.

So I took up the issue with Marina last night who had gone shopping with Carly that morning in an attempt to find her some hot items for fall. In the end, Marina came out with 3-4 items and Carly with nothing. See, Marina has honed her skills, born and raised in Milan, since she goes shopping once or twice a week. What you will see depends on the mood you are in, what you think you need. Here windows change at least once a week, at most every two weeks depending on the season as Luisa Cervesi let me know about her shop (really cool recycled materials used for bags... check em out: www.riedizioni.com/Products.html). Matching colours, types of clothes, after a bit of time, becomes second nature. Carly had been surprised at Marina's matching a blue collared shirt with a green jacket so quickly and instinctually.

As I left Benetton, mind buzzing to define my own style, I passed by a store called David Mayer (www.davidmayer.it) which I think was true to what I like: simple, well-made, sophisticated. Loud t-shirts, prominent brandnames, millions of pockets and complicated details... all things I can't pull off. Give me solid colours, simple uniform details, a good pattern, subtle tailoring. Marina would later suggest that the 'look' (I don't want to sound like some sort of fashion-obsessed shopaholic, just an aesthetically conscious individual) I had going was a play on intellectual: collared shirts, nice shoes... inspired, smart, above the riff-raff.

The shopping I had done before Milan has either been in stints (Thanksgiving sale escapade with Susie) or with my mother (we have a good time and pretty good luck)... and actually sometimes clothes just arrive in the mail that my mother thinks would go well. I have never taken what I wear so seriously that I am always looking, always browsing like La Marina. To be always conscious of what you own, spotting items that go well with others while browsing, thinking of the bare essentials that you always need. Usually I shop for one item (remember the linen pants mission of july 1? or the outfit hunting post baggage loss?), but I think there has come a time where I need to be more aware of all of what I own, what works for me, what doesn't and own whatever I wear, whether it be lazily casual or dapper and fancy. And thus the fashion hunting continues...

life lessons

After a nice peaceful and pensive evening out with La Carly, La Mati, and La 'Rina, I thought I would do some reflecting of my own in the form of a blog post. Today marks my 31st day, the fifth week, that I have been here in Milan and I have learned so much about Italy, myself, and life. I think I've expounded enough on the Italian people so I'll jump into life reflection. Fasten your safety belts, I don't really know where I am going with this, but hell, that's life.

Venice started this whole mess, with its winding canals and unpredictable, unfamiliar streets. Making navigable grids in a city, creating familiarity, creating predictable routine, it's all boring and untrue to the nature of life. Stability, constancy, all nice but all untrustworthy. The fabric of everyday living is constant change, the weather fluctuates, your mood changes, you may not have hot water for a shower, you never know who you will bump into, the tasks at work keep changing as the world turns. I've realized that I have to become comfortable with the concept of constant change as the only stable element of life. And that's hard. Somehow, Venice taps into that ephemeral quality: slowly sinking, subject to the tides, floating fragily on the surface, winding, loss-inducing.

Last night for instance, the gang planned to meet at 10.45 which morphed into 11.10 and finally consummated at 11.30. We hadn't wanted to go back to Tijuana, our local watering hole it seems, but we ended up there anyways because it was close and good. In Italy, you're always late, it's the norm. But how late will you be? How long will you wait? Schedules may be nice, but rigid time tables are for losers. Sure you should seek to accomplish things and meet people, but structured minutes don't help anyone and relying on such an abstract concept of time serves no purpose. You're relying on something you lose all the time, that you can't hold, that you will never truly know save for the rising and setting of the sun.

About a year ago, when I was learning Italian, I struggled because I wanted to form sentences before I spoke. Thus, the going was slow, gramatically fastidious, a mouthful and a brainful. You can't predict conversation, can't understand ABSOLUTELY everything. As the pace quickened in the classroom, I learned to deal. Coming to Italy, I was immediately bombarded by language, conversation, accents and all things never taught in the classroom. I was learning at every moment of the day, hearing new conversations, attempting to express myself. You simply have to give up trying to translate your thoughts into Italian, things don't translate. As I discussed with Marina, things like 'dai!' for come on (literally give!) doesn't make sense in English and 'prego' used for letting someone pass, you're welcome and please just exists as is. Later when I nice breeze picked up, Carly proclaimed 'che brezza' to which Mati and'Rina started laughing because the word was awfully literary and was not the equivalent to breeze but to a powerful emotion that takes over your sentiments and being.

It has been a wild journey so far (che brezza, indeed), I've been bombarded with a tough job situation at first, constant linguistic obstacles, and lives continuing without me a home. To me, it's important to maintain ties to my family and friends, but what I have come to realize is that the abstract ties remain intact but the family and friends are everchanging. It is only in the abstract fabric of life that you can trust: your emotions, your sense of self, your independence, your ties. Just coming to that realization, I am so grateful for this trip. No souvenirs or clothing will solidify the experience for the rest of my life. Only my photos might inspire memories to float to the surface. In the end, I am the photoalbum of my journey of the last 4 weeks and the last 20 years... an evolving project, always in the works.

le foto veneziane

So I wasn't thrilled with the photos that I posted earlier today and decided to put a whole lot more online to give a more emotive and effective visual description of my experience. I may write about Venice again tomorrow depending on my mood...

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.