Last Sunday was another of those unseasonably warm and beautiful days that New York has been afflicted with all this winter. I decided to go on one of my favorite walks: over the Williamsburg Bridge and into the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Comfy shoes and iPod in place, I began walking on the bridge.
I was about halfway over when I saw the gentleman in front of me turning around and looking behind him. As I caught up with him, he began talking to me. As a side note: I always assumed that wearing earphones would prevent people talking to you. In my experience, it seems to do the opposite. When I wear my iPod, I am consistently stopped by people asking for directions, wanting information, needing to chat, etc. Appearantly they think that anyone with earphones is either bored or wanting human contact. I guess it never occurs to them that perhaps I want to listen to music.
Anyway...the man in front of me, Gary, oblivious to the fact that I was listening to music, began explaining that was turning around so much because he recognised one of his neighbors riding by on a bike. He didn't like the neighbor, who made a habit of walking into people's apartments if they left their doors open. "Oh," I commented, and thus began my Walk with Gary. Gary was a short, older black man, but despite our height difference he managed to stay in pace with me, and I got to hear this ongoing monologue.
Bridge Security
Gary once counted the 25 security cameras on the Williamsburg Bridge. "And you don't think the cops are watching but they are." Gary has seen the police arrest people drinking and smoking weed (he favors "weed" rather than "pot") on the bridge. "That's why I'm careful when I drink. I sneak it in little bottles. It's a pain in the ass, but I don't get caught. Do you drink?" "Uh, yeah, but not on the bridge." "Hahahahaha. I like how you put things!"
Finders Keepers
Gary walks over the Williamsburg Bridge every day. Every day. He also walks over the Brooklyn Bridge. [I find this hard to believe. For those of you who don't know Big Apple geography, the Brooklyn Bridge is a l-o-n-g and not particularly easy walk from Greenpoint, where Gary says he lives. However I didn't feel the need to challenge him on this or any other point.] Last year he found 10 cellphones, 55 packs of cigarettes, 3 bags of weed, and a total of $10,000.
"How much do you think I've found this year? Just this year?"
"You mean, from the beginning of this month? Uhm..."
"Well no, I was counting from the beginning of December."
"Oh. Uh, 200, 300 dollars?"
"$450"
Gary Gets Drunk
The previous night, Gary drank a bottle of vodka and two 40 ouncers - one of Bud, one of Miller - "'cause I like to mix it up."
"You're lucky you weren't sick."
"Oh no. I ate last night. Where did I eat at? Oh yeah. I ate at a restaurant, and I had some coldcuts at my AA meeting."
Gary is Gay
While walking over the bridge, Gary turned around to check out a girl walking the other way. He liked her big ass and said he'd like to fuck her, then added "but I'm gay." He then proceeded to tell me about his girlfriend of ten years who stayed with him all that time even thought she knew he was gay.
At this point we were over the bridge. Gary mentioned that he was going to walk up one street, and I said I was going to take a different one. "That street's too noisy. Hmm...well, it doesn't seem too bad today. I'll walk with you." Of course he would.
Gary Carries A Rock
While walking up the street, Gary began telling me about one time several years ago when a limo was "driving down the street, hitting all the gay people. So I threw the rock I always carry at the car. It hit the windshield and the limo then crashed into some parked cars."
The Importance of Punctuality
Gary is annoyed with his boyfriend because he is never on time. They arrange to meet somewhere but the boyfried is always late. The excuse? "I was high."
"I get high too" says Gary, indignantly, "but at least I get places on time." Gary complains that his boyfriend thinks this is funny and I don't have the heart to tell him that I think it's pretty funny, too.
Something We Agree On
The small crowded sidewalks of the Lower East Side prompt Gary to begin discussing how he hates slow people who block the sidewalk. He once bumped into a group of women with baby carriages. The ladies told him he was rude, and Gary answered that no, they were rude because "[to me] No offense you understand, but I told them 'You're white people. You should know better.'"
I thought for a split second of saying that I was offended and using that as an excuse to storm off in a huff, because by this point I had really had enough of Gary. I thought of lying to him just to get away.
But it's wrong to treat people that way.
Monday, January 30, 2006
European Graffiti Murals
One of the things I like to do is photograph the graffiti murals in my neighborhood, and this continued while I was traveling in Europe.
Below are some murals from (in order) Rome, Lisbon, Barcelona, Amsterdam and Sevilla.
Below are some murals from (in order) Rome, Lisbon, Barcelona, Amsterdam and Sevilla.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
More Pictures
Last week I finally had prints made of some of the pictures I took while in Europe. I was very pleased with the results. Of the 40+ pics I sent for developing, all resembled the original computer files save one. In honor of that little triumph, I'm posting some of them here. They're not the usual tourist shots and they all prominently feature stylized heads. Other than that I'm not sure what to say about them.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Where I'm From
Copied from my hometown newspaper, the Wilkes-Barre Times Leader.
‘Jazzbo’ sentenced to 6 months probation
WILKES-BARRE – James Jude McCarthy, 44, of East Northampton Street in Wilkes-Barre, pleaded guilty and was sentenced Monday to six months probation on five counts of driving under the influence.
Luzerne County Court of Common Pleas Judge Joseph Augello also imposed $25 fines on summary offenses of harassment and criminal mischief. Additional charges of burglary and reckless endangerment were dropped. A charge of simple assault was previously thrown out at a preliminary hearing.
Wilkes-Barre police said McCarthy threw his ex-girlfriend, Jennifer Spagnola, out of a moving vehicle and then beat her at her residence May 13. Police said McCarthy, who is known professionally as Jazzbo the Clown, had been drinking and using cocaine before the incident.
Police said cocaine was found in McCarthy’s system and his blood-alcohol level was 0.095 percent. An adult driver in Pennsylvania is considered intoxicated with a level of 0.08.
McCarthy, the son of Councilman Jim McCarthy, also threatened to use political influence to harm the woman.
________________________________
Councilman's son, who works as a clown, threw a woman out of his car because he was high on coke. It reads like a Mad-Lib, but that's Wilkes-Barre for you.
‘Jazzbo’ sentenced to 6 months probation
WILKES-BARRE – James Jude McCarthy, 44, of East Northampton Street in Wilkes-Barre, pleaded guilty and was sentenced Monday to six months probation on five counts of driving under the influence.
Luzerne County Court of Common Pleas Judge Joseph Augello also imposed $25 fines on summary offenses of harassment and criminal mischief. Additional charges of burglary and reckless endangerment were dropped. A charge of simple assault was previously thrown out at a preliminary hearing.
Wilkes-Barre police said McCarthy threw his ex-girlfriend, Jennifer Spagnola, out of a moving vehicle and then beat her at her residence May 13. Police said McCarthy, who is known professionally as Jazzbo the Clown, had been drinking and using cocaine before the incident.
Police said cocaine was found in McCarthy’s system and his blood-alcohol level was 0.095 percent. An adult driver in Pennsylvania is considered intoxicated with a level of 0.08.
McCarthy, the son of Councilman Jim McCarthy, also threatened to use political influence to harm the woman.
________________________________
Councilman's son, who works as a clown, threw a woman out of his car because he was high on coke. It reads like a Mad-Lib, but that's Wilkes-Barre for you.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Merry Christmas
No cards this year. Just didn't get around to it. I've only been back for a month and a week, and it seemed like something has been going on since I've been back. No the best excuse, I know, but an accurate one.
When I got home from work the other day, a package from Amazon.com was waiting for me. It was a book I wanted, so I figured it was a gift. However, there was no gift card, and the "bill to" address contained my name and address. "Oh God, did I go online while drunk and order this and now have no memory of it?" I know someone who that happened to. A box of books arrived from amazon one day, he had no memory of having ordered them. When he went to "my account" online, he saw that he had ordered them in the early hours of the morning after he had been on a binge.
Had I done the same thing? It was possible. I've been known to send drunk mass emails, especially after someone famous has died. But I have not been that drunk (ie to the point of not remembering the events of the night before) in a long long time.
I went online to see if I had indeed ordered them, only to discover an email from my sister Erin. The book was a gift from her and my sister Julie (whew!). For a moment I thought I might actually have to change my lifestyle. That was close.
Hope everyone enjoys the holiday season and here's wishing 2006 is an improvement on 2005.
When I got home from work the other day, a package from Amazon.com was waiting for me. It was a book I wanted, so I figured it was a gift. However, there was no gift card, and the "bill to" address contained my name and address. "Oh God, did I go online while drunk and order this and now have no memory of it?" I know someone who that happened to. A box of books arrived from amazon one day, he had no memory of having ordered them. When he went to "my account" online, he saw that he had ordered them in the early hours of the morning after he had been on a binge.
Had I done the same thing? It was possible. I've been known to send drunk mass emails, especially after someone famous has died. But I have not been that drunk (ie to the point of not remembering the events of the night before) in a long long time.
I went online to see if I had indeed ordered them, only to discover an email from my sister Erin. The book was a gift from her and my sister Julie (whew!). For a moment I thought I might actually have to change my lifestyle. That was close.
Hope everyone enjoys the holiday season and here's wishing 2006 is an improvement on 2005.
Monday, December 19, 2005
T-shirts in Rome
While walking down a street in Rome, I passed a tourist shop with t-shirts hanging outside. One in particular caught my eye: in silver sparkly letters, written in a pretty cursive, were the words "Germany Jews." "Germany Jews?" I thought. "That's a pretty ballsy t-shirt to wear. Not the sort of thing I expected to see in Italy. Maybe the East Village or Williamsburg in Brooklyn, but Italy? Maybe it's the name of a punk band. I haven't heard of them before..."
I looked again, only to discover that what the shirt really said was "Armani Jeans."
I looked again, only to discover that what the shirt really said was "Armani Jeans."
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Same But Different
For those who don't read the comments section, this is from the "Images of Morocco" feedback:
"Julie said...
Sad to think that American style clothing is replacing ethnic diversity. Someday we'll all look the same, eat the same foods, etc. How boring!"
It seems Julie is a little uncomfortable being assimilated into the Borg. We can help her with that...
Okay, maybe not a good idea to start this with Star Trek references. I'm not the first one to point out that religious fundamentalism and global capitalism both have the same ultimate goal: worldwide conformity. Everyone joined under one system. A marketing success is something bought by the largest number of people possible. A fundamentalist is convinced that their belief system is the One True Way and isn't happy till other belief systems are eradicated. This isn't hyperbole, but history. Neither capitalism nor fundamentalism has much use for peaceful coexistence. As far as I'm concerned, the worst case scenario would be a leader who is both a former business executive and a religious fundamentalist.
One of the reasons I went to Europe was I wanted to be the "other" for a while. I like being around people and places that are different from me. Alien. Foreign. But they weren't foreign. I was. There are tourists who want to travel but want things to be as similar to home as possible. I heard them in Europe complaining about the food, the prices, the laundry service, etc. I want the basics to be the same (ie I don't want to hunt and kill my own food, but go to a market or cafe) but I want said basics to be different enough so that common everyday tasks become interesting again. Familiar dish, but new spices.
It's not just that the lack of diversity is boring, although it is. It's also a system of control. If you aren't aware of differences, you accept the status quo and soon lose the ability to conceive of something better. One of the horrifying aspects of Orwell's 1984 that's usually forgotten is the way Big Brother is eliminating words from their language, eliminating diversity of expression. Language is connected to thought and if words don't exist to express an idea, than the idea itself doesn't exist.
If kids in the Atlas mountains want to wear Yankees caps and Chicago Bulls shirts, that's fine. For them, that's diversity. It may be as much a kick for them to wear US-themed clothes as it is for me to dodge mules in a millennia-old medina. Perhaps the shirts in some small way give them a different way of thinking, hopefully opening their minds to something beyond acquisitiveness. I still dig the differences, such as how odd the Mickey Mouse slippers looked. Sometimes it's more interesting when people get it wrong. If we are moving towards a Monolithic Culture, we're not there yet. In fact, it seems like there are more subcults and strange strains in world culture than ever before. It's the opposite of the Dark Ages: there's such variety that there's no way of keeping track of it. Who knows if it will last? History doesn't travel in a straight line. It moves like a drunk finding his way home from the bar on payday. But to end on a happy note, here's a picture of Jeff Koons' topiary dog standing guard in front of the Guggenheim Bilboa.
"Julie said...
Sad to think that American style clothing is replacing ethnic diversity. Someday we'll all look the same, eat the same foods, etc. How boring!"
It seems Julie is a little uncomfortable being assimilated into the Borg. We can help her with that...
Okay, maybe not a good idea to start this with Star Trek references. I'm not the first one to point out that religious fundamentalism and global capitalism both have the same ultimate goal: worldwide conformity. Everyone joined under one system. A marketing success is something bought by the largest number of people possible. A fundamentalist is convinced that their belief system is the One True Way and isn't happy till other belief systems are eradicated. This isn't hyperbole, but history. Neither capitalism nor fundamentalism has much use for peaceful coexistence. As far as I'm concerned, the worst case scenario would be a leader who is both a former business executive and a religious fundamentalist.
One of the reasons I went to Europe was I wanted to be the "other" for a while. I like being around people and places that are different from me. Alien. Foreign. But they weren't foreign. I was. There are tourists who want to travel but want things to be as similar to home as possible. I heard them in Europe complaining about the food, the prices, the laundry service, etc. I want the basics to be the same (ie I don't want to hunt and kill my own food, but go to a market or cafe) but I want said basics to be different enough so that common everyday tasks become interesting again. Familiar dish, but new spices.
It's not just that the lack of diversity is boring, although it is. It's also a system of control. If you aren't aware of differences, you accept the status quo and soon lose the ability to conceive of something better. One of the horrifying aspects of Orwell's 1984 that's usually forgotten is the way Big Brother is eliminating words from their language, eliminating diversity of expression. Language is connected to thought and if words don't exist to express an idea, than the idea itself doesn't exist.
If kids in the Atlas mountains want to wear Yankees caps and Chicago Bulls shirts, that's fine. For them, that's diversity. It may be as much a kick for them to wear US-themed clothes as it is for me to dodge mules in a millennia-old medina. Perhaps the shirts in some small way give them a different way of thinking, hopefully opening their minds to something beyond acquisitiveness. I still dig the differences, such as how odd the Mickey Mouse slippers looked. Sometimes it's more interesting when people get it wrong. If we are moving towards a Monolithic Culture, we're not there yet. In fact, it seems like there are more subcults and strange strains in world culture than ever before. It's the opposite of the Dark Ages: there's such variety that there's no way of keeping track of it. Who knows if it will last? History doesn't travel in a straight line. It moves like a drunk finding his way home from the bar on payday. But to end on a happy note, here's a picture of Jeff Koons' topiary dog standing guard in front of the Guggenheim Bilboa.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Images of Morocco
"So, how could Morocco not be your favorite place?" a girl asked me at a Christmas party on Saturday. This was after I had raided the mixed nut bowl of its cashews but before I had gone down the fire escape and climbed the fence in the backyard to crash (almost literally) another party*. The people at this other party were standing around a bonfire wearing the ugliest Christmas sweaters you can imagine: one had blinking lights on it and another had a stocking, complete with gifts, sewn on the front. I had taken it upon myself to discover if these sweaters were on purpose. They were. They were having an ugly sweater contest and even asked for my opinion. Gimmicks like blinking lights and stockings were impressive, but they couldn't match the horror of the winning sweater. Even so, while expaining why I chose that sweater, I still felt the need to be as polite as possible to those in deliberately awful clothing.
Similarly, I wanted to warn Giselle about the disappointments of Morocco (diarhea, getting treated like a walking ATM by the locals) without squashing her interest in going. God knows I would go back if the opportunity arrived. I think one of my greatest disappointments is that I did not take more pictures. A fascinating land completely unlike our's, but I only got a few shots and a little video. Being sick in bed for a day or so will do that to you.
*Reading this sentence, I've just realized for the first time that I am not someone who should be invited to social events.
Similarly, I wanted to warn Giselle about the disappointments of Morocco (diarhea, getting treated like a walking ATM by the locals) without squashing her interest in going. God knows I would go back if the opportunity arrived. I think one of my greatest disappointments is that I did not take more pictures. A fascinating land completely unlike our's, but I only got a few shots and a little video. Being sick in bed for a day or so will do that to you.
*Reading this sentence, I've just realized for the first time that I am not someone who should be invited to social events.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Images from the Sevilla Cathedral
Built in the 15th century on the site of an old mosque, the Sevilla Cathedral was created in a spirit of showing off, a celebration of Christianity's victory over Islam and the region's growing economic power. It is the largest gothic cathedral in the world, and in my opinion its beauty gives St. Peter's a run for its manna. The cathedral also contains Christopher Columbus' tomb, although there is some controversy as to whether he is actually buried there.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Mary's Milk
Here are some photos of paintings that depict the Virgin Mary either sharing or squirting her milk on others. For more on this motif, please see the entry "Prado, Pt III" dated October 26, 2005 and the comments it inspired.
As always, thanks to Fenway Partners, Inc. for the camera, although I'm sure they didn't expect it to be used for this.
Artist and painting, from top to bottom:
Pedro Machuca "Virgin with the Souls of Purgatory" 1517
Alonso Cano "The Miraculous Lactation of St. Bernard" 1650
Juan De Vivar "Appearance of the Virgin," 1545
Rubens "El nacimiento de la Vía Láctea"
As always, thanks to Fenway Partners, Inc. for the camera, although I'm sure they didn't expect it to be used for this.
Artist and painting, from top to bottom:
Pedro Machuca "Virgin with the Souls of Purgatory" 1517
Alonso Cano "The Miraculous Lactation of St. Bernard" 1650
Juan De Vivar "Appearance of the Virgin," 1545
Rubens "El nacimiento de la Vía Láctea"
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Memories of Morocco: Rabat
I didn't post much about my time in Rabat previously, probably because that was where I became sick and spent much of my time there in bed. But after reviewing videotapes and photographs this weekend, I was reminded of the city's beauty.
Rabat is the capital of Morocco and perhaps the most Westernized of all its major cities. It has wide, clean streets lined with palm trees. Imagine if a suburb of Los Angeles became Islamic and you get the idea of what Rabat is like.
There is a strong police presence in Rabat due to the fact that the king's palace is here as well as the parliment. The fact that Morocco has a king is not commented on or discussed. It never came up once in my break-the-ice discussions with Moroccans. "So what is the country like?" However, his picture seems to be everywhere. Handsome, silent, he watches over every shop I went into. I don't know whether this is by his choice or the shopkeepers.
After checking into my hotel I ambled to the coastline. I had a strong need to see the ocean, which was a deep azure, crashing with powerful waves but relaxing to watch. I noticed that there was more pieces of tiles on the shoreline than seashells. Across the road from the shore was an Islamic graveyard. All the graves face towards Mecca. The graves' cement base and headstones made them look like little beds, which, in a way, they were. From a distance the graves looked like writing, the individual lives now creating a message on the hillside.
As I headed back to my hotel, I saw a large mob outside the parliment building chanting something in Arabic. They were facing down a line of soldiers who looked quite young. Their uniforms didn't seem to fit - too big- but the large guns they carried suited them just fine. It was obviously a demonstration of some sort, but since I can't speak Arabic, they could have been demanding free dance lessons for all I know. With the words "Wrong place, wrong time" zipping through my head, I decided to head down a sidestreet. I heard a noise and saw the crowd starting to disburse...towards me. The kept turning and looking back at the soldiers, moving with the same ordered chaos as cattle. I picked up my pace, wondering if I had just vacationed to some growing insurrection. I could still hear the protest when I got back to my room. Tired, I laid in bed, waiting for and fearing what I thought would be the inevitable sound of gunshots. But I fell asleep while waiting, and when I woke up, it was like the demonstration had never happened.
Later that night another crowd gathered, and chanted, outside the same building. But I noticed people walking up and down the street ignoring the demonstration, so I figured this wa as much a fixture as the palm trees and fountains.
Rabat is the capital of Morocco and perhaps the most Westernized of all its major cities. It has wide, clean streets lined with palm trees. Imagine if a suburb of Los Angeles became Islamic and you get the idea of what Rabat is like.
There is a strong police presence in Rabat due to the fact that the king's palace is here as well as the parliment. The fact that Morocco has a king is not commented on or discussed. It never came up once in my break-the-ice discussions with Moroccans. "So what is the country like?" However, his picture seems to be everywhere. Handsome, silent, he watches over every shop I went into. I don't know whether this is by his choice or the shopkeepers.
After checking into my hotel I ambled to the coastline. I had a strong need to see the ocean, which was a deep azure, crashing with powerful waves but relaxing to watch. I noticed that there was more pieces of tiles on the shoreline than seashells. Across the road from the shore was an Islamic graveyard. All the graves face towards Mecca. The graves' cement base and headstones made them look like little beds, which, in a way, they were. From a distance the graves looked like writing, the individual lives now creating a message on the hillside.
As I headed back to my hotel, I saw a large mob outside the parliment building chanting something in Arabic. They were facing down a line of soldiers who looked quite young. Their uniforms didn't seem to fit - too big- but the large guns they carried suited them just fine. It was obviously a demonstration of some sort, but since I can't speak Arabic, they could have been demanding free dance lessons for all I know. With the words "Wrong place, wrong time" zipping through my head, I decided to head down a sidestreet. I heard a noise and saw the crowd starting to disburse...towards me. The kept turning and looking back at the soldiers, moving with the same ordered chaos as cattle. I picked up my pace, wondering if I had just vacationed to some growing insurrection. I could still hear the protest when I got back to my room. Tired, I laid in bed, waiting for and fearing what I thought would be the inevitable sound of gunshots. But I fell asleep while waiting, and when I woke up, it was like the demonstration had never happened.
Later that night another crowd gathered, and chanted, outside the same building. But I noticed people walking up and down the street ignoring the demonstration, so I figured this wa as much a fixture as the palm trees and fountains.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Cinque Terre Pics
After arriving in Florence and checking into my B&B, I went for a walk and stopped in a cafe. This cafe seemed to be part of some business or company - perhaps a delivery service or messenger center. If you walked past it, you never would have thought it a cafe. I only found it because I saw someone coming out. But it was filled with people which is always a good sign, and didn't seem pretentious.
If you were casting a movie and needed two people to play young thugs, your search would be over as soon as you saw the two guys working in the cafe. This isn't to say that they were thugs but that they had that certain aura of "don't screw with me" about them. Speaking in fractured Italian I ordered a snack and a beer. Some of the regulars left, and the older of the two men started quizzing me. Where was I from, why was I in Florence, was I a student, etc. I told them I wasn't a student, but I was traveling around Italy. They asked where I had been and where I was going. "Rome..." "Oh, yeah, Rome" they nodded at the inevitability of it. "Naples." "Yeah, Naples" they shrugged. "Cinque Terre." "Ahhh," they cooed in unison "Cinque Terre." They said it so wistfully, almost melting at the words, as if they were describing Shangri-la.
The region has that sort of effect on people. The pictures don't do it justice, but I hope you like them anyway. The first two pics are from Monterosso, the most northern of the five towns. The other three pics were taken on the trails that link the towns.
If you were casting a movie and needed two people to play young thugs, your search would be over as soon as you saw the two guys working in the cafe. This isn't to say that they were thugs but that they had that certain aura of "don't screw with me" about them. Speaking in fractured Italian I ordered a snack and a beer. Some of the regulars left, and the older of the two men started quizzing me. Where was I from, why was I in Florence, was I a student, etc. I told them I wasn't a student, but I was traveling around Italy. They asked where I had been and where I was going. "Rome..." "Oh, yeah, Rome" they nodded at the inevitability of it. "Naples." "Yeah, Naples" they shrugged. "Cinque Terre." "Ahhh," they cooed in unison "Cinque Terre." They said it so wistfully, almost melting at the words, as if they were describing Shangri-la.
The region has that sort of effect on people. The pictures don't do it justice, but I hope you like them anyway. The first two pics are from Monterosso, the most northern of the five towns. The other three pics were taken on the trails that link the towns.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Pictures from Paris
A huge "thank you" to Fenway Partners, Inc. for the camera.
Taking photos went through several phases on my trip. When I first got to Amsterdam the excitement of being overseas led me to take pictures of everything. I don't know how many redundant images of the canals I ended up taking and later deleting. While my camera had a memory card that could hold over 400 pictures, this isn't really a lot when you consider I was traveling for two months in some of the most photogenic cities in Europe.
The second phase consisted of me taking pictures of things/scenes that I wanted to remember but felt I wouldn't be able to accurately describe in my journal. Which explains why I got home and found a picture of a street mime in Barcelona sitting on a toilet for spare change.
Finally, as the memory card became more than three quarters full, I began focusing on things that I wanted pictures of. What would I want hanging on my wall, even if it doesn't really say anything about my trip or the place? I began to use my videocamera to tape street scenes and get a general sense of a place and the digital camera to capture images I liked in and of themselves. So my final shots are of mortuary reliefs with cool looking skeletons and eerie shots of buildings at night.
Below are some photos of Paris. The City of Light has gotten short shrift (so far) in this journal so I thought I would remedy the situation with some pictures.
Taking photos went through several phases on my trip. When I first got to Amsterdam the excitement of being overseas led me to take pictures of everything. I don't know how many redundant images of the canals I ended up taking and later deleting. While my camera had a memory card that could hold over 400 pictures, this isn't really a lot when you consider I was traveling for two months in some of the most photogenic cities in Europe.
The second phase consisted of me taking pictures of things/scenes that I wanted to remember but felt I wouldn't be able to accurately describe in my journal. Which explains why I got home and found a picture of a street mime in Barcelona sitting on a toilet for spare change.
Finally, as the memory card became more than three quarters full, I began focusing on things that I wanted pictures of. What would I want hanging on my wall, even if it doesn't really say anything about my trip or the place? I began to use my videocamera to tape street scenes and get a general sense of a place and the digital camera to capture images I liked in and of themselves. So my final shots are of mortuary reliefs with cool looking skeletons and eerie shots of buildings at night.
Below are some photos of Paris. The City of Light has gotten short shrift (so far) in this journal so I thought I would remedy the situation with some pictures.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
No Sleep Till Brooklyn
Yep, I'm back in Brooklyn. Not only was my apartment not robbed while I was away, but my landlord fixed the light in the bathroom.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Rome again, Rome again, jiggedy jig
I'm back in Rome for a little over two days, before I catch my flight to Amsterdam on Wednesday, then fly from Amsterdam to Newark airport on Thursday. Being in Rome is a nice buffer, a transition from my last two months of travel and my re-entry into the US. I'm getting a dose of multiculturalism. My B&B (and this time it is a genuine B&B, meaning I get breakfast as part of the deal and a bathroom to myself so I don't have to piss in any bottles) is in the Little India section of Rome. I had no idea there was a little India in Rome, but one of the reasons to travel is to learn things. When I walk out of my B&B, it takes me a moment to realize that I am in Italy. More cultural exchange: I'm writing this in an "Irish" pub, where everyone speaks Italian and they're playing Jay Z. on the stereo. I'm sorry to hear that Jay has 99 problems, though I am relieved that a bitch ain't one of them.
I'm using this time to wrap things up. Rather than do any new sight seeing (or is it site seeing? Kate, you would know better than anyone else.), I've been trying to find gifts for people. Not to go offtrack, but I just realized that "sight seeing" is a little redundant. It's like saying "I went to the concert and did some 'sound hearing.' " Can you tell I'm writing this while in a pub? I have to - they won't let me drink at the computer center. When I was in Morocco and objected to my guide to only seeing stores and shops, he brusquely asked me "What's the matter? Don't you like shopping?" Well, frankly, no. I like wandering around and if I happen to see something either for myself or someone I know, I like to buy it. But going "shopping" with a goal in mind frustrates and annoys me. It's why my Christmas presents ususally come with an apology. It's why I've worn the same suit to every wedding for the last two years, even though each time I get a wedding invitation I say "I really need a new suit. This old one is shot." I've enjoyed re-visiting spots in Rome, but yesterday ended in frustration at my inability to find suitable gifts for some people. Oh, I bought a book for myself, sure, but finding stuff for others? Forget it.
During this transition period, old habits are coming back. Spending time in Irish pubs is one of them. Seeing something I want, not buying it, then regretting that fact and obsessing over the item, only to discover that I can't find it anywhere is another habit. I saw that British writer Alan Bennett has published a new book. His previous book "Writing Home" was one of the touchstones when I lived in London ten years ago. Seeing a sequal of sorts is now available while I am again overseas just seemed to fit. But I resolved not to buy anything for myself until I had finished buying for others. This resolve lasted half a day. I decided that I had another full day (today) to look for gifts, and I really wanted the book. I have two hour and an eight hour flights this week. Such a book would be the perfect way to spend the time.
As soon as I decided this, I couldn't find a copy of the book anywhere. This search eclipsed my search for gifts for others. I can only obsess over one thing at a time. Obviously the streets of Italy are not littered with English-language books, although their larger bookstores make a better effort to stock foreign language books than America's do. Finally, late in the day, I found a copy, and spent last night as an American reading a British author in the Little India section of Italy in a B&B rented to me by a Japanese lady. It is a small world, after all.
I spent today in earnest search of gifts. I went to the Trastevere section of Rome. It is west of the Tibor River, south of Vatican City. Small streets, generally ignored by tourists, more homeless than I've seen anywhere else. It does have a tourist info kiosk, so I stopped and asked if there where sections of Rome with little shops. Not fancy designer clothes boutiques (they're on Via Del Corso, and I made the mistake of going there yesterday) nor cheap souvenir shops (which are everywhere), but interesting little stores. The man at TI circled a few sections on a map, and he came through. I was able to find some things for others, see some cool stuff, and discover the Irish pub in which I am typing this.
Today, while shooting some video at the Roman Ruins and Cat Sanctuary, a little kid came up behind me and screamed. I don't know whether he was trying to ruin my video or set the cats scrambling. I looked over at he and his father, who laughed one of those smug parental "isn't my kid adorable?" laughs. I held the non-expression on my face and went back to looking through my videocamera. The only thing I could think to say to the kid was "don't be an asshole your whole life" but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut. The cats also ignored them. Deprived of any reaction from two different species, the father and son quickly left. Since the cats hadn't changed position at all, I re-wound the tape to before the little bastard screamed, and began taping again.
As mentioned before, tomorrow I fly into Amsterdam, and then Thursday I fly home. I don't know if I will get a chance to get online in the next two days, so hard as it may be to believe, this is probably my last entry from Europe. Over the coming months I will update the journal with stories about my trip and maybe even some photos. But I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and especially for commenting. I wasn't too excited about this journal when the idea was first suggested to me, yet I have grown to really love posting here, and especially enjoy this format as a way of staying in touch with those who mean so much to me. So thanks again to everyone for joining in.
Oh yeah. Sorry, but I don't think I'll have time to get high tomorrow in Amsterdam. Everyone seems to love that story, and perhaps in the name of closure I should, but my flight arrives too late, and I don't feel like having the post-pot brownie hangover during an eight hour flight home.
Will post again soon.
john
I'm using this time to wrap things up. Rather than do any new sight seeing (or is it site seeing? Kate, you would know better than anyone else.), I've been trying to find gifts for people. Not to go offtrack, but I just realized that "sight seeing" is a little redundant. It's like saying "I went to the concert and did some 'sound hearing.' " Can you tell I'm writing this while in a pub? I have to - they won't let me drink at the computer center. When I was in Morocco and objected to my guide to only seeing stores and shops, he brusquely asked me "What's the matter? Don't you like shopping?" Well, frankly, no. I like wandering around and if I happen to see something either for myself or someone I know, I like to buy it. But going "shopping" with a goal in mind frustrates and annoys me. It's why my Christmas presents ususally come with an apology. It's why I've worn the same suit to every wedding for the last two years, even though each time I get a wedding invitation I say "I really need a new suit. This old one is shot." I've enjoyed re-visiting spots in Rome, but yesterday ended in frustration at my inability to find suitable gifts for some people. Oh, I bought a book for myself, sure, but finding stuff for others? Forget it.
During this transition period, old habits are coming back. Spending time in Irish pubs is one of them. Seeing something I want, not buying it, then regretting that fact and obsessing over the item, only to discover that I can't find it anywhere is another habit. I saw that British writer Alan Bennett has published a new book. His previous book "Writing Home" was one of the touchstones when I lived in London ten years ago. Seeing a sequal of sorts is now available while I am again overseas just seemed to fit. But I resolved not to buy anything for myself until I had finished buying for others. This resolve lasted half a day. I decided that I had another full day (today) to look for gifts, and I really wanted the book. I have two hour and an eight hour flights this week. Such a book would be the perfect way to spend the time.
As soon as I decided this, I couldn't find a copy of the book anywhere. This search eclipsed my search for gifts for others. I can only obsess over one thing at a time. Obviously the streets of Italy are not littered with English-language books, although their larger bookstores make a better effort to stock foreign language books than America's do. Finally, late in the day, I found a copy, and spent last night as an American reading a British author in the Little India section of Italy in a B&B rented to me by a Japanese lady. It is a small world, after all.
I spent today in earnest search of gifts. I went to the Trastevere section of Rome. It is west of the Tibor River, south of Vatican City. Small streets, generally ignored by tourists, more homeless than I've seen anywhere else. It does have a tourist info kiosk, so I stopped and asked if there where sections of Rome with little shops. Not fancy designer clothes boutiques (they're on Via Del Corso, and I made the mistake of going there yesterday) nor cheap souvenir shops (which are everywhere), but interesting little stores. The man at TI circled a few sections on a map, and he came through. I was able to find some things for others, see some cool stuff, and discover the Irish pub in which I am typing this.
Today, while shooting some video at the Roman Ruins and Cat Sanctuary, a little kid came up behind me and screamed. I don't know whether he was trying to ruin my video or set the cats scrambling. I looked over at he and his father, who laughed one of those smug parental "isn't my kid adorable?" laughs. I held the non-expression on my face and went back to looking through my videocamera. The only thing I could think to say to the kid was "don't be an asshole your whole life" but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut. The cats also ignored them. Deprived of any reaction from two different species, the father and son quickly left. Since the cats hadn't changed position at all, I re-wound the tape to before the little bastard screamed, and began taping again.
As mentioned before, tomorrow I fly into Amsterdam, and then Thursday I fly home. I don't know if I will get a chance to get online in the next two days, so hard as it may be to believe, this is probably my last entry from Europe. Over the coming months I will update the journal with stories about my trip and maybe even some photos. But I just wanted to thank everyone for reading and especially for commenting. I wasn't too excited about this journal when the idea was first suggested to me, yet I have grown to really love posting here, and especially enjoy this format as a way of staying in touch with those who mean so much to me. So thanks again to everyone for joining in.
Oh yeah. Sorry, but I don't think I'll have time to get high tomorrow in Amsterdam. Everyone seems to love that story, and perhaps in the name of closure I should, but my flight arrives too late, and I don't feel like having the post-pot brownie hangover during an eight hour flight home.
Will post again soon.
john
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Cinque Terre, pt II
I arrive in Monterosso Al Mare, the northernmost of the five villages that make up Cinque Terre, and the one that Rick Steves rates as having the best nightlife. Which is probably true, although "nightlife" is a relative term. It should also be remembered that I am traveling in the offseason, edging almost into the closed-off season: appearantly a number of hotels and bars close for the months of December and January. I was a little concerned about finding a place to stay while there. While I didn't envision having to sleep on the beach, I woke up Friday morning in Siena with a vague anxiety about finding lodging in Monterosso.
This concern wasn't helped by the fact the town's Tourist Info office was closed. I had my guidbook and used that, searching for a hotel. I wandered into town and saw a giant banner strung across the town square. Some sort of festival, commemorating the 20th anniversary of something or other, was scheduled for that weekend. The banner had a picture of a stag on it, and someone had gone around town putting Viking hats with horns on all the town statues. I feared the festival was going to be something Nordic. If figured this would make my lodging search even more difficult. However, the festival was not what I thought it was (more on that later) and I found a room in the first hotel I stopped at. When I told the owner what I wanted, it seemed to take him a moment to remember that he does indeed run a hotel.
I wandered Monterosso and its beach, which didn't take long, because none of the towns of Cinque Terre are what you would call big. Most of them are homes and hotels surrounding a townsquare dotted with the sort of shops and services needed by villagers and tourists. A few minutes and you've "done" the town. However, this adds to the charm of the place, and induces a desire to aimlessly wander the same small area. When I got back to the main square, the festival was in full swing. I still don't know what it was commemorating, but it consisted of the older men in the town roasting chestnuts over a fire and drinking locally produced wine. Many of them were wearing Viking helmets. The ladies of the town sat on nearby benches, talking with each other, eating walnuts and shaking their heads when one of the gentlemen would get particularly boisterous.
I bought a bag of walnuts and asked about a glass of wine. The man I spoke to, who spoke no English, made it plain that there were two problems with selling me a glass of wine. One, it wasn't entirely legal and a local policeman was standing nearby, and two, even worse, they were out of cups. But he waved his hands to me to let me know everything would be alright and went off to find some more cups. When he returned, having solved the second problem, we both agreed to just ignore the first problem, as the policeman had wandered away.
So I stood in the townsquare near the fire, enjoying both it's warmth and the smell of the mixture of burning wood and crisp November sea air. I had never had roasted chestnuts before, despite how good Nat King Cole makes them sound in "The Christmas Song." They are delicious.
Someone had added Viking horns to the man on a nearby "Men At Work" sign. I finished my wine, saved some chestnuts for the next day's hike, and wandered off to find something more substantial for dinner. I ended up eating a very good fusilli dish on the large balcony of a nearby restaurant. About halfway through my meal, I heard the sound of a large group of drunk men "singing." Sure enough, the men from the festival marched by, carrying signs and banners. I later saw them comandeering a large table at a local restaurant, still in their Viking helmets.
Sometimes not knowing the language adds to fun.
This concern wasn't helped by the fact the town's Tourist Info office was closed. I had my guidbook and used that, searching for a hotel. I wandered into town and saw a giant banner strung across the town square. Some sort of festival, commemorating the 20th anniversary of something or other, was scheduled for that weekend. The banner had a picture of a stag on it, and someone had gone around town putting Viking hats with horns on all the town statues. I feared the festival was going to be something Nordic. If figured this would make my lodging search even more difficult. However, the festival was not what I thought it was (more on that later) and I found a room in the first hotel I stopped at. When I told the owner what I wanted, it seemed to take him a moment to remember that he does indeed run a hotel.
I wandered Monterosso and its beach, which didn't take long, because none of the towns of Cinque Terre are what you would call big. Most of them are homes and hotels surrounding a townsquare dotted with the sort of shops and services needed by villagers and tourists. A few minutes and you've "done" the town. However, this adds to the charm of the place, and induces a desire to aimlessly wander the same small area. When I got back to the main square, the festival was in full swing. I still don't know what it was commemorating, but it consisted of the older men in the town roasting chestnuts over a fire and drinking locally produced wine. Many of them were wearing Viking helmets. The ladies of the town sat on nearby benches, talking with each other, eating walnuts and shaking their heads when one of the gentlemen would get particularly boisterous.
I bought a bag of walnuts and asked about a glass of wine. The man I spoke to, who spoke no English, made it plain that there were two problems with selling me a glass of wine. One, it wasn't entirely legal and a local policeman was standing nearby, and two, even worse, they were out of cups. But he waved his hands to me to let me know everything would be alright and went off to find some more cups. When he returned, having solved the second problem, we both agreed to just ignore the first problem, as the policeman had wandered away.
So I stood in the townsquare near the fire, enjoying both it's warmth and the smell of the mixture of burning wood and crisp November sea air. I had never had roasted chestnuts before, despite how good Nat King Cole makes them sound in "The Christmas Song." They are delicious.
Someone had added Viking horns to the man on a nearby "Men At Work" sign. I finished my wine, saved some chestnuts for the next day's hike, and wandered off to find something more substantial for dinner. I ended up eating a very good fusilli dish on the large balcony of a nearby restaurant. About halfway through my meal, I heard the sound of a large group of drunk men "singing." Sure enough, the men from the festival marched by, carrying signs and banners. I later saw them comandeering a large table at a local restaurant, still in their Viking helmets.
Sometimes not knowing the language adds to fun.
Cinque Terre
Thank you to Gretchen Egolf, who first suggested I go to Cinque Terre.
I should try to make this fast. I notice when I do get online, I spend more time responding to people's comments and answering emails than I do posting entries on this journal. I also have to catch a train in about half an hour, and once I start writing an entry, it's hard to know when to stop. "Give an Irishman a chance to talk and you'll never shut him up" as it said in Mad magazine many years ago.
I spent the weekend in Cinque Terre, a group of five small villages along the coast of the Ligurian Sea. If Italy is a boot, they'd be close to the kneecap. The villages are linked by train, and even better, a series of trials you can hike. The trails run the gamut from an easy walk on a sidewalk alongside the water to a rather challenging trek through the mountains alongside vineyards. The trails aren't difficult in that they are on crumbly ground, but the journey up the mountain can feel mighty steep. At one point, I found myself breathing heavily. Normally, I try to hide this, but as I was alone, I let the loud breath come freely. If someone had heard me, I'm sure they would have wondered who got an iron lung so high up on the mountain.
But the views on the hikes are incredible. The good trails take about an hour and a half. I took about two hours on each one, simply because I kept turning around to enjoy the view. When you do reach one of the towns, it is a thrill to walk from wilderness into a little community, where people are kind, and you can have a nice lunch of olives, a sandwich and a beer for less than five euros.
to be continued
I should try to make this fast. I notice when I do get online, I spend more time responding to people's comments and answering emails than I do posting entries on this journal. I also have to catch a train in about half an hour, and once I start writing an entry, it's hard to know when to stop. "Give an Irishman a chance to talk and you'll never shut him up" as it said in Mad magazine many years ago.
I spent the weekend in Cinque Terre, a group of five small villages along the coast of the Ligurian Sea. If Italy is a boot, they'd be close to the kneecap. The villages are linked by train, and even better, a series of trials you can hike. The trails run the gamut from an easy walk on a sidewalk alongside the water to a rather challenging trek through the mountains alongside vineyards. The trails aren't difficult in that they are on crumbly ground, but the journey up the mountain can feel mighty steep. At one point, I found myself breathing heavily. Normally, I try to hide this, but as I was alone, I let the loud breath come freely. If someone had heard me, I'm sure they would have wondered who got an iron lung so high up on the mountain.
But the views on the hikes are incredible. The good trails take about an hour and a half. I took about two hours on each one, simply because I kept turning around to enjoy the view. When you do reach one of the towns, it is a thrill to walk from wilderness into a little community, where people are kind, and you can have a nice lunch of olives, a sandwich and a beer for less than five euros.
to be continued
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Siena
D'oh! I used up all my internet time responding to emails and comments on this webpage. Let me be brief:
I'm in Siena right now, which I love. A medieval town that has not changed that much in its architecture or layout. Florence has the great museums, which Siena does not (its main museum still has a huge sign outside for an exhibition that ended October 18th), but Siena has the charm. Just wandering the streets, especially in the early evening, is a pure pleasure. There's a cafe/bar that has a tiny terrace on their second floor. From there, you have a perfect view of the main square. I've been having my morning cappucino and my afternoon beer on this terrace, watching the show as people mix on the square. I'm completely at peace here.
Tomorrow I am off to Cinque Terre, a series of five small towns on Italy's west coast. Sunday I'm back to Rome, then Tuesday it's Amsterdam again, and, one week from today, I fly back to the States.
Darn.
In any case, I may not get a chance to post again until I get to Rome, so I just wanted to give everyone a heads up.
I'm in Siena right now, which I love. A medieval town that has not changed that much in its architecture or layout. Florence has the great museums, which Siena does not (its main museum still has a huge sign outside for an exhibition that ended October 18th), but Siena has the charm. Just wandering the streets, especially in the early evening, is a pure pleasure. There's a cafe/bar that has a tiny terrace on their second floor. From there, you have a perfect view of the main square. I've been having my morning cappucino and my afternoon beer on this terrace, watching the show as people mix on the square. I'm completely at peace here.
Tomorrow I am off to Cinque Terre, a series of five small towns on Italy's west coast. Sunday I'm back to Rome, then Tuesday it's Amsterdam again, and, one week from today, I fly back to the States.
Darn.
In any case, I may not get a chance to post again until I get to Rome, so I just wanted to give everyone a heads up.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Invisible Cities
When I was in Venice, I found myself thinking about a book I had read many years ago, "Invisible Cities" by the Italian author Italo Calvino. In the book, Marco Polo describes to Kubla Khan the various cities he has seen in his travels. It isn't a novel so much as it is a collection of poetic prose pieces, a catalogue of imaginary places. There was something about the eerie, misty beauty of Venice, especially at night, that made me think of Calvino's book. I had to keep reminding myself that I was in Italy. I knew I was in Venice, but it didn't feel like part of Italy. I figured this feeling made sense, given the old line about how Italians are loyal to their town first, their country second. For much of its history, Italy was a series of city/states, feuding with each other and anything but united. Venice is different from Rome which is different from Naples which is different from Sorrento. It made sense that an Italian would right a book about various towns.
On Saturday morning I am killing time, waiting for the Uffizi museum to open. I walk around a plaza, turn a corner and what do I see? A sign advertising an art exhibit based on..."Invisible Cities" by Italo Calvino. "That's an interesting coincidence" I think. Later that day, I stop in a bookstore that stocks English language books. I stop in every bookstore I pass anyway. It's how I know I'm more bibliophile than reader. I like to look at books, even if I can't read them. In any case, I find a copy of "Invisible Cities." On the back cover, a critic is describing the book and says "but Calvino is really only writing about one city: Venice." Another coincidence, although I chalk this up to Calvino's evocative skill as a writer and my lucky guess as a reader.
Today while wandering around, I pass the "Invisible Cities" exhibit and decide to stop in. The artist, Pedro Cano, has created a different watercolor painting for each city described in the book. As I walk along, one of the paintings looks like Morocoo. Interesting. Another is of a fortress that resembles the castle ruins I hiked along in Sintra, Portugal. Okay. But one picture stops me dead. It is exactly like a photograph I had taken while climbing the stairs in the Guadi Cathedral in Barcelona. Not similar, but exact. The same composition, as if the painting was done from my photograph. I notice more Arabesque-style buildings, the type that I saw in Morocco. But I'm used to, and enjoy, odd coincidences, so I shrug it off.
When I see the painting of the Nazarenes, I get a little freaked out. (See my entry of October 15th, in which I discuss my fascination/obsession with the Nazarenes). It doesn't say "Nazarenes" but the two eyes, peering through holes surrounded by white, with a white triangular figure in the background, make it obvious that that's what they are. Next to it is a watercolor that features the head of a baby doll. When I was in Rome, there was a secondhand shop that had filled their window with the parts of babydolls. Some arms and legs, but mostly heads. I took a picture of that.
I was beginning to feel like I had wandered, by chance and odd coincidence, into a gallery that depicted pictures of my travels for the last two months. It felt seriously weird. Yes, many of the paintings had no connection with my trip, but the ones that did were very close.
There is (thank God) a rational explaination for this. I discovered the artist was Spanish and had travelled a great deal, doing the pictures from his travels. So he might know about Nazarenes, and Moorish architecture and Moroccan culture. But the sequence of chance events that led me to this gallery were too eerie. The similarities were too close. The way that it seemed to sum up my trip, at a time that I am also summing up my trip, was too unsettling. This dissolving of the line between the inside and the outside, between what I am thinking about and what exists outside of me, was just a little too much.
I've had similar experiences in the past, and I've learned to live with them and enjoy them. There is something about a pattern in your life that transcends your own control that's...interesting? Something to contemplate? But while it is happening, it is creepy beyond compare.
I'd like to point out at this point that no, I am not insane. Yes, walking into a gallery with pictures that depicted what I've been seeing for the last two months did happen to me.
On Saturday morning I am killing time, waiting for the Uffizi museum to open. I walk around a plaza, turn a corner and what do I see? A sign advertising an art exhibit based on..."Invisible Cities" by Italo Calvino. "That's an interesting coincidence" I think. Later that day, I stop in a bookstore that stocks English language books. I stop in every bookstore I pass anyway. It's how I know I'm more bibliophile than reader. I like to look at books, even if I can't read them. In any case, I find a copy of "Invisible Cities." On the back cover, a critic is describing the book and says "but Calvino is really only writing about one city: Venice." Another coincidence, although I chalk this up to Calvino's evocative skill as a writer and my lucky guess as a reader.
Today while wandering around, I pass the "Invisible Cities" exhibit and decide to stop in. The artist, Pedro Cano, has created a different watercolor painting for each city described in the book. As I walk along, one of the paintings looks like Morocoo. Interesting. Another is of a fortress that resembles the castle ruins I hiked along in Sintra, Portugal. Okay. But one picture stops me dead. It is exactly like a photograph I had taken while climbing the stairs in the Guadi Cathedral in Barcelona. Not similar, but exact. The same composition, as if the painting was done from my photograph. I notice more Arabesque-style buildings, the type that I saw in Morocco. But I'm used to, and enjoy, odd coincidences, so I shrug it off.
When I see the painting of the Nazarenes, I get a little freaked out. (See my entry of October 15th, in which I discuss my fascination/obsession with the Nazarenes). It doesn't say "Nazarenes" but the two eyes, peering through holes surrounded by white, with a white triangular figure in the background, make it obvious that that's what they are. Next to it is a watercolor that features the head of a baby doll. When I was in Rome, there was a secondhand shop that had filled their window with the parts of babydolls. Some arms and legs, but mostly heads. I took a picture of that.
I was beginning to feel like I had wandered, by chance and odd coincidence, into a gallery that depicted pictures of my travels for the last two months. It felt seriously weird. Yes, many of the paintings had no connection with my trip, but the ones that did were very close.
There is (thank God) a rational explaination for this. I discovered the artist was Spanish and had travelled a great deal, doing the pictures from his travels. So he might know about Nazarenes, and Moorish architecture and Moroccan culture. But the sequence of chance events that led me to this gallery were too eerie. The similarities were too close. The way that it seemed to sum up my trip, at a time that I am also summing up my trip, was too unsettling. This dissolving of the line between the inside and the outside, between what I am thinking about and what exists outside of me, was just a little too much.
I've had similar experiences in the past, and I've learned to live with them and enjoy them. There is something about a pattern in your life that transcends your own control that's...interesting? Something to contemplate? But while it is happening, it is creepy beyond compare.
I'd like to point out at this point that no, I am not insane. Yes, walking into a gallery with pictures that depicted what I've been seeing for the last two months did happen to me.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Venice's Water
The canals in Venice reflect the sky, and imitate whatever color the sky is. No surprise there. On overcast days, you see waves of white that calm and vanish on the horizon to meet the white sky. If it was any brighter, it would hurt to look at, but as it is, it is beautiful in its blankness and motion. It is like watching undulating snowbanks.
But when it is sunny and clear, the water has a pale azure cast. It doesn't quite glow and isn't as brilliant as the water in the Blue Grotto, but it is still like a jewel to behold. The advantage is the canals are all around you. You don't have to take a bus, pay a fee, then take a rowboat to see the color for a few minutes.
It's a question of whether you want to have to journey and make a special effort to have a peak experience for a few minutes, or whether you want the less intense beauty integrated into your daily life.
But when it is sunny and clear, the water has a pale azure cast. It doesn't quite glow and isn't as brilliant as the water in the Blue Grotto, but it is still like a jewel to behold. The advantage is the canals are all around you. You don't have to take a bus, pay a fee, then take a rowboat to see the color for a few minutes.
It's a question of whether you want to have to journey and make a special effort to have a peak experience for a few minutes, or whether you want the less intense beauty integrated into your daily life.
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