I don't know about Jim, but I've consolidated all my blogging efforts onto one site: justinsouthern.com. Nifty name, eh?
This blog is about my thoughts on travel, history, books, films, photography, and my general entrepreneurial endeavors. Check it out and follow if you want. There will be less profanity, I promise.
giovedì 21 aprile 2011
mercoledì 9 aprile 2008
Feel Good Lost
Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, "If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the host of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper, who did his job well."
Though it may sound corny, this is the philosophy I’ve been applying lately to tour guiding, because I’m endanger of losing my job.
Being a tour guide in Italy is actually a fairly respected profession, and being one in Rome is really good. I spend 90% of my free time studying for work, partly because I’m interested, but also because it is a lot of information and a lot of different topics I have to handle (over 3000 years of it; sometimes I have dreams about Pope Julius II or Gianlorenzo Bernini). This has always made it hard for me when speaking to Americans. Most tend to think that I ride on top of a bus or something. So when I tell people what I do, I try to not use that term for it’s kitschy connotations. Instead I say I am a "private guide" or something. I know it is a really pretentious way of saying "tour guide," but I say it because I’m embarrassed. So many people in America don’t think of it as a real profession. But calling myself a "private guide" is pretty much true. Sometimes I will have a group of about 10 people whom I guide through Rome, but mostly I pick people up from their hotels, take them where they want to go, tell them about the sites, take them out to a nice restaurant, etc. Some of these people pay me a rather grotesque sum of money, and for the first time in my life I’ve had a job that I really enjoy. I get to meet people from all over the world and get paid to do what I’d do for free anyways if I had the means, which is talk about art, philosophy, history, culture, etc. I have a nice apartment, I’m learning a new language and meeting a lot of people, I’m planning on traveling to Africa sometime in the future, and I have been able to save a little bit. And I don’t have to worry about money. Or haven’t had to worry about money. Now, as the dollar drops, my company is getting less and less tours, and since I am the last person they hired, I am at the bottom of the chain. They are giving all of the tours to the people who have been with them for several years. My two bosses called me over one day and sat me down and told me that it might be a good idea for me to start looking for another job. Though he told me to wait three weeks to see if the season picks up. And so now they are paying me the equivalent of 500 dollars a week just to go in the mornings to the Vatican and pick up headsets and give them to groups. This takes about a half hour. But they also want me on call for any last minute bookings, so I can’t go and get another job. This week so far I had one tour, which I mentioned in my last blog. I am surviving, but I don’t know if after another week they are going to tell me that they can’t keep me on this stipend anymore. I have enough now for rent for next month, and that’s it.
So yet again, I’m worried about money. A part of me feels like this is why I’m always so happy in Italy, as strange as that sounds. But it really boils down to the acquisition of necessities. In the States, I could always rely on someone’s help for just about anything. Friends, family, maybe even the government (harhar). But here I have only a limited grasp of the language, am working here *ahem* illegally, have no insurance, no parents’ or grandparents’ houses to go to to do my laundry or move into if I don’t have the money to pay rent. Etc. Here, if I make rent and have enough left over to go out drinking, I’m pretty damn happy. I eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow I will die (First Corinthians, I believe; or that Dave Matthews song, if you’re more for the pop-cultural references).
And so back to touring my heart out. I am basically a pop-historian/performer sometimes. I am here to educate people and be thorough about it, but also keep them entertained. This means I am trying to become extremely friendly with everyone I meet, and get to know their interests as quickly as possible, and be as pliable as possible. I have to crank up the charisma much higher than I'm used to. And the performance element of it, well I have to tell stories that can last 15 minutes sometimes, and most of them involve a lot of people that no one has ever heard of. Telling the history of 1st century B.C. Rome can get pretty confusing for the average layman, since there are at least 5 civil wars that I reference in a matter of minutes, each one of these wars one could devote days to discussing. Or telling people about the different popes who commissioned what in the city of Rome. Most people don’t know the difference between a Borgia pope and a Della Rovere pope. So I have to sum it all up pretty succinctly, and I have to never let my enthusiasm wain. As soon as someone starts to get confused about which person fought who in which war, as soon as someone loses interest, I’m pretty much fucked (did I mention a lot of what I’m working for is tips?). I don’t even like people, and I hate public speaking, but I have become pretty damn good at it, and more often than not I have people who aren’t even taking my tour listening in on me and coming over afterwards with legitimate enthusiasm about what I’m talking about, asking me all types of questions.
Basically I’m trying to be as impressive as humanly possible, because then they will leave comments about me on the travel websites, or they will write a good review of me to my bosses, and then maybe I can keep my job. My job is simply a means of surviving here, I know, but it is also the only job I can do really well here, since I was a pretty shitty English teacher, and there aren’t a whole lot more options.
My one main other option is to start my own company, and more and more lately I’m thinking that that might be a damn good idea. My only problem is starting a website. I know absolutely nothing about web design, and that is the most important part. I can make business cards or fliers to put at hostels (I’m thinking of doing a 15 Euro evening tour of Rome for college students, for one. Each booking gets a free bottle of wine, minimum 2 people per booking), but I need a place where people can come and make their bookings. Anybody know anything about web design?
Other than that, my life is pretty awesome right now. I’m going to Florence this weekend for a friend’s birthday. I think they want to take a train there, but I’m going to persuade them to drive. Cheaper.
Ok, well I’ll see ya later.
Though it may sound corny, this is the philosophy I’ve been applying lately to tour guiding, because I’m endanger of losing my job.
Being a tour guide in Italy is actually a fairly respected profession, and being one in Rome is really good. I spend 90% of my free time studying for work, partly because I’m interested, but also because it is a lot of information and a lot of different topics I have to handle (over 3000 years of it; sometimes I have dreams about Pope Julius II or Gianlorenzo Bernini). This has always made it hard for me when speaking to Americans. Most tend to think that I ride on top of a bus or something. So when I tell people what I do, I try to not use that term for it’s kitschy connotations. Instead I say I am a "private guide" or something. I know it is a really pretentious way of saying "tour guide," but I say it because I’m embarrassed. So many people in America don’t think of it as a real profession. But calling myself a "private guide" is pretty much true. Sometimes I will have a group of about 10 people whom I guide through Rome, but mostly I pick people up from their hotels, take them where they want to go, tell them about the sites, take them out to a nice restaurant, etc. Some of these people pay me a rather grotesque sum of money, and for the first time in my life I’ve had a job that I really enjoy. I get to meet people from all over the world and get paid to do what I’d do for free anyways if I had the means, which is talk about art, philosophy, history, culture, etc. I have a nice apartment, I’m learning a new language and meeting a lot of people, I’m planning on traveling to Africa sometime in the future, and I have been able to save a little bit. And I don’t have to worry about money. Or haven’t had to worry about money. Now, as the dollar drops, my company is getting less and less tours, and since I am the last person they hired, I am at the bottom of the chain. They are giving all of the tours to the people who have been with them for several years. My two bosses called me over one day and sat me down and told me that it might be a good idea for me to start looking for another job. Though he told me to wait three weeks to see if the season picks up. And so now they are paying me the equivalent of 500 dollars a week just to go in the mornings to the Vatican and pick up headsets and give them to groups. This takes about a half hour. But they also want me on call for any last minute bookings, so I can’t go and get another job. This week so far I had one tour, which I mentioned in my last blog. I am surviving, but I don’t know if after another week they are going to tell me that they can’t keep me on this stipend anymore. I have enough now for rent for next month, and that’s it.
So yet again, I’m worried about money. A part of me feels like this is why I’m always so happy in Italy, as strange as that sounds. But it really boils down to the acquisition of necessities. In the States, I could always rely on someone’s help for just about anything. Friends, family, maybe even the government (harhar). But here I have only a limited grasp of the language, am working here *ahem* illegally, have no insurance, no parents’ or grandparents’ houses to go to to do my laundry or move into if I don’t have the money to pay rent. Etc. Here, if I make rent and have enough left over to go out drinking, I’m pretty damn happy. I eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow I will die (First Corinthians, I believe; or that Dave Matthews song, if you’re more for the pop-cultural references).
And so back to touring my heart out. I am basically a pop-historian/performer sometimes. I am here to educate people and be thorough about it, but also keep them entertained. This means I am trying to become extremely friendly with everyone I meet, and get to know their interests as quickly as possible, and be as pliable as possible. I have to crank up the charisma much higher than I'm used to. And the performance element of it, well I have to tell stories that can last 15 minutes sometimes, and most of them involve a lot of people that no one has ever heard of. Telling the history of 1st century B.C. Rome can get pretty confusing for the average layman, since there are at least 5 civil wars that I reference in a matter of minutes, each one of these wars one could devote days to discussing. Or telling people about the different popes who commissioned what in the city of Rome. Most people don’t know the difference between a Borgia pope and a Della Rovere pope. So I have to sum it all up pretty succinctly, and I have to never let my enthusiasm wain. As soon as someone starts to get confused about which person fought who in which war, as soon as someone loses interest, I’m pretty much fucked (did I mention a lot of what I’m working for is tips?). I don’t even like people, and I hate public speaking, but I have become pretty damn good at it, and more often than not I have people who aren’t even taking my tour listening in on me and coming over afterwards with legitimate enthusiasm about what I’m talking about, asking me all types of questions.
Basically I’m trying to be as impressive as humanly possible, because then they will leave comments about me on the travel websites, or they will write a good review of me to my bosses, and then maybe I can keep my job. My job is simply a means of surviving here, I know, but it is also the only job I can do really well here, since I was a pretty shitty English teacher, and there aren’t a whole lot more options.
My one main other option is to start my own company, and more and more lately I’m thinking that that might be a damn good idea. My only problem is starting a website. I know absolutely nothing about web design, and that is the most important part. I can make business cards or fliers to put at hostels (I’m thinking of doing a 15 Euro evening tour of Rome for college students, for one. Each booking gets a free bottle of wine, minimum 2 people per booking), but I need a place where people can come and make their bookings. Anybody know anything about web design?
Other than that, my life is pretty awesome right now. I’m going to Florence this weekend for a friend’s birthday. I think they want to take a train there, but I’m going to persuade them to drive. Cheaper.
Ok, well I’ll see ya later.
martedì 22 gennaio 2008
A bout of Americanism.
For more than a month, I was occupied by visitors. First came Brandon, like my own personal Kramer from Seinfeld, Brandon seemed to show up just to make my life a bit more interesting and than immediately thereafter he would disappear. He had been in Italy since the beginning of October, and passed through Rome four times, each time staying at my apartment. He departed mid December, and his departure was followed by the immediate arrival of my friend Eóin. Eoin was at my two houses for a total of three weeks, just to clarify the two houses, I moved while he was staying with me. During his stay, we went out a good deal, spent Christmas and New Years together, actually spending Christmas day watching Lolita and Full Metal Jacket. It couldn't have been spent better in my opinion. It let me know just how isolated I am, being an American in Rome. All my Italian friends were with their families, all the Americans I know were probably getting drunk or doing something else equally stupid, and Eóin and I sat trying to make it through the masterpieces of Stanley Kubrik.
Eóin departed the day after the new year, and I was supposed to be visited by my friend Catt, but she got sick, and canceled her ticket the day before the flight. I sort of floundered around from the 2nd of January until the 8th, when my mother arrived on her birthday.
We had an amazing time together. We ran around Rome like maniacs, and my mom learned all about Bernini, Carbonara, Deep Fried Stuffed Olives, and $1.20 bottles of vino. I went to Florence for the second time in a month, and we saw some amazing art, I even talked to some girls in the Uffizi, but that didn't go anywhere. The most beautiful girl i talked to actually came from Albania. She was the bartender at some shitty bar that hands out flyers, for "Lady's Night." My mom and I went, because, well we had the flyer, and we wanted to sit down in an actual bar and drink Negroni's.(Gin, Campari, and Martini Red Vermouth.) My mom was really into them.
After all the excitement of my mom's visit, I tried to crash, but I couldn't. Being an American in Rome, the job options are limited. The most lucrative profession is giving tours, but that requires you to follow a tourist schedule, which means molto fucking presto. I have to wake up almost every day at 7:30, and take 45 min of public transportation to get to work. This wouldn't be so bad, but I have been trying to find a girl to date, and that requires going out at night, so, I don't make it in until around 5 am. Do the math. It's not enough sleep. I feel like a zombie, I speak like a toddler, and I must look even worse.
Today was the first day in a week that I could sleep in a bit, and when I woke up, I had a major urge for something home, something familiar. I walked down to the SUPERCARNI, and bought some ground veal. I bought the cheese that looked closest to American, (it ended up tasting like Poly-O string cheese.) and happpend to find sesame seed buns, I couldn't believe it. I was so stoked, that I found a Pilsner style beer, and decided to have a private party of one in my little kitchen area, complete with McDonald's brand ketchup. I cooked my burger to perfection, and went to open up the bun. It was then I had the realization that my burger was not going to be American, but a sorry imitation. My bun wasn't pre sliced, and when I cut it open, it fell apart, like the cheapest shit one could buy at Walmart. They come from a company called Daily Bread, and are produced in the EU. My beer isn't a Bud, but a Ceres "Top Pilsner," and well, I don't have any of my friends around me to party with, so I turned on CCR's greatest hits, and tried my best to pretend.
Shit, it sucks to be alone. See you all in March!
Eóin departed the day after the new year, and I was supposed to be visited by my friend Catt, but she got sick, and canceled her ticket the day before the flight. I sort of floundered around from the 2nd of January until the 8th, when my mother arrived on her birthday.
We had an amazing time together. We ran around Rome like maniacs, and my mom learned all about Bernini, Carbonara, Deep Fried Stuffed Olives, and $1.20 bottles of vino. I went to Florence for the second time in a month, and we saw some amazing art, I even talked to some girls in the Uffizi, but that didn't go anywhere. The most beautiful girl i talked to actually came from Albania. She was the bartender at some shitty bar that hands out flyers, for "Lady's Night." My mom and I went, because, well we had the flyer, and we wanted to sit down in an actual bar and drink Negroni's.(Gin, Campari, and Martini Red Vermouth.) My mom was really into them.
After all the excitement of my mom's visit, I tried to crash, but I couldn't. Being an American in Rome, the job options are limited. The most lucrative profession is giving tours, but that requires you to follow a tourist schedule, which means molto fucking presto. I have to wake up almost every day at 7:30, and take 45 min of public transportation to get to work. This wouldn't be so bad, but I have been trying to find a girl to date, and that requires going out at night, so, I don't make it in until around 5 am. Do the math. It's not enough sleep. I feel like a zombie, I speak like a toddler, and I must look even worse.
Today was the first day in a week that I could sleep in a bit, and when I woke up, I had a major urge for something home, something familiar. I walked down to the SUPERCARNI, and bought some ground veal. I bought the cheese that looked closest to American, (it ended up tasting like Poly-O string cheese.) and happpend to find sesame seed buns, I couldn't believe it. I was so stoked, that I found a Pilsner style beer, and decided to have a private party of one in my little kitchen area, complete with McDonald's brand ketchup. I cooked my burger to perfection, and went to open up the bun. It was then I had the realization that my burger was not going to be American, but a sorry imitation. My bun wasn't pre sliced, and when I cut it open, it fell apart, like the cheapest shit one could buy at Walmart. They come from a company called Daily Bread, and are produced in the EU. My beer isn't a Bud, but a Ceres "Top Pilsner," and well, I don't have any of my friends around me to party with, so I turned on CCR's greatest hits, and tried my best to pretend.
Shit, it sucks to be alone. See you all in March!
lunedì 7 gennaio 2008
i'd rather stand in the rain.
that video that jim posted was terrible. i'm ashamed to be a part of this blog...
giovedì 20 dicembre 2007
Vanilla Sky
One of the benefits of being an American living in Rome, is the type of people you can meet. By serendipity or some reason or other, I have been able to embed myself into the Roman music scene. I have encountered a ton of groups here because of it, met Ian MacKaye, Geoff Farina, Bane, and became friends with a guy named Vinx, who happens to now be the singer of a group called Vanilla Sky, obviously a name taken from the film featuring Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz. This band is taking Italy by force right now, I don't know if you've heard of them in the States or not, but they have been on Italian MTV, TRL, played all over Europe and Asia. And they even covered a really famous American song. Check them out.
venerdì 14 dicembre 2007
Romesick
I haven't posted in a while, and for that I'm sorry. Though I highly doubt that any of my friends are actually reading this. Anyways, here's my update:
I am back in the cold, cold Pennsylvania, fending for myself once again while my grandmother puts me up for free... I guess that doesn't constitute "fending for myself", but fuck off. I work at Charlie Brown's Steakhouse as a waiter. Most of my coworkers are either just out of high school or 30+ years old and act like they're just out of high school. Either way I don't fit in. I keep entirely to myself, and have only managed to memorize a total of 3 people's names. Thank God for nametags! I was told before starting that it wasn't unusual to make 100 bucks a day, but so far the most I've managed to make in one day is 65, bringing my week's total up to 200 bucks. Still not half bad, but not as good as I'd like it to be.
My grandmother, for those of you who don't know, is an insufferable old wench who spends her days drinking vodka tonics and watching the news. She is certifiably insane, suffering alternately from agoraphobia, schizophrenia, vertigo, paranoia, etc. If no one is around to cook for her the most she will eat on a good day is a banana sandwich. Maybe she'll put peanut butter on it. Maybe.
Last week her alcoholism caught up with her. At 7am she called me on my cell phone. This wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for a) it was 7am, and b) I live downstairs. I answered it all groggy and confused and she told me she couldn't get out of bed. She falls sometimes, a culmination of all of the above listed symptoms, and so I got out of bed and went upstairs. She asked me to hand her some pants and I grabbed what were on the floor. They were wet, and not wanting to know why, I threw them aside and grabbed another pair. Then I helped her into the bathroom before going back downstairs to fall back asleep. At 10am (3 hours later) she called me again on my cell phone and told me she couldn't get out of the bathroom. I went back upstairs and helped her back to her bed. She asked me to bring her
a glass of water. I handed it to her, but her hands were shaking too bad and she shook all the water over herself. I grabbed another one and set it on her night stand before getting dressed for work.
On my way out I stuck my head back into her room. If you need anything, I said, you know where I'll be. Ok, she said.
A few hours later a police officer showed up at my work. It was my second day, and having a cop show up asking for you on your second day doesn't bode well. Luckily my manager stood there while the cop explained that Carolyn (what I've always called my grandmother) was in the ER. My boss let me off work early and I went to see her. Carolyn is a feisty woman and when I showed up she was swatting at the nurses and pulling out all the IV's they'd stuck in her, screaming the whole time about how she was going to "sue everyone". The nurse asked me about Carolyn's drinking and I obligingly explained. Then the nurse asked where Carolyn gets the alcohol if she never leaves the house. Well, I buy it for her.
How stupid I felt having to explain that I'm the one who makes her daily liquor store runs. But what am I supposed to do? I live in her house for free, and I drive her car every day. If I refused she'd most likely kick me out of her house and disown me. So I do what I can.
The next week she was going through detox. If you want to know suffering, go watch a 20 year strong alcoholic go through detox. She hallucinated for 3 days and, as the nurse told me, didn't sleep at all. During my daily visits she never even realized I was in the room. She kept calling me "Brother Renfro." I don't know who "Brother Renfro" is or even if he "exists", but I imagine he is someone from her childhood on a Blackbelt cotton farm in South Alabama.
For the week it was me alone in her house. I was at a new job where I didn't fit in, and in a town where there is nothing to do and I know nobody. My only companion was my grandmother's pet dog, a small toy poodle, black, and named after an Uncle Remus, "Song of the South" character, Briar Patch. Briar Patch was never house trained. She is a yippy, neurotic dog who pees on the floor every time I walk in the room. Then she runs away. I get the impression that she doesn't like me. She spent all of the week hiding somewhere in the house and peeing all over everything tangible.
Needless to say, I was going a little insane.
Carolyn got back from the hospital yesterday, however, and is now back to her usual antics, drinking and accusing me of doing made up things. My week was strange and led to some interesting self-reflection, but it was the destructive type of self-reflection, not the constructive type that Rome was always giving me. My life is waxing and waning right now. I don't know what else to say. The album I am listening to is about to end, and when it does I am going to stop typing, even though my blogs never really have an ending. Just a bunch of build-up and then no release, or an anti-climactic release. Maybe I should put more thought into these things, eh? What's your opinion, reader (reader other than Jim, that is)?
I am back in the cold, cold Pennsylvania, fending for myself once again while my grandmother puts me up for free... I guess that doesn't constitute "fending for myself", but fuck off. I work at Charlie Brown's Steakhouse as a waiter. Most of my coworkers are either just out of high school or 30+ years old and act like they're just out of high school. Either way I don't fit in. I keep entirely to myself, and have only managed to memorize a total of 3 people's names. Thank God for nametags! I was told before starting that it wasn't unusual to make 100 bucks a day, but so far the most I've managed to make in one day is 65, bringing my week's total up to 200 bucks. Still not half bad, but not as good as I'd like it to be.
My grandmother, for those of you who don't know, is an insufferable old wench who spends her days drinking vodka tonics and watching the news. She is certifiably insane, suffering alternately from agoraphobia, schizophrenia, vertigo, paranoia, etc. If no one is around to cook for her the most she will eat on a good day is a banana sandwich. Maybe she'll put peanut butter on it. Maybe.
Last week her alcoholism caught up with her. At 7am she called me on my cell phone. This wouldn't be unusual if it weren't for a) it was 7am, and b) I live downstairs. I answered it all groggy and confused and she told me she couldn't get out of bed. She falls sometimes, a culmination of all of the above listed symptoms, and so I got out of bed and went upstairs. She asked me to hand her some pants and I grabbed what were on the floor. They were wet, and not wanting to know why, I threw them aside and grabbed another pair. Then I helped her into the bathroom before going back downstairs to fall back asleep. At 10am (3 hours later) she called me again on my cell phone and told me she couldn't get out of the bathroom. I went back upstairs and helped her back to her bed. She asked me to bring her
a glass of water. I handed it to her, but her hands were shaking too bad and she shook all the water over herself. I grabbed another one and set it on her night stand before getting dressed for work.
On my way out I stuck my head back into her room. If you need anything, I said, you know where I'll be. Ok, she said.
A few hours later a police officer showed up at my work. It was my second day, and having a cop show up asking for you on your second day doesn't bode well. Luckily my manager stood there while the cop explained that Carolyn (what I've always called my grandmother) was in the ER. My boss let me off work early and I went to see her. Carolyn is a feisty woman and when I showed up she was swatting at the nurses and pulling out all the IV's they'd stuck in her, screaming the whole time about how she was going to "sue everyone". The nurse asked me about Carolyn's drinking and I obligingly explained. Then the nurse asked where Carolyn gets the alcohol if she never leaves the house. Well, I buy it for her.
How stupid I felt having to explain that I'm the one who makes her daily liquor store runs. But what am I supposed to do? I live in her house for free, and I drive her car every day. If I refused she'd most likely kick me out of her house and disown me. So I do what I can.
The next week she was going through detox. If you want to know suffering, go watch a 20 year strong alcoholic go through detox. She hallucinated for 3 days and, as the nurse told me, didn't sleep at all. During my daily visits she never even realized I was in the room. She kept calling me "Brother Renfro." I don't know who "Brother Renfro" is or even if he "exists", but I imagine he is someone from her childhood on a Blackbelt cotton farm in South Alabama.
For the week it was me alone in her house. I was at a new job where I didn't fit in, and in a town where there is nothing to do and I know nobody. My only companion was my grandmother's pet dog, a small toy poodle, black, and named after an Uncle Remus, "Song of the South" character, Briar Patch. Briar Patch was never house trained. She is a yippy, neurotic dog who pees on the floor every time I walk in the room. Then she runs away. I get the impression that she doesn't like me. She spent all of the week hiding somewhere in the house and peeing all over everything tangible.
Needless to say, I was going a little insane.
Carolyn got back from the hospital yesterday, however, and is now back to her usual antics, drinking and accusing me of doing made up things. My week was strange and led to some interesting self-reflection, but it was the destructive type of self-reflection, not the constructive type that Rome was always giving me. My life is waxing and waning right now. I don't know what else to say. The album I am listening to is about to end, and when it does I am going to stop typing, even though my blogs never really have an ending. Just a bunch of build-up and then no release, or an anti-climactic release. Maybe I should put more thought into these things, eh? What's your opinion, reader (reader other than Jim, that is)?
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