Disappearing Acts, Escape Artists

It has been four days since my last post, sorry to keep you waiting, or this is me apologizing to myself because I haven't written anything. Either way, I will welcome myself back after the longest week in recent memory. It started with beers and goodbyes, as I sent Justin off to the United States for his seasonal retreat to make money in a country with money worth less than the Euro, or the Canadian dollar for that matter. Anyway, when the tourist season starts anew Justin will be back, hopefully pockets full and fingers ready for typing out fresh stories about adventures as immigrants.

I thought I was going to be by myself on a long haul trek through the Roman winter, one known more for its lack of tourists, in my case tourist revenue than its harsh weather. I was just about to miss Justin when, two things happened. Thing number one: Sabrina, Isabella, and Giorgia called, pissed as all hell at the blog Justin wrote about them, making me think that if girls who can't read English can understand our blog enough to be mad at us than the rest of our readership must think we are ridiculous assholes without a good thought in our collective heads. Thing number two: Brandon, my former roommate, and WWOOFer (willing worker of organic farms) would be arriving in Italy the day after Justin left. This left me no time to prepare for him, write a blog, think about Italian ragazzas hating me, or pretty much anything else.

Brandon arrived a little after noon on Thursday morning in typical Brandon fashion, meaning without letting me know when he would be arriving until the moment he arrives. I got a phone call from Brandon directly after making pancakes upstairs in Jordan's apartment. Brandon called asking me if I wanted to get lunch, because he was at Termini, and wouldn't be able to leave for at least an hour because he was washing his clothes at a laundromat we used to frequent when we lived in the area together two years ago. I let him know that I had already eaten, and that he would have been more than welcome to join us if he had sent word about his arrival. I decided to meet him over at the laundromat, because Via Tor Pignatara isn't the easiest place to get to in Rome, and Brandon spent his tenure in Rome either in Trastevere or Termini, and not much more. The boy never made it to Saint Peter's or the Vatican, and he was here for more than five months. I work at the Vatican, and he still missed it this time around.

When I arrived, Brandon and I gave each other enthusiastic hellos, even though I had seen him three weeks prior, when Justin and I lived in Marino, that's just how we are, overly enthusiastic about seeing each other for no reason at all. Not for seeing Basilica's, but for seeing my smiling face Brandon seems to travel half way across the world. We bought two of the worst espressos we've ever had, just because the barista was cute, and caught up on what is most important, stories about girls, traveling, punk rock, and past adventures.

As I mentioned before, Brandon has a typical fashion associated with his arrivals into Rome. His failure to communicate with me when we first encountered in Rome two years ago had me on the brink of thinking I was a paranoid schizophrenic. This requires reintroducing Brandon, and as with the majority of my stories begins in Philadelphia.

I was taking Italian 101 at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, in preparation for my semester in Rome. The class room was packed with students, about ten over capacity, and the only things I learned that semester were that fat girls with Musical Theater and Fibers majors wanted to learn Italian, and that Carla Weinberg our professor hated the Euro because she can "no longer afford to buy leather shoes in Italy." No alphabet, no numbers, no ciao even though our book went by that title. Nothing. I scanned the room, looking for some sign of intelligence and found Brandon. He sat in the back of the class, and just drew little doodles and made snide remarks from time to time, the kind I wished I could get away with, but he was an actor, and I was at the time an illustrator or sculptor, I wasn't quite sure.

One day Brandon and I each stayed after class to tell Carla that we would be studying abroad in Rome. This is where we formally met, totally by chance, because we both asked the less than helpful professor for help. We each learned that the other would be in Rome and decided instantly that we should search for an apartment together. We exchanged phone numbers and that was pretty much it.

I spent the rest of the semester skipping that class, because it was pointless and I had already learned who I was going to live with. Brandon and I had coffee one time after that and discussed logistics. He would be leaving for Italy in June, arriving in Rome, scope out a place for us to meet at the train station and then WWOOF his way around Italy until I arrived in August. Perfect, everything was settled.

The rest of the semester played out, and on the last day of school I meet another guy going to school in Italy the following semester. His name is Garrett. Garrett, is two years older than me, but he is in my major, and he will be studying at the same university as me. How a department of less than twenty people can neglect to tell us that there will be someone else studying in the same foreign country as the other is totally beyond me. I meet Garrett playing kickball on his last day of school in America ever. I immediately tell him about Brandon, and then call Brandon to schedule a meeting about the three of us getting a place together.

We meet at Garrett's house, on a really shitty block in South Philly, exchange flight information and prepare to see each other the next time on August 11th 2005 in Rome.

I arrive in Rome a little bit late, I am supposed to be the last of the three arriving, I figure that they will be patiently or maybe impatiently awaiting my arrival. I arrive at Termini Station, and realize something Brandon neglected to mention. Termini is FUCKING HUGE! There are over twenty front doors, and thirty tracks for train arrivals. The visual clutter of advertisements and the sea of different nationalities give Times Square a run for its money.
I search for two hours, book bag on my back and rolling suitcase in my hand. I took a break to find something edible and decided right away that I wanted to go home. The food by Termini is terrible, and there are pickpockets lurking everywhere. I signed into my email account see if either Brandon or Garrett had emailed me. Neither had. I decided to take one more swing through and if that didn't work I would find a hostel with internet access, so I could make contact with them eventually.

I didn't find them. I did find a hostel, and it was filled with ugly girls, so I decided I would sit by the computer and wait for two guys. Guys I didn't really know, and wasn't sure if I even liked, but they were my only link to home, and I wasn't going to let them go for anything in the world.

After another six hours, six emails, and six people behind me waiting to use the computer. I decided that my connection to home. Brandon and Garrett, the two guys I had met a few times. The guys no one knew about, never met my friends, never hung out with and never responded to my emails, were never going to be real. I decided that they never existed, considered myself crazy and decided to go drink my brain away in the Eternal City. I found a pub crawl and signed up, I really found two hot, really hot German girls and followed them to the pub crawl.

I got drunk on the Tiber River at some shitty bar for tourists, and my drunk mouth rambled off my new story about how I was a schizo to these girls, and that I invented my two potential roommates. I asked them if they wanted to live with me, as I could no longer be able to afford the rent of for a three bedroom apartment as I was in actuality only one person, with two imaginary friends, that didn't even like me enough to make the trip over the ocean with me.

I think I thoroughly freaked those girls out, because I took the bus home alone that night, stumbled into my hostel bed and slept in my clothes on top of my bags. I woke up in the morning to find my guide book had disappeared, maybe I had imagined that too. My last ditch effort to restore my sanity was to check the internet again. Nothing. That was it, I was truly crazy. I went to stand up, when I got a feeling I should hit the refresh button on my browser.
There was a new email in my inbox. It was from Brandon, the subject was "OH FUCK I SUCK!"

To be continued...

It's the reaction that counts.

Writing thoughts, in English, thinking in a completely sarcastic and American view point, and then commenting on another's culture in what may seem to be an impolite and one sided manner seemed just natural, but then I realized that people are actually reading what I am writing, and maybe a little more time and thought should go into what I publish on a whim. That's why the literary world has editors. This is in response to my last blog, about the superficiality of Italian culture. It was titled What's in a Name? It appears to be more about what's in the brains of people than in the names associated with locations and styles.

My friend Ilaria, an Italian girl, read my blog and it upset her. She went on to make valid points that I am usually surrounded by Italian youth, who have yet to form their identities, and that I see them primarily on Friday and Saturday after the work week.

The major thing here is that I felt wrong in upsetting people I cared about. I wouldn't be here in Italy if not for them. Shit, they're the reason I came back to this country anyway, so if I have complaints to make I should have thought about that decision before coming here.

What's in a name?

When I walk down the streets of Rome, there are few things that actually remind me of reality. Reality as I know it at least. I call home from the Piazza Navona, staring at Bernini's magnificent fountain. My workplace is the Sistine Chapel, and Saint Peter's. My friends speak a language I am barely grasping, and all the bands sing in English that is worse than my Italian.

It seems to all be a farce. A never ending dream that I don't want to wake up from. I just finished watching Eyes Wide Shut, the last film directed by Stanley Kubrick, who by sheer coincidence has a show here in Rome right now, and I feel almost like Tom Cruise in the film, searching for a darker more sinister meaning behind the unbelievable fantasy before my eyes, that I happened to stumble into by chance. I feel like the deeper I embed myself into this world the more they see I don't belong, but it doesn't stop me from trying to figure it out.

Italy seems to be a fashion show. The hardcore music scene looks the part, but doesn't act it. No one dances, everyone watches and claps and thats all. The audience rushes then to the merch booth to purchase the look of the band. The fashion that is independent music. Not to say that America isn't guilty of consuming by any means, but there seems to be a passion attached to it there that I just don't find here.

I see people dressed on the streets in skateboarding clothes. From time to time in parks, I encounter boys with skateboards, but no one is ever riding them.

There is scaffolding on the aformentioned Bernini fountain, but never anyone working on it. The same goes for the metro lines. It is 2007, almost 2008, there are only two metro lines in Rome, and the worst traffic I have ever seen. Why is nothing being down.

This was all actually supposed to be about the difference between Pabst Blue Ribbon and Peroni Nastro Azzuro (or Blue Ribbon) which while it may have won a blue ribbon some time ago does not even compare to sub premium Pabst. Nastro Azzuro is a neon green color, and doesn't go down smooth. Try it for yourself because this beer is billed as Peroni in the States, the real Peroni here is not actually bad, and it can be purchased astronomically cheap.

Back to the show, the words for establishments in which alcohol can be consumed in Italy are as follows. Bar, Pub, Disco, Club... you get the idea. What is the Bartender called? Barman. What perplexes me, is where did these people consume alcohol before the 20th century. The Italians are famous for producing wine, yet I rarely ever see them consume it. During our "date" Isabella called Justin a sponge, because he drank more than one glass of wine.

What is this culture that produces such superficial people?

Our Hot Date

A post with pictures!

The beginning of a post that I started a few nights ago:

Tonight Jim and I have our first date with two Italian ragazzas (a ragazza is an Italian girl, as far as we're concerned. Two ragazzas are technically called "due ragazze," with an "e" at the end, but we don't give a shit). These two ragazzas are the two prettiest girls from Marino. Have either of us mentioned that we were celebrities in Marino toward the end of our tenure there? One of these ragazzas is named Sabrina, and she was our usual barmaid at the pub. The other ragazza is Isabella (as in "is a bella ragazza!"). After taking a few shots with some friends during our "last night at the pub", we bid everyone our adieu's and left. As we turned the corner away from the pub and into Marino's main square, we heard our names called out. We turned around and coming up to us was Sabrina, the blonde waitress, who had the night off. Behind her were two of her friends, whom she introduced as Isabella and Georgia. They asked us what we were doing and if we wanted to go to the pub with them, there being nothing else to do in Marino at that time of night except for maybe see who can spit the farthest off the mountain. Going back to the pub would be a bit of an embarrassing concession, since we had left only minutes prior with much fanfare, handshakes and back claps and such, but fuck it. These girls were beautiful. Well, two of them were. The third was nice and cute, but much younger. As we learned later, she was Isabella's younger sister.

We had a round with the three of them and talked for over an hour only in italian. Everything we know in the language was put the test; since even that doesn't amount to much, the rest we left up to our natural charm and wit. Being a southerner in Philly is a commodity, being a southerner in Italy doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I have relied quite heavily on the fact that I'm from Alabama to make an impression when in the north (not because I myself find it particularly interesting, but because it always gets a reaction, and it's a good conversation starter), but with these ragazzas, they just nodded and blinked. A little while after these introductions, Isabella tells us she's going to Alabama. Well, ok. Where in Alabama? Non lo sa.

The night passed at a pleasurable slowness, culminating in a trip to a late night cafe in the next town over for cornetti. Feeling good about it all, Jim and I invited the girls to our house in Rome for dinner.

Now for what I've written since after the night of our "date."

A few days later we moved into our new studio apartment (which I will post more pictures of in a different post). For days our stuff lay strewn about the apartment. Piles of clothes, paperwork from our jobs, suitcases, etc. The place, as I've mentioned in another post, smelled horrendous. We got text messages from Sabrina and Isabella confirming our dinner date. The day came when they had agreed to come and Jim and I got our fucking acts together. Nothing motivates a couple of smelly bachelors who live like college freshmen to clean their act up like a couple of bella ragazzas. That morning Elena (the landlady/Jordan's girlfriend) came and painted one of the walls and brought some cloths in to add some color. Jim, Jordan, and I went to a restaurant in Re di Roma to eat lunch, and afterwards Jim and I went to Coin-- the Italian Macy's-- in San Giovanni so Jim could buy a 9 euro towel. As we were leaving we saw the men's cologne, and both of us sprayed ourselves down. We returned to our bachelor's den to clean ourselves up and prepare. The ragazzas told us they were going to come after dinner, so the pressure to pretend like we knew how to cook was off. That was a relief, since we only found out that our refrigerator didn't work that day.

We walked around the place preparing for a night of wild orgies and debauchery. Both of us bathed and shaved; we hung up sheets around our beds for "privacy", we borrowed plates and forks and glasses from Jordan and Elena for the cheese, wine, and meats we bought for snacks. When finally they called for us to meet them, Jim and I were acting like two 6th graders. We literally sprinted to the bus stop so that we could meet them at the Arco di Travertino Metro stop. They were in a car, but directions here are difficult.

For the first of our setbacks, Georgia, Isabella's little sister, came too. Heartily discouraged, we kissed them all on the cheeks and got into the car. This wasn't going to be an orgy fest with Isabella's little sister there too. The ragazzas sang loudly to Italian songs while Jim and I made fun of them in English in the back seat, with Georgia sitting between us. We made it to our place feeling slightly uncomfortable. Fortunately Jordan was hanging outside of his window above us, and Elena wasn't around, so we invited him down to have a glass of wine. His Italian is nearly flawless, so he was a good ice-breaker to have around.

Things started out awkwardly. I poured a round of wine for everyone except for Georgia, who preferred orange juice. After that glass I offered another to everyone. Only Jim and I took one. Isabella started calling me "la spugna" (spelling?), which means "sponge." Why she chose me to start making fun of for drinking, I don't know, but it didn't endear her to me. I told her in Italian that I could drink all night without feeling much of an effect, and that Americans drink all the fucking time. At this point Sabrina, the waitress spoke up and started making fun of my claim by reminding me of the ONE night where I got really drunk at the pub, when I ended up nearly passing out on the stool. Ok, good point Sabrina. I could have defended myself by telling her how much I drank that night, but that would have vindicated their case that I was a "sponge." Feeling all hope of making out with a ragazza fade away, I decided to do the next best thing, and one of my favorite activities in Italy: make fun of everyone in English. Cuz they don't understand a fucking word of it. Once I did that, I started to loosen up. It is a fun activity only if there is another English speaker in the room, because without one I just feel like an asshole. This tactic never fails to make me feel more comfortable. And eventually they warmed up to us and we to them, and finally I got on a long rant about Alabama and the beaches there and how they're more beautiful than the beaches in Florida; how the forests in Alabama are wonderful ; how the mountains are great for hiking. I felt really good.

Basically the night ended with them leaving and kissing us on the cheeks. Jim and I went upstairs to Jordan and Elena's place to retrieve our "Hell's Bier" from their refrigerator. They were put there just in case things didn't work out the way we had intended, just in case we needed an anti-victory drink. We came back into our apartment. It was covered in dirty plates with old olive pits, there were empty bottles and empty glasses everywhere, the floor had reverted back to it's permanent dirtiness. We sat down and got onto the internet to check out emails and myspace accounts. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened.

By the way... this is about teeth and personal hygine

A toothbrush, I did buy before Justin wrote that blog about me and my stench, and it's not that I wanted to be stinky, it's just that it is fucking impossible to get a hold of the things we take for granted in the states. For instance, a toothbrush that doesn't rip through gums, or a decent sized towel for under $14. I had to estimate the dollar value of my towel. Nothing here seems to be easy. I had to pay 29 euros to get my clothes washed and dried, which is why I held out for six weeks, and the fuckers at the laundrymat didn't even fold my clothes. They just folded the top layer, so when I looked in the bags, I said "tutto posto" and walked away broke, with clean but already wrinkled shirts.

I have this weird thing about using other peoples soap, or drying off without a towel, I just can't do it, so that in addition to the stressful moving process, which involved dodging questions about money from my quasi landlady, or better put Justin's roommate slash spy loanshark, had me too stressed out to even think about showering. I have since showered about as many times as I have posted on this blog. Our new shower is great! It makes an awesome water park out of our bathroom floor, and I don't think I have ever come quite as close to God as when I scurried out of the shower to answer the phone. I slipped on my living room floor courtesy of the showers incredible ability to get everything in the house wet except for me. Mind you, I was buck naked minus the first of two towels I purchased in the last few days here. It was a gorgeous one euro trenta centissimi pink hand towel with a green apple embroidered on it. I flew up in the air, lost my towel and landed on my ass cheeks splitting them on the concrete floor. I would have cracked my head open on the same floor, but thankfully I had just paid far to much to do my laundry, and my suitcase broke my head's fall.

I was, by the way trying at the same moment that I was half knocked out on my living room/kitchen/bedroom floor, did I mention that I live in a room that is about 30,000 square cm, you fuckers don't know how to use the metric system anyway, measure it out and get back to me, to go to a dinner for work. My friend/landlord/coworker Jordan was calling me from upstairs to make sure I was ready to go. I missed his call and all i could think about was how bad it would suck if he walked in on me naked on the floor, cell phone in hand, head in suitcase.

I got up got dressed met up with Jordan, and we made our way to the work dinner. The night in general was anything but eventful, but I did end up sleeping at a girls house. No, not anything sexual, she manages our work website and is not Italian, quickly knocking her out of position for me to earn an EU passport. Well regardless, the most exciting thing after falling had to be drinking tea in the morning, something I had forgotten that I enjoyed, and then buying a new towel! Cleanliness here I come, and just in time for Justin's next post in which we will have sort of a double date with some real Italian women... stay tuned true believers.

Sonia Velasquez

Colombian Pirates... AKA Eyepatches are sexy!

I think Justin and I may have totally forgotten the craziest thing that has happened to us since we arrived here in Italy, while we were living in Marino with two of the craziest girls I've ever encountered. One was from Argentina, and would stay in her room all day long, and only come out to devour the toilet paper rolls, and a girl from Belgium who lived all over the world, spoke some of the most ridiculous languages, and disappeared for weeks at a time. This girl was such an enigma, that one day I will take the time and devote a post to her.

We had one other roommate however, only for two weeks. She was this strange woman from Columbia. She spoke to us in a mix of English, Italian and Spanish(of which, I know none.) She had a really sophisticated and almost sexy air about her, but there was this strange problem with her eye. Which one I can't quite remember now, but it seemed like it didn't work. It was glazed over and was kind of sunken in. We joked about maybe trying to get it on with her, but how creeped out she made us both feel when she looked directly at us. This went on like this until the day before she left. I happened to run into her on the train from Rome to Marino, and ended up hiking up the hill with her. I was a little bit tipsy and out of breath by the time I got to the top of the hill, that made me think it was a great idea to start hitting on her. We get back to the house another ten minutes later, and split a bottle of wine.

We get into a conversation about our respective countries. Mine obviously the USA, and hers Columbia. She starts talking about self image, and I immediately equate it to her eye, but no she seems to be relating it to how girls view her as a role model. I ask her why girls view her as an idol, "Which girls?" I ask. She grabs my computer and pulls up a website. I will reproduce it here for you. http://www.soniavelasquez.com/ The woman is a fucking Columbian celebrity!!! She has billboards with her picture on it, and has been in Maxim magazine as one of the hottest celebrities in the world. Here I am sitting next to a fucking celebrity thinking that I have the chance to score with her, kicking myself for not being able to see past her eye. No pun intended. She seems to lose interest in me as soon as I realize who she is. I think I got a little too excited.

This woman has her eye patches custom fabricated and given to her by a designer. She is a leading journalist in Columbia, like Katie Couric, but hot, and I am sitting across the red and white checkered table from her in Marino. One of the smallest most insignificant towns in Italy. She gets up from the table, calls me Justin and thats it. I never see her again.