Yamas! (or: Why I'll Never Drink Ouzo Again)

Oh what is there to say?

I saw lighting strike off the top of the acropolis,
I met a Greek man named Dimitri who's besotted with me the night we played a drinking game with the owner of the bar and I ended up tending bar while wearing a Greek flag like a cape.

Lisbon was just as beautiful as I imagined it would be,
and I was the most lonely I have been in a long time.
I was also anxious the entire time I was there
Because a 20 year old woman cannot travel by herself,
Without being made to feel dirty and vulnerable and like a piece of meat.

And London was London.
Zoe took me to a 15th century farmhouse in the English countryside.
I ate fish and chips and beer with Catherine before seeing Hot House at the National theater.
I came home with 4 bags of Pancakes

And it took me nearly 21 hours to get from my bed in London to my bed n Italy.
Because I got on the wrong express train, and found myself 6 hours from home at 9 on a Sunday night,
With trains no longer running to my town.


I don't want to travel by myself ever again.
There' just no reason.

(and in 57 minutes, I will turn 21)
((go figure))

Jug Wine, Oh Jug Wine!

Oh Jug Wine... You will always hold a special place in my heart.

My first encounter with a Jug Wine, was, of course, the Carlo Rossi Rose wine. A sweet young thing, 'tis. Barely even alcoholic... Well, she has a cousin, my friends! A robust, Italian cousin named Sovini Rosso Costiera. This red Vino da Tavola is "obtained from several grapes with a pleasant dry and sapid flavour", and, like any true lady, is loathe to reveal her age. Ah yes, five liters of a thin red liquid that tastes like dirty water and cuts a fine figure in her thick glass, with the tiny, useless handle hanging uselessly as costume jewelry around the neck of this full figured woman.

And to think I hiked 20 minutes up hill to pick her up...
But I'm smarter than I look. Yes, yes - you see, my intentions were not entirely honorable. No, indeed. Because what I intend to do, is pass her around the table, like the whore she is, loosening tongues, and making me plenty of new friends, until she's all used up and ready to be filled up with something decent at the Count's winery for 3 euros!


Although, until that time comes, perhaps I ought to lay off the booze, because it would seem that I'm getting sick. Yes, I woke up this morning from unsettling dreams about baseball stadiums, old friends, and a boy named Damien whose namesake, I suspect, is Damien Rice (sorry Bryan), feeling worse then when I fell asleep. And I didn't go running. - Because Kevin says I'm too intense. So fine.

(alight, those weren't his exact words. what he sad was more like "you're very INTENSE - but I won't say anything more about that...")

I am too intense, aren't I?
I get that all the time.

fine.
okay.
i'll stop.

TOSO Fragolino Rosso ~ Bevanda Aromatizzata (A Base di Vino)

This is another way of saying Sweet, 9.5% alcohol by volume, Strawberry Champaign.
It was not, bad.
It was also not great.
Although, when mixed at a rate somewhat higher than the standard 2 - 1 champaign to succo di pesca Bellini recipe, it was... you know, sweet and red, and extremely easy to drink.

It was better than the Sante Bucciarelli Vino Liquoroso.
To be fair, I bought that one because it came in a bottle that looked like a bunch of grapes.
It does have a higher alcohol content (16%) and yet tastes almost nothing like the Vin Santos it's emulating. I mean, same idea, but it is watery where a true Vin Santos has that carmely burnt sugar tang.

***WARNING***
Don't buy alcohol because of the bottle it comes in.

We also ended up with a sweet 6.5% alcohol champaign that Ben bought for us at the gelateria because Danny wanted to go to a wine bar but didn't want to spend alot of dough.

***WARNING***
Don't buy cheap champaign at an icecream shop.
(stick to the profiterole gelato from Il Paradiso - which I finally got last night, because I had this feeling that it closed at 10:30, and it was 10:20, so Ben and Danny agreed to run on my suspicions.
We got there just in time.
- Running for gelato is really satisfying.)


And so ends another week here at the Accademia.
One week to go til fall break.
((Two and a half until my birthday))
(((- you know, in case you wanted to get me something. Or whatever)))
((((Not that my parents should think this is for them - because they actually did send me something, apparently. I was speaking more to the masses. Because I know they would feel awful if they forgot.))))


This week we did Pantalone and Zanni (the servant from Bergamo). I had a bunch of really awkward and uncomfortable failures, and one skit at the end that went pretty good, although she told us it went on too long, and I know that was totally my fault. I held us up because I wouldn't give Pantalone the coin. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. It's fantastic already to see people dissappear into the masks - to watch them on stage and not see the actor, but only the character. I laugh all of the time, which is wonderful, and, I dare say, would probably put me in a better mood if I weren't so exhausted from the work we do on the stances and movements of the Masks. Zanni, permantly bent over from a life of carrying heavy boxes on his back, is not easy to sustain...

Well, I don't have any food. And even though I went to bed at 2:30am, my body and my alarm both decided that I should keep my usual 7:30 am wake up. So I fucked around on Wikipedia for a while (I found out that my mask I bought is one of the 3 traditional carnival masks, called a Moretta, but the least often seen because it is impossible to eat or drink while wearing it, not being equipped with a mouth hole of any sort, and conforming to the face all the way around. Actually, originally, they were designed for french women to wear while visiting the convent, and were held on the face not with ribbon stays, but with a button on the inside of the mask where one's mouth would be, which was held between the woman's teeth, thus preventing the wearer from speaking. Apparently, they quickly became popular because they "accentuated feminine features".
... Like silence?
It's a black mask with two eye holes and a sort of ridge in the center that looks a bit like a turned up nose!

I mean, I bought it, didn't I?
fuck.

L.B.'s mask, though, is a Bauta, which was the favored mask not just for Carnevale, but all year long for privacy on secret (and dangereus?) liaisons, as it's strongly jutting chin line allows the wearer to eat and drink with out removing it. It is worn by both men and women, with a black drapey, cape-y sort of thing, and a tricorn hat. Tipically, the mask was white, although black was also used.




I have to walk into town to buy groceries.
My roommate just got up.
It's 1:40pm here.
That means I've been up for 6 1/2 hours. I've caught up on my journal, gone for a run, done Bryan's workout on the roof of the Teatrino roof, taken a shower, written another blog, checked to see who's changed their facebook picture, become, as I've just demonstrated, an authority on Carnivale masks, and, though I haven't mentioned anything about it yet, on the Nobel Prize for Literature to boot - the most recent recipient of which, by the way, was Doris Lessing, a British author I hadn't known anyone cared two bits for until today.

...
or maybe I'll have some water, read my Rum book, and take a nap...


I guess we'll just,
see.

Poggio Ulivelo 2004: Vino Nobile di Montepulciano

Is it wrong to drink every night?
Is it wrong to look forward to meals so?
No?
What's that you say?
...
When in Rome?

Ah... Si. Si si si.

So this wine, my purchase from the winery, is not bad. It's a 2004, which is a good year, remember, and has a fresh tartness to it. The bouquet is light, and almost... pine scented. Not too alcoholic to the nose like some of these other wines. The color is a bit like stage blood - a sort of purpled brick-red.

...
We started commedia today, with our new teacher, Paola.
Our first character was Pantalone, the miserly old patriarch, father of the female inamorata, obsessed with sex and money. His back is straight, knees bent slightly, feet in first, chin thrust forward. He leads with his pointed nose and takes tiny steps forward. When he turns, his head turns first, and then the whole rest of the body turns. He dances with one bent leg at a time. (The way it should be.)

Okay, time to see what Riccardo has made for us tonight...

Ah, Venice...

Ah - Venice! City of Poor Life Decisions...
...my face hurts.

- Probably because someone punched me there...

Ah. Venice.


Friday I spent a lot of time on the bus. Around noon we took an incredibly boring tour of an incredibly old theater in Vicenza, whose one distinguishing feature was a fairly spectacularly textbookular example of scenic perspective on a proscenium stage and the fact that the fist people to see a play their in 200 years after it's opening were apparently a group of Japanese missionaries who had come to see the Pope. Vicenza was their second stop. I kid you not.
... I had a great sandwich. Trocchiolo. That seems to me turkey sandwich. And some gelato that was terrible, but which fact I didn't realize until I I was mostly finished eating it, and so thoroughly enjoyed.
Then we met the Mask-Maker, Renzo in his atelier outside the city. This highly anticipated stop turned out to be rather a two hour bust. However, he gave the entire thing in Italian (which Kevin translated some of), but I understood at least 90% of what he said. Pretty good considering a month ago I didn't speak Italian at all. His work was beautiful, but in the end, I decided that it would be inappropriate for me to ask him to make me a mask at this point. I mean, it would be like ordering custom ice-skates before you'd ever stepped onto the ice. There is a point at which it isn't even a question of decadence, it's simply inappropriate.

Venice itself, now that they've outlawed cars and turned it completely into one giant tourist trap, did seem cleaner then my last recollection of it. We arrived in the fog, through which we immediately set metaphorical sail in Vaporetti (the water buses) and then lost ourselves in on the way to the hostel. Dory insists that maps are not helpful in Venice, with which I disagree, since I pulled mine out and corrected our course. Our dorm room at the hostel looked a bit like a refugee shelter, but the place was clean and safe and had great free breakfasts (it's called the CSD Foresteria Valdese, book in advance or they won't have rooms), and there was, directly across the street, a store where an old man filled up used 2 liter water bottles with various kinds of wine for 2-3 euros a piece. I drank about 2/3 of a bottle of his prosecco Saturday night. It was, in fact, during the first bottle, standing on a bridge outside the hostel with Danny and Ben, singing to passing tourists in gondolas, that we decided that we should each make at least one PLD that night...

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Because Friday night, I put on a hoochy skirt and heels and a couple of us went to the jazz club Danny had found near the Rialto bridge. There were 3 guys and 3 girls, so we sat by gender and pretended we were on a bad prom date. I had a strawberry margarita (on the rocks. always on the rocks if you have the option) and a caipirhina, while Danny, Ben, and Jesse ordered Hoegaarden beers that came in tumbler glasses bigger than their heads. I also had a plate of the Spaghetti neri alla Venizia, or whatever it is that they call the pasta in squid ink that turns your teeth black. It was pretty good. Tastes like squid. And afterwards we stood on the Rialto for a bit and debated with Danny about whether or not it was a good idea for him to jump into a canal.

Saturday,
We woke up and worked our asses off on Giudecca Island in the space they rented for us to work in. The wind was icy and there was a cold rain that whipped the canals up. (what does the water look like, you ask? Well, you've seen lake Erie, right? Yeah, about like that. Particularly on a miserably stormy day) So by the time we got back to the hostel around 6, some prosecco and a hot shower made for a fantastic start to the evening. Then we went out to dinner and tried to get a table for 20 at 'that restaurant that has guacamole', which, of course, we couldn't. But Danny and I hung around after people split out and put our names in for a table for 2. I ordered a bellini while I waited ((which wasn't all that great, but helped to pass the 20 minutes until we got a table)). The guacamole was so so, but the pizza I had, which I chose by asking the waiter che e la tua favorita pizza, had zucchini and parmeggiano and some fantastic salami, and I ate the whole thing, and just generally had a really fantastic time hanging out with Danny.
At 9, we met up with the others and Brian in San Marco's and went looking for the discotecca, which wasn't open yet, so we got bad gelato and I made my first PLD when I decided to stick my hand n the canal because i set it in something gross. It's okay, I washed my hands when we got to the club, and, retrospectively, it was not my P-estLD. The club had a 10 euro cover charge, but that included your first drink, so Sam and I asked the bartender to make us something forte e un po dolce, so she whipped up something with Drambuie, ginger ale, and lemon juice that she gave some silly name to i can no longer remember. Wasn't bad though. reminded me a bit of a margarita.
It was not at this point that I got punched in the face.
No, no. This was the time, for DANCE.
I danced for about 30 seconds with a skeezy Italian boy in a white hoodie, before I let my friends rescue me. I also danced with a lovely Dutch guy named Jens who is possbly the tallest person I've ever met. He had to dance stooped over. swear.
Aaaaand, then I dance with some more people like dory and ben and julie and danny and brian briefly before he turned n for the night but who really remembers it's all a blur.
And then I asked Abigail to punch me in the face.
- Because she and Joya had this thing, and I jumped in on it, and then Danny did too so I punched him, but it wasn't hard enough... and yada yada yada, And so we all walked home at 4 in the morning with Danny still trying to convince me to hit him again.
Sunday was fun.
Okay, that's a lie.
But it was our last class with Brian, and then we had free time, and we decided that we were going to walk around, but Venice is one large crush of tourists on Sunday afternoon, so I ended up buying a sandwich from the Moka Efti Crazy Cafe, where I couldn't help but flirt with the man behind the bar. NO, I mean really. I didn't even really want to be flirting, I just was, and he asked me what Ohio was known for, and I said Corn, and that was that. I went home and went to bed.

Monday we had time to wander before we had to take the 1:20 train to Arezzo, and I decided to just go off by myself, which was the best decision I've made in a long time. I bought myself a mask - an inexpensive one - and I bought L. B. a mask - which fits him perfectly! - and I spoke to the shop keep in Italian and even translated for the Spanish couple that came in. (and by translated, I mean, I realized that they were asking about gold masks, and so I pointed at something gold) And then I bought a Carnevale poster and some more postcards, and I spoke to that woman in Italian too.
On the train ride home, which took forever because it was half an hour late, I ate a pollo and funghi sandwich from a vending machine.
Back home in Arezzo, I have never so anticipated a meal. Riccardo, Mi Piaci.

Jungle Juice

Jungle Juice:
the generic name for a clear, high proof alcohol (typically Everclear) and a cheap red fruit punch, like bargain brand High-C.
In this case, it was two different kinds of red Fanta, and something vile and 95 proof that my roommate (Donna Ward!) bought from the Iper Co-op.
It was a little strong, I won't lie.
I was a little drunk.

My roommate (Donna Ward!) clams that this is because she (Donna Ward!) mixed the drnk for me herself.
I prefer to think that it was the paper parasol she put in it.
Or maybe it was the other 4 glasses of alcohol I consumed Tuesday evening...
Either way, I need to start a new facebook group. I'll call it - I Get Drunk On Tuesday Nights.
- I don't know why I consistently think that it's a good idea.
No - That's a lie. I know exactly why I think it's a good idea...


So it started with a glass of Cupinero after personal training (cheers Grotowski!), and then a sip of Frangelico after dinner, and just a nip of dessert wine - to settle the meal. And then when you show up at a party and someone offers you Everclear and starts pouring the Fanta... it would be impolite to refuse.
So to make a long story short, had my fifth glass at dinner with Ben, who kept company while he ate his late plate since he was so kind as to do the same for me when I returned from London, and, sure it struck me even then as not the best idea, but what's a little jug wine between friends am I right?
So it was that I had what was, in my opinion, rather a lovely conversation before ending the evening in the hallway, with Little bear, reading Baudrilliard in my pajamas, and finding him far more comprehensible with a bit of alcohol in my system. (I would recommend the article, though - "The Finest Consumer Object: The Body" - which is about how our bodes have become commodities, because we have learned to view them as the vessel through which salvation is possible (whereas it used to be the soul) and consequently, we begin to invest in them, both monetarily and physiologically, which leads him the brilliant term "managed narcissism", and also to some interesting thoughts on the movement from the idea of the body as the center of desire and fantasy (both internal, personal) to the body as something which is capable of an appearance of eroticism (external, the appearance of desire or desirability). And, you know, how women particularly are pressured into the cult of beauty, and the idea of salvation through attainable perfection, which, of course, is not actually attainable, and which simply objectifies the feminine body and alienate the woman from her corporeal self... I could go on, but no one here seemed to care, and I doubt you do either. In class, we watched an (admittedly interesting) documentary about women in person (if you're thinking Pam Grier in The Big Doll House, you are sorely and most unfortunately mistaken), and everyone was relievedly vocal in their relief over not having to talk about Baudrilliard's babble.)
And even as I slipped under my double down comforter, my roommate (Donna Ward!) rolled around in the hallway, caught in the fading thrall of the jungle juice and the green glow of the Uscita Sengnale.

FREE DUTY!!! (Or, Why Champaign And Ice Cream Should Never Be Separated)

Ah, Ryan Air...

They're like -
The New York City Subway of the sky.

They herd you onto a bus, and then release you at the airplane like a herd of cattle to cram your way onto the converted Boeing 737 and grab whatever seat you can. The seat backs are bright yellow and have the minimal safety instructions pasted at eye level. These include panels prohibiting glasses, earrings, high heels, and false teeth (presumably on the inflatable escape slide?), and detailed instructions for how to open the emergency doors.
Short but practical - Only the essentials...
I don't know whether to be comforted that most of the things they go into on the bigger airlines seems unnecessary, or unsettled by the fact that it feels like this information comes from experience...
They also advertise on the overhead racks. For Bullseye Baggies. "Premium Hard Liquor in a 75ml bag for 5 euro". Buy one, get one free.
...
If I could have caught one of the flight attendants, I would have bought one.
But once we take off, you only catch glimpses of them in passing - surly Irishmen handing out RyanAir magazines on the sly to a random selection of people, pushing the portable bar around and collecting money for cups of water or hotdogs, shuffling your luggage around without asking...
Oh Ryan Air! You couldn't care less if I fly with you, could you?

On the other hand, they get you there on time.
And somehow the turbulence you experence isn't nearly as dsturbing, because your standards are so low at ths point that you can't believe you're still in the air.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...


- So I went to London for the weekend.

It only took me 14 hours to get from the villa to Zoë's flat.
And I did it all in my traveling hat and boots.
((because my life is one giant Grotowski exercise))

But let's get to the point:
(here's a hint - it's in the title)
That's right, my friends,
DUTY FREE.
After perusing the luxury perfumes, I turned to the alcohol,
and lads, it was PLENTIFUL...

In the end, I bought each of us a present.
For Zoe - a bottle of Balsamic Vinegar from Modena. For Me, a bottle of Proseco, and for Catherine, a bottle of Absolut Pear that just made me happy to purchase, despite my aversion to Vodka.

And then I had to carry them.
In my high heeled boots, and my red riding-hood coat, and my felt hat.
At 2am on the streets of London.

The cabdrivers seemed to like it.
The hat was a big hit with that crowd.
Of course, it didn't help me get a cab for the hour that I stood there in front of the Liverpool train station at 1am.

But I made it to Zoe's flat at last, and I didn't even have to go floor to floor calling her name, because she was sitting in the hallway waiting for me, with a jar of peanut butter, some chocolate Digestifs, and a bag of British pancakes.

*Tangent*
So, in England, apparently pancakes come in a bag.
They're FANTASTIC.
I'm not kidding.
I flirted briefly with the idea of buying a suitcase just so that I could take some home with me.
(I can see the homecoming now - "Hey mom and dad! This is my new suitcase, Aaaaaand these are my pancakes.")
*End Tangent*


That being said, Saturday was worth it.

We met Catherine on the street around 10am (I always pictured us meeting this way - we see each other across a crowded street in an exotic locale. You've got on white sneakers, and I'm wearing a hat...) and got all day Tube passes. For lunch I insited that we go to the Hard Rock Cafe for a burger and fries with a chocolate malt that literally cost me $40, and a cheeky spanish waitress named Charo who told us about her trp to Ibiza and probably does very well for herself in tips.
Then we just sat in Hyde Park on a bench.
We took pictures of each other and I made a fuss about the fall and the light.

It was... nice. It was wonderful. It was comfortable and comforting.

I toyed with buying an oil paintng of pirate ships at sunset and finally we made out way back to King's cross and Zoe's flat on Langton Close, stopping at Tesco on the way to pick up yogurt and honey icecream, chocolate, and strawberries for dinner, which we enjoyed with the bottle of Proseco I picked up. Now, Prosecco - a well known type of Italian "vino frizzante", famous for its role in the traditional Italian cocktail, the Bellini - is not, in itself anything that needs to be raved about. The bottle I picked up (8 euro!!! (...yeah, maybe that's it...)) from Villa Sandi was Di Valdobbiadere. Any chance that means 11% alcohol by volume? Because it was. In any case, it was a highly enjoyable champaign. Totally decent. I would describe it, as forte, I think, to borrow a word from the Italians. It was a forte champaigna.
What was amazing, was how Dave got the cork out of the bottle once we'd mangled the thing (it looked like it should pop but heaven help us...!). He used a knife to shave part of it out and then a fork to pry out the rest. I don't want to start shit - but I'ma have to go ahead and say that it officially beats the fork cork screw. Sorry, I just call 'em like I see 'em.

After an evening in at Langton Close, Catherine and I walked back to her recently vacated double (now a single - Thanks Jessica) at Nido and stayed up to talk about... like, getting older, making money, paying for utilities...
It was odd.
And not entirely bad.


...
The return trip only took me about 11 hours. In the airport I bought a mug (yes, I NEEded it) with a map of the London underground that reminds me to Mind The Gap, and a bunch of postcards. I made it back to Termini train station in Rome in time to make the 17:50 train, and fell asleep in the compartment I had to myself, waking to the soft "Buona sera" as the conductor passed through and trying to read city signs as the sun set behind hills that suddenly seem familiar. I got off at Arezzo and the half hour walk back to the villa was like that hike up the stairs in Raymond, and when I walked n the door, there were people there to hug me and food waiting in the mensa.
After a weekend of old friends and my native language,
I found myself glad to be Home,
and excited to be thinking of it that way.