"I'm going to a town that has already been burned down..."

Back from Europe and no worse for wear. Better for it, actually. And rather than cram a two week stint into one blog post, I'll divvy it up into city-sized chunks to be digested over a number of days.

Florence: the first - and best - stop. It felt like home. So yes - it was good to be back - but it was even better to see Eryn and Alex after a drought of nearly three years - THREE! That's not to say it wasn't good to see Rachel, but we knew we'd have over two weeks to rekindle our bond... and we sure did.

I think I was able to do everything I'd really wanted to do... I didn't go to a lot of new places (other than restaurants), but I was able to revisit the Florence I knew, which is what I needed. Fiddler's Elbow, Art Bar, the Mercato, SACI, and of course, Sad Gelato Man (best and most-anticipated reunion/picture ever!) Just the first lunch date with Eryn and A-Town would have made that trip worth it. "You're a gum-splitter, too??" It felt so right, so natural... can we have lunches like that once a week, please?

Thanks.

There was a grand dinner at il Latini, where we met all the parental units and plowed our way through probably six or seven glorious courses. It consisted of a nearly-pornographic amount of prosciutto, as well as amazing pasta and meat dishes, and wine for the sipping (swilling?) I don't think I've ever indulged (read: gorged) myself on so much food in my life. The delightful pain of it all, rolling Rachel and myself back to the doors of Hotel Tina!

The wedding - the Big A, as it were - was lovely. The couple looked so beautiful/handsome - so fresh and young... dare I say... "glowing?" Siiigh. The marriage ceremony was short, simple and civil - my type of ceremony. Still, tears flowed like a river of doves from the beard of Zeus. The two of them were so delightfully themselves. Eryn was not a "Bridezilla," in spite of her painful heels, which she wore like a champ, and A-Town cracked jokes and was as much himself as at any other time. Two people who belong together, just getting married alongside friends and family and enjoying the day... joined by the bonds of love. And you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds, and you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords... name that movie! I wanted to quote it the entire day, but I refrained.

The post-wedding dinner - oh the dinner! Served at La Terrazza del Principe on the other side of the Arno, up in the Tuscan hills past Boboli Garden, I had, what was probably the best meal of my life. A-Town and I couldn't get over the eggplant rigatoni... The dish could have been crafted by Michelangelo himself, it was so magnificent. Eryn, you get an extra bazillion awesome points for tracking down that place. Rachel and I parted with our beloved fellow-Bufas on hilltop, rather unceremoniously, but in the words of Helen, "whatever"... I shall see them again. Hopefully, relatively soon. None of this three years crap...

I'll eventually attach more pictures to this post - specifically some from the day of the Big A, when I get my act together.

One for the road.

Very soon - a mere three days, in fact - I'm off for Italia for the event of the millennium. To the land of gelato and the sad man that serves it. The land of Bufa Five, the Schlomo, pozzi motorini, and victorious over-priced sodas at the top of Piazzale (maybe this time we'll go with some vino rosso and stories about Cha Cha, instead.)

Italy just had their elections, and reelected, with shoulders shrugged indifferently, the same man who was in charge when we were there in 2004... It'll be like nothing ever changed! Except now Italians are even more downtrodden. But then we're off to Spain - the unknown... in many respects, seeing as how my Spanish is limited to "olà!" and "olé!"

But because Rachel arrives in just a few hours and I've got work tomorrow and laundry and packing and grabbing a new closure for my earring (dang!) and about 408 other things before I go, I decided to do one last post now - and guess what it's about? Music! Big surprise, but this time, there's a slightly cohesive theme: they're songs that I associate with travel, moving, motion or "picking up the pieces," per se.

Pete Yorn - Crystal Village
Take my hand, come with me / Into this crystal scenery

Pete Yorn singin' about life and love and all that junk in the context of what is, simply put, a very pretty song.


Ryan Adams - To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High)
Oh, one day when you’re looking back / You were young and, man, you were sad / When you’re young, you get sad / When you're young you get sad, then you get high

Rockin' and yet unmistakably country (the real kind, not the Toby Keith kind). This song just speaks to being young and stupid and all over the map, but most importantly, being young and alive. This is the song I hope Rachel and I will be singing after a trip to the Fiddler's Elbow. I'm sure that our version would merely stand in the shadow of this one by Ryan.

LEGEN - wait for it! - DARY!

To get technical, though, the perfect Ryan Adams song for brawlin' would be "Shakedown on 9th Street" - definitely fit for Guinness and fights!


Wolf Parade - I'll Believe In Anything
And I could give you my apologies / By handing over my neologies / And I could take away the shaking knees / And I could give you all the olive trees / Oh look at the trees and look at my face / And look at a place far away from here

If you can make it through the slight bit of dissonance and thumping in the beginning of the song (I'm a fan of well-placed dissonance - Damien Rice does it well), it's a very exciting and emotional song - it sort of sweeps you away without you even realizing it. I know that Wolf Parade is not for everyone, and the Spencer Krug-fronted WP tracks are for even fewer... but apparently, this song is for me, as it's the most played song on my iTunes. I love the complex feelings the song presents - a sort of passionate nihilism... if there is such a thing.

(If you're further interested in Wolf Parade, check out their new song, "Call It A Ritual" on Stereogum. It's so tight - which is strange considering WP's style - but it's still very Wolf Parade. Mi piace.)


Doves - Pounding
Let's leave at sunrise / Let's live by the ocean / I don't mind / If we never come home at all

What a song. My second most played track on iTunes and the first song I ever bought from the iTunes music store... because it's amazing. Seriously romantic. But with both an upper-case and a lower-case "R." The Doves aren't exactly known for their amazing lyrics - they're just sort of a few brash boys from Manchester, but when the lead singer says Seize the time / Cause it's now or never baby, you're right there with him.


Beirut - Postcards From Italy
The times we had / Oh, when the wind would blow with rain and snow / Were not all bad / We put our feet just where they had, had to go

The title alone makes this song an obvious choice, but I also love it because it's very classic and sentimental (but a good sentimental!), very European, and very well-produced. Who ever would have guessed the guy who wrote and sang the whole shebang was just 19 at the time? Even though the song contains no lyrics really resembling my time in Italy, I still associate the two - that rusty, sepia-toned vision.


Yann Tiersen - J'y Suis Jamais Allé

Literally translated as "I Never Went There," this piece from the Amélie soundtrack (along with several others), never fails to let my mind drift... drift off somewhere nice... somewhere where they drink wine with every meal and don't pasteurize the cheese, cause damn it - sometimes you just don't need to.

To the land of unpasteurized cheeses!!

What can I say? I'm a sucker for a Renaissance man.

There's an interesting article in the NY Times today about "Artistic Muscle, Flexed for The Medici." It's a nice little flashback to SACI, but without the dead-out run, followed by hours of standing in a church or palazzo or piazza or field that usually accompanied such information. After reading Ross King's Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling, dozens of articles and getting schooled by Helen, I'm quite familiar with Michelangelo and his general brilliant misery, but it was a nice refresher about the Michelangelini - the students and artists who toiled in Michelangelo's shadow... like, say, Pontormo and his creepy Mannerist style. What stands out in memory is the Deposition fresco in Santa Felicità (where Helen, our professor, came this close to interrupting a funeral service, but we ended up getting lunch and someone sneaked a huge slice of Nutella cake into the church). The bright pastels colors don't hide the weird, ethereal and transgender qualities to the fresco. It's unsettling in a way. Bearing that in mind, I was surprised to see this drawing by Pontormo - it's... very modern; made of movement. Full of surprises, that crazy Pontormo!

And apparently (though not surprisingly), most of these artists lived "tortured existences." Rosso Fiorentino died an apparent suicide, Pontormo lived in anti-social solitude, and Michelangelo was an asexual, grumpyass bastard for all of his 88 years. I should really try to check out Vasari's Lives of Artists... I imagine it's like a very well-written Renaissance version of a weekly tabloid.

If I weren't headed back to the central hub of these artists in 80-ish days(!), I would consider catching the show in NY... but I'll be up to my eyeballs in Renaissance art soon enough...

"Michelangelo designed this very panino. It is considered one of the most perfect sandwiches in the history of mankind. Here are the original sketches, as well as 498 letters to his brothers and father describing the pain involved in creating this lunch commission. No eating, please."

My plan is going exactly according to... plan.

Can I get a drum roll please? Ladies and gentlemen, Rachel and I have concluded our booking of the trip: lodgings and air travel are now SET. We booked our digs in Barcelona and home sweet Firenze the other day and I guess I feel a little too accomplished after sorting through a few dozen flights, hostels, hotels, and apartments per city (including the ill-fated Madrid)...

But whatever... BOOSH!

In Barcelona, we'll be staying at the Downtown Paraiso Hostel, a place run by four friends (which worked out in Switzerland... oh Switzerland! You'll always have a little piece of my heart, Simon.) This hostel, in a city filled with over-priced dumps, turns out to be reasonable and an even better catch if it lives up to its description. It's close to Las Ramblas, but not too close, and it looks chic but still cozy in hostel terms. (Though I'm not sure whether I love that room or just find the mural really creepy.)

As for Firenze, we'll be staying in Hotel Tina which, from what I gather, is about two - count 'em, TWO - blocks away from the chambers of les personnes célèbres - that is to say, PL and A-Town, the very people who are bringing us all together for this Glorious Amalgamation of truth and beauty. With their love for love. And love for holy matrimony. And love for gelato and really old things. Our hotel is close to San Marco, which is pretty groovy and about four blocks from the Mighty Stallions. Very exciting. Can't wait to swing by some of my old haunts...


Yeah that's right... what up, Standa? You got some pesca té for me? Is it Clever? Hm? Is it? And Astor, do you remember Bianca?

No, screw that noise. I hated Standa and their untamed surliness. That store is like a very unfunny version of Clerks. I'm going to the place near the Accademia, with the guy with the bandanna. (Two euro says he's still there.) Or the Mercato Centrale with its multi-leveled goodness. Rachel and I have already agreed we're probably on the wine, cheese, bread and fruit diet the whole time we're there. Which is fine. Hopefully, we end up dropping a few pounds and acquiring a healthy flush to our cheeks.

But my number one priority, apart from flying (literally flying, Mercury-style) into the arms of my beloved and stuffing my face with these bad boys, is to get some Sad Gelato Man gelato. Eryn and I have discussed this ultimate reunion many times and have only agreed that we must expect the unexpected. But in all likelihood, there will be a scene. And many awkward pictures taken.

Things that I want to do that I didn't do while in Firenze? Maybe hit up the Duomo ("Duo"/"dwhoah" for those in the know) and Santa Croce to see some tombs (Michelangelo, Machiavelli and Ghiberti). And the old favorite of catching the sunset at Piazzale and then hitting up El Taco, OF COURSE. And then Art Bar for a girls' night out. So much to do! (I like how the majority of my priorities revolve around food.)

What I miss the most is that these places (SGM's, El Taco, SACI, Art Bar, Fiddler's Elbow, the Odeon, this statue...) were such a focus and we were so attached and cared about them so much, it feels like no one else could come close to caring about them as we did - and do, to this day. So, in that respect, they're ours. And I can't wait to go back and show Firenze what I've become - a lot of which is due to it and the experiences I had there.

But for now all I have to do is buy a dress and show up! ...And find a way to pay for it all... but I suppose that's why Ramen and home-brewed espresso exist. Good thing I like home-brewed espresso, even with my little crappy steam-driven machine. Making coffee can be so meditative - I enjoy the process on the weekends, when I'm not in a rush. I think that would be one of the biggest bummers to a planned pregnancy - quitting caffeine. Stupid babies and their vulnerability to stimulants... why do they have to be such... babies??

And just for kicks, here's JR and the boys performing on Letterman Tuesday night. Yeah enthusiasm! Gotta love Zack's assistance on the cymbals.

Of future plans, change, e la lingua perfetta.

Life is going on, as it is wont to do. I've tentatively chosen my BW (Best Woman) ensemble for The Amalgamation (pictured at right.) My mom and I agreed that red is a bit spicy for a wedding, but since it'll be in the Red Room at the Palazzo Vecchio, perhaps I'll just chameleon myself right into the background. And if Sister Scarlett has taught me anything, it's that a pale blonde can rock the red.

Remaining things to do concerning The Big A: book lodgings for Florence, Madrid and Barcelona (yeaaaaaah... gotta work on that). Also, I must get RyanAir tickets from Florence to Madrid, aaaaand that ever-so-important (albeit undesirable), return ticket from Europe to Bostonia. All these processes should be sped up by a call to Rach sometime tonight or tomorrow. While I was hoping to get a new iPod for the trip, that may have to be put off... indefinitely. But I'll see where I stand come April.

I've assembled a small list of New Year's Resolutions, which I've never done before, simply because I believe it's a day many use to excuse themselves from changing at any time - hunkering it all down to one day - as if an effort for change couldn't happen on any day.

Now, to thoroughly put my foot in my mouth, here are my resolutions.

1. Chill out.
1.a. sub-resolution: Quell the desire to slap people on the back of the head who walk slowly. (Note: this sub-resolution has already been broken.)
2. Be bolder.
3. Exercise daily. I've been good, but I can be better.
4. Get something published; a vague and largely unknown notion to most who know me, but I'd like to put my crappy something out there.
5. This is petty, but see Eryn's #5.
6. Be the best BW I can be not only for The Big A, but continue to be the BW I can a non-Amalgamation context, as well.
7. Get back to art.
8. I'm sure there was something else, but like Sad Gelato Man in the winter months, it escapes me. Probably something about not commuting 20 hours a week.

I watched 8 1/2 again, starring my main man, Marcello Mastroianni (molto alliteration!) Italian is such a phenomenal language. While it's not quite as smooth as French, it has a rhythm and attitude of its own. The sounds of the words are... well - I can't think of a word for it in English. The language can be casual and friendly or powerful and assertive - it almost possesses a sort of languid sexuality that can be manipulated through tone and delivery. Even giving directions looks and sounds lovely - e dopo la luce, vai a la destra. When spoken with a Roman accent? Bellisima.

As for the image to the upper left, I imagine that will be what The Amalgamation will be like. Apparently, I must find a hat.

A Festivus miracle.

This past Friday was spent as Fridays are meant to be spent: getting stressed out and then having fun in spite of oneself. I attended the celebration of young Robert's passage into his 23rd year. There were rites and feasting... and by "rites and feasting," I mean "tequila and quesadillas" in Cambridge. Spending time with Wheaties is always nice. One Eye (aka Emily) and I almost immediately regressed back into our symbiotic college-era relationship: she nearly made me snarf frozen margarita and I was her interpreter for the evening. A couple of gems: You made me laugh I was crying so hard! and everyone's favorite, I know that the alcohol is working... because I want to touch people. And a conversation between One Eye and I...

Alec: I have the phrase "a Festivus for the rest of us" stuck in my head. Do you know what I mean?
One Eye: "It's a Festivus miracle." "An aluminum pole - I find tinsel distracting." "WE WILL NOW HAVE THE AIRING OF THE GRIEVANCES!" ...[deadpan face] I have no idea what you're talking about.

After dinner, we headed to Good Times (the formal title of which is "Good Time Emporium.") Senior year, we were dropped off at Good Times as our surprise senior outing. And it was a surprise, alright. The picture above was taken during one of the "Ladies Wrestling Nights" (which no one in our party attended... to my knowledge), but I'm just including that to illustrate its unique atmosphere. What can I say - I went for the birthday boy.

I was rereading Josh Ritter's blog this morning. Obviously, the man can write. Poetry. Prose. What have you. It would be amazing if he wrote a book. Yes. Josh Ritter should write a book. I'm sending this persuasive message through the power of the internet: Josh Ritter - write a book. Anyway, I liked this excerpt from his time in San Francisco, in particular:

...I stepped out into the street, where, wonder of wonders, there didn't seem to be any street. My foot caught on some kind of pylon, and as I fell I noticed that I was falling on to the tram tracks. "How cheesy," I thought to myself. "Dead on the tram tracks." After all these songs about trains, to be wiped out by a train's cousin, no matter how iconic a landmark of San Francisco it is, would be a back-handed irony. I waited for just a moment to get my breath and thankfully there was no tram close by. I got up and dusted myself off and started stating the obvious to passerby as people do when they do things like inexplicably fall. "I fell," I say to a group of Japanese tourists as they cross in the cross walk all around me.

I laughed. And not just because of the irony (though it's rather compelling), but rather because everyone has done something like that. We've all inexplicably explained ourselves to a group of Japanese tourists, literally or figuratively speaking.

For better or for worse, one of my most visceral memories from Firenze was slipping off one of their notoriously steep and slickly worn sidewalks on my way to class, and not predictably, falling all the way down and meeting the cobblestones, but rather, swooping towards the earth in a bizarre serpentine fashion, only to swoop right back up again like a stunt plane at a 4th of July air show while no part of me, other than my feet, touched the (questionably clean) streets of Florence, Italy. I was being followed by a group of young Italian men who laughed at me and earth-bound flight. The irony was that these laughing, grown men were all sporting mullets, tight acid-washed jeans and fanny packs, circa 1987.

But as I fell, I expelled one of the weirdest noises I think I've ever made. And this noise could only be described as a yelp.

Every time I think of that incident, it reminds me of Dave Eggers' "They Learned to Yelp" (here in The Guardian) from his collection of short stories, How We Are Hungry. It's one of my favorites from that collection. It's a relatively strong collection of work, and while I'm not a huge fan of short stories as a rule, I recommend it.

I met Dave Eggers very briefly at a book signing at Brown University this past summer. He was promoting his new book, What is the What? with Achak Deng, the Sudanese refugee whose life the story is based on - an "as told to" situation. Mr. Deng was cheerful and beaming as he signed my copy, happy to do so, and slipped it over Mr. Egger's side of the table. I should say that I really enjoy Dave Egger's work. He's one of my favorite contemporary writers, if not my favorite, and his other projects (McSweeney's and 826 National) are wonderful. Grass roots-ilicious. But I hate those 2 second book signings. You want to tell someone what their work means to you, that you hope they get half as much joy in creating it as you do devouring it... but you're there, with your name Sharpie'd on a post-it note so they doesn't even have to ask how to spell it, and you're left feeling like a jackass because all you managed to blurt out was "you're an amazing storyteller..." though I did sound less of an idiot than the girl in front of me, so I'm glad of that. ("You could get your Masters here at Brown!" He could also get a really good piece of pizza down the street, but that's not why he's here, either.) He smiled and thanked me like he hadn't heard that 6,000 times, and I left Brown's ironically hideous art building with a personalized copy of my least favorite Dave Eggers book (my qualms with the text stem from something that perhaps I'll explain at another time.) You just want to say, "I'm cooler than I'm coming across. Let's get a piece of pizza and I'll tell you my 'yelp' story. Complete with near-reenactment."

Some time this week, being that time of year, I'm sure my dad will hold the annual viewing of John Candy's opus, "Planes Trains and Automobiles." I remember the moment I found out Eryn's dad did the same thing. It was then that I knew we would be friends for a long time.

I did not see "No Country for Old Men," as I have been dying to, but thanks to a loud Starbucks employee this morning, I now know how it ends. I'll still see it, but talk about rubbing it in my face. But I revisited "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" this weekend. I somehow always manage to forget exactly how amazing that movie is. I always say it one of my favorites, but it still gets me every time I watch it. It's beautifully shot and directed; the writing is different and new, but not, for lack of a better word, polarizing. Strange and wonderful. My kind of movie.

"I wish I had stayed, too. Now I wish I had stayed. I wish I had done a lot of things. I wish I had... I wish I had stayed. I do."

Have a Happy Planes Trains and Automobiles day and may your babies not come out siiiideways.

An Andy Rooney moment

The fleur-de-lis is a decorative royal symbol of France, Quebec and even part of Switzerland. Also, a variety of the fleur-de-lis is the symbol of Florence. AND it's the symbol of New Orleans. And speaking of the Big Easy, the fleur-de-lis is also the symbol which graces my favorite coffee cup, which Rachel made me a couple years ago.

I went to the mall with my mom today, looking for clothes... and trouble... but mostly clothes. And everywhere we went, there was a plethora of fleur-de-lis. It is truly "le symbole du moment." We went to a craft store yesterday (just furthering my nerdom), and everywhere we looked there were stencils and iron-on's and bedazzling pattern kits for fleur-de-lis- yes- it has trickled down to the backwardly-chic Bedazzlers of America.

But what gives? Who started this trend? I feel like I should write a letter... but... to whooom? There have got to be some French watching MTV right now saying, "quoi?" And in Italia, SGM tilts his head and sighs in all-too-familiar disappointment, for he knows his city's wonderful symbol has been used on something that has undoubtedly been worn by Lindsay Lohan between arrests.

Or, it could just be like everyone wearing "I <3 NYC" shirts. Except, everyone knows what NYC is... does everyone know what a fleur-de-lis is? But, I could just be overreacting since I've been working on a fleur-de-lis print and am now pissed that the mass consciousness is saturated with this symbol enough and has lost all meaning.

Next time your out at your local "centre commercial," take a look around and try not to furrow your brow at the numerous abuses against our beloved Firenze... and France, too, I suppose.

"This is why I come up here."

I've been thinking- mentally compiling, really- a list of things to do when I get back to Firenze for the Amalgamation (of the Century.) This is sort of assuming the ideal- that I have at least 4 full days there (but, hopefully more around 5 or 6). This is the tentative list I've been toying with...

• SGM. All day, everyday. That is, visit the gelateria that houses the one and only Sad Gelato Man: the man, the myth, the legend. If he's still there, ideally.... I want a picture with him. And I won't guarantee that I will not propose.

• Just as gelato is best served sadly, cappuccino is best served standing. Hit the marble cafe bars like it's my job. The magic words: vorrei un caffè, per favore.

• Speaking of bars, in the more traditional sense- Art Bar. I nearly forgot. How? I have no idea. Also, Fiddler's Elbow! If in need of Irish, break glass.

• See the inside of the Duomo and/or the bell tower. I read Brunelleschi's Dome and have new reverence for the man, so I should probably go to the massive architectural achievment he built a stone's throw from the Buf.

• Crash SACI. Maybe take Dario's bike for a joyride. Say "hi," to Dean Doctor Daddy David Davidson. Tell Marta Martini that, yes, I capisco. Just run past Helen yelling, "whatever!" Or sit in on her class only to get up to use the internet for 45 minutes. And then leave them all in a cloud of confusion as to who the random blonde Americana was.

• Take the 20 minute train ride and see the Leaning Tower. Another super tourista thing that I didn't bother with. I may have been the only Bufa not to. For shame, A-Town.

• Catch the elusive sunset over the city from Piazzale. My calves burn just thinking about it. But so does my mouth- for a 3 euro Sprite!

• Steal... NAY- return to its rightful owner (i.e. the Bufas, e.g. me)- a Bufa horsehead. Failing that, break in and take one of the weird religious prints that were all around the apartment. And maybe some Medici balls.

• Grab a bite to eat at Za'Za. Hit the Mercato- HARD. I want a real Italian purse and leather bound journal, and my mom's already debating about what color pagmina she wants me to get this time around. And while Totti's probably more legit, my mission is to acquire a Gennaro Gattuso jersey (seen there sans jersey, avec glory).

• One word, two syllables: Astor.

I also want to do random things like see if that guy with the bandana is still working at the grocery store across from Accademia (what is that one CALLED?), trawl for cheap Ferrari gear (yeah right), hit up about 68 bakeries, shake nearly-empty water bottles near people's heads etc, etc.

Ideally, I'd love to hit the coast or maybe Bologna. I really liked Bologna- its saints' skulls in conspicuous gold tombs, its over-the-top life-sized wooden figures, its towers, its neon grandmas, and its lovely porticos. Ironically, I did not dig the food.

I'd also like to check out Fiesole- maybe stay there for an afternoon. Have fresh olive oil and fresh bread with a not-so-fresh bottle of vino. Oh Italian picnic lunch, how I love you.

Hit me up with suggestions. I know I'm forgetting so many things, but wanted to get this up as a base and something to look forward to.

Endnote: Eryn- I have reason to believe that said gelateria has an actual name... and that name is Antica Gelateria Fiorentina. I found no photographic evidence of this, because apparently, we're the only ones who love so... though we don't have pics of it either. That will change soon enough, my friend. Soon enough.)