I woke up in the morning to the sounds of my Ma stomping around the room. My ears were tied to my head and I couldn’t see a thing.
Okay let me go ahead and explain that.
Mama Sue is without a doubt the most bizarre sleeper I have ever met in my entire damn life. She likes the TV to remain on and she is prone to waking up in the middle of the night and, I don’t know, cracking open a book to pass the time until she falls asleep again. Before bed I usually watch Netflix until I’m just tired enough to cry, at which point I either do, or shut it down and pass the f-ck out. I don’t wake up until I am absolutely forced to. Now, my Ma (being a Ma) employed her nurturing instincts and foresaw that we were going to need a solution to our sleeping arrangement. She thus retained those eye cover things they give you on the plane and handed it to me on the first night as I crawled into my bed. They work pretty well, except I think I have a permanent and unsightly crease in my ears from the elastic.
Anyway, Ma got up at 5am, tossed back a few chapters of her book, packed her shit, and began pacing around the room for a few hours. I can only imagine the sight of my confused ass sitting up 4 hours later with a mask over my eyes reading DELTA, wondering aloud what the hell she was doing.
Turns out she was a little stressed out about going to Naples. We had tentatively planned to go there, but neither of us had ever been, and we didn’t really know a whole lot about what to do there, and she was worried about pick-pockets (I welcome them so I can crush their skulls with my ninja moves). I think this was why she was pacing (Naples, not the ninja moves. Though I’d be pacing if I had to be on the business end of my moves).
So we decided to go to Florence. I hadn’t seen David in a few years and I welcomed the opportunity to stand around and stare at him like a creep.
Now, normal people would return the damn car to the Hertz place, get on the train, and go to Florence. We, of course, thought it would be a MUCH better idea to extend the rental, and drive the car. Never mind that we have no idea how the freeway system of Italy works, nor did we have any clue that you really can’t drive in Florence. 3 hours, 2 freeway changes, 1 five-car pileup, several mental breakdowns later, we arrived in Florence. I found some random doorman who pointed us to a place we could park for the next few days (a service I would later repay by walking by later, after a lot of wine, and awkwardly handing over a 5 Euro note I had crumpled in my fist). Ma was convinced the garage guys were going to steal all the wine we bought. I was busy trying to flirt with the cute grease-monkeys that run the place, a task I was failing spectacularly at.
We got to the hotel, which I booked using the phone in the car during the drive over. It ended up being a very, very nice place about 100 meters from the Duomo, not to mention right in the middle of some of the best shopping. After we settled ourselves in we headed to a little restaurant for some, you guessed it, Italian food. After that we went over to the Hotel De La Ville, on Via Tournabouni, to say hi to the bartender, Ahkmed. He’s been working there for years and was one of the first people I met on my first trip to Italy. He knows a lot of us pretty well and has even traveled to other parts of Italy with parts of the group. He’s originally from Egypt but moved to Italy when he met his now wife. He invented a drink called a Cleopatra, which was some crazy mix of vodka, grenadine, orange juice, and orange liqueur and probably some other weird stuff. Being that I always welcome any opportunity to overdose on sugar, I went ahead and ordered one. We met this other mother and daughter there as well. The daughter was studying in Florence and the mom was visiting. They were from Long Island, and boy did they sound like it. The mother yapped about something for a few minutes (I don’t know I’m ADD and I was chugging my Cleopatra), but then made sure to recommend this dish at the restaurant we were going to the next night. Pear and Pecorino ravioli. More on that shit later.
After a fun reunion with Ahkmed, we walked over to the Uffizi Gallery (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffizi_gallery). It’s one of the oldest museums in the world, it was commissioned in 1540! I didn’t tour the inside this time, instead wandering the outdoor halls where the rows of statues are. Check out that link though, it gives a really great brief history of the gallery (it’s old as all hell), as well as pictures of the inside. Gorgeous.
Anyway, there are openings in the walls in the courtyard between the two wings of the Uffizi. These are filled with statues of scientists, artists, and statesmen important to Florentine history. Here is a picture of them all: http://www.ericcovey.com/photos/2003/italy/florence/uffizi/index.html.
Really close by is the Palazzo della Signoria (Palazzo Vecchio), which is where the replica statue of David is. The real David used to stand at the entrance to from 1504 to 1873, but he was too exposed to the elements so they thought it be best to move him inside (to the Accademia Gallery, where it remains today). Probably a good idea. I don’t want anything putting a dent in that fine ass.
On the other side of the entrance is the weirdest statue I have ever seen in my life. Bear with me here. See, when you are in Italy, you sort of get used to scrotums. Apparently bare ass and scrotums were all the rage during the Renaissance, and so we, as descendants of these great artists and minds, are stuck having to deal with eyefuls of genitalia, all in the name of highbrow culture. However, the statue of Hercules and Cacus, by Baccio Bandinelli, involves the unusual use of scrotums in that, well, one of the subjects is ever so rudely plopping his on the head of some other dude who appears to be just sitting there, confused. Take a look: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hercules_and_Cacus. I read that this is supposed to represent Hercules’ defeat of Cacus, which was meant to serve as an analogy to the Medici’s return from exile and rise to power. Freud would have has a field day.
And really, was there some kind of memo that went out that gave the Renaissance artists the idea that all great mythological/biblical wars were fought while butt-ass nekkid? Just sayin. Anyway, I know Cacus was a fire-breathing demon, but did he deserve nuts dropped on his head?
Yeah so after walking around for another hour or so and taking in just enough art to make me feel superior to you for the next calendar year, we decided it was time to party. My mother, apparently, decided it was time to farm me out as someone’s wife.
We headed back to the Piazza di Republicca, where we spotted a Hard Rock Café. Now, this is going to sound stupid, but after 6 days of Italian food three times a day, it is always good to find a burger or a sushi place. Clean the palate or what not. We waltzed over to the bar and ordered Bloody Marys, like real Americans. We also ordered red meat and french fries and shrimp cocktails, like real, homegrown, dumbass Americans. Then we thought it would be totally brilliant to start shooting tequila. Apparently it was spring break in Florence that evening.
It was at this point that we drew the attention of a gaggle of Russian dudes that were sitting along the other of the bar. They thought we were hilarious, or nuts (we’re both). So they decided to join the party. Within minutes my ma could be seen sitting in between all of them giving a lesson on how to salt your hand, take the shot, and then suck on the lime. They focused like little apprentices, hoping that they too would one day become loud Americans.
Salt. Shoot. Lime.
We learned that these guys were not Russian but in fact Tajikistanian (huh?). They were in town for business. Apparently they work in pasta/bread manufacturing and sales (“So lemme get this straight! You make carbs?!”). My Ma kept offering me up to the cute one, who seemed more than happy to make me his reverse mail-order bride. Although I am aware that my eggs are not getting any younger, something just felt a little off about the whole thing. Call me a damn hippie, but arranged marriages just don’t tickle my fancy. Not to mention the guy had a real issue with my mandatory personal space bubble. God I hate close talkers.
Ma successfully got these idiots totally tanked on tequila, so we figured it was probably best to get out while we could (always best to prevent your night from turning into a multiple crime scene, I always say). We went to close our tab, and discovered that the Russian boss man (probably a black market nuclear arms dealer), picked up our entire tab. Thanks fellas!
The rest of the night carried on the way nights like that do: walk home, brush teeth, fall in bed, pass out. We needed to get our rest for David in the morning. Like I said, I hadn’t seen him in a few years and I had so many things to tell him.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Italia Day 5 - Vino Nobile di Montepulciano
Yeah, so I’ve had this mentor since I was 21.
He’s about to retire from the insurance industry, but I imagine that won’t change a thing. I talk to him almost everyday and he’s taught me alot about insurance, business, and most importantly, everything you need to know about Italy. He was here with a bunch of us last time and introduced me to no less than 20 people in the different cities I visited. I’ve gone to see many of these people on this trip and it’s bananas how many of them remember me, and know as many things about Dan as I do.
One of the things Dan taught me about was wine. I’m a tough student when it comes to wine because I don’t love it as much as some people do. I’ll have a glass in my apartment with my sister after work (self loathing is the most important meal of the day), or at a dinner when surrounded by friends. In general, however, I find I usually prefer beer or the ol’ tried-and-true vodka and soda (Boy can I toss those down the hatch). Alas, I do know enough about wine to know what I like and why. I prefer red wine, and I like Sangiovese grapes. For about 5 years I’ve insisted that my favorite wine in the world is from a winery called Avignoesi. They make a blend called Vino Nobile di Montepulciano that I LOVE. It’s about 20 bones a bottle and it tastes like little angels made it. Doesn’t make me tired, doesn’t make my teeth red, makes me feel warm , friendly, and fuzzy…the whole bit. I was thus very excited to visit the Avignoesi winery in Tuscany on this trip. It’s one of the things I haven’t had the chance to do yet.
Here’s the thing about wineries in Tuscany. They’re friggin’ impossible to find. My Ma and I drove around in our rented Fiat Panda (look it up…and laugh) for 2 hours trying to find this damn place that should have only been 20 minutes away. Further, we learned that when you are in Tuscany, you are about 17 times less likely to find a person that speaks English…at all. It is here that I learned that Italians with limited English-speaking capabilities are easily overwhelmed by my overbearing personality and are thus very likely to give me bullshit directions so as to get me the hell out of their lives. Needless to say, we were sent on many a wild goose chase that day.
Just when my Ma was ready to throw in the towel, we found the winery. We walked into a deserted room that smelled like freshly cut wood and was filled with various Avignoesi products. I really nice lady that looked like she was dressed for an African safari came out and greeted us. We signed up for the complete tasting, plopped down at the big table, and got ready for the ride.
It goes without saying that this lady is a very good friend of Dan’s, and once I name dropped that fool we were ensured a fantastic afternoon. Actually Laurenza was wonderful and I have no doubt she would have treated us like family anyway. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine it hurt.
Yeah so here’s the thing about wine tasting: When you spend hours driving around aimlessly and thus forget to eat, little sips of wine gets you pretty buzzed. It didn’t help that I was all nostalgic being in the actual winery that makes the very wine I’ve drank during some of the most fun evenings of my life. She taught us all about Sangiovese grapes and how they grow and how the wine ages. Apparently 2007 was a Sweet-Baby-Jesus year them and thus the wine is sold in these special edition limited-production bottles available only at the winery. A few glasses in my Ma and I were like, “Yeah! Let’s buy a bunch of this!” Because you know, that’s a totally good way to spend a buttload of Euro and we totally had enough room in our already overpacked luggage.
I just want you people to know that as I sit on the damn train typing this here blog, I am resting my feet on two overstuffed bags filled with wine that I have NO idea how I am going to get home. I think I might have to declare it or something, whatever the hell that means.
After forking over the dough for a bunch of wine we can’t even really drink for a few years, we headed back to the walled city of Montepulciano. I think this was my Ma’s favorite place. It looks a lot like the other walled towns in the area but it is a bit bigger, livelier, and they have some really great shopping. First stop was the leather guy my friend Jackie told me about. It smelled like dead cows in there (in a good way) and he had some really beautiful stuff. Being that I am as picky about purses as I am about my men, I was unable to purchase anything…this time. I’ll be back though. There is a perfect shoulder bag for me, of this I’m sure. Then it was off to Dan’s friend Ceasare, who is the craftsman behind Bottega Rama, one of the most successful copper goods stores in Tuscany. Rick Steves is all about this guy. He’s like 4th generation copper smith or something. I got some little handmade hook things for my apartment (for keys and whatnot), while my chef mother got a bunch of shit for her kitchen.
Check out how lame our NEXT activity was.
Um, so the second Twilight movie was largely filmed in Italy. Apparently the vampire government is centered there. Well, it was supposed to take place in a small city called Volterra, which is close to Florence and apparently has a lot of old legends about vampires. For reasons I am not sure of (nor do I care to Google), they filmed in Montepulciano. The piazza they filmed in was only a few streets over from the metal guy, so I dragged Mama Sue there so she could let her tween-freak flag fly. She won’t admit it but she was totally stoked.
We headed back to the hotel in Pienza because I needed to stick my face in a pillow for a few hours before dinner. Wine, shopping, and yet another brush with Twilight will do that to you.
I hear people say the all the world is a neighborhood. I learned that was true this week as I arranged for our dinner that evening. See, the restaurant we were going to, La Porta in Montechiello, is owned by a friend of Dan’s (well, actually a close friend of all of ours now), named Daria. Daria happened to be in New York this week, where Dan was also visiting. Thus, Dan, my sister, Daria, and a few other Italy friends met up in NYC for dinner and wine while my mother and I hung out at the restaurant in Montechiello with Daria’s daughter Debbie, and the rest of the people that run the place. Debbie is my age and knows her shit. She recommended us the best dish we had ever had: spinach and cheese ravioli with a marscapone sauce topped with truffles. Y’all know how I feel about truffles. Dinner that night was quite the event. We could even see the balcony of our room at the hotel located just a few ‘hills’ away. Indeed, Tuscany is a quiet place that functions like a series of small towns. I remember being surprised that so many people I know had been there, yet it was so empty. Is there a tourist parade I don’t know about?
We got home late that night, giving me only just enough time to put out those pre-Thanksgiving work fires and type a blog or two. We sat on the balcony for a bit, laughed our asses off, and finally went to bed. At this point we had no idea what city we were going to head to the next morning…
He’s about to retire from the insurance industry, but I imagine that won’t change a thing. I talk to him almost everyday and he’s taught me alot about insurance, business, and most importantly, everything you need to know about Italy. He was here with a bunch of us last time and introduced me to no less than 20 people in the different cities I visited. I’ve gone to see many of these people on this trip and it’s bananas how many of them remember me, and know as many things about Dan as I do.
One of the things Dan taught me about was wine. I’m a tough student when it comes to wine because I don’t love it as much as some people do. I’ll have a glass in my apartment with my sister after work (self loathing is the most important meal of the day), or at a dinner when surrounded by friends. In general, however, I find I usually prefer beer or the ol’ tried-and-true vodka and soda (Boy can I toss those down the hatch). Alas, I do know enough about wine to know what I like and why. I prefer red wine, and I like Sangiovese grapes. For about 5 years I’ve insisted that my favorite wine in the world is from a winery called Avignoesi. They make a blend called Vino Nobile di Montepulciano that I LOVE. It’s about 20 bones a bottle and it tastes like little angels made it. Doesn’t make me tired, doesn’t make my teeth red, makes me feel warm , friendly, and fuzzy…the whole bit. I was thus very excited to visit the Avignoesi winery in Tuscany on this trip. It’s one of the things I haven’t had the chance to do yet.
Here’s the thing about wineries in Tuscany. They’re friggin’ impossible to find. My Ma and I drove around in our rented Fiat Panda (look it up…and laugh) for 2 hours trying to find this damn place that should have only been 20 minutes away. Further, we learned that when you are in Tuscany, you are about 17 times less likely to find a person that speaks English…at all. It is here that I learned that Italians with limited English-speaking capabilities are easily overwhelmed by my overbearing personality and are thus very likely to give me bullshit directions so as to get me the hell out of their lives. Needless to say, we were sent on many a wild goose chase that day.
Just when my Ma was ready to throw in the towel, we found the winery. We walked into a deserted room that smelled like freshly cut wood and was filled with various Avignoesi products. I really nice lady that looked like she was dressed for an African safari came out and greeted us. We signed up for the complete tasting, plopped down at the big table, and got ready for the ride.
It goes without saying that this lady is a very good friend of Dan’s, and once I name dropped that fool we were ensured a fantastic afternoon. Actually Laurenza was wonderful and I have no doubt she would have treated us like family anyway. Nonetheless, I can’t imagine it hurt.
Yeah so here’s the thing about wine tasting: When you spend hours driving around aimlessly and thus forget to eat, little sips of wine gets you pretty buzzed. It didn’t help that I was all nostalgic being in the actual winery that makes the very wine I’ve drank during some of the most fun evenings of my life. She taught us all about Sangiovese grapes and how they grow and how the wine ages. Apparently 2007 was a Sweet-Baby-Jesus year them and thus the wine is sold in these special edition limited-production bottles available only at the winery. A few glasses in my Ma and I were like, “Yeah! Let’s buy a bunch of this!” Because you know, that’s a totally good way to spend a buttload of Euro and we totally had enough room in our already overpacked luggage.
I just want you people to know that as I sit on the damn train typing this here blog, I am resting my feet on two overstuffed bags filled with wine that I have NO idea how I am going to get home. I think I might have to declare it or something, whatever the hell that means.
After forking over the dough for a bunch of wine we can’t even really drink for a few years, we headed back to the walled city of Montepulciano. I think this was my Ma’s favorite place. It looks a lot like the other walled towns in the area but it is a bit bigger, livelier, and they have some really great shopping. First stop was the leather guy my friend Jackie told me about. It smelled like dead cows in there (in a good way) and he had some really beautiful stuff. Being that I am as picky about purses as I am about my men, I was unable to purchase anything…this time. I’ll be back though. There is a perfect shoulder bag for me, of this I’m sure. Then it was off to Dan’s friend Ceasare, who is the craftsman behind Bottega Rama, one of the most successful copper goods stores in Tuscany. Rick Steves is all about this guy. He’s like 4th generation copper smith or something. I got some little handmade hook things for my apartment (for keys and whatnot), while my chef mother got a bunch of shit for her kitchen.
Check out how lame our NEXT activity was.
Um, so the second Twilight movie was largely filmed in Italy. Apparently the vampire government is centered there. Well, it was supposed to take place in a small city called Volterra, which is close to Florence and apparently has a lot of old legends about vampires. For reasons I am not sure of (nor do I care to Google), they filmed in Montepulciano. The piazza they filmed in was only a few streets over from the metal guy, so I dragged Mama Sue there so she could let her tween-freak flag fly. She won’t admit it but she was totally stoked.
We headed back to the hotel in Pienza because I needed to stick my face in a pillow for a few hours before dinner. Wine, shopping, and yet another brush with Twilight will do that to you.
I hear people say the all the world is a neighborhood. I learned that was true this week as I arranged for our dinner that evening. See, the restaurant we were going to, La Porta in Montechiello, is owned by a friend of Dan’s (well, actually a close friend of all of ours now), named Daria. Daria happened to be in New York this week, where Dan was also visiting. Thus, Dan, my sister, Daria, and a few other Italy friends met up in NYC for dinner and wine while my mother and I hung out at the restaurant in Montechiello with Daria’s daughter Debbie, and the rest of the people that run the place. Debbie is my age and knows her shit. She recommended us the best dish we had ever had: spinach and cheese ravioli with a marscapone sauce topped with truffles. Y’all know how I feel about truffles. Dinner that night was quite the event. We could even see the balcony of our room at the hotel located just a few ‘hills’ away. Indeed, Tuscany is a quiet place that functions like a series of small towns. I remember being surprised that so many people I know had been there, yet it was so empty. Is there a tourist parade I don’t know about?
We got home late that night, giving me only just enough time to put out those pre-Thanksgiving work fires and type a blog or two. We sat on the balcony for a bit, laughed our asses off, and finally went to bed. At this point we had no idea what city we were going to head to the next morning…
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Italia - Day 4...Shakedown on the Train
I hate trains. I really do. I don't think a single good thing has ever happened to me on a train. Of course, being that I've chosen to live in a pedestrian nirvana, and that I have a love of traveling Europe, I have come to accept trains as a necessary evil.
But that doesn't mean I have to like them.
This feeling was reaffirmed on Monday morning after we hauled our tired asses to the Termini station at the crack of dawn to catch the train to Chiusi. Last time I was in Italy, I threw no less than 3 full-blown fits at this very station. Today the trend would continue. First, the ticket machine wouldn't accept out credit cards because we were either scanning them the wrong way, or it hates us. I'm convinced it was the latter. With about 10 minutes until the train was to go toot! toot! and leave us stranded and hysterical, we managed to buy tickets from the guy in the window. He had a rough time understanding where we were trying to go since apparently Chuisi is pronounced 'Cue-Zee' and not "Choosy." Yes indeed, it was amateur hour in Rome, and my goofy ass was the star.
I'd just like to say to the guy in the window that sold us the tickets: You are an asswipe. I hope you get stung by a bee right on your eyeball someday.
More on him later.
Anyway, I don't know if you know this, but all of the workers at Termini actually know who I am and when I am coming to town. They get together in the morning and strategize on how best to get me to lose my marbles and then they take bets on how long it will take. I am proud to say that this time, I made it all the way on the train!
With only 5 minutes to go, we sprinted to our train, which was freakishly far away (like, so far it was segregated from the other trains. I assume this was another strategy devised in the aforementioned morning meeting. Bullies). We got to the train just in time for the toothless ticket taker man (he looked like the old man Jafar dressed up as when he fooled Aladdin into fetching the lamp) to mumble something about a stamp but allow me to board nonetheless.
Yeah so get this, once we were on the train and taking off, the toothless bastard starts telling us we have to pay him 50 euros for some kind of fine! Naturally he didn't have the English to explain why, so he drug me to this sign that explained that you have to "validate" your ticket (which means stick it in a machine and get it stamped) and failing to do so is the same as boarding with no ticket. I told him to stuff it and then went back to my seat. I then got on my iPhone and it turns out this is a regular thing. You have to validate your ticket before boarding by sticking it in these little boxes they have near the trash cans. No one told us we needed to do it and it seems like every tourist has had this happen to them at least once. So yeah, we ended up having to pay this tool bag 50 euros or he was going to throw mama from the train (and probably stab me with a crooked sword thing).
This is why the ticket window man deserves a stinger in his iris. All he has to do was say, "Hey, idiot tourist ladies! Stamp your shit!" But nooooo. He was probably the ringmaster behind the conspiracy to get me to flail around (you know I think this is what my Mother is talking about when she has to remind me that the world doesn't revolve around me).
Good thing was it was only 10:30 when we made it to Chiusi. We had plenty of time to get out blood pressure and heart rates back on track.
Next up on the list, Hertz. Yes, ladies and gentlemen...the let us rent a car. As in drive. In Italy. As it turns out, however, roads in Italy are pretty simple. You just sort of follow the signs. You never really know how fast you're going because we are dumbass Americans and don't speak Kilometers. Italians also follow alot more closely than you're used to. So close that my Ma got into the habit of pulling over everytime someone was behind her. She's fallen apart behind the wheel a few times this week actually. (Wait'll I tell you people about Florence).
We drove all the way to Pienza, one of the many towns in Tuscany. Here's the thing about Tuscany...it looks exactly like you think it will. Rolling hills with patchwork land created by the various farms and vineyards. Every few miles, however, you'll see a big stone structure with a wall around it. Some look like castles. In fact, they are walled cities. You go inside to find a maze of stone walkways with restaurants, shops, apartments, etc. People live and work in these structurally contained towns. They are centuries old and look exactly like those cheesy watercolors you see. I remember thinking Venice was so weird looking because of the way it was inward-facing. Turns out it was quite the norm in Italy. Only thing that Pienza, Montechiello, and Montepulciano are missing is the canals.
We checked into a hotel I found a few weeks ago through my friend Nick. Piccolo Hotel. I scored a room with a badass balcony that overlooked those rolling hills, and the outer walls of Montechiello in the distance. It was some postcard shit, I'll tell you that. We took a drive to Montepulciano around 3 where we learned that absolutely nothing is open between 3-5. Nothing. I know Italians take a siesta in the middle of the day, but this was nuts. It was like everybody died. The sound of our own feet clicking on the stone walkways was deafening.
Before long it was time for dinner. We made reservations at Trattoria De La Luna, which specializes in roast young pig. We ordered that, which was good but I though it was slightly salty. I also ordered some pasta with truffles on it. Now I know I make alot of bold and sometimes wildly innappropiate statements, but I promise you will have a hard time finding a gal that likes the flavor of truffles more than me. Its like eating delicious dirt. Magic elves make truffles. I hope I am reincarnated into a truffle pig so I can wander Tuscany, locate truffles and eat them all day.
Yea so anyway the pasta was bomb.
We also had some great wine and met alot of the locals. Dinner is always quite a long process in Italy, and in Tuscany, this is even more true.
I made it back to the hotel in time to put out a few work related fires before crawling into my sweet Tuscany bed. Tomorrow we visit the winery that makes my favorite wine in the world, followed by dinner at the restaurant owned by some friends. It would be here that we would have the greatest tasting dish we have ever had in our entire lives...and that is a bold statement I'm happy to make.
But that doesn't mean I have to like them.
This feeling was reaffirmed on Monday morning after we hauled our tired asses to the Termini station at the crack of dawn to catch the train to Chiusi. Last time I was in Italy, I threw no less than 3 full-blown fits at this very station. Today the trend would continue. First, the ticket machine wouldn't accept out credit cards because we were either scanning them the wrong way, or it hates us. I'm convinced it was the latter. With about 10 minutes until the train was to go toot! toot! and leave us stranded and hysterical, we managed to buy tickets from the guy in the window. He had a rough time understanding where we were trying to go since apparently Chuisi is pronounced 'Cue-Zee' and not "Choosy." Yes indeed, it was amateur hour in Rome, and my goofy ass was the star.
I'd just like to say to the guy in the window that sold us the tickets: You are an asswipe. I hope you get stung by a bee right on your eyeball someday.
More on him later.
Anyway, I don't know if you know this, but all of the workers at Termini actually know who I am and when I am coming to town. They get together in the morning and strategize on how best to get me to lose my marbles and then they take bets on how long it will take. I am proud to say that this time, I made it all the way on the train!
With only 5 minutes to go, we sprinted to our train, which was freakishly far away (like, so far it was segregated from the other trains. I assume this was another strategy devised in the aforementioned morning meeting. Bullies). We got to the train just in time for the toothless ticket taker man (he looked like the old man Jafar dressed up as when he fooled Aladdin into fetching the lamp) to mumble something about a stamp but allow me to board nonetheless.
Yeah so get this, once we were on the train and taking off, the toothless bastard starts telling us we have to pay him 50 euros for some kind of fine! Naturally he didn't have the English to explain why, so he drug me to this sign that explained that you have to "validate" your ticket (which means stick it in a machine and get it stamped) and failing to do so is the same as boarding with no ticket. I told him to stuff it and then went back to my seat. I then got on my iPhone and it turns out this is a regular thing. You have to validate your ticket before boarding by sticking it in these little boxes they have near the trash cans. No one told us we needed to do it and it seems like every tourist has had this happen to them at least once. So yeah, we ended up having to pay this tool bag 50 euros or he was going to throw mama from the train (and probably stab me with a crooked sword thing).
This is why the ticket window man deserves a stinger in his iris. All he has to do was say, "Hey, idiot tourist ladies! Stamp your shit!" But nooooo. He was probably the ringmaster behind the conspiracy to get me to flail around (you know I think this is what my Mother is talking about when she has to remind me that the world doesn't revolve around me).
Good thing was it was only 10:30 when we made it to Chiusi. We had plenty of time to get out blood pressure and heart rates back on track.
Next up on the list, Hertz. Yes, ladies and gentlemen...the let us rent a car. As in drive. In Italy. As it turns out, however, roads in Italy are pretty simple. You just sort of follow the signs. You never really know how fast you're going because we are dumbass Americans and don't speak Kilometers. Italians also follow alot more closely than you're used to. So close that my Ma got into the habit of pulling over everytime someone was behind her. She's fallen apart behind the wheel a few times this week actually. (Wait'll I tell you people about Florence).
We drove all the way to Pienza, one of the many towns in Tuscany. Here's the thing about Tuscany...it looks exactly like you think it will. Rolling hills with patchwork land created by the various farms and vineyards. Every few miles, however, you'll see a big stone structure with a wall around it. Some look like castles. In fact, they are walled cities. You go inside to find a maze of stone walkways with restaurants, shops, apartments, etc. People live and work in these structurally contained towns. They are centuries old and look exactly like those cheesy watercolors you see. I remember thinking Venice was so weird looking because of the way it was inward-facing. Turns out it was quite the norm in Italy. Only thing that Pienza, Montechiello, and Montepulciano are missing is the canals.
We checked into a hotel I found a few weeks ago through my friend Nick. Piccolo Hotel. I scored a room with a badass balcony that overlooked those rolling hills, and the outer walls of Montechiello in the distance. It was some postcard shit, I'll tell you that. We took a drive to Montepulciano around 3 where we learned that absolutely nothing is open between 3-5. Nothing. I know Italians take a siesta in the middle of the day, but this was nuts. It was like everybody died. The sound of our own feet clicking on the stone walkways was deafening.
Before long it was time for dinner. We made reservations at Trattoria De La Luna, which specializes in roast young pig. We ordered that, which was good but I though it was slightly salty. I also ordered some pasta with truffles on it. Now I know I make alot of bold and sometimes wildly innappropiate statements, but I promise you will have a hard time finding a gal that likes the flavor of truffles more than me. Its like eating delicious dirt. Magic elves make truffles. I hope I am reincarnated into a truffle pig so I can wander Tuscany, locate truffles and eat them all day.
Yea so anyway the pasta was bomb.
We also had some great wine and met alot of the locals. Dinner is always quite a long process in Italy, and in Tuscany, this is even more true.
I made it back to the hotel in time to put out a few work related fires before crawling into my sweet Tuscany bed. Tomorrow we visit the winery that makes my favorite wine in the world, followed by dinner at the restaurant owned by some friends. It would be here that we would have the greatest tasting dish we have ever had in our entire lives...and that is a bold statement I'm happy to make.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Italia...Day 3 - Old Shit
Nasa says you need one day per hour of time difference to properly adjust to what the hell is happening to you. Well, as far as I’m concerned Nasa can eat my shorts. I simply don’t have time for that crap. Same goes for my nutritionist that suggested I eat healthy and avoid drinking my face off on this vacation. Listen fools, I get but one vacation per year, and I’ll be damned if I have to spend it following the rules.
Yeah so I slept in until almost noon on Sunday because I was so jet lagged, and full of pizza, and hungover from Champagne. In fact, I only woke up because my mother had grown so tired of my sleeping carcass that she finally decided to come over to my bed and punch me in the kidney.
An hour later I was fully dressed and ready to go. The first thing we decided to do was go visit the Coliseum. It is located two stops from Termini (Rome’s “Union Station,” if you will) on Line A. One of my favorite things about certain European landmarks is that they do a really good job of arranging the subway in such a way that when you exit, you are visually assaulted by the monstrosity of your destination. Both the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum are conveniently parked about 100 feet from their subway stop. Same goes for the Tower of London. Even better, to subway spits you out so you’re facing the best side of the Coliseum: the taller part that wraps around the shorter part, the angle of which most of the photos you see are taken. I felt the same way I did the first time I saw it: like my head should fall off or something. I mean, at least people around you should spontaneously burst out into song. Here I am, fortunate enough to be in front of the Coliseum for the second time in my life.
My Ma began to grow impatient with me staring in self-reflective wonder and insisted that we get the show on the road. We decided to tour the inside. Some asswipe cut in front of me in line and then pretended he had no idea what was going on. He’s lucky that ancient monuments calm me down, otherwise he’d have gotten a boot to the kneecap. Anyway, 12 euros later (a little steep, I think), we found ourselves wandering the interior. You know, the weird thing about the inside for me has always been the ground part, or lack thereof. Instead of a dirt field, where one would assume all the death and dismemberment took place, there is what appears to be a small underground village below. I can only assume this was some sort of prison where they kept the sacrificial entertainers. The ground above seems to have been removed.
We had lunch at a little place a few blocks away. Someone told me a few years ago that you should always eat a few streets away from any landmarks or piazzas, otherwise your food will disappoint you and the bill will send your broke ass home. My Ma begrudgingly allows my picky restaurant hunting to go on for about 15 minutes before she puts her foot down and drags me into the first place she sees. Turns out we made a great choice. She had soup and I had a steak. I don’t know, something about being in the place of ancient Gladiators just put me in the mood for a slab of red meat. I’m was just sorry I couldn’t club it and drag it back myself. We also split a carafe of red wine, because, Dr. Cohen, that is what people do on their damn vacations.
Next on our list was the Piazza Barberini, again. We actually went back there because there is this insane dead body thing I wanted to show my Ma. She’s into that sort of shit. Once she got to watch an autopsy and said it was one of the most thrilling experiences of her life. There just isn’t enough therapy in the world that would get me back on track after seeing something like that. Anyway, just off the piazza there is a street called Via Veneto. On that street is this church called Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (say that 10 times fast). Little background: From about 1500 to the late 1800s, the Roman Catholic Church allowed people to be buried in and under churches. Some popes and priests and monks, etc., are even preserved and displayed (there are a few wax covered popes in St Peter’s, which never ceases to weird me out). This is why so many churches in Rome have underground crypts. The Cappuccini crypt, however, which is located just below the Santa Maria church, is especially creepy because it contains the bones, yes bones, of over 4000 dead monks. These bones are arranged all over the ceiling and walls and in these little display rooms. It’s like a religious haunted house or something. Hundreds of skulls make elaborate archways where dried, partially preserved monks are propped up beneath. There are chandeliers made of wishbones and flower designs made of hip bones. For those of you who read my last Italy blog, this would be the place where the Texan guy loudly asked the tour guide in the middle of the solemn crypt, “How’d they get the meat of them bones?” It was and remains one of the most hilarious moments of my life. My Ma was enthralled at the display, but she was slightly unsettled at what these “16th century crazy f-cks” had created. She said it reminded her of 1970s lacy wallpaper combined with crafty shit children make with pasta and beads. I’ve always been amazed at the room because it actually looks a lot newer than it is. There is plaster on the walls and it is remarkably well lit. Hard to believe it was commissioned in the mid 1600s.
After that we walked the kilometer or so to the Trevi Fountain. I was really hoping that since we are travelling in the “off season” that it wouldn’t be crowded will tourist bastards. Alas, I wasn’t so lucky. Just like last time, there were swarms of idiot tourists with stupid cameras hovering around. I mean, damn, I travelled all this way, how was I going to get a decent picture if 15 bajillion other people stole my idea?!
Eventually, we made it to the front and snapped away. Legend has it that if you throw a coin over your left shoulder with your back to the fountain you will have good luck and a quick return to Rome. Well, it worked last time so I went ahead and tossed a Euro. There is also a smaller pond attached to the fountain (the main pool of which is nearly the size of a football field) off to the side known as the “Lover’s Pond” or what not. Apparently there’s some other ritual you can do there but I couldn’t have been less interested in that fairy tale nonsense if I tried.
We decided to walk up Via Del Corso to the Piazza del Poppolo, and then to the Spanish Steps. This route is pretty fun, and it takes you past some really excellent shopping. Like, Rodeo Drive-type shopping. If you thought high-end designer stores in America made you feel inferior, you should experience the real self loathing that only Euro prices can bring. I wanted this Burberry trench coat so very badly…but unfortunately I couldn’t find someone who was willing to buy my friggin’ kidney. (I’m totally buying it at Barney’s on sale in the spring if it’s the last thing I do). Next, we ate dinner at Trattoria Leonardo off the Piazza about 100 meters. Ma had veal and I had salad. My belly was still full of dead cow from earlier in the day. We are still on a champagne kick for some reason. There’d be plenty of wine in Tuscany, so as far as Rome was concerned, we decided to drink like 22 year olds on New Years.
Totally regretted it in the morning.
Yeah so I slept in until almost noon on Sunday because I was so jet lagged, and full of pizza, and hungover from Champagne. In fact, I only woke up because my mother had grown so tired of my sleeping carcass that she finally decided to come over to my bed and punch me in the kidney.
An hour later I was fully dressed and ready to go. The first thing we decided to do was go visit the Coliseum. It is located two stops from Termini (Rome’s “Union Station,” if you will) on Line A. One of my favorite things about certain European landmarks is that they do a really good job of arranging the subway in such a way that when you exit, you are visually assaulted by the monstrosity of your destination. Both the Eiffel Tower and the Coliseum are conveniently parked about 100 feet from their subway stop. Same goes for the Tower of London. Even better, to subway spits you out so you’re facing the best side of the Coliseum: the taller part that wraps around the shorter part, the angle of which most of the photos you see are taken. I felt the same way I did the first time I saw it: like my head should fall off or something. I mean, at least people around you should spontaneously burst out into song. Here I am, fortunate enough to be in front of the Coliseum for the second time in my life.
My Ma began to grow impatient with me staring in self-reflective wonder and insisted that we get the show on the road. We decided to tour the inside. Some asswipe cut in front of me in line and then pretended he had no idea what was going on. He’s lucky that ancient monuments calm me down, otherwise he’d have gotten a boot to the kneecap. Anyway, 12 euros later (a little steep, I think), we found ourselves wandering the interior. You know, the weird thing about the inside for me has always been the ground part, or lack thereof. Instead of a dirt field, where one would assume all the death and dismemberment took place, there is what appears to be a small underground village below. I can only assume this was some sort of prison where they kept the sacrificial entertainers. The ground above seems to have been removed.
We had lunch at a little place a few blocks away. Someone told me a few years ago that you should always eat a few streets away from any landmarks or piazzas, otherwise your food will disappoint you and the bill will send your broke ass home. My Ma begrudgingly allows my picky restaurant hunting to go on for about 15 minutes before she puts her foot down and drags me into the first place she sees. Turns out we made a great choice. She had soup and I had a steak. I don’t know, something about being in the place of ancient Gladiators just put me in the mood for a slab of red meat. I’m was just sorry I couldn’t club it and drag it back myself. We also split a carafe of red wine, because, Dr. Cohen, that is what people do on their damn vacations.
Next on our list was the Piazza Barberini, again. We actually went back there because there is this insane dead body thing I wanted to show my Ma. She’s into that sort of shit. Once she got to watch an autopsy and said it was one of the most thrilling experiences of her life. There just isn’t enough therapy in the world that would get me back on track after seeing something like that. Anyway, just off the piazza there is a street called Via Veneto. On that street is this church called Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini (say that 10 times fast). Little background: From about 1500 to the late 1800s, the Roman Catholic Church allowed people to be buried in and under churches. Some popes and priests and monks, etc., are even preserved and displayed (there are a few wax covered popes in St Peter’s, which never ceases to weird me out). This is why so many churches in Rome have underground crypts. The Cappuccini crypt, however, which is located just below the Santa Maria church, is especially creepy because it contains the bones, yes bones, of over 4000 dead monks. These bones are arranged all over the ceiling and walls and in these little display rooms. It’s like a religious haunted house or something. Hundreds of skulls make elaborate archways where dried, partially preserved monks are propped up beneath. There are chandeliers made of wishbones and flower designs made of hip bones. For those of you who read my last Italy blog, this would be the place where the Texan guy loudly asked the tour guide in the middle of the solemn crypt, “How’d they get the meat of them bones?” It was and remains one of the most hilarious moments of my life. My Ma was enthralled at the display, but she was slightly unsettled at what these “16th century crazy f-cks” had created. She said it reminded her of 1970s lacy wallpaper combined with crafty shit children make with pasta and beads. I’ve always been amazed at the room because it actually looks a lot newer than it is. There is plaster on the walls and it is remarkably well lit. Hard to believe it was commissioned in the mid 1600s.
After that we walked the kilometer or so to the Trevi Fountain. I was really hoping that since we are travelling in the “off season” that it wouldn’t be crowded will tourist bastards. Alas, I wasn’t so lucky. Just like last time, there were swarms of idiot tourists with stupid cameras hovering around. I mean, damn, I travelled all this way, how was I going to get a decent picture if 15 bajillion other people stole my idea?!
Eventually, we made it to the front and snapped away. Legend has it that if you throw a coin over your left shoulder with your back to the fountain you will have good luck and a quick return to Rome. Well, it worked last time so I went ahead and tossed a Euro. There is also a smaller pond attached to the fountain (the main pool of which is nearly the size of a football field) off to the side known as the “Lover’s Pond” or what not. Apparently there’s some other ritual you can do there but I couldn’t have been less interested in that fairy tale nonsense if I tried.
We decided to walk up Via Del Corso to the Piazza del Poppolo, and then to the Spanish Steps. This route is pretty fun, and it takes you past some really excellent shopping. Like, Rodeo Drive-type shopping. If you thought high-end designer stores in America made you feel inferior, you should experience the real self loathing that only Euro prices can bring. I wanted this Burberry trench coat so very badly…but unfortunately I couldn’t find someone who was willing to buy my friggin’ kidney. (I’m totally buying it at Barney’s on sale in the spring if it’s the last thing I do). Next, we ate dinner at Trattoria Leonardo off the Piazza about 100 meters. Ma had veal and I had salad. My belly was still full of dead cow from earlier in the day. We are still on a champagne kick for some reason. There’d be plenty of wine in Tuscany, so as far as Rome was concerned, we decided to drink like 22 year olds on New Years.
Totally regretted it in the morning.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Hey, Danielle's Back in Italia! (Day 2)
Day 2 - Twihards
I can’t remember how we arranged it exactly, but my Ma and I had some sort of agreement that we would meet in the terminal where I landed. This would turn out to be the first dumb American mistake we would commit over the next few days: arrogantly thinking that shit is just going to present itself in a way that is familiar to you. Indeed, when you get off the plane, you are herded through border control, shuffled to baggage claim (I overpacked again. When will I learn?), and then rushed out some doors where you are immediately swarmed by short men asking you if you need a taxi…and not taking no for an answer.
“Miss, taxi?”
“No”
“Good price good price!”
“No”
“Where you go? I give good price, where you go?”
“Dude! Are you kidding me?!? I said NO! No is no! Even in Italian! I know you understand NO! Why –“
“Hey Danielle! Dani! Dan!”
Alas, this is how my Ma found me. She had been wandering the terminal for an hour or so. Thank goodness. For a few minutes there I thought I was going to have to have smoke signals sent out if I couldn’t find her. My work-issued cell phone works internationally (yay insurance!), whereas I am not entirely sure hers can power on outside of her town.
She actually looked a lot better than I thought she would. She later explained to me that this was owed entirely to the fact that she swallowed two Tylenol PMs, allowed the delirium to set in, and then informed the flight crew she was setting up camp on some unoccupied couch/bench thing in the back that I think is normally reserved for attendants on their break. Whatever, she was able to score a few hours of over-the-counter snooze and thus looked like a functioning human being. I cannot say the same for myself.
We took a cab to the hotel. The cab driver spoke about 9 words of English but managed to give us a sound lecture on the perils of getting into other cabs without meters (i.e. those aggressive taxi guys that invade your personal space). He was really nice about it but the general message was that we were dumb tourists and we are therefore more likely to get ripped off like crazy, so we best watch our fascist American asses. Duly noted sir.
Here’s the thing about Rome. It looks remarkably like San Francisco, except old. And European. It’s also a lot smaller than you think it would be. Well, there are a lot of people there but you can actually walk across it in a very short period of time. There are only two subway lines…A and B. Some features of the city looked a lot different than I remember (Piazza Barberini…I realized it’s not really a Piazza at all), where as other things were really familiar. I remembered how to get around a lot better than I thought I would. The last time I was in Rome I spent like 4 or 5 days straight there, so I suppose I knew it better than I expected. We stayed in the Campo di Fiori area, which was really cool and relatively free of tourists. I don’t mean to suggest that I am a tourist snob or anything (though I am), I just like more “local” areas because I have always suspected that the food is better and you can get better deals on hotels.
You know, everytime a meet a guy in New York and he wants to break the ice, the first thing he’ll ask is “So, uh, how do you like New York versus LA?” It’s shit like that that actually makes me sympathize with movie stars who find themselves having to answer the same questions over and over as they make the talk show rounds while promoting their latest crappy movie. Anyway, since so many conversations have required me to compare and contrast major metropolitan areas, I’ll take this opportunity to give you some Rome observations.
1) Toilet seats suck. Sometimes there aren’t even toilet seats at all. I don’t know what the deal is there. It’s one of those things that I think every American must notice but cannot find a polite way to ask a local about. “Excuse me sir? Do you people just, I don’t know, hover? Your bathrooms are walking nightmares!”
2) You have to add the tip before you run the card.
3) Always eat off the beaten path. Anything adjacent to a piazza is a tourist trap. Sorry kids, but I’m only paying 15 Euro for a side salad if the salad is served on a bed of hydrocodone.
4) There are NO trucks, no SUVs, and no American cars, whatsoever. Not like this is particularly shocking seeing as we stubbornly insist on driving Freudian pieces of shit, but it really hits you after strolling past your 319th Fiat Panda.
5) Hotel rooms don’t have light switches. Instead you stick your key card into this slot and it makes the electricity turn on. For this reason, you have to actually return the key cards when you check out. This is really inconvenient for ADD kids like me. On a normal basis I go through 15 to 20 key cards per hotel stay.
6) There are little fountains everywhere that look like ancient fire hydrants. They spit a constant stream of water into a waiting drain below. Romans use these to fill their water bottles, splash water on their face, or violently shove their little brother into.
After checking into the hotel, my mother decided she needed to pass out for another hour or so. I decided to wander the city alone. I had two things to do: 1) Buy a flat iron. Giggle at me all you want, but without a good straightening session, my hair looks like a place where birds lay eggs. Every time I’ve been to Europe I’ve regretted not forking over the 20 bones necessary to ensure I don’t look like a sweaty homeless person. 2) I wanted to get a tan (shut up you people know I’m from LA). NYC has left me a little gray/white…and I wanted to have a nice glow for the remainder of my vacation.
Needless to say, I strolled home 90 minutes later burnt to a crisp and clutching a curling iron that I would later discover gets hot enough to remove skin from your very own sunburned earlobe.
That night we wandered around the Piazza Barberini, found a restaurant, ordered pizza and a bottle of champagne and dug in. Shortly after we wandered over to the movie theater so we could buy tickets for the new Twilight movie. A little background on that: I’ve read the books…they’re alright. My Ma, on the other hand, is a full blown Twihard. She started watching the movies a year or so ago, bought the books, read them, bought the encyclopedia thing that tells you the background on all of the characters and mythology, read it, discussed it with us for like 10 months, read them all again…and so on. Shortly after she found out she was going to be going to Italy (about 3 weeks ago), she expressed her genuine excitement, followed by her profound disappointment that she was going to miss opening night for friggin’ Twilight.
It goes without saying that since they don’t play it in English…Italian was going to have to do.
Interestingly, seeing a movie like that in an Italian theater is actually a totally genius tourist thing to do. For starters, we were most definitely the only tourists. Secondly, we totally got to see adolescent Italians in their natural habitat. They were teenaged, awkward, had braces, the whole bit. Boyfriends were dragged along, pretending to be excited but really just hoping they’d get to touch their girlfriend’s boobs later. Girls reapplied lip gloss as though it might make their braces less noticeable (oh girl, I’ve been there). We knew the story so after about 5 minutes I didn’t even notice it was in Italian anymore. Only thing is we left thinking it was a pretty good movie, surprisingly. I have a feeling this may not be the case one I can actually hear the stupid shit they’re saying in English (I’m sorry, you do not possess the capability to “love someone for an eternity” at 28, let alone 17). I later saw online that the critic’s reviews were awful.
By the time we got out of the theater, we were so tired we were virtually unable to speak. We took the short walk home and passed out, bellies full of Italian food and champagne, and the ever-creepy Edward Cullen. Day 1 was indeed a success.
I can’t remember how we arranged it exactly, but my Ma and I had some sort of agreement that we would meet in the terminal where I landed. This would turn out to be the first dumb American mistake we would commit over the next few days: arrogantly thinking that shit is just going to present itself in a way that is familiar to you. Indeed, when you get off the plane, you are herded through border control, shuffled to baggage claim (I overpacked again. When will I learn?), and then rushed out some doors where you are immediately swarmed by short men asking you if you need a taxi…and not taking no for an answer.
“Miss, taxi?”
“No”
“Good price good price!”
“No”
“Where you go? I give good price, where you go?”
“Dude! Are you kidding me?!? I said NO! No is no! Even in Italian! I know you understand NO! Why –“
“Hey Danielle! Dani! Dan!”
Alas, this is how my Ma found me. She had been wandering the terminal for an hour or so. Thank goodness. For a few minutes there I thought I was going to have to have smoke signals sent out if I couldn’t find her. My work-issued cell phone works internationally (yay insurance!), whereas I am not entirely sure hers can power on outside of her town.
She actually looked a lot better than I thought she would. She later explained to me that this was owed entirely to the fact that she swallowed two Tylenol PMs, allowed the delirium to set in, and then informed the flight crew she was setting up camp on some unoccupied couch/bench thing in the back that I think is normally reserved for attendants on their break. Whatever, she was able to score a few hours of over-the-counter snooze and thus looked like a functioning human being. I cannot say the same for myself.
We took a cab to the hotel. The cab driver spoke about 9 words of English but managed to give us a sound lecture on the perils of getting into other cabs without meters (i.e. those aggressive taxi guys that invade your personal space). He was really nice about it but the general message was that we were dumb tourists and we are therefore more likely to get ripped off like crazy, so we best watch our fascist American asses. Duly noted sir.
Here’s the thing about Rome. It looks remarkably like San Francisco, except old. And European. It’s also a lot smaller than you think it would be. Well, there are a lot of people there but you can actually walk across it in a very short period of time. There are only two subway lines…A and B. Some features of the city looked a lot different than I remember (Piazza Barberini…I realized it’s not really a Piazza at all), where as other things were really familiar. I remembered how to get around a lot better than I thought I would. The last time I was in Rome I spent like 4 or 5 days straight there, so I suppose I knew it better than I expected. We stayed in the Campo di Fiori area, which was really cool and relatively free of tourists. I don’t mean to suggest that I am a tourist snob or anything (though I am), I just like more “local” areas because I have always suspected that the food is better and you can get better deals on hotels.
You know, everytime a meet a guy in New York and he wants to break the ice, the first thing he’ll ask is “So, uh, how do you like New York versus LA?” It’s shit like that that actually makes me sympathize with movie stars who find themselves having to answer the same questions over and over as they make the talk show rounds while promoting their latest crappy movie. Anyway, since so many conversations have required me to compare and contrast major metropolitan areas, I’ll take this opportunity to give you some Rome observations.
1) Toilet seats suck. Sometimes there aren’t even toilet seats at all. I don’t know what the deal is there. It’s one of those things that I think every American must notice but cannot find a polite way to ask a local about. “Excuse me sir? Do you people just, I don’t know, hover? Your bathrooms are walking nightmares!”
2) You have to add the tip before you run the card.
3) Always eat off the beaten path. Anything adjacent to a piazza is a tourist trap. Sorry kids, but I’m only paying 15 Euro for a side salad if the salad is served on a bed of hydrocodone.
4) There are NO trucks, no SUVs, and no American cars, whatsoever. Not like this is particularly shocking seeing as we stubbornly insist on driving Freudian pieces of shit, but it really hits you after strolling past your 319th Fiat Panda.
5) Hotel rooms don’t have light switches. Instead you stick your key card into this slot and it makes the electricity turn on. For this reason, you have to actually return the key cards when you check out. This is really inconvenient for ADD kids like me. On a normal basis I go through 15 to 20 key cards per hotel stay.
6) There are little fountains everywhere that look like ancient fire hydrants. They spit a constant stream of water into a waiting drain below. Romans use these to fill their water bottles, splash water on their face, or violently shove their little brother into.
After checking into the hotel, my mother decided she needed to pass out for another hour or so. I decided to wander the city alone. I had two things to do: 1) Buy a flat iron. Giggle at me all you want, but without a good straightening session, my hair looks like a place where birds lay eggs. Every time I’ve been to Europe I’ve regretted not forking over the 20 bones necessary to ensure I don’t look like a sweaty homeless person. 2) I wanted to get a tan (shut up you people know I’m from LA). NYC has left me a little gray/white…and I wanted to have a nice glow for the remainder of my vacation.
Needless to say, I strolled home 90 minutes later burnt to a crisp and clutching a curling iron that I would later discover gets hot enough to remove skin from your very own sunburned earlobe.
That night we wandered around the Piazza Barberini, found a restaurant, ordered pizza and a bottle of champagne and dug in. Shortly after we wandered over to the movie theater so we could buy tickets for the new Twilight movie. A little background on that: I’ve read the books…they’re alright. My Ma, on the other hand, is a full blown Twihard. She started watching the movies a year or so ago, bought the books, read them, bought the encyclopedia thing that tells you the background on all of the characters and mythology, read it, discussed it with us for like 10 months, read them all again…and so on. Shortly after she found out she was going to be going to Italy (about 3 weeks ago), she expressed her genuine excitement, followed by her profound disappointment that she was going to miss opening night for friggin’ Twilight.
It goes without saying that since they don’t play it in English…Italian was going to have to do.
Interestingly, seeing a movie like that in an Italian theater is actually a totally genius tourist thing to do. For starters, we were most definitely the only tourists. Secondly, we totally got to see adolescent Italians in their natural habitat. They were teenaged, awkward, had braces, the whole bit. Boyfriends were dragged along, pretending to be excited but really just hoping they’d get to touch their girlfriend’s boobs later. Girls reapplied lip gloss as though it might make their braces less noticeable (oh girl, I’ve been there). We knew the story so after about 5 minutes I didn’t even notice it was in Italian anymore. Only thing is we left thinking it was a pretty good movie, surprisingly. I have a feeling this may not be the case one I can actually hear the stupid shit they’re saying in English (I’m sorry, you do not possess the capability to “love someone for an eternity” at 28, let alone 17). I later saw online that the critic’s reviews were awful.
By the time we got out of the theater, we were so tired we were virtually unable to speak. We took the short walk home and passed out, bellies full of Italian food and champagne, and the ever-creepy Edward Cullen. Day 1 was indeed a success.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Hey, Danielle's Back in Italia! (Pt. 0)
Day 0
Disclaimers... and Letting go of a little New York Anger
A few years ago I read a quote in a self-help book (shut up) claiming that depression is just anger without enthusiasm. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I do remember that it reminded me of Los Angeleans, and they way they complain. Of course, everyone in America complains. We complain about being fat, being poor, not being popular enough, the man pushing us down, Obama existing, etc. However a good number of our problems are what is known as White People Problems (WPPs). I don’t even need to explain this to you as I’m sure you are bogged down by your own WPP’s and are thus fully aware of their tendency to wreak fake-havoc on your life. Los Angeleans, in my unqualified and uneducated opinion, have a higher ratio of WPP’s per capita than other place in the country. If you ever want to hear someone in Los Angeles launch into a full WPP rant, I suggest doing only one thing: Ask them to pick you up from LAX. Here you will see your SoCal peer launch into a fake tirade about the trials and tribulations of traffic, and the inconvenience you will inevitably cause should your pickup time be delayed by more than 5 minutes, thus causing the dreaded “circling the airport” scenario. Yes sir, if complaining is anger, Los Angeleans are indeed depressed.
How do I know this? A decade of living there. How did I come to notice? Easy, I moved to New York. See, the people of New York do not possess the cognitive ability to decipher problems in terms of magnitude. Any inconvenience, be it minor (“we’re out of hummus today, sir”) to major (“yeah, we’re gonna need to cut the leg off”) is treated with equal outrage. However, if you screw with New Yorkers and their air travel, they will quite simply just kill you. Indeed, if you ever want to see real anger – the type that could perhaps facilitate a riot or result in multiple crime scenes, I would have suggested little more than standing on the platform of the A train at rush hour tonight at 5pm. For reasons known only to the sadistic and megalomaniacal Metropolitan Transit Authority, the A train to JFK (which should come every 7 to 10 minutes) was delayed by 45 minutes. Further, every tunnel and bridge leading off the island of Manhattan was backed up with Friday traffic, so a cab alternate was simply not an option. I watched as New Yorkers peppered the underground with filthy words that made even my devil ears blush. Fortunately, my flight didn’t take off until 8:35 PM, so I had plenty of time and thus my stress level was still safely in the orange (where it remains about 90% of the time). Needless to say, the A Train eventually did make it, and so long as one doesn’t view the stifling claustrophobia resulting from the ungodly delay a bad thing, no real harm was caused.
Now despite what the media tells you about 3 and 4 day delays at JFK, I will say that I have yet to have any real problems there. In fact, I was so early, that I managed to get myself an upgrade to business class. Huzzah! Before I go on, I should disclaim about 9 things. First off, you can’t upgrade just by being early (although it probably doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t know though because I have a unique propensity for being on the holy shitballs-late side of virtually every flight I’ve ever taken). You can, however, use a sob story and a cancelled 2nd ticket, that you ate nearly every goddamn penny for, to score you sympathy points with the awkward British fella at the ticket counter (turns out non-refundable/non-transferable truly means just that. Stubborn bastards). It’s sort of like your parting gift when a relationship, during the earlier parts of which you over-optimistically bought the tickets in the first place, ends. Like pop-culture references in political speeches, it turns out that long-distance relationships make sense for about 14 minutes after you realize there is no ‘end date’, regardless of the utmost good intentions of the parties involved. We tried, it failed, our PR people released a joint statement and life moves forward. The kids will split their time. The amicability will make Demi and Bruce look like a 2am domestic abuse complaint.
However, despite the warm and fuzziness of it all, I had absolutely no shame in exploiting the living piss out of it in order to score four additional inches of sweet, sweet seating space.
After my successful little demonstration, it was off to the bar. I met two Danish guys who immediately knew I was at least part Scandinavian (it still weirds me out that they can do that). However, I became bored after I realized that all they wanted to talk about was how badly they want to drive up the PCH for 10 days straight. I think they wanted to go back and forth or something. I don’t know.
Before long, it was time to board the flight. I decided against Xanax-ing myself into a comatose oblivion this time so as to prevent the half-day necessary recovery, a decision I immediately regretted once the guy in the chair next to me stumbled over with that tell-tale twinkle in his eye and lazy jowl. He passed out as soon as his white ass hit the chair and 5 hours later, as I write this, he still hasn’t moved. I’m jealous. I’m also thinking about checking his pulse but I don’t want to leave finger prints.
The plane lands in an hour, which is upsetting because there is at least 90 minutes to go in this Harry Potter movie (god I love Snape). At that point I will land in the smelly land of Heathrow before transferring to Rome. Should you ever fly somewhere it Europe that requires a transfer, I cannot recommend Frankfurt enough. I wasn’t fortunate enough to score that route this time.
My Ma is meeting me at the Rome airport where she will no doubt look like the crazy homeless lady from Home Alone 2 (complete with pigeons). This will be due entirely to the fact that she, under no circumstances, can sleep on an airplane. You can drug her, knock her on the head, unplug some wires, etc. She’s staying awake. Alas, regardless her state of delirium, once I see her, the vacation will have officially begun. Get ready…
Disclaimers... and Letting go of a little New York Anger
A few years ago I read a quote in a self-help book (shut up) claiming that depression is just anger without enthusiasm. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I do remember that it reminded me of Los Angeleans, and they way they complain. Of course, everyone in America complains. We complain about being fat, being poor, not being popular enough, the man pushing us down, Obama existing, etc. However a good number of our problems are what is known as White People Problems (WPPs). I don’t even need to explain this to you as I’m sure you are bogged down by your own WPP’s and are thus fully aware of their tendency to wreak fake-havoc on your life. Los Angeleans, in my unqualified and uneducated opinion, have a higher ratio of WPP’s per capita than other place in the country. If you ever want to hear someone in Los Angeles launch into a full WPP rant, I suggest doing only one thing: Ask them to pick you up from LAX. Here you will see your SoCal peer launch into a fake tirade about the trials and tribulations of traffic, and the inconvenience you will inevitably cause should your pickup time be delayed by more than 5 minutes, thus causing the dreaded “circling the airport” scenario. Yes sir, if complaining is anger, Los Angeleans are indeed depressed.
How do I know this? A decade of living there. How did I come to notice? Easy, I moved to New York. See, the people of New York do not possess the cognitive ability to decipher problems in terms of magnitude. Any inconvenience, be it minor (“we’re out of hummus today, sir”) to major (“yeah, we’re gonna need to cut the leg off”) is treated with equal outrage. However, if you screw with New Yorkers and their air travel, they will quite simply just kill you. Indeed, if you ever want to see real anger – the type that could perhaps facilitate a riot or result in multiple crime scenes, I would have suggested little more than standing on the platform of the A train at rush hour tonight at 5pm. For reasons known only to the sadistic and megalomaniacal Metropolitan Transit Authority, the A train to JFK (which should come every 7 to 10 minutes) was delayed by 45 minutes. Further, every tunnel and bridge leading off the island of Manhattan was backed up with Friday traffic, so a cab alternate was simply not an option. I watched as New Yorkers peppered the underground with filthy words that made even my devil ears blush. Fortunately, my flight didn’t take off until 8:35 PM, so I had plenty of time and thus my stress level was still safely in the orange (where it remains about 90% of the time). Needless to say, the A Train eventually did make it, and so long as one doesn’t view the stifling claustrophobia resulting from the ungodly delay a bad thing, no real harm was caused.
Now despite what the media tells you about 3 and 4 day delays at JFK, I will say that I have yet to have any real problems there. In fact, I was so early, that I managed to get myself an upgrade to business class. Huzzah! Before I go on, I should disclaim about 9 things. First off, you can’t upgrade just by being early (although it probably doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t know though because I have a unique propensity for being on the holy shitballs-late side of virtually every flight I’ve ever taken). You can, however, use a sob story and a cancelled 2nd ticket, that you ate nearly every goddamn penny for, to score you sympathy points with the awkward British fella at the ticket counter (turns out non-refundable/non-transferable truly means just that. Stubborn bastards). It’s sort of like your parting gift when a relationship, during the earlier parts of which you over-optimistically bought the tickets in the first place, ends. Like pop-culture references in political speeches, it turns out that long-distance relationships make sense for about 14 minutes after you realize there is no ‘end date’, regardless of the utmost good intentions of the parties involved. We tried, it failed, our PR people released a joint statement and life moves forward. The kids will split their time. The amicability will make Demi and Bruce look like a 2am domestic abuse complaint.
However, despite the warm and fuzziness of it all, I had absolutely no shame in exploiting the living piss out of it in order to score four additional inches of sweet, sweet seating space.
After my successful little demonstration, it was off to the bar. I met two Danish guys who immediately knew I was at least part Scandinavian (it still weirds me out that they can do that). However, I became bored after I realized that all they wanted to talk about was how badly they want to drive up the PCH for 10 days straight. I think they wanted to go back and forth or something. I don’t know.
Before long, it was time to board the flight. I decided against Xanax-ing myself into a comatose oblivion this time so as to prevent the half-day necessary recovery, a decision I immediately regretted once the guy in the chair next to me stumbled over with that tell-tale twinkle in his eye and lazy jowl. He passed out as soon as his white ass hit the chair and 5 hours later, as I write this, he still hasn’t moved. I’m jealous. I’m also thinking about checking his pulse but I don’t want to leave finger prints.
The plane lands in an hour, which is upsetting because there is at least 90 minutes to go in this Harry Potter movie (god I love Snape). At that point I will land in the smelly land of Heathrow before transferring to Rome. Should you ever fly somewhere it Europe that requires a transfer, I cannot recommend Frankfurt enough. I wasn’t fortunate enough to score that route this time.
My Ma is meeting me at the Rome airport where she will no doubt look like the crazy homeless lady from Home Alone 2 (complete with pigeons). This will be due entirely to the fact that she, under no circumstances, can sleep on an airplane. You can drug her, knock her on the head, unplug some wires, etc. She’s staying awake. Alas, regardless her state of delirium, once I see her, the vacation will have officially begun. Get ready…
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
6 Month Check-Up
You know if I had a shred of maturity, the following thoughts would have probably crossed my noodle upon realizing that I have, in fact, been living in Manhattan for 6 whole months: 1) I should probably find a doctor 2) I should probably find a dentist 3) I should totally let the DMV and/or the government know I'm not in CA anymore.
Nope.
Instead, I realized today that this little milestone would be best celebrated with a nice, fat blog post and an accompanying link on my Facebook wall. After all, you're nobody until somebody on Facebook loves you, right?
Anyway, here is how 90% of my conversations have been going since I moved here:
Me: Hi, I'm Danielle. I just moved here.
Stranger: Really? Where from?
Me: California
Stranger: San Francisco? Oh, I'm Blah-Blah by the way.
Me: Nice to meet you Blah-Blah. Los Angeles actually.
Blah-Blah: Oh I hate LA. What brought you here though?
Me: Work. My firm acquired a smaller firm and they didn't have a person that does what I do so I asked and then came.
Blah-Blah: Wow. That was stupid. You know it gets, like, really cold right?
Me: No I didn't know that. Please, tell me more....
My sister came about a month after I did. She was fortunate enough to secure gainful employment rather quickly, which makes me happy because doing this alone would be really hard. Moving here is, in many ways, exactly what you think it will be, but also different that you could possibly imagine.
The other day I saw that one of our execs has a small, decade-old tattoo on his calf of the Flaming Lips lyric, "Somebody please tell this machine I'm not a machine." This is a particularly ironic thing to see on a New Yorker because in contrast, this city is a machine and to survive here, you have to become a machine within it. There's no time to shit your pants with wonder and bewilderment, you just need to get your ass on the subway and get to work. Just start living here. The neat thing though is that's really all there is to it. The little things fill themselves in as you go.
New Yorkers don't necessarily work longer or harder hours (although some certainly do). It's more that they move and work with a sense of purpose that, well, just gets shit done. Once I figured out what I was doing (a process that consists mainly of figuring out how to get around), and invested in a badass pair of headphones (I call them my Quiet Goggles. Don't ask), I found New York can actually be a very calm place to function in. Of course let's not forget that I've had 26 years of 'hella-good' Northern California training on how to stay calm in the face of inconvenience. While I am certainly the most high strung among people I know back home, I am positively Zen-like compared to some of the characters I've come across out here. To these guys (angry bankers, angry Italians), freaking out is an art form. Marbles are lost right before your very eyes on an hourly basis.
Living here is indeed like living on another planet. For starters, everything I visually knew about the world around me was blown to smithereens in a matter of days. Beautiful brownstones with fire escapes line the streets of some areas while highrises seem to grow out of the ground (and out of eachother) in others. There are no parking lots or gas stations anywhere and I haven't seen stucco yet. Of course there is no time to question this madness because again, you sort of just have to trust it and jump right in without hesitation. Transportation, feeding yourself, and doing your laundry all require complete trust that the Machine will operate on schedule. With the exception of businesses in Chinatown closing one day in the middle of the week for no damn reason at all, it pretty much always does.
10 Things I Noticed in the Early Days:
1) New Yorkers' bark is louder than their bite. The big guy behind the pizza counter will tell you to 'move-your-friggin-ass-I-gotta-business-to-run-here!' but then hug you on your way out and thank you for buying a 'pie.'
2) New Yorkers love San Francisco and hate LA. Especially if they've never been to LA, then they really hate it.
3) Everyone wants to know where you 'summer.'This means they're asking you where you go on the weekends when the weather is sweltering and the whole island smells like hot trash. Fire Island, Shelter Island, Hamptons, Jersey Shore, The Roof of Your Apartment with a Bottle of Champagne, etc.
4) Walk-ups blow. 6 stories, no elevator. Horseshit.
5) There are as many people from Michigan in New York as there are in LA. And because I attract Michigan friends like the Europeans once attracted the plague, I've collected a few already. I even know how to hold my hand out like a map and tell you where they're all from.
6) I meet alot of people who have never been to California and it blows my head off everytime.
7) Within a month or so you can start identifying what area people are from by their accent. 6 months in I can spot New Jersey walking up behind me.
8) New York is a bad place to be in a bad mood. When you're ragin'...the whole world rages with you. Not a damn thing gets done and you really don't feel any better.
9) GrubHub is proof that god loves New Yorkers and wants them to go to bed with warm, full bellies.
10) I miss Mexican food more than you know.
I love New York very dearly. My attitude and business style agrees with it here. I find the lack of bullshit refreshing. The thing is though, you imagine a certain ideal during the process of moving here (lest you'd never have the motivation to go). Once you get here, however, you realize it's a massive city just like any other (except, you know, really massive), and its going to take awhile to build a life here and feel at home. In the meantime though, I put myself at the mercy of the machine everyday and hope to sweet baby jesus it turns out alright. So far I have not been disappointed. I am about 15 times stronger and more resourceful than I thought I was, and I have many newfound talents that include but are not limited to knowing the perfect corners on which to best score cabs, instinctively knowing just when the bus comes so I head downstairs at just the right time, and being able to tell just from the location and awning of a place if the food is going to be any good. Moving to a new place that is so far away is unbelievably hard. I still wonder how my sister and I were able to have the good fortune to just up and do this. Now that we have, I'm beginning to find that diving in headfirst really is the best approach. After all, this city and magical and I have really nothing to lose except everything, right?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oh, the Places I'll Go Too...
I have a bone to pick with travel snobs.
I've come across too many people both during and since college with an attitude that seems to suggest that they possess a sense of elevated intelligence, or perhaps a self-created worldliness, owed entirely to the fact that they have traveled great distances. Forget the med student who forfeited the opportunity to backpack across Europe and instead chose to study for the MCAT, as surely he could never obtain the inner-peace afforded only to those who have clutched a Eurorail pass.
Do not misunderstand. I fully agree that few life experiences can be as rich and rewarding as the opportunity to travel. Setting foot on new soil, hearing unfamiliar words, meeting people you will both never forget, and likely never see again. These are the experiences young adulthood is made of. That being said, I have found that I have little patience for pretentiousness from those whose good fortune has carried them to distant lands sooner than others. Travel, like winning the lottery or maintaining profitable self-employment, is a gift. It should be appreciated, humbly shared, and most importantly...earned.
Time and again I have witnessed (as well as experienced) the pain of 9-to-5 adjustment. Finding out that our ideological college days give rise to jobs where our opinion is not sought and our feelings don't matter is one of the greatest let-downs we are likely to experience, save for broken hearts and loss of loved ones. Selfish as it seems, there is nothing more genuine than the fear that settles in as you wonder, "Is this as good as it gets?"
Of course not. It just takes patience and a willingness to earn it. I think once you climb out of the sand, working becomes something you take pride in and actually begin to enjoy, not to mention profit from. It always gives me a chuckle when I hear a young, well-traveled soul express their discontent with their full time desk job, instead pleading to return to their wandering ways, exploring the globe as perhaps only other seasoned travelers could understand.
So, what you're telling me is you want another extended, all expense-paid vacation? Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't I think of that?
We all long to discover new ideas, people, and ways of life. Its part of the human condition. One of the hardest things we ever have to do is build a life for ourselves with our bare hands. It is initially unrewarding, indescribably exhausting, and frightening enough to stun you into silence. But, if and when we pull it off, the rewards are endless.
I can't wait to travel. I can't wait to see Italy again and eat pasta and gelato until I burst. I can't wait to take pictures and write about it.
Travel. Travel as far and as long as your willingness, your wallet, and your vacation time allow. If you must, get a job that allows you to travel even more (but don't be disappointed when it's not all museums and wineries). Travel alone and travel with others. Learn other languages and see old art. But do it when you're ready and able. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you know less than they do because they had an opportunity you haven't had yet. You have all the time in the world.
"You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose..." - Dr Suess, "Oh, the Places You'll Go"
Photo courtesy of Ryan M. Vickers>
Birthday Presence
Silly bike, I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long. What random consequences of the universe have allowed it to remain there, day after day, when it is so clearly immobile? I imagine countless pre-occupied New Yorkers passing by wondering the same thing, or possibly assuming someone else will surely take care of it eventually, or if they’re like me, nearly tripping over it because their head is up in the clouds somewhere.
In reality, of course, I’ve never seen this bike. Ryan Vickers took this picture and I actually have no idea where he was at the time (he wanders with his camera. Arts and farts and crafts. Things type-A stress cases like me fear above all else). I do, however, know myself well enough to be certain that I would never have noticed it had I been passing by, unless of course I face-planted into it.
They say New Yorkers never look up. I disagree. I don’t think they look anywhere, and I also don’t think this characteristic is limited to any geographic region. I think it has to do with presence, and the general lack of it we feel in our day-to-day lives. When we are present, we tend to think of how nice it is that we are being present and how we should really make an effort to do this more often (“Look at that beautiful sunset. I really should pay more attention to the sun going down instead of planning the verbal thrashing I will later give to DirectTV over yet another failed DVR recording”). It’s as though a sense of control is always just out of our reach. As soon as we pay off our debt, or catch up on emails, or return that DVD, or lose 10 lbs. As soon as we get everything in order, we can be more appreciative of things around us, feel better about ourselves, fall in love, travel, or have the presence of mind to see that beautiful broken bike on the side of the road. Not notice that we noticed it, but to see it for what it really is. A broken bike. I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long.
You know, you’d have to move that bike if you wanted to fix it. I wonder if we moved first, what things we could fix as we headed along?
Posted July 11, 2011 at 3:13pm via MeandHerBlog.com.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Deflowering of a Virgin Virginian
Well...sort of. I wasn't technically a virgin Virginian. Virginia and I had fooled around before in the sense I've been to DC a few times. Those who are familiar with the area know that you can walk out of a DC pub, trip, fall on your face and land in Virginia. Not to mention the airport is in Virginia.
Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.
Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.
Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)
"C'mon fellers, freedom ain't free, so let's round up some slaves!"
Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.
Norfolk International Airport
Old-ass Sears Building
Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.
Check it out. Totally cute floral cardigan sets and, you know, clogs.
Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.
Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.
Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)
Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.
Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
...On Finding God at the Bowling Alley
I've been pretending to be a grown up now for a little over 5 years. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but frankly, I think I'm going a pretty darn good job. I mean, people I meet usually dont find out for at least a few weeks that I'm really a confused, severly ADHD child who still hopes to become an Olympic gymnast when she grows up. In order to appear grown up, there's a couple of things I have to do. One of them is selling insurance. I have to sell alot of insurance to people in alot of different places, and in order to get those people to let me sell them insurance, I have to feed them and socialize with them and get them to think that I am a functioning adult. It's a vicious cycle really.
Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).
A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).
30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.
I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.
You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.
I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.
I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.
Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.
I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.
Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?
Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).
A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).
30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.
I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.
You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.
I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.
I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.
Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.
I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.
Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Would It Be More Accurate if I Compared Glenn Beck to Hitler?
Sometimes when people do and say insane things I often wonder what their real intention is. Call me naive, but in most cases, I don't believe people are just inexplicably "crazy" or behave like assholes for sport. They want something. Everyone wants something. When it comes to public figures, this desire for reason increases ten-fold.
Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.
Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."
Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.
If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.
Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.
Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.
Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.
Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.
Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.
For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.
Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.
Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."
Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.
If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.
Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.
Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.
Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.
Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.
Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.
For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.
Monday, February 7, 2011
"It's Just a Movie!" - Toy Story Edition
As another 80-degree LA winter day comes to a close, I find myself, yet again, plopped in front of my computer in a desperate attempt to escape the snapping jaws of boredom. Alas, it is too late. So, I have decided to take these lemons, whip up some lemonade, and ride out the sugar high in the form of a totally unnecessary and absurdly in-depth view of yet another movie I don't totally get: Toy Story.
I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you."
So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.
1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?
"The word I'm searching for, I can't say, because there's preschool toys around."
I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).
2) Where was the father throughout all of this?
"What, is Andy's Mom losin' her marbles?"
Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.
I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.
3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?
"...and I packed your Angry Eyes, just in case."
I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.
4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?
"Well, we have ways of making you talk."
Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.
Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).
5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.
6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.
"Look! A Spaceship! It's a Spaceship, Buzz!"
7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.
8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.
"This isn't flying! This is falling...with style!"
How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.
I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.
Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!
So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.
1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?
I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).
2) Where was the father throughout all of this?
Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.
I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.
3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?
I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.
4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?
Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.
Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).
5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.
6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.
7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.
8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.
How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.
I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.
Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!
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