The euro trip got cut short 'cause I have a family member in the military who came back to Houston for the weekend and a mom who scheduled me the next flight out of Munich to see him before he goes to [undisclosed location in the Middle East], which is where he is now. Thanks mom, and really,stop reading now. Isn't it weird how blogging has become the diary, but our mothers' curiosity stays the same over time, they just go online now. I caught my mom looking at my facebook, over my shoulder a couple of times. I wanted to throw a tantrum about it or something, like she triggered my inner five year old. But technology, on the other hand, has advanced swimmingly.
I'm back at school on the beach and I graduated today, ceremonially. I'm still hanging out for summer and fall, but today I walked across the stage. Both of my parents were there, in the audience. They flew up from Texas just to see me walk; I couldn't have been happier. It's weird, though, getting all their attention, undiluted by other siblings.I think I would have been an uncomfortable only child. Also, I think the ceremony was ridiculously awesome, and that's my point for this post:
College of Creative Studies, UCSB. 300 students.5 majors. 80 students that graduated today, myself included. We are all very motivated, talented, beautiful, modest people, most of whom hangout on the frigne cultures of society and so none of us wore robes and our dean wore a wizards cap.
...more time devoted to this later..
Monday, June 8, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
more things
Yesterday--no, the day before--was the infamous Baumenblumen Fest near Potsdam. The biggest, drunkest, craziest German festival I've ever been to. I got there late as I'd spent most of that day recovering and was greeted immediately by my new Santa Cruz friend and a bottle of wine. The festival is supposed to be about the apples and things being ripe and ready to pick, I think, and wine. It's really about Germans getting as sloshed as possible and it was a pretty good time, minus the gropage and vomit I stepped in trying to get back onto the train to Potsdam. The festival was a madhouse; the train was a madhouse. We left at a popular time--crowds and crowds of drunkies tried flooding, rushing into the train car like the wine had down their throats. That description sounded a bit patronizing but intention was only to highlight what a shit show it was.
When we were waiting to get onto the train, a little boy with fake vampire teeth heard Patrick (SC) and I speaking English. "Kanst du Deutsch sprechen?" this litte tyke asked, no English. A little bit. Does my friend? A little bit. Good, let's talk!
That's like the second cute kid reference I've made. When did I start thinking kids are so cute, anyway? Scary, kindof. I've been creeping on other peoples children this whole trip, trying to talk to them, cooing at them when appropriate. I hpoe their parents like it. For sure, the little vampire's mom didn't care. Pierced, tatted, scantily clad, she was hunched over drunk on a bench. Were you wondering what kind of person would bring their kid along?
I'm having so much fun on this trip I want to travel always! And live in Berlin for a little while. I love Berlin so much, my friends, I couldn't suppress the urge to tell this old woman who sat next to me on the train TO the shitshow wine fest. "Ich liebe Berlin!" It's a good thing I didn't suppress it, too, cause I ended up talking to this elderly woman the whole train ride, auf Deutsch. This made me happy because I'm trying to get better, but I was even happier that she asked for my address and suggested we write together, by hand (archaic, huh?). She doesn't have a computer or a cell phone, being of another generation. She is from East side of Berlin, so she doesn't care about technology--she didn't even have a land line in the GDR. I've met quite a few old East Berliners, some of whom were traveling for the first time since the wall went down. She showed me pictures of her children told me to come stay with her for a little while when I get back to Germany in the fall. On my way to the drunkest, craziest festival I've ever been to I found myself my own German grandma, the sweetest woman that ever was. Fancy that. I think people should always say what they are thinking and that people communicate way less than they should.
In recent news, I was gonna stay in last night for the first time this whole trip, just chill in my hostel and read Rilke with a glass of wine. But drinking that glass of wine at the hostel bar, who comes in but the Irish! woo! They were all on a kick about "vibes." Always asking, "whats the vibe here?" "how are the vibes" "whats your vibe." It was a running joke all night/early morning, which is to say I did end up going out again in Friedrichshain. One of their roomates, I forgot his name, works at a hardware store in Sweden so he can take off a couple months a year to travel. I'm sure he has crazy stories but I couldn't get much out of him besides a reassurance Thailand needs to happen very soon.
It's rad traveling, especially by yourself, cause you meet so many people and can tack on to any group you want to. I've already said this but it helps to be a girl, too, I think 'cause you can tack on to a group of other girls and its not creepy the way it would be if a guy tried it. The people in hostels, especially people like the guy I just mentioned, are wanderers-- maybe the coolest kinds of people to me at this time. Traveling. It's a break from "real life," it seems sometimes like a transitory period (cause it is), and everyone knows what happens in transitory periods/ places (think airports): people are less inhibited, more essentially themselves even. So maybe traveling is as real as it gets, and I want more.
Traveling: is it a sickness or a cure?
And I love yall and I'm off xoxo
When we were waiting to get onto the train, a little boy with fake vampire teeth heard Patrick (SC) and I speaking English. "Kanst du Deutsch sprechen?" this litte tyke asked, no English. A little bit. Does my friend? A little bit. Good, let's talk!
That's like the second cute kid reference I've made. When did I start thinking kids are so cute, anyway? Scary, kindof. I've been creeping on other peoples children this whole trip, trying to talk to them, cooing at them when appropriate. I hpoe their parents like it. For sure, the little vampire's mom didn't care. Pierced, tatted, scantily clad, she was hunched over drunk on a bench. Were you wondering what kind of person would bring their kid along?
I'm having so much fun on this trip I want to travel always! And live in Berlin for a little while. I love Berlin so much, my friends, I couldn't suppress the urge to tell this old woman who sat next to me on the train TO the shitshow wine fest. "Ich liebe Berlin!" It's a good thing I didn't suppress it, too, cause I ended up talking to this elderly woman the whole train ride, auf Deutsch. This made me happy because I'm trying to get better, but I was even happier that she asked for my address and suggested we write together, by hand (archaic, huh?). She doesn't have a computer or a cell phone, being of another generation. She is from East side of Berlin, so she doesn't care about technology--she didn't even have a land line in the GDR. I've met quite a few old East Berliners, some of whom were traveling for the first time since the wall went down. She showed me pictures of her children told me to come stay with her for a little while when I get back to Germany in the fall. On my way to the drunkest, craziest festival I've ever been to I found myself my own German grandma, the sweetest woman that ever was. Fancy that. I think people should always say what they are thinking and that people communicate way less than they should.
In recent news, I was gonna stay in last night for the first time this whole trip, just chill in my hostel and read Rilke with a glass of wine. But drinking that glass of wine at the hostel bar, who comes in but the Irish! woo! They were all on a kick about "vibes." Always asking, "whats the vibe here?" "how are the vibes" "whats your vibe." It was a running joke all night/early morning, which is to say I did end up going out again in Friedrichshain. One of their roomates, I forgot his name, works at a hardware store in Sweden so he can take off a couple months a year to travel. I'm sure he has crazy stories but I couldn't get much out of him besides a reassurance Thailand needs to happen very soon.
It's rad traveling, especially by yourself, cause you meet so many people and can tack on to any group you want to. I've already said this but it helps to be a girl, too, I think 'cause you can tack on to a group of other girls and its not creepy the way it would be if a guy tried it. The people in hostels, especially people like the guy I just mentioned, are wanderers-- maybe the coolest kinds of people to me at this time. Traveling. It's a break from "real life," it seems sometimes like a transitory period (cause it is), and everyone knows what happens in transitory periods/ places (think airports): people are less inhibited, more essentially themselves even. So maybe traveling is as real as it gets, and I want more.
Traveling: is it a sickness or a cure?
And I love yall and I'm off xoxo
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Kreuzberg/ Friedrichshain
My last night in Kreuzberg I met up with Alex and we started walking to a bar in Friedrichshain, where there are alot of young people because of the cheap rent, bars, clubs,etc.On the way we stopped by part of the remaining wall and Alex took some pictures. He's really good at that, his pictures from Italy are beautiful. The wall there is called the Eastside Gallery. People, anyone, can come and paint, spray, or scrawl on it. There are some choice pieces, too. It gets whitewashed every so often, the wall, so people can keep on expressing themselves, or part of themselves.
The bar was in the middle of a cluster of buildings. A skate park deal, a rock wall, and a cafe surrounded it. And everything, all the walls, were decked out. I mean, some of those pieces were painted by brush, and they were hugeeee. One of my favorites was a face that was done in an orange and yellow mosaic pattern. It took up the whole wall of the building. We hung outside the bar on some chairs and waited for the music to start again. There was this German rock band at first and it was pretty kickback, really friendly, lots of interaction with the crowd from the band. More people came later and we danced all night to drum and bass. I love dancing, I can't get enough. And my cute friend couldn't either--defintely in his element. Really good DJing, those guys really knew how to mix things up. When we did take breaks and go back to the outside-area we met these three Irishmen, now living in Sweden ("for the girls"). Stockholm, they said, is cool, yea, yea, but it gets boring afer a while. They'd always wanted to get to Berlin, so there they were. There we all were. They were a wild bunch and one of 'em in particular was super entertaining-- a really effective story teller,and I gotta say, I admire that in people. His friends admired it in him, too. They were all "tell about the time you went backpacking all by yourself and slept on a park bench in Amsterdam," or "tell about the time you met Axl Rose!" One of the other guy told us about some time he spent in Nimbin, Australia. It's a super hippy area, Nimbin, and this guy is really Irish, so the whole Irish take on his experience was hilarious.
"Everybody's smoking pot, right? And I'm sittin there in the corner getting [insert an Irish slang equivalent of smashed], drinking all this beer, 'cause I'm all Irish. And this girl comes up to me from the bonfire, this really hippie girl, long hair..."
"was she cute, then?"
(smiles, waves like 'it's whatever')"...and the next thing I knew we were having sex in this tree..."
Those three guys are pretty cool. They actually have this comedy deal they're launching (I dunno if that's the right word). They enterd it into a contest (The San Francisco Irish Film Festival) where people vote on it. It's moving up. Here's a shout out for them: check 'em out, the series is called "Hardy Bucks" by Chris Tordoff and Martin Maloney...and maybe someone else.
Peace and Love everyone, I need to make a couple more coffee runs before I can take on this Saturday night. Cause last night defintely happend, definitely.
xox
The bar was in the middle of a cluster of buildings. A skate park deal, a rock wall, and a cafe surrounded it. And everything, all the walls, were decked out. I mean, some of those pieces were painted by brush, and they were hugeeee. One of my favorites was a face that was done in an orange and yellow mosaic pattern. It took up the whole wall of the building. We hung outside the bar on some chairs and waited for the music to start again. There was this German rock band at first and it was pretty kickback, really friendly, lots of interaction with the crowd from the band. More people came later and we danced all night to drum and bass. I love dancing, I can't get enough. And my cute friend couldn't either--defintely in his element. Really good DJing, those guys really knew how to mix things up. When we did take breaks and go back to the outside-area we met these three Irishmen, now living in Sweden ("for the girls"). Stockholm, they said, is cool, yea, yea, but it gets boring afer a while. They'd always wanted to get to Berlin, so there they were. There we all were. They were a wild bunch and one of 'em in particular was super entertaining-- a really effective story teller,and I gotta say, I admire that in people. His friends admired it in him, too. They were all "tell about the time you went backpacking all by yourself and slept on a park bench in Amsterdam," or "tell about the time you met Axl Rose!" One of the other guy told us about some time he spent in Nimbin, Australia. It's a super hippy area, Nimbin, and this guy is really Irish, so the whole Irish take on his experience was hilarious.
"Everybody's smoking pot, right? And I'm sittin there in the corner getting [insert an Irish slang equivalent of smashed], drinking all this beer, 'cause I'm all Irish. And this girl comes up to me from the bonfire, this really hippie girl, long hair..."
"was she cute, then?"
(smiles, waves like 'it's whatever')"...and the next thing I knew we were having sex in this tree..."
Those three guys are pretty cool. They actually have this comedy deal they're launching (I dunno if that's the right word). They enterd it into a contest (The San Francisco Irish Film Festival) where people vote on it. It's moving up. Here's a shout out for them: check 'em out, the series is called "Hardy Bucks" by Chris Tordoff and Martin Maloney...and maybe someone else.
Peace and Love everyone, I need to make a couple more coffee runs before I can take on this Saturday night. Cause last night defintely happend, definitely.
xox
Friday, April 24, 2009
scary times...
Oh I almost forgot, Marge and I met up with my friend David in Berlin this other day. It was nice to see him, he's been gone. We walked down the Spree and talked about things, mainly life abroad. He was with his parents and Marge and I go to meet them and have dinner. Then we met up with one of David's friends from England and went to her friends house: a hippie jam-sesh-- "nice one," as my new friend Alex would say (Italian accent).
So now, though, I'm in Berlin. I'm here alone but I'm with the world, right? That's what I thought, anyway, and was chill with it until the first night in my hostel. Kreuzberg. That's the area my hostel was in. There are neighborhoods of Berlin, areas, distinct ones: Kreuzberg, Mitte,...(others to come). I read in this guide book I picked up that Kreuzberg is "up and coming! Arsty! International! Endless creativity!" And it is, it's super artsy, lots of indie shops, second hand stuff, indie looking kids. Everyone marching to their own drum, especially if it's a Turkish drum. There is a large population of Turks in Kreuzberg, a large population of foreigners to Germany. I ate alot of Döners. Anyway, I was nervous to take on the "thriving" bar scene by myself, so I hung out in my hostel's bar once I came back from walking around Oranianstrasse and looking at things, taking pictures, and marvelling at grafitti. I pulled my scribble book out and wrote a little, which I only do when I don't know what to do because writing by hand sucks. Or at least, my handwriting sucks. I did realize, though, that writing by hand is beneficial because it shows me what thoughts are irrelevent and especially, repetitive, cause they have to be worth my time for me to actually scrawl them out in my pitiful script. So, I learned from burdening my hand with no mental pleasure I was thinking too much, chilled out, and watched fußball. Soon, I made friends with the bar tender, had a middle aged Egyptian man on my right and a middle aged German man on my left. At first, the Eqyptian man spoke English with me. We talked about Egypt, why he left, why he likes Germany, eventhough it's harder for foreigners in Germany, unless they speak German very well. The German man couldn't speak any English so by the end of the night of talking, dirnking, and chain smoking (who have I become?) we were all talking German, which is awesome for me because half the time when I speak German to someone in Berlin (buying something maybe) they speak English back. It was cool, a German, an Eqyptian, and an American all finding common ground in Kreuzberg. It's what Kreuzberg is all about, I thought, as the bartender (a-line bob, long shirt over jeans, are you getting the vibe?) brought me a bannana beer, which both men thought was hilarious. The guy who checked me in, Flo ("flea" in English, weird) came and hung out, too. He's never been to the USA and said his friend went, and when he went into the supermarket, there were so many choices and so many colors, he forgot what he went there for.
SO, that was nice, right, but I didn't mention that our table had another guest that night: a random old woman from the street. I couldn't understand what she said but the general vibe was...weird. And that's when the Eqyptian told me Kreuzberg is a crayz place. "Full of crazies," he said. "crazies and drugs." Just then, his smile took a sinister twist. Why was I surrounded by men who worked at the hostel and knew where I slept? I suppressed the thought. I think people maybe too anxious sometimes about things like these. But then, maybe we should be. I mean, oh no. So we go our seperate ways and I head back to my room. A room with 8 beds, right, the cheapest. But when I get in there's another person in there already, sleeping. A man I hadn't met. One thing that consoled my worries about being a young woman travelling alone was that if I stayed in a room with lots of people, if one of em went nuts, there'd be others to keep him/her in check. But there I was, with this one guy. I got in bed but woke up from anxious dreams soon after by these monstorous sounds coming from across the room. Except they were so loud, I thought they were right over me. Honestly, I've never heard anyone snore like this man snored. He didn't even just snore, he snapped his teeth in his sleep and made noises like a big, blood-thirsty, clawed animal. And he kept moving around, too. I'd constantly hear his legs zipping across his sheets, he was a wild sleeper, thrashing around so I couldn't keep his sounds in check. I thought, right, if this guy gets up and tries to come over, or something, I'll hear him, grab my lamp, and defend myself. But everytime I thought IT WAS TIME, he was just moving in his sleep. From across the room, all I could see were his white sheets, and he turned into a couple of positions where one limb of the other was either sticking straight up or bent in someway, so the white blob I monitored morphed from one thing to the next. It was then that I thought I'd made a huge fucking ridiculous mistake and that I was way to confident/independent for my own good, and whatnot but finally, I guess, somewhere between 6 and 7 am, I slept.
I met the guy the next morning and it turns out, I was scared of a juggler. Yea, a professional juggler, or an aspiring one, rather. He was really nice, kind of cute, only a couple years older than me. He didn't hang out much though, he's pretty busy with the juggling conference and whatnot. The Eqyptian who works at the bar I told you about, I saw him later that day, too. He opened a bottle of wine for me and I was glad I'd made such an amiable aquanitance (although I wouldn't wanna drink with him again. He talked alot about finding a wife, I don't think I mentioned that...)
So now, though, I'm in Berlin. I'm here alone but I'm with the world, right? That's what I thought, anyway, and was chill with it until the first night in my hostel. Kreuzberg. That's the area my hostel was in. There are neighborhoods of Berlin, areas, distinct ones: Kreuzberg, Mitte,...(others to come). I read in this guide book I picked up that Kreuzberg is "up and coming! Arsty! International! Endless creativity!" And it is, it's super artsy, lots of indie shops, second hand stuff, indie looking kids. Everyone marching to their own drum, especially if it's a Turkish drum. There is a large population of Turks in Kreuzberg, a large population of foreigners to Germany. I ate alot of Döners. Anyway, I was nervous to take on the "thriving" bar scene by myself, so I hung out in my hostel's bar once I came back from walking around Oranianstrasse and looking at things, taking pictures, and marvelling at grafitti. I pulled my scribble book out and wrote a little, which I only do when I don't know what to do because writing by hand sucks. Or at least, my handwriting sucks. I did realize, though, that writing by hand is beneficial because it shows me what thoughts are irrelevent and especially, repetitive, cause they have to be worth my time for me to actually scrawl them out in my pitiful script. So, I learned from burdening my hand with no mental pleasure I was thinking too much, chilled out, and watched fußball. Soon, I made friends with the bar tender, had a middle aged Egyptian man on my right and a middle aged German man on my left. At first, the Eqyptian man spoke English with me. We talked about Egypt, why he left, why he likes Germany, eventhough it's harder for foreigners in Germany, unless they speak German very well. The German man couldn't speak any English so by the end of the night of talking, dirnking, and chain smoking (who have I become?) we were all talking German, which is awesome for me because half the time when I speak German to someone in Berlin (buying something maybe) they speak English back. It was cool, a German, an Eqyptian, and an American all finding common ground in Kreuzberg. It's what Kreuzberg is all about, I thought, as the bartender (a-line bob, long shirt over jeans, are you getting the vibe?) brought me a bannana beer, which both men thought was hilarious. The guy who checked me in, Flo ("flea" in English, weird) came and hung out, too. He's never been to the USA and said his friend went, and when he went into the supermarket, there were so many choices and so many colors, he forgot what he went there for.
SO, that was nice, right, but I didn't mention that our table had another guest that night: a random old woman from the street. I couldn't understand what she said but the general vibe was...weird. And that's when the Eqyptian told me Kreuzberg is a crayz place. "Full of crazies," he said. "crazies and drugs." Just then, his smile took a sinister twist. Why was I surrounded by men who worked at the hostel and knew where I slept? I suppressed the thought. I think people maybe too anxious sometimes about things like these. But then, maybe we should be. I mean, oh no. So we go our seperate ways and I head back to my room. A room with 8 beds, right, the cheapest. But when I get in there's another person in there already, sleeping. A man I hadn't met. One thing that consoled my worries about being a young woman travelling alone was that if I stayed in a room with lots of people, if one of em went nuts, there'd be others to keep him/her in check. But there I was, with this one guy. I got in bed but woke up from anxious dreams soon after by these monstorous sounds coming from across the room. Except they were so loud, I thought they were right over me. Honestly, I've never heard anyone snore like this man snored. He didn't even just snore, he snapped his teeth in his sleep and made noises like a big, blood-thirsty, clawed animal. And he kept moving around, too. I'd constantly hear his legs zipping across his sheets, he was a wild sleeper, thrashing around so I couldn't keep his sounds in check. I thought, right, if this guy gets up and tries to come over, or something, I'll hear him, grab my lamp, and defend myself. But everytime I thought IT WAS TIME, he was just moving in his sleep. From across the room, all I could see were his white sheets, and he turned into a couple of positions where one limb of the other was either sticking straight up or bent in someway, so the white blob I monitored morphed from one thing to the next. It was then that I thought I'd made a huge fucking ridiculous mistake and that I was way to confident/independent for my own good, and whatnot but finally, I guess, somewhere between 6 and 7 am, I slept.
I met the guy the next morning and it turns out, I was scared of a juggler. Yea, a professional juggler, or an aspiring one, rather. He was really nice, kind of cute, only a couple years older than me. He didn't hang out much though, he's pretty busy with the juggling conference and whatnot. The Eqyptian who works at the bar I told you about, I saw him later that day, too. He opened a bottle of wine for me and I was glad I'd made such an amiable aquanitance (although I wouldn't wanna drink with him again. He talked alot about finding a wife, I don't think I mentioned that...)
Potsdam and Berlin
OK so more from Potsdam, rather quickly probably (though it deserves much more time than I can give): we went to a party in a warehouse that happens at the begining of every semester. It was at Lindenpark, which I thought would be, you know, a park, IV style, but is, as I said, a warehouse. A crazy warehouse full of lights! And sound! And drinks! And dancing Germans, dancing German! German dancing is the best kind of dancing-- everyone does their own thing. It's like: feel the music, move to the music. And nobody gives a shit what they look like and no one tries to grind up on anyone else. Not to hate on griding, but this kind of dancing, man, it's the best. You know what happens when the rule is to dance however the fuck you want to? Everbody dances. No one's embarrassed. Marge and I figured something out about Germans during one of our late night talks (which we have frequently and which are so rad 'cause...we figure things out). Germans are more direct than Americans. Point #1: I smoked my first rolled cigarette with this wonderful German guy, Friedrich, who pointed out immediately "you don't have to smoke it like a blunt," without an apologetic smile, without lowering his voice, or taking into consideration we were in a smoking bar. Literally, I think it was called, like, SMOKE, or something; so everyone in there is legit, right? Definitely smokers and I'm just this poser, right? The great thing about this is, Friedrich just said what he was thinking, I was, infact, smoking it like a blunt (haha I'm smiling to myself in this internet cafe right now). But in the US, I feel, in a parallel US Universe (does that work?) Friedrich would a) not have said anything, b) given me a weird look which I would have to interpret, c) I dunno, be way less direct. Look, this is just an example that's gone on too long, what I'm trying to say is, Germans are more direct socially so there's no need to feel self concious 'cause you don't have to worry about subtleties, you don't have to guess at what a group is thinking-- they'll just tell you. Therefore, lots of people were dancing (if you are a terrible dancer, someone will tell you, but probably they'd tell you to chill out, nobody cares). It was a crazy night at the warehouse, but we kept hearing about Berlin, Berlin, Berlin. So, we went.
A group of students from Marge's Uni and I hopped on a train to Berlin's Club Soda. Ladies got in free that night, and another plus: drink vouchers. But we get there and I don't have my ID, so the others go in and Marge and I walk to this other club, across the street. More German dancing! woo! Germans don't dance with eachother, though, right, so Marge and I have a bunch of fun running around the dancefloor and playing with them-- tryin to get em to dance with us. I think, also, they don't usually dance with someone in the middle of a circle, so when I saw a group circled up dancing I had to take the opportunity. I jumped in and they loved it (it's my interpretation, ok). Then we started pulling them one at a time into the circle, and some wouldn't go in. One memory strikes me now: pushing in some guy who didn't want to dance in the middle of a circle and be like a silly drunk American girl, and spinning around him, anchored by my index finger in the middle of his bald spot. It was definitely time to bounce.
We tried Club Soda again and got in this time, but I had to pay. It's this huge 3 or 4 story club with all these different rooms. Each room has it's own music, so we ran around it going from soul, to rap, to electro, to whatever. Best. Time. Ever. At one point, Marge is occupied with this German who looovveedddd her, and I'm dancing to mad beats, and I meet this guy from Italy, who is studing art and seemed really chill. There are lots of hippie looking people in Berlin-- dreads and everything (verrryy nice). On the hour long train ride back to Potsdam from the club, Marge and I sit across from these two Berliners, who laugh at our tired eyes.
"The best thing to do is wake up at 5, have breakfast, and go out to clubs," they told us. It's Berlin's style. That warehouse in Potsdam doesn't even compare...
We finally get on a bus that takes us to Marge's dorm. Somehow, I woke up just in time to nudge Marge awake and we stumble out of the bus at 7 Am, on this very cold morning, definitely still drunk but weighed down from the night/ morning. We started the short walk on the dirt path to Marge's dorm in this half-dream state, squnting in the Potsdam morning light, when we saw it: the deadest bird we'd ever seen. It was a black bird, stone dead, on it's back-- a stark contrast to the almost white-grey cement and the lights, moves, and kisses which were still swimming around in our boggled heads.
"That's the deadest bird I've ever seen," Marge said, "it's so... fucked up." And she was right.
I went back the next night to Berlin to this other nuts club with these two guys from Marge's Uni and it wasn't as big, but the beats were sick and beers kept coming. I don't have time to tell you more about this except that my jacket was swiped on the train, we didn't get back until 9 AM, and I love Berlin.
Then there was this Tulip festival in Potsdam in the Dutch quarter. Please recall everything I said about Potsdam being this ridiculous magic, fary tale place, add Bratwurst, sweets, and merry making, and multiply by 100,000....000,000.
I very much wanted to get a feel a better feel for Berlin, so I left Marge's on Wednesday and set off alone for hostels--excited to meet all kinds of cool, weird, and interesting people, hangout with that Italian, Alex, and maybe get into a little bit of trouble...
A group of students from Marge's Uni and I hopped on a train to Berlin's Club Soda. Ladies got in free that night, and another plus: drink vouchers. But we get there and I don't have my ID, so the others go in and Marge and I walk to this other club, across the street. More German dancing! woo! Germans don't dance with eachother, though, right, so Marge and I have a bunch of fun running around the dancefloor and playing with them-- tryin to get em to dance with us. I think, also, they don't usually dance with someone in the middle of a circle, so when I saw a group circled up dancing I had to take the opportunity. I jumped in and they loved it (it's my interpretation, ok). Then we started pulling them one at a time into the circle, and some wouldn't go in. One memory strikes me now: pushing in some guy who didn't want to dance in the middle of a circle and be like a silly drunk American girl, and spinning around him, anchored by my index finger in the middle of his bald spot. It was definitely time to bounce.
We tried Club Soda again and got in this time, but I had to pay. It's this huge 3 or 4 story club with all these different rooms. Each room has it's own music, so we ran around it going from soul, to rap, to electro, to whatever. Best. Time. Ever. At one point, Marge is occupied with this German who looovveedddd her, and I'm dancing to mad beats, and I meet this guy from Italy, who is studing art and seemed really chill. There are lots of hippie looking people in Berlin-- dreads and everything (verrryy nice). On the hour long train ride back to Potsdam from the club, Marge and I sit across from these two Berliners, who laugh at our tired eyes.
"The best thing to do is wake up at 5, have breakfast, and go out to clubs," they told us. It's Berlin's style. That warehouse in Potsdam doesn't even compare...
We finally get on a bus that takes us to Marge's dorm. Somehow, I woke up just in time to nudge Marge awake and we stumble out of the bus at 7 Am, on this very cold morning, definitely still drunk but weighed down from the night/ morning. We started the short walk on the dirt path to Marge's dorm in this half-dream state, squnting in the Potsdam morning light, when we saw it: the deadest bird we'd ever seen. It was a black bird, stone dead, on it's back-- a stark contrast to the almost white-grey cement and the lights, moves, and kisses which were still swimming around in our boggled heads.
"That's the deadest bird I've ever seen," Marge said, "it's so... fucked up." And she was right.
I went back the next night to Berlin to this other nuts club with these two guys from Marge's Uni and it wasn't as big, but the beats were sick and beers kept coming. I don't have time to tell you more about this except that my jacket was swiped on the train, we didn't get back until 9 AM, and I love Berlin.
Then there was this Tulip festival in Potsdam in the Dutch quarter. Please recall everything I said about Potsdam being this ridiculous magic, fary tale place, add Bratwurst, sweets, and merry making, and multiply by 100,000....000,000.
I very much wanted to get a feel a better feel for Berlin, so I left Marge's on Wednesday and set off alone for hostels--excited to meet all kinds of cool, weird, and interesting people, hangout with that Italian, Alex, and maybe get into a little bit of trouble...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The internet situation right now is breaking my metaphorical balls, kind of. It's not soo bad not having access to facebook, email, or text messaging (no phone), but it's rough when I want to contact people or make further travel plans. Anyway, due to limited/no internet access, I advise you to keep your arms and legs inside...my blog...feel free to feed the animals, and please, have your camera out and ready for a whirl wind tour of my life this past week in Potsdam, Deutschland. Woo!
It's a fariy tale land, Potsdam. I spent time wandering around palaces (yes) and through the very green and very beautiful Sanssouci (french for "care free")park. I stretched out under a tree and watched happy Germans Nordic walk/stroll/run past this lady bug and me. I watched the bug weave through the grass from blade to blade like a sometimes clumsy but self-aware and therefore efficient gymnast and I thought about this for a while before I started thinking about how nice it was to be thinking about this, before I stopped thinking much of anything at all. Then I started thinking about how nice it is to not be thinking of anything, got up, met Marge, and we toured Sanssouci Palace. There's a big fish pond in front of the palace, a series of stairs which lead up to it, and an informative portable telephone-like device that tells you all about the the rooms you walk through once you get inside. I learned Frederick II (Old Fritz) was into art, architecture, philosphy, and such and would invite intellectuals of his time to pretty much just hang out-- intellectuals like philosophers; philosopers like Voltaire. Yes, what a coincidence! One of T's roomies from Florence haneded me a copy of Candide before I left for Potsdam and I read it on the train, only to arrive in Voltaire's own old stomping grounds. Cool, ya? Connections, connections.
With one exception, everytime I've visited the sprawling, green, green, green Sanssouci Park there's been a man playing the bagpipe behind a bush. There's always a palace nearby, people pick nick all the time, and I've never been more uncertain of gravity--sometimes when I'm walking around this town I feel like I can skip, jump, and launch myself into the air to swoop around palace peaks. Sounds fantastical, I know, but I'm not all together certain there aren't little German gnomes chillin in tree trunks around here, either. And the best part (maybe)? Ample graffitti. Let's draw on things, everyone! It's a nice contrast, amature graffitti on traditional, wooden, Hansel and Gretel-style buildings. The old and the new. Contrasting ideas, but somehow it flows. It works. I love it.
...more to come
It's a fariy tale land, Potsdam. I spent time wandering around palaces (yes) and through the very green and very beautiful Sanssouci (french for "care free")park. I stretched out under a tree and watched happy Germans Nordic walk/stroll/run past this lady bug and me. I watched the bug weave through the grass from blade to blade like a sometimes clumsy but self-aware and therefore efficient gymnast and I thought about this for a while before I started thinking about how nice it was to be thinking about this, before I stopped thinking much of anything at all. Then I started thinking about how nice it is to not be thinking of anything, got up, met Marge, and we toured Sanssouci Palace. There's a big fish pond in front of the palace, a series of stairs which lead up to it, and an informative portable telephone-like device that tells you all about the the rooms you walk through once you get inside. I learned Frederick II (Old Fritz) was into art, architecture, philosphy, and such and would invite intellectuals of his time to pretty much just hang out-- intellectuals like philosophers; philosopers like Voltaire. Yes, what a coincidence! One of T's roomies from Florence haneded me a copy of Candide before I left for Potsdam and I read it on the train, only to arrive in Voltaire's own old stomping grounds. Cool, ya? Connections, connections.
With one exception, everytime I've visited the sprawling, green, green, green Sanssouci Park there's been a man playing the bagpipe behind a bush. There's always a palace nearby, people pick nick all the time, and I've never been more uncertain of gravity--sometimes when I'm walking around this town I feel like I can skip, jump, and launch myself into the air to swoop around palace peaks. Sounds fantastical, I know, but I'm not all together certain there aren't little German gnomes chillin in tree trunks around here, either. And the best part (maybe)? Ample graffitti. Let's draw on things, everyone! It's a nice contrast, amature graffitti on traditional, wooden, Hansel and Gretel-style buildings. The old and the new. Contrasting ideas, but somehow it flows. It works. I love it.
...more to come
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Ciao Firenze; Hallo Potsdam
The night of Easter T and I went back to the square for my last time-- mz last time this trip, anyway. We sat with out Torre wine and listened to Ken play for a while before we saw Ian, sitting with Ken's girlfriend (I learned alot about Ken via Ian and unfortunately he's taken. But she smiles alot and I'm just a dreamer and we had wine and the world is happy) drinking wine. We went over to him and immediately he greeted us,"girls, girls!" with arms outstretched and kisses for each of our cheeks.
M came shortly after and met Ian. She got the same three questions and also a chocolate Easter egg from Ian, who had gotten them from the bakery that leaves food out for him. He passed 'em out to each of us, "Happy Easter, Happy Easter," and we drank wine and listend to music.
It started getting colder, Ken had packed up and gone home, and I had to pack up to be ready for my 8:19 AM train. I asked Ian more about that commune in France before we left. He told me that it would be a safe place for me and urged me to call them. When we finally said bye, Ian's eyes welled up for a moment. We are "in the water" together, meaning we are water signs (I think?). He said that´s why we have a connected, we're both Scorpios, "didn't you feel it when we first met, it was like, yea, it was cool. I like you, Cat Crow." I dunno much about astrology but I know something about Ian drew me to him, or him to me. I told him a couple times to email me, to assure him we'd speak again, although T has to make him an email address and show him how to use a computer, in general.
"Yes, yes," he said "I'll invite you to Toads graduation, and Toads wedding! He's no longer 'weaving roses for the dead' now, is he? Not so morbid, now, Toad." And I could see a brighter future for Toad already.
We hugged a couple times and I hated to see him sad.It's alwazs harder to be the one who stays, you know? And I have friends to go see, places to go, family who cares about me, food at my finger tips. Ian never mentioned his family. He's a street person, afterall, a damn cool one.
"I'm very sorry you're leaving," he told me.
"But I'm very happy we've met," I said.
"Oh yes, me too, me too." He smiled a bit and then furrowed his brow, "You be safe," he warned, "always we aware of who you're talking too."
I assured him I'd be safe.
"May your journey be a happy one," he told me, and those words will stay with me forever.
What made Italy so wonderful were the people I met, the people I was blessed enough to chill with: T (who is so wonderful and who I sorely missed back in SB), Ian, and M, T's roomate I mentioned. We stayed up, T, her roomates and I, that night talking about love, life, and my trick to rolling a good joint. I made plans to meet M in New York on The 4th of July for a music festival, Blue Heron, where we'll camp out for a couple of days-- revel in our youth and good tunes. I already wrote in my planner/sketchbook/ scribble book "miss class Thursday." I'll be in summer school then and I figure if I plan on missing class I might miss less class overall. If I know in advance I'll miss Thursday, I'll be less likely to miss that Monday, Tuesday, Wed. It's all very logical.
T walked with me to the train station the next morning and I spent the entire day on the train, or trains, I should say-- four to be exact. I had Voltaire, Leary, and a collection of Italian short stories with me. Voltaire kept me sane, especially when my gigantic backpack ("Hans") and I were kicked out of our seats by some sharp people with reservations. I rode more than 5 stops sitting on Hans or leaning against him on the floor between train cars.
Just when I was thinking this day was "off," Marge hopped on the train. She'd been visiting extended family in Hannau and now we were riding together, Marge, Hans, and I to Berlin. "Prost," a ticket-man, walking past and seeing our beers in our hands (I love Germany), "cheers"ed us, and I knew then, things were back to the heightened state of Perfect I've been accustomed to of late. Marge and I spoke "drunken baby Deutsch" (but really, we're not that bad) for most of the ride, got into Potsdam at midnight, and I've been enjoying nature, health, and wurst ever since.
Already we've had Banana beer (which is really, really good), I've been running, loving being out of the city and back into nature (romance of cigarettes has faded completely), have a crush on a bartender (but probably, not really), and we're going to A CONCERT TONIGHT! wooooo!
may your days be filled with music! And "your journey a happy one"!
Love,love
cat
P.S. It'a John the Baptist's finger supposedly held in Santa Croce, and it was Michaelangelo's body that was stolen. I want to emphasize again that I saw Dante's Tomb (!!!), and that it's interesting that people collect bodies. People all over do it, you know, like cemetaries and stuff, head stones. We're very much like Elephants, or Elephants like us... especially as Americans. (joking, haha?). PEACE
M came shortly after and met Ian. She got the same three questions and also a chocolate Easter egg from Ian, who had gotten them from the bakery that leaves food out for him. He passed 'em out to each of us, "Happy Easter, Happy Easter," and we drank wine and listend to music.
It started getting colder, Ken had packed up and gone home, and I had to pack up to be ready for my 8:19 AM train. I asked Ian more about that commune in France before we left. He told me that it would be a safe place for me and urged me to call them. When we finally said bye, Ian's eyes welled up for a moment. We are "in the water" together, meaning we are water signs (I think?). He said that´s why we have a connected, we're both Scorpios, "didn't you feel it when we first met, it was like, yea, it was cool. I like you, Cat Crow." I dunno much about astrology but I know something about Ian drew me to him, or him to me. I told him a couple times to email me, to assure him we'd speak again, although T has to make him an email address and show him how to use a computer, in general.
"Yes, yes," he said "I'll invite you to Toads graduation, and Toads wedding! He's no longer 'weaving roses for the dead' now, is he? Not so morbid, now, Toad." And I could see a brighter future for Toad already.
We hugged a couple times and I hated to see him sad.It's alwazs harder to be the one who stays, you know? And I have friends to go see, places to go, family who cares about me, food at my finger tips. Ian never mentioned his family. He's a street person, afterall, a damn cool one.
"I'm very sorry you're leaving," he told me.
"But I'm very happy we've met," I said.
"Oh yes, me too, me too." He smiled a bit and then furrowed his brow, "You be safe," he warned, "always we aware of who you're talking too."
I assured him I'd be safe.
"May your journey be a happy one," he told me, and those words will stay with me forever.
What made Italy so wonderful were the people I met, the people I was blessed enough to chill with: T (who is so wonderful and who I sorely missed back in SB), Ian, and M, T's roomate I mentioned. We stayed up, T, her roomates and I, that night talking about love, life, and my trick to rolling a good joint. I made plans to meet M in New York on The 4th of July for a music festival, Blue Heron, where we'll camp out for a couple of days-- revel in our youth and good tunes. I already wrote in my planner/sketchbook/ scribble book "miss class Thursday." I'll be in summer school then and I figure if I plan on missing class I might miss less class overall. If I know in advance I'll miss Thursday, I'll be less likely to miss that Monday, Tuesday, Wed. It's all very logical.
T walked with me to the train station the next morning and I spent the entire day on the train, or trains, I should say-- four to be exact. I had Voltaire, Leary, and a collection of Italian short stories with me. Voltaire kept me sane, especially when my gigantic backpack ("Hans") and I were kicked out of our seats by some sharp people with reservations. I rode more than 5 stops sitting on Hans or leaning against him on the floor between train cars.
Just when I was thinking this day was "off," Marge hopped on the train. She'd been visiting extended family in Hannau and now we were riding together, Marge, Hans, and I to Berlin. "Prost," a ticket-man, walking past and seeing our beers in our hands (I love Germany), "cheers"ed us, and I knew then, things were back to the heightened state of Perfect I've been accustomed to of late. Marge and I spoke "drunken baby Deutsch" (but really, we're not that bad) for most of the ride, got into Potsdam at midnight, and I've been enjoying nature, health, and wurst ever since.
Already we've had Banana beer (which is really, really good), I've been running, loving being out of the city and back into nature (romance of cigarettes has faded completely), have a crush on a bartender (but probably, not really), and we're going to A CONCERT TONIGHT! wooooo!
may your days be filled with music! And "your journey a happy one"!
Love,love
cat
P.S. It'a John the Baptist's finger supposedly held in Santa Croce, and it was Michaelangelo's body that was stolen. I want to emphasize again that I saw Dante's Tomb (!!!), and that it's interesting that people collect bodies. People all over do it, you know, like cemetaries and stuff, head stones. We're very much like Elephants, or Elephants like us... especially as Americans. (joking, haha?). PEACE
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Jazz and Easter
Yesterday I went to the museum of the Duomo and the Santa Croce Church. Very interesting. I tagged onto T's classmates' tour and their tour guide was phenomenal. Italian history/ art history is like the ultimate drama-- like the time the Medici family pretty much wiped out this other family (drawing a blank here 'cause im typing really fast)by secretly hanging them, or how...someone's body was stolen from under a church. Wow, I really need to brush up. I know I sound like a failure right now but really, I'm just failing to explain these things.This one guy's finger is still in the Santa Croce church, P.S.! The catholics like to keep body parts, it seems. But it makes sense...the body is the case of the great leaders/priests/saints. It's the only physical part of them we can keep around after they've passed. They're off, but we can certainly keep their pinky finger in a glass container in a beautiful church that has loads of dead bodies underneath it (which is a little bit sarcastic in order to make you smile, not because I don't think the finger of a saint is not a good thing to case up. I do, in fact, I think. Do you? First time anyone's asked you this question?).
The highlight of the day: I saw Dante's tomb!! Pictures to come...and I'll just narrate them, so i don't bumble around with words as I am now, trying to balance them on my tongue to volley over to you in a grouping that explains intelligently what I saw yesterday...
Let's try again, shall we? Last NIGHT we went to the Jazz Club. You have to become a member in order to get in (8 euro) but then I think you're a member for life, or until you lose your membership card. We get in there, right, having had a bottle of wine between the three of us (T, her roommate M, and myself) on the way, as we always seem to have when one the streets (no open container law, remember), T in her new very cool strappy black heels and gray fedora. We were all ready to be jazzed out. There are other clubs in Florence, but mostly, they aren't such a good time. Lots of grabbing and as I've been told, pretty shitty music. But the Jazz Club! It's different. We were stoked on it and we stayed there all night listening to A. Franklin covers and others. It was more soul than jazz, and the Italian band, Dr. Funky and Mr. Soul, had all three of us wishing there were more room to dance. But you gotta keep it cool in joints like that at first, though, you know, I think. Tuesdays and Thursdays Jazz Club hosts jam seshs. Wish I'd frequented that place sooner since I'm headed to Berlin tomorrow. Definitely chillest bar/club in Florence. Good people, good vibes; it's an awesome place to hang with friends or flirt with a photographer from across the room who may or may not be in love with the singer.
Italian Easter is crazy-- full of fireworks, a mechanical bird, crowds ( which = a couple creepy gropers). The fireworks were so loud, so explosive, and sounded so much like multiple machine guns firing into the crowd, there were a couple moments I thought we might be done for, that maybe the government was just sick of us all. This was a grim and terrible thought, but thoughts like this are natural reactions to loud explosions and bright lights of the sort that were firing for the Easter celebration today around the Duomo that had the whole town in an impossible-to-navigate crowd gathered around this gigantic dresser-like box from which a mechanical bird comes out and then back in. The Florentines used to release a bird on Easter and if it came back or found its way out (it used to be held in a stadium), the harvest would be good. Now, they just use this mechanical one. Why take a chance when technology is on your side, right?
When I wasn't paralyzed by the sound, unlike any firework sound I've heard in my whole life, I was crying from laughing, or very happy from watching the very cute Italian kids perched on their caretaker's shoulders. They seemed to me like a community of shoulder people, as there were many of them and they would turn and communicate with each other, with screams or looks of disgust, quite effectively. Little kids have a system, I think, and I was very happy to be amongst them. They'd call out the cutest things, too, like when one of the best ones, bespectacled, of course, shouted out "Fabuloso!!" At times like these I was so moved, I touched my heart, shouted "Happy Easter!" in Italian, thought of my family back home, and then immediately returned my hand to my side to continue deflecting the poorly concealed advances of Old Man Thigh Grabber. There's one or two of them in every crowd, and they're old (in my case, also Italian), so you can't just, you know, shake them or something.
Happy Easter!!!!
Much love sent from Florence! xoxo
The highlight of the day: I saw Dante's tomb!! Pictures to come...and I'll just narrate them, so i don't bumble around with words as I am now, trying to balance them on my tongue to volley over to you in a grouping that explains intelligently what I saw yesterday...
Let's try again, shall we? Last NIGHT we went to the Jazz Club. You have to become a member in order to get in (8 euro) but then I think you're a member for life, or until you lose your membership card. We get in there, right, having had a bottle of wine between the three of us (T, her roommate M, and myself) on the way, as we always seem to have when one the streets (no open container law, remember), T in her new very cool strappy black heels and gray fedora. We were all ready to be jazzed out. There are other clubs in Florence, but mostly, they aren't such a good time. Lots of grabbing and as I've been told, pretty shitty music. But the Jazz Club! It's different. We were stoked on it and we stayed there all night listening to A. Franklin covers and others. It was more soul than jazz, and the Italian band, Dr. Funky and Mr. Soul, had all three of us wishing there were more room to dance. But you gotta keep it cool in joints like that at first, though, you know, I think. Tuesdays and Thursdays Jazz Club hosts jam seshs. Wish I'd frequented that place sooner since I'm headed to Berlin tomorrow. Definitely chillest bar/club in Florence. Good people, good vibes; it's an awesome place to hang with friends or flirt with a photographer from across the room who may or may not be in love with the singer.
Italian Easter is crazy-- full of fireworks, a mechanical bird, crowds ( which = a couple creepy gropers). The fireworks were so loud, so explosive, and sounded so much like multiple machine guns firing into the crowd, there were a couple moments I thought we might be done for, that maybe the government was just sick of us all. This was a grim and terrible thought, but thoughts like this are natural reactions to loud explosions and bright lights of the sort that were firing for the Easter celebration today around the Duomo that had the whole town in an impossible-to-navigate crowd gathered around this gigantic dresser-like box from which a mechanical bird comes out and then back in. The Florentines used to release a bird on Easter and if it came back or found its way out (it used to be held in a stadium), the harvest would be good. Now, they just use this mechanical one. Why take a chance when technology is on your side, right?
When I wasn't paralyzed by the sound, unlike any firework sound I've heard in my whole life, I was crying from laughing, or very happy from watching the very cute Italian kids perched on their caretaker's shoulders. They seemed to me like a community of shoulder people, as there were many of them and they would turn and communicate with each other, with screams or looks of disgust, quite effectively. Little kids have a system, I think, and I was very happy to be amongst them. They'd call out the cutest things, too, like when one of the best ones, bespectacled, of course, shouted out "Fabuloso!!" At times like these I was so moved, I touched my heart, shouted "Happy Easter!" in Italian, thought of my family back home, and then immediately returned my hand to my side to continue deflecting the poorly concealed advances of Old Man Thigh Grabber. There's one or two of them in every crowd, and they're old (in my case, also Italian), so you can't just, you know, shake them or something.
Happy Easter!!!!
Much love sent from Florence! xoxo
Saturday, April 11, 2009
So yesterday T and I woke up early and went for a run. We ran away from the buildings, down the Arno, where cobblestone turned to dirt path and I felt like I was back in Santa Barbara, running on the bluffs. It felt wonderful to have the air pumping in and out of my lungs so quickly, to be sweating, to be in touch with my body after days and days and days where walking, dodging people and getting swept up in the currents of them, were my only excerise. There were flowers, little white ones and little purple ones, all along the way. There were also these seeds-- those kind from blow flowers-- white and floating about like atoms. I mean, really, there were so many of them and they were everywhere. Piles of these seeds could be mistaken for snow, the way they collected upon the Arno, the trees, the old men in tiny shorts sunning themselves. They (the seeds, not the old men) danced around in the air infront of us, swirling like a visualizer, pulsing/siwrling/vibing to the music of my Ipod (THANKS JARED! love the CDs!)
We met Ian again with some more euro store wine, although he had his own wine. Getting up to the piazza, which overlooks Florence (!) was beautiful but it was challenging, especially since my legs were tired from the run and stairs we had to climb were many. It was also, as would be expected, totally worth it.
Drinking wine with T and Ian, I took a bunch of pictures, especially of the tiny little Florentine buildings below. I thought of Florence, then, as a city made for dolls, and the gigantic David in the middle of the Piazza as their god or something. Ian told us some more about his poems, his life, and his travels. He's been, really, everywhere.
"Do Europe later in life," he told us, "Asia first, when you are young." If you get sick in Europe, you're alright. If you get sick in Asia...it's much better to be young and resilient. More of Ian's adventures have been catalouged forever in my brain, but I don't have enough internet to share.
When we asked him if he had plans for later, he responded: " No, no. I don't have plans anymore. I used to make plans all the time, always had a plan. I had this pocket watch on me all the time (sold it later), but I realized one day: you wake up, at some point you'll have a shit, and then one day, you'll die. Why make so many plans? I stopped doing that, completely. It took me a long time but now I'm doing just exactly what I want to do...live and write. I hang out with Toad. It's nice..."
Some of his cooler stories that day were about the time he spent making goat cheese on a commune in France. There, in the commune, also grew mushrooms. Everyday there would be a bowl of tabbacco out and a bowl of pot, up for grabs for anyone, whenever they'd like some. He said somedays he's work and work very hard and his mates would tell him "hey, Ian, come relax, don't work so hard," and he's say no, no m, he wanted to work. But other days he's just lay in the meadow, smoking a joint. Ian gave me the number to this commune and a little spiel to tell the people, to see if I could work/ live there for a little while if I decide to go to France. I'd have to extend my Eurorail pass and I'm not sure how expensive that is, but it's nice to have options, especially adventurous ones.
Ian brought us flowers he picked from somewhere nearby before we left, and T and I, buzzed from the wine, smelled them the whole stroll back to the best, doughiest pizza I've ever had.
**note: Most of the drug references found so far I've made because I picked up Leary (and others') book: The Psychedelic Experience at a bookstore here. I'm reading it because it's a known text, it has a pretty cover, and it's interesting in a weird way. It translated the Tibetan Book of the Dead into psychedelic terms. I've never done LSD and think, after reading some of it already, the enlightenment (which is the goal of the Tibetan Buddhists and the psychedelic movement, theoretically) doesn't have to be reached through chemical means. I'm pretty sure Leary didn't think so either, since meditation and yoga seem to have the same effect on one's ego and he knew this, but he did promote LSD as a "fast track," which it might very well be. The fast way, however, may not be as beneficial. Or it may, as I said, I don't know. I do keep thinking about this total burnout I met at my friend's birthday party in Isla Vista, though. He (the burnout) had taken so much acid and things he couldn't communicate or function very well in society. In the middle of a living room filled with people dancing, moving to the fast paced music coming from the speakers, was this guy, contorted into a backbend-ish yoga pose, perhaps experiencing something awesome, but definitely not experiencing the reality of the rest of the party...
Anyway, after reading more of the Psychedelic Experience and finishing Kafka's Metamorphosis last night, I had a series of nightmares that kept me up most of the night. So, if I can't find Kerouac's Dharma Bums (which I hope I find before getting on a train to Berlin), I think I won't read anything else but history for the rest of this trip. And whatta trip it's been...
We met Ian again with some more euro store wine, although he had his own wine. Getting up to the piazza, which overlooks Florence (!) was beautiful but it was challenging, especially since my legs were tired from the run and stairs we had to climb were many. It was also, as would be expected, totally worth it.
Drinking wine with T and Ian, I took a bunch of pictures, especially of the tiny little Florentine buildings below. I thought of Florence, then, as a city made for dolls, and the gigantic David in the middle of the Piazza as their god or something. Ian told us some more about his poems, his life, and his travels. He's been, really, everywhere.
"Do Europe later in life," he told us, "Asia first, when you are young." If you get sick in Europe, you're alright. If you get sick in Asia...it's much better to be young and resilient. More of Ian's adventures have been catalouged forever in my brain, but I don't have enough internet to share.
When we asked him if he had plans for later, he responded: " No, no. I don't have plans anymore. I used to make plans all the time, always had a plan. I had this pocket watch on me all the time (sold it later), but I realized one day: you wake up, at some point you'll have a shit, and then one day, you'll die. Why make so many plans? I stopped doing that, completely. It took me a long time but now I'm doing just exactly what I want to do...live and write. I hang out with Toad. It's nice..."
Some of his cooler stories that day were about the time he spent making goat cheese on a commune in France. There, in the commune, also grew mushrooms. Everyday there would be a bowl of tabbacco out and a bowl of pot, up for grabs for anyone, whenever they'd like some. He said somedays he's work and work very hard and his mates would tell him "hey, Ian, come relax, don't work so hard," and he's say no, no m, he wanted to work. But other days he's just lay in the meadow, smoking a joint. Ian gave me the number to this commune and a little spiel to tell the people, to see if I could work/ live there for a little while if I decide to go to France. I'd have to extend my Eurorail pass and I'm not sure how expensive that is, but it's nice to have options, especially adventurous ones.
Ian brought us flowers he picked from somewhere nearby before we left, and T and I, buzzed from the wine, smelled them the whole stroll back to the best, doughiest pizza I've ever had.
**note: Most of the drug references found so far I've made because I picked up Leary (and others') book: The Psychedelic Experience at a bookstore here. I'm reading it because it's a known text, it has a pretty cover, and it's interesting in a weird way. It translated the Tibetan Book of the Dead into psychedelic terms. I've never done LSD and think, after reading some of it already, the enlightenment (which is the goal of the Tibetan Buddhists and the psychedelic movement, theoretically) doesn't have to be reached through chemical means. I'm pretty sure Leary didn't think so either, since meditation and yoga seem to have the same effect on one's ego and he knew this, but he did promote LSD as a "fast track," which it might very well be. The fast way, however, may not be as beneficial. Or it may, as I said, I don't know. I do keep thinking about this total burnout I met at my friend's birthday party in Isla Vista, though. He (the burnout) had taken so much acid and things he couldn't communicate or function very well in society. In the middle of a living room filled with people dancing, moving to the fast paced music coming from the speakers, was this guy, contorted into a backbend-ish yoga pose, perhaps experiencing something awesome, but definitely not experiencing the reality of the rest of the party...
Anyway, after reading more of the Psychedelic Experience and finishing Kafka's Metamorphosis last night, I had a series of nightmares that kept me up most of the night. So, if I can't find Kerouac's Dharma Bums (which I hope I find before getting on a train to Berlin), I think I won't read anything else but history for the rest of this trip. And whatta trip it's been...
profile of a street person..
So nothing super amazing happened two days ago because we'd gone out the night before to ArtBar. This bar has these amazing cocktails/drinks with fruit piled up....artfully...around the rim and towering over the drink. Anyway, back at Piazza Signoira, we recognized Ian talking to Ken after Ken finished playing, so T. and I went up to perhaps reintroduce ourselves.
"I remember you," he said, pointing at me, "you have a really good...something...it just comes off of you. It feels really good."
The best news I'd heard all day. Yes! (recall: the kid from "nintendo 64 remix" vid on youtube.'Yes!yes! check this out if you don't know what I'm talking about).
So there we were again, with Ian on the steps of the Uffizi. We found out a couple cool things:
1) Sting now lives in the mountains of Florence, making organic wine that he sells in the city. Ken used to live in the mountains, so I guess they hung out. Also, Sting's wine is sold in the same store where Ian usually steals a bottle or two (he steals from stores, not people. Well, not people on the street..). Actually, Ian doesn't steal from there anymore because the owner of that store started just giving him a bottle every week-- a pretty cheap bottle but he must have figured he might as well just give Ian a bottle every week vs. having bottles stolen, you know?
2)That's how Ian gets most of his food, by stealing it from grocery stores or by people giving it to him. I went with him to pick up a bag of food from a bakery in the Piazza at 11 pm-- leftovers, but good ones. He has a couple of places around town that give him leftovers at the end of the day, and overall seems to be doing alright.
3)The best way to get those pesky flower-sellers to leave you alone is to follow Ian's example: when they come up to you and shake their roses in your face a couple times, reach out, snag a petal, and eat it. "Not very fresh," Ian repremanded the guy, "but thank you." He wasn't bothered again.
Ian read us some more of his poems, mainly about Toad, a character who deserves and is in the process of getting quite a series. I keep telling Ian to send his stuff into some journals, but he doesn't seem to be down at this time. We made plans to meet the next day at 4 pm, in Piazza Michaelangelo. I'm glad to have made such a favorable aquantaince with the.raddest.street.person. in Florence= time well spent.
"I remember you," he said, pointing at me, "you have a really good...something...it just comes off of you. It feels really good."
The best news I'd heard all day. Yes! (recall: the kid from "nintendo 64 remix" vid on youtube.'Yes!yes! check this out if you don't know what I'm talking about).
So there we were again, with Ian on the steps of the Uffizi. We found out a couple cool things:
1) Sting now lives in the mountains of Florence, making organic wine that he sells in the city. Ken used to live in the mountains, so I guess they hung out. Also, Sting's wine is sold in the same store where Ian usually steals a bottle or two (he steals from stores, not people. Well, not people on the street..). Actually, Ian doesn't steal from there anymore because the owner of that store started just giving him a bottle every week-- a pretty cheap bottle but he must have figured he might as well just give Ian a bottle every week vs. having bottles stolen, you know?
2)That's how Ian gets most of his food, by stealing it from grocery stores or by people giving it to him. I went with him to pick up a bag of food from a bakery in the Piazza at 11 pm-- leftovers, but good ones. He has a couple of places around town that give him leftovers at the end of the day, and overall seems to be doing alright.
3)The best way to get those pesky flower-sellers to leave you alone is to follow Ian's example: when they come up to you and shake their roses in your face a couple times, reach out, snag a petal, and eat it. "Not very fresh," Ian repremanded the guy, "but thank you." He wasn't bothered again.
Ian read us some more of his poems, mainly about Toad, a character who deserves and is in the process of getting quite a series. I keep telling Ian to send his stuff into some journals, but he doesn't seem to be down at this time. We made plans to meet the next day at 4 pm, in Piazza Michaelangelo. I'm glad to have made such a favorable aquantaince with the.raddest.street.person. in Florence= time well spent.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
"People are strangeee, when you're a stranger..."
I haven't done anything touristy yet- no museums or anything but maybe I'll do those tomorrow. I've just wanted to walk around, try and take good pictures (I'm learning, I think), and overall, just hang out. I've been wanting to read and write alot, so I went to the school's computer lab yesterday to post something. Mid post I look up and there's this lady standing cross-armed, facing me from across the room, giving me a serious stink eye. "Oh shit," I thought, "I'm found out." I'm not a student here, obviously, and had snuck in. I was just getting flustered when she directed all her anger at my feet which were propped up on a chair and shouted across all the heads of students bent over their work: "YOUR SHOOOOOOES!" really drawn out, just like that. I was barefoot, and this offended her, I guess, and I felt absolutelty naked in public. She shook her finger at me (really) and stomped off. At least she didn't ask for my student ID and drag me out by my shirt collar, but dang. It took me a second to understand that being barefoot might be socially inappropriate, which might be common sense to some, but I kept thinking about Isla Vista and Java Jones and how not only would all those students be barefoot if I could switch their back drop just like that (you know, from this city to my little beach town), but they'd also have longboards propped up against their tables.
"And they wouldn't be wearing black!" T added when I told her about it, later. Born and raised in San Diego, T misses her florals very much. It's also out-of-place in this town to show your legs, and I mean at all.
But aside from up-tight old ladies, I've met some really cool people. I met the coolest man the last time T and I went down to that Piazza to hear K, the musician I mentioned before. It was night (K plays from 9:30-11 nightly) and we were lounging on another set of stairs a bit further away from the music so we coud finish up this chat about energy, vibes, and that infamous, life changing trip to Santa Cruz I'll write about one day. I was just about to get to the part in the story of the adventure when I met this guru, when a bum approached us on his bike. T tensed but something about this old guy supressed her "basta, basta" (like:stop, or go away) reflex she developed living in Florence, always dealing with the street sellers of things. He asked for a smoke.
"No, sorry, man" I told him, "we're out. I'm sure you'll find one, though."
"Honey, I can find anything," he countered, confidently and good naturedly. A down guy, you could just tell. With his worn-looking fedora, Obama shirt, British accent and rickety bike, he exuded...just what I was looking for. I wanted to know his story and ask him about energy, since he came in right at that point in our conversation, perhaps sent from the marble gods looming above us, but Ian had his own questions.
"Three of them. One: favorite Beatles song"
"Let it be, " I answered quickly. Easy.
"Yellow Submarine," T, whose symbol (if people had them and mine do, so scratch that..her symbol) IS the sunflower, answered. Getting this characterization yet?
Ian answered "Hey, Jude," I think and went on with his other two questions, which were really maybe 4 other questions, athough he did introduce them as questions 2 and questions 3,you see,twice. He asked us about our favorite actor and had alot to say about film, he asked us about literature and had a lot to say on that subject as well. He recited two of his own poems to us, one short one I can't remember and one longer one about painkillers and alot wine, which was styled like Bukowski's poems, except Ian ryhmed the very end of it in a happy, whatever kind of way.
"It's like Bukowski, except you ended on a happy note.." I told him.
"Ohhh Bukowski was a drunk," he said as he pulled out another bottle of wine from his improvised bike basket, "the difference between us is, when I wake up at 4 am and reach for the bottle, I know it's bad."
Ian asked us about where we'd like to go we've never been, asked us about our favorite god, and fucking taught us things as we all sat there. Who would have guessed? He knew quite a bit about traveling and religion. We had a conversation about why Buddha is maybe the raddest god (you're responsible for yourself), and answered his own question with "Baccus."
Also in the course of this wonderful conversation, Ian mentioned in one of his stories, pretty off handedly, about how he knows K, the musician that was playing. "That's one of his own songs," Ian told us at one point. He told us also that K had opened for Simon and Garfunkel once, and used to be a street person with Ian. I guess K saw Garfunkel playing somewhere, went up to him, and told him he wanted a job. Garfunkel heard him and I've already said the rest.
"I kept asking him if Garfunkel was gay, you know? K said, 'I dunno man, he was never gay to me, but he's pretty weird,' right? Right, he's a weeerd [Ian's British accent] guy, Garfunkel, real weeerd." P.S. I asked him K's name once he told us he knew him, and everything seemed to check out. Meaning, I don't think Ian bullshitting.
It got colder and Euro-store one euro wine was out, so I promised Ian a cigarette for next time and T and I bounced, reluctantly.
I'll spare you a reflective paragraph on how life teaches more than books and things, but I will suggest talking to strangers. Sometimes they can make your night. Probably, also, they will say something unexpected, something new, and at any rate, something more than they would if you just walked by them, or "basta"ed them away too quickly. For sure, not everyone you meet is going to be cool, but also for sure, I hope to see lots of Ian around. And I have a hunch he wouldn't give a shit if I had shoes on or not (my kind of person).
Pace
"And they wouldn't be wearing black!" T added when I told her about it, later. Born and raised in San Diego, T misses her florals very much. It's also out-of-place in this town to show your legs, and I mean at all.
But aside from up-tight old ladies, I've met some really cool people. I met the coolest man the last time T and I went down to that Piazza to hear K, the musician I mentioned before. It was night (K plays from 9:30-11 nightly) and we were lounging on another set of stairs a bit further away from the music so we coud finish up this chat about energy, vibes, and that infamous, life changing trip to Santa Cruz I'll write about one day. I was just about to get to the part in the story of the adventure when I met this guru, when a bum approached us on his bike. T tensed but something about this old guy supressed her "basta, basta" (like:stop, or go away) reflex she developed living in Florence, always dealing with the street sellers of things. He asked for a smoke.
"No, sorry, man" I told him, "we're out. I'm sure you'll find one, though."
"Honey, I can find anything," he countered, confidently and good naturedly. A down guy, you could just tell. With his worn-looking fedora, Obama shirt, British accent and rickety bike, he exuded...just what I was looking for. I wanted to know his story and ask him about energy, since he came in right at that point in our conversation, perhaps sent from the marble gods looming above us, but Ian had his own questions.
"Three of them. One: favorite Beatles song"
"Let it be, " I answered quickly. Easy.
"Yellow Submarine," T, whose symbol (if people had them and mine do, so scratch that..her symbol) IS the sunflower, answered. Getting this characterization yet?
Ian answered "Hey, Jude," I think and went on with his other two questions, which were really maybe 4 other questions, athough he did introduce them as questions 2 and questions 3,you see,twice. He asked us about our favorite actor and had alot to say about film, he asked us about literature and had a lot to say on that subject as well. He recited two of his own poems to us, one short one I can't remember and one longer one about painkillers and alot wine, which was styled like Bukowski's poems, except Ian ryhmed the very end of it in a happy, whatever kind of way.
"It's like Bukowski, except you ended on a happy note.." I told him.
"Ohhh Bukowski was a drunk," he said as he pulled out another bottle of wine from his improvised bike basket, "the difference between us is, when I wake up at 4 am and reach for the bottle, I know it's bad."
Ian asked us about where we'd like to go we've never been, asked us about our favorite god, and fucking taught us things as we all sat there. Who would have guessed? He knew quite a bit about traveling and religion. We had a conversation about why Buddha is maybe the raddest god (you're responsible for yourself), and answered his own question with "Baccus."
Also in the course of this wonderful conversation, Ian mentioned in one of his stories, pretty off handedly, about how he knows K, the musician that was playing. "That's one of his own songs," Ian told us at one point. He told us also that K had opened for Simon and Garfunkel once, and used to be a street person with Ian. I guess K saw Garfunkel playing somewhere, went up to him, and told him he wanted a job. Garfunkel heard him and I've already said the rest.
"I kept asking him if Garfunkel was gay, you know? K said, 'I dunno man, he was never gay to me, but he's pretty weird,' right? Right, he's a weeerd [Ian's British accent] guy, Garfunkel, real weeerd." P.S. I asked him K's name once he told us he knew him, and everything seemed to check out. Meaning, I don't think Ian bullshitting.
It got colder and Euro-store one euro wine was out, so I promised Ian a cigarette for next time and T and I bounced, reluctantly.
I'll spare you a reflective paragraph on how life teaches more than books and things, but I will suggest talking to strangers. Sometimes they can make your night. Probably, also, they will say something unexpected, something new, and at any rate, something more than they would if you just walked by them, or "basta"ed them away too quickly. For sure, not everyone you meet is going to be cool, but also for sure, I hope to see lots of Ian around. And I have a hunch he wouldn't give a shit if I had shoes on or not (my kind of person).
Pace
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
so far
Florence:
Getting around alone is easy. Firstly, traveling alone is cool because I can read as much as I want, whenever I want. I can take as long as I want to do anything, and make decisions last minute because I’m the only one who deals with the consequence of last-minute action, which has so far been only time—waiting. Waiting I don’t mind at all, it’s just time to slide on my shades and people watch, soak up my surroundings. Staying calm, cool, and collected is key when traveling alone, and not hard once you realize there are signs everywhere—people, maps, what have you—that’ll really help you out. Think about keeping your energy good, open, and calm and I believe you’ll attract it (might sound hokey, I’m aware, but ever since this one visit to Santa Cruz I’ve been thinking in terms of “vibes”). I was looking at a map in a metro station, for example, trying to figure out trains, when this man in traditional African dress of some sort came up to me, holding a water bottle. “Here, you dropped this,” he communicated as he handed it back to me, smiling. I hadn’t even noticed it had slipped out of my backpack. Later, we enjoyed cappuccinos together and exchanged pleasantries, even though he spoke only French and I mostly only English. Language wasn’t a barrier at all.
I called T a couple times once my train got into Florence, but no answer. I rifled through my bag and found the printed out Facebook message of information she sent me. Next to her number, I realized then, was an “…I think.” I had her address though, so no worries. I snagged a map from outside the station, found her street on it, and set out. I could have found it on my own but I had help on every corner: “You’re lost. I see it. I know it.” With a poorly packed, lumpy backpack poking out over my head and one of those gigantic newspaper-sized maps under my nose, I stopped and received direction from most every person who called out to me—partly because they could be right, there might be some tricks or secret passage ways I wasn’t aware of, and also because I wanted to talk to them. What characters people are! And they’re all around, very entertaining. And helpful, really. They might as well have had orange glowing lights in their hands, the whole town, pointing me right to T’s apartment building.
I have a couple blisters on my hips from my backpack, but what are blisters when you’re alive and in Italy? I don’t know how long exactly I’ll be staying, but I’m pleased to let you know my friend and I already stumbled upon live music. We gravitate towards it. On a stroll two nights ago we heard Paul Simon coming from Piazza__ and found a man with a pony tail, guitar, and rich vocals playing music into the night. T saw a friend from class and we all sat on the stairs of __ facing him. He played mostly covers—covers of the best songs from the best bands, like the Beatles. Sitting there on the stairs, picking at T’s gelato and taking swigs from our little community wine bottle, I listened to this man sing so effortlessly, so beautifully. I traced a heart with the ember on my wand-like cigarette, thought about how simple it can be, and blew my smoke to the stars.
Onward,
C
Getting around alone is easy. Firstly, traveling alone is cool because I can read as much as I want, whenever I want. I can take as long as I want to do anything, and make decisions last minute because I’m the only one who deals with the consequence of last-minute action, which has so far been only time—waiting. Waiting I don’t mind at all, it’s just time to slide on my shades and people watch, soak up my surroundings. Staying calm, cool, and collected is key when traveling alone, and not hard once you realize there are signs everywhere—people, maps, what have you—that’ll really help you out. Think about keeping your energy good, open, and calm and I believe you’ll attract it (might sound hokey, I’m aware, but ever since this one visit to Santa Cruz I’ve been thinking in terms of “vibes”). I was looking at a map in a metro station, for example, trying to figure out trains, when this man in traditional African dress of some sort came up to me, holding a water bottle. “Here, you dropped this,” he communicated as he handed it back to me, smiling. I hadn’t even noticed it had slipped out of my backpack. Later, we enjoyed cappuccinos together and exchanged pleasantries, even though he spoke only French and I mostly only English. Language wasn’t a barrier at all.
I called T a couple times once my train got into Florence, but no answer. I rifled through my bag and found the printed out Facebook message of information she sent me. Next to her number, I realized then, was an “…I think.” I had her address though, so no worries. I snagged a map from outside the station, found her street on it, and set out. I could have found it on my own but I had help on every corner: “You’re lost. I see it. I know it.” With a poorly packed, lumpy backpack poking out over my head and one of those gigantic newspaper-sized maps under my nose, I stopped and received direction from most every person who called out to me—partly because they could be right, there might be some tricks or secret passage ways I wasn’t aware of, and also because I wanted to talk to them. What characters people are! And they’re all around, very entertaining. And helpful, really. They might as well have had orange glowing lights in their hands, the whole town, pointing me right to T’s apartment building.
I have a couple blisters on my hips from my backpack, but what are blisters when you’re alive and in Italy? I don’t know how long exactly I’ll be staying, but I’m pleased to let you know my friend and I already stumbled upon live music. We gravitate towards it. On a stroll two nights ago we heard Paul Simon coming from Piazza__ and found a man with a pony tail, guitar, and rich vocals playing music into the night. T saw a friend from class and we all sat on the stairs of __ facing him. He played mostly covers—covers of the best songs from the best bands, like the Beatles. Sitting there on the stairs, picking at T’s gelato and taking swigs from our little community wine bottle, I listened to this man sing so effortlessly, so beautifully. I traced a heart with the ember on my wand-like cigarette, thought about how simple it can be, and blew my smoke to the stars.
Onward,
C
begin
I finished Kerouac’s On the Road again on the plane to Rome. I say “again,” but the first time I read it I was in sixth grade (at the latest) and didn’t really get it. I definitely didn’t get the “IT” Dean (Neal Cassidy) gets:
‘“Here’s a guy [with a saxophone] and everybody’s there, right? Up to him to put down what’s on everybody’s mind. He starts the first chorus, then lines up his ideas, people, yeah, yeah…all the sudden in the middle of the chorus he gets it…time stops…He’s filling empty space with the substance of our lives, confessions of his bellybottom strain, remembrance of ideas, rehashes of old blowing…everybody knows it’s not the tune that counts but IT—“’
Soon after, Sal gets IT, and the two guys talk in the feverish, sweat-producing manner of Cassidy himself, when the words themselves don’t matter so much. Maybe IT, or the search for IT, makes people do things. Not take-off-on-a-bloody-rampage type things, but writing type things or I’m-taking-off-next-quarter-and-roaming-Europe type things. IT (and a trapped restlessness like this, the kind I can’t run off anymore) called for Kerouac and Cassidy from all around the United States, up and down the road. It’s what made ‘em want to dig new places, find new kicks. Those crazy cats (and you see their influence) stopped just short of going on to Italy. They had to leave some adventures for us—you know—for me and everyone, anyone. Maybe that’s why I’m on this train right now. Maybe I’ll find IT.
I’ll be in Florence later tonight, staying with a friend. I’ve already eaten too much pizza and substituted water for wine, officially. Also, I picked up smoking cigarettes (When in Rome…literally). Not to condone smoking or send another assault to smokers out into society (bummer, guys, how openly and actively you’re scorned), but I felt European-cool and suicidal when I bought my first pack. Mixed feelings. Hold down California coast life for me.
Live every day,
C
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