Trieste Photo Contest

I've been back in VT for a week now, and though I am thrilled to be home, I find myself missing beautiful Trieste.  What better way to remember my favorite Italian city than by blowing up a photo and putting it on my wall.  The only problem is I am having trouble choosing just one. 

Above are my top five Trieste photos of the year, and I was hoping you all could help me choose the best (see poll in the top-right corner).

Thanks,

-Noah

Last Post?

It's been a while since my last post and with good reason...I've been busy.  After struggling with exams, I had the pleasure of hosting Mom and Dad for a week in Trieste followed by more than a few celebrations, the best of which involved sipping cocktails at eight in the morning with surprise pancakes with smuggled Vermont maple syrup (thanks Mom).   

I'm staring at a packed bag and looking for words as I head home after what seems like a lifetime in Europe. I'm not sure how I will adjust to returning to buffalo wings instead of buffalo mozzarella, shorts instead of speedos, and a 24 hour news cycle instead of no news at all.

The only conclusion I can possibly come to at the moment is the fact that it's not the places we go that make travel so fulfilling, but the people we meet along the way, so thank you to one and all that made this year unforgettable.  Goodbyes are difficult, so rather than get emotional, I am going to think about what Groucho Marx would say to me if he were here:

"Go, and never darken my towels again."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

TRL Awards in Trieste

Ah MTV...thank you so much for providing an unparalleled night of entertainment. Piazza Unitá d'Italia was full of live Italian pop music, snappily dressed VJs (Video Jockey's for anyone who grew up before Carson Daly was and then ceased to be a household name), thousands of screaming teenage girls, and a surprising amount of babies in strollers.

The performers performed, the crowd cheered, and jokes were made.  Being an MTV, pop-culture driven event there was a lot of English infused into the dialogue, and some of the performing artists didn't speak Italian themselves, which always made for a nice awkward moment when the Italian VJ would say to the Norwegian singer, "May I kiss you?!  I have to kiss you!" before leaning in for Baci on both cheeks.

As alway,s Italian idioms dominated, and I particularly enjoyed the frequent use of "Che bordello," which translates literally to "what a whorehouse," and was a great compliment to the screaming fans, in this sense meaning something to effect of "you guys are fucking crazy!"

My friends and I soon grew weary of bad Italian rap, commercial breaks, and award recognition for people like Hillary Duff over people like Beyoncé...an absolute travesty, so we moved out to the pier and shared some drinks and a full view of Piazza Unitá with other international students. When the ceremony and concert ended, we found an outdoor bar and made a bit of a bordello of our own.  Below is the intro to the awards and above is a shot I snapped from the pier.

That's For Women!

I bought quite the souvenir in Granada and just realized that I forgot to share the story so off we go...

I was walking around the squeaky clean cobble-stoned streets of the old city (tires and shoe soles literally chirp every time a person tries to change directions) and found myself in the Arab markets.  My friend Sarah, who studies in Granada, which like Trieste is marked by the footprint of many cultures, suggested I pick out something to remember my trip.

As I meandered through shops full of hookahs, tea sets, and tapestries I wondered what I could purchase that would be a unique reminder of my time in Granada, something that I would not be able to find anywhere else in Europe.  I was about to give up, when I was blinded by the bright blue and gold trim of an Arabian robe fit for a prince.

"Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick," I said before asking the smiley attendant if he could retrieve it for me from it's position on a high hook.  He handed it toward Sarah, but she told him the robe was for me. He quickly agreed and told us how handsome it was.  I tried the thing on, deciding that it's soft material and breathability would make it the perfect summer lounging garment; ideal for sitting in a Vermont backyard and arousing cockeyed looks from neighbors.  My three female American escorts congratulated me on the purchase and we headed to one of Sarah's favorite hookah bars to celebrate.

When we showed my souvenir to the bar's owner, he held it out in front of Sarah just as the man who sold it to me had, but she was quick to explain that the robe was for me.  

"For him, nooooooo," he said before doubling over with laughter.  "haha he bought this for himself!  It's for women!"  He was so delighted that he had to tell someone.  He shouted to the back of the bar and a waiter emerged to laugh with him, 

"Che guapa! That's for women you know," said the waiter as the owner put the apparent dress on over my head and then pulled at the material until it appeared that I had the right sized chest to fill it out.

He asked if I had a camera on me, and when I produced it, the bar owner stopped a man on the street to take a photo of the two of us.  The photographer removed his glasses, lined up the shot, and then paused and pulled his eye away from the viewfinder.

"That's for women you know," he said as a click sounded to produce the image above.

After bidding the hysterical group farewell, we continued down the street, but soon found that the heckling was not over.  A man on a pay-phone told his wife, boss, or bookie to hang on a sec, before covering the phone with his palm and shouting, 

"That's for women!"  I laughed and shot him a thumbs up and he returned the gesture.  

Though I am surely the laughing stock of the Arab markets, the good news is I do have a unique souvenir from Granada, and I can't think of a better way to confuse an old Vermonter than by asking him if he has the time while wearing a beautiful Moroccan dress.  Although with my luck, he'll probably say, "It's 9:30...you know that dress is for women right?"

An Italian Education

I've had a strange day.  I was abducted after lunch by a Spaniard and an Argentine guy who's name I can't pronounce.  They took me to a bar to have coffee and to do something they referred to as "selling each other to women."  I think they wanted to talk to Italian girls and pull the ol' wingman routine with the help of a smiley American, but unfortunately, the girls must have heard we were coming and completely avoided the aforementioned cafe. 

Though there were no females to be had, we found the next best thing: twenty rowdy Italian dudes celebrating the graduation of a friend by making him run shirtless through a gauntlet. We may not have been able to sell each other to women, but the three of us had quite the time drinking coffee and slapping a stranger until his back was red and covered in congratulatory welts.  I am less shocked by the abuse for graduates as I am by the fact that anyone can earn enough credit to reach the gauntlet stage at all. 

Upon returning from Spain, I tried to go to my comparative politics class and couldn't find it anywhere.  This lecture had been an elusive catch to begin with, meeting from 6-8 p.m. on Tuesdays, 11-1 p.m. on Wednesdays, and 9-11 a.m. on Thursdays (how anyone is supposed to make a schedule without classes conflicting is beyond me).  After trying desperately to find comparative politics for a week, even taking extreme measures such as looking for it in different environments, hunting early in the morning, and leaving bait and a rope-trap outside my room, I hung up my safari hat for the weekend and decided I would have to try to tackle my academic prey next week.

When I showed up at the original classroom at 5:45 on Tuesday, I found the door locked and the lights off.  A few students had gathered outside by 6:00 which convinced me to continue to wait and sure enough, at 6:15 a young woman arrived and unlocked the door.  I followed the students inside and took my normal seat in the back, but something seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Did the professor get a haircut? New shoes perhaps?  I knew he looked different somehow but...oh I know, he's twenty years younger and a woman now.

When I asked this new professor what happened she gave me a look that said, "who are you?" and I gave her a look that said, "who are you?"  It was awkward.  It turns out that some time during the mysterious week where I lost my class, I also lost a professor, and worst of all I lost an exam, as in I missed it.  There are only two tests during the semester so I thought my chances of passing the only class I need to transfer back to UVM had disappeared faster than an Italian university course.  However, the new professor kindly informed me that the tests are only one option for passing the course.

I will be taking an oral exam on June 3rd...that is, if I can find it.  Wish me luck.

Paella with the Family Gea

Gea (pronounced "Hey-Ya" with a bit of Chutzpah at the beginning) made good on his promise and drove us to his parents house in Orihuela, which has about as many gorgeous cathedrals as inhabitants.

Gea's family does not speak English, and my American companions and I do not speak Spanish. Oh what an awkwardly silent lunch we must have had you say, but no.  In another example of how people can always find a way to communicate, the lunch was full of conversation. Gea would sometimes interpret from Italian to Spanish and vice-versa, or hand signals and smiles proved to be enough.  

Mother Gea bopped into the kitchen throughout the meal, constantly returning with heaping plates of Paella, seafood platters, bowls piled high with fruits that I have never seen before, cakes, and even champagne famous in five continents. She seemed constantly disappointed with her own brilliant food.  "Not enough meat in the Paella," she complained, shaking her head.  I did my best to make her feel better by eating as much as possible and butchering the Spanish language, "es buena, esta me gusta."

Mother Gea seemed less upset by the food as by the information we gave her.  When she learned that my American friends and I had walked fifteen minutes from the Valencia bus station to Gea's apartment she was concerned.  When she found out that we would eventually be taking a twelve hour bus ride from Granada to Barcelona she was not pleased.  She was visibly upset by the fact that I am only twenty years old and so far away from my family, and when we told her how much the average American education costs I thought she might faint.

Thankfully there was no reason to worry in an emergency as all of the Geas work in medicine, except Fernando.  Because he studies engineering, the oldest son is the subject of constant jokes and ridicule, but he takes in good stride.  "I don't like medicine, they do, but it's not for me," he told me proudly.

Mother Gea pointed around the table and informed us that Father Gea was a doctor, she helped at the hospital sometimes, the middle son was a nurse, and her youngest was studying to be a dentist.  When we raised our champagne glasses we toasted to, what else?  Salud: health.

When I had eaten more Paella and Spanish fruit than any hungover individual should, Gea took us on a small tour of pristine Orihuela, and even drove us to the train station and waited on the platform, completing his role as super-host.   Next time I raise my glass in Spain, it will surely be accompanied by a toast to engineering.

Valencia

My good friend Fernando Gea proved to be an excellent host when I arrived in Valencia, frantically driving a couple of hours from his parents' house to show me the city and let my friends and I sleep in his apartment.  

Valencia has everything, including bumping nightlife, a medieval city center, the ultra-modern city of arts and sciences designed by native born Santiago Calatrava, a dry river full of palm trees, beautiful beaches, and even it's own language, (don't let anyone hear you calling Valencian a Catalan dialect).

My two American friends and I spent the days oversleeping and sight-seeing, Gea providing tours in Italian, which were informative and hilarious.  When we arrived at a nearby restaurant  around 10:30 p.m. it was deserted (too early for a Spanish dinner), but all of the tables were already claimed by parties arriving later.  The sympathetic host was so helpful that he called another restaurant on our behalf, and five minutes later, I found myself drinking endless sangria and eating like a king at a table that read "Fernando."  

The one thing missing from my Valencia visit was the real Paella.  Gea had warned me not to try the famous rice dish in Barcelona for, as he claimed, I would only be able to find the true version in his city where it was created. Unfortunately, all of the good Paella places were closed for Holy Week. "No problem," Gea insisted, his mother also makes a great Paella, and she only lives two hours from Valencia; conveniently enough, on the way to my next Spanish stop, Granada.

I snapped the picture above after a rainstorm, and it might be my favorite from Europe so far.

Obama British Africa

Barcelona is unique.  Where else can one find wide elegant boulevards, dream-inducing architecture, sandy beaches, and hundreds of mustached men offering cold beers for one Euro?

I saw the sights, and the zoo too, but the most eclectic part of Barcelona, for me anyway, was the night life.

In only a couple of nights I found myself in Irish pubs, Tapas bars, a hip jazz club with a lanky white Louis Armstrong impersonator, an Indian tea bar with thrones for seats, and a pub devoted completely to tobacco pipes.  The strangest of all had to be a place called Obama British Africa.

The bar was on the way to my hostel and the leopard skin and heads on the outside made me say to myself, I know I have to go in there, but do I really want to?   

The inside was adorned with various pelts, statues of long necked Africans in glass cases, and signs that said things like, "I do enjoy my cup of Lyon's Tea sold in spreads of MOMBASA."  The photograph directly across from me portrayed a particularly happy pith-helmeted imperialist displaying a slain crocodile while fifteen or so loin-clothed fellows looked on.  As if the wall hangings and general backwardness of the place wasn't enough, every single plasma screen TV showed PGA golf.  I felt uneasy to say the least, and when my seven euro margarita arrived and tasted like piss, I felt even more uneasy.  I needed some answers.

The waitress was very patient as I peppered her with questions about the bar that seemed to be what the folks at Applebees or Chilis would come up with if told to decorate a British officers' club.  The waitress informed me that Obama British Africa was opened a few months before the real Obama was elected.  She wasn't exactly sure why.

"No offense," I said, "but I could not imagine President Obama coming here for a drink."  

"I know," she replied.  "people tell me that every day."

¿Is This a Spanish Keyboard or What?

I used to hate Spain, and for terrible reasons. My first journy abroad led me to Italy with a group of high school friends, most of whom had taken a similar trip to Spain the year before. Naturally this resulted in a lot of,

¨Oh my God, that´s just like the statue we saw in Spain!¨
¨¿Hey speaking of restaurants, remember that fifty course meal we had in Spain?¨
¨Lets talk about the bullfight we saw in Spain.¨
¨This street is dirty. It would never be this dirty in Spain.¨
¨I love Spain.¨

This sort of banter was frustrating as it often led to unfair comparisons and resulted in a lot of discussion about a place that only some of us had been to rather than enjoyment of what was in front of our faces. Instead of taking things out on my friends (I hate you guys by the way), I took it out on the country itself. After making so many Spanish friends this year in Trieste, I have been anxiously awaiting a chance to put those feelings to bed, and ¿Guess what?

I love Spain.

Barcelona is unique and includes everything a city should offer. The wide streets allowed me to breathe again, the sights lived up to the hype, and the beach was full of characters, providing for superb people watching.

Valencia had an unprecidented mix of ancient and modern neighborhoods. We ate dinner at eleven and hit the clubs at four or five, and best yet, I got to hang out with Spaniards on their own turf.

I´m here in Granada where the sun is shining and the Tapas are plentiful. Pictures and detailed stories will arrive when I return to Trieste on the 18th of April, so see you then.

Language Tips

For some folks just being lingual is enough, but for anyone looking to add a Bi- or a Multi- to that lingual label, here are some friendly suggestions.

1. Take a structured course or lessons: A capable instructor and regular homework assignments will not only be helpful for proficiency in a specific tongue, but will also provide necessary skills for understanding the mechanics of language itself.  A general grasp on tenses, number and gender agreement, sentence structure, etc, will form a solid foundation for dabbling in any language.

2. Set realistic goals: Fluency takes years of practice or complete immersion.  It's going to take a long time to become comfortable with any new language, so start small.  Scoring well on an exam, understanding a foreign pop song, or looking across a restaurant table at a confused friend and saying "if you want chicken, go with the one at the bottom," are important steps.

3. Read the internet:  There are a lot of free resources out there to improve reading skills. Before coming to Italy, I checked out an Italian newspaper online or browsed Italian Wikipedia whenever I got a chance.  Learning about the life and times of a canine movie star might not be the most useful information in the world, but learning it in another language (even without understanding a great deal), will improve vocabulary, comprehension, and even writing skills.

4. Listen to the internet: Can't quite afford that $300.00 Rosetta Stone CD set?  Try a free podcast; all you need is iTunes and an internet connection.  http://www.apple.com/itunes/ is a good place to start.  

5. Be wary of online translators:  Yes, the internet does provide many free, useful language resources.  However, direct internet translators like Babel Fish don't know a thing about idioms or context; the true essence of communication.  Use them sparingly, like to translate a mystery word rather than a mystery sentence or paragraph.  

6. Find someone to practice with: A native speaker can help with correcting mistakes and teaching the things we can't learn in a structured class (yes this includes profanity, woohoo). Sometimes native speakers can be intimidating though; after all, they are fluent.  

Start with a fellow beginner, and even though mistakes will be made, progress is inevitable. Try mixing in food, drink, or sport to help the conversation flow.

7. Make lists: It's difficult to carry a dictionary around at all times.  Try a tiny notebook instead, or even jot down unknown words on the back of a business card or receipt. Looking their definitions up later will increase the size of the all important vocabulary, and the act of writing something down in itself improves the chances of remembering it.

8.  Leave the ego at home:  Anyone practicing a foreign language is going to say things like, "I don't want to pay higher taxis!" and "May I find a piece of your lasagna?" Laugh it off and try again; the mistakes are half the fun.

Any tips to add?  Share them in the comments section in whatever language you'd like.

Shameless Plug TIme

I just got one of my articles and a few photographs published at In the Know Traveler, an online publication that is all about travel, so please check it out, and tell your friends about the site.  

http://www.intheknowtraveler.com/3280

Don't be Scared

Why are Italians so afraid of the weather?  I ask myself this question every time it rains and I find myself outside surrounded by umbrella-covered Triestini running for shelter like its World War III. Literally every single person in Trieste carries an umbrella around all day, and they think I am crazy when I say, "It's just water."  

At first I was convinced they were all witches and would melt.  I imagined them saying, "Oh no, the water from the sky again!  What a world what a world," but that's just ridiculous. Maybe it's because they wear more expensive clothes that I do and the rain is damaging to their fashion.  Or maybe the rain in Italy is acidic, and my health is in great danger, but I won't find out until I have a squid baby years from now.  Whatever the explanation, their fear seems to be present when the sun is out as well.

Today I strolled downtown for a haircut.  Being sixty degrees and sunny, I said to myself, no need for a jacket, and took off wearing nothing more than jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.  You would have thought I had left the house naked.   Everyone stared at me, which I am used to being an obvious American, but today they weren't disapproving, it was more like the Triestini feared for my life.  The ladies in fur coats seemed especially alarmed, and one even asked if she could help me in any way.  When I arrived at the salon (barbershops don't exist here, sorry fellas), I thought the woman behind the front desk was going to have a heart attack when I didn't hand her a jacket to hang up.  

I wish I could load them all onto a giant plane and take them to Vermont during a hailstorm, the type in April when the sun is out, and people are all outside in T-shirts saying things like, you call that hail?  But then again, it's all relative.  When my stylist went reaching for the hair gel, I ran out of there screaming like an Italian in a rainstorm.  I's just a good thing I didn't have to stop at the front desk for a jacket.

Crying Cockles and Mussels, Alive, Alive, Oh

I just returned from a wonderful, shenanigan-filled week in Ireland.  With St. Paddy's Day, gorgeous weather, and the Six Nations (Ireland took home it's first rugby grand slam since 1948), my timing could not have been better.

Ireland is a difficult place to write about.  I find myself having trouble coming up with superlatives, as most everything I experienced was either awesome, amazing, or green.  The only real tourist attraction I managed to fit in was a day-trip to the Cliffs of Moher, an amazing sight on Ireland's West Coast.  It's the kind of place where you can answer your phone like this:

Ring Ring Ring

"Hello?" 

"Oh hey what's up."

"Not too much, just standing on the edge of Europe, what are you up to?"

The best part of our awesome day trip, which included stops at abbey's, ancient stone sculptures, and Fairy Forts (where the leprechaun's live), was our amazing bus driver/tour guide/comedian for the day, Ray.

With his green top-hat and whimsical accent, Ray informed us about the Burren, the lunar-like limestone landscape unique to this part of Ireland, and why exactly you don't mess with the little people.  His sense of humor was amazing.

After setting us up for twenty minutes about politicians who had homes in this part of Ireland, Ray drove the bus slowly past a couple of particularly dirty donkeys.  When he explained the origins of Irish cowsheeps (apparently all the inter-species hanky panky started when the cows were cold one night) he showed us what clearly was a llama, and when the CD player in the bus broke, Ray sang.  

If anyone else finds themselves in Galway, please take Galway City Tours specifically.  Why you ask?

Because they're awesome.

Party Boat

I finally understand why Europeans don't do Halloween.  They have Carnival.  It's another excuse for young people to get innovative with costumes, drink and dance like the heathens of old, and have a parade or two.  My favorite aspect of Carnival is how each country, each city even, has developed completely different traditions, and unique ways to get into the spirit of Carnival.

In Venice they dress creepily and stand perfectly still, while Croatians prefer a good old fashioned block party.  In the festive boat department, the Slovenes take the cake, notice the microphone...

 

Noah's Seven Rules for Passport Related Emergencies

Traveling is a series of catastrophes.  The better we cope with these daily crises when we're on the road, the better we can enjoy a sunset on a deserted beach, a bullfight on a deserted beach, or clinging to dear life while flying backwards through a British roundabout.  What is the most terrifying of these travel emergencies you ask?  Passport issues.

Unfortunately or fortunately, I have become an expert on passport problems, and by following these easy to remember rules, you too can seemlessly make your way in and out of many a country with insufficient or even non-existent documentation.

Rule #1 Don't Panic:  Anyone who has traveled with me knows that I don't usually follow rule #1.  When somebody tells me not to panic, I tend to respond by ripping handfuls of my hair out or throwing up on a nearby animal, but seriously, at the moment you first realize you have a passport problem, there is often nothing you can do about it.  Rather than tearing your rental car apart looking for the thing, go party with Croatian soccer hooligans.  You'll call the embassy in the morning with a headache, but it will be worth it.

Rule #2 Dress the Part:  A collard shirt says, "I am an upstanding individual with enough money to support myself, you should feel honored to let me into your country, despite my damaged passport."  A tie says, "I have something to hide."

Rule #3 Copy, Copy, Copy: A photocopy of a valid passport can be a lifesaver, and can speed up the process when applying for a replacement.  Carry a few of them in a few different places. This is one of those things that Mom reminds you of every day that is actually a good idea, just remember to keep a copy in your coat...which you should always wear so you don't catch a cold.

Rule #4 Smile: It's not that machine-gun wielding government police officer's fault that you can't find your passport.

Rule #5 Lie: Seriously.

Rule #6 Lie Well: When I accidentally washed my passport the night before jumping on a plane from Italy to the UK, I told multiple officials that it had been damaged in Venice during the recent flooding.  Had they asked any follow up questions, I was ready with a full story, the date of the damage, and which Ventian hotel I was staying at.  When my passport was "stolen" in Croatia, I arrived at the American embassy with paperwork from a police officer in Split corroborating my story.  Remember, lying is only helpful until you get caught. Don't let them catch you!

Rule #7 Drip Dry: Your Passport won't respond well to hair dryers, best to stand it up and fan out the pages.

 

Carnivale...in Slovenia?

Unfortunately, we must take a break from the chair shenanigans to discuss Carnivale.  A significant celebration, which I thought was only significant on this side of the Italy/Slovenia border. That notion jumped out the window when I received the following email from the hostel in Ljubljana (which used to be a Yugoslavian prison) where I will be staying next weekend, when my brother comes to visit.

Hello,

Our bar staff organising the party during your stay and it would be really great if you could join us.

I am just sending you their invitation and it would be also great if you could tell me if you are interested in that party...

****We would like to invite you to our carnival party on Saturday 21st February.  In our hostel we will organize a masquerade, dance in masks with our local DJ playing disco funk music.  You can dress up however you wish to release your imagination, or we can help you by giving you face masks, so that you can join the party anonymously.  A competition will also be held for choosing the best three masks and rewarding it properly.  Through the whole night our "evil" barman will mix carnival cocktails and shooters so you will not go thirsty.  Each mask will also get a welcome drink to get you started.  The party in the hostel will last until 1 o'clock, after which our staff can help you with directions for continuing the party.  We would like to know, if you are interested in joining us on our quest to banish winter so that we can make adequate preparations.****

Kind regards,

Hostel Celica

I told them that banishing winter was one of my top priorities, especially when disco funk music and evil barmen are involved...it should be quite the weekend.

Chairgate Part 1

This is my chair.  I have never complained about the top piece that often becomes detached from it's flimsy plastic body, nor have I made a fuss about the fact that I am the only person in my entire dormitory who does not have a nice, blue, rolly desk chair.  Last night I went with some friends to Alberto's room in the building next to mine to watch a movie.  Right before we left my phone rang.

"My friend."

"Yes?" I said.

"Bring your chair, because I don't think I have enough seats."

"OK," I said.

I put old reliable back together and folded him up for the journey downstairs, outside, and then up more stairs.  I made it all the way out into the cool Trieste night air, before I heard the tell-tale whistles and claps of an Italian trying to get my attention. I turned around to find the bald, grey-mustached man who lords over the front desk in my building shouting nonsense. He beckoned me inside and I followed.

"Where are you taking the chair?" He asked like I had kidnapped a small child.

"I am going to my friend's room to watch a movie and he doesn't have enough seats.  I will bring it back I promise," I said sarcastically.

"You cannot just bring chairs wherever you'd like Sir.  You must sign them out at the desk, this isn't a circus."  

This fellow is particularly fond of telling me what the dormitories are not. When we had a late-night game of dice in Alberto's room, he was quick to rap loudly on the door and tell us that the dormitories are not a casino.  When Keith and I ran downstairs at 5:30 in the morning to shout and smoke victory cigars after President Obama's victory, he was insistent that the dormitories are not a political rally.

My favorite aspect about this mustached front-desk Czar is his vigilant security of the Casa Dello Studente.  When I return in the early hours of the morning after a long night downtown, he always buzzes me through the front door and then stops me at the desk to ask his full-proof security question.

"Room Number?"  The first time I told him 17, my actual place of residence, the second time I told him 100, and I guess next time I will be living in room 1,000.  It is nice to go to sleep with piece of mind each night knowing that my building is under the watchful eye of Signore Mustachio: after all, the dormitories are not a crime scene.

And so after filling out a few documents, signing my name, and leaving my expired American drivers' license for collateral, I proceeded to Alberto's room to watch a movie.  The top of the chair of course snapped off at some point, and we had to stop the film to turn on the lights, so I could fix it.  

When I returned to my building and waved the chair at Mustachio, he seemed extremely angry that I had kept my word and he would not be able to report anything to anyone.

The funny thing is, this was not my first chair-related incident in Trieste...

Farewell Lucas Weber

Trieste lost one of it's finest temporary citizens today as my friend Lucas boarded a train destined for his native Germany, where he will stay briefly, before beginning a seven-month internship in China; the first step in his future career as a superinternational business guru/tycoon. 

For those who have never met Lucas, he's a stand up guy, who loves sports and beer (as long as they are German), and has the unique ability of being able to fall asleep while dancing in the middle of a sweaty European club.  He made many friends here and will be greatly missed.

If you're lucky, one day Lucas will sing a German song for you.

  

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

My Spanish friend Charly was walking home from a night out, minding his own business, when he saw a garbage can that had been working way too hard.  He decided to help the trash recepticle onto its side so that it could have a good night's sleep and get off its feet for a while. 

A few policemen happened to see Charly's friendly gesture, and pulled up next to him, with sirens a-blarin' and lights a-flashin'.

Charly tried to explain himself, but the Carabinieri were not impressed, they insisted that he had vandalized public property, and threw him against the police car for a search.  They delved into his pockets and found a car antenna and a side mirror, that Charly had righteously liberated from their slave labor positions on some Italian motorcycle.  

Again the Carabinieri were not impressed.

They asked Charly where he lived and when he told them the Casa dello Studente, they knew he was foreign.  They did not ask for his name, or any identifying documents, but simply slapped him in the face repeatedly and then knocked him to the ground so that they could kick him a bit.  When the beating finished, the Carabinieri drove away, without taking Charly to prison or to any sort of detox facility.

When he told me the story the next day, I asked Charly why he didn't seem particularly upset that he had been beaten by government police, and racially profiled.

 

"Oh come on Noah," Charly told me.  "In Spain it's much worse."

"And why is that?"  I asked.

"Because in Spain, the police don't fight like women."

Io Sono Ebreo

As anyone from Northfield, Vermont can tell you, I am used to being the only Jew in town.  However, I am not used to Anti-Semitic and Anti-American graffiti staring back at me from every desk, every stairwell, inside each elevator, and on all of the walls of my dormitory at a major university, yet surprisingly, this is what I see every day here in Trieste.  

I am not sure exactly who writes this hate speech all over the place, and I won't speculate as I live in a very diverse student community.  However, I find it surprising that the school does nothing to clean the graffiti or distance themselves from it in any way.  I am all for free speech, but I think there is a line.  Written on the inside door of my elevator:

Bush=Hitler

Hitler fucked your mother

Death to Israel

Death to America

America is Darkness

Fuck Bush

Long-live Palestine

The one person who seems to agree with me that the graffiti has gotten out of hand is my Palestinian friend Mohammed, who is undoubtedly the nicest person I have ever met.  He will literally stop in the middle of a meal to walk across a crowded cafeteria and say hello or ask me how my day is going, and I don't think he has ever allowed himself to walk through a door or sit down before I have done so.  When I told him I had family in Israel, he didn't treat me any differently.  When I confirmed the fact that I was an American Jew, he only wanted to ask me questions.  

Mohammed and I had a long discussion the other night, and we agreed that people on both sides of the conflict need to talk to each other more. He explained that if more of his friends met real-live American Jews, they might find out that we're not all clever, rich, lobbyists, and that if more American Jews met real-live Palestinians who have seen atrocities that we could never imagine, we might be able to better understand each other.

The worst part is, I have never been to Israel, but if I wanted to, I could go there right now, even with my sorry excuse for a passport.  Mohammed is not allowed to enter his homeland.

Rabbits

Who is this happy looking fellow next to me you ask?  I wasn't sure for a long time.  I was convinced he might be my German friend Lucas' grandfather, or at least an uncle.  Through conversations in broken English and with some help from Lucas, I managed to figure out that he is the family's Lebanese neighbor, and has been living next door to them for the last thirty years. 

He is a furniture artist of great skill.  In fact, he re-appoulstered all of the antique furniture in a nearby castle, which is the summer residence for the royal family of the Netherlands.  He joined us for dinner every night that I stayed at the Weber residence in little Heistenbach, Germany.

One morning as I ate a meat sandwich for breakfast, I heard the front door slam shut.  I poked my head out of the kitchen and saw the friendly neighbor stomping around in snow covered boots. In one hand, he held a large, folded piece of paper, and in the other, what looked like two very dead, skinned rabbits.  When I got a closer look, I realized that they were two extremely dead, skinned rabbits.  

He unfolded the piece of paper on the kitchen table, and revealed a giant world map that had a few sections torn away and some holes throughout.  He said to me, "You.  Where you," and indicated with a dangling rabbit that I should point to my place of residence on the map.  I showed him Vermont and he seemed pleased.  Alberto, and Keith, each indicated toward their home towns, and he seemed extremely pleased.  Finally, after studying the map a bit, he gave us a look that seemed to say, oh sorry, you're probably wondering why I am holding these dead rabbits.

He motioned toward the holes and ripped away portions of the map.

"They..." he said, shaking the rabbits in my face and then making exaggerating chomping sounds, moving his teeth up and down.

"So I..."  he said as he held up an invisible rifle with his hands.  A loud pow sound flew out of his mouth.

"The rabbits were chewing holes in your map, so you shot them?"  I asked to clarify, assuming that his English comprehension was better than his speech.

"Yes, and so...dinner."

The rabbits were delicious.

What a Country...

And so after a quick social binge in The United States of America, I find myself stuck somewhere else, this time, the middle-of-nowhere Germany, as I await a budget flight to Venice-well near Venice, tomorrow afternoon. Thank God I managed to stumble on the lovely Advance Hotel where I may be the only guest, and there may be only one employee who bends over backwards to make my stay as comfortable as possible. For 45 Euro tonight, I get two beds, unlimited coffee and tea, unlímited breakfast food all day, unlimited German television (The Nanny dubbed into German is exactly as entertaining as it sounds), unlimited cheap German beer from the bar downstairs, unlimited shuttles to four types of ethnic restaurants, unlimited banter with the only hotel employee who's name I haven't caught yet, but he imediately knew my last name was Scandinavian and therefore he is wise. Did I mention unlimited sauna use?



I decided to go for the German restaurant since I am in Germany, and I wanted one more plate of assorted meats and kraut before I head back to Italy. When I read the menu and began to laugh the waitress asked me what was wrong. I told her everything was fine and as long as she got me a copy of the menu in English, there would be a big tip in store for her. Here are some of my favorite excerpts from the opening page.

A Hearty Welcome to You Dear Guest

We are delighted to welcome you in the name of our staff in our gastronomical area after only one year of construction time. We will do everything in our more and more hectical and superficial time to give you some beautiful moments which you will hopefully remember positively for a long time.

We can offer many other performances to you:

-Catering on birthday parties

-Meeting facilities

-Wine tasting with vintners from different regions, including a complete meal

There are always different dishes prepared for you from our plentiful menu. Brunch at the "Bohrinsel"- pure pleasure.

At this very moment, we wish you a pleasant stay and delightful moments.

-Your Bohr family and service staff

If anyone else gets stranded at the pathetic Frankfurt Hahn Airport and wants to be treated like royalty for a night, check out:

http://www.advance-hotel-zum-hahn.de/en/index.php

If This Plane Goes Down and I Die Surrounded by Dutch People, I'm Going to Lose It

Anyone who has followed my blog closely will remember that the Dutch were some of the first people that I came in contact with upon my arrival in the Old World. At first, I was charmed by their gibberish language, their attractive females, and their disregard for acting normally, but I have since cooled on these strange folk.

Maybe it was the thousands of bicyclists that almost ran me over in Amsterdam, or the hotel employee who dropped eight Christmas ornaments on my head in a row while trying to dismantle the tree in the lobby, but the Dutch simply rub me the wrong way.

Now before anyone accuses me of Dutch-bashing, I will admit that I have not spent a great deal of time with anyone from Holland, and therefore my opinions of them are pretty shallow. I implore someone to prove me wrong, but first, a story.

I arrived in Schipol from Frankfurt after pulling an all-nighter, and expected a security checkpoint as I switched terminals, but was pleasantly surprised when I did not have to proceed through any metal detectors or answer any questions. I strutted up to my gate, ready to again move seemelessly from one country to another with a basically invalid passport, when I realized that I might be in trouble.

Gate 12A was completely on lockdown. Instead of a bunch of seated stinky people awaiting a plane, I was greeted by metal detectors, security guards in ridiculous blue blazers, and long lines of stinky people awaiting a plane. I inched forward until I was beckoned to a small podeum-like thing for a Spanish Inquisition of sorts, which of course, I did not expect.

"Are you traveling alone sir?" He began in a Dutch accent with the type of tone that I would use when wearing a headset and asking for donations from wealthy UVM parents.
"Yes."
"And where are you headed today sir?"
"Trieste, Italy."
"Cool Cool. And what's going on there?" He asked like he had found a friend.
"Well I study in Trieste, so."
"Oh cool...wow really cool. What are you studying man?" I failed to see how this was relevant to the security of the aircraft I was about to board.
"Political Science."
"Wow man, that is awesome. Wow. And why didn't you want to study in the United States?"
"Well I do, but I am studying abroad for like a year in Italy you know?"
"Yeah, I've heard of that. Wow." He had begun flipping through my passport at this point, and I interrupted with an explanation before he reached my illegible visa.
"Yeah so my passport got a little roughed up when I was in Venice."
"What do you mean?"
"Well I was there during the flooding and it got wet, so you can't really read the visa."
"Oh that's so crazy man. Crazy. It got all wet huh?"
"Yeah. I have a photocopy of the visa if you want to see it."
"No man that's alright, have a good flight ok. Really, have a good flight." He stamped my passport and was reminded of Groucho Marx quote,

"I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member." I don't exactly feel safe aboard an aircraft that I am allowed on with my sorry excuse for a passport.

I sat in my window seat and prepared to catch-up on some much needed sleep. A squeeze to the arm interrupted me. I opened my eyes and looked upon a middle-aged man with green-framed glasses introducing himself in gibberish.
"No, I don't speak Dutch," I said and leaned my head against the window to indicate I wasn't interested in a new friend.
"Oh American! American!" He said and put his arms up in the air. He would not let me sleep without shaking my hand.
"I am going to America." He informed me. "For a conference."

I congratulated him and went back to sleep. He never let me doze for more than five minutes at a time.
"Sharp, what is sharp?" He asked after an arm squeeze, I did not explain very well.
"Haven't what is haven't?" No good answer there.
"Cut off, cut off." I glanced over at the laminated packet he was flipping through and became intrigued when I saw the subject matter.

Page 1: Characteristics of Roundabouts and Road Crossings
Page 2: Essential Characteristics of Roundabouts
Page 3: Design for a Roundabout that does not Give Cyclists the Right of Way
Page 4: The Mechanics of the English Roundabout
Page 5: Roundabouts and their Significance in Modern Society

Each page was covered with detailed diagrams of traffic circles, and he studied them like his life depended on it.

"Cut off, what is cut off?"
"It's like when one car goes like this, even though it's not their turn." I traced the action with a couple of fingers on one of his roundabout schematics.
"Cut off, this is cut off? No I think cut in."
"No cut off."
"Cut in."
"We say cut off."
"We say cut in." I stopped talking to him.

The aspiring roundaboutologist quickly ruined any chance of getting onto my good side by killing a special moment for me. United Airlines was showing the New Woody Allen film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, and I was watching as intently as he studied his diagrams. Now for anyone who is a fan of Woody Allen, or a fan of girls kissing, this is the movie for you. Just as Scarlett Johansson and Penelope Cruz began to experment in a Barcelona darkroom while developing some sensual photos, I felt a flying Dutch elbow to the ribcage.

"Ha," said the traffic specialist, pointing at the little screen mounted on the seat in front of me. He continued the nudging, the laughing, and the insistant pointing, until the scene was over, forever ruining something beatiful for me.

Sometime after watching him slobber over a mayo sandwich, the plane began to experience some turbulence. The captain warned us that things might be a little bumpy, an understatement to say the least. We bounced around and jolted from side to side, my stomach lurched. I chugged my coffee before it ended up in my lap, and just as the young passengers began to cry, I heard the traffic circle enthustiast laughing again.

"Haha weeee," he yelled, nudging me in the ribs again and throwing his arms up in the air like we were on a fantastic roller coaster. I may have attributed this to the man being a bit strange rather than his Dutch status, until I looked around.

Two thirds of the plane had adopted the same roller coaster pose while shouting wees and other nonsense. The parents cruelly forced their crying children to put their arms up as well, and I was sure that I was going to plummet to my death surrounded by blissfully confused Dutchmen. I imagined that if the oxygen masks fell from the ceiling that they would pretend it was Halloween, when the captain told us to grab the inflatable cushions from under our seats, the Dutch passengers would have a grand pillow fight, when we crash landed in the middle of the Atlantic, my final visions before drowning would be of Dutch backstroke competitions.

When we finally did touch down relatively unharmed, I vowed to go out of my way to avoid returning to the Netherlands.

Dam Square Please

I just returned to the UK after four thrilling days in the Amsterdam, also known as Disney Land for American college students.  The whole place seems surreal, with red lights marking the streets where one can be enticed by bored-looking women of the night in every window, a smell that's a mix of marijuana and vomit (heavy on the vomit), and the feeling that no matter what you do, there's no need to be embarrassed, for the person right next to you is usually doing something more incriminating.

Waiting patiently in line to buy a drug that's illegal in most of the Western world from a slow moving middle eastern guy wearing a christmas hat and sunglasses at eleven p.m. on December 30th, while he scarfs down pizza without a napkin is an odd feeling.  The coffeeshops lack the warmness of the neighborhood drug dealer, these men are straight business, and they treat you as a customer and nothing more, no offers to watch Dazed and Confused on a smelly couch, no trading, no strange longing for companionship from deviant loners.

Although like the small town American dealer, the coffeeshop proprietors do indulge in the same ridiculous names for what all probably comes from the exact same place.  In fact, to me, though I'm no connoisseur, Purple Skunk, Hawaiian Kush, Jamaican Zebra, White Widow/Jamaican Zebra Kush Cross, Orange Crush, Juicy Fruit, Blueberry Yum Yum, and Tropic Thunder all smell eerily similar...again, it's a business.

Seeing the fuzzy green stuff in a more or less legal environment has made me understand why Amsterdam is trying to gradually move away from it's anything goes image. With the recent outlawing of magic mushrooms and the soon to be true phasing out of coffeeshop toleration, simply put...they're tired of being infested with shady people, and to be honest, I get it.

Everyone seemed seedy, sketchy, or otherwise guilty of something, and it made me feel dirty inside, as if I would never be able to talk to a child again.  The entire week I just wanted to take shower after shower, although don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic time, including the New Year's festivities in Dam Square, which involved a lot of shouting in Netherlands gibberish, giant multicolored glow sticks, groups of middle-aged Dutch women playing Motown songs on saxophones, and the largest display of unsupervised fireworks I have ever seen, (One such cracker ended up finding it's way to a rolling stop underneath one of my friend's who was having too much Dam fun to notice, luckilly it was a dud).  I highly recommend Dam Square to anyone who has had enough of Dick Clark and the same old New Year's Rockin' Eve.  

My New Years resolution?  Demand that if anyone wants to use the words "Legalize" and "It" in the same sentence, white dude dreadlocks, hunger strike, drum circle or not, that they be forced to spend a week in Amsterdam and see if they don't beg to be rescued before it's over.