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...