A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Siena

From Florence, we took an hour's bus ride across Italy to Siena. Siena had their Tuscan posteriors handed to them with an almost insulting air of superiority by the Medici, the ruling family of Florence, back in the day. Florence decided they liked the color scheme, and took it. That's good business.

Siena is probably best known for its annual horse race; there are no horses when we visit, but there is an unsettling vexation with porcelain horses. I do not buy any.

As with most old cities, Siena orbits its Duomo; this church is a tad more interesting. Not in an architectural way; I'll be the first to tell you I can't tell apses from Adam when it comes to talking about architecture. I think architects have a unique ability to define undefinable things, with words like "rustification" and "plasticity." The catch here is they never tell anyone outside their club what those definitions are. However, this Duomo is interesting for something else. It's a skeleton - or at least half of it is. There is a finished church, but there's also two enormous walls that mark the best laid plans of Renaissance masons which never bore fruit. The money was appropriated before the project reached completion; now, one wall is a museum, and the other is a sort of lookout point for tourists.

The front of the remaining Duomo is covered by gargoyles and biblical equivalents of action figures. These are all duplicates, though. The originals were long ago put into the museum in the wall, having been destroyed by pollution. Their hands and noses gnawed away by the human leprosy, they traded places with look alikes and stunt doubles. The original stained glass window, too, was replaced, but unlike the original statues, it retained its dignity in the museum; it was placed at the end of a dark tunnel, where people can still see it as it was meant.

Most Roman towns operate by rules of mathematics, originating from something called a decumanus, as the homework I copied last night said. From atop that second wall, the lookout wall, it is easily seen that Siena is not like that. Siena is a snake, abandoning hope of a human order for something more organic. While the town orbits the Duomo, the streets grow like roots out of the Campo.

The Campo is a beautiful field of bricks, desperately wanting a frisbee. I could kick myself for not bringing one; I'm not a big advocate of the frisbee, but some situations simply demand it. The floor is slanted towards the main civic building, from which emanate eight silver stone streaks, dividing the Campo into nines; each section is dalmation doted with pockets of tourists, including Adella and Jane, two girls from the Czech Republic. American charm is in high demand over there.

(The italics denote the generic eastern bloc accent I put on during our conversation; I do this unintentionally but uncontrollably. They didn't mention it.)

Confetti in the cracks of the bricks bespoke of a swank celebration, and indeed, the girls tell me there was recently a wedding in the Campo. I don't have to say that in all the places I visit, I don't always read a book and write a letter. I didn't in Siena. Not doing so, in such a place as that open space, will probably go on my Top Five Regrets of the Semester.

I Change My Pants Again

I am preparing for the coming mother, who will arrive, alongside the coming sister, Friday, February 29th. This, as you might deduce, deuces take it, only happens every four years, though four years ago I wasn't in Europe. They just came to pick me up from school.

February 29th not only marks the leap of every four years and serves as a marker for the Olympics (triumphal return of Carly Patterson?), but it also signals the halfway point of my studies. I have been in Rome for two months, and Friday for me will be a sort of winter solstice, where I'm halfway sad seeing the snow slip through an hourglass, and halfway glad to see the spring, halfway to Christmas. So on the morn of the European Solstice, I'll meet my mom and sister at the airport and start a slow pace on the down hill slope.

Halfway, though, begs some pause (and my mother demands cleanliness), so I took an inventory of my room. The lightbulbs in the overhead light above the bed burnt out four weeks ago. When that happened, I stopped working in my room after dark and used the bathroom light for emergencies. That needs to change. The trash in my room has been filling an old box for two months now; I was hoping that if I piled trash heavy enough into such a box, time and natural pressure might turn out coal, or at least something the consistency of a peat bog. Nothing doing. That needs to change. I did laundry back in January, but I'll be darned if there aren't just as many clothes on the floor now as there were prior to the last winter washing. That needs to change.

I ran out of toilet paper two weeks ago, and for a week scavenged from local restaurants. However, I recently pony'd up and bought a brand new six pack. My mother will be so proud.

After the exhaustive inquiry, I decided that the only things I could immediately change were the clothes that I had on. So I exchanged my current jeans with the ones that I wore my first month here (and that I washed, by golly, until they smelled real nice) and changed socks. I'll have you know that right before I left, Ryan the Southern Gentleman, a very good friend of mine, gave me a three-pack package of socks, which, he claimed, required no washing, even after multiple days of wear. He's a man after my own heart.

Having picked out (and put on) the clothes that I'll wear to the airport on Friday, I decided something had to be done about the state of my apartment. So I went out and rented another apartment for my mother, sister, and I to live in for their week visit. That's a lot easier than cleaning up.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Florence

Florence is usually identified as the city of the Renaissance; in fact, it was the city that won back all the English after the Catholic Church scared them off. The imposition of romanticism (whatever that means; I got it from a book) was so strong on Florence that in 1966, when it was flooded with heavy levels of mud (which, in sepia, looks a lot like dark chocolate), the entire world created a committee to fund it's restoration, and international youths descended upon the city to wipe clean all the manuscripts and etchings available.

Naturally, as a program, this could not be passed up. So the entire class took a weekend field trip to Florence, headed by our professor Emilio, a six shooter long ago loaded with art history. What's this Emilio? Bam! Michelangelo! And this? Bam! Brunelleschi! Who - Bam! Donatello! Bam! Audrey Hepburn! Bam! Bam! Bam!

(And yes, Audrey Hepburn did come up, as Emilio compared her merits to Julie Andrews for the good part of a half hour. No surprise, Audrey won.)

The dominating figure in the townscape is the Duomo, flanked by a separate Baptistry. The Dome is advertised to have 463 steps. This time, they are right. The climb to the top is measured in intervals, and at the halfway point tourists are afforded a chance to exit onto the catwalk, right underneath the final judgement frescoes; far away, the Last Judgement looks old and outdated. Up close, however, it literally scared my socks off (I later found my socks on the floor of the cathedral, having dropped six stories down. But here's the kicker: my shoes stayed on my feet the whole time. How in the world does that happen?).

The Baptistry is famous for its golden doors, solid metal doors that, in 1966, were swept away by mud and replaced with imitations, for insurance purposes, I suppose. Less known about the Baptistry is that it was the very chapel in which Dante himself was baptized.

Florence was the city that gave Dante the boot, by the way. His home turf threw him out and told him to, and I quote, "keep the change, you filthy animal" (that's a rough translation of his Inferno). From there he was forced to wander Italy, like the show Kung Fu, except without the use of martial arts. Or anything remotely similar. So it's not like it at all.

There is a Dante museum in Florence, fashioned out of his old house, but it sucks - and rightly so. I would expect nothing more than a large collection of Wikipedia entries, pasted to the walls in an elementary way, from the city which banished him (which, coincidentally, is how the museum goes).

Florence also is the home and shelter of Michelangelo's David, whom everyone has seen in pictures. A picture is of him, though, is not worth moon rocks on Mars. Seeing him in person was an overpowering experience. I like to think that he forced his way into the canon of art by his sheer size.

Our hotel had an English language CNN. I fell asleep bingeing in the news of the world.

BSG: Who Can Resist An Update?

Battlestar Galatica is notorious for its lack of update, flow of information, and general secrecy, not because of the want of disguise, but because, sadly, there just isn't the demand for it. Shows like LOST can motivate millions of people to participate in off-season teaser games, but Battlestar lies in wait, hibernating until a week or so before the start (which is, by the way, April 4), when people begin to pay attention.

And Battlestar, being all that is good and pure spectacle, welcomes the prodigal children back with open, albeit robotic, arms.

After some scouring, I came up with this five minute short, detailing some tidbits for the fourth and final season. Yes, Battlestar is passing on, but if it has to die, it's gonna die last. That's right, it will depart on it's own terms, which hopefully involves superfluous explosions and the character Helo being crowned king of Earth (and yes, he did sign that picture. But it's addressed to Steve, which I find ironic.). That's how I would have it.

Said video comes out of the network, HypaSpace, which, though I've never heard tale of it, I'm pretty sure is a very hip place to hang out, virtual-wise. Find the video here.

LOST: Hurley/Sawyer Comedy Pilot?

Let's get it out of the way: Kate took Aaron, Claire's baby, off the island. This week's flash concerned Kate's trial, which was won on the basis of character (since American justice is just a balance of all the good and all the bad a person's ever done). The Oceanic Six jerry rigged their story as to make Kate a hero and help her case. It also helped that she adopted an orphaned baby; since her lawyer wanted to bring Aaron into the court room, it's safe to assume that everyone knows she adopted him (plus, it would be pretty easy to check hospital records to see if one Kate Austen ever gave birth). So: does Aaron count as one of the Oceanic Six? Or do you have to be at least this tall to ride that ride?

At her trial, Jack recites the official story: eight survived the plane crash, and were cared for (on an island) by Kate, though two died during the wait. One of those dead is surely Claire; and the other? No idea. The real question is, why insert another character in the story, as to complicate it? Why name drop one more person in the story?

The hard thing to divine is, how old is Aaron. He's fat and talking, a big evolutionary improvement over small baby. He's like four years old. These flashforwards are literally years in the future from the present. And they go further, as Jack is seen in his pre-wino phase (speaking of Jack's wino, in the season three finale, when Kate mentions that "he" would be expecting her, did she mean Aaron? Or can I hold out hope that it's her past cop husband, Nathan Fillion?)

Jack and Kate's parking garage encounter is the stuff romantic comedies are made of - beautiful. And yet Jack doesn't want Aaron in his life (at least their relationship problems have been boiled down to one crux). Does Aaron invoke nightmares of the island?

And P.S. what happened to the Jack-Juliet train? It's a no go, off and currently on island. Jack, I'm afraid you're destined to slight her.

On island, Miles tries to extort Ben, and Ben has a week to figure out how to kill Miles, though Locke might do it first. Kate and Sawyer try to play house, but Sawyer definitely does not pass the relationship litmus test. And the heli is AWOL. Frank is too natural to be conniving, and if he did connive, I doubt that he could overpower both Des and Sayid. The most likely explanation is they put down somewhere. Figures. Or that there's a space-time continuum issue. On this show, that's just as likely.

Or maybe Naomi woke up. I cross my fingers. Like Miles said, "she was hot and I dug her accent."

IN OTHER NEWS, Daniel has memory problems, Kate and Saywer's relationship is abusive, Miles is just as slimy as he looks, laugh track is on cue for Sawyer and Hurley's roomie scenes, and Locke has actually gone Colonel Kurtz.

So, to review: helicopter? Romantic prospects? Grenade in mouth? Tune in next week. And in the mean time (not like angry time, but the time in between), check out Jeff Jensen's interview with the producers, where they bash Heroes and talk about which mysteries will be revealed this season (man in coffin! All of Oceanic Six by episode seven! Space-time contiunucrap!).

I Cook?

As you've probably read, or divined, because to divine this secret you do not need the stars, or even a solid knowledge of me, I do not cook. The girls I live with cook, and I do the dishes and handle directions. Symbiotic.

A week or so ago, however, I was feeling rather can-do, so I went to the store, and bought everything I thought would be needed to bring about a steaming bowl of pasta. Everything that I thought, which was everything that I bought, turned out to be a stick of butter and a bag of noodles. I took these home and set up shop in our airplane bathroom of a kitchen, eager to prove myself. It occurred to me that plain jane pasta wasn't good enough for a first try, so after rummaging around a bit, I pulled together some other ingredients we had stowed for rainy and/or hungry days. My recipe was as follows:

1) Boil the pasta.

2) Put this much butter in a pan, followed by that much oil.

3) Followed by a handful of uncoothly colored mushrooms and tomatoes.

4) Sprinkle salt and mystery spice like a fairy.

5) Go read a book.

Not only did that concoction turn out to be edible, but I didn't start a grease fire, either. And if you say, I would like to try some of this so-called Cass Pasta, it's impossible. I wasn't even eyeballing amounts of ingredients. I cut the stick of butter with my eyes shut.

In the days following, I graduated to sausages, which, left unchecked, will blow a gasket and spurt meat juice like a geyser (not a geezer; this sausage had much more spit power). Nothing creates a false sense of impending doom like a single stream of flying grease.

Next week, anticipating the arrival of my mother and sister (they will come to Rome for the first week in March), I am pushing up my sleeves in preparation to make alfredo sauce from scratch. Virginia the Architecture Student recited the recipe to me; I recently went over the notes from that conversation and found my transcription lacking.

You too want to make alfredo sauce from scratch? Here's the recipe I wrote down:

1) Butter

2) Flour then milk

3) Parmesan (?)

4) Garlic and pepper

There's a surprising lack of numbers, but my favorite detail is the punctuation: whether it was that I did not know if it were parmesan or not, or if I thought parmesan was a questionable cheese choice, I do not know. I'll give you an update afterwards.

I Cross Borders Into The Vatican

Yesterday we high tailed it to the Vatican, much like criminals high tail it to Mexico, because, as you well know, the Vatican is a separate country. They have their own flag, postal service, money - the whole shebang. Guarding the Vatican are the formidable Swiss Guard. Just look at those uniforms, purchased in bulk after a gypsy dance patriarchy disbanded. They can use excess folds of cloth both to confuse attackers and to surrender.

Five million people a year see the Sistine Chapel; most go straight there, ignoring the rest of the Vatican Museum, which, I am told, holds over twelve billion (12000000...000) euros worth of old things. And for no small reason - the Chapel was an evolution of a hundred years. The ceiling alone took four to paint. Heading towards the Chapel, visitors are funneled through a series of long hallways, capped by doors, used as screens to filter out noise. Less and less people talk, the more and more doors we went through. In one of the halls prior to the Chapel, there lies the gigantic marble tombs of Costanza and Elaine. They died immediately after being taken off the air, it seems.

The famous ceiling of the Sistine, the one with the strained fingers of God reaching out to the limp wristed hand of Adam (you know, the one parodied in Rocketman? Now that was cinema), tells the history of Genesis, from creation to the flood. It's really too much to take in, because most eyes start on the main wall of the Sistine, the one containing the Last Judgement frescoes. As you follow the paint up the wall and across the ceiling, by the time you reach the separation of the waters, you're pretty much burned out.

My favorite part of the entire Chapel was a small self portrait Michelangelo left. In the Last Judgement, admist souls being pulled up or pushed down, one angel holds an empty bag of skin, the remains of a man. This is said to be the likeness of the painter Michelangelo; that's just about the best autobiography I've ever heard of, next to Vonnegut's Timequake. After eight years of painting, who was Michelangelo but a empty shell? (And you might say, he was still Michelangelo, but you my friend are a balloon full of hot air. Well, I'm writing this blog, so pipe down.)

The Museum itself takes hours to navigate, if you have a real interest. It's mostly portraits and action shots of saints. Personal favorite: a painting of St. Nick, that's right, Santa Claus, flying by his own power, stopping a raging seastorm, while a mermaid looks on. I wanted to italicize one phrase in that last sentence for comic effect, but I can't decide which.

Obviously, Jesus takes the gold medal for number of times represented, but a close second had to be St. Sebastian. Seabass was tied to a stake by Diocletian and shot chock full of arrows, and, according to tradition, did not die. I wish artists had picked out a more photogenic torture to depict, because this one's quite gruesome. In fact, many of these grotesque paintings saw their rise during the Counter Reformation. After that one Luther raised a ruckus, the church leaders thought the best way to fight back would be to commission as many paintings representing martyrdom as possible, as a type of propaganda/recruitment blitz. Come join our blood cult!

A museum filled with twelve billion euros worth of paintings of martyrs got me thinking the way a cool ten billion could not. We really do try to justify ourselves, try to make ourselves matter in the grand scheme, and not like the grand scheme to rob three casinos in one night, but the grand scheme and endgame of the universe. With these paintings, we seem to be saying: Look, we can bleed, too. Take that, Jesus!

Or it could just be a culture thing.

A Place To Ride A Bike And Hang Ten With Dante Alighieri: Ravenna

From Bologna, from the hostel which moonlighted as a mouth of hell, our group took a train an hour sideways to the town of Ravenna. Ravenna had its glory when the Byzantine Empire declared it a sort of new capital for the West. This, of course, did not last, but it was a nice thought.

Ravenna takes the pedestrianism (if you use a fake word in two separate posts, it becomes a real word, as by the wand of The Blue Fairy) of Bologna to a new level: the center of the city, the historical section, is sealed off from cars, and is for foot traffic only. And bikes. The great attraction of Ravenna, which was unknown before we arrived, is that the tourist office rents bikes for free. I was all over that. The six of us formed a gang named the Yellow Jackets, and road from church to Byzantine church disturbing the peace and studying mosaics. We would have broken bread on some fools, if said fools gave us the opportunity.

The bike I rode was in its prime. Yes, it did have a basket and a bell. And no, it didn't have gears. Or the type of brakes you can still buy. I called her The Gilded Mongoose. In order to prove my personal bad attitude, I often rode The Gilded Mongoose standing on the seat, without a helmet. And when old ladies gave me a hard time for being so reckless, the Yellow Jackets let 'em have it. In a breaking bread sense. Which in itself is a phrase that doesn't really exist, but, like pedestrianism, I'm trying to force into vernacular.

Ravenna is the final resting place of Dante Alighieri, that one writer who penned that group of books, the Divine Comedy. There's nothing divinely funny about them, if you ask me. Just the story of how a few people screwed up. However, in Ravenna they make a big deal out of him. Kicked out of Florence early on, he spent most of his time in Rome, but gave the last three years of his life, along with all his remaining bones, to Ravenna. There he is entombed, as well as carved into stone. He has his own museum there, too; it was sadly closed. When asked at what point the museum would reopen, meaning at what hour, the proprietor replied, two or three years. I was not about to wait that long, even for Dante.

Being declared the beacon of Byzantium in the old Roman landscape was kind of a big deal, so for a stretch Ravenna was showered with money, and from this money churches sprang up like dandelions, which I have recently discovered are a type of weed. Imagine that! But, yes, churches like dandelions; the most interesting church by far was the Basilica di San Vitale. The church is a rotund one, a circle surmounted by a dome, which is a rare shape in Italy (I am told). The only light comes from the stained glass windows, and bounces off the mosaics the Byzantines are so famous for, creating what the architecture students called, "a heavenly light." It was spectacular in the sense of the root word, spectacle. It was like a stage drama, watching light bounce this way and that, then those ways and these.

But the river card? Saint Vitale probably never existed. The church was named after a non-existent saint. If that isn't something else, then everything in this world is the same.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Bologna

This weekend, five of us, four architecture students and one crazy person, took a train three hours (3 hrs) north to Bologna. Bologna is known as the fat city, and is purported to have wonderful food. I wouldn't know, because my group was turned away from three restaurants for want of reservation. No room at this inn. Try the stables.

The city itself is a marvel of pedestrianism, and I'm pretty sure that's not a word, but the city is a marvel of pedestrianism just the same. It has over forty kilometers (40 km) of porticos, which is something the architecture students said to make me feel stupid. But I know their game. Porticos are just a fancy word for covered sidewalks. It was at this point that I rebuttaled with pedestrianism. But, yes, forty kilometers of covered sidewalks lining assorted boutiques, which are quite expensive, FYI. I came away with only a three (3) euro tie, to add to my ever growing collection of men's wear (it is really fun to dress up, no?).

These sidewalks all converge in a main piazza, crowned with what was supposed to be a magnificent church. This church took three hundred years to arrive in an unfinished state; the Church in Rome put a stop to construction when they learned the Bolognese church's plans had it rivaling St. Paul's size. It's kind of funny, the logic people use.

Bologna is also home to the fourth tallest tower in Europe, which I don't think is that big of a deal. If the world was the Olympics, this building wouldn't even medal. It claims to have five hundred steps (500). I count four hundred and eighty seven (487). Twice (2x).

We finished our day chasing buses around in a most aggravating fashion. I made the mistake of picking a hostel that was outside the city center. In my defense, Bologna had only one hostel, that was actually two separate hostels, but I digress. The point is, headquartering a few kilometers (2, 3, 4, etc. km) outside the walls was a bad idea, for several reasons. One, we had to make a series of well timed buses to complete the objective. Change buses to phone booths and you have the plot to Die Hard 3: With A Vengeance. Change buses to jumps and you have the choreography to all the fight sequences in Ong Bak: Thai Warrior. So that night was pretty much an action movie where we failed to fulfill our dramatic need. We ended up taking a taxi, driven by a man who was simultaneously watching the italian version of the O.C. The guy doing Sandy Cohen was amazing.

The other reason the hostel was a bad idea: it was where they filmed the movie Hostel. The four hostels I stayed in previously had been smash hits, and had restored my faith in student traveling. In this hostel, I locked my door and plugged my ears. I think there was some sort of backpacker pagan ritual performance in the halls. The next morning, all the blood had been cleaned from the floor, but there were chicken feathers everywhere. We left as soon as checkout began.

LOST: Can't Decide If It Would Be Awesome Or Suck To Be Sayid

This week's big revelation: Sayid is one of the Oceanic Six, and is working as an assassin. Okay, that last part isn't much of a surprise. In fact, I was kind of pulling for this to happen. It seemed like it fit with the character. So add hired gun to the ever growing list of Oceanic Six off-island jobs: drunkard, crazy person, and supermodel (because with all that makeup, there's only one thing Kate can do).

My friend Andrew pointed out that since Desmond and Juliet were not part of the crash, they would not be included in the count, Oceanic Six. So it is unknown if they get off, but I'm assuming they would both be willing to kill someone to do so.

Sayid is working for Ben, though. Big surprise, given his ominous proclamation that the day he trusted Ben "would be the day I would have sold my soul." Ben gives Sayid the names of anti-island people, and Sayid executes them. This week's focus was the Economist; with his smoke screen assistant and absence from the episode, I think that he is far up in the anti-island food chain. So, here's how I imagine it: IN THE FUTURE, THERE IS A WAR. One side, the Island, is headed by Ben, as it has been for many years. He's trying to protect his sacred home. The other side is the Organization, headed by the Economist, trying to rediscover the island. The Organization employs Michael Abbadon, who questioned Hurley about the remaining survivors, and is the backer of the current expedition.

Did Sayid want to leave the island? Is it possible that after whatever unnamed heartbreak that awaits him, that heartbreak briefly mentioned, that he had to be coaxed by Ben to serve as the island's designated hitman? What was his fixation with Naomi and the bracelet? Does the bracelet and impending heartbreak deal with Nadia, his past love?

I must side with Jeff Jensen's assertion last week that Michael is Ben's man on the boat, or man in the boat, but hopefully not man over the boat. Next week, I wager, will be his reintroduction.

Apart from Sayid, this episode gave a very opaque disclosure. Good Ol' Daniel, performing one of his magic tricks, found an anomaly in the island. Or at least I think that's what it's called. The deal was, the ship fired a rocket at Daniel's position, and reported it's arrival thirty seconds later. Two hours and forty five minutes later, it shows up, though the rocket claims to have been traveling for three hours and sixteen minutes.  So in conclusion, or at least a possible conclusion: the island provides some sort of interference, which makes navigation impossible (hence Daniel's helming instructions to Frank), but, more importantly, time on the island passes more slowly than time on the outside. If you have a lot of spare time and no friends, you might try calculating exactly how slowly; as it happens, for ever second on the island, 1.19 seconds in the real world pass. If Jack's guess that they've been on island for a hundred days is true, that means they've gone forward in time more than two weeks. Make sense? No, I don't suppose it does.

And what was the deal with Frank telling Daniel to "hang up right away" if George answered the phone? Apparently, the expedition trusts the boat as much as the Losties do.

IN OTHER NEWS, Ben is Jason Bourne, Hurley betrays his friends and thus loses his entire appeal, everyone, including his teammates, hates Miles, Sawyer proposes to Kate, Daniel gets a little touchy-feely with Charlotte, and I'm still waiting for Jack and Juliet to hook up. I mean, come on, already.

I think this episode marks a significant turn in narration. Previously on LOST, the flashbacks, and even flashforwards, have provided only background (or, foreground?) on the characters, explaining their actions and providing characterization. With Sayid's story, we are seeing the beginning of plot. How will the other Oceanic Six be pulled into this? Who are Ben and Sayid fighting? Why do those on island need protecting? Do they know it? I don't know about you, Ricky Shade, but this future story intrigues me as much as the present one.

I Get Asked Out On Valentines Day

I celebrated Valentines Day proper: with magnificent odds. A group of us (six girls and three guys equals 2:1 - score) went to a bar called the Old Bell for our waiter friend, Taina. If you read like an American, she's the second after me. In fact, here's the rundown, left to right: Martina from Minnesota, June from South Korea, Esther from Switzerland, then there's me, then Virginia from Memphis, Taina from Finland, Hilary from Missouri, and Danny from Washington. Martina and June are with Iowa State, Hilary and Virginia with Arkansas, Danny a perpetual foreign exchange student, and Esther and Taina are here working. I'm an international bachelor, as luck would have it.

(P.S. We all came together through Rome Baptist Church. RBC has provided an instant friend set and a home, even if the pastor's jokes are cheesy, and they have to be to come across to an multilingual audience. So - go you, RBC!)

The Old Bell is one of those prestige establishments that require a membership in order to use the pool tables by the bar, so the whole group had to fill out our names and addresses, and we all got printed cards back in the middle of dinner. Mine said: Captain Cass Trumbo. When asked about it, I said that I though that the nautical aspect of the restaurant made me feel as though I needed to include my rank, as well.

But this wasn't the date. No, that came earlier in the day. After school, I was walking home from school when I popped into a chic boutique to peruse the new men's fashions, because, if you haven't been keeping up with my personal life, I have recently become fashionable (and not in the way that, women want to carry me in their purse. Well, actually, in that way too, but that's not the point). So, in a nameless clothing store, I was looking through the assorted blazers (by TOGS clothing, no less) when the owner/operator/only worker in the store Rion decided he wanted to help me. He kept handing me things to try on, and watching me flip through the stretchy pants. As I was leaving, he stopped me and struck up a conversation about my studies, complimenting me on my Italian. Then he said we should get coffee sometime. Eager to leave, I agreed, and then he said, "Okay, let's go."

I got asked out by a guy on Valentine's Day. After I had stopped running, I reflected and thought about how nice it is to be appreciated by someone, even if it's a guy. It's the thought that counts anyways, like Ned from Pushing Daisies says, "on a holiday created to sell greeting cards, it's still kind of nice to get a card."

I Finish My Homework For The Semester

Last week I really put nose to grindstone and ground into flour the four books assigned to me this semester. And then I was done. Not for the weekend, but until August, which is the next time I will be assigned homework.

Like I said before, through a series of very bad mistakes that all happened at once, I ended up in an architecture program. I take all the classes the architects take, save their design class. Three professors teach all of the classes, and funnel all of the work towards this six hour design class. So if someone, also known as the humanities students, doesn't take the design class, they don't have to do work.

I knew architects when I was on campus at Arkansas. That is to say, I heard tell of them, because they never came out of their building. They stayed there, day in and day out (and even in days beyond) to work on their projects, which I deduced to be miniature black holes which suck all free time and happiness out of the surrounding air. Now I see it first hand, as the rest of the students stay in school till the odd hours of the night (never even; they never seem to get off at a regular 6, 8, or even 10).

To keep the four humanities students busy, they gave us four Italian books. I will come out now and say that the Italians have an amazing capacity for the desire to be depressed. All four books ended unhappily. Some situations I didn't know were even possible. Now, looking back on the quartet of novels, I think that fascism really messed with the Italian people's inner clocks.

I did get something from each novel. The Leopard was the only novel I was glad I read; it gave a pretty quick run down of Italian history. The Garden of the Finzi-Contini gave the location of a secret Jewish romantic spot in Venice (I'm not kidding about the ethnicity) that I plan to visit. Among Women Only gave a description of Turin, which I now do not plan to visit. And The Conformist made me very thankful I am not a fascist.

Actually, The Conformist just made me curl into a ball and cry.

WGA Strike Ends! The World Rotates Once More!

A deal was reached this past weekend, a contract that should end the Writers Guild of America strike. By all accounts, it is not a fantastically positive deal that will make all writers fabulously wealthy, but it is a good deal, an improvement from the deal offered in November, the deal that started this whole ordeal (does that count as a pun? Uh...no, I don't think so). And the writers of Battlestar Galactica support it.

The WGA has announced a vote on Tuesday, February 11th, in order to ratify the new contract, and popular opinion is that it will indeed be ratified. What does this mean? More episodes of LOST, hopefully. A full season of Battlestar (which will sadly prove to be it's last). And, hope against hope, possibly a pinch more episodes of Pushing Daisies? I'll keep you posted, as I continue to read news articles then post about them, as if I uncovered this information in a fit of solo journalism.

For now, though, clap your hands and laugh, for the world which had once been stopped on its hinges, not by John Galt, but maybe by several smaller Johns (John August, John Logan, John Locke) and variously named career writers, has now begun to turn. And hopefully churn out more Battlestar.

LOST: An Episodic Equivalent To The Team Assembly Montage In Armageddon

And the book says, we may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us.

And apparently J.J. Abrams is not through with the past, either, as he gives us a quick run down of the four new characters to jump from the helicopter. Given these flashbacks, I think it's safe to assume that in a single episode, these four people passed all the extras waiting on the beach to become prime time players.

We open, however, with a very cool shot of the discovery of the (phony) 815 wreckage. The submersible operators reference their man who supplied the map. Michael? Is Michael the responsible party for the delivery of the island to the boat? Note that Harold Perrineau is billed as a cast regular.

We jump directly into the various reactions of the "rescue" team. Daniel Faraday is obviously the one to root for. He's a physicist, for heaven's sake, and being so is incapable of harm (I would have said the same thing about a fertility doctor, though, and one of those has racked up a few kills on the island). And he wept at the news of the deaths of everyone on 815, though he knew them not. A fine fellow.

Bad Attitude Miles is a ghost whisperer. In my book, ghost whisperers usually don't go hand in hand with bad attitudes, as they do not come regularly equipped with combat skills and/or friends. I'm assuming that some of Miles' bad attitude is gravely misplaced.

The pilot, Frank, and the anthropologist, Charlotte, seem much less interesting, though their back stories were intriguing. Why would a mission such as this hire the would-have-been pilot of 815, outside of the usual answer, "just for kicks"? And why was a polar bear in the Tunisia desert?

(My answer: The Dharma Initiative found a way to bend space and time, and sent one of it's test polar bears back "a few million years" after the dinosaurs and across the globe to Tunisia, with an experiment in electromagnetics.)

So, a physicist, a ghost whisperer, an anthropologist, and not-only-a pilot. Why such a team? And who assembled them? Well, we know whom - Michael "Insert Biblical Reference Here" Abbadon, the mystery man who visited Hurley. So does this mean, when he approached Hurley and inquired about the whereabouts of "they," that he actually meant his team? And why did Naomi assume that the survivors of 815, recently proclaimed dead, somehow ended up on this specific island?

Oh yeah, and what in the world makes Ben so special, besides his bug eyes and magic fingers (and quick wit: "Carl, if you sleep with my daughter, I insist you call me Ben")?

IN OTHER NEWS, Dan fills a niche as the new "Aw Shucks" character, Hurley may very well be 

as connected to the island as Locke, the light on the island diffracts in a special way (Clue to island mysteries? Can I say that about something which I don't know the definition?), Ben was once very stylish, Ben likes to moonlight as a Doctor Phil type, and Ben, along with the producers, still has no idea what the smoke monster is.

So much for answers.

P.S. Sawyer's offhand and seemingly meaningless nickname, calling Locke "Colonel Kurtz," is a little eerie given similarities, both physical and not, and, dare I say, can be construed as foreshadowing?

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Orvieto

For just the day, I took a train an hour north of Rome to the town of Orvieto. I have been to a lot of towns on hills, and on cliffs, but this is the first town I have ever been to where an elevator is needed to reach it. Seriously. You exit the train station and step onto a gondola/elevator combination that speeds you to the top like a dyslexic man taking the bar exam, which is to say, at a slow pace.

Orvieto is a medieval town centered around its duomo, which is just a fancy word for big church. This church is colored like a zebra; stripes cut it into horizontal strips, and alternate from black stone to white stone and back again. The interior is empty, minus the collection of columns. It is layman beautiful, beautiful in the way baroque forgot.

I spent most of the day at the Porta Rocca, which is the fortress turned garden. It takes up a position on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the hills of Umbria, which is not the same thing as Umbra, a character in the video game Morrowind. If you too had trouble making that distinction, I sympathize with you. Like I said, I spent most of my time there. I had some editing to do, so I sat on a bench and watched the sun pull its weight from east to west.

And this would have been an idyllic end of my journey, had it not been for my notebook. I had planned to take the 5:30 train out of town. Indeed, I even boarded. As the bell went off, signaling the train's departure from the station, I checked my bag and found that my notebook had escaped when I wasn't looking. Without any time to spare, I ran to the front of the car, and exited in a dramatic fashion. You know those movies where men jump from moving vehicles, only to crash and somersault on the pavement? Yeah, that happened.

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is not the fifty five euro notebook that cause Cass to jump from the moving train. He risked his live, nay, his very soul, for a notebook purchased at Wal-Mart for ten cents, American.

So I had to wait two more hours for the next train. I rode the elevator a few more times. I finally settled in a cafe which had an entire wall devoted to the many chocolates of the world. Can you imagine? I don't have to; I was there, silly. I bought a bar made in Genova. It was delicious, as well as positively expensive. I made my notebook pay for it. It was his fault, anyway.

I Acquire Fashion, If Fashion Is Defined By Playing Mad-Libs With Clothing

This Friday, Virginia the Architect, Danny the Perpetual Foreign Exchange Student, and I all went to Porta di Roma, which is the mall on the outside of town. Two hundred and twenty (220) stores. And not one of them was Eddie Bauer. Can you believe that?

A quick travel pointer: Roman malls, or just this particular Roman wall, is only accessible from one side, and that side only from a foot bridge crossing over a depressed freeway. My party circumnavigated all two hundred and twenty (220) stores, as luck would have it, and got to see all three other sides before getting to said foot bridge.

Our main goal was H&M, a Swedish clothing store that has not made the transition to the U.S., most likely because they think they are too cool for school. H&M is the kind of store that makes stretchy shirts out of recycled pants from decades past, and then sells them for the price of the original pants, if the pants aged like good wine. On Friday, however, they were clearancing all their undesirable pieces. That's my game.

So, for thirty five (35) euros, I purchased: two white dress shirts, two thick ties, a Christmas sweater, and a checkered blazer. That amounts to a little over five (5+) euros an item. Take that, European fashion. I'm sending the above picture, where I model the sweater and one shirt, directly to H&M headquarters (true story: that photo shoot took fourteen (!4) takes to get that look; I call it, "How I Long For the Wind to Carve Across My Nose, Or, Illium, NY.")

I add these purchases to another five (%) euro tie and a fifteen (!#) euro vest, canabalized from a three piece suit, making my new wardrobe worth over 55 (*@&#) euros. I only say this because the only other thing I purchased was an Italian leather notebook worth 55 (*&#$^!!!!) euros. Don't tell my mom. After I bought it, the right part of my brain said, Cass, that was very foolish, but then the left part of my brain said, you know what, for once, you're right (ZING). But then I said, at least I have the courage to do the foolish things. At least I do the foolish things right. So take that, logic.

I Wax At Hadrian's Villa

On Wednesday, through an architectural class, we field tripped to Hadrian's Villa. Hadrian was a Roman emperor in the early second century; it was him, then Antoninus, the Marcus Aurelius, from Gladiator, if that helps. He was adopted by the Emperor Trajan on account of his skills in administration (an aside: I was recently offered adoption on account of my skills in mathematics). One of the things Hadrian is remembered for is his villa, which he built in Tivoli, south of Rome, on his wife Sabina's land. He then proceeded to fill it with images of his lover, Antinous. Take that, woman. Or just women, everywhere.

The villa is an enormous small town, self contained, with a sampling of everything, even two separate baths. The place is overrun with angles (if I've only learned one thing this past month studying architecture, it is that all cities are planned using axises. Or is it axi? Axis's?). The three primary axises (axisz?) terminate at the Maritime Theater.

But it's not really a theater. It's Hadrian's private residence. You see, Hadrian built an ideal, perfect place, a getaway from Rome, and it still wasn't enough. So he created a perfect circle, erected a Pantheon-like building, then surrounded it by a moat (when I get back home, 1915 Wedington is gonna be moated). He retreated to the Maritime Theater when he wanted to be alone to write poetry, or when he got in a mean disposition, which, according to people who know about such things, was quite frequent.

We were instructed to take some time out and sketch the Maritime Theater. What? Sketch? All the architecture students took this in stride, and immediately sat down and went to work. After some hesitation, I began to draw a column, but this column ended up looking so much like Boba Fett's helmet that I decided to finished the whole figure.

After I was done with the bounty hunter, my thoughts began to wonder, till I arrived right back in the place I was originally, thinking about how funny people act. How Hadrian built an ideal place, found out it wasn't enough, then tried to build a getaway from his getaway. How people try to fill that hole inside them - the one right between the chestplates, in the middle, at the bottom of the breast. You feel that? That gap, right smack in the middle, that empty space? People try to put the strangest things there. I try to put the strangest things there.

But that's all fancy talk.

I Complete My Trilogy of Birthday Posts

In Rome, my birthday has lasted for a solid week. It's a downgrade from that six more weeks of birthday wave I ride off of the groundhog's shadow, but it's still nice.

I received a birthday package from my mom; in it were all essentials to throw a party. Happy Birthday Plates, Happy Birthday Napkins, Happy Birthday Streamers, Happy Birthday Noisemakers, Happy Birthday Credit Card. She also sent me two Vonnegut books, which are a much needed change from the required Italian literature (the Italians have any amazing capacity for the desire to be depressed).

My mom also told me of the birthday party I missed. Apparently, on Sunday, my mom invited many of my friends over to the family house and had a surprise party. Surprise. They ate spaghetti and even got party favors. I haven't been to a party with favors since I went to St. Joseph's Elementary. At the head of the table was a mock-up Cass Trumbo: face, clothing, the whole kit and caboodle. There's pictures to prove it.

The Red, my old roommate, he tells me that my face made the pilgrimage back to 1915 Wedington, where I live when not skiing in the Alps. He tells me that given its current position, in the living room above the potted plant, the face comes off as some sort of shrine for the deceased. Though I've only been gone for a month, I'm already being mourned.

So if you have it in your heart to pay your respects to the dearly departed, several countries removed me, go and visit The Red, Bo, and whoever else is living in the house (it's more like a hotel, really); they could use the company, and my grave could use some flowers.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter (And Ski): Interlaken

The story I told about my birthday, English teachers would say it began in media res, which is Latin for, 'the writer has no idea what he's doing.' They would say such because it began right smack in the middle, like an art film. And since I'm rather artsy, I thought it fitting to end with the beginning.

On Thursday we flew to Basel from Rome. Basel is a border town, a Swiss town right next to Germany. They speak Swiss-German, which is neither Swiss nor German, nor is it Italian, which is the language I kept trying to communicate in. If anything, my trip to Switzerland made me realize how good at Italian I really was, as I would repeated order in Italian from Swiss waiters. Needless to say, this made me very popular.

On Friday, we made a small detour to Germany to survey a factory that makes modern chairs (you think I'm kidding; this was the architecture students' idea of fun), and then took one o'clock train directly to Interlaken.

Means between the lakes, Interlaken does. Beautiful in the way that you only use once or twice in your life. I settled in the low key hostel (I was continuously told that Balmer's Herberge, the most popular hostel, was 'where the party's at.' I declined), rented some skis, then bonded with my Korean roommates. Lots of Koreans in Interlaken, and no idea why. It's known as a stop for young backpackers, but the reason why there were so many Koreans there escapes me. And the kicker is, I don't think they ever left the hostel.

Skiing in the Alps is a lot different than in Colorado or in front of Pomfret. At least where I was, there were no trees. Ski paths were marked by poles, every ten or so yards. Poles were colored to show difficulty. Obeying the poles was not necessary.

The day I skied, my birthday, a great storm, the hand of God, descended on the mountain and blinded all the skiers like it confused all those who built the Tower of Babel. So, to review: no visibility, no trees, markers placed just out of sight of each other, and everybody else speaks Swiss-German. I had a fun ride down. When I got to the bottom, I think I was bleeding lactic acid. On the mountain, though, I did have a science fiction revelation. Went back to the hostel and wrote it out.

When Ben Rector turned twenty, he wrote a hit pop song. When Cass Trumbo turned twenty, he wrote a short story about aliens. It's up in the air as to which is a better gauge of manhood.

LOST: A Quick Update

After watching the season premier a second time, I realized two things: A) I have a very sad, base addiction, and B) since Hurley told the detective that he did not know Ana Lucia, and since the mysterious lawyer asked if "they" were still alive, then the official story concerning the crash must be that only six survived. Even Oceanic doesn't know the truth, though they (or whoever the lawyer really represents) harbor strong suspicions. Who, then, delivered the Oceanic Six to the mainland and orchestrated the lie? Probably the same company who owns the boat, the same company who staged the crash site at the bottom of the ocean.

And after doing some further reading online, I learned two more things: 1) I absolutely must find a life, and 2) Christian Shepherd, Jack's father, was the figure rocking in Jacob's cabin. This news, combined with the most recent mobisode (the mobisodes being short clips released by ABC running up to the season premier) where Vincent, Michael's dog, encounters Christian in the woods, right after the crash, Christian's other appearances on the island, and his close connection with those others who are lost (Claire's father, Sawyer's drinking partner, Ana Lucia's employer), suggests that Christian will not be leaving the show any time soon, and may in fact play an integral part in the whole island's structure.

Is Christian Shepherd Jacob? Why is his name so Messianic? What other things can I do with my time? Your thoughts.

I Become A Man

On Groundhog's Day, February the Second, everyone in America rouses their neighborhood groundhog and, if he sees his shadow, I have six more weeks of birthday. Trust me; there was an O.C. episode about it. You know, the one where Taylor stalks Ryan in a groundhog suit. And I have my birthday.

For Groundhog's Day is my birthday. I hope you celebrated it. My mom did. She tells me that she had cake and everything, all the way down to a mock up of my form with my picture pasted to it. Now that is a mother's love.

But I was not there; I did not see it. I was in Interlaken, Switzerland, celebrating my birthday. I turned twenty on February the Second, you know it? Ancient traditions say that this, coupled with some strange baby blood rituals, makes you a man. I did the baby blood thing long ago, so the only thing left to do was turn twenty.

I had my birthday dinner in a not-intended-for-tourists Swiss pub. I ordered sausage and hashbrowns, but I did not get my food for a long time, on account of the waitress had sat down with a table of elderly patrons.

These old men and women had been drinking since four in the afternoon, right after the mountain closed; I did the math while watching them. I multiplied the number of Swiss-German folk songs they unconsciously repeatedly sang by some number, and concluded that they were flat out hammered.

We ate for three hours, and never once did they stop singing, though they doubled back on their repertoire several times. These Swiss were not just old. They were old old, World War II old, use a walker and drink harder old. They did sing Happy Birthday to me in Swiss-German, though.

When I left, I had to walk about ten minutes alone to my hostel. Going across a park, I could see one mountain rising above the town, and I couldn't help but thinking it a monster. You know that scene in the movie that goes for like three minutes, and suddenly a gigantic eye opens in the background, and you say, "Mother of Pearl, that monster has been in the background the entire scene!" I kept imagining that the mountain would suddenly open an eye, reveal itself a dragon, and lay waste to the town.

Kind of like God, that dragon. The mountain. Whatever. So I made a deal with the dragon-god, and told Him if He made me a man, I would commit my first fruits to Him.

Nothing's happened yet.

LOST: Extras Like Immigrants Workers

Wow. LOST, for me, is a little piece of America, punching Italy in the face. In other words, the balm of Gilead.

The season premier was much just fallout from last season's finale. People rejoice at the prospect of going home. Big smiles all around. Everyone lets loose with the contrived jokes they save for such occasions ("Oh Sun," says Clare, "just rub in it, why don'cha!") The tension comes from the small group left on the beach, who have to warn everyone else that the boat is basically filled with bad guys.

The first sequence of the LOST premiers have usually been pieces with one giant twist. In the second season, it was the man in the hatch. In the third, it was the Anytown, America on the island. In the fourth, it was the Oceanic Six.

So, right away we're told that only six make it off the island. Hurley, Jack, and Kate, who we have already seen; that leaves three more, and I'm sticking to my guns that Locke is one (though he will probably be revealed last). The Six will probably be given in slow, small doses, so the real question is, will all the flashforwards focus on those who we know got off, or will some be on the island?

Wait - that's not the real question. It's a question, for sure, but the real one is, what are the people on the island doing in the future? Hurley tells Jack (a pre-bearded and pre-Oxycodon addicted Jack) that "they" need help; a mysterious man comes around asking about the livelihoods of "they" (Oceanic doesn't know the truth, they only suspect). Are "they" those left on the island? And why do they need help? And is the island the "it" Hurley refers to, the "it" that is won't let them go?

On thing is for sure: going with Locke was a bad idea. Though it seemed the clear choice, given the current information, Hurley apologizes to Jack of the Future, telling him that Hurley should have gone with Jack; that he made a mistake going with Locke.

IN OTHER NEWS, Naomi kicked the bucket (my money was on her to live - needless to say, I lost that money), Jack actually really tries to kill Locke, Sawyer is going soft, and Jacob's cabin is a mobile haunted house. Like the circus, only scarier.

Other than these tidbits, this episode was pretty tame. This episode, however, was completely overrun with excess extras. I mean, a new record for random extras. Congrats, LOST.