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

This weekend the whole Arkansas in Rome program took a field trip to Venice, the city of salt water and the ever present feeling that one is sinking. There are small roads in Venice, but all mass transport takes place on water - no wheels for rolling or for steering, only fins and helms. All cars are parked and left outside the city, on the mainland. Not even a Vespa is permitted.

Venice was built on a marsh, which seems to happen a lot with old major cities - which is ironic, given what a bad idea that seems to be. Settlers fitted wooden poles into the mud of the ocean floor, waited for a spell, then started building on top of said wood. After learning this, the whole of the time I spent in Venice was accompanied by a small minor fear in the backwoods of my brain that said that I was about to bear witness to a second Atlantis, and that maybe in another three thousand years people with say that Venice was just a myth, and that Cass Trumbo was just a legend - truly, no one could ever be that handsome and smart. Certainly no one could ever run as fast as they say he could.

One thing I found interesting was the patron saint of Venice, St. Mark. In the beginning of the city, there was another, lesser saint tasked with divine protection. Once the power of the Venetians grew, they decided they deserved a higher ranking saint, possibly one who was on Jesus's T5, and so they sailed off into the sunset and stole St. Mark's body from Alexandria. When asked about this turn of events, St. Mark had no comment.

Our eccentric professor Emilio led us through the smaller streets of Venice, touring buildings and making up stories about his lost loves. Not once, but twice did he feign an attempt to commit suicide over fictional affairs, trying to climb over railings and jump into the ocean before his students could hold him back. In the end, though, no one was harmed. Though I did see a Penn State student jump off one of the two bridges spanning the Grand Canal, landing in the water twenty feet below. When asked if I was next, I said I'd jump for a dollar and good moral support. However, no American dollars were to be had, and no support was to be found.

Abstract art is on the opposite end of the spectrum from understanding. Venice is one of the three places in the world with a Guggenheim Collection, which is apparently a big deal. I didn't know. I went there by myself, which was a very bad decision - I think the Guggenheim took a piece of my soul. I spent about an hour wandering aimlessly, unable to form any sort of plan for seeing the entire museum, nor to assess the meaning of various works, so assailed by the forces of surrealism was I, that I was driven to abstraction (which is much worse than being driven to distraction).

The Guggenheim is staffed almost entirely by young people, earning pennies on internships from around the world; and I say around the world, but most were from English speaking countries. Heavily discouraged by the surrounding art, I turned to talking to the staff, and managed to strike out with the British answer to the strawberry blonde.

ME: What do you make of it?

SB: I believe it's Picasso's The Studio.

ME: Oh. I thought it was a rocket ship.

SB: Well, that's obviously his self portrait, and that's obviously a figure of a woman.

ME: Yeah, you see, I figured that was a square, and that there was a circle, but beyond that I was lost.

SB: Then you are an idiot.

And you might say, no one could either be that rude or know that little about Picasso, but if I'm lying I'm dying.

I Am Hired As Immigrant Labor

Last night my friend Virginia the Architect and I were in my personal domain, the cafe Bros, having coffee, when I was approached by the owner Claudio. He sat down in the middle of a private conversation and began speaking with incredible speed in languages including, but possibly not limited to, English, Italian, and Portuguese (as Bros is a Brazilian bar). After several minutes, I was trying my darnedest not to wear my confused face, but Claudio noticed. So he concluded his speil by asking, "Agreed?" I responded, "Si," and we shook hands. Then I shook my head.

After Virginia left, I went back to Claudio, sat across from him, and asked him to speak once more, a little slower. I'm still not exactly sure what all was said, but I did catch a few key points: 1) Aurora University is an American institution in Rome, 2) Aurora University has reserved Bros next week for a private party, and 3) Claudio told them I would host it.

I'm not completely familiar with international law, but from my limited understanding, I don't think that I can legally work in Rome on a student visa. Does this make me an alien (something I've always wanted to be)? At the very least, it puts me in the same situation that many families are in, in Northwest Arkansas.

The specifics, as I understand them, involve me contacting Aurora University, arranging all the specifics, and hosting the party next Friday, April 4th (which, coincidentally, is the premier of Battlestar Galatica - I didn't tell Claudio this). I believe I will be paid in coffee beans.

Fun Fact of the Day: Coffee beans were used as currency in Ancient Egypt.

Only now am I beginning to understand the extent of the damage my mother incurred when she was here. I introduced her to Claudio, and, in my absence, she told him to take special care of me. Ever since them, Claudio has called me by name, given me free coffee and appetizers, used my computer to check his mail, asked me to fix his own computer, and generally hosted me old fashioned. Normally this would be a relationship I could only wish for - my own private coffee confidant. But early on in the semester I claimed Bros as my workshop - I usually spend several hours a week there, writing. In the last few days, I've been seeking out another place to write in, because everytime I go into Bros, Claudio wants to be nice to me.

Not content with taking simple care of me, he felt he needed to offer me a job.

Roots: I Complete My Journey

After Delphi, we stopped off at the island of Aegina for a very rainy day - previous days had passed like a flash of lightning, but Friday, Aeginaday, in spite of the rain was excruciatingly  slow. Rain does that. Without any enterprise to apply ourselves to, due to the bad weather, we rented a car again - this time, and Suzuki Samurai. We thought about naming it, too, decided that the Suzuki Samurai was much better than anything at hand.

(Take note that the picture is dated - that would be Emaline the Fiat, spouse of the Suzuki Samurai, in the picture, in Ithaca. Also, take note of the sunglasses of distinguished heart surgeon, Dr. Ted Fish.)

Using a map that the city's information officer had drawn in crayon and then photocopied, we played snake across the northern half of the island, periodically stopping to look at a church, or walk along a beach, or to let other people pass. I did that a lot. The Samurai was a stick shift, and I don't think I left second gear that day.

We ate dinner alone, and when I say alone I mean that we were the only party in a restaurant of two big empty rooms. The cook, a large Greek grandmother, would serve us herself, then watch us eat through a small window pane connecting the two rooms. I would have offered her some food, but I didn't know how - she speaks Modern Greek, you know.

The final port of the EasyCruiseOne was Athens. We did the things good learned people do, made the pilgrimages that the good craftsmen and commoners alike make: the Acropolis, the National Historical Museum, the Temple of Zeus. But, like other people, I was underwhelmed. It could have been the wear of the EasyCruise upon me, a sleepiness that settles when I know I'm ending a journey. It could have been the proximity of Rome, time-wise. It could have been aliens, to tell the truth - I never can rule them out completely. But outside of the area of the National Gardens, I could have passed Athens in the night and not known it. The Hellenic period is so far removed that all that's left in Athens is this crescent of ruins in the southern part of the city, plus a pretty cool museum. The rest of the city is another metropolis, where you don't understand most of what's said, on ground of it being another language or heavily accented. I could have been anywhere.

No. Rome is fine with me. I think I could fall asleep anywhere in the world, wake up in Rome, and know it immediately, so distinct is this city.

All roads lead to roam. Or Rome. Also, Baroque Church Domes, Sea Foam, and Funeral Homes.

As it turned out, the most expensive thing I bought during my trip was a book in the Athens airport, as I awaited the plane ride home. I had already gone through the other two I had on me, and needed something else to pass time until I got home. There's not a whole lot of selection in airport bookstores, you know? I've never bought a book in an airport, or any transportation hub, but it's quite difficult to find anything good, especially if you're looking for good smut, which is vital for any reader. I eventually settled on The Secrets of the Chess Machine, on account of its mentioning dwarves, robots, and 17th century Prussia all in the first sentence of the synopsis.

LOST: And Now For Something Completely Different

In this final episode until the longest month of my life is over (beware of the ides of March, I was told; I should have listened), we get what feels like three separate vignettes: real time Freighter, past time Michael, and the obligatory cliff hanger ending, real time Island. This new format, the Tarantino, is questionable. As much as I like to defer to the hidden wisdom of the High Council of the LOST Scribes, I must protest the ending. It had nothing to do with the story, and felt like the ending to Great Expectations: as if, after feeling an initial reaction of everyone not having their hearts leap out of their bodies at the sheer glory of the original ending, the author went back and modified it to give the audience what they wanted. Dickens added a romance. LOST added two deaths and yet another cliff hanger.

So, first, Ben, with the collected self that seems to say, "I know how this is going to end," sent his daughter Alex, her boyfriend Karl, and her birth mother Danielle off to join the others in the specified Other's Special Place. Halfway through their journey, Danielle and Karl kick the bucket by way of bullets and leave Alex to surrender. The question: Freighter fire or Friendly fire? Certainly, the silencers on those guns seem above the technological reach of the Others' armory, and in flashback Michael witnessed the freighter crew gearing for battle, but when in the world did they land a strike team on island? It seems that the initial team, minus Miles, would abhor the thought of violence, and I'm betting that Frank would refuse to fly such warriors to the fray. The other option would be that Ben sent his rival in parental affections as well as the boy who might knock up his daughter on a one way mission. This seems the easy way out of such a cliffhanger, and I fear that it is the truth.

But the real story was Michael's. I for one liked seeing the consequences of his leaving the Island. At the end of season two, there were many questions, and the first being, how does Michael explain his sudden reappearance? Well, apparently he doesn't. And thus his life sucks.

So a man with nothing to lose, and hungering for some sort of redemption that flows like a river motif throughout LOST, is recruited by (a finally out of the closet) Tom to wreck the ship. It all proceeds pretty much in a standard line from there, except for the part where I could have sworn Michael and Naomi were going to be crushing on one another. But in all truth, I just desperately want Naomi back in the show somehow.

Oh, and P.S.: the Island is a demigod. Huh. It won't let Michael commit suicide. And it seems that the Island has the power to reach across half the world, into Manhattan, and project images of the dead. So, in a show that revolves so continuously around fate, we are finally given the fate machine, The Great and Terrible Oz, the Island.

The new information we were fed was the fact that it wasn't Ben, but Widmore who planted the plane between the palisades of the ocean floor. Now, this might start an argument as to who is telling the truth, but the Widmore story is not only backed up with paper evidence, but makes more sense: as someone who wants to be the only one to find the Island, dealing with the rest of the world in one move is much more to his advantage than Ben's, because, from Ben's point of view, no one yet has been able to find the Island, so why attempt such an expensive misdirection?

IN OTHER NEWS, Karl dyed his hair then died, George used to be really cool, a clean Danielle looks the same as one who has been dirty for seventeen years, a clean Danielle died a very bad death for a character with her abilities on the show and her ability to scare me in real life, and, gosh darnit, why can't they work Naomi back into the story?

And as we say goodbye to LOST, we are reminded of the immortal words of Semisonic, that "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." Yes, Battlestar Galactica starts next Friday, April 4th, so take your pants off now, because the premier will knock them off, anyway.

Roots: The Ship Is In Shipshape, And The Whotu Uprising Is Over, Over

Unfortunately, unlike Fred Randall, for me, the Whotu Uprising is not over, over. If you are unfamilar with the Whotu Uprising, it's an event in the glorious Rocketman. It was also the name of a three-on-three team I played on, in eighth grade. It's also the broad sweep term for Greek civil unrest.

The past three days have been shaken by the earthquakes of the Hellenic proletariat. He has stood his ground these days past and shouted, "There shall be no more garbage collection! There shall be no more running of national monuments! There shall be no more electricity!" And after a few more moments consideration, he also shouted, "And there shall be no more nonsense! I've had quite enough of it!" When we ported in Patras, the streets were filled with garbage that looked like beaver dams - the city's workers were on strike, against what I do not know. Possibly over the level of nonsense in the Attic government. The national government workers also went on strike, and shut down all archaeological sites for one day (as they promised: they notified all that they would only strike on Wednesday, then go back to work. Not very effective bargining). From Patras we were supposed to travel to Olympia; this was ruled out, as well as the possiblity of any fun, given the surrounding trash and bad weather.

After a gloomy morning, we finally made it out of the city to an old German winery named Achia Clauss. A Grecian suggested it, as a model Grecian winery, which was founded by a German and run by his Germanic family. But wine crosses all borders. Being the off-season for tourism, the winery was open but only staffed by two: a receptionist and a bartender. The tour guide called in sick. So we made up our own tour, climbing into windows and scaling buildings, taking cover at the sound of footsteps or conversation, and pretty much trespassing all over the vineyards.

I will say that this trip has showed me how sovereign God is, concerning transportation. If I was an atheist coming into Greece, I would be a theist leaving it, on account of the miraculous happenings of arrival. No matter how late the bus is or how confused I am towards the route to take, God always delievers my party and I back to the ship.

From Patras we sailed to Itea, from where we took a bus to Delphi. Delphi was the ancient site of the Oracle of Delphi (go figure), the main consultant of antiquity. It was also the ancient site of a city built at a 45 degree angle. Climbing all the way to the top, to see the complete ruins, I think I doubled my exhaustion, and doubled my sweat, by trying not to show that I was tired. I'm traveling with two girls, and thus I cannot show weakness.

The museum at Delphi is home to most of the old things recovered from the archaelogical site, including the statues of Kleobis and Biton. I had actually studied these in my Classics classes, and once translated their story, which went like this: Kleobis and Biton's mom had to get to Delphi for an engagement, but their oxen weren't running properly, so Kleobis and Biton hitched themselves to the ox cart and dragged their mom the whole way. Once there, their mom was so grateful that she prayed to the gods to give the two brothers the ultimate gift. Thus, Kleobis and Biton lied down that night and died in their sleep. In a completely unrelated note, I almost died of heat exhaustion.

When night came, we found out about the third strike: there was no electricity in the whole port of Itea. Sad day. This, however, was balanced by a chance encouter I had. An old man, who came from our boat with way too much to drink, hailed me as the Duke, due to a Duke University shirt I had on. I was slightly embarassed, and told him, no, sorry, I'm not a duke - I'm a Captain. Immediately he saluted me. Then I gave him leave to get some Rest & Relaxation.

Roots: Ithaca Is The Cheese

I fear that before EasyCruiseOne docked in Ithaca, another ship under a black flag swifted into port and made off with all the young people. I say this because there were absolutely no youths to be had throughout the entire island. I came to this land, supposing it to be flowing over with milk and honeys, and am yet to alighted on a single honey. I will simply have to bide my time.

Ithaca is the cheese to my everything - my omletes, my pasta, my nachoes, et cetera. It is the bee's knees, the fly's eyes, the cat's meow, the dog's bark, my grandmother's exclamations. In short, I think Ithaca is one of the top five places on Earth, right in front of Blair Library in Fayetteville. It is an island of about 8000 people, with two major towns; when I say major, I mean that the populations of those two are both calculated without the census skewing inclusion of animals. Vathi, the port, has around 3000, and Stavros, above 1000.

I stand by my assertion that the young people of Greece are kept in the backrooms of tourism. Everyone had faces carved out of wood, or maybe the rocks that the island is made out of. Yes, like Tellson's Bank in A Tale Of Two Cities, young men are kept behind locked doors until the age like cheese and are acceptable to be brought out into the light.

To tour the entire island, Virginia, Emily, and I rented a small, pastel yellow Fiat from a foreigner named Charles. When Charles made us guess at his own port of origin, we only offended him, in increasing doses as our guesses became wilder, with the likes of Australia, England, Ireland, and climaxing in Poland, of all places. Charles was from South Africa. We took turns in the Fiat: Virginia drove north to Stavros, where we stopped once to survey the Odysseian olive trees, terraced into balconies overlooking the sea, and again to let a heard of billy goats gruff cross the street (jaywalking, in case you were curious). Emily drove south back to Vathi, where we stopped at the School of Homer, the supposed site of the Palace of Odysseus. It was nothing more than what could have been the remnants of the foundation, or what could have been children who created a small fort out of rocks.

This entire time, we spent our minutes driving trying to come up with a name for our pastel yellow Fiat. My suggestions (The Hands and Fiat, The Fiat of the Giant, A Fiat of Strength, A Fiat of Homeric Proportions, The Final DeFiat) were all rejected on the grounds of being band names. So, Joe Kane, take your pick.

I drove east of Vathi to a beach named Sarakiniko. As it is March and still winter here in Greece, Sarakiniko was deserted. It was a beach made of rocks and surrounded by trees - we had to cross a path along a cliff to reach if from where Emaline (the final name) was parked. After a few minutes looking into the water, a straight shot line of sight to the bottom, and wishing that I had worn swim trunks, had brought a towel, that it was hotter, later in the season, earlier in the day, that I had a million dollars or the complete works of Sufjan Stevens, Emily decided to jump in. Not to be out done, so did I.

I read once that a person can contract hypothermia from water up to 70 degrees fahrenheit. This may very well be true - the water next to the beach of Sarakiniko was definitely not 70 degrees fahrenheit, and immediately after jumping in I could feel the skin on my chest shrink like wool in the washer. My breathing sounded like I was running the 400 meter dash, over and over again. After an acclamation period, I stopped thinking about myself and looked about me.

Did you know that the Aegaen Sea is crystal clear? I mean the kind of crystals used in lasers and science experiments of the future. Once I stopped treading water, and looked down that straight shot line of site to the bottom, my personal problems were overtaken by the plain jane magnificence of the sea. In my head, I was thinking, I can obviously touch the bottom, but, as it turned out, the clarity of the water acted as a sort of magnifying glass, and the water that was beyond a shadow of a doubt shoulder high, in application showed itself to be over ten feet deep.

Sadly, I have to say, I have no idea how far the water went down. In fact, I only marvel to this extent in retrospect. In the water, yes, I was amazed, but that amazement could not manage to overshadow the feeling that I have carried with me since birth: that there is a sea monster with my name on it, following me where ever I go, and biding it's own time until the opportunity to eat me presents itself. While swimming in Sarakiniko, I did not see the monster, but I think it touched my leg.

I Go In Search Of My Roots

I am spending this spring break in search of my Roots, in Greece. Architects Virginia and Emily have come with me to the Aegean Area to try and seek out our ancestors. And we're taking a cruise to do so.

It's an EasyCruise. Yes - this is the same company that runs EasyJet, a gigantic EasyJest, the Dollar Tree form of travel. These are the same people who turned me away from my flight to Lyon, but I'm a forgiving type of person, and forgiving in this sense can be interpreted as a synonym of poor. Yes, I'm a poor type of person, and to my type of person, EasyCruise, which is nothing more than a floating hostel, appeals. (In EasyCruise's defense, there is an inhouse deejay, DJ George, who laces international tracks seven days a week in the designated party center, the Sun Moon Bar. His audience is mostly grandmothers.)

Yesterday we ported (I love that word) in Kiato, a very small town, from which my party of three took a series of very confusing buses and by the Grace of God ended up in Mycenae, which was Agammemnon's seat. There was the Tomb of Atreus and the Lion's Gate, both behemoths in size and weight, but what interested me more were the surrounding mountains, which looked as if they had been quickly hewn out of a solid block of stone and hastily covered with moss. They looked as if they were in the process of creation.

I will say a word for the Greek peoples: they are much more gracious than I would be. I often say, when asked, that Ancient Greek is eight times removed from Modern Greek as Shakespeare is to Amerlish. In truth, it is even farther. The only thing I retain, and am able to convey, are the prepositions. Even so, I have picked up one word along the way (thank you, which is IFXAPISTO), and use it as often as possible. The Greek peoples, who look as if they are all retired, as if they have taken all the youngsters and put them in the back rooms of tourism, have nevertheless been great hosts, and have taken care of my group in our ignorance. In fact, one beratement by a transportation official aside, I have had a humorous, if not smooth, time communicating.

Today we ported (I love it!) in Ithica, the island of Odysseus. We did not raid the town's stores and carry off the women, as I had suspected (before getting on the EasyCruiseOne, our boat, I had thought it might be a pirate ship, and the patrons might be forced into a life of buccaneering; this did not happen, and I almost regret it). I will relate the spoils of my journey further on.

LOST: Now With References To The Muppets

Did anyone else notice how much Frank Lapidis, helicopter pilot, looks like Sam the Eagle? Especially, when he talks about the universally feared and respected anger of the Captain? All I could think of, watching him, was the speech First Mate Samuel Arrow, played by Sam the Eagle, delivered to the cabin boys in Muppet Treasure Island, concerning Captain Smollett, also known as Kermit the Frog:

The man is a raging volcano, with inner demons the likes of mere mortals cannot fathom.

The name of the freighter's captain, Captain Gault, even recalls Smollett a little (also, John Galt, who built a isolated paradise, away from the corrupt world, of various geniuses, in Atlas Shrugged. But don't read it). It is from the Captain that we learn that is indeed Ben who launched the cover up, planting a fake plane and three hundred plus bodies at the bottom of the ocean. Something like that must have cost more than War of the Worlds. Maybe money does in fact grow on trees on this particular island.

What's up with Regina? I say, the sickness that infected Rousseau's people. If you will remember, all of Rousseau's French friends went crazy after a few months on the island. At first, I thought this was Existentialism, but after seeing Regina jump off a boat, covered in chains like the ghost of Jacob and Robert Marley (they're brothers in the Muppet version), I think that maybe the French got a little cabin fever, too.

For further parallels between LOST and the Muppets, see the Treasure Island song, Cabin Fever.

I want to come forward immediately and say I do not appreciate being trifled with. The mix of flashbacks and flashforwards, with no apparent reason but to mislead the viewer, feels a little underhanded. I admit, I was sore afterwards, and not because I fell down or anything. However, Taylor the Architect, with whom I watched the episode, said he saw the ending coming (which I didn't), because he was anticipating being screwed with. Let's face it: everyone is expecting LOST to trick us more and more. This is what happened to M. Night Shyamalan; people came to his movies expecting to get a twist ending, and so in thinking about it, they eventually realized the ending before it came, and walked out of the theater hating the movie. With this episode, I feel like the producers and declaring war on the audience, in the way that Englishmen used to declare war: with the idea that war is much more diverting than peace. They're saying, we dare you to guess at where we're going next. And I love it.

Obviously, in a writer's room meeting, some random hand stood up and said, "Jin is becoming way too good of a person. He's almost fully worked through all his emotional problems, and his relationship with Sun is becoming dangerously healthy. So, he has to go." Jin is one of the best characters on the show, the man who always does the right thing - someone so functional cannot last long on a show known for its complex and conflicted characters. So, he's getting offed. When? In the next three weeks, showtime. Juliet said that Sun had to get off the island in three weeks. Jin, along with Claire, can be assumed to be those two who, according to the official story, survived the crash but not long enough to be rescued. Might the captain's inner demons, which the likes of mere mortals cannot fathom, get him?

And, yes, Claire will die. Charlie sacrificed himself because of a vision that involved her getting onto a chopper - she does not stay on the island. And for a mother to give up her child, some enormous force would have to play a part, like, say, death. My guess is it is Claire's death that sends Sayid over the edge, to work with Ben.

Does it make me a bad person that I felt a bit of joy in the last flashback scene? Between Hurley flying across the largest ocean in the world to be a substitute father figure, if only temporarily, and Sun weeping over Jin's grave, it gave me a bit of hope that yes, the people on the island are capable of love, and not just the type of love that involves a triangle.

Oh yeah, and Michael is the man on the boat. But that was kind of obvious.

IN OTHER NEWS, no one will be nice to Dan (give him a break, islanders), Bernard proves he has a purpose by acting as the token old man wisdom, Juliet is a cold hearted broad, and Jin's flashback music flourishes makes it more material for a children's comedy than a prime time drama about time travel.

So, does this mean the Oceanic Six are set? Jack, Kate, Sayid, Sun, Hurley, and Aaron? As for me, I'm not done fighting for Locke. I say Aaron doesn't count. I mean, who among that grouping of people wouldn't have anyone come to their funeral? Someone needs to be universally hated to get that treatment, and so I'm not done pushing Locke.

As I understand it, next week's episode will be the last until late April, so put on a hat and then hold onto said hat tightly, because, to be sure, it will attempt to trip you up, and will inevitably sucker punch you with information like, rapper Mannie Fresh is actually the smoke monster.

I Fear My Hair Has Become Sentient

My mother used to cut both my sister's and mine own hair when we were elementary children, so that we looked like different sizes of the same doll, drawn to scale. My father put a stop to this when I was in seventh grade: he took me to the local Sam's Club, bought a Con Air Home Haircut Kit, and shaved my head. I've had that haircut ever since, and haven't paid for such a service since then, when our family would get touch-ups from a stylist who worked out of a defunct train caboose.

After shaving my head once more in May of last year, before I went to work for a summer camp, I let my hair grow for a good seven months before my mother made me do something about it. What I did was make a decision to do nothing: I pledged to her that I would not cut my hair until I had come back from Rome. In this regard, I would be much like Samson, and, I warned her, if I got off the plane carrying the jawbone of a donkey, people best get out of my perimeter, before I break some bread on a few fools, courtesy of my divine locks.

Now, two months before I once again cut my hair, I have lost all illusions. Long hair is insufferable. I have to shampoo everyday. Not only that, but many times I have to shampoo multiple times a day. How ludicrous does that sound? If you're not a girl, it should sound ludicrous enough.

I could harvest grease like maple syrup, bottle and save it for a later date, for what purpose I'm not positive on, but I could, so much grease does my hair produce. And I find that I perfer the greasy state of hair, because the alternative, a clean beautiful lion's mane, is impossible to control. With my hands in my pockets, I am constantly forced to perform what my sister calls the "Mississippi Boy Swoop," where I swing set my head from one side to the other, in order to get the hair out of my eyes (in my defense, I try to make this motion as awkward and graceless as possible, so that no one could accuse me of "Mississippi Boy Vanity").

So I lie awake at night, fearing that once I truly fall asleep my hair will form dreadlock tentacles and become nefarious, strangle me to death or attack my roommates or update Wikipedia with false information. Do you know what it's like, to fall asleep in fear, especially of your hair? But I still have the rest of March and April to live with this stock and the split ends (honestly, how do girls live?), before I return to home and friends who will, no doubt, briefly want to see what I look like when I wear a mullet.

I Am Disconcerted At The Palazzo Farnese

On Wednesday morning, my roommates woke me up thirty minutes early and told me that I needed to get to the bus station Termini lickety-split. I complied, without question, in the same manner with which, an hour later, I boarded an out-bound bus when so instructed: with an unaffected air that suggests I have no idea what's going on, and have not had any such ideas since arriving in this country over two months ago.

The what's-going-on was shortly explained, as it had been the previous day and the day before that, but that was an explanation I missed, because once I sat down in the bus I immediately took out my current book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which, by the way, was recommended to me by Seth Cohen on the first season Chrismukkah episode of the O.C. That is where I get most of my reading material.

Instances like these, missing out on important instructions and instruction because I am star gazing or, the more often occurrence, glazed gazing, where I become as comatose as an animated person can, define my time here. Ignoring Professor Emilio's itinerary outline in favor of my own personal world, complete with personal rules and physics, I think, is a cookie cutter cross section of my Roman academic career.

Once inside the massive Palazzo Farnese, I caught up to a classmate and finally got some answers. "We're in the Palazzo Farnese," she said, with the words you here in movies where someone caught time traveling asks a passerby what year it is; "weren't you listening?"

The Farnese were a very powerful Roman family, spawning multiple popes and many of their secular counterparts. They built this palace about an hour north of Rome, as the bus drives, but I guesstimate it took longer by horse and carriage. The building is a pentagon centered on  a circle; the innards dazzle with biblical frescoes and a sense of humanism that almost upends such frescoes with sarcasm. Much more interesting were the gardens.

Behind the Palazzo Farnese lie three successive gardens, each increasing in magnificence. The backyard is a small, take a turn about the garden type; very square and small, hemmed in with shrubbery crafted like tile. The second garden was a bit larger, and resembled (as was a common motif there) as miniature hedge maze. Show me a man who does not dream of participating in and reigning victorious over a hedge maze race, and I will show you proof that there are aliens, and that they have certainly not ever heard of a hedge maze, poor things, or they would wish to race in them, as well.

The third upended and moved itself up the street, at the top of the hill, in a bit wilder and more secluded suburb than the first two. Walking up the path, it became obvious that the Palazzo Farnese was a hot spot for jerry atrics; we were by far the youngest, and apart from our group, everyone was living off their retirement checks, I imagine. There must have been a shuffleboard hidden away in one of the more dense recesses of the park, because there was no other reason for so many old people to congregate in such a place.

The upper park was the Italian Pemberley; I realize that houses and lots do not have legs, but, upon my honor, I swear the Palazzo Farnese stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. The grounds were sprawling, and the bushes trimmed in such a way as to coil about the place with a purpose; no, the hedges were not so high as to satisfy my height, but they would certainly give young children and dwarves a run for their money. There was such a symmetry in the place that even fountains had their twins, facing them from across the lawn; Emilio at one point funneled us all into a small room, which soon revealed itself to be one of those fountains, long dormant, soon activated, as it laid in wait for unsuspecting Americans, pied by piper professors.

As bluehairs filed in like wayward Israelites under new management, I realized that the reason America is considered so uncultured by the world is simply because we have no real gardens. Any country without such a reserve as the Palazzo Farnese should be considered barbaric; add this to the ever growing list of such things. It shall join the ranks of widespread public transportation, multi-use buildings, and coffee shops that don't demand payment up front.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Caffe Greco

As my trip to Lyon was thwarted by the high altitude powers of travel, I committed to carry out my travel plans here in Rome. I was taking a Hemingway novel and a notebook to France in order to truly read a book and write a few letters. As it happened, this can actually be done in Rome. And to think I had been traveling untold hours and trespassing against untold horrors to do this elsewhere!

I took a tip from a travel book and took a left, going north (these two directions do not always correlate with one another; be wary of such broad generalizations) towards the Spanish Steps, and eventually went into the Caffe Greco. The Caffe Greco, as it announces upon your entrance, is 248 years old - it was founded in 1760. Since then, it has been the swank haven of writers like Byron, Keats, and, yes, Hemingway, but really, was there a bar in Europe Hemingway didn't visit? The place was so overrunning with literary depression that an Italian named Giorgio De Chirico said it was the cafe where you sit and await the end. Writers are the most depressing people on the face and body of all planets, truly.

The cafe is one long hallway connecting several parlors, creating the biggest coffee shop I have ever been in. And it was filled to the rafters. The tables were marble topped and the chairs were wood and velvet, and there wasn't a free specimen of either, except in the hallway, where I sat. The walls changed color in each room, but were unified by a antique motif running throughout; the walls looked as if they hadn't been repainted since the Great War. Not that you could really see them, they were so covered with knick-knacks. Painting and scrapes of paper plastered the walls, from all the artists who had passed through them. The decorations even spilled over into sections usually deemed unfit for decor - door frames and crown moulding, too, held up portraits and even collector's plates. Ghosts of great minds drank coffee beside me; for myself, this was a sort of pilgrimage.

Sadly, the Caffe Greco has, for lack of a fancier term, sold out. The Spanish Steps are now home to Prada, Gucci, and the like, and I am almost certain they do not turn a profit, so steep are their prices. But shoppers flood the streets in a depressing way, and most people end up getting fleeced by men selling purses or watches on the sidewalks. Those who filled the Caffe Greco to the rafters were not poor writers but Japanese and American tourists, attracted by the aura. This wouldn't be so bad, if the Caffe Greco hadn't given in, but it sold it's soul, to the tune of six euros a cappuccino (which, by the way, is over six times the cost of a cup anywhere else).

Adding insult to injury, a further saddening me about the state of things in general, was Hemingway. Raise your hand if you knew Hemingway was so depressing? Well, that makes just you. I can't really say what I expected, personally, but I know that I did not expect life to be so terrible. I am going to rethink living for a little.

Or at least I was, until I went home and watched Pushing Daisies. I tell you truly, that show is all the fables and fairy tales that mankind has, run through a strainer of happiness. It could cheer up even Hemingway, if it caught him off guard.

LOST: Ben Goes Back To School

This past Friday, Taylor the Architect and I watched all six available LOST episodes consecutively, for roughly five hours, stopping only for the restroom and to make alfredo sauce, which did not turn out swimmingly. However, having the broad scope of what course LOST is taking this year, I can say with some certainly that this is likely to be the least powerful episode of the season.

The major bomb dropped, the one that should have carried the weight of all explosives used in World War II combined, was passed over like speed reading. BOOM! Charles Widmore is the man behind the freighter. Moving on.

I again sent my friend and Native American Ricky Shade an apology, because I still cannot believe how right he was (not that he has a track record of being wrong; it's just surprising that anyone can predict what will happen on LOST). There was a major tip in Desmond's episode, where Widmore buys the journal of a Hanso, first mate on the Black Rock, which contents have never been known outside the family (what auctioneer notes that in his introduction?). The obvious conclusion is it details the Hanso's experience with the island, spurring his family's search for it, and fueling Widmore's desire to find it.

So this calls into question every move we've seen Widmore make; all his interactions with Desmond, were they calculated? Did Widmore have an idea that Desmond would wind up where he is, that he funneled Desmond into his global sailboat race? And, even though Penny claimed ignorance of her father's boat, are they trading information in their parallel searches (probably not, though Widmore certainly knows his daughter is searching).

This episode did finally address the Jack-Juliet Train, in the creepiest way possible. Ben, whenever not tied down and walking upright, walked in his best imitation of Poindexter, constantly recalling every stereotypical high dork seen on Saved By the Bell. All he lacked were suspenders. However, this dweeb exercised unimaginable power, and in a plot taken from a bad Saved by the Bell, he uses this power to contain the popular girl (for Juliet looks so much like her. Who? Anne?). Yes, he even tells her to her face that she is, in fact, his. 

On a totally unrelated note, I recently told a girl she was mine, in the sense that I possessed her and it was naught for her to resist. She resisted.

And then the Jack-Juliet Train finally tooted its whistle, as Juliet finally tells Jack that she is unsafe to be around, because Ben knows how she cares for Jack. Jack then says that Ben knows where to find him, which, I assume, is behind the big tree in the back of the playground, the same place I once fought Zack Starr in third grade.

Oh yeah, and there was some sort of conflict and immediacy given by some sort of gas. I was a little fuzzy on that, and, though I hate to bite the hand that feeds me my entertainment, it felt like a last minute addition to an episode where nothing happens. But could Ben really have given those orders? Isn't more likely that the Others, led now by the immortal Richard Alpert (by the way, does no one else remember he was immortal? I FEEL LIKE I'M TAKING CRAZY PILLS!), are planning to gas the entire island like they did first to eliminate the Dharma Initiative.

IN OTHER NEWS, Daniel is way too nice to be a bad guy, Sun for the first time herself useful in a pursuit besides gardening, Locke is on the verge of executing each and every dissident her perceives, and I still can't get over the fact that Ben is a pitch perfect imitator of Uriah Heep when it comes to his crushes.

In Jeff Jensen's interview with the show's producers, it was mentioned that by episode seven, we would know the entire Oceanic Six, so my guess is that this episode is a calm before the storm. Next week, the cat's about to hit the fan, and yes, in my mind, it is a cat.

I Am Shocked And Slightly Embarrassed

This morning I saw the leaving mother and sister off on their train to Fiumincino, the Roman international airport, then I got on a train headed to Ciampino, the Roman airport that exclusively services jalopies, lemons, and the Wright Brothers. In such a position, as to catering mainly to pre-World War II aircraft and backpackers with little to no money, Ciampino is not very efficient. And it does not care.

I was headed to Lyon, France for the weekend. Unable to afford a flight to Paris, I picked Lyon because it was cheaper and French, which, once again, when not used as an insult, equals magic in fiction. And since I consider my life to be one overly wordy piece of fiction, I anticipated fireworks for me in Lyon.

I will not attempt to relate the series of very bad mistakes that all happened at once, but I will cut to the end of the chase (which is much easier than cutting to the chase - for what is worse than coming into a story midstride, rather than at the end, when the object being chased is apprehended?), and say that I missed the check-in for the flight to Lyon. I learned this by proxy, overhearing the indignant cries of a group of Frenchmen who, too, had missed the check-in. I followed hot on their heels (okay, so maybe I did not cut to the end of the chase), all the way to the Easy Jet ticket counter.

Yes, I was to fly an airline named Easy Jet. And yes, I realize this sounds roughly equal to purchasing anything off of Craig's List, but it's cheap.

All Frenchmen are very svelte; at least I assume this from the cross section of the race I hung around with. They were all so trim that their veins did not have to work very hard to surface and expand when filled with blood. The furious Frenchmen and I formed what I liked to think of as Le Resistance, fighting the ubiquitous Easy Jet conglomerate with all tools of guerrilla warfare. We had a de facto leader, whose veins pulsated much faster than everyone else's, a scout, who always knew where to go next, and a token American cowboy, caught in a tempest of languages he did not understand.

After much combat with the Easy Jet receptionists, Fredrick, the only one who could speak English, and whom I deemed the demolitions specialist (because there is always one, in every movie; in musicals, he sings bass, in sports shows, he the biggest guy on the team, and in war stories, he handles the dynamite), told me that there was no hope of getting to Lyon with anything short of two flights, a bus, and a camel.

We all rode back to Rome together, and parted ways. I became a casualty of war and returned to my apartment, whereas the rest of Le Resistance, Fredrick included, continued to fight, so that I would not have missed my flight in vain. When I asked, he told me his plan to get to Lyon before morning, which was more ridiculous than most fictions I come up with. I asked him what was so pressing, that he had to return to Lyon this instance, and he said it was a kid's soccer team in need of a coach.

Not even his kids. Fredrick would go on to spend two hundred plus extra euros in order to be at a children's soccer match in time. How good of a man is that?

I Am Confounded By Architecture

I have posted before about how useless architecture is. I mean, there's no application of the study of architecture, unless you deal directly with buildings, and I for one am going to live in the natural light and sleep under the stars when I grow up - that is to say, I have renounced buildings altogether, and will live in the wilderness, eating honey and wild locust (which, by the way, are not indigenous to the Ozarks. I'll have to import them).

The architecture class I attend here does not usually give out grades, but has resigned itself to two major tests, a midterm and a final. Halfway through my study abroad journey, I find myself taking a midterm.

There were two parts: a series of slides, of which I was asked to define, and a essay concerning the Roman consciousness as seen through their architectural elements. The slides went off without incident, and, in retrospect, I may have gotten some right. However, when I got to the essay, everything went downhill.

As I started blowing smoke and paraphrasing texts I had recently read about the essay topic, all the slides of the past hour came to revisit me, and not in a helpful, ready to be applied way, but in a form I had never expected. In my mind, all I could envision were these buildings growing legs and morphing into enormous robots, battling through time over the city of Rome. Bramante's Tempietto became a sort of spider, powered by the dark arts and the blood of St. Peter, firing rockets every which way. The Roman Forum assembled into some sort of rock monster, throwing javelins made of the leftover columns of temples at its foes. The Vatican itself spawned innumerable beings made of marble and pieces of sculpture, firing lasers every which way.

Transformers: Buildings In Disguise.

It was about the time that I conquered and vanquished all these robots of antiquity that time was announced to be up, and tests were announced to be overdue.

Transformers: More Than Meets The Eye.

I quickly reread my paper: I managed to keep all references to the weighty Battle of the Architectural Ages out of my essay, but I did mention the comedian Zero Mostel, the Duke University football team, and the phrase 'bad news bears.' I actually said 'bad news bears' twice.

Does any of my experience with the architectural test make sense? It doesn't to me, either, I assure you.

OMG! My Sister Is So American!

I like to blend. Not smoothies or milkshakes - in fact, I haven't had a homemade milkshake since I stopped taking weight gain protein in high school. That's not substance abuse - that substance abuses, scars you and leaves you unable to blend, in the culinary sense. But I digress.

I like to blend, as in crowds. I like to chameleon, and it has been my personal mission objective in the past two months to be as incognito as possible on the streets of Rome. For someone with my height, hair color, and good looks, it is extremely hard to go unnoticed. I count it a victory to simply be ignored, or maybe identified as a Swedish or German tourist; anything but to be another American, pockets filled with freedom.

My sister, however, does not like to blend. She does not like the bland, black and white color scheme I adhere to. Tanner, my sister, arrived in Rome wearing gossamer teal cowboy boots, silver leggings, and a bright pink top. She was the American flag filled with neon gas.

As I have written before, I have gone to such extremes to be a part of a crowd as to put on a fake accent (though, partially unconsciously), to heavily roll my r's and to insert pauses into my speech, as if translating from one language to another. As foolish as this may sound to you, dear reader, it was much more so with Tanner. She has decided to speak as loudly as possibly, and to saturate all her words with the Southern Grace my mother says Rome lacks. Not only does she speak so, but she speaks so to everyone in her perimeter. Tourists and Italians alike stand no chance against her onslaught of good will, her infinite clip of questions in her machine gun mouth, asking the who, what, where, why, and how in the world even of people who cannot speak English. Buses, backstreets, bathrooms - beware, natives.

And that laugh. Pierces like a knife. It comes and goes like a snap in a silent auditorium, for one instant, but that moment is enough to garner the attention of everyone, no matter what tribe or nation. I could not count on both hands and both feet the number of times that I have wanted to die of embarrassment from the laugh of my Miss American sister.

OMG! I cannot believe my sister is so American. After I have spent half my time here trying to be Italian, trying to hide my ethnicity, saying few words and avoiding all tourists, Tanner destroys my well wrought reputation (or lack thereof, for I am just another face) with her Homecoming Queen smile and inability to control her volume.

But the funny thing is, the thing itself is, that my sister has made more friends in two days than I had in two months. Southern Grace in need, indeed.

I Have Pretty Much The Best Day Ever

When I picked up the coming mother and sister from Fiumincino airport on Friday, they had been traveling for twelve hours, from noon on Thursday to seven on Friday; no, this wasn't a LOST-typical exercise in time travel, but simply an exchange of zones. To them, it was past bedtime. To me, it was a little before the alarm to get up.

I took them back to the apartment I had rented for the express purpose of housing all the Roman Trumbos, and they immediately fell asleep. So much for seeing my mother.

That Friday was a wish wash, a throwaway day given to the demands of jet lag. The pretty much best day ever came Saturday.

Best shopping, best dinner, best television show in the history of the earth, and I don't mean the planet, but the substance, as in, as long as there has been dirt, LOST has been the absolute pinnacle of entertainment.

Shopping: I took them to H&M, and allotted them several hours of wandering. I have to say, I am incredibly indebted to H&M, for it has given me a new identity. I often think about how accessible identities are here: I just went to the mall and chose a store. I can only hope that when I come back to Fayetteville, my friends will recognize me not wearing sweatpants.

Dinner: The best restaurant I have found yet is Ai Spaghettari; they claim to be founded since 1896, but I say even longer. Their food is timeless, although I suppose it gets cold after being left untouched for a stretch. We had the finest meats and cheeses, or rather bread and pasta, due to the heavy emphasis that the Italians put on carbohydrates. My mother called it carb loading. Apparently, the way I eat nightly is the same way to prepare for a marathon, so tomorrow, I might go running.

Television Show: LOST. See previous post.

Living in Rome is more than most people can ask, but having my mother and sister here fills a social and emotional void - but those are big words that I use very carelessly. Many times I wish I had someone to share all the old things with, and this visit gives me someone to share them with. Two people, neon southern ladies who stand out, especially in a city where everyone wears black and I try my best to blend in. There's something serene and exotic about being in a place where no one knows your name, but having at least one or two who do makes that place more enjoyable.

And quick kudos to my father, who, though not here, has made his presence felt, albeit unintentionally: he has paid for all clothes and meals, and has provided most of the conversation, which revolves around his character quirks and Dickensian defining quotes. The founder of the feast indeed! as Miss Piggy said.

LOST: Billy Pilgrim Has Become Unstuck In Time

LISTEN: Desmond Hume has become unstuck in time.

And so has Daniel Faraday. And so did a rat and a few others, but they died.

The Constant, this past week's episode, followed the arc laid out by Eggstown, the episode before it, of the character episode. The first few episodes were nonstop action and mythos laden sock rockers that ended invariably in cliff hangers. It was all I could do to keep my pants dry. The past two episodes have been character driven, focusing on one castaway and his or her struggles. Kate had to choose between men, and still managed to make an ambivalent decision. Desmond had to get back home.

Everybody loves to point out that Desmond's girlfriend Penelope takes her name from Odysseus's wife, who waited twenty years for him to come home. Obviously, Desmond has not been gone twenty years, but tell me that when Desmond told Penny he would not call her for eight years your stomach did not churn, and I would tell you that you are going to hell, because, as we all know, liars go to hell (it's in the bible - look it up).

The separation of the time betwixt the island and the real world became more entangled, as it takes the helicopter twenty minutes to reach the boat, but those on the beaches perceive it to be a full day. This throws my long thought out and unflappable calculations to the winds - obviously something crazy has been going on, to the point where I question whether the writers are in over their heads. But, as it is well known, the writers of LOST are creative geniuses, recruited from infancy to build the entertainment equivalent of the Tower of Babel, so I give them the benefit of the doubt. We also get an explanation for last season's time traveling episode: shifting consciousness. Only the thoughts of a person move, not the person himself, very much like Billy Pilgrim from Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. Daniel of a Decade Before gives Desmond a cliff notes version of this, saying that the only way to break the cycle is to find a constant, a foundation in both time spans. 

(He also gives voice to the producer's feeling on the show Heroes, mumbling about the "time traveling paradox" as so elementary.)

Penelope, as it was everyone's guess, is Des's constant. In his search for her, he runs across her father, Mr. Widmore, buying the diary of a Hanso, first mate on the Black Rock. Hanso is the family that runs the Dharma Initiative, and the Black Rock is the boat washed ashore on the island. My good friend and Native American Ricky Shade recently pitched me a theory where Mr. Widmore was behind the freighter and its search for the island. I laughed it off and made a crude racial slur. I recently sent him an apology (not about the slur).

So we find that Penelope has been searching for Desmond for three years, and knows about the island (quite possibly through her father). When Desmond reaches her by the phone that MacGuyver, also known as Sayid, jerry rigged, and breaks the time traveling loop, the two have about the best phone conversation I have ever listened to (and listened to about four times). The conversation has been three years lying in wait, and did not disappoint, as the two proclaimed their love. And yes, Lip Gloss Riggan, I did almost cry.

The Downer: Daniel Faraday is most certainly, too, unstuck in time. We have seen his memory problems before, in the shape of the card game he and Charlotte played, and now this comes to fruition. The time traveling can be caused in two ways: overexposure to electromagnetism (Desmond) or to radiation. When Desmond meets Daniel of a Decade Before, he is conducting experiments involving heavy radiation, he isn't wearing head protection. When Desmond asks about this, there is no answer (which is how LOST deals with questions: usually, Hurley asks, "What is that," or, "Who are you," or, "Is this a good idea," and no one answers. But the fact that the question was asked puts the audience at ease). Since he doesn't remember meeting Des, it can be assumed that he, too, will be taking a trip shortly.

IN OTHER NEWS, Daniel is way to nice to be a bad guy, the freighter employs an in-house Dr. Kevorkian, the inside man (quite possibly Michael) is a ghost, and Jack and Juliet still have not hooked up. This is getting old.

When Desmond absorbed so much electromagnetic energy, so did Locke. If Locke really did, by some cosmic joke, leave the island (and I think he did), he too would go through such a time traveling journey, which, for someone with his past, would be the last circle of hell. Maybe that's why he committed suicide.