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: 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.

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.