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.