4. Open Topic

 A few times around Florence I have run into advertisements or people handing out flyers for Pub Crawls. They’re often organized by a local hostel or an organization like FlorenceForFun. Well, last night NYU one-upped them with a much sweeter version based on my favorite Italian dessert: A Gelato Crawl.
 
We started on campus at 7:30pm and took the public bus towards the Duomo as a group. Our first stop was Grom. Grom is less traditional than other gelaterias in town. They are known for a menu of somewhat experimental flavors that changes monthly and only includes ingredients that are in season. Grom lies down a conspicuous alleyway just south of the Duomo. The easiest way to find it is by noticing the queue of sweet-toothed Italians waiting eagerly.
 
Gelato makes everyone smile- even lactose-intolerant roommates. The closer our group came to the large glass door the more this became apparent. Within minutes of being handed a cup containing both Persimmon and Nougat ice cream by the employee in her apparent state of aversion for out large group (which hindered not a single grin) was I staring at white cardboard and anxiously awaiting the announcement of our journey’s next leg.
 
On to Festival! This place comes complete with bright neon lights, colorful ceiling tiles and middle-aged women dressed for the ensuing party. My half-sized tongue depressor like spoon quickly catapulted me through another cup of dairy disgrace (500 calories per cup!). In search of sugar, we disembarked our disco ship in search of some more yum-yum.
 
Place number three was closed. No one worried, gelato shops are more frequent in Florence than Starbucks in New York City (or Washington D.C.). Usually getting a group this large— we were eighteen strong— to change direction, make decisions or otherwise be anything slightly resembling efficient is impossible. Not the case here, as Amaan pointed out, “I’ll run but only if it’s towards food.” Great, we all agreed and took off on an improvised stop on our food-coma-inducing crawl. Bring on the fat American stereotypes; we want ice cream!
 
The third place, whose name I can’t recall (I suppose this Gelato tour is affecting me much the same as a pub crawl might) had an awesome sesame flavor. I’m always looking for something new to stick in my mouth (ehhhhhh, flavors of ice cream) so I went for it: awesome decision. Without this place’s name the best I can do is to tell you that if you are ever south of the Arno and find yourself face-to-face with a seedy ice cream whose contents look better suited for the top of a bagel, eat it.
 
Finally, last stop La Carraia, known to be one of the best. I was comfortably full myself, even after skipping dinner, and one poor soul had already committed gastronomic suicide by tossing her half finished cone into a nearby dumpster. Every group has its stragglers but we pushed (maybe we rolled at this point) on. This place is a little out of the way if you are in Florence’s historic center. Otherwise, the longer walk along the river might make you feel better about the sin you are about to commit.
… still looking for takers to join next week’s Tripe Trudge.

- photo of the gelato crawl t-shirts
 
 

While shopping at one of Florence's monthly antique markets, I happened upon an old, intriguing-looking book that caught my attention. The cover was black and chipped with no title, and turning the crumbling pages I found the title page printed in an old, Latin text, in the style of pre-18th century books. A little Latin translation indicated that it was a Benedictine prayer book used for priests and monks, printed in Venice in 1715. Good thing this awesome little artifact was only 30 euro, because I bargained the dealer down to 25 and sealed the deal. This little book has traveled for hundreds of years. Probably used, stored, forgotten amongst stacks, it has ultimately found its way to me. The same book from that time period is now mine.

I think about what that means. By holding this centuries-old book, I am the ending point of a tunnel that stretches back almost three hundred years. Lives, words, prayers, thoughts, feelings, and people are all connected, somehow related to the existence of this book. Rather, this book shared its existence with people and things that are no longer in existence. It existed in a world that was different from the one I live in. And it's sitting in my hands. This book, which may have touched the hands of people who discovered a totally different world upon their birth, carries with it the story of its age.

And yet, it's still just a book. Judging from its decrepit, crumbling cover, I would assume that there would be some added significance to the item. But it really isn't any heavier. It's just older, more easily torn. Right? As much as I would like to be sentimental and fluffy, I'm not sure I believe that history makes any particular thing any different unto itself. Rather, history grants items a legacy of tradition or a state of existence that flows into the present day. A unopened wine bottle that was purchased when your great-grandparents fell in love is just an old bottle of wine. But...it's the wine bottle that was purchased when your great-grandparents fell in love. There's alot to be said for that. Those ellipses deserve to be there. It's not much because it's still just a wine bottle, but at the same time it happens to not just be a wine bottle. Now that's some fuckin' Wittgensteinean shit. Talk about truth becoming truths only when the natural fabric of life disrupts truth causing us to seek it out and identifiy it as truth in the first place. Anyone notice that gummy bear in the picture?

What does history mean for us? Is it necessary? Does it really enrich our lives? Does counting sheep really help you go to sleep?

When I visited Pompeii a couple weeks ago, it was boggling to be immersed in that situation. Think about it, it's tough for a human being to be put in that situation. Left to contemplate the complete death and demise of an entire civilization? It's not even like you happen to be there or something--when you go to Pompeii, you go to see the ruins, you're not heading out to get milk. And similarly, living in Florence where I do have to see so much history whenever I go to get milk, I still don't feel like I do at Pompeii. The stuff there supercedes mere 'history.' That stuff is on another level, an existential level. "This is a human civilization that did not make it. Oops." Wow. At least the descendants of the Medici's are still around. At least Florentine culture still exists. Pompeii is heavy, but not really because of its history. It's because it strikes a chord in all of us, it reminds us of the potential for our extinction. It's really a sad place because of that. To see these people who really just... didn't make it. That hits you.

When things like that hit you, that's when you know you've found an interesting niche of history. That's when you know you've found something that interests you, that moves you, and that is worth studying and learning about. When you can actually bear a museum trip because you can experience what movies do for you emotionally but in individual works of art; when looking at a decrepit theatre makes you smile knowing all the fun and excitement that when on there when so-and-so was directing this-and-that and this actress walked in wearing a mink coat and gave everyone marmalade cake and so on and so on. That's the history that enriches your life, that literally charges the present with a greater voltage than it would normally have without.

I've never considered myself a stereotypical, obnoxious American- not when I'm in America, and especially not when I travel abroad.  I keep the map stashed as much as possible, talk a few octaves lower than normal, and eat whatever's put in front of me.

This friday, all that cultural self-conciousness finally flew out the window.  It's been a long time coming; slowly but surely, for the last few weeks I've stopped really caring what locals might think about me.  It started on the tube, where Londoners have the tendency to stare silently, straight ahead, without any acknowledgement of those around them ( even if those around them happen to be  friends, family, or romantic interests).  Now, I could spend every tube ride trying to fit in, being bored out of my mind.  And for the first five or so, that's exactly what I did.  Until I realized I'd rather be talking to my friends about a movie I saw last week or asking them where they bought those gorgeous earrings.

But it wasn't until my plane ride from London to Glasgow that I truly realized how badly my friends and I stuck out- and I was suprised by how little I minded.  It was my roomates birthday, our first trip outside of the city,  it was 5AM and we were already two drinks into the vacation.  We were excited, and you know what? Excited, slightly tipsy Americans are loud!

So there we were, the three of us.  Laughing loudly, cursing loudly, eating loudly, dressed loudly.  It's funny, though.  For every expected eye-roll you get on the tube or the bus, you also get a friendly chuckle or interjection.  At the airport, my friends and I met an entrepreneur  from Canada in the process of starting a cider-making business who heard us talking and joined the conversation. On the bus, we were complaining about how straight men can't seem to figure out how to make themselves presentable, and a gay couple interjected their opinions on men's clothing.

When you visit a new city, you have to absorb your surroundings, and often the best way to do that is by not making a fuss and trying to avoid anything touristy as much as possible.  But once your fairly familiar with said city, the best way to meet new people and enjoy it fully is by being yourself.  And what I am is a person with a foul mouth who laughs too loudly and has god awful table manners.

In my quest to push my personal boundaries and live freely while in Europe, I decided to dash off to Paris with my roommate a day before the rest of my suitemates got into town with no plan of action in mind. I figured, if people can backpack for months on end without a decisive plan, then I could have one successful spontaneous day in Paris. We were going to hop the 5AM train and just go. The only inkling of a plan I had was in my choice of a travel buddy. I thought things would be fine seeing as how Allie had been to Paris years before. Being the type of person that loves to plan, make lists, and stay organized, this was certainly a new venture for me. All I did was book the train ticket, because the last thing we wanted was to be rejected at St. Pancras station that morning. I was going to leave everything else to chance and see what happens on my first trip to Paris.
 
Getting out of the Gare du Nord, we soon realized we had no idea where we were in terms of the city center, so we wandered around aimlessly until we realized that Metro stations had very detailed maps that could help orient us and guide us to our destinations. We also lucked out and found a map with all the major Parisian monuments highlighted. Our best resource, however, was our unexpected encounter with an Apple store that provided us with the name of a hostel in the neighborhood and access to wifi to communicate with our other travel mates. With our city map and the occasional Metro station along the way, we were set for the afternoon. We walked around with our backpacks for 10 hours to our hearts' content and the dismay of our tired feet and our sore backs.
 
When we figured that we could walk no further, we returned to the area by the Gare du Nord in hopes of settling in at the hostel we had read about in the Apple store. To our dismay, the receptionist informed us that they were book for the night. He recommended that we try another hostel around the corner, but no luck there as well. We didn't panic or anything just yet, because we knew there were plenty of hotels littered around the area, and we were confident that we would find a room in no time. It being only 7PM, we were sure we would find a place to stay.
 
WRONG. We went into 4 hotels, and each time we were greeted by a sign on the reception desk that read "COMPLET" which we quickly learned meant the hotel was full. Now it was time to panic even as we joked about how we could split a hotel at the Ritz on our fathers' credit cards. Then the brilliant idea came to me that we should go into one of seedy internet cafes and try to make a reservation there for the closest hotel or hostel we could find. We lucked out once again and were able to book a room in a hostel right around the corner from our current location and rushed there in 10 minutes to claim our room. The Village Hostel basically saved our lives that night, because sleeping in the park was another possibility we considered. It was one of the last available rooms in the establishment and everyone there was so friendly that we didn't even consider how much extra we were spending for booking the day of. All we could think about at this point was going straight to bed and resting after our 18+ hour journey from the time we had left our flat just that morning. And that's exactly what we did; we slept for 12 hours and woke up late the next morning to pick our friends up from the train station.
 
I don't understand how people are able to backpack around the world and always find a place to stay, but I admire their courage and bravery. My one night in Paris has taught me to leave some elements to chance, but if possible, having some structure to the trip works best. Or perhaps, that's what works best for me.

This entry is not about Florence. It’s about Madrid. Why? I’ve done hardly anything in Florence. On the other hand, Madrid was a madhouse of bizarre events. This is the story of one day of my life there (cue Law and Order music).
 
July 10, 2010. At about noon my most excellent friend and metal buddy, Ani, and I took the metro to Getafe, a suburb of Madrid. Never try to navigate Getafe with Google Maps. After about three points on my list of directions, Google Maps directed us into a field. Which in turn led to a power plant and the highway. After another train, a bus, and a walk into the middle of nowhere we arrived at our destination: an all-day metal festival, headliner Rammstein.
 
It was a little surreal. Between songs Alice in Chains congratulated Spain on how well they were doing in the World Cup and wished them luck for the upcoming championship game. In English. Since Spaniards aren’t really known for their English skills, Ani and I were the only ones in the crowd to cheer for the Spanish team. When Megadeth came on (people shouting “Mehadet!”, the phonetic pronunciation in Spanish), we located probably what were the only other two Americans at this concert. They were working for the Spanish government and wondered why we would ever choose to study in such a godforsaken place. I wonder this too, sometimes.
 
And Rammstein? One of the best fucking concerts I’ve ever seen in my life. I highly recommend seeing them, even if you have to go to Getafe. Ani and I took the complimentary shuttle bus back to Madrid and then a taxi to Argüelles, the neighborhood home to one of my favorite bars in the world, Lemmy Rock Bar.
 
This is the night I met Alejandro (this sounds like the opener to a cheesy Latin romance…). Ani and I were sitting at one end of the bar when some guy comes up to us. His name is Gabri, and he points over to where his friend is sitting. “This is my friend Alejandro, you like him?” he asks me. He drags Álex over. “He’s handsome, right? You like him. Dance with him.” This is a weird and very common phenomenon in Spain. The Spanish wingman basically pimps his friend to the girl. He demands to know whether or not you like him, even though you’ve never even spoken one word to him in your life. This is not really an opportunity to get to know the guy, it’s an awkward set-up.
 
Unfortunately (or fortunately) this was all cut short—Alejandro and Gabri had to take the last bus to their homes out of the city. Instead of hanging out with them, Ani and I ended up running into some fellow NYU students, some madrileños I had met before, and some new ones with whom Ani made new friends (including one who learned English by playing World of Warcraft…he spoke the best English of any Spaniard I met).
 
Ani and I were chilling outside in the courtyard when one madrileño decided to make obscene gestures at me. I, not being particularly sober, starting yelling all sorts of vulgarities at him in English and Spanish, which the people standing around him thought to be hilarious. One guy, Alfonso, was really excited that I was American. I told him I lived in New York, and he asked, “On Broadway??” Humoring him, I told him yes. He ran up to me, asking for kisses. I assumed this meant what I call ‘friend kisses,’ one on each cheek. So yes, we kissed on each cheek, then he grabbed me, kissed me on the mouth, and ran away giggling.
 
At about six in the morning, when the trains started running again, Ani and I left to our respective apartments. What a night. I told you Madrid was a madhouse.

When I first arrived, I was shocked at realizing how very much automatic my life is in New York City. I said once before that I’d been born and raised there and really never left so all in all it makes sense, but still it feels unreal to admit. When I cross the street for instance I look left and then I look right.

Here, that automatic safety precaution I’d developed in order to cross the craziest intersections very well for years, has almost landed me in the emergency room several times.  In doing my research for this blog entry, I found that the ancient Romans “drove” on the left just like the Londoners do now. I don’t know what they were driving, but another interesting fact i found is that there is a Savoy street in London where the right-side rule applies. The site says that the rule was “instituted sometime after 1929, so that vehicles queuing to drop people at the theatre would not block access to the Savoy Hotel” (http://www.brianlucas.ca/roadside/). Despite that one small street that I haven’t seen yet, England is essential a left-side rule country in terms of right of way.

Maybe this is some unsaid rule but I’m realizing that people walk on the same side of the sidewalk than their cars drive in the street. I’ve gotten into seventeen and counting awkward rite of way disputes on the side walk in the last four weeks.

Why then they have their car seat on the right side, I don’t know. This last bit has given me a few heebee jeebee moments too. I mean imagine looking to the driver’s seat and there being no one there and the car is moving! I laugh at myself when this surprises me because I know better, but still it shows how automatic these ways of being are and I don’t even drive.

One last insignificant difference that I’ve found through my bodies reaction to it is the way people say hello in an informal situation. “What’s up” is the most common way I know and depending on what part of town you’re in... maybe “What’s good” too. You know what they say here? “Are you all right”! Are you all right? It’s so funny to me. I once said that to my mom at the wrong time of the month when I was a kid and got sent into time out for the day.

Last Thursday, I glanced at the syllabus for my “Post-colonial Practices in Studio Art” class which read “workshop with visiting artist Akirash. I was excited, thinking that would finally have the chance to do some hands-on Ghanaian art-maybe some beading or basket weaving.
 
At the beginning of class we all pilled into the NYU van. It pulled up to a house, and a man with a paint-splattered shirt opened the door and before even introducing himself as Akirash, passed around a bowl with little scraps of paper in them. The paper I picked out of the large basin read “local drink vendor”. As I stared at the paper, while simultaneously peering at my fellow classmates getting their faces covered in black swirls and dots through the van window, I felt utterly confused.
 
Not long after, I too was covered with black face paint and dropped off at a stand on the side of the main road in Nima (a busy market place in Accra) where I was told I would be selling juice with the other vendors for the next hour. None of this information actually hit me until I was standing there and my “employer” began speaking to me English, but not at all the same English that I speak.
 
She told me to sit down. Shortly after, many of the neighboring vendors called “Obruni! Obruno!” trying to capture my attention and show me the goods they had for sale. I had to tell them that I was sorry, but did not have any money, as I was there to work. Judging by the looks on their faces, they did not understand that I was the one selling the juice. This sentiment was shared by most of the people in Nima that day. When people wanted a juice, they looked straight passed me, trying to find someone to exchange their coins for a bag of the artificially-colored stuff. I felt completely invisible.
 
At the same time, I felt like I wish I could crawl behind the stall I was working at and hide. Entire busses of people would laugh, point and wave at me, like I was some kind of mascot at a sporting event. I think this constant reminder of how ridiculous I must have looked, combined with the chicken slaughtering going on to my left (I truly tried to put my vegan beliefs in the back of my mind at this point) contributed to my struggle to feel remotely secure in my own skin for that one hour. As much as I tried to pretend that I was just an average citizen, trying to make an earning selling some juice, I don’t think I convince anyone in the whole market place, or myself, the slightest bit. Although a little scarring, it was overall an amazing experience. I feel as though I am building up a tolerance for discomfort and can handle being dropped in almost any situation. 

I was lucky enough to spend the weekend in Scotland. This is the first spontaneous trip I've taken and by spontaneous I mean my friends and I had no idea what we were going to do when we got to Glasgow. I remember someone telling me a while back about how he books tickets and figures out what he's going to do when he gets there. I thought that was so weird, considering I usually plan every detail of trips in order to make use of my time there. 

To my surprise, not knowing what to do was great. What came as a bigger shock was not caring what we did because we were in Scotland and it was beautiful. Even the eight hour bus ride was fantastic. We had views of wide open fields with bright green grass and puffy white sheep everywhere. I'm sure most people I know would say, "whatever, cows and stuff," but I loved it.

Upon arrival in Glasgow's bus station, we took a cab to where we were staying, threw down our bags and decided to take a 45-minute train to Edinburgh. A friend of mine recommended climbing up to Arthur's Seat, so that's exactly what we set out to do. When we got to Edinburgh, I remember thinking this is what I went abroad for. The architecture, sky, monuments, cobblestone streets, churches, alleys, people, sidewalks, mountains...everything was so awesome and I could see it all just standing in one spot. On top of that, kilts. Kilts everywhere, which I found hilarious because there are always those typical tourist things you expect to see while traveling and when they finally find you, it's the best! 

We literally saw a huge peak and walked towards it. As we ascended to the top, the view kept getting better and better. More of Edinburgh and eventually Scotland became visible. It was unclear the entire time whether or not we were going all the way to the top. I think in the back of all our minds we knew this had to be done. That feeling of making it to the top and seeing what it's like up there from Arthur's Seat is what we all wanted. 

Palladium didn't prepare me for all that rock climbing. 

My final step to the top was over this vertical rock. When I got up, I could see as far as the lake and hills beyond it. After taking it all in complete silence, we broke out some famous Scottish shortbread. And to think we didn't even know we were going to be at the top of the world until we had actually gotten there.
 

A few weeks ago my roommate and I decided to book our first (of hopefully many) weekend trip in Europe. We decided to start a little closer to home, and got train reservations to Edinburgh, Scotland. What we did not realize when we booked our tickets was that our train to Edinburgh involved a five hour layover from 1-6 a.m. in a middle-of-nowhere train station. So, to begin our wonderful adventure, we spent the night (not sleeping) in an unheated waiting room in Doncaster that henceforth will only be known as my personal hell. However, once we survived this, the rest of the trip was amazing.

We got to the Edinburgh train station at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning, completely exhausted, but ready to explore. We started by heading to the Edinburgh Castle, which takes up a big chunk of the skyline there. There was a lot to see, but my favorite part was the breathtaking view you got when you finished climbing to the top of this gigantic structure. You could see all the way to the ocean and all the sites in Edinburgh. Then because our energy was waning, we took a bus tour of the city, so that we could sit but also decide where to go next. The guides were funny and informative and told us all sorts of odd facts about the city. Most importantly, they told us that you could climb to the top of this large monument that we had seen, so we put that on our to-do list for the next day. We met our suitemates at The Hard Rock Café for a delicious dinner and then headed back to our hostel. I’d never stayed in a hostel before, so I was a little nervous, but we didn’t have any problems. Yes, it was inconvenient to share a bathroom and not be able to leave your stuff in a 16-person room – but it was a bed, and that’s all we needed.

The next day I did a bit of gift and cloth shopping, and then we headed to the monument, Scott’s Monument, to climb. The stairs were a bit ridiculous, with only one REALLY REALLY TINY staircase for the people going up and down.  But, there was a beautiful view at the top. We then went to the National Galleries, which had some great work by Monet, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, El Greco, and many others. All and all it was a very successful and very tiring trip. But, much more relaxing on the way back since the train ride was a straight shot. 

The alarm goes off at 3:30 am and I’m covered in sand.  We’re at the Green Turtle Lodge in Takoradi, Ghana, getting ready for a long journey home after an amazing weekend. Leigh, Kate, and Madison arrived at GTL on Friday. Trevor, Sam, Scott, and I arrived the next day. It’s amazing to me that I have only known them for three weeks. I feel as though it’s been forever.

Our weekend began on the 5:00 am STC bus from Accra. We had to wake up at 4:00 in order to get ready and get there on time. Waiting in line for the bus, I decided I had to pee. Bad idea. The “bathrooms” at these major bus stations are literally open gutters that you pay to stand over and pee in. Needless to say, I held it. The sun rose during our five hour ride and we made it to Takoradi with no setbacks. Takoradi looked surprisingly similar to Accra. But to be fair, we didn’t spend much time there, just enough to grab a quick bite to eat and charter a taxi to GTL. The lodge was an hour away, a drive through a small fishing village. Goats roamed the rough terrain we drove over and little children followed our taxi through the streets, waving excitedly at the four obrunis riding through town.

When we got to the resort we were greeted by the smiling tan faces of our friends, the warm sand beckoning us to lie down, and the soothing sound of the waves crashing on shore. It was entirely unreal. I kept trying to reconstruct how I ended up at a beach resort in Ghana with amazing friends I’m sad I didn’t meet sooner. After a few hours of lounging we decided to take a walk down the beach. A ways down the beach is another small fishing village. As we got closer there were about five little kids waiting to greet us. They seemed hesitant to approach us, that is, until they noticed Trevor’s camera. Immediately they went wild. The children here love cameras. They love to have their picture taken and even more they love seeing their faces on your LCD screen. Within a matter of minutes they grew in number. Suddenly there were at least ten kids for every one of us. Taking pictures, being silly, playing football, and dancing the hokie pokie. Of course they got a little grabby at times, asking us for money or a sip of Scott’s beer, but all in all is was the most fun I’ve had since I was their age.

It was so hard to leave. They wouldn’t let us. Three of them clung to my legs as I tried walking back to the lodge. I can’t even remember how I managed to escape the surprisingly strong grip of their little hands.

The sleeping arrangement at Green Turtle left something to be desired, but was definitely an experience worth having. We slept in tents in a little open hut. The sand and the wind were inescapable and unpleasant to say the least, but the sound of the ocean (combined with the lack of sleep I already had) allowed me to drift into rest … but not for long. The next morning we woke ourselves up at 5:30 am to be ready for a canoe trip we had signed up for. The guided canoe trip through the mangroves was well worth the eight cedi we paid, even though we did not see the monkeys we were promised. The rest of the day was all relaxation and fun. We swam, we drank, we slept, we tanned.  Nothing more was needed.

After the sun had sunk and our bottles were empty, we went to sleep for the second night in our tents.  But again, we did not sleep long. In order to be back in Accra on time, we had to leave GTL at 4:00 am. Two of our friends had left a day earlier, so there were five of us left to cram into a cab for the hour-long ride back to Takoradi. We arrived in Takoradi just on time and got on an MMT bus to Accra. I began to recognize the city as we rolled in. We got in a cab and headed home. I paid the driver, rolled out the back seat, walked through the gate, entered my house, and crashed on my bed to sleep the weekend off. All I can say is that I was satisfied.

(Photo taken by Trevor Cox)

It was his 23rdyear of driving taxis in the city of Buenos Aires. Gabriel was tired of it- the customers who stiffed him, his wife who left him, his kids who never appreciated him, the country that left him poor, tired, and worst of all Argentine. Gabriel, although reaching his 64thyear of age, was not one of those San Telmo taxistas, the ones who stood by their aging Renatas glorifying the age of Perron and what he did for the working class  (not the last time he was president and had returned from Paris, but the first time he ran the old working horse that was Argentina). To be perfectly honest, he didn’t really give a shit about those two bit men, he didn’t belong to a “Radio Taxi” union, his car was in his name (about the only thing he prided himself on)(although the car was wearing and showed signs of age in the damaged and sticky apolostery) and preferred to disassociate himself from the people of his craft.
 
Gabriel, after all, was a solitary man; embittered and lonely he preferred to turn his back on the world before it had time to perform the same abandonment to him. Doing so had come at the price of his wife and children, most thought that it was the other way around, that Gabriel suffered because of his them not in spite of them. Like he always said, “I have seen everything. Blood in my taxi, blood in the streets, all the same to me.”  
          
His Argentina was a sad one. September 22ndwas no different. He ran the 4 to 12 pm shift, not out of obligation, but of custom. The same cotton shirt, that used to be ironed with care, was crumpled and crusty from overuse, as always was under his green driving Bustamente driving vest. In the 60’s Bustamente was a sure mark of class, but over the years the holes had increased in size, so much so that whole fist could find a home on the right side under the armpit.
 
On that particular night, driving through the Microcenter down the widest avenue in the world, 9 de Julio, he spotted some female customers of varying ages on the street corner. One looked to be slightly older than the rest-Gabriel although he was old and lonely, still remembered the old familiar taste of a woman. He preferred female customers for many reasons, one were his perversions, another were they made easy targets. Especially, since these particular women were foreigners.
 
“Paranas y Santa Fe” por favor.
 
“Joelle, are you sure that’s the street that Millon is on? Why don’t you call Chandon and ask,” said the one they called Megan. She was sitting to the right of him in the front seat. A seat he preferred empty and avoided by most of his customers.
 
“Espere un momento, senor. Es que no se muy bien donde vamos. Pero, si nos puede dejar en Santa Fe y Paranas es igual y luego vamos buscando el lugar,” said Megan loudly to his right, deaf ear (deaf because of the many customers who had become to yell at him as they generally felt ignored by the their taxi driver).
 
Gabriel, hardly understood English, but could tell from how the front one was yelling at the back ones that they were confused about the location of their destination. He didn’t feel  particulary generous as to finding out where exactly they wanted to go but decided that since Paranas sounded like Baranas (a little suburb on the outside of Buenos Aires) that he would begin to drive the unassuming American foreigners in that direction. That way he could make an extra 20-30 pesos depending at what part of the journey  they realized he was leading them in the wrong direction.
 
As he drove down the wide avenue, passing Santa Fe, he made a sharp left into the exodus of people trying to return to the comfort of the suburbs. The American women were yelling ugly words from the front seat to the back seat without pause. Suddenly, Megan turned to him in the front seat and angrily began in Spanish, “wait, excuse me, where are you going? Why are you on Calle Libertador? You passed Santa Fe?”
 
Gabriel, bewildered and distracted, answered wearily that he was taking them to Baranas and continued his gaze forward.
 
Megan started again, “I don’t think you understand the street names. We are going to Paranas and Santa Fe. You need to turn left on one of these streets to go back up.” 
 
Gabriel turned and explained quickly and rashly, “you told me to go to Baranas. I am heading there, there is traffic. You want to go to Santa Fe now. Impossible. I can drop you off at Callao and you can walk up, but impossible to take a left hand turn… Do you understand me? I am speaking Castilian Spanish. I don’t know what you speak.”
 
     The exchanges between the two were growing quicker as the three women in the backseat, within their first month of Spanish, sat dumbfounded as they watched their friend enraged. They had been warned about this, this so called “joy-riding” that the taxistas loved to use to take advantage of unassuming foreigners just to make more pesos. However, Gabriel had made a big mistake. Not only did Megan speak Spanish, but she hated the business of tricking tourists.
 
“Maybe you don’t understand me clearly? I am speaking Spanish from Spain. The original Spanish. So either you drive us up Callao or you leave us here…”
 
And that was how I got kicked out of a taxi on the middle of Libertador.

I had expected to open the dryer to find a nice, warm pile of freshly cleaned clothes. Instead I found that when I opened the door a ton of hot water poured onto my feet. I stood there with my wet feet for a moment, staring at the pile of my sopping wet clothes as my initial shock was quickly replaced by annoyance. I grumbled angrily to myself as I began pulling my clothes from the large puddle in the dryer. As I collected each item to wring them out over the sink I decided I would allow myself exactly two hours to be annoyed.

Here’s the thing about living in Ghana: a lot goes wrong. A lot. The dryer that spewed water at me wasn’t an isolated event. It came in the days just after when my house had a small fire thanks to a power surge that fried our fuse box. The fire itself wasn’t really a big deal. We were evacuated and it was put out very quickly so it didn’t have the chance to do any real damage. However, because it was our fuse box that was damaged our house now had no electricity. And because our house’s water supply is brought in through electric pumps we also had no running water. The few days we spent without power and water were somewhat unpleasant but our fellow students were very understanding and allowed us over to their houses whenever we were in need. I did a pretty good job of sucking it up and finding humor in the situation and then a few days later when the power was finally fixed (Well, mostly fixed.) I happily prepared to finally do the laundry that had been piling up in my room.

That’s why it felt like such an attack when the dryer offered up a flood instead of neatly cleaned clothes. But I still felt like I could only allow myself a little bit of time to wallow in my annoyance. Letting myself wallow for a little while would keep me from loosing my mind but I still had to keep things in perspective. A common phrase among the students here for when things go wrong is “This is Africa” (frequently shortened to TIA). It’s typically said with a shrug of the shoulders and an understanding that life here tends to be complicated in ways you’d never expected. It’s a reminder to keep things in perspective. And when I take the time to get some real perspective I can’t help but remember that I’m allowing myself to be annoyed by a few days without running water or electricity in a place where most people simply don’t have access to such things.  By the end of my two-hour period of annoyance I had realized that while my home’s lack of functionality can be quite frustrating, it’s also an opportunity to have a glimpse at how most of the world lives. And that’s exactly why I came here. So I just need to remember to keep trying to frame things within the greater understanding that I’m gaining and from time to time let myself have a few hours where I give myself permission to be whiny.

"Wait, we're going to Slovakia now? I thought that was at least worth a text!"

And with that outraged-yet-still-in-good-humor outburst from my friend and travel companion, I knew that setting impromptu plans for a weekend trip amongst five people turned out to be even more difficult than I thought. It started with an idea, Let's go to Poland! which of course manifested into Let's go to Krakow! And Auschwitz! Our five-day weekend (thanks, Czech Republic!) merited an out-of-country adventure.

First we tried the bus station, and were met with an anything-but-helpful attitude from the travel agent there. Buses, it seemed, weren't leaving for Poland at night. So then we tried the train. Even getting to the train station was a nightmare, and all we wanted to do was ask about tickets. We got off at the wrong stop and thought we could just walk to the station. Oh, how wrong we were. Trotting parallel to a five-lane, busy highway on a walkway about 10 inches across, pushed up against the guardrail... figuring out how the hell to get inside took twenty minutes longer than it should have. And by the time we figured out the station and got to talk to someone, we realized that the ride would be $50 each way - way out of budget for an impromptu short weekend.

Not to be deterred, we decided to pursue other options. My friend looked at buses to Vienna and found some great deals, and after much hurried back-and-forth between the five of us, it was agreed. But wait! There was a third option! Slovakian countryside hiking, complete with nearby hot springs and caves. And without consulting everyone in the group, it was decided. It hadn't even occurred to us that not all five group members were consulted; getting consensus from five separate individuals who aren't always the quickest with their responses makes making plans difficult to say the least. When I casually declared, "Oh we're going to Slovakia now," to my friend, he was so surprised and appalled that I don't think he knew what to feel. How could we have forgotten to talk to everyone about it? Too many people to consider, I guess.

And so tonight, in one hour, I leave for the Slovakian countryside, complete with nearby hot springs and caves. No word yet on if the actual trip will be as stressful and scatterbrained as its inception. It began in Krakow, made a brief pitstop in Vienna, but ended up in Slovakia... what craziness!! 

Today, I went on a field trip with my photography class to a town I had never heard of called Bibbiena. I of course didn’t know what to expect, and was pleasantly surprised to arrive in a Tuscan town that was completely different from Florence. It was extremely small – it seemed like there were only a couple of streets to choose from when we were wandering around, and we kept running into each other (in a class of 6 people) and into the same places (an awesome market where no one spoke English and I bought the most insanely delicious chocolate covered fruit).
 
And as for the cherry on top of this cute little town (other than the mouth-watering handmade ravioli I had for lunch), the theme of the photography festival that we drove an hour and a half to see was none other than Travel. Looking at all of the artwork from Italian artists and seeing their points of view on a subject that is so alluring to me was so great. There were many pictures of train stations, airports, and photos taken by car that instantly reminded me of The Art of Travel reading. Seeing those photographs of the beauty you can find in places of transit really drove that reading home for me and gave me a visual version of it. It was also really cool to see Italian views of their own country through the lens of travel. You don’t really ever think about Italians being tourists in their own country, but they must.
 
Another thing that I appreciated about Bibbiena was the fact that I was truly helpless there. In Florence it really isn’t necessary to know Italian. As it seems, EVERYONE here speaks English. Even if you give your most sincere (and probably embarrassing) attempt at speaking the language, most Italians will just chuckle and respond in English. It gets quite frustrating after a while. But here, I was forced to try my hardest to communicate with waitresses and market workers in order to make purchases. Although it was awkward and slightly frustrating, I really appreciated feeling like I was in an authentic Italian town. One where I didn’t hear Katy Perry’s California Girls emanating from every store I passed. Where I actually am an outsider, and not an accepted part of life, like in Florence, where we are actually catered to in order to extract as many Euros as they can from us, just like the herds of tourists that file in and out of various stores, listening to their tour guides from MP3 players strung around their necks.
 
So it was a nice change of pace to be pushed out of my comfort zone. Now to delve into Florence and find hidden nooks and crannies where I can awkwardly speak Italian.



(Photo above taken by yours truly)