Just to recap, I spent four weeks in a tiny town in Le Marches, then I went on a tour, stopping in Milano to visit La Oriani and her wonderful famiglia, then off to Ischia via horrible Napoli, and finally a handicapped visit to amazing Roma. Let's see some pics.
That view greeted me every morning when I opened the doors leading from my bedroom to the balcony. I don't mean to idealize my living conditions: the toilet was shit-caked and the ceilings were low with metal beams perfect for crushing yo' melon. Still, it's hard to be mad when this is your life's wallpaper. Those of you who have been through the Appenini know that nary a mountain goes by without some sort of fortress, castle, village, church, gelateria or hair salon perched on top in a most picturesque manner. This peak is no exception, though it's hard to tell from this pic. There is an old, abandoned fortress on top, accessible to those who brave the steep, often dangerous pseudo-path, and the wild-looking cows that graze on the hillside. While I never got it together to make the climb (I was in over-protective singing mode) apparently there is a short stretch where you have to make use of a rope to lift yourself up a particularly steep and precarious section. Fun! Let's break our neck on an isolated Italian mountain! (No, really, that shit sounds like fun.)
One last note about Novafeltria. I know in my emails I communicated the general attractiveness of Italians, but I just need to say one more time: it seems so highly improbable that so many hotties could exist in a town of just 6,000, but that's how it goes over there, I guess. The guy who made my daily macchiato looked like Nick Lachey's hotter, Italian brother. Plus he gave me pastries erry day. Score!
The picture above isn't stunning, but it does show what used to be a moat, where we had our final performance of Edgardo di Ravenswood, I mean, lucia di lammermoor. It was in this really cute town called Sant'Arcangelo di Romagna, and the crowd that came to see us was in the 1,000 to 2,000 range. Not bad, huh? Our conductor was this really fucked-up eater. Nevermind that his legendary uncle was also his musical mentor, employing him as pianist in coachings with all the golden-age singers. Nevermind that he whipped that lazy Italian orchestra into shape, and there was nary a problem ever hearing any of the singers. The dude knew his shit. Too bad he didn't have table manners. My first glimpse into his disorder was on my first night at the program. Tired and hongry, I dragged myself up to a decent restaurant, and was seated right next to the maestro's table, where we quickly introduced ourselves. "Nice enough guy," I thought, "but he sure is demolishing that plate of grilled fish. That poor, skinny Korean soprano sharing dinner with him couldn't get a chopstick in edgewise!" Whateverwhatever, no biggie, right? Homeboy was just hongry as fuck. But wait, I know he did NOT just start scraping the various crumbs of breading and focaccia left on the table in his Cookie-Monsterish wake into his gullet, without the tiniest hint of shame or remorse? Yes, he did. In fact, he did it while continuing to monopolize the conversation and looking people in the eye like he wished somebody would say something. Homeboy had that tablecloth looking clean and spontangling by the time he got through with it. Of course, out of respect, I tried not to notice too much, and just decided that it would be better if I could avoid eating with this man again.
Well, I tried to avoid trouble, but trouble done followed me. At our final performance in the moat (see pic above) we had limited backstage facilities. Basically, there was a tent set up behind the stage for Edgardo that he so graciously shared with the rest of the principals and the maestro. (The schlumps in the chorus had to hike across town to get into their rags, but this ain't about them.) Anyway, we took our intermission, as usual, after the Act II sextet, and retired to the tent to decompress and maybe have a couple of snacks. In my case, a snack consisted of an amazing Italian banana (they were friggin deliciouser there for some reason, even though they were imported from South America, just like ours) and a bite of Nutella crepe, equally delicious on both sides of the Atlantico. Well, in comes maestro, and this mug pulls out a 20 oz. Heinekin and a styrofoam take-out container with salsiccie (sausages) and a huge fucking roll. Well, the intermission wasn't going to be that long, so homie gets to work. There weren't many seats backstage, so he paced around the tent while alternately shoving sausage, bread and beer down his gullet. I knew he was asking for trouble, because he was talking to us the whole time- pieces of sausage being thrown our way like so many pieces of pork shrapnel; but even more so, he was asking for it because that roll looked dry and crumbly as hell, and it clearly needed more juice and mastication than he was willing to dedicate. Well, I was right, and about halfway through his punishing of the salsiccie, he started to choke on some bread. He turned a little red in the face, but was coughing, so there was no need to Heimlich, but that motherfucker then had the nerve to cough through the rest of that performance. That sausage sure took a beating, though, cause maestro didn't give a fuck if he was dying or not, he finished that plate up like a champ!
Anywayzzzzzzz....the morning after that performance, I packed my shit up early in the morning, got a buzzcut, and took the train to Milano. Unfortunately, I didn't take many good pictures while I was Milano, because I was too busy having a good time. The Orianis are great hosts, and in their lovely apartment, I found the first (and only) fully-functioning, beautiful Italian bathroom of the entire trip. Here is a cheezy pic of Giulia and I at Parco Sempione in the middle of Milan. In the second pic, you'll see this pond in the park, with the Castello Sforzesco in the background. A nice day, although I was beat up from the street up from lugging that damned 80 pound suitcase all over Italy with my hot boots on. You can't roll up to Milano with any old chanclas on, right?
After leaving Milano, I took a train all day long to Napoli. On the train ride, I taught this Italian kid how to play Solitaire- quite a triumph given my broken Italian skills. I also met four Muslim/Italian girls in hijab. I think they may have been first-generation Italians, as they spoke without an accent, but who knows? They were studying in Bologna, a city that will be on my itinerary when I return, and were a fun distraction until they disembarked in Firenze.
Anyway, they say it's always darkest before dawn, and let me tell you, my experience in Napoli and Ischia was some hateful darkness. Again, a good deal of that can be attributed to my 80-pound suitcase. I'll never do that again- fuck whoever wants me to bring a tuxado to Italy. The other hatefulness can be attributed to:
1. The lack of respect for personal space in Southern Italy. This was problematic for me on many fronts. First of all, growing up a ghetto baby, it's hard to let go of the Baroque Bubble that is so ingrained in that culture. Encroaching on my personal space is always an affront. Add to that Napoli's reputation (well-deserved) as a Mecca for pickpockets, and I was in ethcra-defensive mode. I had on the hardest screwface I could muster, and I tried not to stand in one place too long unless I had my back to a wall. (The Napoletano teen I saw on the tram got the screwface not for a space infraction rather, for his huge G-Unit tattoo.)
2. The fucking ferry operator refused to slow down his thick-ass Napoletano accent enough so that I could understand him telling me that I'd have to take a different, less-direct route because the water was too rough to go to the side of the island where I was staying. I said "fuck it," and just went to another window where the lady hooked me up right away. This was indicative of all the experiences I had in Napoli, now that I think of it. People were either incredibly helpful and gracious, or they were downright assholes. There was no in-between, and the assholes clearly had no worries about job security, so they were ethcra brazen with it.
3. Once I got off the ferry, I was in for a few more hours of madness, starting with the half-hour bus ride around the island, from Ischia Porto to Forio, where I was staying. All I can say is that people pack themselves on the bus, and then they see how much they can push and elbow you in hopes of squeezing thirty more people on. I was persona non grata, of course, because my huge-ass suitcase was taking up enough room for ten Italians, but I was learning quickly: you put on your "so-the-fuck-what" face, and that's that. Unless someone has a knife, of course.
4. I've already related this story to y'alls in my original emails, but I just want to quickly recap that after I got off that fucking bus and arrived at my hostel, I was accosted by Il Rubino. This was the guy who bought me a nice book about Ischia, and signed his name in the front cover, complete with a heart over the 'i' in Rubino. Yeah, that motherfucker made me walk all over the goddamned island after all that bullshit above. Let's not mention that this was my first time ever in a hostel, and all I wanted was cleanliness and privacy. Yeah- a hostel was the right place for me. (For the record, I should say that this hostel was actually quite amazing for what it is. Every room has a balcony overlooking the sea, and considering the filthy people that go in and out of those places everyday, it seemed to be decently clean. Plus, it was really cheap.)
That said, all of my hate disappeared later that night on my walk with Il Rubino, when we stopped at this promontory where we waited for a bus to bring us back to the hostel. The moon was out, and the reflection it made in the Bay of Naples was AMAZING. It was this impossibly wide path of moonlight on an otherwise very dark sea. It's hard to describe, and unfortunately, my point-and-shoot and shaky arm were not up to the task, although I'll share the picture anyway. Again, it was pure magic:
Well, I got over my hate that night, and the next morning I woke up with a new attitude. I decided that I was going lie, beg and steal my way out of hanging out with Il Rubino (did I mention that he was physically handicapped? I'm surely going to hell for abandoning him) and do just one thing: go to the beach, just a fifteen minute walk down the hill:
I gots more pictures of this beach (Citara) and they're all fly, but you get the idea. After an hour of enjoying myself on this crowded, tiny, but lovely beach, I finally got a call from Eric, my molester from St. Louis, who was singing at a program on the island. He came down to meet me at the beach and swim a while, and soon enough, I was invited to go to lunch with Carol Vaness. Sweet! (She was teaching at the program he was singing at, and has been a friend of his girlfriend for a few years now.)
The best part of swimming with Eric is that he's such a pussy. He'll get really really angry if you mention the word "shark" while you're in the water with him. He also really hates seaweed and shit like that. Hilarity! (If I'm honest, I should admit that I freaked myself out a bit when I returned to the States, and researched what kind of sharks inhabit the Mediterranean. Yup- they got Great Whites.) Still, Eric cries like a bitch. (Hi boo.)
I'd post pics of me lunching and lounging with La Vaness, but I was too busy enjoying life and being cool to break out a camera. How gauche that would have been for me to ask for a photo with her! If anything, the real camera-worthy star of that day was the pizza I had for lunch. They really know how to do it up down there.
Just a few more pictures of Ischia- there was beautiful shit errywhere:
Alright, I think I've reached a photo limit of some sort here on Blogger, so I'll have to include others in a different post. To be honest, I didn't get many good pictures in Roma because my camera decided to break as did my knee, so I was a camera-less gimp for my stay in the eternal city. Damn shame, too, because that place is off the chain!
I hope these pictures have warmed up your Saturday, or whatever day it is when you read this. Oh, in other news, I'm getting better everyday. I would even consider a foray into the world at large if it weren't for this damn blizzard. Oh well...
2 comments:
Dear lo'! I need to go to Italy so bad!
I'm glad you're feeling better.
oxoxoxxo
Me too! Me too! Especially to the beach!
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