So I was in kind of a hurry the last couple of times I wrote, and I fear I may have left out some of the juicy stuff.
I’m in Hollywood right now, hanging out with my Bro and trying not to tie up his phone line too much. See, I’m trying my hand at the job market here in L.A., but it seems there’s no such thing as classifieds in the newspapers these days. So I’m doing a lot of looking online, and he’s raised eyebrows at me more than once today alone. Sorry, Bro.
But anyway, I think I have to backtrack a little to Pamplona and the bulls and all that. The thing is that I didn’t actually see any running of any bulls, which is probably a good part of the reason that the experience was such a pleasant one. I think that if I had witnessed anybody getting mangled I probably wouldn’t feel so happy about the whole thing.
But I was there for the opening festivities, and, like I said, the Aussies made it an incredibly exciting experience. I don’t know what it is about those people. It’s as though being an adventurer comes along with Australian citizenship or something. All the Aussies I met abroad were traveling for 6 months or more (some with surfboards under their arms). When I told them that I would be gone for roughly 5 weeks, most of them asked me questions along the lines of, “Why even bother?” They’ve explained to me that Australia is such an isolated country, and it’s so expensive to leave, that they’re gone for long periods of time in order to make it worth the trip.
So I already told about the smelly bus ride (as in, I was smelly because of the caked on eggs and various beverages), and I already told that I visited beaucoup monuments during my stay in Paris, which was brief but pleasant. I could tell you about my stay with my old pal Renee in the Hamptons, but that was just soooooo mellow that I fear I could lull anybody into a pleasant, dreamy siesta just by talking about it.
I’ll just say that Renee’s house is The Cutest and she was The Most Gracious and Entertaining Hostess and the other friends she had staying (a friend of hers from kindergarten and two Swedes) with her for the weekend provided excellent conversation and the whole thing was wonderfully refreshing. Wonderfully relaxing after the whirlwind travels. That is despite the fact that her septic tank burst (or something like that—I’m pretty ignorant about plumbing) while I was there and she spent about 7 hours dealing with getting it pumped by an Emergency Septic Tank Pumping Company. I actually welcomed the waiting-at-home-for-the-guy-to-come-and-do-his-thing thing. That was part of what made the stay so relaxing.
So that leaves me with Hollywood. Oh, but first lemme just advise all readers to avoid Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris like the plague. I arrived 3 ½ hours early and STILL I was running to catch my plane. Nightmare. Part of the thing was that the security inspectors were moving sooooo sloooooowly. I kept getting frustrated while I was watching them from the line because it seemed that they were just chit-chatting with all the passengers; it was like they were flirting or something because they had these smirks on their faces and all the passengers were smiling all goofily while they talked. ‘What IS this?,’ I thought. But when I got to my guy, I realized the people were smiling and laughing because the inspectors’ accents were so strong (accentuated by the fact that they were speaking through smirks for whatever reason) that it was nearly impossible to decipher what they were asking. Example:
Inspector: What do you do to leave?
Me: What?
Inspector: What do you do for to leave?
(I’m thinking well, I packed my bag and checked out of my hostel and then took the Metro to the RER train to the airport shuttle and now I’m here. But I know that’s not what he means. I just can’t figure out what he DOES mean. I answer just to answer something…)
Me: Well, I packed my bag and checked out of my hostel and then took the Metro…
Inspector: To leave!!! What do you do for to leave???!!!!!
Me: Oh, you mean what do I do for a living?
Inspector: Yes, for to leave.
Me: I’m a student. (I lie to make it less complicated)
Inspector: And who pack your bag?
And on and on. But the funny thing was that, at first, the way he asked questions was so unassuming that it almost seemed as though he was just making pleasant conversation, and that he was really interested in my trip, which is the other reason I think all the passengers were smiling. Because he said, “Where did you go on your holiday?” and I thought he was just passing time while he did the official business of checking my passport. So I said, “Well, I was in Italy and then I went down to Malta, oh and then I was in Barcelona and Pamplona and then I came up here to Paris.’ I was about to pull out my pictures and tell him the story of Sea Malta when he started in with the “What do you do for to leave?” business. The whole thing was just kind of goofy but cute somehow.
Not cute enough to overshadow the rest of the de Gaulle nightmare, though, so be warned.
And Hollywood.
It’s only my first day, but I’m just returning to old stomping grounds anyway, so I feel at home. Except that I think there’s a limit to how much one can feel at home in Hollywood. There is definitely an anonymity about the place. And yes, everyone here is trying to make it. And yes, the smog is yucky poo poo. And yes it’s dirty and somehow sad. But something has me drawn here, so we’ll see what happens.
The best thing that happened to me today was that a human sandwich spoke to me. There was this sign twirler dressed like a big sandwich standing on the street corner outside of Subway. When I walked by, he spoke. It seemed to me that that sort of thing shouldn’t be allowed—like talking sandwiches are scarier than they could ever be effective promotional agents, but that’s just me:
Sandwich: Helloooooooo.
Me: laughter
Sandwich: I know why you’re laughing.
Me: A talking sandwich is pretty funny.
Sandwich: Do you want something to drink?
Silliness. I had just had something to drink, so I walked away without answering, but now I’m curious. I mean, did the sandwich have beverages tucked between his folds of lettuce? Was he giving away free drink coupons with subway sandwich purchases?
Maybe I’ll go by tomorrow to kill to boredom that will inevitably come while I wait for responses to my employment queries.
Bottom lines are that I’m back on American soil and safe and mostly happy save for the sad that has come with the end of my fantastic voyage. I’m currently looking into jobs with travel opportunities. The travel bug dies hard like Malta mosquitoes, it seems.
Love to you all.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
French for Peep Show
Well, forget the cello. The cello was cool, but the Running of the Bulls was *****SUPER COOL*****
I mean really super duper amazing...the biggest party and the best time of my life.
I can't write many details right now because
1) I'm in Paris and have slightly more interesting things to do (I just had to get online to book a hostel in New York) and
2) As the parenthetical comments in #1 imply, I'll be home soon enough anyway and can talk about it in-person.
That's right...I'll be back as of Sunday, just 5 short weeks later.
Yes, this is a big time bummer. But I don't have any money left, and the bills and students loans I have back home are looming menacingly overhead. I figure it would be a bit nicer to go traveling again when I can get those things under control and not be worrying about it.
But Pamplona...let me just say a bit about this. It was inSANE!!!! Sooooo many people. Sooooo much fun. Has anybody seen photos of the big square where they kick off the festival every year? You know, the sea-of-red-handkerchiefs-and-near-rabid-with-enthusiasm-Spaniards? Well, I happened upon that square quite by accident and found myself in the heart of the madness. And it was a very invigorating sort of madness. And of course there were the people jumping off that monument (mostly tourists, mostly Aussie tourists at that--the Aussies are ridiculously crazy and great!) and the Sangria a-flowin' and sleeping by the bank of a little river for a half hour total in two nights and the 14 hour busride from Barcelona to Paris afterward (three days, yes three days without a shower covered in the champagne and sangria and beer and eggs that landed on me during the celebrations).
Paris has been quite calm, relatively.
I'm staying in a cute little hostel in the Montmartre area of the city.
Montmartre is French for "peep show."
Just kidding, but there are a TON of peepshows around, though the area is nice otherwise. I saw about 600 monuments yesterday and am about to head out for Round 2 today. Paris is beautiful and ugly at the same time. Kind of like every major city...it's got its attractions mixed with the comfortable littering tendencies of the locals. I can't think of a place I'd rather be at this moment...except maybe Pamplona :)
I leave tomorrow and will be in New York until Sunday, then back to L.A.
:(
I mean really super duper amazing...the biggest party and the best time of my life.
I can't write many details right now because
1) I'm in Paris and have slightly more interesting things to do (I just had to get online to book a hostel in New York) and
2) As the parenthetical comments in #1 imply, I'll be home soon enough anyway and can talk about it in-person.
That's right...I'll be back as of Sunday, just 5 short weeks later.
Yes, this is a big time bummer. But I don't have any money left, and the bills and students loans I have back home are looming menacingly overhead. I figure it would be a bit nicer to go traveling again when I can get those things under control and not be worrying about it.
But Pamplona...let me just say a bit about this. It was inSANE!!!! Sooooo many people. Sooooo much fun. Has anybody seen photos of the big square where they kick off the festival every year? You know, the sea-of-red-handkerchiefs-and-near-rabid-with-enthusiasm-Spaniards? Well, I happened upon that square quite by accident and found myself in the heart of the madness. And it was a very invigorating sort of madness. And of course there were the people jumping off that monument (mostly tourists, mostly Aussie tourists at that--the Aussies are ridiculously crazy and great!) and the Sangria a-flowin' and sleeping by the bank of a little river for a half hour total in two nights and the 14 hour busride from Barcelona to Paris afterward (three days, yes three days without a shower covered in the champagne and sangria and beer and eggs that landed on me during the celebrations).
Paris has been quite calm, relatively.
I'm staying in a cute little hostel in the Montmartre area of the city.
Montmartre is French for "peep show."
Just kidding, but there are a TON of peepshows around, though the area is nice otherwise. I saw about 600 monuments yesterday and am about to head out for Round 2 today. Paris is beautiful and ugly at the same time. Kind of like every major city...it's got its attractions mixed with the comfortable littering tendencies of the locals. I can't think of a place I'd rather be at this moment...except maybe Pamplona :)
I leave tomorrow and will be in New York until Sunday, then back to L.A.
:(
Friday, July 04, 2003
Barcelona & the Best Night Ever
Okay, I just had to make one amendment to my last entry...
It wasn´t the peeling out that finally put things in Malta over the top.
It was the Mormons.
Mormons on Malta!!!!!
But Barcelona, My Oh My!
I arrived yesterday and have decided it is the most beautiful city I´ve ever seen.
Yesterday I saw a Dali exhibit, which gave me a little peek into the brain of certainly one of the most imaginative and eccentric figures of the 20th Century. You know, he had a real knack for depicting avant garde uses for human genitals in drawings. Just kidding. I mean, he did, but the exhibit was much more than that.
Today I went to a garden designed by Gaudi, the famous architect. Another imaginative fellow. There were a house and a few structures in the park that felt like something out of Smurf Village. Well anyway it was dreamy and wonderful.
But last night, I experienced the best moment of my trip thus far.
I was walking through this little alleyway that passes by a really big, really amazing church, and there was a small opening where a solo cellist was playing (with a portable CD player nearby, playing a single piano as accomaniment). The night was perfect (cool and a little cloudy), and the music floated out from the cello, danced mournfully through the air, and approached me with a vivid sort of incredible sort of wondrous sort of hesitance that was haunting and inviting at the same time.
I decided to sit down for a while.
And my reward for staying came in the form of ¨Ave Maria,¨about six songs later. That song gets me EVERY SINGLE time, but most especially last night, alone in a little alleyway on a perfect night in Barcelona, Spain. I decided that that moment alone--even if it would have been the *only* memorable moment during the entire trip--was worth the journey.
There are truly amazing street performers here. Street performing seems less of a way for people to subsist than a venue for really talented people to showcase that talent and make a decent living. The charcoal and pencil portraits the artists do here, in an hour´s time, represent the kind of work they would be paid REALLY GOOD money to produce in the States. And I´ve heard all kinds of brilliant musicians playing all kinds of instruments. It´s difficult to retain the will to continue walking most of the time with all the entertainment to be experienced on the way.
And guess where I´ll be heading the day after tomorrow!!
Guess!!
Guess, I said!!!!
Well, I won´t give it all away (since it seems you reFUSE to guess), but I´ll just say that it has a little something to do with trampling, a little something to do with red, and a lot to do with ludicrous, idiot tourists looking for an adrenaline rush.
I´ve yet to decide if I´ll be running :)
It wasn´t the peeling out that finally put things in Malta over the top.
It was the Mormons.
Mormons on Malta!!!!!
But Barcelona, My Oh My!
I arrived yesterday and have decided it is the most beautiful city I´ve ever seen.
Yesterday I saw a Dali exhibit, which gave me a little peek into the brain of certainly one of the most imaginative and eccentric figures of the 20th Century. You know, he had a real knack for depicting avant garde uses for human genitals in drawings. Just kidding. I mean, he did, but the exhibit was much more than that.
Today I went to a garden designed by Gaudi, the famous architect. Another imaginative fellow. There were a house and a few structures in the park that felt like something out of Smurf Village. Well anyway it was dreamy and wonderful.
But last night, I experienced the best moment of my trip thus far.
I was walking through this little alleyway that passes by a really big, really amazing church, and there was a small opening where a solo cellist was playing (with a portable CD player nearby, playing a single piano as accomaniment). The night was perfect (cool and a little cloudy), and the music floated out from the cello, danced mournfully through the air, and approached me with a vivid sort of incredible sort of wondrous sort of hesitance that was haunting and inviting at the same time.
I decided to sit down for a while.
And my reward for staying came in the form of ¨Ave Maria,¨about six songs later. That song gets me EVERY SINGLE time, but most especially last night, alone in a little alleyway on a perfect night in Barcelona, Spain. I decided that that moment alone--even if it would have been the *only* memorable moment during the entire trip--was worth the journey.
There are truly amazing street performers here. Street performing seems less of a way for people to subsist than a venue for really talented people to showcase that talent and make a decent living. The charcoal and pencil portraits the artists do here, in an hour´s time, represent the kind of work they would be paid REALLY GOOD money to produce in the States. And I´ve heard all kinds of brilliant musicians playing all kinds of instruments. It´s difficult to retain the will to continue walking most of the time with all the entertainment to be experienced on the way.
And guess where I´ll be heading the day after tomorrow!!
Guess!!
Guess, I said!!!!
Well, I won´t give it all away (since it seems you reFUSE to guess), but I´ll just say that it has a little something to do with trampling, a little something to do with red, and a lot to do with ludicrous, idiot tourists looking for an adrenaline rush.
I´ve yet to decide if I´ll be running :)
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
The Most Valiant of Knights in a Sea of Slime
Godforsaken Island!!!
Yes, yes, the island fever has set in.
I think what finally broke me was the shudders that run up and down my spine each time I hear the sound of a car peeling out. And this is a sound I hear quite often here, at least 10 times/day. Where are they all going? I mean, what's the big hurry?! I think the sound of a car peeling out is my least favorite sound in the whole world.
I'm oh so happy to be leaving for Spain (Barcelona) tomorrow.
But my last few days here have been really, really wonderful and full of the kind of solitude I had hoped to find when I left for Europe without a travel plan. The exception to my solitude came in the form of Nick (whom I hadn't seen much at all during my time here) and a German fellow by the name of Martin who was staying in Nick's guesthouse.
On Nick's last night here, the three of us went to a little bar and then headed down to Paceville (Fuego, specifically)because Martin had been there on Friday and learned that they play real Salsa and Merengue from 3-5 in the morning or so. Well, that didn't exactly turn out to be true on a Monday night, but the three of us were having a good time, Nick dancing sprightly with the goofy, slightly opened-mouth smile he wears when he's very drunk. At something like 4 o'clock in the morning, it began to seem to me that the entire dancefloor was covered with men--horny, eager, squinty-eyed men who seemed not to have seen a female in years of something like solitary confinement. So, lucky for me, Nick and Martin were hovering nearby and were quick to intercede when they sensed I was uncomfortable. At one point they nearly fought with a man who decided that 15 seconds was enough time spent dancing with a woman before it was okay to grab her ass. They were the most valiant of knights in a sea of slime.
After Fuego we decided to take a sunrise skinny dip (my first ever) in the Mediterranean. Wonderful. Martin laughed (well not really, though I sensed he was laughing internally) at me in my prudish Americaness (demonstrated by my unwillingness to remove clothing until actually in the water), but for goodness sakes, the sun was already up, and people were walking their dogs on the nearby strand. Plus, Malta is a pretty conservative, and I'm pretty sure we were breaking the law, so best to be subtle about it, no?
Today I learned that Saad (from the guesthouse) was detained for an hour and a half by the police yesterday because "he resembled a man who was wanted for stabbing a Maltese woman last week." See, if you talk to the Maltese, they will tell you that the only problems with crime here come from the Arab population. And to the Maltese, all Arabs are the same. The Arab population here suffers a kind of racism that I think could be rivaled by the United States maybe 60 years ago or so. Terrible. Saad said he eventually saw a photo of the wanted man in question, and that the only resemblance the two of them bore was their shared black hair and dark eyes. Again, terrible. But at least they didn't beat him like he said they were beating some of the other men (all Arab, of course) being held while he was there. More of the terrible.
I'll be heading to the beach one last time this afternoon. There is an oh-so-groovy little cabana near the local rock beach, where the owner (a curly-haired old hippy with eyes that travel in two different directions) plays music just wonderful to frolic in the water and bathe in the sun to...Bob Marley, Pink Floyd, Radiohead, Grateful Dead, U2. Yesterday, I felt spontaneous tears spring forth upon hearing Marley's live version of "No Woman, No Cry." That song ALWAYS gets me, but I don't think it ever made me cry before. Where would we be on this earth without the comfort, the joy, the inspiration, and the sometimes heart-wrenching effects of music?
I'm waxing a little dreamy right now. I'm having one of those moments where I just feel incredibly fortunate to be alive.
And I'm really looking forward to Spain; I feel her reaching her fingers invitingly in my direction.
Yes, yes, the island fever has set in.
I think what finally broke me was the shudders that run up and down my spine each time I hear the sound of a car peeling out. And this is a sound I hear quite often here, at least 10 times/day. Where are they all going? I mean, what's the big hurry?! I think the sound of a car peeling out is my least favorite sound in the whole world.
I'm oh so happy to be leaving for Spain (Barcelona) tomorrow.
But my last few days here have been really, really wonderful and full of the kind of solitude I had hoped to find when I left for Europe without a travel plan. The exception to my solitude came in the form of Nick (whom I hadn't seen much at all during my time here) and a German fellow by the name of Martin who was staying in Nick's guesthouse.
On Nick's last night here, the three of us went to a little bar and then headed down to Paceville (Fuego, specifically)because Martin had been there on Friday and learned that they play real Salsa and Merengue from 3-5 in the morning or so. Well, that didn't exactly turn out to be true on a Monday night, but the three of us were having a good time, Nick dancing sprightly with the goofy, slightly opened-mouth smile he wears when he's very drunk. At something like 4 o'clock in the morning, it began to seem to me that the entire dancefloor was covered with men--horny, eager, squinty-eyed men who seemed not to have seen a female in years of something like solitary confinement. So, lucky for me, Nick and Martin were hovering nearby and were quick to intercede when they sensed I was uncomfortable. At one point they nearly fought with a man who decided that 15 seconds was enough time spent dancing with a woman before it was okay to grab her ass. They were the most valiant of knights in a sea of slime.
After Fuego we decided to take a sunrise skinny dip (my first ever) in the Mediterranean. Wonderful. Martin laughed (well not really, though I sensed he was laughing internally) at me in my prudish Americaness (demonstrated by my unwillingness to remove clothing until actually in the water), but for goodness sakes, the sun was already up, and people were walking their dogs on the nearby strand. Plus, Malta is a pretty conservative, and I'm pretty sure we were breaking the law, so best to be subtle about it, no?
Today I learned that Saad (from the guesthouse) was detained for an hour and a half by the police yesterday because "he resembled a man who was wanted for stabbing a Maltese woman last week." See, if you talk to the Maltese, they will tell you that the only problems with crime here come from the Arab population. And to the Maltese, all Arabs are the same. The Arab population here suffers a kind of racism that I think could be rivaled by the United States maybe 60 years ago or so. Terrible. Saad said he eventually saw a photo of the wanted man in question, and that the only resemblance the two of them bore was their shared black hair and dark eyes. Again, terrible. But at least they didn't beat him like he said they were beating some of the other men (all Arab, of course) being held while he was there. More of the terrible.
I'll be heading to the beach one last time this afternoon. There is an oh-so-groovy little cabana near the local rock beach, where the owner (a curly-haired old hippy with eyes that travel in two different directions) plays music just wonderful to frolic in the water and bathe in the sun to...Bob Marley, Pink Floyd, Radiohead, Grateful Dead, U2. Yesterday, I felt spontaneous tears spring forth upon hearing Marley's live version of "No Woman, No Cry." That song ALWAYS gets me, but I don't think it ever made me cry before. Where would we be on this earth without the comfort, the joy, the inspiration, and the sometimes heart-wrenching effects of music?
I'm waxing a little dreamy right now. I'm having one of those moments where I just feel incredibly fortunate to be alive.
And I'm really looking forward to Spain; I feel her reaching her fingers invitingly in my direction.
Wednesday, June 25, 2003
The Savoy Guest/Halfway House
As promised, I would like to invite you into the world of the Savoy Guesthouse.
First, a bit about the house itself.
There are three floors and something like 14 rooms. My room is on the second floor, where it's warm, but not as warm as the third floor, so I lucked out. There is a little rooftop terrrace where I can go at night and look at the stars above or the people below. I can also hear, for example, the sounds of neighbors' domestic disputes, and a strange little bird warble I've never heard before. I've yet to see the actual bird, and I think it's more interesting that way.
My room has tile flooring, a double bed, and a window that overlooks a busy street, where there's a crosswalk just perfect for getting killed while crossing (the crosswalk is right at a curve in the street, where cars come a-flyin'). Mine is also one of the few rooms with its own shower, for which I sacrificed having a kitchenette. The kitchenette would have been nice, but I've been grateful for the shower since I realized that a pervy old male resident named Tony likes to check out (up close and personally) the laundry of the women who use the rooftop clothesline; washing and drying my clothes in my private shower has afforded a nice alternative.
There is a common room where people watch T.V.... about 6 channels in Italian, 2 or 3 in Maltese, and one sometimes showing American series (series'? serieses?) in English.
The plumbing, due to the building's age, is, um, a bit of a gamble. Everytime I flush and the toilet actually works, I feel like I've won the lottery. Also due to this temperamental plumbing, I never know exactly what I'm going to find in the toilet, courtesy of the last visitor, who may not have been so lucky with the plumbing lottery. I've had a few frights in this situation, unable to imagine what said non-flusher might have consumed or imbibed the night before to have produced what was left in the toilet for me to find.
The window in my room is best left open at night (as the afternoon sun makes my room pretty stuffy in the late afternoon), but leaving it open means letting in the mosquitos, and I have a very bad relationship with mosquitos. Last week, after declaring an all-out war with one particularly robust pest, I witnessed the emergence of my alter-ego, which was quite disturbing. See, I don't usually kill bugs. I'm more one for ushering them out, or ignoring them. But you know, with mosquitos it's an "us or them" sort of thing--"eat [or "kill" in this case] or be eaten." So I chose "kill." Now, this mosquito had an admirably determined will to live; I had thought I killed it twice, when I saw it land on my bedspread, on my leg. I was just about to turn the light out and go to sleep, so I knew that this was the Moment of Truth. He would have had his way with me all night long. So I moved my hand slowly toward him and threw my hand down in a quick and violent SLAP!! Then (and this is where my dark side exposed itself) I actually uttered the words...
"YES!!! DIE, M@therf*cker!!!"
Mygoonus! Then, in what I'm sure was my universal lesson for the day, I became aware of a warm and throbbing pain coming from my leg. See, I had forgotten, in my focusing on KILLING, that I had a fresh sunburn, and I had struck my leg hard enough to keep me awake with the sore, radiating effects of the slap for another 25 minutes. Tisk, tisk, tisk. We'll work on ushering the little buggers out from now on, eh?
But anyway, enough about my room and my evening death-related activities. I want to introduce you to the players...the Savoy Guesthouse Horror Picture Show. I use "Horror" in jest. There is nothing terrible about my fellow residents (well, most of them, anyway), but they are indeed interesting.
First, I'll start with the house Mamas--two sisters who run the place and who keep everyone reasonably in-line.
The first is Josephine, a buxom sort of Mother Hen with a wicked dry sense of humor. It took my a while to plug into this humor, and a few times I really thought she was upset with me. For example, the other day I was talking with my friend in the common room, and I turned the T.V. off because nobody was watching it (or so I thought). Josephine emerged from her little office, where she had been talking on the phone, and said, "WHO turned off my T.V.?!!!!" I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I did. I didn't think anybody was watching it." She replied with, "Well, I was watching it." Then, looking directly at me with raised eyebrow, she said, "It was an AMERICAN film," and walked off in a huff. A couple minutes later I realized she was joking when my friend pointed out that she had actually been watching the news. But despite her sometimes ambiguous comments, she is clearly a caring woman who always remembers to give messages, never goes snooping through rooms, always remembers to bring a fresh towel, and likes to ask about the plans you may have mentioned having for the previous evening..."How was the jazz?"..."Did you have fun on the island of Gozo?"
Her sister, Lina, is a bit more military-like in nature and is less likely to chew the fat. In the afternoons, she sits watching T.V. with her boyfriend Charles, a red-faced Maltese man who's been living in San Bruno, California for 44 years or so. He comes to visit her every summer and watch T.V. They are both cordial and pleasant enough, though definitely more distant than Josephine. I would never refer to Lina as a "Mother Hen."
But both sisters stir up a mean carafe of instant coffee in the mornings--my choice meal after I fast grew tired of the standard breakfast fare...corn flakes and milk, orange juice, and bread with marmalade. I bought my own wheat bisquit sort of things (called "digestives"(?)) and usually have a few of those as well. Incidentally, I wanted to say a bit about the milk here in Malta because I promise it's unlike anything you've ever experienced. Okay, you know how thick all-fat, Vitamin D milk is in the States? Well multiply that by two, at least. The milk here crawls down your throat at a pace that might make you feel like gagging, or chasing it with something like cranberry juice to clear the canals. But if it's cold enough (which is rare), it can be especially satisfying and take the place of a three-course meal.
But we were talking about the residents...
There's Iris, a young Chinese student studying English here. She has a wonderfully soft and most melodic voice, and when I told her this, she said that she'd studied voice (as in, singing) in China and had trained her voice to be that way. Cool. I asked if she would mind giving me a little concert sometime, which she answered with the words, "Yes, I will sing to make you feel happy." Isn't that awesome?
There are two other young Chinese students who are also studying English but are loathe to actually speak it. The only conversation I had with one of them concerned American movies and basketball, during which the young man (Da) declared his favorites to be "Bread PEE" (Brad Pitt), "SUHdra Block" (Sandra Bullock), and "SHUH-cle OH null" (Shaquille O'Neal). Please understand I'm not making fun of his accent, just trying to give an idea of why I had to strain and stretch my ears in my desire to have a conversation with him. He was nice, but I fear the fact that the two share a room and never leave the guesthouse is keeping them from learning much English while they're here. Da told me that they must pass Standard English exams next month in order to be admitted to the University of Malta. Hmmm. Oh, one other thing he told me was that, growing up in China, one of the few American series he saw was "Growing Pains." It took a while to determine this was the show he was talking about, finally becoming clear when he mentioned a 'Michael' who was always getting into trouble. Turns out Da's dad had always wanted a son more interesting, less shy than Da himself, and continually asked Da why he couldn't have been more like Michael from "Growing Pains" and at least do something interesting once in a while. That broke my heart.
There's an Egyptian man named Mario who brews beer in his room and wears a near-constant scowl on his face. The only time he ever spoke to me, the conversation went like this:
Me: Hello
Mario: Hello [heading up the stairs and then retreating to add to this initial response]. Are you Jewish?
Me: Me? [a line from "The Princess Bride" coming to mind: "Do you always begin conversations this way?" ]
Mario: Yes, are you Jewish?
Me: Do you mean religion or race?
Mario: Religion
Me: No
Mario: But your parents, are they Jewish?
Me: No, I was raised Catholic
Mario: Hmm. [turning, without another word, toward his room]
So. That's Mario, as far as I know him.
There's an older British man and a young Russian girl, neither of whom I've seen enough to have learned their names or anything about their situations.
There's an older Maltese woman named Anne, whose habits and the incredibly lived-in state of whose room would make you believe she's been living in the same guesthouse, piling the same tangerine marmalade on her bread in the morning, for the past 37 1/2 years. In the afternoons, she can be found in the foyer, where she serves as the house's first line-of-defense, or last barrier-to-your-exit, depending on if you're coming or going: "Where are you going?" "To the beach? Which one?" "When will you come back?" "Who are you going with?" "Where did you go?" "What did you do there?" This drives some of the guests absolutely crazy, and I think Anne is reason #1 for Nick's refering to the Savoy as a "halfway house," but the woman is harmless and actually very sweet. She's just a bit inquisitive, which I think is merely due to the fact that she is, I think, somewhat physically unable to leave the house and so lives vicariously through the other residents.
I felt bad the other day because I was sitting near Anne in the foyer when I happened to glance down at her feet and caught sight of her breathtakingly overgrown toenails. I, anticipating that maybe she didn't own a pair of nailclippers and thinking she might like to borrow mine, embarked on this conversation:
Me: Anne, I noticed your toenails are a little long. Do you...
Anne: I know, I know. I'm sorry. I was gonna cut them last night and then I forgot.
Me: No, no, I was just wondering if you needed to borrow some clippers.
Anne: No, I have them. I'm sorry. I'll cut them tonight. I will cut them tonight.
Me: I don't care, I mean, it doesn't bother me. I was just gonna offer you mine.
Anne: No, I have them, but it's just a little difficult for me to cut them.
So then I was thinking maybe she needed help cutting them, and the conversation continued:
Me: Oh, do you need help? I mean, I could help you if you wanted.
Anne: It's okay, and I promise, I'll cut them tonight. I'll cut them tonight.
I felt really bad at this point because I could see that Anne couldn't understand that I was just concerned. She thought that I was disgusted by her toenails and was trying to hint/guilt her into cutting them. The more I said, the more I felt that she was misunderstanding me and that I was making her feel bad. So, I dropped the toenail subject. Now, I've neglected to mention yet that Iris (the young Chinese girl) had been sitting in the foyer also, but she wasn't listening to us; she had been watching T.V. I'm not kidding...five minutes later, during a commercial, she gingerly glanced around the room, looked casually at the two of us, caught sight of Anne's feet, and said (in the harsh and unapologetic way that only English-as-a-second-language speakers do accidentally), "Are you going to cut your toenails?!"
Oh my. The whole conversation started all over again, Anne becoming more and more convinced, I'm sure, that her toenails were an affront to the civilized world.
The next morning, I walked into the breakfast room and the first thing Anne said to me was, "I forgot to cut my toenails again, but I'll cut them tonight. I'll cut them tonight," shaking her head absolutely in betrayal of the fact that she was not only trying to convince me of this intent, but to convince herself as well.
And that's Anne.
Then there are Tony and Eddie, both elderly long-term residents who hover on the edge of eviction every single day.
See, Josephine's problem with Eddie is that he begins drinking at 11:00 every morning and doesn't stop until he's consumed an entire bottle of Auld Lang Syne Scotch Whiskey. His only defense to this beef is to point out that Tony begins drinking at 5:00 in the morning and doesn't stop until he's consumed two entire bottles of Auld Lang Syne Scotch Whiskey. Both arguments are true, and the entire hallway near these men's rooms reeks terribly of sour alcohol breath.
Tony is Maltese, but he lived 44 years in England, where he was married to a woman from India. Tony fled the country when his wife died and her son (from a previous marriage) tried to kill him for attempting to incinerate her body in compliance with her wishes. So he brought her dead body and all to Malta and has been living in something like exile for the past who knows how long, in the Savoy Guesthouse. Now, this lamentable tale might cause you to take pity on the old man, but nay, I say. You should hear the rest first. You might remember my having referred to Tony earlier as the "pervy old man" who checks out women's clothing on the clothesline. Well that's true of him. He is also given to offering hourly work to female guesthouse residents. And he sees absolutely NOTHING wrong with this. On the day he offered this kind of work to me (as if it were some kind of favor), and I became angry and yelled for the first time in I have no idea how long, he asked, very innocently, wherein lied the problem. "It's good money," he reasoned, "Ten Lira per hour."
Ten Lira is roughly 27 American dollars.
Eddie is alternately disgusted with Tony and is his best friend. That afternoon, after Tony had been asked to leave the room, Eddie denounced him as a scoundrel, a truly reprehensible human being, a waste of good oxygen. Moments later, Tony reappeared in the doorway, having forgotten his glass of whiskey. And when he left, Eddie said, "Ok, I'll come see you later."
I throw my hands up.
Eddie is from Pakistan, where he was forced out because of an inability to find work, having suffered from prejudice associated with his being a Christian. He claims to be a palm reader, and has offered to read my palm but failed to deliver on this promise so far. Until now, he's only shared with me that my lucky day is Wednesday, and that things I begin on Wednesday will have good outcomes. Good to know.
Eddie also writes jokes (or joke, as far as I know--so far he's shared the same one with me three times). The example:
A bartender closes his bar and goes home to sleep. A little while later he's awakened by the phone, and the man on the other line asks when he'll be reopening in the morning, to which he answers, "Sometime around 10:00 am." A couple of hours later, the man calls back, wanting to know EXACTLY when he'll be opening, and the bartender repeats, "I told you! Around 10:00." By the third call, the bartender is irate, and when the man asks again for the exact time, he answers with, "You bloody bastard! You've ruined my night! If you're so bloody fond of drinking, why don't you buy a case of liquor and drink it at home?!" The voice on the other end answers, "Look man, I don't drink. I promise. I just came into your bar to use the restroom and now I'm locked inside until you reopen."
Now, it's difficult to find that joke funny more than once. But watching Eddie's face--the way he cracks up at his own cleverness--makes it worth waiting for the punchline.
The other day Eddie tried to pay his rent and Josephine told him to keep his money because she was kicking him out. In a panic, he called Tony downstairs so the two together, whiskey bottles in hands, could brainstorm a solution to this new problem. After a couple of hours of careful discussion and plotting, their answer was to send Tony in to speak to Josephine. Slowly, cunningly, he crept into her office, his lines planned. She took one look at him and said only these two words: "You're next."
Ouch.
But it's not true. They'll probably both die there. I think she just likes to scare them into compliance...she's told me how happy she's been with the silence and the cleanliness of rooms she has observed since she made her threats.
The one guest I've yet to discuss, Saad, refers to them as Tom and Jerry, but we can't really figure out who's who.
Saad is a young man from Morocco who's here to find work. He's full of insane tales about Morocco and what he refers to as "magic." He also talks a lot about "phantoms," which he pronounces "FAWN-tomes," in a way that makes them sound truly scary and almost believable. He claims this magic has been responsible (in his eye-witness experience) for:
* A young man spelling an American woman into falling in love with him, her taking him back to the States where they still live.
* His mortal enemy coming to his house, weeping, and waiting with his mother for three hours until Saad came home, at which time the enemy apologized for all past transgressions.
* Same said enemy coming to and wondering what the hell she was doing in his house, after Saad asked the spell-casting third party to remove the magic.
* A young newlywed being unable to do the deed on the wedding night, thanks to the magic performed by the scores of young bachlorettes in the village who were jealous and angered at his finally getting hitched.
* Same said newlywed impregnating his wife when Saad's magical grandmother intervened with her White Magic, on his behalf.
* A young man who moved to Libya to work being sometimes given to intense and overwhelming desires to return home to his girlfriend, who made a magic paper and tied it to the leaves of a tree so that the magic would make his mind change with the wind.
!!!
It's funny, though...if you listen to him tell these stories, they sound true. Do you think that magic is merely a matter of believing in it? It seems to me that might be a contributing factor.
All in all, these characters have made the stay entertaining and well worth the whopping fifteen bucks a night I'm paying to stay there :)
And that, my friends, is the Savoy Guesthouse. Ya'll stop by sometime, y'hear?
First, a bit about the house itself.
There are three floors and something like 14 rooms. My room is on the second floor, where it's warm, but not as warm as the third floor, so I lucked out. There is a little rooftop terrrace where I can go at night and look at the stars above or the people below. I can also hear, for example, the sounds of neighbors' domestic disputes, and a strange little bird warble I've never heard before. I've yet to see the actual bird, and I think it's more interesting that way.
My room has tile flooring, a double bed, and a window that overlooks a busy street, where there's a crosswalk just perfect for getting killed while crossing (the crosswalk is right at a curve in the street, where cars come a-flyin'). Mine is also one of the few rooms with its own shower, for which I sacrificed having a kitchenette. The kitchenette would have been nice, but I've been grateful for the shower since I realized that a pervy old male resident named Tony likes to check out (up close and personally) the laundry of the women who use the rooftop clothesline; washing and drying my clothes in my private shower has afforded a nice alternative.
There is a common room where people watch T.V.... about 6 channels in Italian, 2 or 3 in Maltese, and one sometimes showing American series (series'? serieses?) in English.
The plumbing, due to the building's age, is, um, a bit of a gamble. Everytime I flush and the toilet actually works, I feel like I've won the lottery. Also due to this temperamental plumbing, I never know exactly what I'm going to find in the toilet, courtesy of the last visitor, who may not have been so lucky with the plumbing lottery. I've had a few frights in this situation, unable to imagine what said non-flusher might have consumed or imbibed the night before to have produced what was left in the toilet for me to find.
The window in my room is best left open at night (as the afternoon sun makes my room pretty stuffy in the late afternoon), but leaving it open means letting in the mosquitos, and I have a very bad relationship with mosquitos. Last week, after declaring an all-out war with one particularly robust pest, I witnessed the emergence of my alter-ego, which was quite disturbing. See, I don't usually kill bugs. I'm more one for ushering them out, or ignoring them. But you know, with mosquitos it's an "us or them" sort of thing--"eat [or "kill" in this case] or be eaten." So I chose "kill." Now, this mosquito had an admirably determined will to live; I had thought I killed it twice, when I saw it land on my bedspread, on my leg. I was just about to turn the light out and go to sleep, so I knew that this was the Moment of Truth. He would have had his way with me all night long. So I moved my hand slowly toward him and threw my hand down in a quick and violent SLAP!! Then (and this is where my dark side exposed itself) I actually uttered the words...
"YES!!! DIE, M@therf*cker!!!"
Mygoonus! Then, in what I'm sure was my universal lesson for the day, I became aware of a warm and throbbing pain coming from my leg. See, I had forgotten, in my focusing on KILLING, that I had a fresh sunburn, and I had struck my leg hard enough to keep me awake with the sore, radiating effects of the slap for another 25 minutes. Tisk, tisk, tisk. We'll work on ushering the little buggers out from now on, eh?
But anyway, enough about my room and my evening death-related activities. I want to introduce you to the players...the Savoy Guesthouse Horror Picture Show. I use "Horror" in jest. There is nothing terrible about my fellow residents (well, most of them, anyway), but they are indeed interesting.
First, I'll start with the house Mamas--two sisters who run the place and who keep everyone reasonably in-line.
The first is Josephine, a buxom sort of Mother Hen with a wicked dry sense of humor. It took my a while to plug into this humor, and a few times I really thought she was upset with me. For example, the other day I was talking with my friend in the common room, and I turned the T.V. off because nobody was watching it (or so I thought). Josephine emerged from her little office, where she had been talking on the phone, and said, "WHO turned off my T.V.?!!!!" I said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I did. I didn't think anybody was watching it." She replied with, "Well, I was watching it." Then, looking directly at me with raised eyebrow, she said, "It was an AMERICAN film," and walked off in a huff. A couple minutes later I realized she was joking when my friend pointed out that she had actually been watching the news. But despite her sometimes ambiguous comments, she is clearly a caring woman who always remembers to give messages, never goes snooping through rooms, always remembers to bring a fresh towel, and likes to ask about the plans you may have mentioned having for the previous evening..."How was the jazz?"..."Did you have fun on the island of Gozo?"
Her sister, Lina, is a bit more military-like in nature and is less likely to chew the fat. In the afternoons, she sits watching T.V. with her boyfriend Charles, a red-faced Maltese man who's been living in San Bruno, California for 44 years or so. He comes to visit her every summer and watch T.V. They are both cordial and pleasant enough, though definitely more distant than Josephine. I would never refer to Lina as a "Mother Hen."
But both sisters stir up a mean carafe of instant coffee in the mornings--my choice meal after I fast grew tired of the standard breakfast fare...corn flakes and milk, orange juice, and bread with marmalade. I bought my own wheat bisquit sort of things (called "digestives"(?)) and usually have a few of those as well. Incidentally, I wanted to say a bit about the milk here in Malta because I promise it's unlike anything you've ever experienced. Okay, you know how thick all-fat, Vitamin D milk is in the States? Well multiply that by two, at least. The milk here crawls down your throat at a pace that might make you feel like gagging, or chasing it with something like cranberry juice to clear the canals. But if it's cold enough (which is rare), it can be especially satisfying and take the place of a three-course meal.
But we were talking about the residents...
There's Iris, a young Chinese student studying English here. She has a wonderfully soft and most melodic voice, and when I told her this, she said that she'd studied voice (as in, singing) in China and had trained her voice to be that way. Cool. I asked if she would mind giving me a little concert sometime, which she answered with the words, "Yes, I will sing to make you feel happy." Isn't that awesome?
There are two other young Chinese students who are also studying English but are loathe to actually speak it. The only conversation I had with one of them concerned American movies and basketball, during which the young man (Da) declared his favorites to be "Bread PEE" (Brad Pitt), "SUHdra Block" (Sandra Bullock), and "SHUH-cle OH null" (Shaquille O'Neal). Please understand I'm not making fun of his accent, just trying to give an idea of why I had to strain and stretch my ears in my desire to have a conversation with him. He was nice, but I fear the fact that the two share a room and never leave the guesthouse is keeping them from learning much English while they're here. Da told me that they must pass Standard English exams next month in order to be admitted to the University of Malta. Hmmm. Oh, one other thing he told me was that, growing up in China, one of the few American series he saw was "Growing Pains." It took a while to determine this was the show he was talking about, finally becoming clear when he mentioned a 'Michael' who was always getting into trouble. Turns out Da's dad had always wanted a son more interesting, less shy than Da himself, and continually asked Da why he couldn't have been more like Michael from "Growing Pains" and at least do something interesting once in a while. That broke my heart.
There's an Egyptian man named Mario who brews beer in his room and wears a near-constant scowl on his face. The only time he ever spoke to me, the conversation went like this:
Me: Hello
Mario: Hello [heading up the stairs and then retreating to add to this initial response]. Are you Jewish?
Me: Me? [a line from "The Princess Bride" coming to mind: "Do you always begin conversations this way?" ]
Mario: Yes, are you Jewish?
Me: Do you mean religion or race?
Mario: Religion
Me: No
Mario: But your parents, are they Jewish?
Me: No, I was raised Catholic
Mario: Hmm. [turning, without another word, toward his room]
So. That's Mario, as far as I know him.
There's an older British man and a young Russian girl, neither of whom I've seen enough to have learned their names or anything about their situations.
There's an older Maltese woman named Anne, whose habits and the incredibly lived-in state of whose room would make you believe she's been living in the same guesthouse, piling the same tangerine marmalade on her bread in the morning, for the past 37 1/2 years. In the afternoons, she can be found in the foyer, where she serves as the house's first line-of-defense, or last barrier-to-your-exit, depending on if you're coming or going: "Where are you going?" "To the beach? Which one?" "When will you come back?" "Who are you going with?" "Where did you go?" "What did you do there?" This drives some of the guests absolutely crazy, and I think Anne is reason #1 for Nick's refering to the Savoy as a "halfway house," but the woman is harmless and actually very sweet. She's just a bit inquisitive, which I think is merely due to the fact that she is, I think, somewhat physically unable to leave the house and so lives vicariously through the other residents.
I felt bad the other day because I was sitting near Anne in the foyer when I happened to glance down at her feet and caught sight of her breathtakingly overgrown toenails. I, anticipating that maybe she didn't own a pair of nailclippers and thinking she might like to borrow mine, embarked on this conversation:
Me: Anne, I noticed your toenails are a little long. Do you...
Anne: I know, I know. I'm sorry. I was gonna cut them last night and then I forgot.
Me: No, no, I was just wondering if you needed to borrow some clippers.
Anne: No, I have them. I'm sorry. I'll cut them tonight. I will cut them tonight.
Me: I don't care, I mean, it doesn't bother me. I was just gonna offer you mine.
Anne: No, I have them, but it's just a little difficult for me to cut them.
So then I was thinking maybe she needed help cutting them, and the conversation continued:
Me: Oh, do you need help? I mean, I could help you if you wanted.
Anne: It's okay, and I promise, I'll cut them tonight. I'll cut them tonight.
I felt really bad at this point because I could see that Anne couldn't understand that I was just concerned. She thought that I was disgusted by her toenails and was trying to hint/guilt her into cutting them. The more I said, the more I felt that she was misunderstanding me and that I was making her feel bad. So, I dropped the toenail subject. Now, I've neglected to mention yet that Iris (the young Chinese girl) had been sitting in the foyer also, but she wasn't listening to us; she had been watching T.V. I'm not kidding...five minutes later, during a commercial, she gingerly glanced around the room, looked casually at the two of us, caught sight of Anne's feet, and said (in the harsh and unapologetic way that only English-as-a-second-language speakers do accidentally), "Are you going to cut your toenails?!"
Oh my. The whole conversation started all over again, Anne becoming more and more convinced, I'm sure, that her toenails were an affront to the civilized world.
The next morning, I walked into the breakfast room and the first thing Anne said to me was, "I forgot to cut my toenails again, but I'll cut them tonight. I'll cut them tonight," shaking her head absolutely in betrayal of the fact that she was not only trying to convince me of this intent, but to convince herself as well.
And that's Anne.
Then there are Tony and Eddie, both elderly long-term residents who hover on the edge of eviction every single day.
See, Josephine's problem with Eddie is that he begins drinking at 11:00 every morning and doesn't stop until he's consumed an entire bottle of Auld Lang Syne Scotch Whiskey. His only defense to this beef is to point out that Tony begins drinking at 5:00 in the morning and doesn't stop until he's consumed two entire bottles of Auld Lang Syne Scotch Whiskey. Both arguments are true, and the entire hallway near these men's rooms reeks terribly of sour alcohol breath.
Tony is Maltese, but he lived 44 years in England, where he was married to a woman from India. Tony fled the country when his wife died and her son (from a previous marriage) tried to kill him for attempting to incinerate her body in compliance with her wishes. So he brought her dead body and all to Malta and has been living in something like exile for the past who knows how long, in the Savoy Guesthouse. Now, this lamentable tale might cause you to take pity on the old man, but nay, I say. You should hear the rest first. You might remember my having referred to Tony earlier as the "pervy old man" who checks out women's clothing on the clothesline. Well that's true of him. He is also given to offering hourly work to female guesthouse residents. And he sees absolutely NOTHING wrong with this. On the day he offered this kind of work to me (as if it were some kind of favor), and I became angry and yelled for the first time in I have no idea how long, he asked, very innocently, wherein lied the problem. "It's good money," he reasoned, "Ten Lira per hour."
Ten Lira is roughly 27 American dollars.
Eddie is alternately disgusted with Tony and is his best friend. That afternoon, after Tony had been asked to leave the room, Eddie denounced him as a scoundrel, a truly reprehensible human being, a waste of good oxygen. Moments later, Tony reappeared in the doorway, having forgotten his glass of whiskey. And when he left, Eddie said, "Ok, I'll come see you later."
I throw my hands up.
Eddie is from Pakistan, where he was forced out because of an inability to find work, having suffered from prejudice associated with his being a Christian. He claims to be a palm reader, and has offered to read my palm but failed to deliver on this promise so far. Until now, he's only shared with me that my lucky day is Wednesday, and that things I begin on Wednesday will have good outcomes. Good to know.
Eddie also writes jokes (or joke, as far as I know--so far he's shared the same one with me three times). The example:
A bartender closes his bar and goes home to sleep. A little while later he's awakened by the phone, and the man on the other line asks when he'll be reopening in the morning, to which he answers, "Sometime around 10:00 am." A couple of hours later, the man calls back, wanting to know EXACTLY when he'll be opening, and the bartender repeats, "I told you! Around 10:00." By the third call, the bartender is irate, and when the man asks again for the exact time, he answers with, "You bloody bastard! You've ruined my night! If you're so bloody fond of drinking, why don't you buy a case of liquor and drink it at home?!" The voice on the other end answers, "Look man, I don't drink. I promise. I just came into your bar to use the restroom and now I'm locked inside until you reopen."
Now, it's difficult to find that joke funny more than once. But watching Eddie's face--the way he cracks up at his own cleverness--makes it worth waiting for the punchline.
The other day Eddie tried to pay his rent and Josephine told him to keep his money because she was kicking him out. In a panic, he called Tony downstairs so the two together, whiskey bottles in hands, could brainstorm a solution to this new problem. After a couple of hours of careful discussion and plotting, their answer was to send Tony in to speak to Josephine. Slowly, cunningly, he crept into her office, his lines planned. She took one look at him and said only these two words: "You're next."
Ouch.
But it's not true. They'll probably both die there. I think she just likes to scare them into compliance...she's told me how happy she's been with the silence and the cleanliness of rooms she has observed since she made her threats.
The one guest I've yet to discuss, Saad, refers to them as Tom and Jerry, but we can't really figure out who's who.
Saad is a young man from Morocco who's here to find work. He's full of insane tales about Morocco and what he refers to as "magic." He also talks a lot about "phantoms," which he pronounces "FAWN-tomes," in a way that makes them sound truly scary and almost believable. He claims this magic has been responsible (in his eye-witness experience) for:
* A young man spelling an American woman into falling in love with him, her taking him back to the States where they still live.
* His mortal enemy coming to his house, weeping, and waiting with his mother for three hours until Saad came home, at which time the enemy apologized for all past transgressions.
* Same said enemy coming to and wondering what the hell she was doing in his house, after Saad asked the spell-casting third party to remove the magic.
* A young newlywed being unable to do the deed on the wedding night, thanks to the magic performed by the scores of young bachlorettes in the village who were jealous and angered at his finally getting hitched.
* Same said newlywed impregnating his wife when Saad's magical grandmother intervened with her White Magic, on his behalf.
* A young man who moved to Libya to work being sometimes given to intense and overwhelming desires to return home to his girlfriend, who made a magic paper and tied it to the leaves of a tree so that the magic would make his mind change with the wind.
!!!
It's funny, though...if you listen to him tell these stories, they sound true. Do you think that magic is merely a matter of believing in it? It seems to me that might be a contributing factor.
All in all, these characters have made the stay entertaining and well worth the whopping fifteen bucks a night I'm paying to stay there :)
And that, my friends, is the Savoy Guesthouse. Ya'll stop by sometime, y'hear?
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Damned Turks!
Patience, my friends...I fear this entry will be loooooong. I've had the details floating around in my mind for exactly one week.
Upon arriving at the port in Malta (pronounced MOLE-dtuh by the locals--go ahead and say it aloud; I know you want to), I took a bus to my guesthouse, which sits atop a curvy hill, overlooking, among other things, the nearby Mediterranean Sea), I called Nick to let him know I was here and in good spirits, and he came right over.
Fifteen seconds of greetings later, he asked me if I was ready to go to church.
CHURCH?!
I checked my face and clothing for signs of blantant heathenery, but he explained that it was the first stop on our tour--he had just learned more than a bit about the history of the building and was eager to make me his first victim, er, audience.
And Saint John's Cathedral, in Valetta, was worth the journey. There are 350 valiant knights buried below the marble floor, and the ornate details of the interior (which is well belied by the unassuming exterior) rivaled only Saint Peter's in Vatican City. Okay, indulge me...I have a limited frame-of-reference.
Though I am no longer religious, I have to say that there is something very comforting in being able to attend a mass anywhere in the world and know when to stand, when to sit, and when to sit quietly and brace yourself for a long-winded homily...
In Maltese!
Needless to say, I didn't understand a single word, but the enchanting voices of the choir members (a real choir, which is difficult to find at Catholic churches in the States) reached down and took a firm grip on the innermost knot in the bottom of my soul (I had been wondering where it was (the bottom of my soul, that is...it's good to know).
Then, a walking tour. We checked out the ENORMOUS fortifications built, uh, a very long time ago (sorry Nick, you're a better guide than I am a student) to keep the Turks out. Damned Turks! Always trying to sneak in somewhere.
When you walk up and down the narrow streets of Malta, your shoes make the sound that shoes make in British documentaries. Do you know the ones I'm referring to? In these documentaries, there's some old man, always walking UP a hill for some reason. So between heavy breaths, he says something like (think high British pronunciation), "For the Egyptians, mumification ensured the soul's being kept in-tact during the afterlife," and all the while, he continues to walk and his shoes, on the limestone/sand combination, make a cool kind of crunching sound. Do you have the slightest idea what I'm talking about? Well, the streets of Malta make that sound. When talking to myself as I walk (one of my favorite passtimes), I always have to affect a British accent; it seems so apropos.
But, of course, one needn't walk everywhere. There are busses...if you dare, mwah ha ha. Well, actually, the busses themselves seem entirely safe. The problem is me. See, they drive on the left here, and I've been nearly killed at least a half-dozen times. Guess my learning curve is less-than-optimal.
The busses are relic "gifts" from England, many of them dating from sometime in the 1950's, chrome fenders and all. Their interiors are best described using a phrase I don't think I've ever uttered in my life: A real hoot. There are religious stickers plastered all over the front dashboards and window panelings (many featuring images of a glowing Virgin Mary and the like). Some of the more modern-looking stickers read things like "Think GOD," or "Jesus Loves Me," but the most intriguing one so far read "I Love Safely." Now, I don't know if this was a typo, meant to say "I Love Safety," or if the driver of the bus was especially careful about the way in which he loves and wanted to make sure all his passengers knew this about him (in my feeble understanding, public transportation is handled in a private-contracted sort of way--each driver owning and (sometimes) caring for his own vehicle), but anyway that's what it said.
Which brings me to the language discussion.
As I wrote before, English is one of the two official languages here (three cheers for British Imperialism and the Knights of Saint John), but that doesn't remove the possibility of encountering some idiosyncratic discrepancies.
My favorite sign so far reads "Andrew's Beefy Crunch." I've never seen the establishment open, but I'm eager to find out what exactly is sold there.
Another, written on the side of a mini-bus, read, "Stuff Your Jealousy." Okay, I'll get right on that.
A shirt worn by a local man: "International Delivery."
The Maltese speak with a charming accent that sounds like a combination of the accents you would here from native Arabic and native Spanish speakers, which is fitting considering the island's location.
The worst thing I can say about Malta (which is a relatively welcoming place, otherwise) is about the service, which is probably the worst I've ever encountered (seriously, you thought Original Joe's was bad!) I don't know if this is owing to a general and overwhelming annoyance with tourists or the effects of the weather (oppressive sun with a healthy dose of wet--wet air, not actual rain), but SOMEthing has crawled under the skin of every person in the service industry here (and, I suspect, laid eggs).
An example: The other day I was sitting at a cafe, writing in a notebook, when my server (an elderly and sour-faced man) came to take my plate away. I realized, as he was taking it, that my notebook had been resting in the ketchup on the plate's edge. I made an "Aww" kind of face...as in, "how unfortunate," which he misinterpreted as my assigning some kind of blame to him and to which he responded by pointing an extended forefinger in my face, followed with the words, "It's YOUR fault!!"
Hot Damn!
But, as cultural differences can be charming, I've found eliciting a smile from a server to be a challenging and, when successful, gratifying way to pass the time.
And speaking of food (because we kind of were), I'll share what I've learned of it so far. Well, they have rabbit (stewed), rabbit (fried), and rabbit (baked). The end.
Kidding of course, though rabbit is a favorite when it comes to local cuisine. Unfortunately, it seems the Maltese (probably having something to do with the British occupation I referred to earlier) suffer from a bit of an identity crisis. It is difficult to determine what true Maltese culture is all about. So, my choice vegetarian option is chips and egg (how much more British can you get?), followed by couscous and pita bread from the Istanbul Kebab joint near my guesthouse (I guess some of those Turks snuck through after all). And then, there's (surprise, surprise) McDonald's, Burger King, and Pizza Hut. The notable menu item in a Maltese McDonald's: salad with fresh tuna or shrimp. And Italian gelatto has meandered its way here, as well...
There IS a God!
And now for the best thing I can report about Malta: It is--by far--the safest place I have ever been. Locals and tourists alike muse about the fact that anybody (man, woman, child) can walk down the dark, deserted streets at any time of the night and feel completely at-ease.
Do you think it has anything to do with the absence of a National Rifle Association?
Naaaaaa.
Really, though. It's a nice change from the dagger-like sideways glances I had grown accustomed to throwing during my stay in Rome. Oh, and while I'm thinking about Rome...I wanted to remove any remaining doubt about my being a bona fide freak from the minds of my friends and family members, by making a side-by-side comparison of....drumroll please....
Body Odor!!
Now, the overcrowded busses and Metro of Rome afforded me with countless opportunities to (connoisseur that I am) take a whiff, sampling the smells of Italy (or, Italians). Assessment: pleasant, in that horse maneur kind of way. You know what I mean? How B.O. can sometimes be not-so-bad? My friend Nicole (thanks to lessons learned in her Human Sexuality class) would point out that our attractions to another's sweat smell has something to do with the likelihood of that person's immune system, coupled with our own, producing offspring with healthy immune systems (ain't that cool?). Assessment of Maltese B.O.: more offensive. Is it the proximity to the salty sea air? I don't know, but the smell is very bitter, most unwelcoming. So, my belief in this immune system thing has been thrown into doubt. I mean, it couldn't be that I would produce healthy offspring with EVERY single Roman...afterall, the women have this smell, too. And there's no way my coupling with any native of this island would result in weak little sicklings. Or is there?
But anyway.
I fear I haven't really given a good description of this place. Where to go from here?
On the boat here, I was told that Paceville (PAH-chuh-vill), the local hot spot here, offered the best nightlife to be found in the modern world. Though I'm not really one for "nightlife," I figured I'd check it out, especially after I learned there was a Salsa club. After days of loafing around in the sun, I was eager to expend some energy.
So.
Paceville.
Paceville is a nightmare.
Well, I suppose that if I were 17, or drunk, or eager to spend too much money to go to a club exactly like any club I could find in the United States, it would be quite a thrill. But since I'm none of the above...
I went to the Salsa Club (Fuego, it's called), and was happy when I entered and heard a merengue song, followed by a salsa. But then, suddenly, the tides turned, and the next 6 songs were (sometimes) in Spanish, but with nothing even close to a salsa beat anywhere to be found. Most were just overlaid with a thump, thump, thumping just perfect for losing your mind to. I guess that's the idea. Oh, and a resident of the guesthouse where I'm staying had kept mentioning to me a song that had the words "Life is life" as the main chorus. "Life is life?," I asked, "What does that MEAN? That doesn't mean anything." I heard that song that night..."Life is life," and apparently it's quite popular, because after the "Life is life" part, the DJ would turn down the volume and, in one loud voice, the entire contents of the club would yell "La la la la la," the rest of the chorus. Is this a local phenomenon, or is my ignorance, like a poorly hemmed slip, showing again? Please, if anybody knows anything about this, do set me straight.
Ah, but last night, in a wonderful stroke of luck, I discovered the local jazz club. It sits underground in a sultry, red little room that seems like some sort of a secret, and like--among the patrons--there should be real live beatniks or maybe Boris and/or Natasha. Sadly, they only have jazz on Thursdays, but I'll be sure to be there.
As for daylife, I have only the beach to offer explanation of, but the beach is enough. The great thing I can say about the beaches in Malta is that all are welcomed with open arms...big'uns, lil'uns, all types, all sizes, all in bikinis (well, the women anyway). They are far less body-conscious here, and it was incredibly refreshing to see old and young, thin and not-so-thin, tawny bronze and ghostly white and beet red, all enjoying the sun as it should be enjoyed. And the Maltese children, splashing and sand-castle-building and running and screaming, are especially nice to watch.
Though eating and entertainment are comparably priced to the U.S., accomodations are cheap, so I've decided to stay a while before heading to Spain. My purchases so far include the obligatory sarong (only $6 here, compared to the $15-20 you'd pay at, say, the Jazz Festival) a sun hat (which I bought from the Maltese version of a dollar store--awesome!), and a traditional henna hand tatoo.
Despite bad service and yucky nightclubs, life here has treated me well. Next time I write, I will tell all about the cast of characters at the Savoy Guest House, a motley crew of folks so strange at times that, in hearing the reports, Nick (in the classist and superior manner for which he is known) has taken to calling "Halfway House" rather than "Guest House" residents. Our differing attitudes about what is "uncivilized" and what is simply interesting and quaint, has resulted in a general happiness (in both of us, I think) about the fact that our respective hotels are located on different parts of the island. :)
La La La La La.
I wish you all well.
Upon arriving at the port in Malta (pronounced MOLE-dtuh by the locals--go ahead and say it aloud; I know you want to), I took a bus to my guesthouse, which sits atop a curvy hill, overlooking, among other things, the nearby Mediterranean Sea), I called Nick to let him know I was here and in good spirits, and he came right over.
Fifteen seconds of greetings later, he asked me if I was ready to go to church.
CHURCH?!
I checked my face and clothing for signs of blantant heathenery, but he explained that it was the first stop on our tour--he had just learned more than a bit about the history of the building and was eager to make me his first victim, er, audience.
And Saint John's Cathedral, in Valetta, was worth the journey. There are 350 valiant knights buried below the marble floor, and the ornate details of the interior (which is well belied by the unassuming exterior) rivaled only Saint Peter's in Vatican City. Okay, indulge me...I have a limited frame-of-reference.
Though I am no longer religious, I have to say that there is something very comforting in being able to attend a mass anywhere in the world and know when to stand, when to sit, and when to sit quietly and brace yourself for a long-winded homily...
In Maltese!
Needless to say, I didn't understand a single word, but the enchanting voices of the choir members (a real choir, which is difficult to find at Catholic churches in the States) reached down and took a firm grip on the innermost knot in the bottom of my soul (I had been wondering where it was (the bottom of my soul, that is...it's good to know).
Then, a walking tour. We checked out the ENORMOUS fortifications built, uh, a very long time ago (sorry Nick, you're a better guide than I am a student) to keep the Turks out. Damned Turks! Always trying to sneak in somewhere.
When you walk up and down the narrow streets of Malta, your shoes make the sound that shoes make in British documentaries. Do you know the ones I'm referring to? In these documentaries, there's some old man, always walking UP a hill for some reason. So between heavy breaths, he says something like (think high British pronunciation), "For the Egyptians, mumification ensured the soul's being kept in-tact during the afterlife," and all the while, he continues to walk and his shoes, on the limestone/sand combination, make a cool kind of crunching sound. Do you have the slightest idea what I'm talking about? Well, the streets of Malta make that sound. When talking to myself as I walk (one of my favorite passtimes), I always have to affect a British accent; it seems so apropos.
But, of course, one needn't walk everywhere. There are busses...if you dare, mwah ha ha. Well, actually, the busses themselves seem entirely safe. The problem is me. See, they drive on the left here, and I've been nearly killed at least a half-dozen times. Guess my learning curve is less-than-optimal.
The busses are relic "gifts" from England, many of them dating from sometime in the 1950's, chrome fenders and all. Their interiors are best described using a phrase I don't think I've ever uttered in my life: A real hoot. There are religious stickers plastered all over the front dashboards and window panelings (many featuring images of a glowing Virgin Mary and the like). Some of the more modern-looking stickers read things like "Think GOD," or "Jesus Loves Me," but the most intriguing one so far read "I Love Safely." Now, I don't know if this was a typo, meant to say "I Love Safety," or if the driver of the bus was especially careful about the way in which he loves and wanted to make sure all his passengers knew this about him (in my feeble understanding, public transportation is handled in a private-contracted sort of way--each driver owning and (sometimes) caring for his own vehicle), but anyway that's what it said.
Which brings me to the language discussion.
As I wrote before, English is one of the two official languages here (three cheers for British Imperialism and the Knights of Saint John), but that doesn't remove the possibility of encountering some idiosyncratic discrepancies.
My favorite sign so far reads "Andrew's Beefy Crunch." I've never seen the establishment open, but I'm eager to find out what exactly is sold there.
Another, written on the side of a mini-bus, read, "Stuff Your Jealousy." Okay, I'll get right on that.
A shirt worn by a local man: "International Delivery."
The Maltese speak with a charming accent that sounds like a combination of the accents you would here from native Arabic and native Spanish speakers, which is fitting considering the island's location.
The worst thing I can say about Malta (which is a relatively welcoming place, otherwise) is about the service, which is probably the worst I've ever encountered (seriously, you thought Original Joe's was bad!) I don't know if this is owing to a general and overwhelming annoyance with tourists or the effects of the weather (oppressive sun with a healthy dose of wet--wet air, not actual rain), but SOMEthing has crawled under the skin of every person in the service industry here (and, I suspect, laid eggs).
An example: The other day I was sitting at a cafe, writing in a notebook, when my server (an elderly and sour-faced man) came to take my plate away. I realized, as he was taking it, that my notebook had been resting in the ketchup on the plate's edge. I made an "Aww" kind of face...as in, "how unfortunate," which he misinterpreted as my assigning some kind of blame to him and to which he responded by pointing an extended forefinger in my face, followed with the words, "It's YOUR fault!!"
Hot Damn!
But, as cultural differences can be charming, I've found eliciting a smile from a server to be a challenging and, when successful, gratifying way to pass the time.
And speaking of food (because we kind of were), I'll share what I've learned of it so far. Well, they have rabbit (stewed), rabbit (fried), and rabbit (baked). The end.
Kidding of course, though rabbit is a favorite when it comes to local cuisine. Unfortunately, it seems the Maltese (probably having something to do with the British occupation I referred to earlier) suffer from a bit of an identity crisis. It is difficult to determine what true Maltese culture is all about. So, my choice vegetarian option is chips and egg (how much more British can you get?), followed by couscous and pita bread from the Istanbul Kebab joint near my guesthouse (I guess some of those Turks snuck through after all). And then, there's (surprise, surprise) McDonald's, Burger King, and Pizza Hut. The notable menu item in a Maltese McDonald's: salad with fresh tuna or shrimp. And Italian gelatto has meandered its way here, as well...
There IS a God!
And now for the best thing I can report about Malta: It is--by far--the safest place I have ever been. Locals and tourists alike muse about the fact that anybody (man, woman, child) can walk down the dark, deserted streets at any time of the night and feel completely at-ease.
Do you think it has anything to do with the absence of a National Rifle Association?
Naaaaaa.
Really, though. It's a nice change from the dagger-like sideways glances I had grown accustomed to throwing during my stay in Rome. Oh, and while I'm thinking about Rome...I wanted to remove any remaining doubt about my being a bona fide freak from the minds of my friends and family members, by making a side-by-side comparison of....drumroll please....
Body Odor!!
Now, the overcrowded busses and Metro of Rome afforded me with countless opportunities to (connoisseur that I am) take a whiff, sampling the smells of Italy (or, Italians). Assessment: pleasant, in that horse maneur kind of way. You know what I mean? How B.O. can sometimes be not-so-bad? My friend Nicole (thanks to lessons learned in her Human Sexuality class) would point out that our attractions to another's sweat smell has something to do with the likelihood of that person's immune system, coupled with our own, producing offspring with healthy immune systems (ain't that cool?). Assessment of Maltese B.O.: more offensive. Is it the proximity to the salty sea air? I don't know, but the smell is very bitter, most unwelcoming. So, my belief in this immune system thing has been thrown into doubt. I mean, it couldn't be that I would produce healthy offspring with EVERY single Roman...afterall, the women have this smell, too. And there's no way my coupling with any native of this island would result in weak little sicklings. Or is there?
But anyway.
I fear I haven't really given a good description of this place. Where to go from here?
On the boat here, I was told that Paceville (PAH-chuh-vill), the local hot spot here, offered the best nightlife to be found in the modern world. Though I'm not really one for "nightlife," I figured I'd check it out, especially after I learned there was a Salsa club. After days of loafing around in the sun, I was eager to expend some energy.
So.
Paceville.
Paceville is a nightmare.
Well, I suppose that if I were 17, or drunk, or eager to spend too much money to go to a club exactly like any club I could find in the United States, it would be quite a thrill. But since I'm none of the above...
I went to the Salsa Club (Fuego, it's called), and was happy when I entered and heard a merengue song, followed by a salsa. But then, suddenly, the tides turned, and the next 6 songs were (sometimes) in Spanish, but with nothing even close to a salsa beat anywhere to be found. Most were just overlaid with a thump, thump, thumping just perfect for losing your mind to. I guess that's the idea. Oh, and a resident of the guesthouse where I'm staying had kept mentioning to me a song that had the words "Life is life" as the main chorus. "Life is life?," I asked, "What does that MEAN? That doesn't mean anything." I heard that song that night..."Life is life," and apparently it's quite popular, because after the "Life is life" part, the DJ would turn down the volume and, in one loud voice, the entire contents of the club would yell "La la la la la," the rest of the chorus. Is this a local phenomenon, or is my ignorance, like a poorly hemmed slip, showing again? Please, if anybody knows anything about this, do set me straight.
Ah, but last night, in a wonderful stroke of luck, I discovered the local jazz club. It sits underground in a sultry, red little room that seems like some sort of a secret, and like--among the patrons--there should be real live beatniks or maybe Boris and/or Natasha. Sadly, they only have jazz on Thursdays, but I'll be sure to be there.
As for daylife, I have only the beach to offer explanation of, but the beach is enough. The great thing I can say about the beaches in Malta is that all are welcomed with open arms...big'uns, lil'uns, all types, all sizes, all in bikinis (well, the women anyway). They are far less body-conscious here, and it was incredibly refreshing to see old and young, thin and not-so-thin, tawny bronze and ghostly white and beet red, all enjoying the sun as it should be enjoyed. And the Maltese children, splashing and sand-castle-building and running and screaming, are especially nice to watch.
Though eating and entertainment are comparably priced to the U.S., accomodations are cheap, so I've decided to stay a while before heading to Spain. My purchases so far include the obligatory sarong (only $6 here, compared to the $15-20 you'd pay at, say, the Jazz Festival) a sun hat (which I bought from the Maltese version of a dollar store--awesome!), and a traditional henna hand tatoo.
Despite bad service and yucky nightclubs, life here has treated me well. Next time I write, I will tell all about the cast of characters at the Savoy Guest House, a motley crew of folks so strange at times that, in hearing the reports, Nick (in the classist and superior manner for which he is known) has taken to calling "Halfway House" rather than "Guest House" residents. Our differing attitudes about what is "uncivilized" and what is simply interesting and quaint, has resulted in a general happiness (in both of us, I think) about the fact that our respective hotels are located on different parts of the island. :)
La La La La La.
I wish you all well.
Monday, June 16, 2003
Sea Malta
Last I wrote I had just been to the Collosseum and Vatican City. Three things I can say about those places:
1) Breathtaking (seriously, I haven't breathed in like 5 days).
2) Big (really really really big).
3) Germans! (Soooooo many Germans).
I'm summarizing of course. I'll just have to share the pictures and tales in detail when I get home. Where is home, anyway? I was thinking about this. I have no place to live, no job, nothing tying me to anywhere. Maybe I'll flip a coin and pick a city when I get back to the States. But anyway, back to Italy...
I was gonna scrap my plans to see Malta the day I left Rome, but then I got an e-mail from my friend Nick, who was down there, so I decided to check it out.
Well, that was the easy part.
First, I decided to buy a train ticket to Reggio di Calabria, in the very south of Italy. It seemed like a port city and was about as close to Malta as I could get. There were many trains leaving, but most of them arrived late at night. So I decided to take an overnight train and get there in the morning.
Leaving me with 10 hours more in Rome.
Oh, but first things first---I couldn't use my ATM Visa card at the train station. Turns out there was a fraud alert placed on it. Apparently a sudden 2-Euro purchase at a grocery store in Rome causes some alarm. So I got that straightened out first.
I ran into a tourist office employee named Amadeo, who offered to show me some more sights. I'm pretty sure this was not part of his job; I suspect he may have been hitting on me under the guise of "helpful tourist office employee," but he wasn't imposing or shifty or anything. So I took a crazy busride with him to the Fountain at Trevi, The Spanish Steps, a charming little square called Campo di Fiori, and the Pantheon.
I really don't think I can describe accurately how enchanting it felt to be amidst so much history. So, so, so beautiful. Like I said, we'll have to talk over a slide show in the future.
But right across from the Pantheon, in the same little square, sits a McDonald's. Sick. Really sick. But I peaked in at the menu and saw a colorful picture of a salad with ripe red Roma tomatoes and chunks of Mozzarella cheese on it. When in Rome...I guess.
Amadeo (along with every guidebook I'd consulted) warned me not to fall asleep on the train if I wanted to have my luggage in the morning. Ok. I lucked out an ended up in a car with 4 natives of Reggio di Calabria--one young girl, one crazy old man (I'm not just saying that--even the other Italians exchanged "this old guy is crazy" looks. I had to pay close attention to these things because I was now entering the region of Italian-only speakers--body language is everything. That and cherades.), and one young married couple. None of them seemed eager to rob anybody, and I was sitting far from the passageway (where the thieves roam, I suppose), so I felt safe.
The young married couple was in a fight all night, though, which made me a little sad and uncomfortable. See, it wasn't a vocal, let's-have-it-out-and-be-done-with-it fight. I mean, it couldn't be: there were four other people in the room. It was a slow, quiet, awkward, man-touches-knee-of-woman (apologizing and speaking in hushed tones), woman-gives-man-the-cold-shoulder-and-faces-the-window, man-gets-up-and-paces, woman-pretends-she's-asleep, man-comes-back-to-seat-and-tries-again, woman-gives-the-evil-eye, etc., etc. kind of fight. They were friends again by the time we stepped off the train, but still, I was feeling for both of them for the first 6 hours of the ride.
So then. 7:00 a.m. Saturday. Reggio di Calabria. I asked a woman at the train station how to get to Malta (figuring people there must go to Malta all the time), and she sold me another train ticket. I figured this train must go to the port (the ticket was only 1Euro).
I was wrong.
When I figured out I was wrong (luckily, before I actually boarded the train--turns out there's a very nearby town called Malta), I asked her how people get to Malta, the country. She referred me to the travel agency.
Closed. It was Saturday--who would be traveling or making plans to travel on a Saturday? Lesson 1 regarding the south of Italy.
But Reggio was quiet and wonderful, so I wouldn't have minded staying at all. I did want to get to the port, though, just to know what my options were.
And here's where it gets interesting...
I found the bus to the port, which looks nothing like the kind of port where anything other that huge containers of things would be shipped from. I certainly didn't see any family members waiting around to greet arriving passengers. It was something like Long Beach Harbor, but smaller.
There I was referred to a dim, dingy little office where the man in charge of "Sea Malta" was sitting, smoking a cigar. I know, it sounds like a movie, but this whole sequence felt that way for me, so it's fitting.
He told me that "Sea Malta" was a cargo ship, and that I could maybe take it to Malta, but that the priority passengers were Maltese truck drivers and the space was limited.
Don't freak out, Ma. I promise it all turned out well.
He said to come back at 1:00 in the afternoon to find out if there was room for me. The other option was to take a passenger ship the next day that arrived in Malta at 2 in the morning. Whatta dilemma!
I spent a few hours roaming around and trying to communicate with the incredibly friendly people of Reggio di Calabria. Then back to the port.
The man said that there was room, and he took my 55 Euros (roughly 75 dollars or so), along with my passport. He made a copy of the passport, but when I asked for it back, he said I'd get it back later. I squinted and thought about it, and when no female intuition alarms went off, I said "ok," and left. The boat was leaving at 7, and he said to be back by 5. So I went back into town and drank some sort of coconut drink, wrote a quick e-mail to Nick, and went back to the port.
At 3:30 I went back to the office, which was then closed. I wasn't that surprise, since he had told me to go directly to the ship, but this was a crucial sort of moment.
Here I was, walking along this port with my big backpack, sweating like a madwoman. These were my thoughts:
Random American girl, really out-of-place in a quiet cargo port.
Extreme south of Italy.
Speaks no Italian.
Gave a stranger her passport and 55 Euros.
Trusts that the man really does have something to do with this ship.
Trusts the ship really is going to Malta that evening.
Trusts they'll let her on the ship.
Trusts nothing bad will happen to her on the ship.
Trusts she'll get her passport back.
Needless to say, I felt a little apprehensive.
When I got to the ship, there were nothing but men standing around all over the place. They looked at me like I was a leprechaun. I suppose I seemed a little out-of-place to them, too. I picked the one who looked closest to my age and asked him what to do (hand motioned, really) if I was supposed to take that ship. He pointed to the steps and told me to get aboard.
"Okaaaaay. Grazie." (Said, turning slowly toward the ship with raised eyebrow)
Imagine my relief when, walking up the rickety steps, I noticed a 40's-something blonde woman on board. I spoke to her and her husband, and all my fears dissolved instantly. She was from Sweden and her husband from Malta, and their 18-year-old son was there, too. She said they take the boat all the time, and that it's very safe and I'd have my own sleeper room with a lock and the use of a shower, dinner provided, and breakfast in the morning.
It was all true.
There were only 3 actual truckers on board, and they were the friendliest people I'd met so far. We all (the truckers and the family and I) had dinner together (pasta, the best food I'd eaten since I arrived), drank wine, and told stories (they all spoke English--English is one of the two official languages of Malta), and I had the soundest sleep I'd had in a week. It was a random, rare, and beautiful experience.
The Mediterranean, glowing under the light of a near-full moon--just imagine.
And it turns out they needed to hold onto the passport for the Maltese customs agents to have a gander at when we arrived.
So, like I said... Hi. I'm in Malta.
And more on Malta later.
For now I'll just say that everybody should try to make it here at some point. It's a gem of a place, and a pretty well-kept secret (except from the Germans--they seem to have found out about it :)
I'm off to collect my laundry, and then to the beach.
Greetings to all my friends and family. I miss and love you all. And I'm still the happiest girl in the world :)
1) Breathtaking (seriously, I haven't breathed in like 5 days).
2) Big (really really really big).
3) Germans! (Soooooo many Germans).
I'm summarizing of course. I'll just have to share the pictures and tales in detail when I get home. Where is home, anyway? I was thinking about this. I have no place to live, no job, nothing tying me to anywhere. Maybe I'll flip a coin and pick a city when I get back to the States. But anyway, back to Italy...
I was gonna scrap my plans to see Malta the day I left Rome, but then I got an e-mail from my friend Nick, who was down there, so I decided to check it out.
Well, that was the easy part.
First, I decided to buy a train ticket to Reggio di Calabria, in the very south of Italy. It seemed like a port city and was about as close to Malta as I could get. There were many trains leaving, but most of them arrived late at night. So I decided to take an overnight train and get there in the morning.
Leaving me with 10 hours more in Rome.
Oh, but first things first---I couldn't use my ATM Visa card at the train station. Turns out there was a fraud alert placed on it. Apparently a sudden 2-Euro purchase at a grocery store in Rome causes some alarm. So I got that straightened out first.
I ran into a tourist office employee named Amadeo, who offered to show me some more sights. I'm pretty sure this was not part of his job; I suspect he may have been hitting on me under the guise of "helpful tourist office employee," but he wasn't imposing or shifty or anything. So I took a crazy busride with him to the Fountain at Trevi, The Spanish Steps, a charming little square called Campo di Fiori, and the Pantheon.
I really don't think I can describe accurately how enchanting it felt to be amidst so much history. So, so, so beautiful. Like I said, we'll have to talk over a slide show in the future.
But right across from the Pantheon, in the same little square, sits a McDonald's. Sick. Really sick. But I peaked in at the menu and saw a colorful picture of a salad with ripe red Roma tomatoes and chunks of Mozzarella cheese on it. When in Rome...I guess.
Amadeo (along with every guidebook I'd consulted) warned me not to fall asleep on the train if I wanted to have my luggage in the morning. Ok. I lucked out an ended up in a car with 4 natives of Reggio di Calabria--one young girl, one crazy old man (I'm not just saying that--even the other Italians exchanged "this old guy is crazy" looks. I had to pay close attention to these things because I was now entering the region of Italian-only speakers--body language is everything. That and cherades.), and one young married couple. None of them seemed eager to rob anybody, and I was sitting far from the passageway (where the thieves roam, I suppose), so I felt safe.
The young married couple was in a fight all night, though, which made me a little sad and uncomfortable. See, it wasn't a vocal, let's-have-it-out-and-be-done-with-it fight. I mean, it couldn't be: there were four other people in the room. It was a slow, quiet, awkward, man-touches-knee-of-woman (apologizing and speaking in hushed tones), woman-gives-man-the-cold-shoulder-and-faces-the-window, man-gets-up-and-paces, woman-pretends-she's-asleep, man-comes-back-to-seat-and-tries-again, woman-gives-the-evil-eye, etc., etc. kind of fight. They were friends again by the time we stepped off the train, but still, I was feeling for both of them for the first 6 hours of the ride.
So then. 7:00 a.m. Saturday. Reggio di Calabria. I asked a woman at the train station how to get to Malta (figuring people there must go to Malta all the time), and she sold me another train ticket. I figured this train must go to the port (the ticket was only 1Euro).
I was wrong.
When I figured out I was wrong (luckily, before I actually boarded the train--turns out there's a very nearby town called Malta), I asked her how people get to Malta, the country. She referred me to the travel agency.
Closed. It was Saturday--who would be traveling or making plans to travel on a Saturday? Lesson 1 regarding the south of Italy.
But Reggio was quiet and wonderful, so I wouldn't have minded staying at all. I did want to get to the port, though, just to know what my options were.
And here's where it gets interesting...
I found the bus to the port, which looks nothing like the kind of port where anything other that huge containers of things would be shipped from. I certainly didn't see any family members waiting around to greet arriving passengers. It was something like Long Beach Harbor, but smaller.
There I was referred to a dim, dingy little office where the man in charge of "Sea Malta" was sitting, smoking a cigar. I know, it sounds like a movie, but this whole sequence felt that way for me, so it's fitting.
He told me that "Sea Malta" was a cargo ship, and that I could maybe take it to Malta, but that the priority passengers were Maltese truck drivers and the space was limited.
Don't freak out, Ma. I promise it all turned out well.
He said to come back at 1:00 in the afternoon to find out if there was room for me. The other option was to take a passenger ship the next day that arrived in Malta at 2 in the morning. Whatta dilemma!
I spent a few hours roaming around and trying to communicate with the incredibly friendly people of Reggio di Calabria. Then back to the port.
The man said that there was room, and he took my 55 Euros (roughly 75 dollars or so), along with my passport. He made a copy of the passport, but when I asked for it back, he said I'd get it back later. I squinted and thought about it, and when no female intuition alarms went off, I said "ok," and left. The boat was leaving at 7, and he said to be back by 5. So I went back into town and drank some sort of coconut drink, wrote a quick e-mail to Nick, and went back to the port.
At 3:30 I went back to the office, which was then closed. I wasn't that surprise, since he had told me to go directly to the ship, but this was a crucial sort of moment.
Here I was, walking along this port with my big backpack, sweating like a madwoman. These were my thoughts:
Random American girl, really out-of-place in a quiet cargo port.
Extreme south of Italy.
Speaks no Italian.
Gave a stranger her passport and 55 Euros.
Trusts that the man really does have something to do with this ship.
Trusts the ship really is going to Malta that evening.
Trusts they'll let her on the ship.
Trusts nothing bad will happen to her on the ship.
Trusts she'll get her passport back.
Needless to say, I felt a little apprehensive.
When I got to the ship, there were nothing but men standing around all over the place. They looked at me like I was a leprechaun. I suppose I seemed a little out-of-place to them, too. I picked the one who looked closest to my age and asked him what to do (hand motioned, really) if I was supposed to take that ship. He pointed to the steps and told me to get aboard.
"Okaaaaay. Grazie." (Said, turning slowly toward the ship with raised eyebrow)
Imagine my relief when, walking up the rickety steps, I noticed a 40's-something blonde woman on board. I spoke to her and her husband, and all my fears dissolved instantly. She was from Sweden and her husband from Malta, and their 18-year-old son was there, too. She said they take the boat all the time, and that it's very safe and I'd have my own sleeper room with a lock and the use of a shower, dinner provided, and breakfast in the morning.
It was all true.
There were only 3 actual truckers on board, and they were the friendliest people I'd met so far. We all (the truckers and the family and I) had dinner together (pasta, the best food I'd eaten since I arrived), drank wine, and told stories (they all spoke English--English is one of the two official languages of Malta), and I had the soundest sleep I'd had in a week. It was a random, rare, and beautiful experience.
The Mediterranean, glowing under the light of a near-full moon--just imagine.
And it turns out they needed to hold onto the passport for the Maltese customs agents to have a gander at when we arrived.
So, like I said... Hi. I'm in Malta.
And more on Malta later.
For now I'll just say that everybody should try to make it here at some point. It's a gem of a place, and a pretty well-kept secret (except from the Germans--they seem to have found out about it :)
I'm off to collect my laundry, and then to the beach.
Greetings to all my friends and family. I miss and love you all. And I'm still the happiest girl in the world :)
Testing
Hi.
I'm in Malta.
I had to say it like that because reporting this news reminds me of that scene in Wayne's World where Wayne and Garth are playing with the blue screen: "Hi..I'm in New York. I've got a gun, let's go to a Broadway show." Then they're in Texas and I think Hawaii and, all of a sudden, Delaware. And Wayne says, "Hi. I'm in Delware."
Now, I'm not saying it reminds me of that because Malta is boring or anything (quite the contrary--it's amazing), but just because who knows anything about Malta? Really, I mean, I didn't know anything about it before...Maltese falcon? Maltese is a kind of dog? What else? I was talking to somebody here who used to play on Malta's national futbol team, and he said that when the team was playing in New York, the chant that the U.S. fans liked was "Where the hell is Malta?!"
Anyway, I'll get back to Malta later...first, some back-tracking.
I'm going to post this first, though, just to be safe.
I'm in Malta.
I had to say it like that because reporting this news reminds me of that scene in Wayne's World where Wayne and Garth are playing with the blue screen: "Hi..I'm in New York. I've got a gun, let's go to a Broadway show." Then they're in Texas and I think Hawaii and, all of a sudden, Delaware. And Wayne says, "Hi. I'm in Delware."
Now, I'm not saying it reminds me of that because Malta is boring or anything (quite the contrary--it's amazing), but just because who knows anything about Malta? Really, I mean, I didn't know anything about it before...Maltese falcon? Maltese is a kind of dog? What else? I was talking to somebody here who used to play on Malta's national futbol team, and he said that when the team was playing in New York, the chant that the U.S. fans liked was "Where the hell is Malta?!"
Anyway, I'll get back to Malta later...first, some back-tracking.
I'm going to post this first, though, just to be safe.
Friday, June 13, 2003
Boooo!
Ok, so I just wrote a half hour's worth of my continuing adventures, and it all went away--disappeared into the netherworlds of cyberia.
Poopie Poopie.
I'll do it again soon, but I don't have the wherewithal right now, so I'll just give a brief summary:
Still in Rome.
Saw the Collosseum
Saw Vatican City (mmm, saw Michaelangelo's "Pieta," which made me cry)
Saw a free concert of Two Tenors outside the Collosseum last night, which will be aired on PBS later this month
Leaving today, destination yet-to-be-determined
Am the happiest girl in the whole world :)
I wish you all well on the homefront!
Poopie Poopie.
I'll do it again soon, but I don't have the wherewithal right now, so I'll just give a brief summary:
Still in Rome.
Saw the Collosseum
Saw Vatican City (mmm, saw Michaelangelo's "Pieta," which made me cry)
Saw a free concert of Two Tenors outside the Collosseum last night, which will be aired on PBS later this month
Leaving today, destination yet-to-be-determined
Am the happiest girl in the whole world :)
I wish you all well on the homefront!
Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Bed & Breakfast, Hold the Breakfast
Where to start? At the beginning...
One of the last things I said to my friends at the bus station in San Jose was that I was tired and hoped I didn't end up sitting next to a "talker." Well, in perfect universal irony, the young man who sat next to me pulled out a little device on which he typed a message to me: "Hi, I'm Nick. I hope it's okay that I sit here. I'm deaf...have you ever used one of these devices [referring to the thing he was using to type]?" I should have been more specific; should have said "communicator," but all in all it was good. We talked on that thing, and two hours later, I made an attempt at sleep, but it seems I can't sleep on moving vehicles these days.
So I spent a few days with my brother in Hollywood, which was great. Last Friday night he was honored on the field at Dodger Stadium for his perfect usher attendance (and his dashing good looks). I arrived roughly 8 seconds too late to see his 30-foot mug displayed on the Diamond Vision screen, but it was cool all the same.
After a few days of playing with him and his Super Cool group of friends, I set out for my adventure.
Sunday night: no sleep on an overnight flight to New York.
Monday: eleven hours wandering in midtown Manhattan. Nice.
Monday night: no sleep on an overnight flight to Rome.
First lesson in Italian men: don't trust Italian men who warn you about Italian men. I was talking to this man while waiting to board. He lives in San Diego and was returing to Rome to visit his parents. Well, that was his story anyway. He was warning me about the men here (I'm writing from Rome) and how they will tell you anything and blah blah blah. As we boarded, he was telling me about the perfume he bought for his mother. A few minutes later, he brought up the perfume again (one called 'Paris'), and when I told him that I didn't know anything about perfume, he said, verbatim, " I don't usually buy the new one, but sometime my wife, I mean, no my wife, my mother...she like to..." I didn't hear the rest because I had walked away at that point. When somebody lies to you within the first 4 and a half minutes of meeting, I figure it's a good idea to move on.
So. Rome. This morning I thought I lost my purse first thing upon arriving. I was ready (sleep-deprived and a little nervous anyway) to pack up and head home. Turns out I left it on the plane.
So I'm staying then :)
It's true about the Vespas...those and other kinds of scooters are everywhere. It's pretty charming.
It's true about the Italian men, though I haven't found them particularly threatening or anything. And Rome is just teeming with handsome fellas. But then I've always liked the dark, curly-haired types anyway.
I had a long non-conversation with an elderly German man outside a cafe over my first cafe latte (which was everything I dreamed--the latte, not the non-conversation). Lesson learned (I don't speak German and he didn't speak English, Spanish, or French...neither of us speak Italian): European phrasebook is next to useless.
Now, it's time to get some sleep. I'm curious about the hotel in which I'm staying. It's called "Bed and Breakfast" (the hostels were full). The man showed me the room and told me about the keys and the bathroom, and when he was fixin' to leave, I asked him how to go about breakfast. His reply was "Oh...we don't serve breakfast; it's just called "Bed and Breakfast." I repeated: "You're called "Bed and Breakfast" but you don't serve breakfast?!", which he answered with an apologetic shrug and a promise to bring me some coffee and juice in the morning. At this point I'm sort of wondering if it really is a hotel at all :) As far as I can tell, mine is the only room there. Hmmm.
In summary, so far, so good. But Rome is expensive. I think I'll be leaving for some quieter, less touristy realms tomorrow. Hope everything is great on the homefront.
One of the last things I said to my friends at the bus station in San Jose was that I was tired and hoped I didn't end up sitting next to a "talker." Well, in perfect universal irony, the young man who sat next to me pulled out a little device on which he typed a message to me: "Hi, I'm Nick. I hope it's okay that I sit here. I'm deaf...have you ever used one of these devices [referring to the thing he was using to type]?" I should have been more specific; should have said "communicator," but all in all it was good. We talked on that thing, and two hours later, I made an attempt at sleep, but it seems I can't sleep on moving vehicles these days.
So I spent a few days with my brother in Hollywood, which was great. Last Friday night he was honored on the field at Dodger Stadium for his perfect usher attendance (and his dashing good looks). I arrived roughly 8 seconds too late to see his 30-foot mug displayed on the Diamond Vision screen, but it was cool all the same.
After a few days of playing with him and his Super Cool group of friends, I set out for my adventure.
Sunday night: no sleep on an overnight flight to New York.
Monday: eleven hours wandering in midtown Manhattan. Nice.
Monday night: no sleep on an overnight flight to Rome.
First lesson in Italian men: don't trust Italian men who warn you about Italian men. I was talking to this man while waiting to board. He lives in San Diego and was returing to Rome to visit his parents. Well, that was his story anyway. He was warning me about the men here (I'm writing from Rome) and how they will tell you anything and blah blah blah. As we boarded, he was telling me about the perfume he bought for his mother. A few minutes later, he brought up the perfume again (one called 'Paris'), and when I told him that I didn't know anything about perfume, he said, verbatim, " I don't usually buy the new one, but sometime my wife, I mean, no my wife, my mother...she like to..." I didn't hear the rest because I had walked away at that point. When somebody lies to you within the first 4 and a half minutes of meeting, I figure it's a good idea to move on.
So. Rome. This morning I thought I lost my purse first thing upon arriving. I was ready (sleep-deprived and a little nervous anyway) to pack up and head home. Turns out I left it on the plane.
So I'm staying then :)
It's true about the Vespas...those and other kinds of scooters are everywhere. It's pretty charming.
It's true about the Italian men, though I haven't found them particularly threatening or anything. And Rome is just teeming with handsome fellas. But then I've always liked the dark, curly-haired types anyway.
I had a long non-conversation with an elderly German man outside a cafe over my first cafe latte (which was everything I dreamed--the latte, not the non-conversation). Lesson learned (I don't speak German and he didn't speak English, Spanish, or French...neither of us speak Italian): European phrasebook is next to useless.
Now, it's time to get some sleep. I'm curious about the hotel in which I'm staying. It's called "Bed and Breakfast" (the hostels were full). The man showed me the room and told me about the keys and the bathroom, and when he was fixin' to leave, I asked him how to go about breakfast. His reply was "Oh...we don't serve breakfast; it's just called "Bed and Breakfast." I repeated: "You're called "Bed and Breakfast" but you don't serve breakfast?!", which he answered with an apologetic shrug and a promise to bring me some coffee and juice in the morning. At this point I'm sort of wondering if it really is a hotel at all :) As far as I can tell, mine is the only room there. Hmmm.
In summary, so far, so good. But Rome is expensive. I think I'll be leaving for some quieter, less touristy realms tomorrow. Hope everything is great on the homefront.
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