Confessions of a Jetlag Addict

A change

2009-02-09T18:51:00.000-08:00

Hey so this jetlag addict is on the move over to jetlagaddict.wordpress.com! I know, I know. We're flighty creatures, but this is what suffices for a passport these days.

Why Frommer's isn't beating down the door

2008-07-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

A) Do not ever, positively without doubt, try flying back on two international flights, solo, with food poisoning. Even if it means living off pre-packaged potato crisps in bland flavor and energy bars bought at the last newspaper stand selling USA Todays.

B) Oceans rule.

C) My life is better with tempeh and caffe lattes and sunshine and museums.

D) Bookstores should not take credit cards. Instead it should be more like performance art, whereby you earn the right to cart away beautiful, luscious volumes on, say, the influence of Islamic artistic techniques and motifs on the Italian Renaissance through fervant dancing, poetry, improv, etc.

I will in fact finish posting about Turkey (now! with! pictures!) some time when I have not been in three time zones in the last week or so.

headlines

2008-07-09T13:53:00.000-07:00

Yup, they shot up the U.S. Consulate in Istanbul. Suddenly all the gun control jokes seem a little shabby, although it is worth remembering that far more people are threatened with guns in good ol' Adams Morgan per week than this....No, I mean, it is scary. Or not really scary, more like, Oh, really, well, that's- not good, my gosh. And then you drink another stiff tea and you sit and you look out the window at the guy hawking sesame rings down below, and the mountains far off in the distance, where seventeen hours will put you in Istanbul, where someone tried to make a statement by killing people. To a certain extent, I almost prefer the shady characters in d.c. alleys: They want money. They want toys. They want, they want, they want.

But it isn't the explosive violence of shooting up three Turkish policemen, near a line of visa seekers, sitting in cafes, probably fanning themselves with a napkin and dropping another sugar cube in on the way down. Those guns back home aren't a political statement (recent court case aside), they're an economic imbalance, they're a sign of the times, whatever. And also a lot of stupid.

Everyone's pretty blase- they're all just worried about timing of picking up their visas to go back to their grad school jobs and fellowships in the fall. More people are worried about whether I can find the right change in pidgen Turkish than what language I actually speak.

But dude. They shot up the consulate.

Crimey

2008-07-05T10:50:00.000-07:00

Never say never: mound call at five am sharp tomorrow for the purposes of hand measuring and drawing every significant rock, bone, tile, mudbrick (both pink and tan species), plaster and dip in every single profile in every single trench. And all of it color coded. Magnificantly, we have seven, a whole three more than the usual four sides. Yup. Waking up in the dark again. I love my trench, I love my job, I hate mornings, oh my gosh I hate mornings....

Dort Temmuz

2008-07-05T01:51:00.000-07:00

The fourth of July, by the way, was a smash. Ruffles potato chips! Condiments! Lots of mayo! Potato salad! (Okay that last one was with sumac and olive oil but no one's complaining....) And for what it's worth, for all that people sniff at American food, the chips disappeared and everyone had a hotdog and a hamburger, mostly with scary yellow cheese. Which totally still exists in countries with a cheese afficionado mindset. Setting vegetables on fire with garlic had the usual effect of Whoa! What's the secret? The answer, as any American, vegetarian or no, is that fire ALWAYS makes things taste better.

There were no fireworks because the mound spontaneously combusts enough anyway and also, I don't think anyone has quite gotten over the whole gunshots thing.

If only the Weekly World News were still around

2008-07-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

The trenches are closed. Well, there's still a fire engine and an airplane to come for photographic purposes, sheet metal and plastic wrap to lay and yet again, more spiffy cleaning manouevers, but for now- no more four am wakeup calls before the iman gets up, no more eating breakfast in the total dark of night. No more being unbelievably unquestionably horrifically dirty!!

Seriously my Chicks Dig It tshirt is in danger of being added to an object pail. Or being seized at Customs.

On the other hand, that meant the end of Crazy Theory Time! Namely because the workers really didn't believe that a) this is a job or that b) we would be measuring rocks if there weren't gold somewhere underneath them. Or, maybe, some of these fine alternatives to rocks, rocks, and more foundation trenches...

"You do know this is where Cleopatra slept with Alexander the Great, right? Have you found the cave?"
Fearless Leader: "Uh...centuries?...We're on top of a mound...What would that even look like?!"

"There are seven jewelery stores under this trench. Seven."

Regarding an unfortunate cow knee: "It's a dinosaur bone!"

Regarding a pile of treasured, cradled Iron Age pottery fragments: "Cok guzel...." (aka Oh, very beautiful, uh hunh, you're all nuts!)

Well: Gold!

Medieval plumbing: Gold!

Rock: Pottery!

Shiny rock: Gold!

good times. gooood times.

Not made in the USA

2008-07-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

so also my job title, when not labeling object finds, refilling the water bucket or my favorite, sweeping dust off the dirt, is "accompany serdar on grocery store runs." seriously. on the other hand this means air conditioning which is good as the weather is set to sauna. it also means the chance to appreciate some fine, quality turkish cuisine such as...

KREM SEKER. Comes in a toothpaste tube, labeled with cartoon characters except that it's...PURE FLAVORED SUGAR. IN SQUISHY CREAM FORM. Seriously. Maybe you put it on crackers? Maybe you just squirt it into your mouth?

To be fair, the reason we were at the store was to hastily buy more beyaz peynir, which is most definitely NOT feta although, you know, still cheese that is white, drippy and squishy. So beloved is this that in fact the executive decision was made to cut off funding for all other cheeses (ta ta, slightly hard yellow thing, labneh, the two versions of krem cheese...) in favor of buying the special, top of the line, sealed in a metal box version. Apparently the whole group has been discussing, grousing and dissing the previous quality of white cheese whereas I have got to admit, I didn't even know there was a distinction between forms of the white, squishy stuff.

Still. This is a country that believes in cream sugar in portable form. Duly noted.

three more sunrises

2008-07-01T04:29:00.000-07:00

That's right, only three more mornıngs of wakıng up the roosters and wanderıng down streets lıned wıth stray cats and the snores of the guy up the road who sleeps on a balcony and could wake the dead on gozlukule hıll. Four weeks almost done and over wıth but it's not enough tıme!! Someone found a well. Someone found dead people. We had a modern pıpe slash! crash! found rampagıng through our pıts and ınstallatıon locı and walls and levels. How dare they! Well potentıally ıt was the french army ın 1921 but stıll. Tantalızıng shards from the Iron Age and obsıdıan flınts keep slıppıng ınto buckets but we're defınıtely stıll stuck ın the medıeval envırons. There's lusterware and a plaster floor to prove ıt...

Anyway. One day! The Goldman expedıtıons pulled back 40 meters, yes, that ıs rıght, 40 yards plus 120 ınches extra just for kıcks to get to the Neolıthıc. We're stıll just dabblıng, really...

back to the sea agaın on the weekend where I rambled around a castle, maybe a couple blocks square, totally empty except for fallen towers and sunken basılıcae and pıles of brambles and even a moat on one sıde and all of ıt, all of ıt sun soaked and bleached lımestone pıled hıgh to the sky agaınst the blue of the sea. then down the coast whıch ıs just mıles and mıles of sea, well, duh, and these massıve slabs of rocks dotted wıth sea salt pools that look lıke geodes. I stuck to the rocks after fındıng the snake skın curled up around a bush so ıt was a hıke on forgotten walls and ruıns untıl the barbed wıre fence cut ın.

we have been told that gıven the holıday on frıday we are to have an Amerıcan Barbeque so Cat and I have made plans ınvolvıng condıments, mıxed drınks and Bruce Sprıngsteen. Probably no one wıll survıve especıally sınce someone poınted out the exıstence of SILLY STRING.

well ıt could be worse, ıt could be a turkısh natıonal holıday and there could be gunshots agaın.

Just lıke home

2008-06-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

I mean the upsıde of the Supreme Court takıng away DC's rıght to decıde ıt ıs not a fan of more dead people than neccessary ıs that now, after every Natıonal's game, we can all head straıght for the shotguns and celebrate ın real Turkısh style!

Thıs ıs laughable clearlyç, because the Natıonals lose approxımately every game. But when ıt ıs Redskın season I am packıng the Kevlar!

Uh-oh

2008-06-25T04:29:00.000-07:00

Turkey vs. Germany. Tonight. The NYTimes only reported on the car horns and bottle rockets from the last match but just in case the guns come out again, we're hiding the German couple and hiding in our trenches...

Oh futbol.

In other news we attended a Kurdish engagement party, ate honey sweet dripping baklava, got scrubbed down to our original birthday suits at a hamam and celebrated the mass of St. Paul in like five languages. More later.

Also there are legitimately some dead people a trench over. You know. The usual.

Not a hallmark occasion

2008-06-20T23:04:00.000-07:00

Dear DC gun ban: I Love You.

So probably many of you have heard about this whole "futbol" thing that the rest of the world is just batty over, correct? Probably most of you will not have heard of the EURO 2008 CUP which frankly is english for INSANE RIOTING AND BEER PARTIES ACROSS EUROPE. Presumably since the players are hotter and everyone has an accent this makes it a cosmopolitan, swanky event completely different from say the derided Super Bowl but honestly, even I can't see it.

What almost certainly none of you know is that in a bitter, hard-fought, extremist match last night Croatia fell to Turkey in overtime due to a series of penalty kicks, hi-jinks, yellow cards, and some other soccer terminology you can look up on the bbc like I had to. In Turkey this news was greeted in the same way that many countries celebrate imminent invasions: gunshots and honking car horns and effectively, riots. Yes, even here, in sleepy little Tarsus. Wedding? Gun shots! Soccer matches? Gun shots! Gas more expensive than decent alcohol? Riots! But not about the gas prices! Riots driving cars around for hours and hours so that you can tootle the horn at other cars who are just as excited and well-informed about the results as well!

I would find this extremely amusing if I weren't just a little bit terrified.

On the other hand the next time someone smirks at me for the hijinks of rugby players I will politely inform them that although social songs always infringe on personal beliefs, social niceties etc. at least we do not SHOOT OFF WEAPONRY.

Success

2008-06-20T05:02:00.001-07:00

1) Today I said a sentence. A full, complete, slightly misordered affair but I did indeed communicate that This Morning the Lemonade was Amazing!

He makes it fresh for us with a hand squeezer and mint. We're so spoiled.

2) I discovered a spot on my body that was not covered in dirt. It is behind one ear and I fear that it must be preserved as a national land of Judy treasure or it will soon be gone.

3) I swam to a castle and I took it, climbing out from the sun-soaked sea with sticky sea salt hair and sunburned cheeks and slippery feet against the rocks.

4) The mound was on fire again and I saw it and yelled yangin! which is actually correct although since we were on the dig house balcony it didn't matter all that much. The dig is fine. But I am not used to the spontaneous combustion thing.

We also hiked the Roman Road but that will have to wait.

Putting introductions at the beginning is so retro

2008-06-14T07:07:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was the visa trauma or the whole packing twenty four hours ın advance or the jetlag or the minaret calls at four ın the mornıng but I belıeve I may have forgotten to say why exactly I'm here.

Oops. This summer's entertainment is brought to you by the summer exavatıons run by Boğazıçi Universitesi at Tarsus ın southeast Turkey on the Medıterranean coast wıth Gözlükule Mound. No, I have no ıdea how to say that eıther. As always ıt ıs no longer all that close to the coast and the last celebrıty was good ol' St. Paul way back when but ıt's an amusıng place none the less. More imans, less horse drawn carts than Romanıa. More shards of Islamıc glass (oh that glıtter!!!) I'll be here meltıng lıke baklava ın the sun untıl the mıddle of July.

Turkısh delıght of the day: The equıvalent of beer googles ıs 'Drınk up! Let's Get Beautıful!' Whıch ıs actually sort of a nıfty take especıally sınce Rakı ıs the lıcorıce candy's demon cousın. Also even the GAR restaurant, replete wıth the sound of traın tracks and travelers serves platters of fresh fruıt, pıstachıos and roasted chıckpeas as bar food. Adoratıon except that the other sıde dısh ıs ashtrays, served fresh by neccessıty every fıve mınutes or so. Maybe everyone ıs beautıful because of the haze...

Daıly cultural tıdbıt

2008-06-12T08:13:00.001-07:00

Oh the other thıng that ıs decayed and gray around here ıs the boıled sheep's skull cart. Fresh and hot! Now wıth teeth!

...yup. Thank heavens they only export baklava, ıs all I'm sayıng.

Shades of gray

2008-06-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

The adventures....of an archaeologıst!

(Indıana Jones theme musıc plays!)

(Our ıntrepıd heroınes of C7 17, locus 37, bucket 68 appear on stage. Trowels raısed, they poke at a gray lump! They determıne that...ıt ıs made of dırt!)

Brave Leader; It ıs a locus! I wıll wrıte ıt down!

(They look at the pıle of dırt. UnderGrad pokes at ıt wıth a trowel. Lump does not move.)

UnderGrad: So....we're lookıng at some hard compact soıl, here.

Brave Leader: Take ıt down! Take ıt all down! Level ıt!

UnderGrad: You mean thıs layer of decayed mudbrıck? Or thıs other layer of decayed mudbrıck? Or thıs pıle of ashy stuff that ıs the same color as the decayed mudbrıck?

Brave Leader: Well, yes. It may be all decayed mudbrıck. BUT IT'S DIFFERENT DECAYED MUDBRICK! Forward March!

(UnderGrad dılıgently pıckaxes away. UnderGrad at one poınt realızes thats everythıng she owns ıs now decayed, bleached mudbrıck color, such as her face.)

(They look at the slıghtly denuded pıle of decayed mudbrıck. It smırks. It knows that ıt ıs vırtually ıdentıcal layers of decayed bleached mudbrıck. It ıs all, dude, I survıved three thousand years on top of a höyük. You thınk you're gettın' to me?)

UnderGrad: (sotto voce) Your MOM ıs a decayed mudbrıck!

Decayed heap of solıd mudbrıck: You do realıze you're talkıng to a rock, rıght? And not even a real rock.

UnderGrad: Damn.

(Audıence ıs now catatonıc.)

All ın a day's work, ladıes and gentlemen. Get your ısolated contexts of Iron Age pottery sherds rıght here! Sale on Ashpıts of Tedıum! Free sample of sheep/goat bone for the fırst fıve vısıtors!

Singing in the rain

2008-06-10T02:12:00.000-07:00

No, seriously. The forecast for southeast anatolia today is heated with a 100% chance of thunderstorms. So we ditched the trenches and headed home given that we're on the only mound for miles and with a metal ladder to boot...

Puddles!

Thıs ıs not your trench, Mr. Jones

2008-06-09T09:15:00.000-07:00

4:30 a.m. breakfast of tomatoes wıth salt, olıves ın brıne, bread wıth hazelnut sugar spread. massive, concentrated amounts of turkish tea. (editor's note: I actually missed a step! real turkish tea has the leaves bathing in the upper kettle's steam until that water boils, THEN boiling water gets added to the leaves and more to the pot and the whole thing simmers for another ten minutes.)

5:00 a.m. welcome to Gozlukule mound! please avoid the scrub brush, the guard dogs, bask in the only shadow you'll get for the next twelve hours or so and oh yes. did I mention it is AWESOME?

7:30 a.m. Begin to realize that the sun is going nowhere, and neither are you.

9:00 a.m. tea party! Yes, that's right, with washed hands, a sheet, proper silverware and get this: real glass turkish tea cups. In their own box. It is entirely possible Hetty Goldman brought back the tea love to Bryn Mawr...

12:00 p.m. notice that parts of arms are purple in certain lights. also, that a white baseball cap was a poor, poor idea.

1:30 p.m. dear gads there is rest there is shade there is lunch there is NO MORE HILL THERE IS NO MORE SUN INSIDE OF THE BUILDINGS.

3:00 p.m. village people view pre-shower archaeologist as curiosity and also, repulsion. archaeologist agrees. situation remedied. (with hot water. the luxury! the excess!)

4:20 p.m. fall asleep on pile of paper boxes in supply cabinet. am sent home to bed. oops.

Chicks dig it. Archaeology, baby. Mr. Jones, you may check the damn whip at the door.

Realistically, this is it. You have a site. It's subdivided into minute parcels of absolutely perfectly measured squares- on the computer at least. In this case, the crack team of graduate geologist dudes who hang around with a TOTAL station that, I kid you not, works with LASER BEAMS. It has a little radiation warning and everything. So you have a site. There's some stuff in it. What to do? Don't pick it up. Don't step on it. Fetch a broom. Review most of the more boring moments in your life while sweeping the dirt clean off the dirt. When everything's been primped to perfection, it's the photo shoot du jour....but only if the light's good, i.e. between 5 and 7 a.m. Whew! Time for some tea. At this point the workmen began realizing that yes, we do in fact play in the dirt in millimeter increments. They are puzzled and also concerned not about death by sunburn but death by dust. Once you've got it good and primptastic, it's time to have some real fun: bring on the pickaxes! Well, okay, these are all of six inches long, but still. Nothing up here in the top soil really counts, but everything is labeled and washed and noted in the bucket and the bone bag (paper, just like CSI so that ze dead things can breathe) gets a tag too just in case and then in the end everything is typed up and added to a highly technical program that every day spits out a daily list of loci and installations and the chemical composition and position with attached photographs of each and every important rock....or funny colored soil, or things sticking outta the wall.

In the past of course they chucked out what they didn't want and went straight for the gold and treasures. But when I hold flakes of patina, the peacock color of really awesome museum finds, from Islamic glass shards that have fallen from my profile- it is worth it, the patience.

Plus, we may have bones with the disgusting habit of shedding on me from the profile, at least we get to skip the living dead!

You can't drink it black.

2008-06-07T01:20:00.000-07:00

In fact Turkey may be the only country that believes more fervently in the power of tea than Bryn Mawr. Forget tea parties. You drink tea in the morning, there's tea at shops; dudes with peculiar platters on strings ensure tea delivery throughout the city and if all else fails, there's coffee. Why people in Turkey bother sleeping is really beyond me. To make tea involves not quite a ritual but a lot of faith. First, dump tea into a small pot. And by dump tea I don't mean "a teaspoon" or "for every four ounces of water, add..." This kind of tea has its own laundry-sized scoop and lives in a container without a lid. Sploosh some water inside. Not a lot. This is the espresso of the tea world, concentrated and black like coffee. The aforementioned pot lives on top of a another kettle, filled with a more substantial amount of water; the whole thing is set to boil while you prepare the saucers and strangely sinuous wee tea cups, made all of glass. Also a sugar pot. There is always a sugar pot. In fact I was not entirely sure the "sugar free" concept existed in Turkey until I saw a pack of Trident. Let's just say Splenda is not likely to reach any export agreements any time soon....

At any rate now everything is set: the only decision is now how much you wish to dilute your caffeine overdose of the hour. First add the raw tea, then water to the desire of goodness required. Add sugar. Do it or suffer social ostracism. Sip. Ahhh.

But there's really no escape. It's either that or Nescafe, and yes, drink up. They'll be sad and you'll be all mopey and tired and stuff.

...unless you decide to drink Turk kahve instead, in which case you may well wake up in a tent on the far side of the Taurus mountains with some nomadic herdsmen because honestly, kapow. Forget tea leaves, those in the know should head straight for this stuff. To order it mention a little bit of sugar, a medium scoop, or a lot- having it plain is just so gauche. Also, vile. Turkish coffee comes in lesser doses than espresso and is so rich, so dark, so black; the grounds are silt against your tongue and by the end you're mired in murk and bitter grounds.

There is a Starbucks in the airport. Lattes are around eight bucks, depending on the exchange rate. But really?

Every village has one

2008-06-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

And not an idiot, either. I mean instead the crazy old lady or two, who banter and patter through the whole day. If you speak their language there is no escape but you get in return a series of sitcom-ready punchlines and riddles for fortune cookies. Our set sits between the dig house and the dormitory, just before the street with the tangerine and lime facade. A goodnight is mandatory, even for those of us with a vocabulary limited to "kebab" and they'll still spill out the good stuff just in case we magically learned the mother tongue during the day.

Hos geldiniz to Tarsus, by the way. Tarsus is much like Tilisca in that it has dust, sunshine and bewildered roosters. Unlike Transylvania, it also has solar powered heated brand spanking new showers, electricity, cooks, tea all the time, wireless internet, Roman terracottas...although it does have blue Dacias. Odd. Also we're supposed to start work, i.e. up on top of the giant Gozlukule mound, at daybreak, meaning breakfast served at 4:30. That would be A.M.

Indiana Jones, this ain't. On the other hand people had a tendency to die around him. Bullwhip, sure death....bullwhip, death by paper work...this never ends well.

How do you tell time here? My own little technologically advanced watch requires the addition of eight hours, minus seven minutes, which is totally not helpful. Instead, look up. Bright, scorching sun. But in the morning at daybreak is the first call to prayer; five times a day the loudspeakers come on and the calls echo throughout the mountains. A rooster gets terrified by the proud German clock tower that bongs every hour and half past, so usually midnight is a heap of sqwacks. Possibly he was eaten yesterday though. At one there is a reputed breeze that sweeps the streets and even up on the hill where there is no shade. If the sun goes down, it's dinner time and then if it is dark it's time for all good archaeologists to be tucked up in bed.

Speaking of which the exodus to the roof terrace informs me that perhaps I owe a visit to the dinner table.

gule gule

merhaba

2008-05-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

My turkish vocabulary has expanded wonderfully: first twofold, then fivefold, now, get this, a whole ten words. Then again I started with "kebab", so it wasn't that hard.

I have conquered the walls built by the Ottomans and the remnants of another proud empire. By which I mean, probably the reason Istanbul has been invaded so many damn times is because the hordes just got bored waiting for their visas. Crying a surprisingly effective tactic. The layers of red tape wrapped around Turkish archaeological sites could kill off a medium-sized elephant, no problem; what kills me is that the tourists who pick off the marble facades, stomp on top of priceless mosaics and worse, tell me it doesn't matter if it's Roman or Greek "because they're all old temples" get in with 37 dollars cash at the airport.

But that's okay. Because this is also a country that serves hotel guests three kinds of olives for breakfast with tea and turkish delight and halvah. All across the skyline are minarets like a giant chess set, and the sun when it sets is in this golden calligraphy.

Best street food so far: box o' pilaf, fresh rice and chickpeas, onions and relishes, drizzled with ketchup. 1.5 lira, so like a buck thirty, and it comes shoveled up from a cart that looks like it held popcorn in a previous life. Also in the running: grilled corn, pretzels, baklava on the run, fried fish, buckets of mussels, cherries dripping juice.

Worst pickup (for a restuarant) ever: "Lady, you don't want me to touch you?" said as the dude ran after me down the cobblestones, hitting one shoulder as I skeddadled on by. Yup, I totally like my hummus with a side of creeptastic.

Best pickup (ice cream division): "You don't eat my ice cream? You break my heart!"

All in a day's work. Mwah.

2008-01-24T17:50:00.000-08:00

Note: still alive. Sorry to not have updated since several time zones ago, but I did survive break and am now back, mourning the loss of my cappuccino guy (but gleefully living in a ridiculous mansion. with heat! and running water!) And who knows what will follow?

Dreaming of drowning in golden brocades

2007-12-08T10:17:00.000-08:00

Siena was...unbelievable. I sort of feel like it gets short shrift; as if the pall of the Black Death was still enough to keep the hordes over at Renaissance-laden Florence and sipping vintages throughout the Chianti belt. Hah. Their loss. The miles of frosty fields seen out the train window was a bit of a bummer, but Siena is all red brick and cozy. Seriously. It's like it stocks up on sunshine and basks even when the wind is worse than gelato.

Actually that pretty much didn't matter. I mean, wander down one narrow and twisted alleyway, climb a staircase to nowhere...all fine and dandy, yawn. Mostly because Sienese artwork is made up mostly of this golden brocade, fine little lines dancing across yards of gilt, like Klimt without the obscure, just beauty for the sake of salvation. This is pre-Raphael, pre-insipid little cherubim, pre-Mannerist snobbery and the ridiculous of the baroque.

Of course, we checked our gelato at the door.

(Seriously? Who does that?!?)

Oh, and there was this Etruscan exhibit that literally rendered me unable to talk except in whimpers. It was that good. It makes chocolate-orange gelato look like child's play. There was this bilingual kylix, tondo in red figure, reverse in half red and half black, an overlapping leg slipping onto the terracotta background, a bloody shield half on the black...brilliant. 40 euros for the catalog? Ha, who needs food! What's the Italian for ramen?

(But instead we got wine with a fancy name in glasses, picked out by a guy confused by the line, "We don't know anything about alcohol," because how could that be true? This is after all the city of the government-sponsered Permanent Wine Library of Italy, which lives behind locked doors in a medieval cellar, in a fortress. Probably wine in a box is an expletive here. We even splurged, kidding, parentals, on food to match- wild boar and risotto across the table, yellow pumpkin and fresh porcini mushroom soup simmered with fresh rosemary for me...I blame this on the fact that the glossy guide had BLURRY PICTURES and so will not blemish my bookshelves.)

...but oh, man, alabaster cinerary urns, pigment still intact, layers of bucchero pottery and tiny repousse gold...Yeah. Best two euros I have spent yet.

Should all the education get to you, though, Siena has lots more attractions.

There's always reading traditional children's literature:

Or perhaps some Christmas shopping:

The classic arcade game:

At any rate, fun and games over, we went back to our usual grueling studying.

Or, uh, something like that.

Last week = four days to learn the entire political/social/economic history of Rome and as expressed through architectural developments through EIGHTEEN CENTURIES. Also, to run blindly around drinking as much decent caffe as possible. May I present to you the perfect study aide:

goodbye t(ivoli) sun:

but hey, at least we took the high road:

(via appia antica)

It was a dark and stormy field trip (take two)

2007-11-29T08:17:00.000-08:00

Winter has finally gone off its strike of Rome and once again, nasty rain is slicking down the streets and on to the notes of poor classics students, huddled against the wind. ONE coffee break, can you imagine? We're so beset and put upon.

I do have more linkage, which I'll post later, but in the meantime I'm off to Siena, a land of red bricks, sinuous icons and saints. Also the government-owned Museum of the Wine Bar or something ridiculous like that, housed in a fortress and kept behind locked keys. I should note here that this is a country having a general strike of all major transportation methods tomorrow. But only between the hours of 8:30 and 4:30, so that people can still go to work, and home, and to coffee bars. This is all vaguely inexplicable. Also, the unions usually come equipped with brightly colored balloons, and the only thing I can think is that if threatened, they quickly work up an army of balloon animals to throw at the riot police. Thank you, Italy. The Roman Empire has taken quite a blow.

When In Rome

2007-11-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

...you should have at least one meal consisting mainly of hunks of freshly torn bread, soft, creamy cheese, and a bottle of wine. With friends. (I mean I guess you could picnic in the company of enemies as well but you'd always be doubting the poison content of the wine, and that would be a pain.) Should you be in the neighborhood, all this can happen in downtown Rome in the shadow of a closed-up church and a talking statue. Welcome to Enoteca Cul de Sac, because if it's November and warm enough to dine outside without a coat, the only proper thing to do is raise a toast and enjoy!

And then, simply because it is Rome, you should hustle on over to Alberto Pica and lap up a cup of gelato di riso alla cannella, which is literally frozen rice pudding, or heaven, seriously chilled. I hear that if you get that AND the bombastic chocolate at the same time, you start speaking tongues, angels play little harps, etc.

If you felt like throwing in some education with the gluttony, Santi Apostoli has more chandeliers than Versailles and a wicked crypt seemingly painted like wallpaper. Best viewed on dark, rainy days as the artwork is pretty pedestrian but it's all 292 feet tall, so between the shadows in the corners and the swinging rows of chandeliers strung across the apses, you can pretend all sorts of crazy adventures. The crypt at San Marco just across Piazza Venezia is a wee more rustic, by about a milennia and a half, and noteably has a box. The box is full of rubble and anonymous bits, and above it is a sign going on about a martyr, etc. etc. It is entirely possible the martyr is still loose, in the box, which is in prime tripping position. I fled asap and up into the glitter of the Jesus mosaic, still going strong after thirteen centuries.

...but really, the gelato was the revelatory point of the day. Er, homework? What now?

The pie fell like Rome before the Visigoths

2007-11-22T12:41:00.000-08:00

No, seriously. It went from this:

followed by this:

to this:

...quite a lot of that, actually. This is a country that yearns to feed, to cause cries of Thanksgiving until they sort of turn to pleas for mercy. (The pumpkin cauldrons were followed by ravioli, plus a variety of produce things, platters of turkey, decked with stuffing and studded with chestnuts, mashed potatoes of a sort, SWEET POTATOES OMG I THOUGHT THEY WERE LIKE UNICORNS HERE, corn on the cob, and then, only then, did we hit the dessert buffet. They wouldn't actually tell us what was up next, and we stopped asking, mistakingly thinking that somehow, the flood of food would, you know, end. Hah.)

But you know what? It could have been cereal out of a box (I assure you, generic cereal shopping even in Italy is not exactly excitement central) and it wouldn't have mattered. Because when I woke up and went for a wander, there were bells breaking all across the city, my Rome, with clouds just across the horizon. I am thankful for marble columns...

...and marble altars...

and because sometimes, the artwork talks back...

and because somewhere across the Atlantic, la famiglia said a prayer and called from three or four time zones away. Gratias ago for having friends to send postcards to, and for friends who put up with me spewing in Latin half the time. Thanksgiving doesn't stop after the whipped cream.

All roads lead to...

2007-11-21T09:57:00.000-08:00

Which nowadays is true if you're equipped with a flying duck boat to help with those pesky oceanic voyages. But I firmly believe that everyone should decide at some point to try and set out- Grandmother's house may be only across the river, but does it have a triumphal arch at the end?

In Rome there are two types of roads: epic, and footnote. Most of them are the latter; take a hike down an ancient superhighway (Via Appia, Nomentana, Salaria) and you not only risk limbs at every intersection but also ending up in Brindisi wondering how you could have missed the Colosseum. Try finding anything around here though without a detailed, labeled, alphabetized map with an X marking the spot and probably, you will stumble across it during the next Visigoth invasion. This is not really an exaggeration. Up here in Monteverde, labels (when they bother) change every block, sometimes at a curve, only to pick up half a neighborhood later and disappear into obscurity again. It's tempting to think that they made most of these people up- sort of a random heroic name generator, one part Giuseppe/Giovanni/Paolo, the last bit something with too many vowels. On the other hand it's rather nice to think that Rome still remembers, that even though the battle or book or art is just an excerpt in someone's dissertation in America, they're on every electric bill and love letter sent to at least a handful of people. So rock on, Carini and Poerio and Oreste.

But here's the thing: Grandmother's house isn't just over the river and through the woods, and I'm guessing the pumpkin pie tomorrow will be lacking a certain whipped topping taste. And the chances of cranberry jelly with ridges are about as likely as hearing What Do You Get A Wookie For Christmas. So to my family- chow down on the turkey and wave at the parade on TV for me, okay? And if anyone's traveling, safe roads, wherever you end up.

Only missing the wood smoke

Grazie

2007-11-19T03:15:00.001-08:00

There was one place where I refused to whip out the camera, even though the sun was delicious and the sky was blue as anything. Nettuno looks like just outside of D.C., if you happen to cross the Potomac and end up in Arlington. And just like home, there are thousands and thousands of crosses lining acres of green. It is very silent. Most tourists in Italy head straight for the very old dead- Pompeii, the catacombs, crypts under cathedrals. Sometimes it's hard to remember that Italy has a history after 400 A.D.

It has been a very long time since I could look up and see an American flag waving at the sky.

Anyway. We skip most major holidays here- we're getting fed some kind of immense feast on Thursday, but that's only after a five hour field trip- so Veteran's Day was sort of a bust. (That's right, mattresses do not go on sale every five weeks for nefarious commercial reasons although the Christmas cakes did start appearing right after Halloween....) But it was a reminder of home, and of thanks, that there is still an Italy for me to bum around in and that I didn't have to search for any names on any tombstones.

Mind the cranky

2007-11-17T12:16:00.000-08:00

All of Rome at my stilettos, and you know what I'm craving? Sweatpants. It's a glamorous, cosmopolitan life we lead over here, let me tell you. Now of course I'm, uh, lounging on a leather sofa, twirling Fendi boots in air scented with ripe olive oil and freshly squeezed citrus...thank heavens this isn't youtube.

So recently I disappeared. Probably I should explain something about the Centro: we're worse than the post office. Rain, shine, general strike, lack of cappuccino- it doesn't matter, four days a week, we're out there looking at ze rocks. In general, this is fairly amazing. It isn't every day you get to browse through Rome like a textbook- oh, yeah, take a detour at the Caravaggios, hang a right at the Bernini fountain, did we ever get around to Trajan's Forum? But we're here, and we get to, in fact we have to, there are all sorts of official permits and waivers and frantic phone calls so basically it's my DUTY to photograph every speck of dust and take notes on the whims of emperors. Sometimes however Rome gets bored of this fuss and nonsense, and then the Centro takes a break. To look at some slightly different piles of rocks.

Ladies and gentlemen....introooduuucciiinnnggg- the wild, the crazy, the smashing, LAS VEGAS OF THE ANCIENT WORLD.

Well not quite. That's Herculaneum, which featured much of the luxe but traded the decay for massive catastrophic death, destruction, lamenting, etc. Which is okay because up the coast, part of the glitz has been washed away, I'll admit, and in fact most of Baiae requires a bikini for entrance. Also scuba gear. These are the Campi Fleagri, home of the Styx, the Sibyll, Lago Averno, where not even birds dare swim...

But what's a classics student to do but sally forth, notebook laden and dictionary at the ready?

Everyone, I'm going to assume, knows the deal with the volcano, and the big fuss in 79 a.d. But this part is old, older than that, older than rome and older than history. Aeneas was here, and the Sibyl; when the Greeks came, they went, "ooh, easily defensible hills! Also, it's pretty."

Napoli is a survivor. She sits on the bay, no longer the New City, pride of Magna Grecia, but hit by the Lombards, the Romans, World War II bombers. It's okay though. They also invented the pizza margherita and the world's best coffee and some interesting hand gestures...they're doing fine down there.

not quite the thanksgiving turkey:

the ketchup of the ancient world- mind the bones/scales/fermented organs:

in Rome, even after you hike up the steps there's still only a dab of communion wine to drink:

benevento is a town you will never have heard of, and probably never see. all I know is that Trajan Wuz Here and left a wicked arch to prove it. Also, their priests have had awesome taste in church decor.

a furry thing happened on the way to forum:

epic

2007-11-16T13:43:00.000-08:00

it wasn't really the worst field trip of all time. but it did end in the CENTRO being exposed to approximately 2928 viral strains involving drippy noses, coughs, hacks, wheezes etc. and also some pink eye. times you are not advised to visit pompeii: when the volcano is exploding. or when you end up clinging to some tree, cheapo walmart umbrella bent double in the wind, while valhalla pours out rain and lightning is coming this close to adding you to the exhibits of dead people. basically it was chilled like bad white wine and damper than the river styx. bed. dry socks. warm running water. it's the little things in life.

embarassment of riches

2007-11-12T10:08:00.000-08:00

out and about in campania until further notice. lots of wicked emperors, scandalous scenes and the las vegas of the ancient world. today was napoli, a city with a bad rap and some heartbreaking works of artistic brilliance. there are ruined hulks of churches, weeds crowning the crosses against the sky, and the running bronze boys from pompeii, all fifteen minutes from each other. caravaggio fled here with a price on his head and only became a superstar; who else could paint like that and live? oh, man, his seven acts of mercy- tenebrous, chiaroscuro, it is depth and emotion and intensity, drama in mere paintstrokes and fraying oil cloth. plus there's the whole smoking volcano thing. that's pretty sweet too.

Insert title here

2007-11-05T02:55:00.000-08:00

Oops, just a point of clarification- text in green in the body of a post means a link, which you can decide if you have enough leisure/desire to click on and go through. Most of them are photo links to albums, since making people look at 60 pictures of temples would be cruel. Let me know if they don't work!

Just another manic sunday

2007-11-04T02:05:00.000-08:00

Lack of response due to severe encroachment of "academic work" and "educational commitments" on my procrastination adoration and that- what is it called? The part where you lay on a cushy thing, eyes closed, without a mug of caffeine glued to your lips? That sleep thing. Good stuff.

I would probably have really amazing photos to post up of the glories of Augustan Rome, except that Rome can't make her mind what weather she wants to put on and so the majority of field trips have been of the damp/dreary/mucky/chilled worse than bad white wine kind. Fun, but unphotogenic.

Luckily I never managed to actually link all the sun-soaked Sicilia pictures. But since I know you've been pining away, awaiting the day when you too could bask in the glory of the most complete doric temple entablatures in the whole wide world...facebook is here.

Emperors and seas and endless sun
Not enough Sicilian sun

Also by educational I may have meant "attended the CENTRO Halloween party, danced with an Ionic column, the emperor Augustus, various deities and Indiana Jones. Also ate too much candy corn, a concept of edibility that is so far from being explicable to Italians that there are literally no words to translate with." Keeping in line with the theme of Massive Dorkage and Cheap Costumes, I went with the high-brow literary theme. As Ovid's Carmen Et Error. Most the error, mainly because I wanted an excuse to wear stilettos with a toga.

So Indiana Jones, an Ionic column and Augustus walk into a bar...

In case you don't feel like wading through shots of legitimate college life, the Fori Imperiali also make a cameo appearance. They're pretty awesome. As is this fellow,

who basically rocks my stilettos off. Then again clearly piles o' rock are an illicit substance in my case, so don't mind me.

That would be the Interpretive Corinthian Column Dance, popular among fellow tourists and alarming to small children. (Also, that is the Forum of Augustus resignedly behind me. Meet the glories of imperial architecture! Travertine! Monumental scale and the fusion of traditional italic canon with Greek!)

Somehow it's already November, which never fails to surprise me. The seasons change here in store windows; thick pleated wool coats and gleaming black leather boots up metre and metre of leg. This deep into the city the leaves are just accessories anyway. The only fall foliage is marzipane and found in exclusive pasticcerie across the boulevards. Even the gelato isn't the same- no more summery frills, just the thick and rich nuts and chocolate flavors, cold on a cold tongue.

But hey, it may not be home but we're still ridiculous. And really, what else matters?

Do polar bears wear togas?

2007-10-28T04:20:00.000-07:00

Weatherwise, the eternal city is clearly playing some tricks. Earlier this week we were playing below snow-topped mountains and right now, you could go sunbathing on the fallen columns in the forum.

Irony: Ecological day = helium balloons all over the centro storico.
Suprise: The Oppio Cafe, which is perched above the Colosseum and below San Pietro in Vincoli, features the sort of slick glass bars and sleek metal chairs that usually means the caffe will cost more than lunch and that furthermore you will be too alarmed to actually sit on the furniture was not only a) reasonable, b) furnished with dunkable amaretti but c) had waiters playing in a mock gladiatorial battle behind the counter.

Jobs I could never do:

Tour guide: my umbrella skills are not up to par. Neither is my ability to elbow away hordes of German tourists, either in front of an altar or away from the buffet bar.

Italian postal service: Example of product- Postmarked, September 30th. Delivery at Centro, October 27th. Requirements- obfuscation, obscure document requests, delivery via horse and buggy...

Yesterday I discovered that caffeine deprivation is real, and that a caffe macchiato is not a splurge, it is a medical neccessity. Don't make mine black, make mine smooth and amaro, with the slightest dash of foam on top and a sprinkle of cane sugar. Amaro means bitter, like mornings in that promising dark before the sun rises, like saying goodbyes that mean forever. Caffe does not come in a venti cup. I mean theoretically you could make twenty ounces of straight up espresso. Then you would twitch very violently and die. Possibly that would be instant zombie, because I'm fairly certain all your parts would still try to scramble around in a caffeine daze.

Halloween migrated somehow in the last four years. Now there are spiderweb cakes and inflatable pumpkins, and clubs featuring ads for parties where the clothing, let alone costume, seems relatively optional. The Romans would probably approve. They were all for insane public festivals that satiated the people and allowed the government to maintain control through some religious mumbo-jumbo and insane amounts of burned meat left over from the gods. Also, alcohol. Professor Roman to his daughter: That's right, sweetie, a toga- the ancient Romans threw the original toga parties! Education at its finest. But I still can't quite picture jack o'lanterns lining the Forum.

Law of probabilities

2007-10-24T12:44:00.001-07:00

Proof I lived in Italy: BAM, motorino attack on the way to the grocery store. I mean I'm totally fine, aside from some nifty bruises, but it would have been funny only if it happened on the way to the Forum...

Anyway, it was probably Vespa karma- earlier I saw the first case of Shoe Dog, where you stash your pocket puppy on your toes while jetting around town. Possibly the motorino gods were upset at my riotous snickering at the little fuzzball?

If anyone wants a tour guide...

2007-10-21T03:06:00.000-07:00

perhaps the reason so few authors write about sicilia because there are no ways of pinning it down in words.

no wonder it keeps being invaded.

epics always skimp on the details anyway; they never mention that you can drown in the sky as well as the wine-dark seas

sneak preview:

forget about tree hugging. column-lovers are the people with real grit and stamina!

All roads lead to...

2007-10-20T14:02:00.000-07:00

I'm so waking up tomorrow with backpack hickeys. Note to self: check availability of luggage storage on weekends before jetting off to far-flung towns!

On the other hand I'll be waking up to the oh so familiar sounds of Via A. Algardi, and not strange russian chicks or the sounds of flat breakfast rolls hitting plastic trays. Photos to come, if I can convince myself to leave the bed...

How to survive a hostel

2007-10-19T00:43:00.000-07:00

1) Speak variety of strange languages, especially Interesting Gesticulations. Bonus points for getting 'I need you to unlock the door, as it is pitch black and four in the morning and the powder room is on the other side' understood by native Russian speakers.

2) Coffee machine 101: two shots of espresso, one aqua calda, dash of strange UHT milk. stir, grimace, repeat until awake.

3) Sense of humor. More important than your passport.

In which our intrepid adventurer laughs at sleep and falls in love with the word 'flair'

2007-10-18T03:42:00.000-07:00

Cliff notes:

Postcards are the calling cards of the devil. Dear Bryn Mawr, I cannot buy textbooks as I spent them on mementos of flying buttresses and saints' tombs.

Edinburgh should be all about brisk breezes and swirling leaves, flipping over pedestrians in the camera obscura, playing with lightning ditto, castle adoration, a mad scramble up arthur's seat two hours before sunrise, tentative haggis tasting at the cafe where harry potter was born, and a crash course in scottish history. hint: lots of swords.

England still intact. Rosslyn Chapel worth a hundred crazy theories and crackpot photos. Durham could well host a tea shop tour, especially if parts of you got abandoned on the trek up the cathedral tower. note: keeping up with people who row in lycra at stupid o'clock in the morning for FUN means fabulous if tiring adventures. Like learning to cha cha in four and a half inch heels. I did see some of the usual suspects in newcastle (ie castle, duh, winding river, swish portrait exhibition, lit candles in a church etc.) but honestly, I crashed at the public library somewhere in there and read Neil Gaimen. God bless Newcastle.

Easyjet beats ryanair, but kudos to both for not losing the old backpack. And for letting me take shoes on board the plane that actually could qualify as lethal weapons.

am now bumming around italy. approaching the education saturation point, but that would be the cue for dad's tiniest violin trick so I'll bow out now and go hang about something famous...

Somewhere in England

2007-10-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

Budget airline tickets = best idea ever. Whirlwind of teacups and castles, amusing accents and rivers I can't pronounce. Soon to be somewhere in northern Italy under the influence of quite a lot of caffeine, although the thoughtful abundance of English coffee cups with actual massive capacity has been lovely...

And everywhere the sunshine seeps

2007-10-09T08:29:00.000-07:00

Sicilia is just as scrumptious and gorgeous as I remembered. Have done little except wander around large piles of rocks, make squeaky noises and in general stay in a permanent state of geekgasm. It is impossible to describe Sicily, although I've taken approximately Too Many Photos and will force you to admire each and every visible inch of Piazza Armerina's 3500 sq. m. of mosaics, dripping with hunt scenes and scantily clad chicks in bikinis. Kidding. Probably. But what can I say about the sea, so blue, or the way that fog rolls off the mountains in the morning? About Etna's creamy plume, Typhon's undying pain, or about the crunch of a cannoli? There are prickly pears sold by the dozen on roadsides, and men selling rolexes off highways. It is so poor, but there is so much beauty- welcome to Sicilia, Italy's nasty little paradox for over two milennia. Baci, darlings, be back....er, at some point.

Off to the land of myths and olive groves

2007-10-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

Once again off to somewhere with suspicious internet access. This time however it's got beaches and four star hotels. And, you know, important stuff. Old stuff even. Baci!

Not so dolce vita

2007-10-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

Lest you think I've been blinded by poetry or succumbed to the tourist traps, some quick reminders that to have paradise, you need a dark side:

I may be the stiletto queen, but this is ridiculous

And, quick warning, this next one's a bit shocking:

These really are splashed up on billboards

So yes, it's fun to laugh at the chicks hobbling in the park in four inch heels, and praise the ladies vrooming by in pumps built for the catwalk alone, but the culture that underlies all that bella figura nonsense is inescapable. Fashion is not a joke here. Fashion is a way of life, and it is a way of living. Two million women in Italy are estimated to be anorexic. The next time someone says Europeans don't get fat? Tell them why.

Okay, that was a bit depressing. This is a bit more like my usual self, and in many ways, just as accurate.

Caffe = Instant Morning Person

2007-10-02T11:46:00.000-07:00

The trick is to leave before the campanile start striking- seven rings, probably recorded but that's half the fun- means you're out too late, you've missed it. Creep out the gates at a quarter till and head out along the Gianicolo- that's when you'll find the clouds breaking across Rome, great swoops of salmon and silver-edged gold. Already old ladies walk elderly dogs, who mince across the cobblestones and sniff at the doors to the butcher stores. It's a different Rome this early, a maze of bakery trucks and street sweepers and mysterious doors opening on to loaves of bread laid out on wooden trestles the size of doors. This early, the city is a secret, the view yours, all yours.

Yup. It's worth it to run or, more accurately, gingerly encourage a steady walk, this early. Sunrise is worth fumbling with shoe laces in the dark. Down by the Forum, only a lone gladiator stands ready, trunk of props- leather helmets, plastic swords- set up on a column base. No postcards for sale, and only a few pigeons line the market stalls. The streets are lovely, dark and steep...

Sometimes I'd rather have a thousand words

2007-10-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

~Jack Gilbert

This is for every inside joke in Martial that has to be glossed, this is for condescending sighs in the grocery store and glances at strangers in the park. This is for "Feel better" and "I heart you" and "ridiculous" because there is no translation; this is for "goodbye", which is just pretending anyway.

This is a sort of paradise

2007-09-30T13:19:00.000-07:00

...but I'm definitely allergic to it. Given the whirlwind of rocks! more rocks! some really old rocks! on field trips, the parents and a general overall appearance of being attacked by rodents of unusual size, I apologize for the delay.

Enthusiastic? but of course:

See? Education, it's a dangerous thing. (If the wild gesticulations weren't enough, I could also go on a long discussion about how, although labeled as Servian, it can't really be as the stone is a local import available only in a small city resoundly crushed by the Romans centuries after poor Servius Tullius keeled over. Yes. I have a lot of photos of: rocks.

Also, quick fact of the day- Simon Says would not work in Italy. Care to guess why?

Even though it is twice as large, it still has 0% chance of actually causing anyone to care. The real trick to crossing streets is to step right in front of cars. If you feel like this will result in roadkill, grab a small child/nun/lady in stilettos and use as a shield. Be bold! The cars are made of fiberglass and tinfoil anyway!

But the streets haven't really changed all that much. People who don't believe in ghosts should visit Rome. These lead the way through the Forum, past the politicians and Cicero, toadies hurrying to flatter a patron, booksellers unfurling poetry forgotten even then. Just imagine the fun of trying to commute in a chariot...

They came, they saw, they drank too many cappuccini

2007-09-20T08:13:00.000-07:00

It must be a genetic trait, this whole caffeine and foam addiction. Anyway the parents are here and their usual amusing distracting selves; when they're not gallivanting off we've been doing Important Italian Lessons.

Much like training puppies a good reward always helps the cause and Dad is a very apt learner:

"Due cappuccini, per favore!" may well be the best phrase in any language. Ever. Well done, pater!

Honestly, is nothing in Rome not famous?

2007-09-14T12:50:00.000-07:00

Best resume ever: trowel fodder.

More cavorting around the eternal city and its environs; we've hit some random famous places, mocked a few stone walls, collapsed in parts of the vatican and enjoyed some complex contrapposto. Luckily MTV ROMA day is tomorrow to save us from the education...

Miscellany

2007-09-12T08:58:00.000-07:00

You know you go to the Centro when more people speak advanced ancient greek than italian and when you can make jokes involving obscure verb conjugations and people still get the punchline...

More photos from life not far from a wine-dark sea

There aren't enough candles in Rome

2007-09-11T11:49:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, I think we all pretty much remember what happened. Four years ago I was homesick and staring at the American flag = (insert various racial/religious slurs here) graffiti outside the window and wondering about a lot of things, really. Trying to explain what it meant to hear fighters breaking the sound barrier above the school, listening to the whir of a cessna every night for a couple of months, learning to get used to metal detectors and suspicious guards and the rest of living in the Nation's Capital. No one's asked this time around; Europe has had its own slew of calender dates to mourn for. But I remember. Even in this eternal city, I can't forget.

It's a marvelous night for a moondance

2007-09-10T04:51:00.000-07:00

Oh, la Notte Bianca, when the streets of Rome are flooded with chicks in too-tall heels, mood music and giant golden praying mantises.

...No, I can't really explain that one either. But it was kind of fun to see the alien light invasion of the circus maximus, and hear plays in the imperial fora once again.

We just sort of wandered around Trastevere to see what goodies we could find; what started with a Maori war dance and olive oil testing ended at sunrise with the whirling dervishes greeting the dawn. So I was totally dazed, and light was only just creeping up around the hill and the ruins in the background, with mystic Sufi music and the keening song of the caller and all I could think was my goodness what a marvelous time.

Also that I was in desperate need of some serious caffe' goodness.

For the record, the Hash House Harriers are hilarious and in Rome, what my rugby team would be if it were composed of middle aged expats, aka jovial and prone to making scandalous jokes. Hashing: because you can look like an idiot wherever you go. You, whoever you are, should definitely strap on a pair of sneakers and join.

With espresso like this, who wants sleep?

2007-09-08T00:13:00.000-07:00

The Setting: Rome. It's Friday night! You're a group of juniors armed with mascara, tiny cameras and euros fresh out of the bancomat. Do you....

a) down enough 79 cent boxed wine to forget what hill you live on?
b) finish that martial translation
c) snap a heel on the cobblestones and found a sect of nuns dedicated to the protection of footwear?

B was tempting, but in the end we went traipsing- straight off to the Musei Capitolini, strangely lit, with Marcus Aurelius in a halo of stars. Sweet. Welcome to the Notte Bianche, two days where the eternal city ditches beauty sleep. So, uh, Centristi are really cool and we totally went and made snarky comments about various famous artworks. And got a little too excited about Piles Of Rocks.

...I mean what else do you do with giant body parts other than silly poses?

Tried waking up this morning, cried at the cruelty of shoe laces and forced my roommate to go caffeine hunting. This is why I love Italy: baby nutella cornetti, dished out for all comers on a platter dusted with powdered sugar and a barman willing to make endless cappuccini and badly-parsed Italian conversation. Off to mangle some Martial and study some more random old things.

sum, es, est...

2007-09-06T13:47:00.000-07:00

Needless to say I'd love to do nothing but frolic around Rome but unfortunately as fun as prowling through this is:

...I should probably get on with the actual education material. And by educational, I mean laughing at the pony parking signs.

worth the burned fingers

2007-09-05T11:42:00.000-07:00

sometimes you just need to sit down and think about things.

gelaterie make the best landmarks

2007-09-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

"Just look for the walls!" They make it sound so easy. The trick in Rome is that there are walls everywhere. No wonder it took so long to invade the damn city: the Vandals probably just got lost and were too embarrassed to ask for directions. Now, after centuries of sieges and palaces and people with too much spare time on there hands, the city is plastered with walls. Aurelian, Servian, Frangipani, Gianicolum- O-PUS! RET! IC! UL! AT! UM! It's like one of those school house rock songs they teach you in first grade.
But there is something lovely about running fingers over the cracks in the plaster, or papal keys highlighted against the sky. Run along the Gianicolo and you end up smack dab in the heart of the Vatican; here the walls head straight to Ostia.

How could you resist going inside?

Plus, walking, they become a flipbook to life in rome...welcome to the writing on the wall:

As mein Vater once put it, Never A Good Sign:

And then the Humor Police came and carted him away for Egregious Pun Abuse. Some things never change.

and then I walked the seven hills

2007-09-03T12:35:00.000-07:00

Realized I never bothered to do the whole introductory material, in which I explain that I didn't just get lost on the way back from Romania. I'll be running amok in the eternal city until December 16th as a proud member of Rome's dorkiest study abroad program, aka the CENTRO: all the dead languages you've ever dreamed of. If it sounds familiar, it is; it's basically SYA with more wine at dinner. Pretty much the last few days have been spent in a haze of crunching leaves, cobblestone streets and the sunrises creeping past the Aurelian walls in the morning. We live perched on top of the Gianicolo; if you look out over the ramparts the Colosseum is tucked in between trees, and in between the Tiber and the Alban hills is a forest of spires and domes and angels trumpeting into the heavens.

Meandering through all the neighborhoods in the guidebook took a few cappuccini and a lot of wrong turns. Meandering through all the streets in my actual neighborhood took about three runs, some directions that never made it into my spandex and some highly awkward gesticulations, aka getting lost every single time.

I could just keep on writing; it's easy to see why Rome has been easy fodder for milennia. The cocoa-kissed tiramisu', the way the sunlight falls into fountains and splashes into the piazze, the sound of an old man singing opera from a porch, a blown kiss in the supermarket. Every thing could be a postcard and every conversation an epic.

so tell me what you think, and what you actually want to read, and see. Guidebook perfect? Nothing but amusing anecdotes? Dissertation level discussion about the Etruscans and their funeral habits?

No postage neccessary

2007-09-01T11:52:00.000-07:00

Cheesy parental-approved pose

Viterbo: where the men are edible, the cakes tasty and the atmosphere, festive

St. Peter's never needs beauty sleep

Nutella: now part of a complete meal

As classic as a little black dress

Armed with a gigabyte memory card and dangerous

2007-09-01T09:37:00.002-07:00

Possibly this is salami di elephant. Imagine the sandwiches possible with this thing!

St. Peter's, the Trevi Fountain- a camera and frantic poses are acceptable accessories. It is entirely possible however that the Italians are really perplexed about all the people whipping out cameras for the vegetables.

Viterbo pride

Back to the engraved stone age

2007-09-01T09:33:00.000-07:00

Buttons. Fun to push, and useless in my hands. Having some trouble with some of these...maybe I'll craigslist a fresco painter instead, there must be some to spare around here.

Slightly cheaper than drugs

2007-09-01T09:09:00.001-07:00

120 photos in 48 hours

2007-09-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

Possibly there is something like a centimeter of converse rubber from these poor shoes all over Rome. The Vatican to home yesterday; across the river to Testaccio, up the Aventine, across to the Centro, Piazza del Popolo, scaring the pigeons around Piazza Navona, snapshots in Campo de' Fiori, a meander through Trastevere and back up a hidden staircase to the Gianicolo. My thumbs are getting guidebook calluses.

It is entirely possible that bits and pieces of Rome cannot be forgotten, that there have been so many photos and movies and engravings and carvings that even if a comet were to smash the world to pieces, the Fontana di Trevi would still be remembered, floating away in space. Because I'm a sucker for cliches, I went a little shutter-crazy...

Off on a Roman Holiday

2007-08-31T09:28:00.000-07:00

Maybe tossing coins in the Trevi Fountain does work. Anyway, back in the Eternal City, cappuccino in hand and with many hours of getting happily lost down. The CENTRO sits quietly in a small neighborhood that no one has heard off; if you wander around at six thirty, like, say, me, this morning, all you can hear is the clink of cups against saucers and the flipping of pages at the newstands. Follow the walls of the Gianicolo, though, and the whole panoply of Rome is spread beneath you. Too many spires to count, the ruins of the Palatine, a misty Colosseum. Every map underestimates the climb- on most, it's hard to tell there's a hill at all. Despite the cobblestones, it is so not Romania. Less cows, for one thing, and running water in my room. With this kind of luxury I may never leave. Too many mosquito bites to count though- why does no one remember that Rome shares the malarial swamp status with DC?- and unlike most of the summer, I'm lacking that protective coating of mud and 98% DEET. Spent most of yesterday meandering up into Trastevere and along the Tiber. Inside a church with old walls and gilded ceilings I lit a candle; thank you, deities, for letting me return.
The nice thing about Rome is that a watch is hardly necessary: at one, every storefront is slammed down until after the luncheon hour(s), and on the hour the city erupts with bells. Down in Trastevere off the Piazza Francisco d'Assisi is a campanile memorable mainly for the fact that its carillon appeared to be trying to fly into the sky. Bang! Bang! And with each swing they flew higher and higher.
Going to go take my jetlagged self off- waking up at six is dead easy when you think it's really midnight and the party's just started. That worked until I stumbled into the closest cafe in Viterbo and downed a massive cappuccino and licked every bit of espresso off the spoon. I still fell asleep on the train until the outskirts of Rome. What? Gorgeous autumnal scenery? Sightseeing is for the crazed fanny-pack carting, itinerary-quoting hordes...

Humid with a chance of jetlag

2007-08-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe that only a week ago I was downing a cup of black coffee, straight up and too hot to sip, at the hotel before stumbling out onto the street (clean! with sidewalks!) and onto a variety of transportation vehicles to end up back in the nation's capital. That was one emergency replacement plane ticket, four cappuccini, eight days and one really vile load of laundry ago. So yes, I'm back, and I survived. Life is in limbo given that in forty-eight hours, I'm collecting my valises and parcels to go off and disappear again. That being said when I haven't been lounging in the shower, collapsed on the furniture or cackling maniacally in bookstores with lovely, comprehensible literature, I did post up a RIDICULOUS amount of photographic evidence:

No vampire bites here
Deep in the mucky muck
Bertha: A trench photographed more times than the average small child

If anyone has a deep, abiding desire to watch the trench sink, centimeter by carefully and occasionally curse-laden centimeter, I have something like 223 other photos of what is essentially dirt in various forms. They're really cool, okay?

At any rate this is a bit of a cop-out post. To be honest this whole limbo business is quite odd and as much as I love running the streets of d.c., it feels like vacation to be home. The cure is clearly more frothy beverages of the coffee kind, but just bear with me until the caffeine kicks in, okay? I will say this: Romania was ridiculous. I could explicate and qualify that statement; stick on a bunch of adjectives and adverbs and silly faces. Which I do frequently. There are some things that are impossible to capture- the feeling of fingerprints two thousand years old, trowel bruises, the explosion of fresh blackberries in the sunlight, stars that don't battle neon signs, clothing that hasn't been dry in two weeks, lightning flashes through a tent ceiling at two in the morning, the flash of bone, white against the mud...it goes on and on.

It was also amazing. No regrets necessary.

Tis not to late to seek a newer world

2007-08-18T03:28:00.000-07:00

Last several weeks yet again a whirlwind of sunrises, mud up the knees, two solid weeks of rain and lightning storms above the ridgeline, a killer bee infestation and a suprising number of pot sherds left to dry. Also illegally digging and due to the politics of archaeological backstabbing, being briefly shut down by the polizia who came with some serious paperwork to make sure that, gosh darn it, we couldn't perform the free slave labor and attractively cleaned artifacts from a professionaly documented dig site as planned. Have now downed an attractive restorative beverage in a sunny street cafe in Sibiu, however, and although it is entirely possible that I will never be this ridiculously dirty again, I'm enjoying the civilized life while I can grasp it with my blistered, mud bedecked, eager little fingers. Now off to complete the visiting the ol' medieval town procedure, with some cultural adventures like running water! constant electricity! Tomorrow, the jetlag begins, and I'll be tucked up safe again at home. For now...

a moleskine of notes and only a lei's worth of time

2007-08-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

So the past two weeks have been ridiculous, amazing, insane, (insert favorite adjective here.) Honestly I can't get it all down, but it's involved a cabbie driving uphill with no hands, the world's best ice cream, a substantial number of cappuchini, an IRON WEAPONS CACHE, several tons of mud, and a castle. Several long train rides winding around fields and fog-shrouded mountains in the distance, sunsets the color of marmalade and sun rises like poured honey. The sound of pickaxing and the sight of a layer of soil like gold, peeled back from clumps of mud and sherds of broken tile. Flakes of iron from a spearhead over a foot long, and the sudden reminder that this is the dust where people fought and died. These are the weapons that lost a war.

Yes, it's a very odd approach to life: copious amounts of homebrew alcohol, six o' clock mornings and existential questions in the trenches. Really it's fabulous. But if anyone wants to fedex a shower, I'd love you forever.

ps: no spoilers here, because HA even romania sells harry potter. in english. 700 pages in a handful of hours that sunday, what what! we may not have toilets, and we may wash clothing in a river, but we know allllll about the voldemort showdown. isn't civilization weird?

Alive

2007-07-21T02:35:00.000-07:00

There is a dog christened Mister Basel Eggleton Wiggles, Esquire, and mountains that block the moon at night. You have to dodge the killer geese, and if you like sanity, avoid the homebrew svicka, available in sketchy leftover soda bottles. This is crazy and ridiculous and insane, and I have never exulted more over rocks in my life.
I honestly have no idea where to begin. A sketch of camp: one cabin, sized small, and a patch of floor by the corner to call my own. Two kerosene stoves, grungy because I'm the only one up at six to heat water for caffienated beverages and can't face peering under the pots. Outside the road is long and twisty, roughly cobbled or at least full of stones. Usually it's accessorized with massive quantities of cows, horses and killer geese. There is a lightbulb. There is also cold beer, courtesy of the river. Showering is an adventure- a waterfall to rinse in, rocks in your hair afterwards. On occasion cows must be dodged.
Tilisca is the sort of place they film movies in- old women the size of Thumbelina carding wool and spinning in the morning, fancy schmancy new houses next to the old outhouses replete with garden gnomes. We walk through the village in the morning, stopping to pick up potato bread in loaves the size of pillows and sausages and various produce things for lunch, and then we take our pickaxes, shovels and spades and tromp up the hill. First the cow pasture, then the steps of doom, then the slope, then the climb to the tower. Usually, this whole ritual takes over an hour. It is quite easy to see why the Romans did not view Dacia as a vacation spot. Once we've collapsed, drunk nalgenes filled at the spring watched by a madonna, and strapped on gloves, we hack away. Carefully. And by carefully, I mean, inch by inch wth a shovel, centimeter by centimeter with trowels. And there were people there, two milennia ago, and it is amazing. Rock pavement! Decorated pot shards! Mysterious clay pit and by the other tower, half a sword!! What is crazy is a) how we do not have Indiana Jones bullwhips and b) how museums are taken for granted. When it takes a week to dig a patch of ground six by seven meters down a four inch layer, when you and your compadres spend six hours sweeping dirt off the dirt, when you have been pruning tree roots, little tendrils and massive clumps and some that are basically forests underground for two hours...pay attention to the bloody pots. Cherish them. They were earned with much fanfare, blisters and really weird food.
Also, we're basically totally uncivilized. It takes three archaeologists to screw in a lightbulb, seven to light a fire and twenty-odd to challenge the FDA limits on food and survive. Butter, day old yogurt, sausages left on the lawn, pate de porc opened sometime...it's amazing, but everyone's alive. Even though I cook eggs with feathers still attached.
Spent half of yesterday playing Cinderella in the first archaeological layer under the top soil, prepping it for a photo shoot. Spent the other half taking a 10 km hike with a group of large inebriated guys to a restaurant where we discovered furniture, glasses and running water. It was kind of amazing.
This should be more organized, or coherent, but hey- I'm alive, and having a ridiculous time. Stay classy, Transylvania.

Pre-cappuchino miscellany

2007-07-14T02:27:00.000-07:00

Spotted: artistic postcard of garlic. I love this country.

Their Eyes Are Watching God

2007-07-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

In which our intrepid adventures explore public transportation, discover why pony carts are better than automatic transmissions and dabble a bit in Vlad's land.

At any rate the scariest part was probably not actually driving on a one lane road during a monsoon in untamed mountains but probably at the gas pump. The mountains are lovely, dark and deep; the Applachians in their wild and crazy teenage years, or maybe the Rockies when they settle down in a few milennias. But this is nothing like home. Roads peter off into dirt tracks, or simply off the map; cows and chickens and horses and storks dot the landscape and rarely obey street signs. The bands of German hikers down bottles of beer the size of small children. And there is little that is not bizarre in one-road towns with imposing stuccoed facade, resplendent with painted marble columns, statues on the gutter, bright neoclassical moldings and inside the courtyard, a man driving a horse load of freshly sheared sheepskin.

Reality and Romania share a few letters but not a common language.

And for the record, God is watching back. No Starbucks, but on every corner and tucked into the niches of fields are family altars, waiting for candles and lost travellers. It may be the end of the world, but there are quiet saints resting in the corners, and a crucifex standing out against the hills.

To put it this way, Glod, in the north, is where they filmed those slightly infamous scenes at the beginning of Borat. There are not a lot of postcards in Romania; Tuscany with its driving tours and obligatory sun-drenched towers hasn't seen villages like this since before Romulus went all crazy on Remus. All of it is lovely, dark and deep, though, and Tilisca may be a two road town but it has some awfully large satellite dishes. And it's still Europe: a few kilometers away, there's a guy at a bar that makes a wicked cappuchino.

2007-07-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like making a fashion statement in Gore-tex and hiking shoes. But cobblestones in a monsoon demand a little ugly for this American. Successfully pulled out sentance "Is there a restaurant?" at outdoor park today without looking at the book or hastily drawn grammar footnotes; reward: one caffe latte in a cafe too adorable to leave behind. Forget the bears, this coffee addiction could be far more damaging.

Wandering around the Museul ASTRA, I realized just why Romania, far more so than Rome or Paris, seems so alien. It's because it is. Scenic views are the only recognizable shot, probably because you can hear guys discussing film deals over beer steins thanks to the rather desperate exchange rate against the euro. But pore over the paintings on the walls of a forgotten palace and while Venice and Rome make a couple of expected appearances, Baia Mare hardly rolls off the tongue. ASTRA is odd in the rain; whole clumps of fishmongers or pottery houses taken and rebuilt from the Carpathians to the Black Sea. Woven fences from reeds? Carved wood doors and fences with wicked fangs, supposedly a Dacian tradition of wolves' teeth? It's a whole history that's never told. Painted eggs and wooden masks and pottery with swirls of blue; sausages and ham hocks on piles of mamigliuta, corn meal with sour cream liberally applied. Who knew there was more than Dracula?

2007-07-10T07:47:00.000-07:00

One exceedingly, incredibly beat-up backpack mit sleeping bag was delivered late in the night! Only a single casulty: half the tin of Old Bay, so now my socks are a little....aromatic. Spent most of today poring over the grammar section; the definite article gets added to the end! Prepositions are a pain, and there are several letters that appear to be utterable only through, say, Dracula's fangs. Really though, I'm just trying to get the numbers down: thrusting out random bills and a hopeful smile is effective, but slightly embarassing. But maybe someone will teach me how to say hello properly...next after that, conjugation!

Lots of educational visits today- including a 15th century "execution sword," which, even if it didn't have a cute little note, would have been obvious from the handy red paint coating the post and straw basket below it. Classy. Even better, the basement was full of dusty funeral posts, votive altars and a lonely Hecate Triformis lording over it all. Yup, that's right, the Romans came, they saw, they conquered and they left the Dacians to make some derivative artwork.

The cafe culture here makes Starbucks even more bizarre- why worship those chintzy cardboard things, when an (affordable! hah!) caffe latte habit yields glass mugs of soft foam, drizzled with coffee trailings and topped with a straw? It's like licking a cloud with a streak of wicked. (If you're a fan of sleep, though, avoid the cappuchini- Romanian coffee tends towards the dark and dense, and the usual sugar packets on the side only come in size grande, with good reason.)

Off to investigate a place serving German, Swiss, Italian and, uh, Thai food. And maybe another latte, perched under an umbrella in the sun.

2007-07-09T08:13:00.000-07:00

Euro-trash. Euro bum. "Oh, this fabulous/expensive/fantastique item? I bought it in [insert chic/famous/noveau city in Europe]!" Why, exactly, are we so fascinated with countries that serve cucumbers for breakfast and think sour cream is a food group? Where anything but high heels is a fashion faux pas, in corresponding proportion to the number of old cobblestones?

It's because of the music. Think about it! Centuries ago, people got hooked on Vivaldi. Now, it's "It's Raining Men" dubbed in Romanian. It's like cocaine for your eardrum! Should be illegal. I'm relishing this, I haven't seen music videos this strange in years- Shakespeare hasn't got anything on techno illustrated by live people...

Luckily internet is wicked cheap here, because this is only cafe I can find again. You think it's easy, the first time you ask for directions- almost everyone knows a smattering of English, and certain hand gestures are international. Triumphant, you arrive. You're not a tourist, comes the smug thought, ignoring the map hanging out of one pocket and camera delicately poised to capture any charm seeping out of the buildings. Then comes the leaving part. All of a sudden, the truth hits you: all the street signs look like some two year old was playing Scrabble.

Romanian is quite fun though, and since even thank you involves about five syllables and something funky with the tongue, everyone feels better after helping me because they know there's no way they sound that dumb.

Sibiu could be Romanian for Disney: Eastern Bloc edition, though. It's lovely, but some of the streets are paved halfway- the mullet look for boulevards is not a good one, especially in a place where the potholes gulp those cute tiny cars whole. Secondhand stores on the side streets almost outnumber the smashing displays on the main drag, and the department store is a lesson in why China should never be allowed to export anything involving neon. Also, it's almost the dictionary definition for futility. Shorts? Nada. Socks? Only if you like hiking wearing fishnets.

On the other hand, careful observation has revealed that Romanians appear to live off pizza and ice cream, with cigarettes for snacks and coffee drinks with fancy names all day long. Average pizza consumption possibly matched only by average nicotine intake- imagine the fun trying to accessorize Romanian Barbie. And wandering down past the old churches, a peal of bells, then another, a carillion at noon, bright tolls until the sun sinks down past the pitched roofs and red tiles- Bryn Mawr, I love thee, but life in your suburbs makes even the McDonalds here look exciting.

The only downside? Europeans worship the sun. And guess which pale little brunette's careful battery of spray spf 55 and special facial spf 70 are having a party somewhere United flies? New headline: Tourist's Flaming Body Visible From Space! But tomorrow, the museums open, and I can balm up my geeky self with dusty panels and obscure references...

2007-07-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

Signs You Might Not Be In Kansas Anymore:

1) Horse-drawn carts clearly visible during plane landing
2) Luggage cart pulled by car held together by knockoff duct tape and many swirly windshield displays
3) Coffee with alcohol cheaper than hot chocolate
4) Lost luggage difficult to track down; airport terminal appears to lack internet access, possibly communicating with Munich via smoke signals
5) Correction: smoke signals impossible given the nicotine haze affecting even small children, buildings, dogs, etc.
6) Instead of Welcome To Romania, airport has notice about corruption: it's a bad thing

Well, I may be clothing-less, but I have peanut butter. And bandaids. So clearly I'll survive. Plus, Sibiu is doing the usual old twisty streets, quiet sunlight trickling down cobblestones routine. Living in a postcard= sweet!

Off to start that garlic diet...

And we're off

2007-07-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

In a shocking turn of events, I have everything packed (or, okay, thrown in my traveling companion's suitcase) a whole twelve hours before we have to be at the airport! At any rate, should I be able to somehow exchange legal tender for internet access in whatever form of civilization life throws at me in the next six months or so, I'll meander on over here.

For the record: July 7th- August 19th = fun and games in sunny Transylvania, after which I can truthfully add "digging up dead people" to my resume. With luck, they'll be really, really dead people, aka pre 1st century a.d. With any luck at all, someone else can have the glory and I'll deal with the nice, safely un-squishy, acropolis walls.

If it just reads "Hate....sunlight....demand...bloody mary....realllllly bloody" you might want to worry. If I stop eating garlic you should probably decide a rosary is a good fashion accessory and if that oh-so-posh euro air kiss turns into fang marks, you might want a "My Best Friend Went to Transylvania and All I Got Was Becoming A Vampire" shirt.

Oh, vampire jokes and romania. They'll never grow old, if by never, you mean, I'm becoming paranoid. Mostly because the only real news out of Romania for the last month has been a) Corruption Rampant! b) Tourist Eaten By Bear and c) Dracula's Castle For Sale!. Unfortunately bears don't appear deterred by silver crosses but since I get to survive on my own cooking, I'm pretty sure the garlic might still do them in. Wish me luck.

If you'd like a genuine, extremely tacky (or slightly classy) Romanian postcard, send me an address!

No thai food. No stilettos. Six weeks with rampant bears. But I have a trowel. Indiana Jones, eat my potsherds. This is going to be one heck of an adventure.

Testing

2007-03-24T18:15:00.000-07:00

I could whip out the It's Ac geekalicious jokes, but maybe I'll stick with testing...one...two...three...