Disney ride

First of all, let me tell you that I am typing this on a French keyboard, and apparently they are crazy, so while my reduced typing speed might not affect you, this may have more typos than usual. For example, if I wanted to type Parma without paying attention, as I did when I tried to access my blog, I would get Pqr,q.  Not quite the same. Also, for some strange reason, there is a µ key.
On to business.

I am now in Nice, France. We went to the beach yesterday, just a ten minute's walk from the hostel. The water is blue blue blue, the rocks are white white white, and they are covered covered covered in people. Not quite the idyllic abandoned paradise, but once you pop in your headphones and close your eyes, or just look up at the sky, it is all yours. Except maybe when you hear the wandering shouted refrain of 'beer, cold beer, orangina.' But this is not the part of the story I am here to tell you; I let myself get momentarily distracted by the splendor of the landscape.What I really want to tell you, if I don't run out of patience with this keyboard first, is the story of how I got here.
You already knew my intended itinerary, but that is not exactly how it all went down.

Friday we were supposed to have one more half day in Amsterdam, but thankfully we decided to go make our train reservations that morning, albeit days later than I had intended. After taking a number and a seat, we got called to the counter. Bad news. Nice via Saturday's overnight train? Impossible. Just getting to Paris? Practically impossible. Apparently it was a big holiday weekend and everyone would be traveling. Furthermore, the French train system is practically inaccessible from outside the country. The man behind the counter tried everything for forever, but ultimately our best hope was to start catching regional trains Saturday morning and spending the day slowly moving down the face of France, just to get to Paris and see what we could accomplish from there. Hmm. Time for some quick edits. We hopped onto the first train to Rotterdam, because this new plan would all but excise it from our travels, otherwise, and we wanted to do more than just sleep there. We were both more than ready to leave Amsterdam, anyway, though there were a few more things we could have seen.

We spent the day in Rotterdam -- fantastic -- aided by the fact that the sun began its slow descent at ten, and woke up at a fuzzy 545 the next morning. Now here was the issue. The train departure times we had were for the Centraal station, not Blaak, which was nearest to us. We assumed we could easily catch a train between the two and make it to Centraal. Wrong. Being Saturday, trains between the two only left every half hour, and the next one left one minute after we were supposed to be departing from the other station. I resigned myself to wait, but Brendan was not willing to take it sitting down. If we were going to wake up this early, we were going to catch that darn train. We were going to walk across town to Centraal. So began the epic journey. I hitched up my pack and set a blistering pace over the city's sidewalks. If I was going to be my own pack mule, I was not going to miss this darn train. Twenty minutes later, we made it with minutes to spare. Onward to Antwerp. Leg one, check.

An hour and ten minutes later we had six minutes to make a connection that 'no one ever makes.' Luckily, I'm not just anyone, and while my tales may be riddled with transportation misadventures, I have learned how to read train schedules and station signage without breaking my stride. Up the escalator, down the escalator, and onto the train to Lille, France. Our next connection, by now, seemed eternal at 15 minutes. We even had time to get our first meal of the day, at a sunshiny 10am. Onward to Amiens, France. 90 minutes later we had a whole half hour during which to twiddle our thumbs before boarding our final train to the good old city of light. 120pm and we made it. The long but easy part was over. Now to see whether we would be stuck in Paris without a place to sleep or hope of getting to Nice.

At the Paris Nord train station, we approached the ticket line with trepidation. Next thing we knew, Cindy had booked us on the train, sleeper cars, nooo problem. This feat, which had proven impossible for two separate agents at two separate train stations in two separate cities in the Netherlands, took her less than five minutes. Brendan wanted to propose to her. Now we just had to wait eight hours for our night train to leave. What to do, what to do? Spend those eight hours wandering Paris, of course. So Brendan got his wish to see Paris, I got to play tour guide, and we had our druthers and made it to Nice as planned. Or when planned, anyway.

One more thing. We got into our train car at 1030 that night, and met our companions, Claudia and Darrell, celebrating their ten year anniversary. Traveling from Corpus Christi, Texas. It really is a small world after all.

Stage two

The itinerary is official. For all you stalkers out there, here's where I will be for the next week or so:

19 Arrived in Amsterdam
20 Day in Amsterdam
21 Day in Amsterdam, go to Rotterdam
22 Rotterdam, overnight train to Nice, France
23-25 Nice
26 Back to Italy




How to be a world-famous artist:
1. Develop a revolutionary style. If you're not quite that creative, jump on someone else's bandwagon really quickly, and start a school together.
2. Make a huge body of work, so that every major museum can have at least one of your pieces in their permanent collection, and so that there is still enough left over for your homecountry to be able to open a museum dedicated to you.
3. Create a handful of ironic paintings so that even college students will want to buy posters of your art.
4. Paint 'pretty things,' so other people will want to buy calendars or cheap prints of your work. Or for college students who want posters that will make them seem 'cultured.'
* Bonus points for being troubled, eccentric, or a failure.

In Austria I went to four art museums. In every other country so far, I have been to one each. I wouldn't say I burned out, but I am torn. I know that there are amazing masterpieces awaiting me within so many walls, but there is amazing life and culture waiting outside of them. After a while, it feels like going for the sake of going. Or, like been there, done that. If every museum boasts a Monet and a Picasso and a Warhol, do I really have to go to each museum? I never thought I'd say it, but it almost feels like if you've seen one, you've seen them all. At the same time, after going to the Van Gogh Museum today, I am of a different mind. We get so used to seeing the same handful of a famous artist's paintings, it is easy to forget that he ever did anything else or anything different. I had no idea how much Van Gogh produced, or how much his style changed over the short years of his life.

Tomorrow, Rotterdam and architecture.

Making it count: travel updates by the numbers

Countries vistited: 4
Austria, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Germany

Languages attempted: 3
German, Slovak, Czech, (but have also used English, Spanish, Italian, and French)

Cities seen: 5
Vienna, Bratislava, Prague, Plzeň, Berlin

Hours spent on trains: 27

Beers tasted: 18 and counting
Urbock 23 Eggenherg ('the cognac of beers'), Wieselburger, Spiegl, Pilsner Urquell, Pilsner Urquell (unpasteurized and unfiltered), Dark Staropramen, Budvar, Budvar Dark, Gambrinus, X33, Pivovarsky Dum's sampler (light, dark, sour cherry, coffee, wheat, banana, nettle, monthly special)
When good beer is cheaper than water, there's just no excuse.

Museums seen: 5
Leopold Museum, Albertina, Secession, Belvedere, Mucha

Misadventures had: 1.5
An epic tale of tracking the nonexistent Parma FedEx the day before my departure, seeking my absentee train ticket, but it all worked out.
Getting fined 700 Kc on a a Prague tram for not having validated the ticket immediately upon boarding

Kilometers walked: uncountable
Ask the soles of my feet. Perhaps they know. Perhaps my maps know. Ask the z's I start to leave on my pillow the second I lay down my head.

Days remaining: 15 (unless the airlines and the volcanoes have something to say about it)
Enough or not enough?


A journal excerpt from Day One:
On the train to Vienna. We cross into Austria, and by 630 I am awoken and don't dare close my eyes again. It is amazing how visually apparent it is that we are in a completely different place. We sure ain't in Kansas no more. I don't mind the gloomy forecast because it makes the current sights so mystically spectacular. Coniferous forests and the mountainside, shrouded in clouds. Every now and then the sun breaks out and that fleeting hint of a blue dawn is all the more spectacular. Along the sides of the tracks it is like a lincoln log playground, and surrounded by so many beautiful green trees it is the first time that the sight of logging doesn't come with a pang of guilt. Silver rivers cut through the verdor and my Seattle companion, Ellie, says it draws home to mind. I spy some brown cows (how now?) and I feel at home, too. The architecture can only be described as quaint and quintessential. Angled roofs, angled wooden accents on pastel siding. Steeples look like ergonomic stacks of ice cream scoops, topped with a shining golden accesory. There is a mysterious phenomenon now known as the Christmas tree on a stick or, more succinctly, the Christmas kebab.
All I can think is that I hope I remember this forever. Day one, maxing out at around five hours of sleep, and already there is so much wonder to behold.

Odds and ends

The last word of this title kills me. But, to quote the overquoted, 'every new beginning is some other beginning's end.'


The odds: Things I've had on lists here and there but haven't managed to work into the blog. There are probably more, but by now they have slipped through the cracks of my memory.

• For some reason, the Olay brand is called Olaz here.
• This is not original to Italy, or at least not exclusive to it, but I find it... indescribable. Perhaps entrancing. I'd embed the video but the sizing makes it all wonky.
  Miel Pops commercial    ...there's also a House remix under the related links.
• When something is driving you crazy, you say 'fa venire latte ai capelli.' It makes your hair milk. That's a really unappealing visual, but I guess so is the experience that makes you say such a thing.

The ends:
Last. Day. In. Parma. (But I'll be back.)

So, here I am, preparing to embark on an adventure if there ever was one. I'll be in Vienna from the 5th to the 9th of May, then I'll get to Prague, where I'll stay until the 14th, whereupon I'll arrive in Berlin. After that, who knows? There are notions of Amsterdam and Brussels and the south of France floating in the air. I'll try to keep you posted.

As the moment draws closer, when I'm not busy pretending it's not approaching, I consider things to look forward to. I might manage to go an entire day without hearing the strains of Bad Romance. It would be the first in over three months. I look forward (kind of) to finding Jody fur in new and unexpected places. I found some in my jean pocket last night. I just wish her fur were like all the seeds flying around outside looking like some freak fluffy spring snow, so I could grow little Jodys when I get to the US. I'm sure at least one or two strands will find their way there with me.

I love the insights of guidebooks but I hate spoilers, so I only half-read them. I haven't opened mine yet, but I'll have several hours on trains during which to do that. As it is, right now, I have no idea what is in store for me. Just that I have wanted to go to Berlin for a long long time, and that now I will. Here are my goals: admire some amazing art, gaze upon spectacular architecture, savor some excellent beers, and learn some new words.

I found this quote today, and it seems an appropriate outlook before my departure:

We are perishing for want of wonder, not for want of wonders.
G.K. Chesterton

I am ready to marvel. I know you know I will find wonder in everything from cracked sidewalks to gilded arches. I wish I could take you along for the ride. Instead, I promise, to myself as much as to you, that when I make it back to the solid ground called reality I will catch you up on as much as my fingers have the energy to type and as much as your eyes have the energy to read. Thanks for the readership, the company, and the support.


P. S. I'm excited.

On the other side

For those of you who have seen my pictures, you have seen the side of Parma, and Italy as a whole, that calls to me. And, of course, it is dependent on whether my camera heavies my purse when a marvel greets my eyes.  But, like I have mentioned before, there is another side. I have somewhat of an aversion to taking pictures inside churches, but I have no aversion to sharing someone else's. To be honest, they probably wouldn't turn out on my camera anyway.

These are some pictures Alina took during her visit to Parma. Welcome to the grandeur, say goodbye to the crumbly.
The Duomo:

The dome of nearby church San Giovanni Evangelista, painted by local artist, Correggio:

Anywhere you live, after a while, you get used to it. You start breathing like a normal person, forgetting that with every step you take your breath should get taken away. And that, truly, is one of the joys of visitors; they make you see your world with fresh eyes, and remind you how so so fortunate you are to be where you are. Getting ready to leave has the same effect. So I am particularly appreciative of Parma right now.

Have I mentioned that Parma has over 50 churches? Have I mentioned that almost all of them are like these, if smaller? I've only seen a small fraction, but expect me to be spending my last day -- forecast: rainy -- making a farewell pilgrimage.

How to learn a language

It is amazing how much information is conveyed metalinguistically, that is to say, aside from the words. You could have next to no idea what someone is saying to you, but know exactly how to react. Be shocked, surprised, impressed, concerned, or congratulatory. For the most part, you'll know. The one thing I had trouble with was questions. 'Are you asking me or telling me' was an unexpectedly common refrain of mine. My host mom also got really good at identifying my 'I have no idea what you are saying but I don't want to let on that I don't understand' face, and finding a way to re-explain.

Sometime between some time and another, I became almost fluent in Italian. I remember watching Italian films in Claremont and relying heavily on the subtitles, but days after I got here I was watching movies with no problem. How?

A friend of mine told me that one of the more frustrating things about using a language that is not your own is the fact that it hinders wordplay. It is a lot harder to be witty when you don't fully know how words interact, or when you don't have the quickness necessary for proper comedic timing.

I learn new words Every Day. Every Day. Sometimes I forget those words when I want to say them, but the next time I hear them, I can slowly sift through my mental files and remember what they mean. Yesterday I learned that a 'sunny side up' egg is called 'occhio di bue,' or 'ox's' eye.' I hear new expressions every day, and that's the beauty of immersion. I could study Italian all my life, but never learn how to speak it like An Italian. Here, I hear how it's really done; we all know that we start to talk like the people around us, and this is no exception.

I have adamantly resisted dictionaries for my entire stay. I still don't have an Italian/English dictionary, and I'd like to keep it that way (besides, there's always the internet). I look up words when I am writing papers, and that's about it. It doesn't matter how many times I look up the Italian equivalent of some word I want, I won't remember it until I figure it out for myself. When I do acquire a new word, it's like suddenly everyone is saying it. I always wonder whether people had been saying it all along and my incomprehension would gloss over it, or whether the stars align to help me cement it in my head.  So, instead of using a dictionary, I use my family. Remember when I tried to explain the word 'wiggly' and ended up with 'drunk walking'? Sometimes it doesn't quite work. But most of the time, I find the process fascinating. Last night there was an unfamiliar word to me that I found out meant 'crack' (the verb) (incrinare). My host mom started with 'something that is broken but isn't.' Hmm. I got it with 'when you drop a glass.' Another one that didn't work was when I was trying to understand 'lucertola.' 'Those little animals with four legs that like the sunshine.' Had to turn to the dictionary to find out it was a lizard. So yes, I did sometimes use the dictionary.

It is as though the Italian language were one big pixelated image, and every day the resolution on some part of it increased. Gradually, more and more of the image was becoming clear, and so were more and more conversations. I still find myself talking my way into a dead end, be it grammatical or 'vocabularical,' but like I've always said, a dead end is just a place to turn around and try again. Rebuild that sentence in a way you can finish it. Channel your inner poet and figure out how to describe the essence of the word you don't know. Get your certification as a mime and combine the powers of gesture and facial expression. Eventually, people will get it. And you'll get some laughs along the way, too.

Onion fingers, continued: Guatemalan food, Italian style

Seems like I’ve been having a lot of moments of truth lately. Today was the black beans moment of truth. I asked my mom for instructions on Sunday night, planning to make them on Tuesday, but life happens and it got put off until today. Last night, after introducing Cristina to ‘Legally Blonde,’ I set the beans to soak (ammollire). This afternoon, after lunch and lots of hemming and hawing and having forgotten any and all of the details of my instructions, I made some executive decisions and got to cooking. Of course, given that it was all gut and executive decision, I spent the entire afternoon of stove-accompanying fearing that it would all be for naught.

After a couple of hours of intermittent stirring and a quick break for a Skype job interview, it was time for stage two of the bean prep. Leti made the rice for me, and apparently Italians cook rice very differently. They boil the water first, then add the rice, then drain it when it is done. It certainly turns out very fluffy. Afterward, to keep it from sticking to itself, she added some olive oil. It was time to eat and the beans had turned out well. What, in my opinion was completely inedible, through no fault of my own, was the guacamole. The avocados, which were insanely soft on the outside, were just off of yellow and the most insipid thing you’ve never tasted. I felt like I had more condiment than avocado, and it still tasted like nothing. Funny how the one thing I expected to be in the bag was the one thing that didn’t really work out.

Now here’s the deal. When I was little I read a fictional story about these famously delicious latkes, and I won’t retell it now, but I was always confused about what the moral was supposed to be. It seemed like the intended moral was that things are often better in your memory than they are in real life. The other moral I got, though, was that when people use someone else’s recipe, they usually change it to suit their own cooking style, so their food ends up tasting nothing like the original. Well, the latter is kind of what happened, except with the dining experience. It was decidedly Italian. I’ve never put parmesan cheese on my rice and beans at home, though parmesan and black refried beans do work well together in the absence of our quesos. I’ve certainly never had f(r)izzy red wine with my rice and beans.

Partway through stage two of cooking I discovered that Leti had invited her sister and niece over for dinner to partake in the experience. Wow. Glad I didn’t know that earlier. I did not need the additional pressure. Either way, it turned out that they were unable to come. I would have liked to meet them, but perhaps not when my fragile cooking ego was on the table. Again, I was studying everyone for signs of their real opinion about the food, despite the praise I received. Everyone got seconds, though, and by the end there was no rice left; all good signs. And just as importantly, I was pleased with it. Because aside from whether it was edible, I was the only one who would be able to tell whether it really turned out right. At first, I was jokingly accused of being responsible for the impending dissolution of the marriage, to be caused by expected prolific gas emissions that would turn the bedroom into a gas chamber. However, by the end of the meal, everyone was marveling at the lack of gassiness caused by the beans. Are black beans special for not having that quality?, they asked. According to them, if you eat just three normal beans, you puff up like a balloon.

Afterward, the lone black platano was calling to me, and I suggested that I make it for dessert. Paolo said he could eat no more, but Cristina supported my plan, and I got to cooking for the nth time. Everyone, including Paolo, even Jody, dug in.


Later that evening, I was treated to some family videos, and saw a little Davide, a young Cristina, and Scott, the previous dog. Even later, to my surprise, Paolo decided to do some filming. I am now part of the Agnetti family history.