Cabbies

Taking a cab from La Guardia Airport to Grand Central Station in NY gave me a ride with a cabbie who had twenty years of driving behind him and plenty of comments to offer, with just a little bit of prodding on my part. He was of Haitian descent and had a stellar accent that made me think of the Caribbean islands. He complained about the Convention taking business away from cab drivers (so much of the city is shut down to traffic starting tomorrow). But he would not, even after my best efforts at persistent (naggish, in fact) questioning, reveal whom he was going to vote for in the forthcoming elections (I did tell him his tip would remain the same, no matter whom he supported).

Taking a cab from Union Station in New Haven to the hotel (wireless!!) again put me in the front seat with a cabbie from Haiti. This man was younger and quieter and I decided the ride would be too short to engage him in much of anything. However, when the radio news person proclaimed that Kerry had just challenged Bush to a weekly debate in the time period between now and the elections, my cabbie burst out laughing. This was an opportunity to dig in and prod. Will he support the incumbent? Nooooo, Bush, according to him, made a fatal mistake by going into Iraq. The economy didn’t come into play at all in our brief discussion. It was all about the troubles brought on by the war.

No cab scheduled for tomorrow. A shame – some of the best stories come from these rides.

The night before I fly off seems to be forever tagged as – karaoke night

I was told that there were no fewer than 9 bloggers at the Karaoke Kid tonight. I went not because I had the time, nor because I needed to sing my brains out, not for any reason at all but to watch the talented and the talentless join forces to create something special: a feeling of community.

I truly do enjoy watching people come together in this way. But it means a late night for me, followed by an even later hour of packing in order to catch the early (and I mean EARLY) flight to La Guardia.
Worth it? Yes, always.

When was the last time you played ping pong?

I commented yesterday on Poland’s preoccupation with TV airing of the ping pong elimination rounds during of the 1996 Summer Olympics. I may have been blind to the nuance of that programming decision: today in the IHT (here) one can read about China’s current ping pong diplomacy with Hong Kong. Perhaps airing ping pong matches between China and other countries had political import 8 years ago; perhaps it spoke to alignments between Poland and the mainland Chinese government ? Let’s not forget about the political motivation behind Olympic TV favoritism.

Ping pong diplomacy is itself an odd concept, at least to those of us who cannot fathom the sending of teams across state lines to coax support for strategic governmental action. We’ll send political candidates to kiss babies and eat Wisconsin cheese, but ping pong teams -- that’s just too out of our league. Though we did engage in ping pong diplomacy with China some years back, I think one has to write this off as an odd moment in American history. I don’t think people even have ping pong tables in their garages anymore, as they did in “Leave it to Beaver” days. Ping pong definitely seems to be one of those sports (along with perhaps badminton or archery) that has failed to catch the American imagination. We prefer watching burly men piling in heaps in pursuit of a ball that isn’t even round in shape (see, I DO understand football!). None of this clicking of a little ball against a table surface. How wimpy is that.

I think another trip is in order

It’s not that I am restless, oh no. Who would ever accuse me of that? I can stay put, in the same way that an old person can after they’ve decided they’ve seen the world and it doesn’t measure up to the comfy mattress back home. Really, I am capable of not leaving Madison for months at a time. [Blogger honesty kicks in here:] Make that weeks – certainly being stationary for weeks is quite possible for me.

But this is not such a time. Tomorrow I am off to the East Coast, to do my good deed of the year (helping another – no, make that one, two, perhaps even three others – move boxes and furniture up and down countless steps). For the most part I’ll be in New Haven – the city that struggles with a high unemployment rate, but still manages to maintain the highest concentration of free WiFi cafes anywhere. It will be the first trip I will have taken where blogging should not present technical challenges. I say this with some trepidation because I know that with computers, something always goes wrong when you least expect it to.

In addition to blogger nirvana, I expect to find the following: better weather (come on Wisconsin, this summer you were one wet noodle weather-wise; get it together!); better pizza (New Haven has the single best pizzeria this side of the Atlantic – not that I tried them all, but others have backed me up on this); more people sporting that tense, furrowed-brow look (which is visibly absent in Wisconsin because life, for the most part, is less stressful here); fewer mosquitoes (what do they want to hang out in CT for when they have wet and green WI?); and no farmer’s market to speak of (they can’t even fake it: two stalls and they call it market – what a laugh).

I’m running ahead of myself. Today is still all about wet, buggy, but beautiful nonetheless, Wisconsin. Hey, I’m loyal.

Game theory

As anyone will tell you, I am so, so far from being a spectator sport nut that I can’t even brag about my ignorance because it is too embarrassing. Football mystifies me (both what goes on on the field and why people are watching). Baseball is only a notch above soap operas. Basketball looks like it ought to be fun but somehow, for me, it isn’t.

All this is puzzling since many would regard me as moderately athletic. I like sports. I’m not especially talented at many but I have done a lot in my life. I have even rowed for the UW crew team (that would be the University of Warsaw!) and I have considered amateur downhill racing one especially gratifying skiing season back in New England.

So what’s with sports watching?

Ann blogged (here) how she disliked watching team sports. I am with her on that, even though I have no good reason for my disfavor. In fact, you’d think I’d be the type to appreciate watching a team join together in the pursuit of excellence. But no. What I love to watch (and this spills over into non-athletic domains as well) is individual excellence. And so, indeed, I make a sports exception: I am an Olympic nut.

Summer Olympics, however, have been a cruel presence. With one exception (Australia, in September), they are always…. in the summer. Since I am often chasing my European roots then, I have been forced to look at the games through Italian eyes twice in the last dozen years, and through Polish eyes once. It’s been a nightmare. The Poles (up until this year where I am sure they are obsessing about their medalist swimmer) seem keen on airing the flight of the ping pong ball: back and forth and back and forth, through endless elimination rounds. The Italians – well, they get so PASSIONATE about all things Italian. The medals are rare, but when they come, the craze level rises to such heights that you might as well give up thinking that you’ll see anything but the repeat of the speed walker, over and over again, until the next medal is awarded, sometime in the future.

I should also say that being in Europe does trump watching the Olympics and so for me, the summer games get shortchanged. But come winter, two years from now -- that's when I can really indulge this little love of mine. Nothing distracts me in February. [I have no kind words to offer about February in Wisconsin.] Once, every four years, the world comes alive through athletic competition during that dullest of all months.

But for now, I can just catch the tail end of an event. Here and there, by myself. It’s not the way it was meant to be. A boisterous crowd of like-minded people would be preferable, but one takes what one can get – in this case, a private moment, late at night, relishing the victory of some very talented individual, wherever she or he may come from.

Gee but it’s great to be back home…

Ah, were that but true! No one enjoys transitions from vacation to work and so I should not use this blog as an opportunity to reiterate truths repeated the world over – it was better, tastier, sunnier, funner, on vacation, it is dreary, lonely, dismal, frantic, etc etc now that I am home.

What do I miss most? What would I love to import back here? Not the olive oil or porcini mushrooms or the perpetual sunshine or the sense of history. It’s all grand, but what I would pay millions to bring with me here is this: the ready and willing attitude of friends and strangers to stop nearly anything and everything to have a conversation with you. Curiosity, coupled with a desire to share thoughts and insights, no matter how trivial. Early in the morning, late into the night. The natural, easy sociability, in chance encounters, sure, but especially among friends.

On a more optimistic note, I am HAPPY to see the likes of WiFi again. Two weeks of Italian dial-up blogging (without a phone line during one) has exhausted me. But it did convince me that I am dedicated to the blogging enterprise, regardless of technical obstacles, time pressures, readership issues (I canceled my tracking registry and I refuse to add comments so that I never know who is reading unless I get email notes and comments; thanks for those good words last week –you know who you are!!) and in spite of my perpetual thematic ambivalence.

The blog has survived a curious sort of summer. Lets hope the blogger pulls herself up to speed as well, and with alacrity.

Buon giorno, ciao, etc.

Leaving Italy

What do I end with? A recap of the last dinner at a place that is possibly an all-around favorite of favorites, where the 70+ year old chef paces through the tiny dining room and tells anyone who’ll listen what they’re eating and where the recipe comes from? A description of that one last walk, past swimmers in the Arno, past the best gelateria ever (too many flavors! I forgot to have the cioccolato-arancia and the frutti di bosco!), up up on the Michelangiolo hill, from where you can see the edges of the city, and all bridges lined up before you? No time for these musings.. a few photos and I’m off.

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"lawn signs" everywhere 

perpetual temptation 

people will swim in anything, including the Arno 

the bridges of Florence 

Il giorno comincia (a day begins...)

Sunday Morning

Last night I proved once and for all that Atkins and I are not on the same wavelength. Limit the carbs? Are you kidding? Dinner was at a wonderful little place where you can order for your first course just “pasta.” The waiter will then bring you not one, but five different pasta preparations, in succession, so that after you’ve stuffed yourself with gnocchi con radicchio, you are given rotini garganzola, followed by spaghetti and eggplant, fusili with roasted peppers and conche with creamy zucchini. Then, as you sit there wondering if it’s appropriate to loosen any kind of attire that is suddenly tight around your girth, they bring out the grilled foods – steaks, or fish for the fussy fussy types who can’t appreciate a good Tuscan piece of meat (or an omelet for the real wimps, but I saw none of those).

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This is my last day in Florence, in Italy, on this side of the ocean.
Predictably, then, there has to be an early morning walk and I mean early – like before sunrise. I don’t understand how travelers can resist this part of the day – it is stunningly beautiful. The streets are empty. Policemen and old, old people (who themselves cannot sleep and are therefore out and about) talk to you. [One elderly man, after asking the usual where are you from and how do you like Florence yada yada, told me that he really appreciated the American war effort – against the Germans during World War II.] It is a time where the streets are stripped of noise and traffic. A time when I am not distracted by anything or anyone. It’s just me, my camera and the handful of others who wake before the light becomes too intense.

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Hey, if you rise before dawn and roll into bed after midnight, is that even healthy? When is the “getting rest” part?
Later. Lots of years for rest ahead.

You are such a show-off! Early risers have this “holier than thou” demeanor that is quite annoying!
They are “holier than thou.”

You think you got it all figured out? Did you even notice that there are more typos in your Italian posts than pigeons on San Marco? That photos are out or sync with the text? That one photo appears twice? That words repeat themselves as if the English language provided no alternatives? That dates are confusing and posts are partly in English, partly in misspelled Italian and partly in French (“tu es kuku” for instance)?
All that is true. I did not proof anything. My electrical plug got butchered, my battery kept dying and, most significantly, I never once got a speedy Internet connection. It’s all been dial-up, typically thanks to someone’s kindness. You want editing perfection? Go read other UW prof blogs. You’re not going to find it here, especially not in Italy. Ahhh, but there has been so much other “perfection” in each day! That, in essence, has been Italy for me – a blend of the irregular and the sublime.

Looking around his shoulder to see if anyone's coming? 

Early morning caravan across the Piazza della Signoria

The Uffizi was bombed once already in recent years; there are plenty of polizia around now, even in the early morning hours 

Ponte Vecchio: before the daily stampede 

Shutters always closed -- to the night, then to the sun. 

From the XIIIc. tower of this simple "bed & breakfast," you can see this. 

...as well as our little room, opening up to its rooftop garden 

In the still of the morning, the river, the bridge, at peace with each other (remember the floods of some forty years back?).