Friday, January 29, 2010

It was a four pizza weekend...

I spent my last two days searching for more gifts, drinking coffee, and eating pizza. I arrived in Rome on Saturday night and left Tuesday morning and ate a total of 4 pizzas. My final meal was a plate of cured meat and cheeses with two glasses of Barolo at Roscioli by Campo de Fiore. Yum. I have missed the warmth of Italy, the food, the people, the weather. I went sightseeing on Monday, visiting Campo de Fiore, Piazza Navona, Pantheon, Trevi Fountain, Forum, and the Colosseum. The highlight was a cappuccino I had a couple of blocks from the Colosseum. Definitely the best cappuccino I’ve ever had. Ever. I ducked into a little café before lunch to avoid the rain and warm up. It was a little cold so I kept my coat on. After 15 minutes with no contact, I was thinking about leaving, never a good sign, but the coffee was perfection. Strong, but not bitter with a touch of silky milk and tons of thick, rich foam, it warmed my body and soul. My biggest regret is that I didn’t get the name of the place so I may never have another cup. I guess the bright side is that I can wax poetic about the coffee without having to back it up.

The cappuccino experience was followed closely by my visit to San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane designed by Borromini. It’s actually one of my favorite buildings from Architecture school, along with the Tempietto, which I visited in September. Check, and check. I highly recommend the Tempietto. It’s in Trastevere, a great neighborhood, in some sort of convent or monastery. Steep stone steps lead to the top of the hill. The building sits in the courtyard of another building, the cloister I think. It’s like a Tiffany blue box sitting among a pile of other Christmas presents. San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane was in a relatively remote location and might only be appreciated by architecture freaks, but its undulating façade was beautiful. It was grace in the middle of drab nowhere, which is always exciting to me.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Woman with baggage available

I don’t know if you have been able to discern this from my previous postings, but travelling by myself with two suitcases totally stresses me out. I think transfering the luggage responsibility is the best reason I’ve heard to get remarried. I’m totally serious. That and changing my oil. I’m not just out for myself; my future husband won’t have to clean the kitchen or grocery shop. That seems fair.

I start to get nervous about my luggage days before I leave, especially in Europe because a lot of public transportation and walking is involved. I worry about the weight of my bag. I miss the days when I could pack as much as I could stuff into my suitcase without breaking the zipper. Now I lug my suitcase to the scale, remove a few scarves, a couple t-shirts, a pair of shoes. It’s the shoes that hurt the most. For this trip, I removed everything that wasn’t black, yellow, or purple. For those of you who know me, you know this made for a strange wardrobe. As if travelling with two bags isn’t enough, now I also have to deal with the guilt of additional baggage fees as well.

I can handle having my wallet stolen, getting lost, not having a place to sleep for the night, and getting food poisoning, but my luggage is torture. I know there is an easy solution to this problem. Pack light. One travel blog even recommends packing clothes that you plan to give to Goodwill. That way you can just donate the clothes while in Europe, no need to bring them home. (No, it wasn’t Rick Steves, but good guess.) Ugh. These suggestions are so fucking depressing. I’m going to Europe and I’m going to wear crappy old clothes that I hate? It is this sort of mentality that gives Americans a bad name. No. I want to look and feel good so if there is any man out there that hates grocery shopping, give me a ring.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Like I don't have enough hang ups with weight, now my luggage is too fat?

I made it to Rome and the journey was as difficult as expected. Air travel between European countries is a bitch. They have a thing with the weight of luggage. I thoroughly researched the airlines that offered a Paris to Rome flight, and chose Vueling because they were the cheapest (40 euro + 20 for luggage) and they allowed 23kg/bag with a maximum single person luggage weight of 50kg. After shipping 3 boxes home, I was sure that I would be under the limit. The journey began with a taxi to Orly airport, where the cabby asked, “what terminal?” I have no idea. Aren’t there signs for airlines at the airport? No. OK. I find the confirmation email and there is no terminal listed for Orly. Luckily, the cabby has a list of flights, times, and terminals. According to his list, my airline only flies out of Fiumicino (the main airport). But I show him the confirmation email and he grudgingly admits that I might not be an idiot. Based on “the list”, all flights to Rome on any airline are out of the west terminal. Great, let’s go there. He drops me off with my two carefully packed, extremely heavy suitcases and I wonder the terminal, which has an alarming lack of signage. I finally find an information booth where a lovely woman points me to Hall 1 (of four). OK.

There is one line in Hall 1 and it is long. Of course, it’s for Vueling Airlines. I take my spot at the end of the line and wait. Parisians, like Italians, have no respect for the line and I am ditched frequently. When you don’t speak the language, you pretty much have to take it. The line is going nowhere, and I don’t mean that in a poetic kind of way. It wasn’t moving. After 30 minutes, I discover that the line is for the Barcelona flight which has opened check in. In Europe, you can’t check in too early. For Vueling, that’s 2 ½ hours. I go to the correct line for Orly which is blissfully short. Once at the desk, I put my two bags on the scale and hold my breath. The charming Vueling employee informs me that the maximum weight for baggage per person is 23kg. Anything above 23kg will incur a charge of 10 euro per kg. I have about 20kg more than 23kg. This is not good. He suggests that I carry on my small bag, which is bending the rules because it too big and too heavy, but I’m not going to mention it. The problem is that I have packed the small bag with all my toiletries. I was planning to store my big suitcase at the airport and just bring the small one to my hotel. He also said I had to transfer 3kg from the small bag to the big bag for some inexplicable reason so I stepped out of line to transfer all sorts of personal items from one suitcase to another. I won’t go into the details, but was embarrassing and exhausting. I was sweating and cursing (so American). Plus, I really have no idea how much personal stuff constitutes 3kg. After 15 minutes of humiliation, I returned to the desk. I had overestimated the 3kg and now my bag was too heavy. He obviously felt sorry for me because he let it slide and I’m off to Gate 10. It is directly behind the check in desk so this should be smooth sailing.

Well Gate 10 is made up of Gates A-P. OK. I look on my boarding pass, it only says Gate 10. OK. I go to the monitor, only Gate 10. OK. I check the monitor at each gate looking for Vueling. No Vueling. OK. I decide to chill out for a while to see if it becomes clear later. Nothing. This is starting to remind me of a painfully long chartered flight from Mexico. We are supposed to boarding by now. I find the Vueling information desk and ask the attendant. She looks at me with the “poor thing, it must be difficult to be that stupid” look and points to Gate N. OK. A line has formed for no apparent reason. The plane isn’t even there yet. However, I have found that when in a foreign country, it is best to just do what everyone else is doing so I stand in line. About 5 groups of people ditch me. OK. Finally, I’m on the plane, on my way to Rome. I’m so excited for pizza I can barely stand it. I get to Rome and decide to take a taxi. I just don’t want to deal with my luggage and I’m already late for check in at my apartment. The cabby is ancient and has a serious case of the shakes. He can’t lift my suitcase into the car by himself. Again with the weight issue. I put in the trunk and get into the cab. He asks where I’m going, but can’t understand me. Finally, I show him the address on my phone. OK. He turns off the meter and says “40 euro”. Then, he has the nerve to charge me for the baggage. I’m too tired to fight. We get to Trastevere, and Stefano is waiting. Perfect. I shower and get some pizza with salami picante. I love Italy.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

I love the experience of space. It’s where I find religion. I see God in the way the light hits the Rockies on a clear day. The Rodin Gardens feel like heaven’s antechamber and Stonehenge, while not beautiful, gives me a sense connection to past civilizations. It can be man-made or natural, old or new, but certain spaces have a quality that inspires joy, hope, reflection, and sometimes even despair. Space can be magical to me and Paris is filled with magic spaces. I know it’s not perfect, but the air is charged with grandeur and beauty. If you can, you must go.

Thank you, I love it!

I spent my last week in Paris shopping for gifts, reading and writing at the cafes and wandering the streets. I love to shop, but only for myself. I know this sounds really selfish, and it is, but shopping for other people stresses me out. I belong to a family that would rather strut down Main St in a metallic gold, puff painted Christmas sweatshirt than suggest returning it. This unwritten rule sucks for everyone as we all get, and give, crappy gifts once in a while but that’s the way it is. I envy those families that honestly and without malice tell family members that they hate their gift. My Midwestern upbringing makes that as likely as staying sober for Christmas dinner. I’m still blaming the divorce for the drinking. I figure I’ve got another two years before I have to find a new devastating life experience to drive me to the bottom of a nice Chianti. I’m sure something will come up.

So with my puff painted sweatshirt stuffed into the back of my closet only to come out when family members visit, I struggle to find a decent gift for everyone. You would think this would be simple. I’m in Paris after all, but I’m easily influenced by my environment, and what’s cool in Paris is not cool in Colorado. Trust me. I spent days browsing for the perfect object, a physical manifestation of my deep understanding and love for each family member. To be fair, the recipients are especially difficult. My nephews are teenage boys now and would much rather have money, and I'm happy to oblige, but this year I feel I have to get something tangible from Paris for them. Finding the right gift for my brother is virtually impossible and my boyfriend is VERY picky. So I shop and shop. I found the perfect gift for my mother, but decided to wait to make sure. I have to actually leave the store for at least 30 minutes to know if I really like something. Telling, isn't it? The next day, I return to buy the gift, but can’t find the gallery. I tried three more times with no luck. It must be God telling me that Mom doesn’t want an ink drawing of a nude woman painted on cardboard. Fine. It is with this stress and a few tears that I purchase all the goodies.

As if the exchange rate isn’t enough of an insult, I have to ship everything home because of the weight restrictions on trans-European Union airlines. You simply cannot bring more than 50 kg on the plane, no matter how much you are willing to pay, and anything over 23 kg is 10€/kg. Fine. I spend two days purchasing and packing the boxes only to unpack them at Le Poste because they are over the weight restriction. There is nothing like spreading your personal belongings all over the post office counter to really make you want to go home.

But the café crèmes were fantastic, the wine was sublime, and the walks were wildly romantic despite my solitary existence. I returned to the Louvre, the Rodin, Notre Dame, Pompidou, Luxemburg Gardens, and many other favorite spots. Paris really is beautiful. On my last day, I finally visited the Eiffel Tower where I climbed to the 2nd floor and enjoyed the 360° view of the city. My trip was complete.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Birth of a New Friendship, Me and Soup

I have the opportunity to rent the apartment of my French tutor’s son for 600 euro/mo. He is a 21 year old smoker so it is a little disgusting. But with a deep clean, it could be great and cheap. She has also hooked me up with a job as a cook at an innovative local restaurant, Le Pre Verre, where I dined one afternoon for research. The food is traditional with a global twist and the prices are totally reasonable. Their cream of cauliflower soup whispers of Moroccan spice. Coriander, cumin, and turmeric gossip about the cauliflower with the cream and butter in delicious harmony. It may have permanently changed my mind about soup, and my lifelong opinion that I don’t drink my food has withstood clam chowder, tomato bisque, and minestrone. The roast chicken was delightful, but the mashed potatoes were inspired by the pancetta and butter. At first I was disappointed with dessert, tiramisu with endive. Don’t get me wrong, it was creamy, sweet, and delicious, but I feel that if you are going to put something as quirky as endive in your dessert, it should bring something to the table. It didn’t. However, I’m impressed that the chef was able to put a little vegetable in my dessert without ruining it. Food for thought. If you go, make reservations and don’t let them put you in the basement.

Back to my future, McFly. I could get a student VISA, go to Le Cordon Bleu pastry school, live in the cute studio, and work at the restaurant under the table. It sounds great, but not the right path for me right now. When the best part about a major life change is the soup, you may want to reconsider. Besides, Paris is a tough town, and I think I would be lonely. Now if I could populate Paris with Italians that would be an opportunity. Of course then it wouldn’t be Paris.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

The Parisian Pysche

My friends, I have been in a very dark mood lately. I’m not sure if it’s Paris or a hormonal imbalance, but the extra 5 pounds of croissant buerre haven’t helped the situation, OK maybe 10. Paris a place of glorious food, deliriously high fashion, and triumphant gothic architecture, but there is something so cold about it. People aren’t rude or uneven unkind, but there is little joy. Parisians seem to focus more on their image than their happiness. I honestly believe the reason people don’t smile is because they feel a little pout is sexier. (It is, of course, but that's beside the point.) They don’t see the beauty in unbridled laughter or any other outward manifestations of emotion. Of course, Parisians would say that I’m a loud and overbearing American. They may be right, but they are so busy conforming to an aesthetic ideal that they seem emotionally removed.

I have hesitated to discuss this because it’s so negative, but I find myself uninterested in writing anything else. I feel like it would be dishonest. So here I am saying it out loud. I think Parisians are so cool that they’re boring. There is nothing wrong with the Parisian point of view, and most are incredibly good looking. It’s just that their demeanor leaves me wondering if Parisians are more satisfied by more surface connections than Americans. This is disappointing because I often feel like kindred spirits with the French. It’s actually really fun to shove someone out of the way once in a while and it’s perfectly acceptable in Paris as long as you say 'pardon'. They follow a strict social code, and the resulting interactions are quite nice and gracious. I love how intellectual and cultural pursuits are the backbone of the society. The streets are teeming with philosophy, poetry, and art. They believe in the culture of food, using meals to catch up with friends and experience pleasure. There is no bigger sin to Parisians than creating a bad meal. One Thanksgiving, my mother in law served a store bought pumpkin pie, and I thought, “Doesn’t she love me?” I realize this is demented, but I blame my mother, who I’m sure would blame her mother and so on. However, Parisians would completely agree with the sentiment. Alas, these common threads do not make a true bond. After spending some time in Paris, I can see why the US and France are constantly at odds politically. I respect the French point of view, even enjoy it, but I wouldn’t want to be like them. And I believe the feeling is mutual.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Where have you been?

I didn’t hear from you so I stopped writing….

I learned that trick from my divorce. When you (or your ex-husband) really screw up, blame the other person (that’s me in this sad little story). It’s not just for divorce either. Any blow off can be healed with a little double talk and blame delegation. I have a friend who made plans with a new man for New Year’s Eve. She called him, a lot, but received no return call, no text, no email, no page, and no telepathic message. Nothing. Two days later, he left a voicemail saying his phone wasn’t working and he was kinda pissed at her for bailing on him, until his phone started working again. Maybe that’s true, but when you have plans with someone, you call, even if the other person doesn’t. I’m dubious, but she’s smitten so I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Either way, table turning is an excellent tactic. She’s still mad, but he stopped any discussion about his bullshit move with a short, goofy, and possibly true story. If she tells him to get lost, she will always wonder if she should have given him a second chance. Brilliant.

So I will blame you for my lack of communication in the hopes that you will be so confused by my ridiculously vague and accusatory tone that you will start to wonder if you really are to blame and forgive my unforgivable absence. Did it work? Am I back in your good graces if only because you don’t know if you should be mad?

Seriously, I fell off the map and of course I don’t blame you. I blame Rome. What is it with Italy and the internet? However, now I’m back in the USA, drinking too much, sleeping too little, getting fat, and having lots of sex. In a bizarre twist, I hosted my family Christmas despite the fact that I’m basically homeless. We served two types of handmade lasagna, traditional meat and butternut squash, followed by a deliciously rich chocolate cake. Yes, I made the pastas and sauces from scratch, and dinner was outstanding, but the real show stoppers were the Italian cured meats, cheeses, and wine. Let me just say, we should consider renaming heaven sopressata. With all this activity, I didn’t have the emotional energy to write. So here it is January 6th, and I’m telling the story of my final days in Paris and Rome. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.