Under a loggia

A Melancholic Sigh

2008-06-19T15:32:00.003+02:00

*sigh*

Like sand slipping through your fingers. Like the imminent chill at the tail of a waning sunset. Or like trying to engineer ways to keep a snowball from melting before your sister gets home from the mall so vengeance is had for when she wiped mayonnaise in your ear while you were sleeping. I fly home this Tuesday, and its a surreal emotion approaching the end of this year. I've been told that adjusting to life back home is much more difficult than adjusting to life abroad - like George Bailey coming home to Pottersville or Frodo to the Shire. The question I've asked myself repeatedly is how do I take this experience home with me? And I have no answer, but I know that this experience has changed me dramatically.

These last few weeks have been filled by balancing studies and goodbyes. My school gives no homework, tests or papers until the final oral exam, which is worth 100% of the grade, so the finals require an incredible amount of preparation. I finished my last final today though! In History of Medieval Philosophy. It went well, and its a good feeling to be done with school. It's just another natural end that marks my coming home though. Most of those with whom I studied and hung out with for the year have already left for home, wherever home is, which softens the blow. But every month I spend here, I get more and more acclamated with the culture. Only in the past few weeks have I become actually comfortable with the language. I think I can finally consider myself fluent. And now I leave! Italian culture is just so different from American too. We'll see how I can assimilate back into the lifestyle.

Anyways, I'm spending my last weekend in Sicily in a city called Catania. It's a gorgeous beach town on the coast of the Mediterranean. I plan on chilling and walking the shoreline, soaking up the final rays of European lifestyle. Life gets slower and more relaxed the further south you go. Sicily is also the home of the Italian mafia, so we'll see how that goes.

It's amazing how it's all wrapping up, but I can't wait to see everyone. I'd also ask everyone to keep my grandma in your prayers - she suffered a major stroke yesterday. The prognosis was optomistic, but we are still waiting for official news. I hope all is well with everyone, and I'm home on Tuesday, so holla back yo!

To Ireland!

2008-05-26T21:40:00.012+02:00

Where do I begin to describe Ireland? Common sense tells me the beginning, but my $120,000 philosophy education tells me that the beginning is merely an illusory category imposed upon time by the human mind. Knowledge is power!

I convinced a friend from home to fly out to Europe before her job began in the States. Being a major in spontaneity, she jumped on board, and we met in Dublin for a 10 day trip in the Northern Isles.

The theme of our two days in Dublin should be - Parks: The Rich Food Remedy. We thought it appropriate to eat a hearty Irish meal at every meal accompanied by a pint of Guinness. I never knew how heavy Irish food was. We were incapacitated in St. Stephen's Green for 50% of our time in Dublin. Of course, we did the compulsory pub-hopping in the Temple Bar district, heard some Bob Dylan in Temple Bar, toured the Guinness Factory, and talked to some local North Dubliners about Las Vegas and the war in Iraq. Well, I guess I should say that I had interesting conversations, while Gina got constant attention from creepy guys. Score one for the Y-Chromosome!

The key ingredient is pride. Learned that one from Arthur Guinness himself.

For some reason, we found it necessary to break up the bronze lovers...

Turns out the ingredient that separates Guinness from every other beer in the world is water...

After a hearty two days in Dublin, we picked up our ridiculously little, powdered blue Fiat at the airport, and set out for Doolin on the west coast.Did I feel like a man driving this beast...

4 hours later on terrible roads we arrived in Doolin, and we were gonna go check out the coast rain or shine.

And it was worth it...

Doolin is the capital of music in Ireland, so we went to the pub to hear some traditional tunes. Two old men with fiddles strutted in like they owned the place, and started orchestrating sheer awesomeness. But the best part was that people would bring their instruments to the bar and join in unplanned. After a song, they would walk up to the stage, shake hands, and start playing. By the end of the night, we had 4 fiddles, a flute and a guy playing spoons. And God said it was good. Even better than my fish and chips.

The next day we headed out for Galway and the Cliffs of Moher, which, for those of you who aren't aware, are pretty baller.
However, if you lean out over the cliffs with one leg off the ground, you'll kick some rocks off. Or at least that's what I gathered from this.

Galway was good times, and I bet you'll never guess what we did. Yup, ate and chilled in some parks. Galway is a cool city, because unlike Dublin, it's really young crowd. We went to the river and joined about 200 people on the grass to watch the sunset. We met some strange, and I can see with a decent degree of certainty, already intoxicated middle age Danish people. One woman leaned over to me and showed me her fanta bottle, saying "You want a taste?" I was like, "No lady! Why would I want to drink your fanta?!" But then I gathered from her fiendish grin and raising eyebrows that it wasn't really fanta. Who sneaks alcohol into a place where there are kids 20 years younger than you drinking openly?

On the way back from Galway, we stopped and watched the greatest sunset ever. Behind us was a medieval castle, and inside was a musician playing the lyre. There are some transcendent moments in this world, and this was one of them.

After our 2 and a half days in Doolin, we forged onwards to the last leg of our Irish tour: the home of the Casserlys, Dudleys, Reardens and Mckeons - Cork! Gina had a friend from high school studying at the University of Cork, so we had an excellent tour guide for the 5 days we were there. Cork can only be defined by crazy good times, and had but one drawback: it turns out I'm going to get pregnant, since I stepped on the University's seal. Sorry mom.

Lieser gettin' down with the tap at the Beamish Factory. Much better than my pour...

Blarney Castle wasn't really a necessary stop on the trip, since both Lieser and I were born with the gift of gab, but it can't hurt right? I also got a free pamphlet of the castle in French, because the lady told me that my student ID picture is awful. She's right though, it is awful.

After spending the days with Gina and her friends, I was in serious need of some bro time, and this could only be remedied with some good conversation and some serious dance moves. I'm proud to say that I had more pints bought for me than the 9 girls I was with combined. I may not know how to get down with a tap, but mama didn't raise no fool.

And impromptu trash-banging sessions! With a chorus of football chants! I have no clue what they were saying, but I was definitely singing along!

But hey, the important part was that we all had good times in Cork, and I don't know why my family ever left. So we raise a glass to Ireland!

Viva Italia!

2008-05-25T17:27:00.004+02:00

Luke (thoroughly discombobulated): Whoa! Where am I? What happened?
TGX2000 Supercomputer (nervously): You have just reawoken from a 2-month pasta-induced comatose. You need to shave.
Luke (with a gusto of heroic virago): No time, TGX2000! If I've been in a coma, that means my blog has been left forgotten and forlorn! My people need me!
TGX2000 (cautiously): Sir, your O2 stats have dipped under 90 and your BP has skyrocketed like a rocket in the sky. You need to rest.
Luke (impatiently brusque): Enough with the poorly constructed metaphors, TGX! Your mechanical heart lacks the substratum of the human condition: feeling!
TGX2000 (under his breath): Your feelings will mean nothing when my my electromagnetic messages pierce the Taurus ring and reach my people in the T9 quadrant of my galaxy.
Your precious feelings will become acidic-based fuel for my poetically handicapped brain.
Luke: What was that, TGX?
TGX2000: Nothing, sir.

My people! I have returned! And with the marvelous tales from the recesses of my pasta-induced dreams! Oh! I will tell you of the marmalade forests and the make believe trees! And of the grumpy wombat in the cottage cheese cottage!

No, but seriously. I've been lazy for about an eon and half now, and I will now make more reparations than the white man. In what form you say? Why in digital sugar bites, of course! No, but seriously, sugar bites of anecdotal wisdom. Ah, you see, it's a metaphor.

I don't even know where to begin, much like dressing myself in the morning. Easter has come and gone, as have the station churches. My travels have come to a regrettable close and finals now loom over my head like a big looming thing. Worst of all, my flight home is June 24th, which now feels like a deadline.

Whether I'm ready to go home or not changes daily. I've gotten more out of Europe than I ever intended. I remember the months of anticipation and planning I naively spent preparing for Italy, and looking back, I never could have planned for this year. This rings true especially for Italy, because they treat organization like it's the plague. Every morning, I wake up with no idea what I'm going to do that day, but it always becomes an incredible day. Whether I find myself 10 feet from the Pope at a personal concert put on by the Chinese Philharmonic Orchestra or meeting someone randomly and deciding 10 minutes later that we're gonna go boarding in the Alps, it has been an incredible trip. A lot of people struggle with this country because of its disorganization and inefficiency, but those are the people that need to have their hands in everything. Once you relax and allow Italy to plan your days for you, you realize why it's been around for 2700 years. The pasta, the wine, the gelato, the people, everything in this country is so rich. You can see it in the 75 year old cantankerous grandmothers walking around in hair curlers at 10am. Or in the gawking tourists that stand starstruck on the corner of the street as they see you part the Italian traffic like Moses and the Red Sea. Or in the fact that I've never once been brought my check before asking for it. Or in the well-to-do Italian businessmen clutching their phone between their shoulder and their ear, because they absolutely need both hands to express their point.

Many complain that Italy is fading from significance in the modern world. Their economy is falling behind, there aren't many jobs, and the previous government only passed one law, and that was a pay raise. Italian progressives complain that Italy will never change, because the people don't have impetus to reinvent themselves. I look at it much differently though. The Italians are clinging to the last vestigial shreds of pre-globalization culture. With the immense amount of globalization, cultures are no longer tangential, they have infiltrated each other. While this is not a bad thing in its own rite, it sacrifices the real flavor of the culture. As countries begin to follow America's economic blueprint, the polarization of cultures will slowly melt into one proximate homogeneity. America is the poster child for this revolution. What great art forms can we lay claim to? One could make an argument for jazz and country music, but these hardly compare to the Italian renaissance, Irish music and dancing or French literature and poetry. Where does the heart of our culture reside? The heart of our culture resides in the dilution of the heart of every other culture. We have no real cultural dishes of our own, but you can find a weakened recreation of sweet and sour chicken, Italian carbonara or Mexican tortillas anywhere.

There is certainly benefits to an amalgamated culture, namely, cultural homogeneity. Nowhere else in the world can you find so many cultures existing peacefully side by side than in America. Unfortunately though, each of those cultures has to sacrifice an integral part of their culture in order to cooperate with the whole: the idea that their culture is their own. Say what you will about the peaceful coexistence of cultures in America, but Mexicans are not proud of their Mexican-American culture, but their Mexican culture. Italians are proud of their Italian culture, not their Italian-American culture. Italy alone has more strong cultures than all of America. Rome hates Milan, Milan hates Florence, Florence hates Siena, the South hates the North - cultures are radically different every 50 km. In America, we've sacrificed cultural identity for security and diluted uniformity.

Italy may never achieve a modern significance the way France, Germany or Britain has, but they'll always retain what makes them Italy. Italians are the only people more proud of their country than Americans (and maybe France), and I think there is a direct correlation between their strong culture and their pride. Progressives may say that Italy will never change, but I'm all right with that.

When I begin writing this, I didn't intend to bash America, it just developed that way. Let it be known though that I wouldn't trade my passport for anything, and I think the moral future of the globe lies in America's hands.

I have more updates about my travels, but right now I have to head to church. There's a gorgeous Byzantine rite mass near me with lots of incense, processions and song. It's gorgeous. I must be off! I promise to update soon! I still have tales of Aviano, Scotland, Ireland and the 2 weeks Italy will never forget.

Even More Bloggin'

2008-03-11T18:42:00.002+01:00

All who recognize the intrinsic coolness of coolness should proceed to the following sight, offensivesatire.blogspot.com - it's a little sight whipped up by my bro and his friends. Now peons!

Recent Archaeological Discovery Has Catholic Church in Tremors

2008-03-09T13:27:00.002+01:00

Here's a satire I wrote recently:

PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA – Earlier this week, in Southern Cambodia, a team of attractive, racially diverse and sexually open-minded archaeologists uncovered an artifact with a crude carving of Christ depicted as a vampire. An inscription beneath the drawing read 'De Sanguine Cristo', meaning in Latin ‘On the Blood for Christ’, a slight variation of the traditional Christian passage, 'De Sanguine Cristi', or ‘On the Blood of Christ.’ The Christian understanding of the passage is the cornerstone of their faith in which participants receive the body and blood of Christ in order to participate in a divine union with God. With this discovery, that belief is deeply threatened.

“We feel that our opinion is that this is pretty much decisive evidence against the Christian religion, although not decisive in the sense that we’re trying to impose,” said Nahash Rainbow-Haus, an adjunct professor at Harvard University and member of the archaeological team, who has also been blessed with soulful eyes and a roguish grin, “and we are very excited to forge a new trail for humanity – one that exists without the strictures of a man-made religion. I vote first for the removal of the strictures of clothes.”

The artifact itself stands 18 inches tall, and depicts Christ flying through a dark night sky with long, canine-like fangs and a vial of blood wrapped around his neck. A crude speech bubble is drawn around his head with a Latin phrase that is roughly translated as “Vlah! I vant to suck your blood!”

The controversial vampiric depiction of Christ, however, is causing a stir in some religious circles over the proper worship of their Redeemer. “The House of the Dead shall be resurrected by the blood of the innocent,” said Count Chocula, the figurehead of a little-known, but scrumptiously delicious chocolate cereal, “I [expletive deleted] hate that cereal, but I thought the subtlety of marshmallows in the shape of detached organs and severed heads would get the children on my side.”

In the past 100 years, there have been a plethora of ancient texts uncovered with controversial interpretations of Christ, Mary Magdalene and his Apostles ranging from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Gospel of Judas, but none have proved to be as contentious as the rough carving, which carbon dating places at 36 C.E. The discovery uproots a fundamental element of western religion that has come under fire in recent decades from leading intellectuals of our time, such as Dan Brown, Rosie O’Donnell and throngs of manic-depressive teenagers who wear makeup and eat their feelings.

“Dude man, I’ve been saying for way too long now, so all you fascists better listen up,” said Dylan “Souldeath” Tucker, a local teenager known for his whiney, pitiable poetry and his extensive Asian tattoo collection, “A lot of us have got things to say, and we’ve been saying them, or wanting to say them, and this just proves it, and now we’re gonna start saying things, and you’re all a bunch of damn fascists. Oh, and conformity is the death of individuality.”

Several of Dylan’s friends, who were physically linked to him with chains of body piercings, echoed his statement with a chorus of “yeahs” and “that’s right.” Dylan, however, wasn’t available for further questioning because he choked on an excessively large feeling.

Despite the novelty of the discovery, the western world is suffering from extensive ramifications from various social organizations, especially the VZEA or, The Vampire and Zombie Enthusiasts of America. Raymond Lofton, referred to by his peers as Vampiric Destiny, was kind enough to take a break from his FPSMMORPG (First-Person Shooter Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game) to speak with us on the condition that the only light allowed into the room come from a pale computer screen, so as not to upset what he called “totally glazed over eyes”, and that Jerry, our news editor, continually press F6 to cast Bestial Howl for his level 79 Druid Warlock. “Man, I’ve always loved zombies,” said Lofton, a self-proclaimed level 14 zombie enthusiast, “and it totally makes sense that they’re like the henchmen of God. I mean, they’re just so wicked awesome. Did you see 'Dawn of the Dead' where the no-legged zombie attacks the girl with the big rack in the parking garage? I mean that’s Darwinian evolution and societal handicapped awareness bundled into one gruesomely awesome scene.”

Pamela Cranson, a visiting archaeologist from Stanford University, who also has a Ph.D. in open-mindedness, expressed her opinion, “It seems that after thousands of years of lies, deceit, prevarication and redundancy in the highest rings of the Catholic Church, we have discovered that Christ’s original intention was not for us to eat his body and drink his blood, because that’s just crazy. Rather we are to gather for him the body and blood of others as a penitential sacrifice for our wrongdoings.”

The recent development has many questioning the authority of Scripture and the Catholic Church, and although many believers have remained faithful to the Holy See, such concrete evidence as this is causing an unparalleled societal turmoil.

SexxyPrincessUnICOrnFairyStar73 told reporters on Instant Messenger that “religion is like so totally gay,” and that her “mom only does it cuz shes jealous of how omg HOTT I am and cuz she doesn’t want me to be with Timmy cuz dad NEVER kisses her like that!!!11”

Marketers, however, are already taking advantage of the new depiction of Christ, and are marketing him as a social revolutionary. Abercrombie & Fitch has begun mass production of T-Shirts with a print of Christ with fangs, ruffled hair and wild eyes on the front and "What Would Jesus Do?" printed on the back. A recent Marlboro ad shows Christ returning to his cellar in Transylvania after an exhausting night of ravaging the town. Leaning against his coffin, the rugged, dangerous-looking Christ stares despondently out the window and lights up a solitary, slender cigarette as the camera pans up to the moon. Reportedly, the vampiric Christ will even be appearing on next month's box of Wheaties.

"As marketers, it is our duty to turn controversial images and figures into diluted shells of their original self by mass-producing the image on T-shirts, coffee mugs and bumper stickers until the image is rendered utterly sterile," said Rich Hampton, Chief Director of Marketing Affairs at TGC (Thank God for Capitalism), "Vampire Christ is simply the next Che Guevara."

When Fr. Vodak Wozniak, the official theologian of the Papal household, was questioned about the recent discoveries, he stated, “Are you stupid?,” and mumbled either a voodoo incantation over my soul, damning me to an eternity of excruciating pain or something in Polish.

The widespread panic that has cataclysmically rung throughout every demographic has still received little response from the Catholic Church. Whether these discoveries will spell the dawning of a new age or simply another short-lived controversy remains to be seen, but for the first time in thousands of years, the integrity and legitimacy of the Catholic Church is wavering.

Aosta - Where Tiramisu-Related Dreams Come True

2008-03-07T16:33:00.010+01:00

This weekend we decided to take it easy, and boarding in the Dolomites seemed to be the best way to relax. Our friend Gabe knew an Italian woman in the small town of Aosta who offered her place for us to stay for the weekend. She was a very sweet older lady and an amazing cook. Emphasis on the amazing. I'm talking about food euphoria. On top of that, her son is the top snowboarding instructor in Aosta, so he got us free gear! We only paid for our train and our lift tickets.

We had planned our trains like good travelers, giving us a 15 minute interval to catch our train to Torino from Milano. The Italians though get bored quickly, and to make thing more exciting they pulled into Milan at 6:14 for our 6:15 train. I wish we could have bird's eye footage of Father Pat and Nicole sprinting over the yellow line, Gabe carrying his backpacker's pack and me darting around old women while hugging my bag in my arms. Somehow we did make it to the train, which was standing room only, much to the chagrin of the poor passengers who were put inches for our sweating, huffing bodies. Ew.

The drama of travel though was repaid in full when we arrived at Umbretta's house with this view to console us.
While our original plans were to enjoy a weekend of snowboarding in the mountains, I began to strongly consider staying with Umbretta just to eat. As fun as clipping down the side of a mountain was, Umbretta's tiramisu takes the cake.When cool things gather, God tends to commemorate the celebration:

And of course, we did do a little boarding:

And no snowboarding trip is complete without shameless posing pics 8000 ft. in the air:

"Hey Father Pat, do you want to come and pray evening prayers with us?"

"Ummm...tell Avram...that I'll pray later..."

Nursing our (well, my) wounds at lunch with hamburgers and beer:

At the end of the day, as we were getting into the gondola that took us all the way down the mountain, Gabe sat down and broke the window of the car. The Italian monitoring the gondolas walked over, gave the window a pat, said "A posto" (everything's in it's place), and walked away. That would never fly in the States! Only in Europe...

And how about a little artistry at the end of the day?

Only now am I feeling the repercussions of testing the physical limits of my left buttcheek. Let it be known to all that if you spend an entire day falling on the same spot, it will turn into a deep purple, Van Gogh-like bruise that spans from the top of your tailbone to the back of your knee, and you will most likely spend the next few weeks on the prescription level of ibuprofen. Oh, and avoid stairs.

C.S. Lewis

2008-03-07T12:03:00.003+01:00

C.S. Lewis has come up in conversation a lot recently, and I have to admit that despite that he's the most loved theologian of the last 150 years outside of maybe JPII, I don't like him. Whenever I mention it I get accosted with gasps and raised eyebrows with threats of tar and feathering at Piazza Venezia at the next Italian manifestazione. I have reason for my dislike though, but before I dive into that I will admit that he's very insightful and quotable. He could rumble with the best of them in terms of one line zingers, but when it comes to content and depth he leaves too much to be desired.

The chief mark of great literature is subtlety. Dostoevsky never spells out his intent. One could read Tolkien their entire life and never get and inkling (pun definitely intended) of a deeper meaning to the text. When I read C.S. Lewis I feel like he has a great stone tablet with "suffering" or "loyalty" inscribed on the side, and he's bashing me over the head with it. Great literature should invoke emotions and cultivate virtues without the reader ever having to rationally articulate why. It should sweep the reader off his feet into a sea of imagery and description. G.K. Chesterton says in his Everlasting Man, "Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion…The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits…” C.S. Lewis is the logician unabashedly forcing the heavens into his head. His writings never illustrate the complexity of the problem, and they thus devalue the spectrum of human emotion and the complexity of human nature. Literature has always taken primacy in man's experience. Myths, literature and stories expressed the world in a way that math and science couldn't. Man danced with the stars long before he ever measured them through a telescope.

A critique of Lewis shared by Tolkien and Lewis' colleagues at Cambridge was that his books were too neat. He would encounter a problem that had plagued humanity since the dawn of, well, humanity, and would write a neat, 200 page exhortation of the Christian perspective and be done with it - one book on suffering, the next on joy, the next on grief, without ever fully grappling with the depth and intensity of the human struggle with these questions. He undoubtedly makes insightful observations, but without a deeper examination, observations simply float disconnectedly in the cosmos of literature for a weary student to find on google. Even in his fiction, Lewis' characters lack the complexity of a Frodo, Sam or Sarumon. Whether it was intentional on Lewis' part, I don't know, but it seems consistent with his non-fictional works.

Even more bothersome about Lewis is the attitude that he takes towards truth. He's proper where he should be tenacious, and tenacious where he should be proper. There are certain things in this world that can be understood, but truth ultimately remains ever-elusive. The proper way to approach truth in literature is to seduce it from the shadows - to paint alluringly and hope to draw it into the light. Truth requires respect and prostration, but once that truth is revealed it has to be dissected with the full force of the veracity of our mind. Lewis approaches truth with an entirely inverted attitude. He brashly and irreverently tries to tear truth from the shadows, but when he stumbles upon something, rather than diving to the heart of the matter, he treats it superficially and dismissively. He's impetuous, hollow and has a tinge of arrogance. C.S. Lewis is tea-time.

I don't mean to detract from an expansive body of work, because Lewis certainly should be mentioned amongst the great modern theologians. I simply don't think he deserves the overwhelming praise and widespread popularity that he has received. He's like a big chocolate easter egg that looks great and has you thinking you'll be satiated in chocolatey goodness for the next 3 weeks, until you bite into it and find out that it's completely hollow.

Expand Your Blogging Horizons

2008-02-28T17:11:00.002+01:00

For those of you who want to know more about the daily station churches check out either Fr. Avram's blog, viaperegrinatoris.blogspot.com, or Fr. David, hilariuspictaviensis.blogspot.com. Not only are they more dedicated, witty and eloquent than I am, but they bring cameras. That early in the morning I'm too focused on walking to really do anything else...

The Idiot

2008-02-23T18:04:00.003+01:00

I just picked up Dostoevsky's "The Idiot," and now I'm engrossed. I can't put it down. He created the book in the most tumultuous time of his life with the intention of trying to create the perfect character. The result is Prince Myshkin, or the "Idiot," which he is referred to by his peers because of his simple ways and sickly complexion. Dostoevsky has the ability to make a character come to life in a simple paragraph. But his characters don't simply come to life as people that we would observe, but as could have arisen only from Myshkin's perception. For example:

"He was very good-looking, well-built young man, also about twenty-eight, of medium height, with fair hair, a small, Napoleonic beard and a clever and very handsome face. Only his smile, with all its affability, was a trifle too subtle; it displayed teeth too pearl-like and even; in spite of his gaiety and apparent good-nature, there was something too intent and searching in his gaze"
"He must look quite different when he is alone and perhaps never laughs at all," was what Myshkin felt.

His descriptions are not only physically detailed, but he ties those physical aspects to a spiritual or mental condition. He threads psychology through physical countenance, which is genius because physical appearance is invariably affected by mental state. With a keen enough perception, one can know anything about someone before they even speak. This perception is Dostoevsky's greatest strength.

Myshkin is innocent, unacclamated with the world, loquacious and seemingly naïve, but behind his innocuous countenance is a keen perception of things around him. Throughout the novel, there is a running conversation in his head about the people he speaks with. At one point he picks up a picture of the beauty, Nastasya Filippovna (sounds beautiful, right?) and remarks,

"He seemed trying to decipher something that had struck him before, hidden in that face. The impression it had made had scarcely left him, and now he was in a hurry to verify it again. He was now even more struck by the face, which was extraordinary from its beauty and from something else in it. There was a look of unbounded pride and contempt, almost hatred, in that face, and at the same time something confiding, something wonderfully simple-hearted. The contrast of these elements roused a feeling almost of compassion. Her dazzling beauty was positively unbearable - the beauty of a pale face, almost sunken cheeks and glowing eyes - a strange beauty! Myshkin gazed at it for a minute, then started suddenly, looked round him, hurriedly raised the portrait to his lips and kissed it. When he walked into the drawing-room a minute later, his face was perfectly calm."

Myshkin's incisive perception is made without pretense, allowing him to peer directly into another's soul. Dostoevsky is suggesting something pivotal and also rather philosophical. He suggests that there exists an interiority and an exteriority in every situation. 99% of all human interaction operates on pretense - preconceived thoughts, phrases, perceptions. Occasionally, one will have a truly unique, interesting conversation, but the rarity of such a case should be alarming. As I sat out in Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere today, I watched the medley of tourists and Italians meander through the cobblestone roads Trastevere is known for, and saw a particular drawl in everyone's eyes. Maybe Rome was not what they had expected, maybe it didn't offer the couples the rekindled marital excitement they hoped or maybe the Italians were just plain sick of tourists. But the peculiarity was the pretense with which everyone approached the situation. Every action is an attempted reconciliation of the internal world of the mind and the external world of reality; however, the common method of reconciliation is to force the world we see into the preconceived archetypes. For example, say I like a specific girl (yes, like like). All of the sudden, whenever she is around, all of my interaction conforms to that emotion. My emotions alter every conversation in order to make what I want become reality. Thus, my perception of the world is altered as I see it through tainted glasses. My perception is unfaithful to reality because it is sullied by my pretense. This example pertains to any desire: success, honor, family, love, lust, etc. People are so affected by these pervasive desires that it forms a ring of pretense around them. They can't approach or appreciate any situation for what it is, and therefore devalue everything around them, because it fits like a sandwich in a square hole. Have you ever wondered why it's so difficult for us to look one another in the eye? In a society with endless accomplishments - quantum physics, space exploration, personal computers and "therapy" - how is that we can't look at each other? Why is one of the most fearful things for even the most intelligent to lock eyes with someone for more than a split second? We have no trouble staring at another, making measurements and judgments, but the moment their eyes meet our own, panic sets in. Is it timidity? Or is it truly fear? Do we view this meeting of consciousnesses as a threat?

In a world of interiority and exteriority, we cannot bear staring into the interiority of another. Their interiority is a threat to ours. Their view of the world is different than our own, and that disparity threatens the destruction of our perception. With the destruction of our perception comes the destruction of our world. Another's gaze objectifies us. We become as real as the chair we are sitting on, and we disappear into the world of things. Their objectification destroys our subjectivity. With this constant intersubjective warfare, it's no wonder stress levels are at an all time high.

Myshkin, however, offers a solution to the dilemma. He has a particular love for children, and even describes that he was "in love" with children before. His love for children is conversely accompanied by an aversion to adults: "Whatever they say to me, however kind they are to me, I always feel somehow oppressed with them, and I am awfully glad when I can get away to my companions; and my companions have always been children, not because I am a child myself, but simply because I was always attracted by children...My whole life was centered on the children...Afterwards, for the last three years, I couldn't even understand how and why people are sad." Myshin's solution is simple. He views the world through the eyes of a child, absent from pretense and preconviction. His approach to every situation is with calm, perceptive and focused outwards. By turning his eyes out towards the world, rather than in towards the self, he views freely sees the world and others without pretense. Instead of filtering the entire world through his desires, he filters his desires into the world. By emptying himself, he reconciles the tension between the internal and the external and exists unfettered.

This is of course a very Christian message that Dostoevsky is expressing, but the emphasis must be placed on the line, "not because I am a child myself, but because I was always attracted by children." Myshkin is not a child, but he sees the world as one.

Finally!

2008-02-21T15:36:00.003+01:00

Buon giorno famiglia e i amici!

It was long overdue, but it's finally happened. I'm finally in my first exciting class...well, ok so I just showed up today and was so enthralled that I decided to enroll. The class is Fundamental Moral Theology with a Vatican theologian, Fr. Giertych. I was more intellectually stimulated today then I have been all year! I was hesitant when I heard the class title, because moral theology is generally legalistic repetition of Catholic doctrine over and over and over. Go to mass, believe in the Immaculate Conception, yadayadayada. But today we delved into St. Thomas and his understanding of science as that which can be rationally explicated as opposed to a modern reductionist concept of science to that which is measurable. Also, how St. Thomas interrelates philosophy and theology, and a response to his modern and medieval critics. It was awesome. Fr. Giertych has a booming, British voice - the type of voice you expect God to have - and he burns through the material, not in a hasty manner, but in a comprehensive way. I've never taken so many notes in a class. At times I was so excited that I forgot to pay attention. It's gonna be a good semester.

Also, the past two Lenten morning masses have been in Trastevere, my home turf. So I haven't had to wake up until 5:45 instead of 5:15. Yesterday, was at Santa Cecilia, the patron saint of music. Today was at my parish church (if you can call it that) Santa Maria in Trastevere, which is adorned from one wall to the other with a beautiful mosaic above the altar. The homily was the most intense so far. The pastor definitely wins the fire and brimstone. He was tearing into us Americans! Our culture of death, our inability to cope with a world without war, our lack of history; the list just went on. You could tell the Americans in the crowd because they had slouched 2 feet lower than everyone else. People were waving their passports during the creed (not really). The priest was American though, so the jurors voted against tar and feathers.

Va bene. Alla prossima!

Latin Spice

2008-02-14T16:48:00.009+01:00

Buon Giorno Dearest Reader!

I've been trying to make up for my protracted blogging laziness recently. I'm still recounting events from a month or so ago, but soon enough we'll be as up to speed as Keanu Reeves. The entry title refers not only to my recent trip to Barcelona, but also my recent Latin final and the commencement of the Lenten season.

Commercials have often asked me if I "Wanna Fanta?" and never
have I responded no.

Our time in Barcelona was difficult. Waking up late, eating rice and drinking sangria, sleeping on the beach, and most importantly, drinking Fanta. Life in Europe is sometimes just too slow...not! Barcelona was the most relaxed major city I've been to, despite that it's very modern. The parks are littered with dreadlocks, bongos, hackeysack and anything else that can be described as "chill." And of course the Mediterranean does nothing to detract from the unduly chillness of this fair, chill city. Chillin' on the beach in three different countries - not bad.
Literally chilling in the Meditteranean like these bold Brits - priceless.

The city itself has very little history, unlike most European cities. Although it was a Roman province, it was generally uncivilized, I think, until the 16th or 17th century. Because it experience its economic boom solely in modern times, there is very little historical architecture. Antoni Gaudí has a building on every corner, and is most famous for his unfinished cathedral "La Sagrada Familia." While it may seem like a typical modern atrocity from afar, it's actually very beautiful. The entire church seems as if it's melting, and the religious sculptures are jagged and sinister.
Ancient Spanish folklore holds that the Church was modeled after Gaudi's most inspirational work, "The Subway Melt."
The church faded into the background as all I saw was a catwalk...

Our first full day though, we took an hour train ride to Montserrat, which is a Benedictan monastery situated in some of the tallest mountains in Spain. After the train, you have to take a fifteen minute cable car ride up to the summit. When we arrived there was a low-lying fog that had set over the mountains, striking an almost eerie tone. The monastery is home to one of the most famous boys choirs in the world, but we weren't able to hear them, because the ten-year olds got lazy and decided to take Saturday off...just kidding. We did, however, take a 2-hour hike up to the mountain's highest point, which stood just above the clouds. In fact, while we stood whipping in the winds, a storm began to form around our heads. Cool beans, huh?

If you've ever been curious about what my first order of business
would be as president, it would look roughly like this.

The highlight of the trip though was the walk of the rosary monuments. Down towards the city there is a path that leads to a sacred grotto that was unfortunately closed for January. We were though still able to take the walk along the path that has a monument to every mystery of the rosary, beginning with the joyful, proceeding through the sorrowful and ending with the glorious. What made the walk so satisfying though was the ambiance. Because it was a chilly, windy day in January, the generally well-trodden tourist path was uncharacteristically quiet. The fog overtook the mountain, the hum of the mountain life fell silent, and all that could be heard were our muffled footsteps. It was as if the mountain reflected that attitude of the Passion. One got a special sense of Christ's sacrifice, because all the while along the winding path carved into the mountain, where the path veered around the mountain there stood over all a dark, bronze crucifix against the pale sky. Chilling stuff. Approaching the cross...

One of the monuments...

The Chapel of the Holy Cave...Closed!

Large, forbidding gates depress me...

But I never let it keep me down!

The rest of the weekend was spent enjoying the Spanish food and sangria, which was such a nice break from Italian food and wine. Every other country I go to has more pizzerias than cultural restaurants. Even in Paris, despite its famed cooking. But in Spain there is tons of rice, chicken and seafood. Oh, and of course, Fanta, my personal drug of choice.

We even made it to a Barcelona football match, one of the best
teams in world, and sat in the 4th row! Ballin!

I giocatori in action. Thierry Henry, one of the best players in
the world, scored the only goal of the match right in front of us!

We flew home and I immediately began to prepare for finals. Yes, I just finished finals - we're lazy here in Europe. My final schedule was very disorganized, even by Italian standards. Three of my finals were tentative, and later postponed, because teachers were ill and in the hospital. Setting up times became so complicated that now I have to take all three at the end of next semester! That means I'll have ten finals next semester! My only two finals were then Intro to Sacred Scripture, which I passed (Grazie a Dio), and Latin. They went well and yesterday I started my classes for second semester. I'm hoping for more intellectually stimulating classes this semester, since last semester's courses were Dullsville. They were so dull that if I had taken dull pills, it would have actually been less dull. That gave me little incentive to either attend class or do outside work, and as result I was really restless. This semester though seems more promising. I have a history of ancient philosophy and one of medieval philosophy, Science and Philosophy, Intro to the World's Great Religions and Latin. However, this semester I'll be taking all my classes in Italian (pray for me!), because a. I need to learn Italian and b. I figure that if my classes are boring, I'll at least have some goal to work towards. Needless to say, it should be an eventful semester.

Also recently, as some people may remember, Lent began (not that it's a big deal or anything, especially in Rome). Lent in Rome provides an excellent opportunity for penance and sacrifice, because every morning at 7am there is a mass held at a different church in Rome. It's an excellent opportunity, because you see Rome at the crack of down (well, see may be an exaggeration. Perhaps squint through the crust in your eyes), and you get a see a number of churches that you would never have seen otherwise. And the hidden gems in Rome's churches are remarkable. Already we've seen the bodies of Saint Lawrence, Saint Jerome, Saint Monica and Saint Ignatius of Antioch, an altar by Bernini, paintings by Raphael, Caravaggio and St. Luke, Michaelangelo's Moses, the chains of St. Peter that bound him while he waited to be crucified, and an urn that holds what is supposed to be a piece of Christ's manger! And it's only been a week and a half! We have a decent sized group that makes it every morning, so needless to say the coffee infusion that is held afterwards is vast and necessary. We joked that along with the map of each church, there should be a map of the closest coffee shop. Roman churches, bodies of saints, painting of the greats and cappuccini all before 8 am!

Finally, this past weekend I joined some friends on a trip to Firenze. Although it was my second visit, they were all visiting for the first, so we hit all the necessary tourist stops: the Uffizi, the Accademia and the D'uomo. It was good though, because there is so much art in Firenze, it can't all be seen just once. Especially David. I think I could stare at David all day long. I think that I would marry David despite him being a guy and made of stone. Every detail is done so perfectly and on such a large scale that one can't help but stop and admire every detail. The one seeming imperfection is the immensity of his hands, but I found that Michaelangelo did this intentionally to express that the defeat of Goliath was not accomplished by human hand, but by a far greater power. The only stain on our trip was our final gelato trip. Several people had given up sweets for Lent and could only eat them on Sunday. Because the gelato flowed Saturday night, Jewish Law was enacted giving our penitents until sundown the next day. Because we had so little time Sunday afternoon before the sun set, we found the first gelateria in sight, which was ominously named "Very Good." I fully bear the blame for not seeing this dreadful red flag, but blinded by my desire for gelato I missed it. The tab came to 8 euros per person! We paid 48 euros for gelato! Are you serious?!? That's 72 dollars! I could buy an unbelievable bottle of wine for that price, or 48 three scoop gelatos in Rome, or 72 snicker bars, or 7200 tootsie rolls! Blegh.

Those have been my travels the last month. My Italian is approaching fluency and I hope to arrive triumphantly very soon. You're all in my prayers this Lenten season. Remember the immense suffering the Christ underwent this Lent for our sins, but never forget the hope of redemption that comes through that death. We are all very blessed with the comfortable lives we have been given, and I have been blessed to enjoy this year in Rome and to have your prayers to guide me. Buona serata a tutti!

A Quick Thought

2008-02-12T18:51:00.004+01:00

I just finished my Intro to Sacred Scripture final, and although it could have gone better, it has had my mind more scripturally focused than it has been in a long time. I generally try to avoid scripture when it comes to discussions, because it's a minefield of misinterpretation. It's infinitely more difficult to interpret than even James Joyce, because of it's multifaceted context. Every book of scripture is formed around specific oral traditions and written sources, both of which are largely unknown to us. Even further, each book develops in a specific social, political and historical context, each of which is, once again, largely unknown to us. The Hebrew language itself isn't fully known to us. These contexts have to be balanced with a belief of the transcendence of each book over place and time. Authorities can't even agree how the Bible should be read. Should it be read as literature? History? Within it's historical context? As a product of tradition? Literally? Metaphorically? Spiritually? With a myriad of various methods to simply approach the text, what hope do we have to understand it and use it as tool for debate? And even if a uniform interpretation could be agreed upon, the authority itself of the text is universally disputed. Scriptural quotation in a debate does nothing but open an uncloseable door. Lucifer himself uses scripture to tempt Christ.

I have though been contemplating the damages a misinterpreted scriptural passage can cause. The lack of a universal interpretation of the Bible does not preclude people's devotion to the text and their interpretation of it. Despite the Bible's controversy and innocuousness in debate, it still holds a large power over the formation of individual minds, especially because of it's claim to divine origins.

All this thought about the Bible made me realize that perhaps the most oft-misinterpreted passage of scripture, despite it's seeming harmlessness, is in 1 John 4:8, "God is love." It appears to be the most benign (and consequently mundane) passage in all of scripture, but it is it's apparent harmlessness that makes it so volatile. While it appears to be a vindication of modern liberation theology in which God is a loving and forgiving father that extols his creation and prefers popsicles to punishment, it is, in fact, far more complex. This passage is so simply stated that its importance nearly escapes our scouring eyes. But to understand that God is love presumes that we understand love. Because "God is love," there is an inextricable correlation between our concept of God and our concept of love, and it is a dangerous correlation. If one is conceptualized before the other, the other conforms to that conceptualization. Because they support and sustain each other, it allows us to define God as we conceive love, and in an individually-driven, consumerist society, the interpretation of God as love conforms to our conception of love, which unfortunately is entwined within societal conception of love. God as love is no longer a transcendent figure of space and time, but is forced to step into the box of our conception of love.

If there is anything less understood in our society, it is love. While hormonally-enraged, acne-prone teens of every age have struggled to unlock the secrets of every Ashley and Sharon's mind, teens of this generation have a considerably more difficult go at it, because their parents are just as lost as they are. Our cultural misinterpretation of love begins at the roots of culture, the English language. The Greeks had four separate words for love with four separate definitions. In the English language those four separate meanings are blindly mashed together into one, bludgeoning word. It's like stretching a baby blanket over Andre the Giant; it just ain't gonna happen. This is why every ninth grade Susan has to break poor Cody's heart by saying "I like you, but I don't like like you." Language and expression form our minds. Language provides the very foundation of our mind, and inexpressible concepts create holes in that foundation. The point is, our misunderstanding of love is not only a societal flaw, but a linguistic one as well.

Due to societal inundation of scantily-clad Calvin Klein models, our one definition of love has become centered around appearances - appearances that are transient, and love has followed suit as something transient. To us, love is pleasure and the absence of pain. Love is nestling gently in Matthew McConaughey's burly arms as he whispers tender nothings into our ear. Love is painless. This assessment is the singular, most vitriolic conception in modernity (no offense to Matthew McConaughey...mmm). To believe that love is passion is to believe that love is free from pain, strictures, commitment, obligation and, most importantly, suffering. All loving relationships begin in passion, but they invariably face suffering, sacrifice and apathy. To modern man, these are the signs of a failed relationship. They are signs to pack your bags and move on.

This belief is vitriolic not only because it subjects us to the throes of capricious passion, but because our conception of God is inextricably linked to our conception of love, and therefore God becomes passion. God becomes free from pain, punishment or anything else that sours our temperaments. And thus, God becomes sterile. God inspires no change, impels no reform and threatens no vengeance. His sole purpose is as a pick-me-up, as a forgiving, pusillanimous father that is too fearful to punish. God becomes pathetic.

But how else are we to define God, if he himself claims that "I am who am" (Moses asking God who he is is asking him to define himself)? John defines him for us: "God is love." But without a proper understanding of love, this definition is more detrimental than helpful. Fortunately, we need to look no further than another John of the Bible, and that is John the Apostle in that ever-famous passage, "For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son; that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." The answer to that binary question of what is love and who is God is answered in Christ, and ultimately, Christ's sacrifice. God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son to die mercilessly at the hands of the world. God so loved the world that he sacrificed all that he loved for the sake of the world. It is in that unrelenting sacrifice in which true passion is found. It is the transcendence of discomfort, suffering and self for the sake of another in which true love is revealed. God offers us the blueprint to worship Him and to love each other in Christ.

Love then is not momentary passion, but a promise of redemption through suffering. It is seeing the eternal in another's eyes, and sacrificing one's own sight for that reward. Consequently, suffering, sacrifice and apathy are no longer warning signs of a failed relationship, but integral evidence of true love. Suffering is an inevitable crossroad of a relationship in which we are forced into a strict dichotomy. It is the point where we choose self or self-transcendence. Christ has shown us that through that transcendence of self comes eternal life, yet ironically lovers consistently choose themselves over the other. But as Robert Frost wrote, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

Perhaps it was providential that I was struck by this thought so close to Valentine's day, but it serves us all to remember that love isn't about a cavalcade of flowers, chocolates or songs about flowers and chocolates. It is about sacrifice, and without that sacrifice, even if we spend this day and the rest of our days with another, we will ultimately end up alone.

As a sidepoint, I am fully conscious of the fact that this sounds like the same recapitulated Catholic babble that we all read in the picture books of smiling Jesus at the petting zoo, and that it seems too uncomplicated to be reconciled with our complex world. But life is a revolution that consists of two revelations. The first is the epiphany that the nursery tales of our youth are incompatible with a ruthless, uncaring world. That the structure of religion blinds us from reality. So we take off the religiously tinted glasses to look at the world free from stricture. The second revelation comes after thinking we have discovered uncharted territory free from religion, and realizing that this uncharted territory has actually been charted - by religion. That, although simple, there is truth in nursery tales, and that life itself is simply a complicated bedtime story. The revolution comes full circle. You stand looking in where you once stood looking out, and the recapitulated Catholic babble reveals itself as true.

Board on Sweet Chariot

2008-01-25T06:09:00.000+01:00

Cheers!

After New Year's in Paris, I took a train to Zürick, Switzerland to meet Fr. Avram. Unfortunately, his traveling plans were foiled by booked Italian trains, and I spent the night in Zürick. My camera was still in the possession of a raving band of rogues, who were most likely too concerned with flashing lights and moving pictures to realize what it was. But don't worry, the French police force assured me that they would do everything in their power once they started to care about Americans.

I was excited though to arrive in Switzerland, knowing that the US dollar was stronger than the Swiss Franc. My hopes were dashed when I found that Switzerland, despite its weak currency is still one of the most expensive countries in Europe. Everybody who travels Europe has their standard product by which they gauge how expensive the country is. For some it's a can of coke. For others its a newspaper. For me it's a Big Mac Meal. The Big Mac in Rome is 6 euros, in the States it's 4 dollars, in Britain it's 4 pounds, in Paris it's 5 euros and in Switzerland it's 11 FRANCS! I paid 18 francs for a pizza that was 3 times worse than the pizza I buy in Rome for 6 euros. Ridiculous.

The next day, Padre and I met in Luzern and took the train to Engelberg. After passing the quaint city of Wolfschlitzenheimerstraussen, the train began the steepest climb I've ever seen a train make. It must have been a 30 degree climb. We arrived in the small resort town of Engelberg around 10 pm. Carrying our bags over the iced roads, we began our search for the Benedictan monastery that we would be staying in (Fr. Avram is plugged into the divine network of priestly connections. Sounds like the Matrix. He even looks the part.).

The monastery is the tallest building in the town, and is surrounded on all sides by snow-capped Alps. We had quite the view out of our rooms... My room came fully equipped with a throne. Not bad accomodations. The monks were extremely hospitable, as they allowed us to eat, celebrate mass and pray with them each morning and evening. The days began around 6:00 for morning prayer (this was there Christmas break, so they were waking up late!), followed by mass at 7:30 and breakfast afterwards. I tell you, a shower before 5:00 am is the most heavenly shower you will ever take. After breakfast the first morning, we walked out to the slopes only to find that there were 100 km/h winds on the hills! They shutdown all the slopes except for the bunny hill. We discussed whether we should pay 50 francs for a day on the bunny hill, and decided that since my skill was hardly competent we would spend the day on mechanics.

Unfortunately, the Swiss defied their congenial stereotype and we spent the day vying for position in line, or more properly put, the swarming masses. It was vicious! I had middle-aged Swedish women planting their ski poles in front of my board and pulling ahead of me! Avram and I considered at one point just making an 8-foot barrier with our snowboards. Since the lines started really wide and trickled down to a single file, we had people cutting in at our sides at every opportunity. At one point I even took sympathy on an 8 year old girl and let her pass, and the cut the line off by putting my arm on the fence. Another little girl snuck under my arm! And all this mass hysteria for a 45 second run down the bunny hill. I felt like I was training for World War III.

The second day we nearly got a full day on the hill, but towards the end of the day, Avram took a mean crash and hurt his arm. It put him out of commission and we called it a day. Unfortunately, the runs were closed the next day too, because of massive rainfall. We were able, however, to snap some killer pics before.

As you can see, we tried to remain as somber as possible, knowing that the scenery was second rate at best. The libations I poured the night before, however, didn't work, because we spent a weekend in Switzerland, surrounded by Alps, and only snowboarded once. It did allow us, however, to spend the rest of the day in the spa, although the European concept of modesty had escaped us...

The monks were great to us, and allowed us to take part in the monastic life. One evening, we even got to see Beethoven's 3rd and Strauss' Metamorpheses from the organ loft, because we had the Benedictan press pass. Also, on Epiphany we had a big feast with the priests and brothers, and they served a dish that was called "Kangaru" in the German. Neither Avram nor my German can be considered spot-on, but it did bear a striking resemblance to some English word... Neither of us having seen any kangaroos obstructing the hills in the Alps, we were slightly skeptical. We asked one of the priests what type of meat it was, and he told us, "You know, the animal...hoppity hoppity. So I can now say that my first experience with kangaroo was while staying in a Benedictan monastery on a weekend snowboarding trip.

That wrapped up our weekend in Switzerland, and we took the early morning train back to Rome with hopes that there would be redemptive snowboarding effort in the near future. There are murmurs of a trip in northern Italy, but nothing is set in stone. I know it's been a while since my last post, but I will make sure to keep everyone updated these next few weeks. Right now I'm in the midst of finals week (yes, in February), so keep me in your prayers. I'm on the pass/fail system, so a C- is just as good as an A! So prayer for an A, and maybe God will meet you halfway.

Friends, Romans, Countrymen...Lend me your ears!

2008-01-09T17:15:00.000+01:00

I just got back from Christmas break vacation, and as always, it was a whirlwind. 3 days in Dublin, 4 days in Rome, 1 day in Nice, 3 days in Paris, 1 day in Zurick and 3 days in Engelberg. Talk about chaos! From New Years in Paris to snowboarding in Switzerland, it has been some good times. Unfortunately, I can't provide any pictures since my camera was stolen near the Arc de Triomph on New Year's Eve. That was right before we got tear gassed. More of that later. For now, you'll have to rely on my colorful commentary as a guide.

After laboring for days to find a train from Rome to Paris from several different train stations, I finally found a ticket that went to Nice. Unfortunately, the ticket attendant couldn't tell me whether there were any trains to Paris from there. So I gathered my lucky rabbit's foot, my tail of newt and the shoe that homeless guy gave me and set out for Nice. I arrived in Nice the next morning with enough sleep to healthily power me for 30 minutes. I showed up to the ticket counter with no clue whether I would make it to Paris or be stuck in Nice for New Years by myself. First train that day. Nothing. Second train. Nothing. Third train. Nothing. At this point I was sure that I would be stuck in Nice, but lo and behold, the next morning there was a 6:00 am train with one spot on it. So I kissed my lucky shoe and set out for Nice.

Nice is a beautiful resort town in France on the Mediterranean Sea. I'm sure there are cultural attractions too, but on a 70 degree day in December, the part of my brain that could handle culture had fried, and I headed straight for the beach. With my American historicentricism in full force, I never expected to be able to sleep on the beach on Dec. 29th, but that day I shattered any ill-informed Minnesotan preconception of the world outside the Great White North.

I was early to bed and early to rise to catch my train the next morning to Paris. First order of business: get cotton candy by the Eiffel Tower with Byake. Paris was a zoo. I think a quarter of the world decided to spend New Years in Paris. And far too many connoodling couples. No man should be subject to that much face-sucking. Anywhom, our accommodation situation was slightly complicated in that we had none. Byake had just woken up from a nap on a park bench, just to illustrate our focus on quality. We aimlessly wandered the town, and struck gold with a hotel for 55 euros. Unfortunately, they only had availability for that night, but at that point we would take anything. We soon found out that the reason our hotel had no availability was due to the fact that no hotel had any availability. For Byake, this wasn't a great difficulty because he flew out of Paris at 6:00 am. I, however, was in Paris until the 2nd. Figuring that the roses were just budding on the Spring of my youth, I decided to rough it until I could check into a hostel the next day.

That evening we were able to catch an evening service at Notre Dame. I think Notre Dame rivals the Vatican in terms of cathedrals. The atmosphere of Notre Dame is the polar opposite of the Vatican or anything that you'll find in Rome. Paris was a stronghold in the Middle Ages, whereas Rome was still suffering from its collapse until the Renaissance. Notre Dame, therefore, is perfectly Gothic. The interior is peppered with steep colonnades that guide the community upwards into the vaulted ceiling. The purpose of the austerity was to focus on the majesty of God rather than His personal nature, as you see in the smaller churches of today. The Vatican, and any other cathedral built during the Renaissance or Baroque period, tries to emphasize God's proximity to us. That's why it's more ornately decorated as opposed to the undifferentiated grey in Notre Dame. Even though the Vatican is monstrous, it was intentionally built replete with optical illusions that make the cathedral seem smaller than it is. It's only a personal preference, but I love Notre Dame.

Byake and I were talking before the service began until the organ silenced us with a deafening blast. Honestly, there's nothing you can say after you get silenced by a medieval organ. If I were a parent I would take advantage of that. Getting silenced by an organ is like having God and his choir of angels pissed off at you. The service was very nice as far as my French intuition can tell though.

We also were able to devote an afternoon to the Louvre, which was extremely rewarding. The Louvre is awesome. Sheer, unbridled awesome. It totally destroys the Vatican Museums or anything in Florence. David may be able to take down Mona Lisa, but not when she's surrounded by Winged Victory and Cupid and Psyche. It's huge too. Of course, there's the Venus De Milo, but there are also countless other ancient sculptures and artifacts. The Code of Hammurabi is there, which is remarkable. It's the first recorded set of laws, and it's all written on a large rock. I had a picture...of all this stuff...

Finally, New Year's Eve rolled around, but we had no clue what we were going to do. In true dude fashion, we hadn't planned a thing, but just assumed that the party would find us. Paris had their underground metro running all night for free, so we took great advantage of that. After scouring the town and finding nothing, Byake and I retreated to an Irish Pub in Montmarte to regroup around 8pm. The bartender recommended we go to Champs-Elysées, which is a wide road that leads to the Arc de Triomph. I believe it's the nexus of fashion in the world...blegh... Anyways, Champs-Elysées is the exact place that a few French guys told Byake he shouldn't go, because it's dangerous. So of course we went there. We arrived at Champs-Elysées around 11:15 and realized both why we should go there and why it was dangerous. The entire street was packed, body to body, all the way from the Arc de Triomph to the river, probably about a mile.

I don't know exactly when the ball dropped on the New Year, only the general moment based on the shouts and cheers from the crowd. There were people from all over the world. I think there were some guys in a mosh pit waving a Portuguese flag. After a quick shower in champagne to cool down, I saw a big group of guys come by chanting, "Bonne Annee, Bonne Annee," which means Happy New Year's. So of course the impulsive, unstable, thrill-seeking...stupid but yet so awesome, part of me decided to join in. It took me very little time to realize that their mosh pit of dudes was less of a celebration and more of a gang display. It took me very little time because I was immediately challenged to a fight by two guys. While confused as to why they would challenge me to a fight, another guy bumped me from behind and gave me a "Hey, my primal virility is superior to that of yours" look. Immediately after, I checked my pockets and realized that Mr. Primal Virility had evolved past the hunter/gatherer stage of development. Needless to say, it put a damper on the moment.

I didn't have much time to kick myself, because that's when the fun began. This was this point that I made the rational assent to anarchy as a detrimental form of government. I heard a loud bang, and turned to see that someone had thrown a dynamite-like firework into the middle of the crowd, and that it had nailed some guy in the back of the head. Mass hysteria. The crowds swarmed the sides of the streets, and then began the all-important competition: which side of the street can hit the other with champagne bottles. Bottles came raining from the sky and were breaking all over the street. And that's when the riot police began to futilely quell the crowd. They walked out into the street, fully equipped with body armor, leg and arm padding, helmet, club, riot shield and some sort of firearm, to clear the street of any vapid stragglers that had failed to realize that the sky was raining masculinity gone wrong. It wasn't the greatest idea, because they just became target practice for the champagne enthusiasts. Literally, people were marching into the street and throwing bottles directly at the police, and there was nothing that they could do, because they were outnumbered a billion to 12.

Now Byake and I wanted to be close enough to see the action, but far enough away to not get clubbed in the head by angry riot police. Fortunately, it wasn't me but the guy directly next to me that was clubbed to the ground. Despite all our efforts to not end up the center of the action, somehow we had stumbled into the hornet's nest. As I giddily stood watching, suddenly, tears began to uncontrollably stream from eyes, which was then followed by a complete inability to breathe. Forgetting about Byake, I blindly sprinted in the other direction. I heard Byake say, "what the heck was that," and grabbed his shirt as he led me out of the fray. No pity necessary though. I think there was a point where a I choked through my tears, "This is awesome." How many of you have been tear gassed? I win.

After we escaped, we headed up to the Eiffel Tower to pass the night away with a bottle of champagne. From about 1am to 6 we passed the time with a group of stereotypical Frenchies, a couple South Africans and an Arabic guy who's English extended to the high-five and no further. Topic discussions ranged from how how horrific Tony Parker's rap is to how if pitted against each other in a fight the Statue of Liberty would obliterate the Eiffel Tower. Needless to say we advanced each of our personal quest for the satisfaction of our innate, insatiable desire to beckon truth from the shadows. Nyer.

That morning Byake flew back to Rome to catch a connecting flight home. His salty wit and roguish charm will be missed. I was doomed to wander the streets of Paris until 4 pm when I was allowed to check into my hostel. At 8 am, I attended New Year's Day Mass at Notre Dame. I was really excited because I thought it was going to be a big ordeal. Unfortunately, the French lived up to the stereotype of their fervent religious dedication. The parishioners didn't even sit in the actual pews; they sat directly on the altar. In total, there were no more than fifty people. In a small, American church, fifty people is bad, but not unbearable, but fifty people in Notre Dame is like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. I bypassed my sleep in order to see La Chapelle de La Médaille Miraculeuse where the incorrupt body of St. Catherine of Laboure lies. It's a small, hidden church, but it's important because it is the place where St. Catherine had a vision of Mary, who told her to create the miraculous medal. The church is a popular pilgrimage destination, and the church sells blessed medals in bulk to visitors.

Unable to see the Rodin Museum and Napoleon's grave, I headed back for my hostel and collapsed around 7 pm. The next morning, I woke up at 6am to catch my train to Zürick, but because this post has put Lord Nestor to shame in its length, I'll save the story of Avram and I snowboarding for my next post. I hope everyone had a blessed New Year, and at least three of you made the New Year's resolution to send me cookies. You're all in my prayers.

Cheers!

2007-12-26T20:20:00.001+01:00

So turns out that Paris is a more popular vacation destination than I had thought. I booked all my hostels, and had my eurail pass itching to be used. Unfortunately, there are no spots on any the 40 trains leaving from either Rome or Milan to Paris in the next 4 days. Paris cannot be that cool. This unforeseen cosmic punishment for lack of initiative or organization leaves me stranded in Rome for the time being until I can figure out a better plan of attack. Presently I'm consulting Donald Rumsfeld.

Rome, though, is not a bad place to be stranded. The Israeli-Palestinian border is. And so is McDonald's. Or trapped in a room with Pauly Shore. But not Rome. I was able to go to the Vatican's midnight mass, which was incredible. We waited in line for 4 hours beforehand, and when the doors were finally opened, the masses swarmed the Swiss guard like my brother Jack Jack to his new Xbox 360. I've never seen any one treat religion like that before. Literally, it was an all out sprint. As gorgeous as the mass was though, it also was kind of a spectacle. Camera and camcorders were going off the entire ceremony, and nobody (including myself) hesitated to stand on their chairs to get a better view of the processions. It was still a very beautiful ceremony though, and I was extremely blessed to be able to go.

I just got back from Dublin this weekend, which was relaxing and revitalizing. I love Ireland. I can't overemphasize how great the people are there. There's not much to see in Dublin beyond the Guinness Factory. The real draw of Ireland is the culture. The Irish are responsible for the pub. Other cultures have no concept of anything like it. A traditional Italian pub is a fluorescently lit café that slowly drains the life from you, and can only offer liquor in return. You get in and get out. The French café is somewhat comparable, but is more conducive to quiet, intellectual conversation, rather than a fun night out. It's just an interesting point to note, because in America, we steal all other cultures and mold them into one amalgam golem with fried egg rolls for arms and legs, sausage for a torso and sadly, undercooked spaghetti for brains.

Consequentially, Berken and I spent most of our days jumping from pub to pub. The guinness was great and the people were better. Maybe it's because of my Irish roots, but Ireland just feels like home to me. I love the weather, I love the people and I even love the city, and I generally can't stand cities. We did however go to a restaurant called Captain America's, which took a slight swallow of pride. I will admit though that they made a burger that would make America proud. Honestly, there's not much else to tell. Ireland is a place that just has to be experienced.

I've recently had some interesting conversations with my roommates. As we all know, Europe is slightly more "progressive" than the States (although I've always wanted to ask a progressive what they're progressing towards. I think the euphemism has lost its meaning. While I make no claim to sway towards one side or the other, I always found it funny that the left wing always chooses euphemisms that not even Hitler could disagree with. Pro-choice. Progressive. Liberal. No I say! I prefer an obscurantist, narrow-minded life in prison! Anyways...). European government has virtually no checks or balances, so they are as fickle as the people they represent. Case in point, Italian government has changed 51 times in the 52 years since Mussolini fell from power. It makes France's 5 since Napoleon look like genius. When people want something done and can't get it from their present government, generally they just have to wait a year.

Italy, however, is slightly different than the rest of Europe, because Italian government has a much more difficult time suppressing the Church seeing as they're here. Italy is one of the last European countries that hasn't legalized homosexual marriage, and the "progressives" lay the brunt of the blame on the Pope and his power over the people and the government. My immediate reaction was to defend the Pope, citing that he has no social power and merely delegates over the Church, but then I realized that he was probably right. The Church's presence is probably the reason that Italy is considered one of the most "backwards" countries in the civilized Western world (although some of it has to be attributed to the fact that the Italians are just plain lazy).

There's always existed a tension between the Pope and the people, whether it was due to corruption in the highest ranks as in the 15th century or the restriction of social advancement as in modern times. One would think that Italy would be one of the most Catholic countries in Europe, but in fact, it's one of the most secular. The Church has always had a global presence and is never more focused on its own nexus, unlike the United States. So the tension between the Church and the people is perpetuated, and it can be really felt amongst the people. The few people with whom I have had conversations about the Church, who are rational, composed people, generally passionately resent it.

Eppure, tonight I have a train that leaves for Nice, France, and from there I'm hoping to catch a train to Paris. It's unbelievable what a popular destination Paris is for New Years. After New Years, I'll be meeting Fr. Avram in Engelberg, Switzerland for what is forecasted to be a much less painful excursion on the slopes. But weathermen always lie. I hope that everyone had a great Christmas, and is enjoying time with family and friends. I wish I could be there with you all. Cheers!

A Belated Buon Giorno

2007-12-20T19:50:00.000+01:00

Ciao a tutti,

I was making myself some homemade pasta and sipping a glass of limoncello when I realized that now would be a perfect time to mend our neglected relationship. I never thought that I could do so much while accomplishing so little. I've become truly Italian. The last few weeks have been filled with traveling and recuperation from traveling and/or snowboarding soreness, and the next few weeks should be just as busy. Tomorrow morning I fly out for Dublin.

A few weeks ago, the planets aligned for a day of the most random encounters that I've had since I arrived here. First, I met up with a Minnesotan guy who I just found out is studying here, and also happens to know most of my cousins. We went out for some spaghetti alla carbonara, a Roman favorite, in cultural Trastevere, and afterwards he invited me to a Papal ceremony in which Pope Benedict had named 23 new cardinals. Their promotion took place that morning in the Vatican, but afterwards, the Papal palace was opened in celebration of the new cardinals. It's a big deal because the Papal palace is rarely opened to the public. So I accompanied John to the Vatican, and on our way, we happened into Byake, who was just on his way back from the Vatican museums. He tagged along with us, and at the Vatican we ran into the entire St. Thomas program and joined them in the 2 hour wait for the commencement of the celebration.

The palace was finally opened, and we soon found that you needed to know a name of one of the cardinals to enter or the Swiss guard would throw you out. So we did some quick thinking and pointed to one of the cardinals in the corner. We really stuck it to the man. Except...the man is the Pope...so I guess that's not really a good thing. Sticking it to figures of Divine authority can't end well. Anyways, the Papal palace is about as regal as...a really regal palace. I swear when everyone leaves, Big Baller Benedict rolls out his Papal Lazy Boy and watches Chuck Norris flicks on a projection TV. Throughout the palace, each cardinal waited to greet the public, and we were able to meet the two newly elected American cardinals, Foley and DiNardo, as well as a few others. We tried to meet Bargnasco, who I guess is a leading candidate for the papacy, but his line was filled with too many pushy Italian spinsters. And nuns. Small Italian nuns give elbows like you wouldn't believe. You never see them coming, and by the time you figure out that you were just elbowed by a woman of God, she's already on her 6th victim and left you in her dust.

After the Papal palace, the group of us went out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant, and were joined by several other priests and an American soldier stationed in Pisa. Fr. Avram joined us later as well, and of course, he had picked up someone along the way. Not only was the food good, but the restaurant also embraced its own stereotypes, which made me happy. On the wall was a large 3-dimensional recreation of the Great Wall of China, and on the opposite wall was a poster of Bruce Lee. What are the two things that come to mind when you think of China? The Great Wall and Bruce Lee. Well, and eating children and making them into fur coats, but that doesn't count. It gets better though, if you look closely at the picture of Bruce Lee, you'll see holy cards of Pope JPII, Benedict and Mary! I promise you that you will never see those two side by side again.

The reason I mentioned all that is that at the restaurant, the person that Avram picked up decided to join us on our snowboarding excursion, aptly named Peril in the Alps - It's Nasty (or PAIN for short, yeah I had to work hard for that). Fortunately, Ryan had never snowboarded either, and I say fortunately, because Byake and I wanted our natural God-given talent to remain untainted by the stain of external aid. The three of us met in Innsbruck, the extreme snowboarding capital of the world, and checked into our apartment that overlooked the Alps. Innsbruck has held the Winter Olympics twice, and is surrounded on all sides by the Alps.

I plan on doing a lot of things in my life, but standing at the top of an Alp, looking down at the mile and a half long, former olympic course, and saying "well, here goes nothing." was not one of them. Haha, but it took me two days to get there. Now, there is a way to learn how to snowboard, and then there is the way that I learned how to snowboard. Normal beginners would learn mechanics first, and then speed. I, however, being the non-conformist that I am, learned speed and then mechanics. This doesn't seem like a bad combination, but I tell you it is the reason that I couldn't get out of bed the next morning. My body contorted in ways that I thought were impossible. Falling off a snowboard is way more painful than falling off skis. When skiing, you can foresee your fall, and tuck and roll. When snowboarding, you turn, catch an edge, and BAM, faceplant. Not even a Chinese ping player would have the reflexes to get his hands out. However, I did perfect several unorthodox snowboarding techniques, such as face to hill technique, as well as tailbone to hill, face to hill followed with a slide and flip to tailbone to hill, and the dangerous face to elbow to hill technique.

Day 2 begin great outside of the fact that I couldn't move. After debating at the top of the hill whether I could survive the day, I told myself that I would regret it forever if I gave up. So I went down headstrong aaaaaand faceplant. I laid on the hill for literally 5 minutes. By the end of the day, we had it down though. So much so that we graduated the beginner's hill and headed up for the next easiest course, which just happened to be at the top of a mountain and a former Olympic course. The course began with a steep drop and then planed off. Where the course planed off was about 15 ft wide, and on either side it was a straight drop down the mountain. Literally, if you fell, you would die. No question about it. Fortunately, at this point I had no turning capabilities. The remedy was to slide sideways, much to the chagrin to anyone with any talent on the hill, which I guess was everyone. I survived the hill, even though it took me 4 times as long as anyone else, and decided that despite the torture and the fact that my face was bloated like a tomato, I would go back. So after Christmas, I'm gonna go to the Swiss Alps with Fr. Avram.

There's more to tell, but I have a plane to Dublin to catch in the morning. Then it's midnight mass and Christmas in Rome, followed by New Year's in Paris, and finally snowboarding in Switzerland. I'll make sure to keep you all updated though. Consider our broken internet relationship resumed though! You're all still in my prayers, and will especially be this Christmas season. Spero che tutti abbiano un Buon Natale e un felice Capodanno. Cheers!

Divine Malfeasance

2007-11-21T18:54:00.000+01:00

Ciao a tutti!

It has been too long my loving reader. I swear, every time I tell myself that I'm going to write more, I always find myself in the midst of a Mafia style shootout. Ma che si puó fare? (What can you do?) This is my favorite Italian phrase, because it is applicable in any possible situation. If the train breaks down, che si puó fare? If the museum is closed, che si puó fare? If the Pope refuses to give you a high five on the grounds that if he were to give you a high five, he would have to kill you, che si puó fare? It truly is an all encompassing phrase.

These past couple weeks have been packed with activity as usual. A few weeks ago, I ended up at the Legionaries of Christ school to meet with some brothers for adoration and Belgian beer. It's a somewhat long and random story, but essentially, Brother Felix told us that the Belgian beer that we had revered was utter crap, and decided to introduce us to the real stuff. The funny thing is that I have a friend whom I haven't seen in 9 years, and it turns out that he was staying at the same school. I surprised him there and shared beer and cheese with a completely eclectic group. The strangest part of it all though was afterwards, we were trying to catch our train, but the door to the train station was locked. So Brother Felix helped us jump the fence, and make our train. I have to say that it's only the second time that a man of God has helped me break the law.

For the weekend, King Blarken and I took a train to Firenze (or for historocentric Americans, Florence), and spent the weekend soaking up the birthplace of the Renaissance. Da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Donatello and Macchiavelli were all born there in a 100 year period. Not only was the Renaissance born there, but also, there lies the fertile inceptive spawning grounds of the most Leviathan calzone that mankind has ever produced. Truly, it is of biblical proportions. Let's just say it owned me. I haven't felt that sick since I challenged the king of the giants to a drinking contest, and he handed me a large stein. I begin to drank heartily, but, unbeknownst to me, the other end of the glass was furtively connected to the sea. Malignant giants! Oh how I yearn to see the fateful morn on Ragnarok when I shall cleave your head from your body with ease, and triumphantly watch as warm life ebbs from your bones! Oh wait...no that was Thor...nevermind. Anyways, the artistic apex was seeing Michaelangelo's David. David is one of those works of art that you see depicted countless times, but then when you finally see it, you say, "Huh...that is pretty good." The sculpture stands on a 4 ft. platform, and David himself is at least another 15 ft. tall. It is the most masculine figure I have ever seen. The museum also held the Quattro Prigione (the four prisoners), which embody Michaelangelo's ideal of freeing the man from the stone. They were originally intended to stand in Julius II's excessively ornate tomb, but because of complications, were left unfinished. I personally think they're breathtaking. They truly seem as if they're desperately writhing to break free from the stone prison, but are eternally doomed to fail. There's a very interesting human allegory there. Also, one of the most famous galleries in the world is in Florence, The Uffizi. The height of the Uffizi is definitely Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." It's another painting that can only be appreciated up close. He does a remarkable job capturing motion.

Beyond the two major art museums, there are also some really interesting sights, one of which is the Church of San Marco where over 40 Fra Angelico frescoes are held. Fresco is an Italian word short for affresco, which mean "on the fresh." A fresco is done on a specific type of plaster that only allows the artist to work for about 14 hours. Once the paint dries, the artist can't make any changes. If he does, he has to destroy the work and start over. There are several famous frescoes, but the most famous is his Annunciation. Seeing all the paintings is almost like a religious experience, because each fresco is in its own cove, and you walk through seeing them one by one. Also, several great Florentines are buried in Florence (go figure). There is a church where Michaelangelo, Galileo and Machiavelli are buried. Galileo's burial in a church is strange, but Machiavelli's is even stranger. Neither were on good terms with the Church. Machiavelli hated the Church, and the Church put Galileo under house arrest for heresy. Still, seeing the burial spot of sinister Machiavelli is pretty cool.

This past weekend, Byake and I were going to travel to Münich, but after a few unforeseen complications that came in the form of us going to the wrong airport, we had to improvise our plans. Because I already had a flight home, I decided to continue to Münich via train, but Byake opted against it, and woe is he now for doing so, because Münich was incredible. I met with a friend from Firenze, and because there is nothing to do in Münich, we held 24 hour prayer vigils with the locals...right. The famous (or infamous) Hofbräuhaus is in Münich, the most famous beer hall in the world. In the hall there are long wooden tables, filled with rambunctious Germans as far as the eye can see. You have to find a table and hope the Germans let you sit with them. There is a band in the middle that plays traditional oompa music, and all these old men (and slightly intoxicated) in lederhosen dance in the middle of the hall. The first night, we ate with three German guys who barely spoke any English. However, we quickly found that the only necessary German is "Prost," which means cheers. We were finally able to get some good meat too. They don't serve you pints of beer at the Hofbräuhaus, they serve you liters. And the Germans drink like mad. The guy next to me was on his 8th liter of beer! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH ALCOHOL THAT IS?!? We even broke a stein because they were such voracious prosters.

Anyways, we had so much fun the first night that we decided to come back again, and this time my friend and I were the sole Americans at the table. We met some more German guys, and some Bavarian girls who were dressed up in tradition Oompa Bavarian outfits. It was great. And even the petite women are bottomless beer pits. I think Germans have second stomachs...or livers...

The second two days of my trip were much more relaxed. Joe went home for class, and me, being the devoted and assiduous student that I am, decided that my education would be much better served studying at the fount of experiential wisdom, rather being inundated with crack-fueled philosophical arguments from Schopenhauer and Kant. Bloody categorical imperative... The first day, I saw all that Münich had to offer, which included two surprisingly eminent museums. They had several Raphael's, Da Vinci, Monet, Degas, Caspar David Friedrich, and a lot of Rubens. I used to despise Rubens, because I thought he was famous only for painting fat people. But now I see I was wrong. His paintings are remarkably dramatic, with rippling, muscular figures contorted in the strangest fashion. There was a very shocking painting of judgment day. He captures drama extremely well. Münich is also home to several magnificent churches, but no more magnificent than any other European town. The Marienplatz was is interesting because of its architecture. It still is an operating federal building. Also, the Englischer Gartens, most famous for their beer gardens, is twice the size of central park, although not nearly as interesting.

My last day in Münich, I ventured two and a half hours by train to Füssen, which is home to two important castles from the late Holy Roman Empire. One is particularly famous, because, as mom told me, is the model for which Walt Disney modeled the Disney Castle after. Both castles are situated in the Alps, and have an incredible view of the countryside. The view is absolutely breathtaking, and I took way too many pictures.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving and it was the first time that I've been slightly homesick. I missed the Thanksgiving family football game. I was able to get some friends together and have a small party over some turkey (which is far too complicated to make), pasta, potatoes and wine. I hope everyone's holidays are going great. This is the first weekend I've been in Rome for a while, so I don't know what to do with myself. Next weekend, Byake and I are venturing to the Alps for some early December snowboarding in the extreme sports capital of the world, Innsbruck. It should be an exciting and pleasant disaster.

Cheers.

Too Much to be Contained in One Title

2007-11-06T20:31:00.000+01:00

Ciao Dearest Reader!

It's been some time since my last post, because relaxation and I have not been on good terms lately, and I think our relationship may be on the rocks. I finally have a free night tonight, and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I guess the only logical conclusion would be to dance in my underwear a la Tom Cruise. Illogical then is the route I chose, because I am fully clothed and it is beginning to get chilly in Rome. I would place it at a frigid 65 degrees. Watch out Minnesota, here we come. Before I dive into the last few weeks, I should begin with a disclaimer: Those of you who become nauseated when reading long, but extremely well-written and witty commentaries on life abroad, please step away from the computer, because this post is gonna be pretty long.

Two weeks ago, the Vatican held a special mass for the beginning of the academic year, so while most of you have been in school for over two months, Rome, in typical Italian fashion, just now got around to beginning the year. There were whispers from the depths of Vatican security that the Pope would be making a special appearance. In bizarre string of events, a Swiss guard was found to have leaked the information for a mound of Swiss chocolates and Belgian pancakes. Berken and I met up with Fr. Avram and a friend who was in from Florence with his family. We took our seats on the right side of the altar, and enjoyed the 2 and a half hour mass. It may seem long, but with the majesty of the Vatican it felt like minutes. After the mass, people waited anxiously for Pope Benedict to arrive. They brought out his special Pope, and he entered with a resounding roar behind him. I actually had never heard the Pope speak before. Knowing that he was German, had grown up in a Nazi training camp and was known for his rigidity in Church doctrine, I expected his voice to be extremely harsh. Not only was he not harsh, but he was the polar opposite. He was very contemplative and there was a tenderness in his voice. I was taken aback by how sincere he was, and of course the whole experience was heightened by the fact that he was a mere 100 ft from us. His speech lasted about 15 minutes, and while I could understand very little of what he said, it was still very moving.

Then for the weekend, Byake and I jetted for Siena...and by jet I mean took a long arduous train ride that could only be sufficiently explained by calling it Italian. Not only was the train slow, but it was actually the wrong one. While waiting for the train, the sign changed from Grosseto (where we wanted to go) to Civitavechhia (where we did not want to go). I asked an Italian what the deal was, and he told us to wait for the next train. Turns out he was wrong, and we had to take 3 different train to get to Grosseto. By the time we finally got to Grosseto, we had missed our connecting train to Siena. There were no more trains for the night, so we were stuck in the unknown city of Grosseto. We didn't want to rent a hotel room for 70 dollars, so we decided to stay up all night and catch the next train at 6:30 am. Our original plan was to lay around the train station all night, but after finding some decadently greasy pizza and some live music, we thought we may actually find enough to do to keep us busy. We met an Italian guy who turned out to be a political ambassador to Rome (he was noticeably inebriated), and he invited us to join him at a local bar. I'm so glad he did, because we never would have found this place. It was in a dark alley, and the door was hidden under some construction. It looked like it was going to be a hole in the wall, but it turned out to be a great bar in a cellar that was packed with 25 Italian guys and one Austrian girl. It turned out to be a great night. I spent 2 hours talking to 6 or 7 Italian guys about American politics, George Bush and the problems with Italian economy. And none of it was in English. Barely anyone in the bar spoke anything but Italian, which swelled me with pride. We even met a Buffalo Bills fan. Of all the sports teams that an Italian would like, the Buffalo Bills? C'mon. We spent the entire night with them, and then hopped on a train to Siena.

Because we didn't get any sleep, and for some strange reason, the hostel refused to accept my expired driver's license as a form of ID, we ended up sleeping for the first time in 36 hours on the famous piazza in Siena. It's the most famous piazza in Italy, because it curves downwards in a bowl shape. After some precious sleep, we went to The Church of St. Catherine's to see the place where she received the stigmata. Also, her head is on display in the Church. It's kind of creepy. She's not incorrupt, so her skin is clinging to her face, and there's an eerie yellow glow around her head. I got an illegal picture to the right. I guess she's in good shape for being that old. After long night of sleep, we saw Siena's D'uomo. The orange and purple ninja turtle helped design the Church, and Bernini had a hand in it as well. The floor of the Church has a long set of cool engravings that chronicle philosophical thought beginning with the Greeks and culminating in Christ and the altar. The church itself is lined with the heads of Popes, but there are so many Popes that the last one displayed is Lucius III who died in 1185. Shows how long the Church has been around. As a side note, there was a tablet inscribed above a tomb pictured here. If you look really closely at the bottom left hand corner, you'll see the word saltis. But if you look even closer, you'll see a small "u" inscribed in between the l and the t. YOU CAN'T SCREW UP!! YOU'RE DOING THE D'UOMO!!

This weekend, I had friends come in from France. I gave them a whirlwind tour of Rome from Friday until Monday. Also, a friend of Fr. Avram's stayed with me for the weekend, so we had a whole crew. After a 6 am Thursday night escapade, we spent Friday taking it slow and eating. Saturday we spent the whole day at the Vatican, and I did my best Vatican tour guide impression. Afterwards, we begin waiting in line for the Vatican Museums, which was literally over a mile long. Now I know why they call it the most daunting line in the world. We got a tour guide and were able to skip the line. So we began the 3 hour long tour by dancing by the 4 hour line of tourists. Inside we saw one of the most extensive art collections in the world, which is capped off by Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel. The Chapel is amazing. Michaelangelo, even though he wasn't a believer, spent 14 hours a day standing to finish the ceiling. He spent so much time painting that he was blind for months after he finished. It's remarkable how extensive it is. I think, though, that the Frenchies were impressed mostly with the gelato. We went to a particular one at 6 times, and I introduced them all to bandana man, pictured here, who is the greatest Italian ever to live.

I actually met some genuine Italians Thursday night from Sicily, who spoke barely any English. They met up with us Saturday night, and we went out to one of the fabled Italian clubs. We were denied by the first club, because our dude to chick ratio was too high...not even kidding. But at the next club, Alessandro worked his God-given Italian charm to get us in. As usual, we practiced our repulsive dance moves that inevitably end in a dance circle, but even the Italians got into it. It was a lot of fun, and I may meet up with the Italians in Sicily for some supposedly famous "Cucina Siciliana e vino rosso." That night, we all slept in my apartment, and because the floor was freezing, we ended up fitting in 5 people in the bed, sardine style. I slept divinely, but I think it was only because I had two exemplars of Divine sculpting beside me.

Yesterday, we did another day of sightseeing that began in the Forum, and moved onto the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps and the SS. Apostoli where St. Philip and St. James the Lesser are buried. That night, we met up with Fr. Avram and had a great meal at the Abruzzi restaurant. There was some great conversation that ranged from theological debate to discussion of the Ninja turtles. And of course, Fr. Avram showcased his impeccable puns at any appropriate moment. Once he gets started, stopping him is like standing in front of a cement truck and stopping the flood of cement. It's just not going to happen. I bid farewell to my friends as they prepared for a night of sleep in the airport, because their flight left at 6 in the morning, and all transportation closes at night.

If anyone is left at this point, I hope all is going well back in the States. I'm keeping you all in my prayers as I hope you're doing with me. If God cares any about prayers said in holy places, you all should be sitting on a mound of grace in the bank. Let me know about anything that's going on back in the States. Oh, and GO VIKINGS! I can be this enthusiastic about Minnesota sports teams only once in a blue moon, so I plan on savoring it. Ciao!

The Mamertine and a sweet festival

2007-10-22T22:15:00.000+02:00

This past week I visited the Mamertine prison, which historically is the place that Peter and Paul were held captive. The prison itself lies just outside the grounds of the Forum, and was first constructed in the 4th century B.C. It was generally reserved for higher profile prisoners such as foreign commanders. The prison itself is extremely small, and is only one room with a ceiling barely taller than I am. It would not be a pleasant place to be held captive. In the center there is an altar with an upside down cross symbolizing Peter's crucifixion. Legend says that a fount of water came spewing out of a hole in the ground, which allowed Peter to baptize his fellow captives.

This weekend, Byake and I went to the salsa club with some friends, and I think our experience can be summed up in this one picture. But oh dearest reader! You may be asking yourself, "Was this excursion aided by copious alcoholic beverages?" The answer is: slightly, but not as much as it appears.

We're also planning some big trips over the next month. In three straight weekends, we are going to Vienna and Innsbruck (to snowboard and likely break our pelvises), Dublin and Munich.

As a final note, I've been recently looking up festivals in Italy ever since Fr. Avram told me about a festival where the fountains literally run with wine for the fall harvest, and I came across this peculiar, but ever-so-awesome one. It is a Carneval celebration that has its origins in Pagan tradition, but became adapted to Christianity for the time leading up until Lent. This particular festival involves 3000 people, 9 teams and an endless barrage of oranges being hurled everywhere! How awesome is that?!? If I am not one of those three thousand, I will never forgive myself.

Cinqueterre e i corpi dei santi

2007-10-18T08:40:00.000+02:00

Buona Mattina!

It's been a while since my last entry, because I've been so busy, but I'm going to change that...the former not the latter. Since my last post I have crossed the threshold of no return; I'm now the ripe old age of 21. I think 21 may be the only birthday where you actually decline in maturity. And hey! Today's St. Luke's feast day! Double whammy! This past week has been loads of fun. Byake and I traveled to Cinqueterre, I celebrated 21 with Johnny, Cindy and Father Avram, I moved into my new apartment, and I've been pushing forward in classes. Technically, I should be in my Italian philosophy class, but alas, I am not because of the faulty transportation system. The Italians take a different attitude than Americans towards machinery. "Beh, we'll fix it when it breaks" (or more authentically, "Beh, lo riperemmo, quando si é romputo"). It's a wonderful attitude when you're the one assuming it, but when you're the one who was torn from the womb of your bed at 7:30 only to stand in the rain for 45 minutes and realize that there was no way that you could make it to your 8:30 class, then it's not so great.

This past weekend, Byake and I traveled to Cinqueterre, which is a constituency of five quaint villages on the coast of the Mediterranean. The villages only began to communicate with each other recently, and while it is a growing tourist attraction, Byake and I visited during the offseason and were able to avoid the stampede. We planned the trip just how every trip should be planned...with absolutely no planning. We didn't book a hostel and bought our train tickets at the terminal. After getting some dinner at the only restaurant open in all five villages, we sneaked on a train to the village with sandier beaches (because that was our bed for the night). Sleeping on the beach seemed like a great idea in theory, and it was until about 3 am when the temperature dipped below 50 degrees. Of course we had no blankets, and two pairs of jeans and three track jackets proved not enough to weather the night. But it was all ok, because we woke up to this sight.
We got in some much needed hiking between the villages, which begins with ever so treacherous Via Dell'Amore (Lovers' way), emphasis on the not treacherous at all. By the time that we reached the third village, Corniglia, we had brewed a lumberjack-sized hunger worthy of Paul Bunyan. Because we had no friendly villagers to put on butter skates and make us oversized pancakes, we had to settle for a small joint called Cecio. Oh by the way, when I say settle for, I mean couldn't have been happier. We ate on the completely empty patio that sat on a hill in front of the Mediterranean. The patio overlooked two other hills and watched them dive down to the face of the sea where they met at a single point. I could describe to you what we ate, but I think the picture says it all. Tuscany, the area around Cinqueterre, is revered for creating pesto and for its excellent white wine. I think this was the most relaxing meal I've ever had. We ate for 2 and a half hours, and only left because they were closing. With full bellies and copacetic spirits, Byake and I continued on our trek, only to find that our bodies seemed to like sitting on the patio much more than hiking. Not to be fools and disagree, Byake and I grabbed a train to the last village and laid on the beach. But fear not my dearest reader! For after our afternoon nap, we continued the hike back to the third village, and were able to watch the sun set on the Mediterranean. Intelligently, we booked a hostel for that night and stayed in a warm bed. Our trip home, though, was sullied by more Italian inefficiency, because our train broke down. Now you might be saying, "Wow, what are the chances?" Well, the answer is very high. This has happened to several people that I know, and people just get used to it I guess. We did make it home though, after nearly 8 hours on a train.

Before I move on, I snapped this picture of Byake to the left, and I think it bears a striking resemblance to this painting. It's by Caspar David Friedrich and it symbolizes man's imperious domination over nature. Don't they look similar? What say ye? Either way, I think it's safe to assume that this picture of Byake embodies unmitigated beauty.

On Monday afternoon I moved into my new apartment, which is working out really well. I share the apartment with two other people. They're kind of strange and are pictured here. They seem like nice enough people. There's only one room and it's sort of an all-purpose room. In one corner there's a mini fridge, which also functions as our dining room table. Next to the fridge is a toilet with a shower curtain around it for the bathroom, and in the other corner we all sleep on the ground in sleeping bags. There's a firepit in the middle of the room, because I guess the room doesn't have heating. And I hope that nobody believed that. Hahaha, no we all have our own rooms and mine is larger than the average room with a double bed, desk, tv, etc. I don't spend much time here and rarely run into the guy who owns the apartment, so it's all working out so far.

That night, I met up with Johnny, Cindy and Father Avram. It was great to see those guys! It gave me a little piece of home to celebrate on my birthday. We wandered around town for a bit and found one of the slews of nice restaurants in Rome. Il vino did flow. As did the great pasta. Also, I had my first potato since I got here, and while the Italians got nothin' on the Irish when it comes to potatoes, it was still a potato, and that appeased my red hair and freckles. We ate for about 3 hours, and I'm pretty sure I drank a whole bottle of wine myself. After some gelato and the Trevi fountain, we said goodbye. My friend and I were going to hit up the hot Italian discoteca with a group of people and revive disco, but it was too late, so he and I just went to an Irish bar and celebrated our heritage in a foreign land with some bad Irish beer.

This week I've also discovered just how many saints are buried here in Rome. The other day, I went to SS. Apostoli Church where St. Philip and St. James are buried, both disciples of Christ. There is a crypt in front of the altar that you would find in many churches in Rome, but this one is open to the public. It is an absolute gem. It's not a main tourist attraction, so when you walk down into the crypt, you're the only one there. It's almost eerie. And then as you walk down the stairs, right there is the tomb of St. Philip and St. James. It's unbelievable to think that you're standing on the same ground that these great followers of Christ stood 2000 years ago. Very humbling. I've also found that St. Ignatius of Antioch, and apostolic father of the Church and martyr is buried here, as well as St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, and St. Jerome, the first man to translate the Bible into Latin and introduce scripture into the Western world. That's not to mention the countless popes and other saints, whom I have not discovered, that are buried here.

This weekend, Byake and I are traveling to Sienna and Assisi, which should be very cool. We have a packed schedule of traveling over the next few weekends. This weekend is Sienna and Assisi, then either Prague or Germany, then Florence, the Milan and Lake Como, then Ireland or Venice, then Austria. Pretty sure Byake and I are gonna go snowboarding in the Alps. "I didn't know Luke snowboarded?" Well I don't. And neither does Byake. And that's why snowboarding in the Alps is a brilliant idea. I'm not sure if any of this post made sense, because I'm still shedding the cobwebs of sleep. In the future, I think I'm going to do smaller, more manageable posts, and do them more often. Stay tuned for virtual innovation!

The Vatican, Fascism and the Pluperfect Subjunctive

2007-10-08T22:05:00.000+02:00

This week has just flown by (I know, I know, I shouldn't end my sentences with a preposition). I found an apartment, went to Mussolino's EUR, finally visited the Vatican and had my first class. I'm really getting settled in here and beginning to enjoy my time much more. So many things to talk about, where to begin?

Earlier this week, Byake and I headed down to the EUR, which stands for the Universal Exposition of Rome. Mussolini built it to celebrate 20 years of fascism, and he equipped it fully with a square lake, square buildings and square people. Why? Because curves are for sissies. It's essentially the anti-Rome (most likely intentional). The center square is filled with tall, imposing, austere buildings of a dirty white that are riddled with square arches throughout. The city was completely dead, and oddly enough, there was ash falling from the sky. No fire to be seen. Just ash. I felt like I was walking through Silent Hill. The streets were lined with dead plants (how hard is it to walk down the street with a hose for 30 seconds?). There were fliers all over the city that appealed to societal improvements such as, "Improve the safety of our neighborhood" and "Help lower taxes." But then I noticed that it also said, "Eradicate the Yugoslavian question (a thinly veiled allusion to the language of Hitler), so I guess fascism is a little more prevalent than I thought. In the center of the city stands a towering obelisk, which seems to say, "This is the center of the world." Pretty eerie stuff. Dante was Florentine, which means he would not have been Rome's biggest fan, so I thought to myself, "Perhaps this is the real gateway to Hell." Either way, Benito did a great job in sucking the life out the land. Oh and to add to the horror, the only restaurant we could find was McDonald's. I don't know which is more terrifying: Mussolini's fascism or the intercontinental expansion of corporate America.

To juxtapose the terror of the Eur, I was later able to see the Vatican at its best. Fr. Avram invited me to join him and a few others at the Vatican to say mass and to soak it all in (preposition at the end again! I am off my game today...). I woke up that morning at 6 to beat the flamboyant throngs of tourists. Walking into the Vatican is an incredible experience regardless of the amount of tourists, but it is a truly a sacred experience when there is no one there. I got to go into the priest-only zone, which is essentially a priest locker room, and then Fr. Avram said mass. Afterwards, a British priest gave us a great personal tour of the Vatican. It was cool because he was able to tell the stories behind everything in the Vatican rather than just telling what it is. Imagine how much time and care was put into each statue and mosaic, and then try to understand it with a simple glance. It's impossible. The height though was seeing Michaelangelo's Pieta. It is a moving experience. There is a palpable difference between a good sculptor and a great sculptor. A good sculptor replicates reality, but a great sculptor recreates reality and reinfuses it with new meaning. There is so much emotion in the sculpture that it takes your breath away. After a quality tour, we all went out to lunch. After Fr. Avram and Fr. David left, I joined some of the people who took the tour with us and gave them a tour of Rome (they were from Florence). It was nice to meet some Americans, especially a fellow Irishmen. We spent our time commiserating about the burden of being Irish, because as Irishmen, we are granted not only with physical perfection, but with mental and spiritual perfection as well. Perfection is a burden, not a gift. Not many people understand our plight, so some sympathy was just what the doctor ordered. It was nice because we're gonna hook up with some of these guys in Cinqueterre, Prague, Florence and maybe Ireland.

This Friday I'll be moving into my new apartment, which is in the southernmost part of Rome. It's well connected with the center of the city and not far from my school. The room itself has a double bed, italian tv (to help me learn the language), and internet access. The owner of the room is kinda strange, and we should have an interesting time together. He's very soft spoken, and when we came to see the room, he was wearing extreeemely short shorts, emphasis on the extreme. I'm just praying that this is not a common occurrence.

I had my first class tonight - History of Contemporary Philosophy. It actually seems a little boring. My professor is half German half French, which is a strange combination. I'm easily the youngest person in the class by at least 5 years, because I think most of my classes are doctorate level. Definitely did not know that when I registered. Either way, the material doesn't seem too difficult, and I'm really looking forward to the rest of my classes.

I'm still in the process of becoming an actual citizen, which is way too complicated. But I'm almost done! Tomorrow, hours of frustration and 200 euros later, I'm mailing in my application. Oh yeah! I used my first pluperfect subjunctive! While I was doing some final preparation for my permit application, I was at a photocopy shop. When I finished printing my one photocopy, the woman told me "dieci centessimo" (ten cents), but I heard "dieci euro." And all of the sudden WHAM!! I dropped the pluperfect subjunctive!! I said, "Io pensavo che Lei avessi detto dieci euro" (I thought that you had said ten euro). At that point it was game over. I was a pluperfect subjunctive virgin no more. The naïveté of innocence had been washed away as I began to look at the world through the eyes of a man. She was in pure shock as the power of the pluperfect subjunctive hit her like a freight train. Bwaha. I stood proudly over my conquered foe and laughed heartily as I drank my ale. Not since Thor's bellow against the giant serpent, Jorgumandr, had the world been privy to a laugh like this. I did an interpretive dance to express my emotions and strode proudly from the room.

This week should be packed with more excitement since Byake and I are traveling this weekend. Plus John and Cindy are coming into town and Fr. Avram and I are going to meet them for dinner next week. On top of that, I'm turning 21 in a week, which may not mean as much here (I said that I would celebrate the eve of my birthday with a bottle of wine), but it's still been embedded in my head as a huge birthday. You're all still in my prayers as I hope everything is going swimmingly in the States! Ciao a tutti!

Not only are they inefficient, but they're nonsensical too...

2007-10-05T13:40:00.000+02:00

I just got back from doing more paperwork. I start classes on Monday, and only just now did I get registered. It is a strange strange process over here. The deadline to apply to the school is three weeks after classes start. I was hoping that people would be a little more helpful and understanding, but that's about as far from the truth as possible. Also, in order to be a legal citizen here, everybody has to apply for a permit of stay. Applying for the permit is just another convoluted, disorganized process, which neither surprises nor disturbs me at this point. What does disturb me is that they require me to provide all the same documentation that I provided to get my Visa, such as a notarized bank statement proving that I have adequate means to support myself. Now if I needed to show this to get my Visa, shouldn't my Visa be enough to show that I've already provided this info? Well, the answer is no. Why? Nobody knows. Literally, nobody knows. If you asked them, they wouldn't have a reason. But I guess you have to take the good with the bad here.

In the past couple days I've been able to meet more people. I met with Father Avram this past week and he showed me around his university, and gave me a free meal (always appreciated). I've also found that my Italian is good enough that I can meet some actual Italians, as long as they're patient enough to not talk 100 mph.

I'm still looking for an apartment, and it is a difficult process. I've been in contact with a lot of people, but actually closing an apartment is hard. Oh well. I'm starting to make a groove in Berken's loveseat.

I'm just now starting to get to see some of the sights. I was able to track down a couple of Caravaggios, who by the way is the greatest painter ever, which was very cool. I saw the Santa Maria Maggiore, where St. Jerome and several popes are buried. As well as the place where St. Ignatius of Loyola held his first mass. I wish I could post some pictures, but I can't find my camera, so hopefully that'll turn up. The other day, I met up with a friend of mine's parents (Kelly, for the Musketeers in the crowd), and hitched a ride on their tourbus for the day. We were able to see the Domine Quo Vadis Church (Lord, where are you going?), which is supposedly the spot where Peter saw an apparition of Christ as he was fleeing from Emperor Nero in Rome. He saw Christ walking back towards Rome and asked him, "Domine, quo vadis?" and Christ said, "I am going to be crucified a second time." Peter took it as a sign, and walked back to Rome to be crucified. It was a very quaint, but serene church. We also saw some catacombs along the Appian Way. I guess there are about 17 km of underground tunnels, which is roughly 8 miles. Pretty crazy. When a Spanish explorer first discovered the tunnels, he didn't emerge for three days because he couldn't find his way out. There is just so much to see here it's unbelievable. And I haven't even been to the Vatican yet.

The Roman experience is a strange one, because there are so many different cultures that coexist here, plus tourists who seem to comprise half of the population. Walking down the street, you will hear Italian, German, English and lots of Chinese. It's kind of disappointing, because if I wanted, I would never have to use Italian. I'm still trying to find a way to fit in without succumbing to the dreaded pink popped collar or the sweater tied around the neck, but it's not too easy. Everyone has an attitude here. Nobody wears shorts; nobody runs because its too disgraceful; everybody wears tight jeans and absurdly huge sunglasses that swallow your face; nobody smiles. In fact, if you bring up sopranos with an Italian, they'll scowl and think you're an obnoxiously robust American, but the stereotype didn't arise from nowhere.

Even though I'm halfway around the world, I'm still remembering you all in my prayers, as I hope you're doing with me. Feel free to leave comments about life in the States. I'd love to hear all about it.

Buon giorno a tutti!

2007-10-01T13:06:00.000+02:00

I'm finally in Rome and it has been a whirlwind of activity! I've barely been able to rest (literally, I'm sleeping on my friend's stiff loveseat), and I haven't even begun to see the Roman sights. My first few days here have been spent wandering around Rome, getting lost on some cobblestone road, and then being spit out by some colossal monument and finding my way home. It's incredible how much history there is here. You really cannot get a sense of it until you come here, because we have nothing of the sort in America. Modern buildings stand side by side with Medieval churches and ancient amphitheaters, and the best part is, the Italians don't even pay attention to them. For them, walking by the Colosseum is like driving down 494.

It's nice to be a student here though, because I don't have to rush to see all the sights. It's a completely different perspective. Honestly, walking by the Colosseum is not a big deal for me either. Also, I've learned to hate tourists. It's extremely annoying to be walking through il centro and to hear in a Southern twang "Hey Maude! These are just dang rocks!" I went to mass yesterday at Santa Maria in Trastevere, which is a gorgeous church, but the experience was sufficiently impeded by a flood of tourists meandering throughout the church, pointing at the ceiling and muttering in different languages. At the offering, beggars would come in off the street and ask for "un offerto" trying to dupe the tourists into thinking they were giving money to the Church. It was more of a circus act than a mass.

The first day I was here, my friend and I were lugging my 200 pounds of luggage back to his apartment. We finally petered out in front of a cafe when an Italian man called us in to have a drink with him. At first we refused, but then decided, hey, what could be wrong with free drinks? His name was Stefano and he spoke only Italian, so relayed the conversation between him and my friend. It was about 10 am and he was slightly inebriated, but coherent enough to carry a conversation. We had a fine time with him until he began to tell us that he was a fascist and that he wanted to gun down Yugoslavians because they were unhealthy. Mild culture shock. At that point, we just finished our drinks, told him "Gli Stati Uniti sono molti differenti di qui" and walked out the door. It's pretty eye-opening to see that people can still hold these opinions.

The city is covered in graffiti and pickpocketing is a big problem, but beyond that there is barely any crime to speak of. Crime rates are remarkably low. I can walk around the city at 4 in the morning through dark alleys, and not worry about my safety. It got me to thinking why this was the case (because there are no coincidences, only unintelligibility), and my theory is that the people here enjoy an entirely different quality of life. In the States, capitalism places such a heavy emphasis on money that if you don't fit in the well-oiled business machine, you're cast to the streets as inefficient and therefore useless. Now I'm not saying that there are no homeless in Rome, because that is far from the truth. However, I think because there is less emphasis put on grinding yourself to the bone to make an extra buck, the homeless here are not forgotten by society, and realize that efficiency is not the key to life. Conversely, of course, nothing ever gets done here. So pick your poison.

And don't worry Vikings fans - last night I was able to suffer with you from half way around the world. We found an Irish bar that plays American football every Sunday, and the Vikings were on the main screen. Even though watching the Vikings is like sticking my head in boric acid, the place was still really cool. We watched the game with some other Vikings and Packers fans (who would've thought?) and spent the night fruitlessly arguing why the Vikings are the best team in the NFL with Packers fans, Jets fans or even South Africa rugby fans.

As far as fitting in goes, I've given up all hope. Not only do I lack the bronzed bod and slick black hair, but I don't have the attitude, the tight jeans or the pink popped collar to match. That's ok though, because I refuse to emasculate myself by popping a collar of any sort.

There really is just so much to say; I really can't tell it all. I'm having a wonderful time here. Oh! I didn't even mention the food! I ate a three course meal for 10 euro! And three scoop gelato is 1 euro! It's amazing how good and inexpensive everything is (except the clothes, they care way too much about how they look). The Italians definitely have something good going on over here.

I'll be sure to continue posting to keep everyone updated. I hope everything in the States is going well. I'll keep you in my prayers if you keep me in yours. Deal? Deal. I miss you all.

The Olson has Landed!

2007-09-27T16:34:00.001+02:00

I've arrived in Italia and am enjoying the late mornings and Italian inefficiency. It's been one day and I've already had drinks bought for me by an Italian fascist who said that Hitler was great. The drinks were good.