28 July 2009

No Voglio

There is a kiddie-ride here in Sestri that I think is the bane of most parents’ existence; it is called il Bruco Gnam.  If that means something, I don’t know the translation, but the ride is familiar to anyone who has been to carnivals – it’s a child version of a roller coaster, with only three little hills and usually the cars are decorated to be some kind of animal; I’ve seen dragons most of the time, but here it’s a caterpillar.   Very route, but the kids here go crazy for the ride because of an addition I’d never seen before – there is a small lion with a detachable tail hanging above them that this guy who runs the ride pulls up and down while the kids try and get it.  It’s rigged—he tries to be very democratic about which child wins—but if the children know it, they don’t care because their main goal in life at that point is to catch the coda and win a free ride. 

It’s not the ride that interests me so much, but the guy who runs it.  This isn’t like a carnival where employees hired by the bigger company run the ride – no, I’m almost positive this guy, who my employers lovingly call Signor Bruco, owns the ride and this is his living.

Signor Bruco looks to be in his mid-fifties and he sits in the small controller box all day long chain-smoking, with sunglasses on no matter what time of day it is.  He is the man who controls the fate of the children and whether or not they will be able to win this time around.  As I stated above, Signor Bruco is very fair so no complaints there, but while he’s pulling the rope that controls the lion, he always adds comments.  The comments themselves are relatively harmless, “occhio” (look), “prendilo” (grab it), “sedute” (sit down, for all those children about to kill themselves trying to get the coda), are his favorites.  It’s just the way Signor Bruco says these things that weirds me out a bit.  You’d think the delivery would be along the same lines of carnival workers—like the really annoying moms at U8 soccer games—but no, Signor Bruco’s diction is like that of Barry White.  I doubt he has much control over his deep voice, but “occhio” doesn’t have to be pronounced as if he’s about to sex up his girlfriend.  Prendilo is the worst of the bunch, not only because he draws it out the longest (PRENdiiiilooooooo), but because I know what he’s saying.

Perhaps I am just over-sensitive, or my American prudishness is coming out.  That may be, but I have more reasons to be strangely fascinated by Signor Bruco, and that is the music that is playing at his ride.  Rather, the diversity of music.  One of the first times I noticed the music at the ride, the album Slow Train Coming by Bob Dylan was blazing out of the speakers.  Delighted as I was, I couldn’t help thinking huh, strange choice for a kiddie ride.  Still, I shrugged it off and figured that if I was stuck doing this all day every day, I would play whatever I wanted too.

And play whatever he wants he does.  I now wish I had been keeping a more thorough list along the way, but the strangest ones have stuck with me.  I have heard techno, Snoop D-O-double G, Maroon 5, some jazz that I’m pretty sure was Miles Davis, and, I shit you not, KC and the Sunshine Band’s Greatest Hits. 

I can only formulate questions.  What?  How does one person like all of these genres enough to listen to them for entire days?  And how does a middle-aged Italian man even know of Snoop Dogg, let alone play the music at a kiddie-ride?

 


I’m afraid my question will go unanswered.  I’m too nervous to strike up a conversation, for fear of him saying to me, “PRENdiloooooo”.

22 July 2009

Bad Travellin', Part I

In a lot of ways, I'm a really terrible traveller. I never plan ahead: my packing is generally done frantically the night before, I never research the town or area I'm heading to beforehand - in short, I just figure out where and when I'm going and then get on the plane and go. This leads to what a lot of people would see as wasted time. Days I could have spent sight-seeing or puddle-jumping to other places are spent instead getting my bearings and becoming familiar with my surroundings. I wish I could say this is indicative of the way I live the rest of my life, but travelling is really the only occaision in which I dive head first and then once I'm chest deep figure out the consequences. Going in blind no doubt causes pain along the way, but it also helps me avoid preconceieved notions. It's all about being flexible and I've always found stretching much easier when I start from an open position than when my body is already set.

So, when my first day off was coming up and I asked my hosts what I should do, it was my surprise and pleasure to find out Sestri Levante is about an hour north of the Cinque Terre and just under an hour south og Porto Fino, both by boat. After look at a couple of maps, I see I could have easily figured this out on my own, but in the end it didn't matter on who's suggestion I went. I headed out early last Sunday morning for the Cinque Terre. My boat trip was only to take me to two of the five - Vernazza for one hour and Portovenere for three.
I was in for an awesome surprise; my time on the boat alone was worth everything I paid. We travelled southy from Sestri with the coast in view the entire time. Most of this part of Italy, I found, does not end in beaches (and thus, of course, no beach towns), but in sheer mountain cliffs. They were largely uninhabited, but here and there I could see a house in a position so precarious I wondered how it got built and its inhabitants travelled to and from. These places looked as if they had been stuck on the sides of the mountains by Godhimself. The mountains themselves were breathtaking, but I find I have a difficult time putting to words how these are different than any others I've encountered in the past. The only thing I noticed was that while not being rounded off like the Appalachains I know from home, they are just as green. Sort of like a mix of the former-named and the Swiss Alps.

Vernazza is a tiny town with what seemed to me, a lot of life. Its harbor, if one can call it that, consists of a big jetti which blocks the full focese of the sea from the small patch of sand behind it. The "beach" is essentially a wading pool, but I don't think one goes to Vernazza to hang out on the beach. The town is built into the sides of the mountains that surround it and as soon as I got off the boat I started searching for the road that would lerad me as high as I could go. There's something alluring about altitude.

The houses I found were small, but every bit of available land was filled with olive trees and grape vones. And almost every single house had its own wine vat in the backyard (sidenote: it is now one of my lifegoals to have the same thing in backyard, along side of the chicken coup I wish for). There was a house stuck to the side of the mountain that seemed to defy the laws of physics that I was trying to get to, but I stopped searching for a path when I found a small track with a two motorized seats and a couple of baskets attached that I could see ran straight to the house. The whole town was very quiet, especially the further up I went, but I almost died when, while negotiating some particularly steep and narrow steps, the church bells, which happened to be exactly next to me, rang loud and proud to mark noon. The bells, in a way, accomplished their purpose by bringing the name of that man for whom all church bells toll to my lips.

Portovenere was in most ways opposite Vernazza. A sprawling city, busy and noisy with a lot to see -- there's a reason we were given three times the time to explore. The first thought to strike me as we approached the bay was "this must have been a favorite naval spot for the Romans". A small island protects the coast from the sea, but the space between the island and the mainland is big enough for two rather large ships to pass each other. Sure enough, one of the first structures we passed was the remains of what must have been a very large lighthouse, which, if I interpreted what our guide said correctly, was built early during the Roman Empire's life.
Military stronghold it may have been, Portovenere now seems to be a vacation spot for all stripes. Its port is littered with tourist souveneir shops--a sign that says "Produtto Tipici" is almost guaranteed to give you bad food and cheap product, something I learned in Rome. Per usual, though, I looked for the highest point and started walking.

The highest spot, as so often happens, was a church, named for St. Peter. The edifice is situated on a cliff overlooking both the open sea and the city's port, is was extremely old and very small, and if I was reading and translating correctly, has a very rich history. It was built in 1125, partially destroyed by the barbarians during the 11th century, rebuilt in the 12th, stoof for a long time untouched, and then taken over by Napolean and used as a sort of headquarters until his defeat (the first time). Partially destroyed again by fire in the 19th century, I was now standing in the latest rebuilding, which was finished in the 1920s. A crucifix hung above the altar and one statue of St. Peter is its only adornment. It doesn't need much besides its view.
As I was exploring the area around it, I found an inscription on a rock face telling me that lord Byron was inspired to write his poetry because of Portovenere. So obviously Italy is responsible for all the good he produced in the world.*

The rest of the city was lively and fun - I saw many little children running around yelling in the back streets I was exploring. I got lost in a labyrinth of alleys and was very close to missing my boat because of it. Luckily, I made it in time and boarded to the captin yelling at me for making him late. He then proceeded to have a 10 minute long conversation with another ship's captain.
The ride back was just as beautiful, but I was exhausted and layed down in the ship's bow. As we pulled into Sestri, the sun was setting. Not a bad day for the bad traveler.
Next up, Porto Fino.


*On a tour of Pompeii in my previous foray into Italy, the tour guide said while pointing at some painting, quite spitefully, I might add, "See, look at this. This is the first demonstration of perspective in painting. The French claim they invented it, but it was really the Italians."
I always found this funny, and make a joke of how Italians claim all that is good in this world was made by them.

20 July 2009

I knew something was wrong when he asked "Susie, how does it flush?"

Reason #17 bidets are annoying:






They confuse the potty-training set.

17 July 2009

Bear with me on this one

Chapter 15 of Robert Soklowski's Phenomenology of the Human Person, which I finished last week, is dedicated to wishing and its forms. Sokolowski's reasons for writing an entire chapter on such a topic is that wishing is a peculiarly human activity. "Plants need certain things", he says, like light, water, etc -- indeed, "need is associated with life."

One step up the metaphysical chain we have animals, which in addition to needing things, also want. "Animals might overeat because they enjoy eating, but plants do not overindulge . . . they have no motivation to do so."

Then there are human beings, who have a trait besides needing and wanting. Sokolowski states,
Of course like plants and animals, human beings do need some things--food, shelter, company, assistance--and like animals they also consciously want some things, but their wanting can give rise to new forms of desire. Besides needing and wanting, human beings can wish for certain things. Wanting is conscious desire, but wishing is intelligent desire.


Sokolowski distinguishes between wishing and wanting through the category of distance; "if we could achieve [the wished for action] immediately," he asserts, " we would not wish for it, we would just do it." Deliberation, then, is the material of a wish. Sokolowski clarifies with an example: "if my ear itches, I raise my hand and scratch it. There is no distinction between means and purposes in this performance." In contrast, a full-scale wish--for example, the wish to get in shape--requires the deliberation and then insertion of something between the purpose and myself--to continue the example, lifting weights, running, etc.

As I was reading, although agreeing for the most part, I found myself raising a few objections. First of all, Sokolowski asserts that there is nothing analogous to needs, wants and wishes in nonliving matter; "atoms and molecules as such do not try and maintain their identities", and again, "when an atom emits a particle, nothing has really been lost. Nonliving things are indifferent to such changes."

Perhaps my countless lab hours in undergrad have caused me to anthropomorphize atoms, molecules and compounds, but I don't think I fully agree with this. Atoms tend toward lowest energy states; it's how molecules and ions--and thus most structures of complexity--are formed. And when an atom emits a particle, something is definitively lost, that is, energy. As this chapter is located in the section of the book entitled "The Body and Human Action", the first chapter of which is dedicated to explaining how the different types of energy in the world impress upon us and cause us to percieve, react, and concept, I have to believe that the emitting of a particle is pretty big deal for all parties involved. In any case, I have to think more about this (and probably consult a chemist and/or physicist).

My other objection is more vague; less an argument against than a feeling of discomfort with the idea. I very much liked the first statement Sokolowski makes about us, that is, "human beings go beyond both needing and wanting" (emphasis mine), but then he seems to backtrack a bit on this when he draws out the distinction between a want and a wish in humans. The categories of needing, wanting and wishing seem to fit nicely with Thomas Aquinas' explanation of different souls: the vegetative, the sensitive, and the rational. But the sensitive soul is not merely the vegetative soul + 1, and more to the point, that rational soul is not the vegetative soul + the sensitive soul + 1. Rather, each higher step takes up the previous and forms something wholly new--albeit with the powers of the former type. It seems to me the activity of wishing would take up within it and transform needing and wanting, because humans do not need and want the same way plants and animals do. Do we not always do something freely because we wish it? Where does a sensory-act in response to a want end and a logical-deliberation-act in reponse to a wish begin? Ultimately, I suspect Sokolowski is right, and that I need to go back, reread and reflect, but right now, it's not clear.

Yesterday, though, as I was feeding infant Samuel, my ear started to itch. With one hand supporting the infant and the other holding his needed source of nourishment, my inner response was only this: I really fucking wish I could scratch my ear.






And just in case you're interested:

Phenomenology of the Human Person, Robert Sokolowski. Cambridge University Press, (New York, 2008).

15 July 2009

On Italian Men

During undergrad I had a crazy (that term applies to both her intelligence and her mental status) Spanish philosophy professor who left after my sophomore year, but with whom I had a good relationship and still see on occaision. We met the summer after I returned from Rome and she made this unexpected remark: "Don't you just love Italian men and their compliments?"

I replied that I rather did not enjoy being cat-called while walking down the street, no matter in what country.

My esteemed professor then told me that Italian men compliment women differently than American men; Italian men are complimenting beauty while not being sexual, and I could not appreciate it because (and with this, I whole-heartedly agree) "All Americans are prudes."

However, concerning her main point:



I remain unconvinced.

13 July 2009

In Between

Last Friday was the big move from Basel to Sestri. With two cars, two grandparents, two parents, three car seats and six weeks' worth of everyone's luggage there was not room enough for me so I got to take the train. My trip consisted of two legs: from Basel to Milan and then from Milan to Sestri Levante.

The Basel SBB train, being Swiss, was orderly, quiet, clean and early to most stops. Our route was through the Alps and I could not have asked better scenery. Small Swiss towns dotted the sides of the moutains and I could occaisionally see little blonde children playing in the fields. It was right out of a story book. My eyes were led from snows covered caps to the green sides of the mountains by steeps rivers rushing downwards. Absolutely breathtaking.

I scheduled myself a four hour layover in Milan so when I arrived at Stazione Centrale I hurried off the train to look for the metro. With a whopping six lines, Milan's metro is 3x the size of Rome's. I searched for the yellow line, went four stops west and emerged from underground to one of the most awesome sights in my travels: Milan's Duomo.

The front of the Duomo has recently been cleaned, so its white sand stone contrasts starkly with the brown tones of the buildings surrounding its massive square. It's topped by a gold statue of Mary, which at the time was shining brilliantly under the incredibly hot sun. The buildiong's copper doors are now oxidized darkened green, but at common points where people touch you can see thge metallic sheen. And the doors, oh what doors! Four sets of double doors lead into the church, each set depicting different sections of Chrstian history: the Old Testament, the Gospels, the rest of the New Testament and one is dedicated to the martyrs. I could have stood for hours just looking at those doors.

As I only had about three hours though, I entered the Church. The juxtaposition of the stark white exteriors with the very dark interior blinds you while your eyes adjust, but once they do they dart around because there is so much to take in. I find I always have to control myself in churches like this one - I have to reign in the urge to say "ooh, that looks interesting and7or beautiful, I'll run over and look at that!" I attacked St. Peter's in Rome this way the first time I entered and wound up darting back and forth between chapels and not really taking anything in. So I was very methodical at the Duomo, going down the left, circling around the altar and coming back up the right aisle.

The whole route took me most of my three hours, and the greater part of that time was spent looking at the three great stained glass window collages at the back of the church. As far as I could tell, the first set tells the story of the Torah pictorially, the second the story of Jesus' life, death and resurrection, and the third depicts the lives of assorted saints. Each set must have been made up of at least one hundrer 2' x 2' windows. I cannot imagine how much labor was invested in the endeavor.

When I exited the Duomo I decided to get a gelatro and study the doors once more with my remaining fifteen minutes. As I was standing there, cone in hand, I unbelievably saw a familiar face - one of my classmates from back in the States. He was stopping off in Milan for two hours and we both happned to be in the right place at the right time. We said hi, marveled at our meeting, and then I had to reented the metro to make my way back to Centrale.

Centrale is a bit frenetic and very dirty, but it has beautiful architecture and serves its purpose, so one can't complain. As I was staring at the ticker board, I saw a train to Rome that left five minutes after mine and for a good 10 seconds I seriously considered boarding that one and letting my employers keep the luggage they were transporting for me. But I thought better of it and with unquenched nostalgia I boarded my two and half hour train to Sestri.

The Trenitalia train, being Italian, was hectic, dirty, crowded, and late to almost every station. I found out I didn't have seat, so I popped a squat on some steps and hung out near a bathroom for most of the trip. It was actually more comfortable than a tiny train seat and my position privvied me to all sorts of characters boarding, exiting and travelling throuh the train cars, including one fellow who locked himself in the bathroom in an attempt to ride for free. His plan was thwarted after one passenger tried to use the toilet three times and finally notified one of the conductors. The carabinieri were then summoned and the would-be free-rider was kicked off the train at the next stop.

The rest of the ride was relatively unevenful and I claimed a spot on the sea-side of the train after we reached Genova. I was content to stand and look at the Adriatic for the hour that remained until I reached Sestri.

10 July 2009

Danielus Arianicus: A Play in Three Acts

Act 1

Back in Basel upon first meeting shy David, one of the first things I suggested to him was that we play with the baskets full of legos in the boys' playroom. As a nanny, I love legos, especially for little boys. The male sex seems to take special pleasure in entropy at work and this inclination for destruction begins well before the age of reason. Luckily at this point in their development any harm done is a on a very small scale and there is no love lost. Legos are perfect for this purpose. I cannot express how manty hours I spent in Basel building towers of blocks only to watch Daniel and David knock them down with glee. And because of this, whenever I arrived at his flat, David usual greeting was not "Ciao!" but, "Play Lego?"

In a terrible oversight, I failed to make sure some legos were brought with us to Sestri. David's ever-present question to me had to be answered each time with "I'm sorry David, but we don't have any legos here." His facial expression reminded me of those times when my family vacationed at the shore when my father prevented my younger brother from destroying the sandcastles I had just spent hours laboring over - that is, utter dissapointment. Except this time, I feel badly.

Act 2

Wednesday however, was David's birthday, It was a joyous occaision and both sets of his grandparents celebrated with us (which made for another extrememly interesting linguistic experience as neither set of grandparents knows English, the parents' common language). David recieved a book from me, shoes from his Italian grandparents, a puzzle from his parents, and ecco! a set of legos--enough to build a small train, conductor included--from his German grandparents. He held the box high above his head and yelled "Susie! Susie! Play lego!" It was a triumphant moment for the young boy.

Later that day, after repasso, David wanted to 'play lego'. I of course obliged, but was also preoccupied watching Daniel the Arian destroyer. Fulfilling his duties as a younger brother, Daniel only wanted to play with David's new legos and not any of the plethora of other toys I placed in front of him. David finally decided to placate the "pest" (his word, not mine) by giving him the conductor to the train. None of us could scarcely guess his fate.

Daniel, finally appeased, was playing quietly within my eyesight so I turned my attention to David - it was his birthday after all. While I was figuring out which side of the lego train car to place the lego whistle on to make the model look exactly the same as its counterpart pictured on the packaging, I heard a distinctive crack. I looked at Daniel: his lips were pursed together and he had the distinctive look of risibility on his face that only comes with a naughty act (incidentally, the Italians have a word for this that I like very much: furbo. It translates as 'clever', and has devilish undertones, but its connotation remains positive). I began to look around for what the young child had broken.

And then, I saw him.

The headless body of lego-man-train-conductor gripped by Daniel's right hand.

Nanny instincts kicked in and I quickly removed the aforementioned's head from the mouth of the young Arian. David, understandably so, was not happy. "Don't worry, I can fix this," I assured him and retrieved superglue from one of the kitchen drawers. After a small operation and a minute of recovery time lego-man-train-conductor was revived and peace remained between the two brothers.

Act 3

Thursday morning I awoke and found David playing with his legos, in which he genially invited me to participate. To his credit, he had again given his brother lego-man-train-conductor; perhaps all had been forgiven or forgotten. In any case, all was well as I began to make myself some coffee.

It was a beautiful day and as such the boys' mother had the doors that lead out to the small balcony of our second storey flat wide open. The balcony has a grate around it with spaces between the bars large enough to allow my hand through, but not anything larger. The boys like to go out and watch the sea so when Daniel wandered out I thought nothing of it.

I really should learn from my mistakes.

Just as the caffeine was kicking in and the fog lifting from my mind, I hear Daniel yelling and pointing at something on the street below. I crossed the room to the balcony, looked below and just barely saw a little piece of yellow plastic with a face on it. I squinted and saw that the yellow plastic face also has an orange conductor's hat. Then I saw a red torso with one arm attached . . . and then another arm . . . and then black plastic legs. Lego-man-train-conductor had been quartered. His crime, the same as mine--trusting an 18th month old Arian--but his punishment, well beyond what I will have to pay.

The worst of my transgressions though remained yet to come. I did not collect what left of lego-man-train-conductor as I saw the street cleaning crew approaching. He had a nameless mass burial with countless other fallen toys.

Last of all, I have not informed David of his loss. He remains, to my knowledge, blissfully unaware. I shall keep Daniel's secret forever with me and now pass it on to you.

09 July 2009

Coming and Going

I left Switzerland last Friday morning and I need to reflect more on my experiences there before I write on Basel as a whole. I have to admit it is somewhat shocking to live in the phenomenon I've studied and read about but never seen firsthand, that is, post-Christian Europe. My time there was relatively short, but I will return at the tail-end of my trip and so will most likely write on the city between two countries when I return to the States.

I now reside in Sestri Levante, Italy (decidedly not post-Christian), a small beach city on the northwest coast of the good ol' boot, where the internet is an endangered species and no one but me speaks English. This will be my home for the next 5 weeks and I can't say I'm unhappy about it.

Sestri is a small mushroom shaped peninsula and as such is known as 'La città de due mare' or 'the city of two seas'. Because of its shape, there are two bays on either side and at some points the land is narrow enough that you can turn your head right and look at one and turn your head left and look at the other without ever moving your feet. The northwest Italian coast is also dotted with mountains so when I leave the beach my vista is the low green mountains of the Alps. Not a bad way to live.

There's not too much to the city - sort of your typical slow and layed-back beach town. I have found a couple of places I really enjoy already though; one is called 'Baia del Silenzio' or 'Bay of Silence', but I think it sounds much nicer in Italian. It's the smaller less populated bay and you can hike up to a point on the mainland where you can see the peninsula of Sestri and across it to the other bay. No one goes up there because it's quite a steep climb, but the view is worth it. I stay up up there and read when I get a chance to go in the daytime or just take in the moon's reflection on the Adriatic if I go up after the sun has set. Not exactly the best way to practice my Italian, but now that I'm living with the Levis, a silent moment is difficult to find.

And speaking of the Levis, next time I will write the tail of Daniel and the lego man. It qualifies as a Shakesperian tragedy.

07 July 2009

Out of the Office

I feel like I'm talking to the wind here, but in case anyone out there is awaiting updates, I just thought I'd let you know they will be even fewere and farther between now.

I'm in Sestri Levante Italy where there is no such thing as WiFi and only two internet points exist in the entire town. Because Italians understand what lesiure is, the internet points are closed from 12-3:30, which is most of the time I have off. They also close at 7:30.

I think what I'm going to start doing is writing free hand and coming here and transcribing some updates, but as I have not yet done this - no updates for now. Soon though.

02 July 2009

These are my friends

The (hilarious) response of my friend Brian to 'the experiment' post below:

I love hearing about your young ward, although I'm afraid that, as a red-blooded American, I cannot support his existence. Three languages in as many years? The Germans' breeding of highly intelligent children cannot go unchecked; otherwise, America might actually have to start investing money in education, and I AIN'T HAVING IT. It is your patriotic duty as an American to level the playing field.

Smother the children, Derkins. Democracy demands it.

Do your country proud. If the parents complain, simply give them a German Shepard puppy or two. They should be in abundance over there, and just as bloodthirsty as German children.


That is all.  You may continue you day now.

01 July 2009

Watch out the world's behind you

I love Sunday mornings.

In my experience, to get to know a city in its proper context the best time to go out and explore is Saturday morning - Saturday afternoon.  Stores are open on Saturdays and you can usually find an open market or two just by wandering, and the streets are wonderfully void of business types just out to grab lunch.  Best of all, there's a harmonious mix of wide-eyed tourists walking around with their heads pointed upwards trying to take in everything and relaxed locals just out to either do some shopping or grab a cup of coffee on their free day.  It's a good time to get a feel for a city and its flow.

A Sunday morning is about 180˚ from the hurried-but-pleasant atmosphere of its Saturday counterpart.  Store fronts, normally with doors wide open inviting you in, are closed and dark.  The streets are mostly empty and there's an unsettling quiet.  Locals are sleeping in and the only tourists on the streets at this time are the ones with the really huge back packs who just want to get a picture of themselves in front of a monument and move on.  

But I like Sunday mornings.  They show a different side of a city and its citizenry.  I like the quiet.  I like that the only people I see out are extremely motivated tourists or senior citizens up to go to mass.  I like that I can hear church bells more clearly than on any other day because there aren't enough cars out yet to dampen the music.

Sunday mornings bring streets littered with the remnants of Saturday nights before Monday morning's cleaning crews can get to them: cigarette butts, plastic water bottles, crushed beer cans, an occasional club flyer.  And they bring the odd balls - those that don't quite follow the exact rhythm of their neighbors.  It's a different way of getting to know a city.