Sometimes you just feel like you’re spinning in place at work don’t you? Vacation starts in roughly 63 hours and every non-sleep moment is going to feel endless.
Grief and living
Death is a constant fixture in our lives. It’s a shadow looming in our futures, the end of all stories, even for those who believe in a next chapter. We are faced with our own mortality every day. Death is the ‘sexy’ part of the evening news, the neighbour who succumbed to cancer or the family member taken out of nowhere by a drunk driver. The world can be a callous and unforgiving place and what seemed briefly so permanent can be shattered in an instant. Small wonder then that so many of us handle things poorly when death comes knocking, yet how we face death is at least as important as how we face life.
Academically I know this. Perhaps deep inside I do as well. Yet as I sit here reading the memorial wall postings for a friend it all seems shallow. My friend was not a close friend in the conventional sense. We had met only twice in the real world but had shared many late night conversations online. Whether it was live chatting a sporting event or awards show, sharing a recipe/cooking tip, or bullshitting over the terrors of our love lives we generally caught up at least a couple times a month and in truth she probably knew me as well as any of my long-time friends.
When she went into the hospital for the last time she’d known the end was coming. There was no “I’ll be out in a week” show of bravura from her. Though she was still fighting she was definitely at peace with facing the end. She made me promise to ask out a girl I’d had a crush on and told me to make sure I made a success of school this time (one of those went really well, one of them not so much.) She’d dreamed of travelling once she finished her masters and so, when I reached the top of the Tongariro Crossing in March 2011 I felt as if I’d conquered something on her behalf. For a long moment I thought of my friend and wondered what she would have thought about the beautiful view of New Zealand that stretched out before me. When our online group of friends shared our grief after the notice came we realized she’d given us each a mission of sorts. Make that one little effort to live on her behalf, to do something in her memory. Even now thinking of it makes the room a little dusty.
She’s been gone a number of years now, taken far too soon. Every so often I find myself here at her memorial wall online. Now as then I wonder at the new things I learned about my friend from her other friends. I did not know for example that her older brother had died young as well, or that she’d won multiple scholarship offers for college. How we never once talked about both being High School band dorks I’ll never know. I want her back terrible if only to tease her about the photo of her in the canary yellow marching band outfit with its shiny epic epaulets and rocking plume.
More than anything else I wonder at the grief of her friends. Comments number in the hundreds, most are lengthy and heartfelt. So many lives touched and brightened by a friendly spirit with a pixie’s grin. Even now regular posts of “miss you babe” let me know that I’m not the only one who still comes back here for a reminder of my friend. She led an outsized life for her brief time on earth and I can’t help but think that were I to die tomorrow I wouldn’t have had nearly the same impact in people’s lives. In fact, I know I haven’t.
I’ve been in a morbid mood the past couple weeks. A general feeling of malaise has been weighing on me only occasionally lifted by thoughts of my upcoming warm weather getaway. An interminable winter, lack of contact with friends and a frustrating sense of boredom with all facets of my life have left me rather depressed. There was something else however and oddly enough it was the death of GWAR leader Oderus Urungus (Dave Brockie) reported today that clued me into the upcoming anniversary of her death. She’d always loved the bizarre nature of the (shall we say) rather theatrical band. She always tried to convince me catch one of their energetic live shows but I had never managed to find that chance. Now I suppose I never will.
We can’t look for reasoning behind death. Why did my friend have to die in her late twenties when so many monsters manage to gasp into their nineties? Sadly, nothing more than chance. One tiny chromosome in her body just didn’t feel the need to work properly and took down the whole team. I wish I’d gotten the chance to know her better. I miss my friend.
I’m not asking for a scent free workplace, but…
We’ve all had a stinky co-worker in our workplace. Usually it’s a guy, usually it’s a lack of showering issue and usually it’s persistent. Not always though. I’ve had stinky female co-workers and I’ve had co-workers of both sexes who over use terrible scented products (be it AXE or Perfume.) Everyone has an occasional stinky day, most people aren’t going to fault you if you overslept, missed your shower and your deodorant is losing the battle come 2:30. Unfortunately there’s also the true stench goblin, the person who has so little understanding of how much they reek that eventually there has to be a truly awkward conversation about soap and water.
In my high school and early university retail days I’d run into a number of smelly people, particularly when I worked at Superstore. We had the usual couple guys on a large staff who simply didn’t get that showering on a regular basis was necessary. There were also other special cases, for example: the poor bastards who worked at the fish counter who would clear out the staff room whenever they came in for their lunch break smelling of mackerel. Even worse were the days where the produce guys were chucking a giant basket of rotted tomato or cabbage and the juices would saturate their aprons completely. Given that I usually worked Saturdays we usually had a platoon of hungover or still drunk/high employees arriving straight from whatever car seat or couch they’d slept on as well, usually emanating a cloud that you could put a match to. Lord knows I don’t blame them, I hardly found the dank world of late 90’s superstore worth any massive effort in the personal hygiene department. Hell I always felt the need to scrub myself down in the bathtub after every shift to get the stench of desperation and broken dreams off my skin.
Even other places weren’t much better. Early days at University brought the occasional walk past the old computer science student’s lounge and the stench that it expelled. CS is a hell of a lot less nerdy and insular these days but in those days 95% of students in the department didn’t dare set foot in their own lounge. It was a dreary little warren nestled in the bowels of the science section. If you ventured within you would find a selection of trolls engaged in semester long tournaments of Magic the Gathering, Goldeneye and Warcraft II as well as a never-ending Warhammer or D&D campaign. If the stench of the rarely unoccupied furniture wasn’t enough to make your eyes water then you had the citizens themselves. If I had to guess I’d say the room probably averaged a daily shower only if you spread it out across all of the regular residents. I’m just glad that back then were were close to the (only by comparison) less disgusting general science lounge.
This is all lengthy preamble to say that I’ve smelled some disgusting people in my time. I’ve done work in hospitals and care homes for the old and disabled. I’ve been to music festivals and terrible hippie coffee bars. I spent a week at a scout jamboree where the rain was so bad that the portapotties overflowed, hell, I’ve visited a sugar beet processing plant. Nothing, not even driving into Brady Landfill on a hot, humid day compares to one of the night janitors in my building.This man’s stench should have its own area code.
Your brain shuts down and all you can smell for an hour after escaping is stale sweat, tobacco and hatred.
It’s like something out of a John Carpenter film. The scent creeps up on you. At first you say to yourself, “that can’t possibly be B.O.” but you slowly begin to realize that it’s truly one human being producing that odour. Your smell receptors scream for mercy, your entire body struggles not to breathe but the cloud is simply too large to cross without inhaling and the last thing you want to do is gasp for air. Finally you give in and take as small a sip of air as you can but it’s too late. Your brain shuts down and all you can smell for an hour after escaping is stale sweat, tobacco and hatred.
You may think I exaggerate but let me step you through just how bad it is. Our building seems to have a severe air pressure differential from outside. The front doors face directly into our elevators and cold air regularly rides up to the upper floors and getting into the elevators in inside clothes is sometimes unbearable in the dead of winter. As far as I can tell this man only works nights as I see him when I stay at work late to go straight to an event. It begins when I walk to the elevator, thankful to finally be leaving the office. I get in the elevator and my nose twitches. It’s not until the door closes and the entombment is complete that I realize I should have taken the stares. His stench has ridden up 6 floors and is surrounding me, yet our creaking elevator will take so long to get to the ground floor that I simply can’t just wait to breathe. Small breaths, I try not to use my nose but it’s so pervasive that I can’t help but smell. Then the doors open at the main level. I can’t help but expect to see some sort of green haze as if a video game monster has used a poison attack. Nope. There’s simply one man, usually at the far end of the vast atrium but with his odour so pungent it’s as if I was buried in his armpit. Because it’s late I can’t just dash out the close door but instead have to head across the entire atrium to the back of the building. Nor can I run because he’s freshly polished the floors and I’d no doubt fall, smash my head and be faced with the prospect of mouth to mouth. The security guard usually ensconced in the corner is nowhere to be seen, no doubt doing extra outdoor rounds until the janitor moves to another floor (I’ve seen them do 4 laps of the perimeter rather than go inside, even in weather touching minus 40 celsius.) I eventually escape but it really is the truth, I keep tasting that smell in the back of my mouth for a while afterwards. Thankfully when I stay late I’m usually heading someplace with a bar and I can wash away the horror with a few pulls at a beer. The question always lingers… how does this man not get sent to the basement showers by his supervisor when he shows up smelling like that? Our union really is too powerful.
In the end I’m repeatedly struck by one simple fact: This man is in some way responsible for cleanliness and hygiene in my building. The thought is truly horrifying.
How to make a chocolate courtesan
While I know Wes Anderson’s movies rub some people the wrong way I am personally an unabashed fanboy. I remember my first glimpse of the trailer for The Royal Tenenbaums while sitting in the sticky darkness of Cinema City. I was on a first or second date with some girl whose name I can’t recall. I turned to her afterwards as the last commercial for drinks in the lobby played and said something like “that looks interesting” and I still remember her replying but a really, almost valley girl “nah, looks dumb.” Pretty much from that moment I knew things were doomed. If I remember correctly she confirmed that assumption with some pretty stupid comments during the post movie drinks. It was our last time out together.
Since then I’ve seen everything that he’s put out (and gone back to catch Rushmore and Bottle Rocket) and I am waiting rather impatiently for The Grand Budapest hotel to debut here in Winnipeg. Unfortunately it arrives in theatres the day before I leave on holiday and may be gone by the time I have free time again two weeks later. In the meantime however I am very tempted to try the recipe for what is apparently the film’s signature dessert, a “Courtesan au Chocolat.” A mountain of chocolate and choux pastry intricately arranged in a very Anderson manner, it’s clearly a ton of work but I’m dying to try one.
Thankfully the recipe has been released as a video, shot as an in universe demo (perhaps it even appears in the movie as is, someone feel free to say so in the comments.
Crossposted from Full Spoon Rising
St. Paddy’s Delight
I’ve always loved corned beef. Something about the salty tang of the meat and the zing of a fine hot mustard between two thick slabs of proper rye bread just speaks to my soul. As a result one of the first things I tried during my journey into Charcuterie was a from scratch home-brined brisket of corned beef in honour of St. Patrick’s day. Here’s what I wrote last year over on the sister site.
For the record, I do know that Corned Beef actually isn’t that traditional an Irish dish. It certainly is a transplanted Irish dish however and has always been popular as a St. Paddy’s treat on this side of the pond. Personally as a Winnipegger it’s always been a favourite for sandwiches as well. Give me a proper Winnipeg Corned Beef on Rye with hot mustard over almost any other sandwich in the world (Montreal Smoked Meat being an exception of course.) Yet for some reason it had never occurred to me to try making it from scratch. I guess I’d always assumed it was something for which a commercial kitchen was required.
Since that magical day I’ve been spreading the gospel of the home made corned beef but it’s been a while since I’ve done it myself. I couldn’t let St. Patrick’s pass without doing one and so last night I pulled from the brine a delicious 4 lb brisket, boiled it up and when I get home tonight it’s time for corned beef, cabbage and new potatoes.
If you’re interested in trying it out at home you really only need one special ingredient (that you can order online, or skip with some reprecussions) and the total active time and effort involved is more or less an hour.
It just won’t stay dead…
So much for that “I should be back to writing more soon” comment eh?
A lot has happened since I last deposited a rant on these pages. All that studying up paid off (not really) and I got a new IT based job here in Winnipeg. It’s not really in my wheelhouse sadly but is at least a good paycheque with good security/benefits and a pleasant team to work with. Unfortunately being in the first year of my contract has put somewhat of a damper on my wanderlust since I don’t officially get holidays for another couple months. I sadly haven’t even been able to fit in a long weekend in Vegas this year. Bummer… still, I suppose we all have to pretend towards adulthood once in a while.
While part of me has been off being an adult the creative side of me has somewhat languished. I have had an itch to write for months now but simultaneously a bit of a creative block. Part of that was fatigue, adjusting to a 40 hr/week job and the accompanying commute has been… unpleasant. Another is the relentlessness of this winter. For those not in these parts Winnipeg has been making up for the past few years with an absolutely brutal succession of snowstorms, sub -30 days and howling winds. Aside from the direct impact on our morale it has also made the commutes here absolutely brutal, not aided by a new snow clearing contractor whose plow drivers have seemingly never scraped a street before.
In short, bleh.
Every single bit of advice I’ve ever seen directed to writers starts with one simple truth: “Write more.” I know I can be a good writer when I’ve been churning out content. Work things, my travelogues, even school work all improved with volume. As a result I’ve made a promise to myself. Write more, even if it’s a couple hundred words a couple times a week. Some of these scribbles will likely show up here, some on Full Spoon Rising and some will no doubt be locked away where no one will ever see them. In my current world of server recycles and db maintenance I want to keep that creative spark alive… no matter how dim it may get.
Fireproof?
Note: this is in response to several messages I received on facebook about the Kirk Cameron nonsense. It isn’t directed at anyone in particular though it does serve as a rebuttal to a number of points lobbed my way. I should be back to writing more soon, I’ve been trying to do some skill building for job searches.
First off, Kirk Cameron is absolutely entitled to his own opinion. When he airs it upon an internationally televised program he submits his views for inspection and mockery. I feel the need to comment because I also feel the need to comment about hate speech. And yes anything that makes a fellow human being as somehow less worthy because of their sexual orientation IS hate speech. Holding such comments up to ridicule is the best way to keep them from doing harm.
Leaving aside the religious side of things because we will never agree there… and don’t make me pull out the list of things besides homosexuality the bible calls an abomination that no one gives a rat’s ass about…
I believe that it’s a tragedy that these sorts of comments from people like Cameron, Palin, Bachman, Limbaugh, Santorum etc… etc… are expressed by people. I believe that any time some talking head states that gay people are somehow less deserving of basic human rights it encourages some bully somewhere to keep bullying that gay kid. The number of children/teens who are forced to withdraw from educational participation, drop out of school or worse are beaten, killed or commit suicide because of this culture of hysteria that somehow gay people are to blame for societal problems is a black mark on us all. Being gay is NOT a choice.
I take issue with Kirk (and others) somehow blaming gay people for a breakdown in society. In Kirk’s words same sex marriage is somehow “destructive to so many of the foundations of civilization.” Poppycock! This argument has been used since the dawn of society to marginalize some fringe group of society and blame them for what’s going on in the world. For centuries it was people of the Jewish faith, or people of colour. Now that we’ve (at least to some extent for the intelligent half of the population) gotten mostly past the issue of race we’re now blaming homosexuals for all of society’s ails. The optimistic side of me really hopes that when I’m 70 the next generation will look back on these fearmongers with the same ridicule and scorn we hold for the villains of the civil rights era like George Wallace and friends.
Gay marriage does NOT affect you. Gay marriage does not cause wars. Gay marriage does not increase pollution, cause inflation or rape your dog. What happens in the bedroom of two consenting adults is none of your business and if their interpretation of their faith says that they can get married in the eyes of their god, their ancestors or the flying spaghetti monster then they (in Canada and the other progressive countries/states) can and will. People don’t have to like it, they don’t have to celebrate it but they do have to shut your mouth and accept that it is that couple’s right as citizens. Our law (and Americas) does not impose an “in the eyes of a christian god” aspect on marriage despite what christian fundamentalists would like. Using that as an argument means everyone non-christian shouldn’t be married in the eyes of Canada either.
I know a number of gay couples very well, two of these couples have children. In both cases they are every bit the equal of every straight couple I know raising children. Are their children going to turn out any differently? Not really. They might get teased a bit thanks to Kirk and friends. They might be quicker to realize that they’re gay if they are. All that actually matters is that they’re going to end up raised properly and probably a lot more accepting of the variety in the world around them. Believe me when I say that my friend Kym is going to be a better mom than a lot of children I know ever get and you will never convince me that the fact that the other parent doesn’t have a penis will ever change that. Heck, one of the guys I met on my trip was raised by a gay male couple and he was the manliest man this side of Hulk Hogan.
I believe any of you as a person are entitled to your faith, but I don’t believe you’re entitled to force any part of your faith on other people. One of the favourite arguments especially in the states is school prayer. I don’t believe that not having to say a prayer in school is a violation of freedom of religion. Pray at home, then go to school. Why? the West Wing said it best: “ It’s the fourth grader who gets his ass kicked at recess ’cause he sat out the voluntary prayer in homeroom. It’s another way of making kids different from other kids when they’re required by law to be there.” I accept that there are people on the extreme of my own viewpoint as well and they are equally wrong, but I refuse to kowtow to those people of faith who can’t seem to understand that “Freedom of Religion” also includes the choice to not have one.
Lastly, I reject the notion that not basing our laws on a faith system is truly imposing secular morality. (Even if we did no matter which one we chose a solid 75% of christians would disagree on parts of it.) I would also argue that a christian morality is still very much being imposed on us, especially with God Emperor Harper in power. (but that’s a whole other ball of wax) However if creating a society in which people are free to worship or not according to their own beliefs without it impacting their human/citizen rights is how the christian/muslim/religious right chooses to define a “secular takeover” then I’m all for it.
P.S. Some of Alan Thicke’s tweets/comments about this have been classic.
” That meant it was up to former dad Alan Thicke to once again don the sweater vest of tough love, first comparing Cameron’s comments to the ongoing fallout over Rush Limbaugh, then saying, “I’m getting him some new books. The Old Testament simply can’t be expected to explain everything.” Thicke later added, “I love Kirk but I may have to spank him…’tho not in a gay way!” to let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t mad, just disappointed.” via avclub.com
Culinary Adventures: Frangipane Tart
I think everyone has treats from their childhood that evoke special memories. Maybe it’s your mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe bringing back memories of winter mornings or blueberry pancakes making you think of camping trips in the woods. One of mine has always been Frangipane. My grandmother would often buy a delicious frangipane tart made by the since closed Belgian bakery on Corydon here in Winnipeg. Something about that buttery crust, thin layer of raspberry jam and thick layer of almond filling just rocked my world as a kid. It didn’t hurt that I often got it when I was either off or home sick from school and had to stay with my granny while Mom was at work. Just the thought of those tastes takes me back to being curled up under a blanket in the recliner watching pbs or cartoons.
It’s one of the first sweet things from my childhood that I remember distinctly. The first thing I remember loving that wasn’t your standard overfrosted birthday cake. I think at this point I’d only ever had basic roasted almonds and this was my introduction to just how delicate and delicious they can be. It would eventually blossom into a full-blown love of almonds to the point where one of the best gifts anyone can give me is a tin of the smokehouse almonds.
My grandmother passed away a several years ago now, but this has been a year of honouring her memory for me. I finally visited England properly, toured some of the locations where she or her family lived and met some friends who missed her dearly. As Christmas rolled around and I tried to think of something to make for dessert the Granny theme came back again and inspired me to finally make my own version of that delicious cake.
European Adventure: Sixteen countries later…
I’ve been home for two weeks now and it’s really only just begun to sink in just how great of an adventure this all was. Sixteen European countries visited at least briefly, a ton of kilometres by air and train and litre upon litre of alcohol sampled. Am I happy to be home? Absolutely. I don’t regret trying to pack as much in as possible, but it does wear you out after a while. It’s really nice to be able to sit back and process the amazing things I’ve seen over the past few months. In fact given that I was so busy during the brief month or so I was home in June it still feels like I’m recovering from both trips. If nothing else it’s absolutely glorious to not have worn hiking boots for two weeks.
The trip to the airport was as painless as I had hoped, a quick subway ride back to Termini station then onto the Da Vinci express out to the airport. It’s about a half hour trip as the airport is near the coast and the train was absolutely crammed. Once I arrived I managed to find the Air Canada desk relatively easily. Eager to make absolutely no effort towards improving their customer service in my eyes they had all of one person checking in a 767 worth of economy passengers, though thankfully once it was clear most of the first class/pre checked people were gone the other staff did help. I always precheck at home, but without access to a printer or a smartphone I was forced to wait in the long line.
For such a major airport Da Vinci is pretty terrible, our entire wing of the airport had no jetways. I understand loading 737s or CRJ’s etc by stairway if your airport is busy, but not full sized airliners. On the upside you got to see all the morons who bring carryon bags too big for the overhead bins actually get yelled at for once. The flight itself was pretty uneventful except for being next to an ancient Frenchman who didn’t understand the concept of keeping his elbows on his side of the armrest. Unsurprisingly given the loading process we did get off late. My connection in Montreal was fairly wide, but there were at least 10 people who missed regional connections as a result.
As mentioned I had several hours until I continued on to Winnipeg so I have no idea why I was rushing but I decided to jog up some stairs forgetting that I’d been sitting in an airline seat for the better part of nine hours. Two steps from the top I stumbled and cranked my kneecap against the concrete edge of the steps above. Later in the week I’d find out I’d injured my bursa, the sack that keeps bone and tissue from rubbing and causing pain. Figures… As it was I could barely walk and I waited through the long line for customs fighting back curses and feeling like the joint had exploded. Eventually I made it through, threw my bag into the connections belt and was sitting in Tim Hortons with an apple fritter and a sandwich all of 60 mins after arriving on Canadian soil. Given that I don’t drink coffee it seems odd that this is the first place I’ve gone after arriving home both times, but they’re usually the only place in an airport that charges remotely fair food prices.
It felt very odd to be home at first but it was wonderful to see my parents, then the dogs and subsequently my shower and a warm bed (with two freshly bathed dogs as hot water bottles no less.) I decided to hold off on this last post for a while to marshal my thoughts (and because my schedule somehow ended up completely jammed for the first little bit.)
People have been constantly asking me what my favourite place was so here’s a quick snapshot of favourites by type:
City: Prague Runners up: Edinburgh/Rome
Region: Cornwall RU: Dalmatian Coast/Cinque Terre
unexpectedly awesome: Dalmatian Coast, Croatia RU: Munich
Food: Florence RU: Vienna
Booze: sub-euro beers in Budapest/Prague RU: West Country Cider in England and Munich Beer Halls
Activity: Canyoning in Interlaken Switzerland RU: Hiking in Cinque Terre/Cycling through Amsterdam
Museum: British Museum RU: Accademia, Florence and Van Gogh Amsterdam
I’ve already had a few people ask me for tips for the cities I’ve visited and I’m more than happy to do so.
For those few interested this blog will go back to being random rants and stories, but I’ll likely take a bit of a break from writing for now. Back soon, and probably back on twitter at least sooner.
European Adventure: Roman Holiday
I think I can say that I hit the ground running in Rome, but it wasn’t without some awkward moments to begin with. Arriving into the train station and finding the metro area was painless, and thankfully I’d been warned about the unpleasantness to come.
When you reach the subway ticket machines in Rome you’re instantly struck by A: a long line and B: lots of shouting. Each machine has someone standing next to it, usually of a gypsy looking persuasion, who tries to choose the options on the machine for you. You basically have to instantly and forcefully wave them off or they’ll do the work for you (despite the machines having an English button) and demand payment for their efforts. I quickly bypassed the gauntlet as I’d been told the machines downstairs are usually free of them, but I guess because it was a Friday afternoon every machine was “staffed.” I pushed in, quickly got my ticket and headed for the train keeping a careful hand near my wallet since Roma Termini has a terrible rep for pickpockets and few things make you stick out as a tourist like a giant backpack (though at least you look poorer and a poorer target than the Americans distracted and pulling 8 wheelie bags.) Thankfully I quickly arrived at my amazing little hotel. Double bed with ensuite bathroom and A/C for 58 euro a night and only about five minutes from the Vatican museum. Unfortunately it’s also a small place so I had to wait 20 minutes or so for someone to be back to open the door. Once in though I happily threw everything into the closet, grabbed my rome specific guidebook I’d grabbed from the bookshare in Florence and headed out for the ancient city.
A metro ride later I popped out above ground and boom, there was the Flavian Ampitheatre. Following the advice in the guidebook I grabbed a pass for the sites from the Tabbacheria in the metro station and crossed the road, getting to skip the sizable line as a result. The amphitheatre (or Colloseum as it’s broadly known after the giant statue that used to stand near the spot) was probably the thing I most wanted to see in Rome, but I didn’t mind doing it first. The place just feels ancient and gets into your blood. It’s hard to look anywhere into or out of the Colloseum without seeing something amazing. The structure itself stretches far overhead even in its current battered form and it’s easy for the mind’s eye to reconstruct it to the full shape. As you climb upwards there are displays of the statues that used to line it and demonstrations of how the hoists ran to pop up animals, combatants or pieces of scenery for shows. Apparently the originally floor substructure was wood and could be disassembled to flood the place and have naval battle shows. The higher vantage points let you see most of the later permanent stone substructure and also have terrific views out at the arch of Constantine and the Roman Forum/Palatine hill area. Apparently the long term plans are to open up the tunnels to the public. It would be neat to see it up close. Basically everything that you see in Gladiator with the pop open tiger cages and the like is possible, though probably on the tamer end of what they could do.
I probably spent more time than most people in the Colloseum, but I was really enjoying it despite the annoying tour groups being pushy. Since it was still relatively early I headed over to the Roman forum next, exploring the grounds thoroughly and again trying to imagine what it looked like in the past. The sheer volume of ruins from various roman eras somewhat threatens to overwhelm you as you explore. The massive arches of the basilica are particularly impressive when you consider that it would cover a sizable chunk of the forum if in one piece today. More than anything there was just a feeling of history. Pretty much anything in sight was at least 1800 years old and filled with stories. The tiny area where Julius Caesar’s corpse was burned, the roman senate buildings, Caligula’s palace above, all these places from the stories I’ve read since childhood. Of course it’s more of a visual thing than anything, see the photo album on facebook for more.
After exploring a bit of Palatine hill (until they got ready to kick us out) I headed up the street and passed the Vittoria Emanuel II or wedding cake monument that many Romans (rightly) feel looks kind of stupid and out of place near the ancient roman ruins. On the other side was Trajan’s column then on a few streets over to probably my second most anticipated sight: The Pantheon. Originally a pagan temple to all the gods of Rome, it has been coopted like so many other things by the Catholic church. I’m really not sure how you make a giant pagan temple into a cathedral simply by slapping a few crosses on it, but I supposed I should be thankfully they didn’t tear it down. Built by Hadrian it was the largest dome in the world for over 1000 years until Il Duomo in Florence I believe. It was massively influential on the St. Peter’s dome (and other domes in the Vatican) and is a marvel of architectural skill. Basically half of a giant sphere perfectly nested its base, it has an opening called the oculus at the top that lets in the only light (and rain when it comes.) It also once had bronze statues including what was supposedly an amazing imperial eagle on the pediment, but one of the popes melted it down for doors and cannons and various fittings for St. Peter’s. Way to go yet again papacy.
Since I’d read about a tasty sounding pasta place near the Pantheon I hunted it down and had a delicious meal before heading onward to the Fountain of Trevi. I’d heard it was busy at night, I suppose it makes sense that Friday night is the busiest. Approaching the square I heard the noise of the crowd but was still blown away by the number of people enjoying the fountain and the people watching. The fountain itself is quite impressive as well, the contrast of the figures with the unfinished stone really makes it pop. It really was incredibly packed though so I found a place to toss in a coin (legend has it this will bring you back to Rome) and headed onward to the Spanish steps. I’ve got to say, I really don’t see what the fuss is about the steps, they’re nice and all but basically just a mass of people sitting on a stairway… It’s also one of the new hotspots for gypsy pickpockets. Since I was exhausted and it was just before 9 with the A-line of the metro shutting down I hopped aboard and back to my hotel.
The next day was Vatican day since everything there would be shut down Sunday. I walked south from my hotel and got in the line that snaked round the Vatican wall but thankfully didn’t look too crazy. It wasn’t and within about 30 minutes I was inside the museum and my last new country for the trip. The museum was on and off great, certain parts were fantastic but far too packed with people all pushing towards the Sistine chapel, other parts seemed to be roped off just because the Saturday crowds were too large to risk people crowding through them. The entire Egyptian area was closed off to my disgust. Highlights were definitely the Etruscan section, by far the best collection of their artifacts I’ve ever seen and really neat in showing the base for a lot of Roman art (most of what wasn’t influenced by the Greeks was Etruscan instead essentially.) Because it took a slight detour off the main route it was also mercifully less crowded. Unfortunately the massive crowds combined with the markedly worse air conditioning that characterizes Italian museums meant that everyone was basically a giant puddle by the time we got to the Sistine chapel. The last approach to the chapel is an unending hallway of glitz and glamour and lets you know where the collection plate money has been going for the last two millennia. I’m glossing over a lot of this but this post is already turning into a “first I saw this, then that” type thing and that’s kind of boring. Suffice it to say I saw some lovely paintings and sculpture. The Sistine Chapel itself really is incredible and if I had one suggestion for friends visiting Rome it’s to prepare for it before you go into the room. Read up on the orientation and structure of the ceiling to get the most out of it because even on a slow day I’m sure it’s full of people all staring upward and elbowing you in the spleen. The relentless calls of no photo, no video (why? If you don’t use a flash?) and SHHHH, silencio get incredibly annoying as well. Personally I think a large hum of conversation about the ceiling is far preferable to someone shouting every 20 seconds for contemplation but they didn’t ask me.
Unfortunately the shortcut from the Chapel to St. Peter’s was closed that day, but I decided to go see what the line for the Basilica looked like regardless. Again it wasn’t too bad (I think everyone had just gotten into the museum ahead of me since I did sleep in a bit) and I went to have a look. Every single guidebook mentions the dress code for the Vatican (covered shoulders and knees, pants for gentleman and at the very least a long skirt for women) yet there were still people being turned away at the checkpoint. I mean seriously, you couldn’t have at least done a web search on where you were going? Imagine turning back at that point on summer days when you waited in line for 2.5 hours in the blazing hot 38 degree weather. The church itself is incredibly vast and ridiculous inside and truly seems to be a monument to the avarice of the papacy over the centuries. Little wonder that the funding of the place by papal indulgence was one of the causative factors of the Reformation. It must have represented everything that the reformers thought was wrong with the Roman church. It’s truly ridiculous inside, gorgeous but so over the top as a place of worship that it makes the palaces of even the most deluded emperors and kings look drab by comparison. Walking back to my hotel for a shower I stopped randomly at a delicious looking gelataria and later found it listed in both guidebooks as a top pick for quality and massive portions.
My last day in Rome was a little harder to plan. It was unfortunately Sunday which meant a large number of the religious sites as well as many restaurants and stores would be closed. I decided to do a bit of a walking/museum tour and started at the Piazza de Popolo before heading southwards. I ended up passing the Spanish steps and fountain of trevi again as well as the fashionable shopping area between before heading over closer to the train station. Thankfully the National Museum of Rome wasn’t and I was able to check out a wonderful collection, mostly of sculptures that had once been scattered around smaller museums but were now consolidated here.
After the museum I visited a few smaller piazza, hit the Pantheon to see the light shining in it properly instead of the dusk of my first visit then headed south to see the sacred area with some of the oldest ruins in Rome. The south end of the area is now a cat sanctuary of all things so as you watch the ruins there will be at least 5 cats in view most of the time. After I’d been past it the previous night I realized that behind the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument was the Michelangelo designed plaza of the Capitoline so I backtracked to see the reproduction of the Marcus Aurelius cavalry statue now housed in the museum. Sadly by this point I was fairly museum saturated and I knew I wouldn’t get much out of it in the hour or so remaining til closing so I skipped this one and just enjoyed the view over the forum.
Rome has a reputation as a city of petty crime. I’ve loved the city since setting foot in it but I have to say it’s entirely deserved. The terrible crap at the metro machines, pickpockets everywhere and scam artists galore mean that anytime you’re anywhere remotely touristy you’ll feel like the other 25% of the people in sight are trying to rob you blind. Even the restaurant annoyances that plague Italy come to a new level in Rome. While most places in the country will refuse to serve you tap water and insist you buy a bottle at 2 or 3 euro, many places in Rome sell you tap water at 2 or 3 euro a bottle. In addition you’d best be prepared to pay a large cover charge, even if not sitting on the patio. One Dutch couple I talked to the other night mentioned a restaurant they’d been to where any tourists that sat down were immediately brought multiple 8 dollar plates of antipasti and everyone pretended not to understand English when they tried to say they didn’t want them, of course the moment they tried to leave without paying for them English was spoken by all. Tales abound as well of scam cabs that will take you to different hotels than you asked for, miles from the metro or other cabs. Locals that “help” you then ask you to buy them a drink in a bar in return and when you get the check it’s for 100euro or more. And gypsies that will trip and drop a baby into your arms and as you grab it your pockets are rifled. Though I dismissed a lot of these at first as rumours a check of reputable travel sites on the net backs many of them up. Common sense saves you from most of these scams of course, but there is definitely a large section of the Roman population that sees visitors as prey rather than guests. Sitting in the Piazza Navona later on I saw more than a few of these lovely people, mostly pickpockets. While sitting by the fountain there I managed to scare off one guy eying a Canadian woman with MS’s purse by talking to her while staring directly at him. Given that I was probably a foot taller than him he decided not to take the chance that I was with her and went looking for other targets. Luckily she was meeting friends a bit later so I just told her to keep her bag turned inward and tight to her for the time being.
By this point I’d walked across most of the ancient city and back and was getting close to calling it a day. Most things were closing down early for Sunday so I walked back via the Vatican by crossing the bridge to the Castel Sant’angelo a building that started life as Hadrian’s tomb before being converted into a last bastion of defense for the papacy in times of invasion. It’s a squat, imposing little castle approached by a pedestrian bridge lined with Angels sculpted by Bernini. It was closing for the day as I approached so I simply snapped a few photos. From there I took the long path up towards St. Peter’s in the distance and realized that unfortunately this route would take me past the “Old Bridge” gelateria again so I was forced to get another double scoop. It was a lot busier this time but still worth the wait, I’m fairly sure that much gelato other places I’d been in Europe would be in the five euro range.
As I write this I’ve been out for my last meal, I’ve said my goodbyes to Rome and Europe and I’m packing my bag for the last time. I won’t miss living out of a backpack and kind of hope not to be doing it for a while. As much fun as I’ve had I’m definitely hitting the “time to go home” point as I think it’s time to process all that I’ve seen and file it all permanently away in the memory before it becomes a blur. I will miss discovering new places and things, but I’ve certainly had a proper introduction to the rest of Europe now and I definitely have a list of places to visit again and near misses that I would like to correct. It’s going to be weird being surrounded by people speaking English again, of being able to turn the tv on and hear english on every channel (indeed of being able to see a tv more than once a week or so.) I miss my dogs (oh, and family,) friends, good thai food and affordable rum and cokes. I miss being able to stretch out on a queen sized bed every night and not having to worry about hot water or squeezing under a shower tap designed for a midget. In short, it’s been a great time and it will be great to be home. See you all soon.