A Renaissance Man in the "Venice" of Italy. Wait...that WOULD be Venice.

(Try to get your Cadillac Escalade through here)


Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go. - Truman Capote

Venice, or Venezia in Italiano, is one of the most unique and fascinating cities on the planet. An outdoor museum, almost perfectly preserved for your enjoyment. If you have only a few days in Italy don’t miss this opportunity (Rome, Florence and Sienna being your other top options). However, if I hear one more American say, “Eww, I didn’t like Venice. It’s dirty and it smelled!”, I will slap them for the spoiled insolent whiners they are. The city in its current form is over 1300 YEARS OLD and is completely floating (actually sinking more than floating these days) on salt water in the form of over 600 small separate islands. Downtown Pittsburg is dirty and smells but the difference is nobody wants to visit there. What should they do, bulldoze it down, build a plastic Epcot “Venice” and put a Starbucks and Wal-Mart in the center so you can buy an authentic “Venti Latte” and plastic blowup gondolas made in China?

The singular item that makes Venice so remarkable besides the canals, architecture of the palazzi and aggressiveness of the pigeons is the fact that cars are not allowed in the center of Venice. Actually, it would be impossible as I mentioned before the city is made of many small islands only connected by footbridges.

Try this experiment next time you’re there:

Go out and have a nice dinner at a good Osteria (a restaurant specializing in seafood). Speak a little Italian to the guy behind the desk at your hotel and maybe he’ll recommend a good Osteria that the locals actually go to. Have some Linguini Frutti di Mare (pasta with various seafood) and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio from the Aldo Adige or Veneto region. After dinner, head to the only (and I mean only) place for nightlife in the city, Campo Santa Margherita. It’s two big piazze (squares) connected diagonally where there are a half dozen (if that many) pubs with outside terraces if the weather’s agreeable.

Pull up a chair and order a Ramazzotti or Sambuca as an after dinner Disgestivo or stick to wine if you don’t like to mix. It’s mostly a local student hangout but you’ll usually find a few clever, adventurous and cultured tourists such as yourself there. Strike up a conversation. Go ahead, don’t be shy. It’s Italy after all, the land of “amore”. In my case, I chose two Dutch girls (in my opinion some of the most genuinely friendly and easygoing people on the planet). You can naturally pick the sex and nationality you’d like.

Have great conversation. Swap travel stories, swap cultural insights, swap spouses (wait, that might be a bit TOO Dutch for some). After, a few more drinks invite them to the only (and I mean only) disco in Venice proper. It’s easy to find, just follow the winding streets. Trust me, it’s in there somewhere but be careful it’s easy to miss as it’s the about the size of your first dorm room in college. Dance! Drink some more. (what the hell, you’re walking back to your hotel anyway!) Try and make a move on one of your new Dutch friends (the better looking one preferably).

Check out the people. Hey, is that guy wearing a white leisure suit? Venice is really “old school” on many levels. Now for the “piece de la resistance”….

It’s 4AM thereabouts. Say goodbye to your new Dutch friends. You didn’t really think you’d go home with both of them? They’re not THAT cool.

Now walk! Walk back to your hotel, slowly. Listen! No, I mean listen! That’s right, you’ll hear nothing but the sounds of nature. Birds, wind, insects. Nothing else. No cars, no electric motors. No other people, tourists or locals. They’re all sober and in bed. The only reminders that you are not back in the 13th Century are the electric street lamps and your Nike tennis shoes you’re wearing.

Look around. History is everywhere. You are the Doge. This is your domain! The Ottoman fleet has been defeated at Lepanto and Venice is the ruler of the entire Mediterranean. You have stepped into the closest thing you will ever get to a time machine. You can feel them. They are everywhere. The souls of the millions who lived here over the centuries. They are all right there with you, alone. Walking you over the footbridge, around the next dimly lit corner and winding alley and into the night.

(I've been "re-born" so many times I think I'm developing stretch marks on my face!)

The Wild, Wild East

My first introduction and entry into the heart of the former Evil Red Empire was to be Odessa, Ukraine. A port city of 1.5 million situated on the warm Black Sea known for its importance in trade, oil refining, capital of Russian humor and large percentage of HIV infection (10%) with no apparent correlation in these characteristics. More on it’s history here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Odessa

A view of the Odessa Port from the very high “Mother-in-Law” Bridge (translated from the Russian) where apparently many of these ladies met their demise.

Besides wanting to see for myself the land of my former archenemy my primary goal was to continue my research on Russian/Ukrainian women seeking men from the west. As a self-proclaimed Western man I had lined up a few meetings with locals.

One such here:

Meet Evgenia, an extremely intelligent, pleasant and funny woman (from the City of Russian Humor after all) hanging out with Alekandr Pushkin, the Russian version of Dante, Yeats and Shakespeare all rolled into one. This Russian legend also had a penchant for the ladies especially the married ones and was killed at age 37 in a duel after messing with the wife of a French Officer. More on his interesting life and his impact on Russian literature here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleksandr_Pushkin


Enter the Ukraine…..

The first thing an outsider will notice is the inconsistency of the state of repair of the city compared to others such as Warsaw, Budapest and Prague. In those cities, the Old Town has been completely rebuilt as at least a small oasis in the middle of a communist concrete block sea that surrounds it. Not so in Odessa, as every other building in the center is anywhere from a completely crumbling block of flats to a brand spanking new three story shopping mall offering the latest designers (oh, and at a very western price). More oddly, these structures could be right next to each other. The only street in complete renovated condition is the main street Deribasovskaya named after the Spanish Major General José de Ribas (don’t ask me how they translated that) who helped the Russians liberate the city from the Turks in 1789.

The brand new Athens shopping center where Urainian youth like to go and loiter and look cool like their American counterparts with the only difference being no teenager from the Ukraine can actually afford anything inside.

Evgenia recounted the story of this functioning bank that just one day collasped and you can see on the right side of the photo with the workers inside repairing.




A block of flats. Not too bad, just needs a little TLC. Prices are still amazingly cheap for real estate even in the center. I saw a luxurious (inside) 4 bedroom flat, almost 2000sqft with 20-foot ceilings for $30,000. Evgenia gasped, “How ridiculous, I could never afford that my whole life.” Remember, the average professional office worker brings home about $200 a month.









Like many places in the world, American style capitalism is taking hold. The only difference is how the shops are laid out. I walked into a tiny office supply store and there were seven people working there with about three customers and a security guard. Every place including corner shops has a security guard. I don’t know if it’s a social work program or a genuine anti-theft need. I entered a corner shop with a bottled water I had 80% finished. As I was attempting to exit this frustrated KGB wannabe flunky tried to stop me and accuse me of stealing this water that costs 5 cents. After determining that he spoke no English or European language other than Russian and he didn’t understand my arm waving and pantomime explaining I had brought the bottle in, I just opened my wallet and showed him about 6 months of his annual wage (in retrospect not a bright idea) shrugged my shoulders, said “Do svadanya” and walked out.

The Ukrainian version of Justice. Notice the lack of the blindfold pointing out the noticeable fact that here Justice sees EXACTLY what she wants to see.

Of course, when the sun goes down the Odessa night heats up. As usual there are a wide selection of adult activities to choose from.

Here is one of the many Strip Clubs in the city. It’s name here in Russian is “Manhattan” and like being in the Big Apple money will flow from your pocket very quickly. Needless to say I didn’t stick around too long. Just long enough to get a flavor of the local beauty and a few good Russian vodka tonics while I spent the local equivalent of over a half-month’s salary in 90 minutes!


Next, was on to a disco named “Palladium” and for my first night in the city it did not disappoint. After about literally five minutes and half a vodka/Red Bull later I met Irina. Almost all women here dress up to the point where one can question their “angle” but this one happened to be a University math teacher and seemed to like me despite the language barrier. Must have been my dancing skills………..




On to the next night and different Disco named “Yo”. And yes, Vanilla Ice still performs here. Here I met some more friendly locals. One a woman from Moldova, definitely of questionable repute and a Turk that kept buying us Tequila Bombs until I had to cry “Amca” (Uncle in Turkish).

For more nightlife tips: http://www.ukraine-accommodation.com/ukraine/odessa/night_clubs/

Some sightseeing pics of the town and there was quite a bit to see. Though at times while wandering I felt like I was part of one of the many packs of wild dogs that would freely roam the street.

Some locals enjoying the day in the main square. No, the big white thing is not a wild dog.

On Saturday, one of about a dozen weddings I saw coming out of the government registration office. Since Communism completely oppressed religion most ceremonies are civil and occur outside buildings such as these. Orthodox Catholicism is making a comeback I’m told but only as a fad.

Some of the paradox of decay and poverty mixed with the wealth that only western money can buy.

The courtyard outside the flat I rented (mangy junkyard dog included at no extra charge)




And the very plush livable interior of my rental flat at an affordable $65 per night, which is the average rent of a normal flat for a WHOLE month.

Not all the outside scenery was bleak and unattractive. Here is Viktoria whom I arranged a meeting with only days before my visit. While we had a nice long talk over drinks we did not meet again due to time as it was explained to me using an old Russian saying that my sudden arrival was like “Snow falling down on one’s shoulders” (not to be confused with the other always embarassing "snow" flakes on one's shoulders). Notice the American flag on the table……Hmm, could this be a sign of a tourist trap?

Also, the precious little Ukrainian waitress at one of the most expensive restaurants in Odessa. Even though places like these are frequented by almost exclusively foreigners and rich Russians the help rarely speaks much English which was evidenced by her quizzical look when I asked her if it was ok to smuggle her back to Germany in my luggage.

Well, I hope you all enjoyed this somewhat lengthy journey with me. I apoligize if I seemed overly focused on the monetary aspect of things but life is so completely different there due to the economics I wanted to present it in terms we all can understand. Bottom line, pull out your wallet and kiss ol’ Uncle George on his balding head for giving you the life you have in the States.

And finally:

At the Duty Free shop in Vienna on the way home. Hmm, it seems while I was there I picked up the Ukrainian tradition of drinking straight out of a bottle in public during the middle of the day and not working.

See ya around on the planet!

To Quote or Not to Quote?

They say (whoever “they” are?!?) that to be quoted is one of the highest forms of flattery. They also say that quoting oneself is one of the highest forms of self-absorbed arrogance (especially when referring to oneself in the third person).

So, in a feeble attempt to be less self-absorbed and flattered more often I’m providing you the world (at least the small part that lives on my remote island somewhere off the cyber-space Argentinean coast (no, not Cyber Falklands either!!!)) the opportunity to assist me in this endeavor. Below are some of my sayings, most of which I thought up some years back living in Houston, Texas sucking down a thermos of coffee at 7 AM when I used to commute 1 hour each way to a soul sucking job. Ah, yes…. Good times and good memories. Living with Crazy Box Lady, eating take-out every night and getting fat, isolated from family and friends and having my only intellectual conversations with my Jack Russell…..But I digress…..

Enjoy!

Wealth does not equate to style. What it merely does is accentuates either one’s subtle sense of style or grotesque lack thereof.


In time all things pass, if you let them.


There is no need to rush. We all know our ultimate destination and only a fool is anxious to get there.


Things don't happen for a reason, Things happen, we give them reason.


Everything’s clear in the sterile world of sobriety.


I go out of my way to be different from the rest of humanity if for no other reason than just to prove my humanity.


I don't get angry with all the idiots in this world. They actually make me smile as it just makes me look that much better.


You own nothing, you control nothing, except yourself and that's if your lucky.


Television is cotton candy for the mind. Like sugar, if you ingest too much before bedtime you won't be able to sleep.


I orgasm, therefore I am.


I often run into old acquaintances in the oddest of places. You'd think that with all the people on this planet I'd occasionally meet somebody new.


I think that when we finally encounter Extra-terrestrials they will be more Godlike than we ever imagined.


If there is one certainty in life it is that you will be lied to and deceived by those who love you the most. This should not be cause for consternation as it is evidence of the blessing of free will that allowed them to love you in the first place. It is as inevitable and unpreventable as the sunrise.


The Tao (path of balance and harmony) is wide but slippery. So much so, that we often find ourselves in either gutter.


To discover the truth one must first find one's soul.


We are all hypocrites but the worst ones are those who fail to admit it.


I do not parade my faith around on a bumper sticker or T-shirt. I prefer to keep quiet and trust that it will be there when I need it.


How come you never ever see any attractive homeless people. I mean, statistical probability speaking there has to be a few, right?


It is human nature to be critical and fearful of those things that we do not understand. Since I live in a contact state of panic and cynicism I must understand nothing.


Nothing hurts more than one’s own doubts and fears. Compared to these, even death is painless.


I disagree with the statement that life is short. From my observation most people have given up living long before they actually die.


The search for truth is as elusive and pointless as that for the Holy Grail. Like that sacred chalice, God has hidden truth well and knows better than to share something so noble with the likes of humanity.


I had a great childhood, all 30 minutes of it.


Humanity is the electrons, protons and neutrons of the social universe. We bounce around in a random fashion attracting and repulsing each other with the occasional neutrality, forming relationship molecules. Our bonding and splitting like a chemistry experience gone awry has the potential to blow up in our face at any moment.


Do not concern yourself with matters surrounding a broken heart. There are plenty of fish in the sea! All you have to do is pick up another one that’s floating sideways on the top.


How come you can never find a pizza on a menu that has EXACTLY all the ingredients you want? There is always something missing or something that completely spoils it unless you order a la carte which always costs you more.

All relationships should last just three hours like a great epic movie. By the time the credits roll the cinematic magic is over.

Origins of a "EuroSnob"

(Photo of Frankfurt am Main, Germany aka "Mainhatten", my current home and a perfect harmonious mixture of green and glass)

I think perhaphs there is something genetically defective about a person who desires to leave the country where they were born and raised and of their own un-coerced volition resettle in a foreign land where the language, culture and customs are completely different and often baffling. There must be a recessive gene being passed harmlessly through generations until those rare times when it surfaces to strike the biological makeup up of our now hopelessly inflicted mutant.

I can’t say for certain when the first time I realized that I was different, inflicted as it were with this mutation. Maybe it was when I was 6 attending a Montessori school, where thanks to the freedom of scholastic choice these schools afforded I monopolized my days with the study of “big book” world atlases and a game I invented with country picture flashcards similar in vein to the $20,000 Pyramid. Or maybe it was the $60,000 Pyramid, I can never remember with inflation. Then there was High School, the great governmental institution indoctrinating young American minds into the carbon copy print, ready for the pursuit of the American Dream and the capitalist treasures continued therein.

I had been to Mexico once when I was 13 and Canada at 15 but they hardly seemed exotic enough. Somehow between the proliferation of English and desire for American dollars especially in Mexico made it seem all too safe and familiar. No, when I was 16 sitting there in Algebra or some other such nonsense my mind was far away across an ocean I had never traversed and in countries I had never seen except for on TV. Old and civilized European lands where Kings and Queens had once and still ruled, thousands killed over the centuries in the name of God and where now the age of consent of all those sinful activities deemed fun and rewarding by youth were notoriously lower.

How exotic and exciting to not be able to count on two hands the number of centuries these civilizations had existed and where billions of souls of past and present resided in a constant state of agitation and compromise. Where you could cross five countries in day and still have enough energy to go out at night to a Disco filled with as many citizens of the planet as there were specialty cocktails on the menu. No, these were the dreams of my youth though at that tender age I did not have means or capacity to practically encourage its realization.

But I did realize one thing that day in class under the school’s bright florescent lights and inside the sterile room of that learning institution which coddled all its young Americans in its cultural illusion. I realized I was different, a “mutant” as I now like to say, and I could never feel truly well within the political borders of my native land ever again.

So, now I officially introduce myself to the world unapologetically, mutant, Ex-pat, even Euro Snob if you like. To all those that have known me long and closely I will always be your friend, son, nephew, lover, ex-husband etc. but there is that enigmatic part of me you will never completely understand.

Slovakia: You should have never given up on that whole sweet Czechoslovakia gig

Bratislava, the capital city of Slovakia (don’t giggle, that’s what they call it). Actually, it used to be called a more respectable “Bresburch“ until the Slovakians decided they were too good for their Austria-Hungarian masters and wanted their own piece of the earth to grow potatoes.





The flat we rented was fantastic and less than 50 meters from the “medieval” St. Michael’s gate which was 5 a minutes walk from everything one needed to see. Great service, recommended, tell them J-dub sent ya http://www.bratislavahotels.com/




While Bratislava would not rate in the top ten of my favorite Eastern European cities it does contain most of the elements that make this region so endearing:

- A lovely “Old” Town in the center painstakingly rebuilt within the past 10 years to look "old" and containing all the elements western tourists are used to (Irish Pub included)

- Cheap everything!

- Lots of language barriers that make for some humorous interpersonal exchanges with the locals

- Funny looking money with lots of “zeros” that test your math skills when trying to figure out exactly just how much that cappuccino cost

- Packs of drunk, pasty white, unhealthy looking working class English guys on a Stag (Bachelor) Party weekend because of cheap Ryan Air flights (the only way to fly in Europe http://www.ryanair.com/site/EN/)

- Conveniently located castle on a hill where several important things happened over the past thousand years (for more on Bratislava 12 attractions see http://www.bratislava.info/attractions/)

Glaringly missing however were the good shops filled with indifferent employees, well dressed local women trying to get noticed by westerners, local businessmen trying to rip you off. In short, Bratislava was missing…..people. I’ve never seen a national capital so deserted. Good Nightlife, no Daylife.



In the Old Town there were numerous examples of these "people" statues coming out of manholes, leaning out of windows, peering around corners etc. presumably to compensate for the lack of actual people on the street

While in most capitals one would see Prada, D&G, Benetton, um…. it appears that Bratislava has a little ways to go in their pursuit of western fashion.

Once the sun goes down and all 32 people return home, the night heats up (no, really it does). One good place is the Cirkus Barok Disco Boat when after a few drinks you get used to the feeling that you’re sinking. For more good ideas on Brats nightlife http://www.bratislavaguide.com/bratislava-clubs







Paying homage to the glowing, radiant bringer of all (night)life in the Barok Disco Boat.

In the distance is the UFO restaurant/disco towering over the Danube, which we tried to go to, but was closed due to “technical” reasons whatever that means. Alien labor strike?

Three AM comfort food. Not quite IHOP but a well placed Shawarma, Gyro or Döner always hits the spot.

Some more of the Old Town architecture. A three hour historical walking tour was interesting even if one learns that most of their history was borrowed from Hungary and Czech Republic. For instance, the city’s big claim to fame is that for several hundred years it was the coronation city for the Hapsburg Kings and Queens of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. I’m thinking it was because they got a good deal on the flight and room. Oh yeah, and there’s a cannon ball from Napoleon’s army still lodged in a church where he was here for his similar “scorched earth” weekend.




Nightlife adventure, take two, where we started this evening at none other than the Dubliner Irish Pub home of the most expensive beer in town (a pint will cost you whopping $1.50). Meet Jana, we fell in love instantly (or at least I did) and her intelligence, beauty and warmth were the most redeeming things I found in this city.

Falling into the “Ring of Fire” (Just call me the “Man in Grey”) at Karaoke night at the Dubliner.

On to next location, a great R&B/Hip Hop club named La Verna. Recommended!

Damn you Eric for spotting that bottle of Absinthe behind the bar.

Damn….damn…damn

Mingling, dancing, chatting and generally mixing it up with the friendly locals La Verna. And they know how to do the "Humpty Dance"!!!


















Just to prove that this wasn’t an Absinthe related hallucination there IS an actual slide between floors at La Verna.

Sundays in Bratislava, the name of this café says it all!

Sprechen Sie Mardi Gras?

Fasching!

No it’s not the name of the type of government Mussolini founded but you couldn't remember for that Sophomore Government exam but rather the German version of what is also called Carnavale and Mardi Gras in other countries. In short that time when all Catholics and wannabe Catholics go nuts before the month of Lent where they are supposed to give up such life necessities such as drinking alcohol, chocolate, and even sex. (Yeah, right!) Well, in Deutschland unbeknownst to many are some of the most intense celebrations where Germans go nuts with the same level of precision and effort which they exude in their other endeavors. Forget the painted ladies of Rio and the back alley knife fights, forget the New Orleans breast baring (yawn!) and thousand of college kids bumping into you and puking on your shoe rushing for a few plastic beads and come to Köln (Cologne), the center of Fasching in the Vaterland!















(One of many paked "Lokals" where partying is conducted on any open surface)

Here in this town of several hundred thousand, the celebration is not an event isolated to an age range, socio-demographic group or even a location, in Cologne everyone and I mean everyone parties everywhere in the entire region, “from 8 to 80, blind, crippled or crazy”. (Big Daddy Kane, et al. 1989) And even cooler, everyone dresses in costumes. The holiday plays out like this: (continues on left of photo below)

(The "weapon" of choice for Fasching , these little beers for 2 Euros and served very conveniently (and dangerously) 0n magic floating sombreros with big blue phallic-like markers to attract the attention of even the most "unfocused" client.)

Instead of just one big night like Fat Tuesday there are a series of special days. The first begins on that Thursday before and is called Altweibernacht which translates as Old Wenches Night. Back in the day, even wife swapping was deemed as a socially acceptable way to celebrate (but just for this one night, dear) and stories of putting the keys in the bowl upon entrance to the party house abound. Now it’s more tradition for the women to go out regardless of their marital status and get crazy while the man stays at home and watches football (soccer) and burps little Helmut. And remember, what happens in the Altstadt stays in the Altstadt. This festival starts at 11:11 AM (Central European Time) so you can imagine where we’re all at by... say, 7PM?

( Altweibernacht: A 34-yr old mother of two. She borrowed this ugly orange tie from her husband's drawer and by the end of the night she was giving it to me as a "souvenir" of our "special moments" together.)

The parties continue (in costume mind you) all thorough out the weekend non-stop culminating in a giant parade that lasts eight hours on RosenMontag (Rose Monday) followed by more celebrations until Tuesday evening until hangovers and old age catch up to most of us and we pass out just in time for Lent.

(One has to be naughty, I mean really naughty to piss off a devil)






During this period no one works in Cologne unless they are engaged in making money but other than that the whole city and frankly the region around it closes and is focused on this event. Germans are happy, singing, playing instruments on the streets, talking to strangers, disregarding minor infractions of the law and basically loving their neighbor, which begs the question why can’t everyday be Fasching? (Especially if those days fell between the years 1914-1918 and 1939-1945)




Towards the end of a very long and festive evening....This 20-yr old decided I was "kissable just because" and then exclaimed once she found out my age, "Oh wow, I kissed an old man.", but then continued unabashed. Oh, little beers in blue phallic magic floating sombreros, how I love thee.)

The Fantasy of Love- Valentine's Day Edition

As I was doing some "Spring Cleaning" in my computer's hard drive I discovered an old poem from an important broken relationship several "iterations" ago. The words, theme, emotions seemed very similar to the events of the past several relationships. Is it possible I've not been learning those important life lessons so well? It's always enlightening and a bit dangerous to dig though the "files".

Goodbye
6/6/02

Once again I have held onto the fantasy of a relationship that will never be what I long for. It can be so comforting to do so even in the face of the brutal truth of pain. Why is it so hard to let go? Maybe from the fear that nothing new will follow or the meager hope that the future may swing into one’s favor. It is a fool’s proposition and should not be undertaken even in the grandest of desperations.

Yet, here I am. All too eager to tread down this familiar path scared of the shadows of the unknown that lurk on either side. I have not been wise. I have fallen too quickly and given of myself too freely. I have failed to make my lover prove her worthiness of my love. Instead, I handed it out like a flyer on the street that nobody wants. I have devalued myself and consequently there is little of a balance left in my emotional account.

I cannot blame you my love. Though the jabs I have slung your way may lead you to believe it. I am merely lashing out in frustration from my own anger at myself. You have merely been you and your faults and own emotional trauma are yours to own. I have somehow blamed myself for these, which only proves again how little I value my love. No, you are not culpable in this greatest of crimes against humanity, the act of betrayal of one’s self.

Still, the water color façade must be wiped clear with the tears of remorse and pity and the brutal fresco beyond allowed to come into plain view. You are not worthy of my love as callous and self-centered as that sounds. But to me it is a mere statement of fact and must be accepted just as the sun will rise in the morning.

I have learned well the limits of your love. The scars from your past have disfigured your heart so that there is little room for me amongst that mangled tissue. Oh how I have tried to heal you. Tried to force my loving will upon you to repair those wounds. I have only received pain in return for your gratitude. Yes, there has been progress. You have opened up as much as you can and your growth continues to crawl on its belly like a snail searching for water in the sun.

But I am tired. Tired of waiting for the cards that do not come, the phone calls that are never placed and the reaffirmation of your love that rarely touches my lips. We have become like complacent siblings satisfied in our routine out of convenience and comfort. Yet, this is not the love I desire.

There is one final matter in this that I must gain a hold. In my mind and heart I have still given you the power to hurt me. I still fear of your letting me go. Or worse, the thought that I was never really yours to begin with. That fleeting concept of possession that brings us all comfort but is as much an illusion as the oasis in the desert where nothing but the sturdiest of souls can survive. The desire to be special, unique, the greatest and most important love is the loss I feel the most. For once we let go surely others will take our place with these same expectations.

I have been down this path before my love. I know that time will do as she always does and repair the affairs of the heart. Wiping clean the pain like the wind as it smoothes over the desert turning it flat as glass. Still, in this moment the panic is as real as always, making me afraid. Afraid of my own mortality and insignificance as the love shrivels and dies leaving my heart alone in the vast universe.

How I wish it all could have been different. That bold dream that taunts eternity and proclaims an intense love that will outlast our own mortality. But this is not how it works, I am almost certain. Where we have found ourselves now is where we were meant to be for love is as mortal and fragile as our corporal beings and its death is just as unpredictable. No, it could not have been any different even if we had tried. Tried what? What we didn’t know or could never really comprehend or begin to feel? No, there was nothing that could have been done and this maybe is the most difficult to accept of all. So then, I turn away and continue on, without you forever.

A Random "Hmmm?"

Why is it that almost every man spits into the public urinal while "extracting" and before wizzing? And, this strangely is universial regardless of the nationality and country. Any Anthropologists or Sociologists out there?

(This actually was added solely to break up the "heaviness" of the preceding post. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming)

When in Rome.....

(The famous Fountain of Trevi in Rome. Legend has it if you throw a coin over your left shoulder it will guarantee your return to Rome. Legend also has it that the entire Italian Socialized Health System is financed from here. For more see http://goitaly.about.com/cs/rome/a/trvi.htm)















Boy in Roman Metro

(Written 2.18.2003 on the back of a beverage napkin as I sipped a Campari at a cafe terrace on the Piazza Venezia after a job interview. I didn't get the job.)

The graffiti covered electric doors slam shut
and the hiss of the air breaks fill the cabin
as the Metro pulls away from the station
leaving huffing passengers fuming at being two seconds too late.

“Buon Giorno tutti!” a teenage boy exuberantly shouts
to all inside who pretend not to hear.
He produces a worn accordion gently held together
with various kinds of tape peeling from the edges
and proceeds to roughly bang on the dingy keys.

He is short and dirty
but through the contrast of his dark eyes and skin
with the whiteness of his teeth
shines a bright halo around his tired face.

The Metro lumbers along on its pliant metal tracks
struggling to go airborne and fly away
from this ancient city of Caesars and Gypsies.

The music continues on
broken yet melodic
drowning out the rhythmic thump of the train
through the intense effort of the boy
pumping furiously at the keys
as if the Metro’s power was dependent on him.

The passengers seated and standing around him stare at the floor
expressionless, lost in their thoughts,
afraid to expose their humanity to the world.
Especially, they dare not look at the boy
for fear of seeing themselves reflected in his face.

The emotion and passion in his fervent playing
stirs none of the motionless forms.
No one smiles or looks up as he finishes his haunting tune
and deftly moves though the cabin soliciting payment for his effort.
They are all already dead
hopes and aspirations for a richer life of happiness
as empty and battered as the tattered cup
he extends for a few small pieces of change.

The air hisses loud again and the trains lurches to a sudden halt.
“Grazie tutti” he exclaims with a sincere smile.
Doors reopen, people push solemnly in both directions
and the boy is gone.

The Haircut

I remember when I was between the ages of 8-11 or at some time in my early youth when everything in the world seemed so large in general. My mother would take me to her hairdressers since she presumably preferred a professional to cut my hair than giving me the ol’ “soup bowl” treatment and most likely had never set foot in a traditional barbershop. We until this day continue to share this trait of paying a little extra and pampering ourselves to look our best. Anyway, I remember this one period in time and hairdressers quite vividly. The waiting room had earthy shag carpet, wood paneling and plush brown oversized sofas with throw pillows. Classic 70s. On the wall hung photos of attractive young models wearing the latest hair styles both men and women with lots of wings and feathers, as the vernacular of the day would go.

I would wait my turn bouncing about on the big soft cushions while Donna Summer or some other Disco tune du jour played over the speakers on the walls. Once my mother got comfortably set in her chair for a color treatment or something I would be called to the chair. The stations themselves were separated by a wood lattice divide with fairly large openings that still afforded some privacy.

I had a particularly favorite stylist whose name I can’t recall. Debbie? Anyway, she was in her early 20s and attractive (ok, maybe I wasn’t that young) and was always ready with a compliment on how cute and engaging of a child I was. Traits I have undoubtedly outgrown now. I remember how we would talk and talk the whole time throughout the haircut. And it was so nice! Maybe because I felt like I was having a “real” conversation with a person that wasn’t my mother, father or my invisible friend Joey.

All I remember was how excited I was to have that opportunity to interact. I’m sure it was the most banal conversation imaginable but the girl was so kind to me and made me feel so special for that half an hour. (Kind of like what happens to me in Strip Clubs now but I'm way too aware I'm paying for it) To have that desire to communicate with a stranger about nothing, to make a nice connection for a few moments. To share a laugh, a smile and some compliments. What a warm sensation.

Today I got my haircut at the stylist 200 meters from my flat here in Germany. I always go in right before five, as that’s when small businesses close here and there’s never anyone else there. They are all heading home to eat an early supper which is the custom and which the Turkish woman who is the owner and who always cut my hair will do a few minutes after she locks up her shop.

A few pleasantries are exchanged and I sit down for my cut. We are both silent preferring to be elsewhere at that moment lost in our thoughts. It’s not an issue of language as I can slaughter German enough to be understood. No, it’s something else. A tiredness. A tiredness of the repetition. Of the several hundredth time that I’ve plopped down in the chair to await if my haircut comes out like I envision it in my mind’s eye and wishing I would see a few more hairs on the top. For her, the tens of thousandths time that she has stared down at a head as she mechanically and quickly moves about with the scissors.

We’ve both been here before so many times that we forgot that it once was new. That there was something to learn, something to feel, and something that we may not have experienced before. We have both forgotten so we just sit and silence and anticipate the end.

Pepe Le Pue and McCroissants too!

I have this theory that the reason why the French and Americans are seemingly at such cultural odds is that deep down they are exactly the same.

(Please, let me out! I didn't know mixing Poulet au Moutarde with a Bordeaux was a crime here, honest.)

Before you get your American red, white and blue blood in a boil, hear me out. First our histories are very intertwined. They were the first country that recognized our independence from the British. In fact, without them we wouldn’t have won the war. (sound familiar?) Then Francophiles such as Franklin and Jefferson took many trips to France and brought back French ideals as well as numerous exotic social diseases. The French then based their revolution on ours (albeit it turned out a little messier). Their flag is red, white and blue and they have a copy of the Statue of Liberty (the original which they gave to us) sitting in the middle of the Seine in Paris! We then came to their aid several times once the Germans starting doing their goosestep thing.

History aside, our attitude is the same. We have such pride in our own cultures, traditions and history that we don’t back down from anything, ever. We both don’t care what the rest of the world thinks as we feel we are both above global scrutiny. Tell me does this sound familiar?

France has many immigrants from all over the world but when you walk down a Paris street they are all speaking French. Africans, Arabs, Asians, Latinos…only in French. When the French travel abroad even in Europe they only speak French. They are loud and demanding and ask for items that are only available in their country as they are not aware that other lands may not have heard of Pastis. Their radio stations play lots of French music, their kinos French films. When they said “no” to the Iraq War (the correct answer as I predicted and events have borne out) Americans hated them claiming that they had betrayed us. How many times have the Americans said “no” when it suited us? We are exactly the same down deep where it counts.

All this buildup is coming to the point I realized on my latest adventure to Paris last month. They have a right to be the way they are. They are the undisputed center of culture in the Western world and Paris is the jewel. You can feel it when you are there. You walk those amazing streets and it is all around you, the art, the richness, the fashion, the style of life and oh the cafés (even that word is French!). There is such an air of confidence and security in this society and I maintain this is not arrogance. If you ever really talk to a French person you will notice they have no need to be arrogant. Italy is all a façade (another French word), an illusion. Many Russians are arrogant to hide a national insecurity of a country that is so large and rich in many ways but has always remained impotent and backwards when compared to other world powers. They even tried a French style renaissance under Katherine the Great. In France you can keep digging and digging and you’ll never reach the cultural bottom. There’s even art in the subways!

When I was in the new “hip” nightlife area north of the Bastille on the Rue Oberkampf I saw a live 60s/70s “retro” band. But it wasn’t all "Brickhouse" and “Play that Funky Music” and the other 20 songs one would hear at an American club, it was the real music that they actually played on the radio at that time! Most people had never the songs but it was great, they danced and the band didn’t care if people knew the songs or not. They just played well and entertained. Now that’s style. After the band the DJ continued in that vein playing old songs I had never heard before from 30 years ago. It was one of the most refreshing “disco” experiences I had ever had and I danced all night feeling that I was really teleported back in time.

Yes, they have their issues too (in fact as I write Paris is burning from race riots) but all societies have their injustices and lessons to learn. Right, Rodney King? All I’m saying is that Paris is an amazing experience if one learns a bit of the language (trust me, my French is not great and I was well received) leaves their Nike baseball cap and desire to eat at an Olive Garden at home and opens oneself up to the marvels that this society can offer. Yes, and you can feel free to remind the French to do the same when they are coming through your town.

Au Revoir!

(Nothing screams true "retro" like a Leopard print jacket. When in Paris check out the Oberkampf district and be prepared to go "native")

Hmm, what to read? What to read?

I have just uncharacteristically drunk an entire bottle of Spanish Rioja wine (the quantity being uncustomary and not the type of grape) and finished mentally chastising myself for not writing more frequently. Besides the wine it is also reading and the thought of being read that motivates me the most to add new entries. Realizing that my literary “endurance” is more that of a sprinter than a marathoner and the pressure to create long prose with meaning has become a stressful barrier I’ve decided to alter the format a bit to include more “Blog-like” snapshots more often.

I’ve also realized that many times throughout the day my emotional analysis of the world here in Europe snaps frames in mind like a photographer obsessed with beauty. My “photographic” eye can be quite keen at times, I believe, and since many of my presumed readers are not familiar with Europe and the life and culture here these mental “photos” may hopefully be of some interest.

Of course, when the mood strikes me I will still compose my longer prose and observations, which I’ve previously so passionately compiled.

In honor of those who inspire me the most I will present a list of “must read” authors and books that come from outside the great U.S. of A that many in my homeland may not be aware of and which in my humble opinion contribute much to the development of an international literary culture and a sharing of Man’s common experience which serves much to bring us all closer together. I take no credit in discovery of these works myself but rather accept the gift of my own international awakening though the assistance of the Italians, Swiss, Hungarians, Russians, Belarusians and other varied nationalities that I’ve had the pleasure to share some part of my life with here. Trust me, not only are these selections entertaining but they will make you think.

To name the “greatest hits” in no particular order:

Milan Kundera: The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Milan Kundera: Ignorance
Mikhail Bulgakov: The Master and Margarita (great Russian/Ukrainian early Soviet era dissident writer that well, didn't last that long)
Andre Gide: The Immoralist
Paulo Coelho: Eleven Minutes
Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die
Patrick Suskind: Perfume
Cervantes: Don Quixote (if only so you will learn what the adjective "quixotic" means)
Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince (same as adjective reference above)
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: 100 Years of Solitude
Alessandro Baricco: Seta (Silk)- Maybe only available in Italian
Paul Auster: In the Country of Last Things
Viktor Frankl: Man’s Search for Meaning (Non-fiction)
Primo Levi: The Search for Roots (Non-fiction)

I’ll add more to the list as my journey and enlightenment continues…..

Starting Over

I met Katya at her new flat. It was only three minutes from the Frankfurt main train station past the African dope dealers, eastern European prostitutes and ethic food stores and nestled in a small oasis of hotels, trendy restaurants and new construction. I found her last name on the silver plated index next to the glass door among the list of fifty or so, an unpronounceable Russian “Dzhourinskaja” and rang her. The lift blasted me upwards like a small space capsule, completely modern with glass and mirrors, polished chrome and red glowing buttons of light. The long corridor to her flat reminded me of a cross between a hotel and hospital with that sterile smell of new paint and cleanser and a neutral beige carpet with the names of the tenants in black letters on a white label next to the door. What were they all suffering from inside I wondered?

When I reached her door I knocked lightly instead of using the bell, an old habit that I can’t explain where I acquired. She opened promptly towering in the doorway in her high heal black books, black tights, red tartan mini skirt and tight sweater. It’s hard for a woman with such long legs and imposing height to not be attractive in some sense and it always unnerves me a bit to stand directly next to her like she’s supposed to protect me from harm or something.

I walked inside. The room was almost completely empty. She had lived there for only two days and was one of the first tenants. Moved in after a month staying with friends and reeling from a very recent divorce and a million other life changes, her spirit and outward optimism were undaunted. She offered with a smile, “Care for some white wine?”

I took the glass grasping by the stem and began to nose around her small flat as she proudly explained to me her future decorating vision. There were only two rooms, and a small kitchen and bath. The main room was to be done in oriental style she said. Paper lanterns, a simple black wood table low to the ground for dining were one would sit directly on the floor and a sofa bed where she would sleep. At the present she had only a blanket on the floor and next to it two wood candlesticks with scented vanilla candles which were undoubtably awaiting the right moment to be lit. There was also a small blue plastic kids play table with two tiny plastic stools standing a mere foot off the ground. We sat comically on those seats our legs sprawling out diagonally from each other eating almonds and raisins from plastic bags sipping our wine and talking of the future.

Argentinean tango music was playing from her laptop and I remarked how lovely it was. She got excited and burst into one of her frequent 30-minute soliloquies on how it will all work out and other plans to rebuild her life both practical and fantastic. Desperation can be the mistress of hope.

After her enthusiasm wore itself out she showed me the other small room where her 3 year old son and the 50 year old Lithuanian nanny would live once she fetched him back from Volgograd which used to be Stalingrad after it was Tsaritsyn once before. Even cities live their lives in cycles: birth, prominence, ruin, re-birth, change, starting over, decline, and death. She had a picture of her son as the wallpaper for her desktop the same way I had of my daughter who was also thousands of miles away. It was his birthday today and we drank a toast to the life and happiness of Adrian.

It was getting late, she finally noticed, and the movie would start soon. I’m always too polite to say anything not wanting to interrupt people’s momentum and trains of thought and excited conversation. The pause would come naturally and she would realize. It always does.

“Can you switch off the music while I finish getting ready?” she asked disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door taking with her most of the remaining light. I sprawled out on the soft blanket with the full moon now shining in the room through the patio glass door. I laughed at the unfinished game of solitaire on her laptop marveling at the cryptic Russian words where I was used to seeing familiar titles. Even though it was the same game we all know it just seemed harder and I stared at it for a few minutes longer trying to figure out why.

She emerged from the bathroom with new lipstick shiny and colorful as I finished navigating the Russian version of the Windows shut down sequence from memory of those shinny, colored icons. As she opened her front door she told me, “Switch off the lamp. I never used to care about such things but now I have to watch every cent.” Such is the essence of starting over. We’ve all been there. She smiled at me nervously, wanting acceptance and validation that she will find her normal life again. I told her, “OK, I’m ready”, put my hand on the small of her back and led us out into the night.

Reflections off a shiny glass disco ball

Tonight I'm back from a Frankfurt Disco named "Living XXL" with my young Iranian friend Simin. She was the most beautiful thing in the place on many levels. Her innocence and unpretentiousness shown through the dark club warming me. In between the soothing base lines and snap shutter strobe lights something has changed. All that was once supposed to be beautiful has turned ugly. The feminine pouting puffed lips with glitter gloss sucking a cigarette or a straw drawing vodka and Red Bull into their young bodies waiting for the chemical thrill to keep them dancing. The pierced cocaine noses, the sweaty supple breasts thinly veiled behind tight t-shirts or blouses calling out to our genetic sense of maleness. The giant two level hall shook with the repetitive house music beat and the synchronistic gyration of hundreds of hips. Mass, simulated fucking. I stood on an upper level, arms around the waist of Simin and watched the mass orgy. But I was not aroused. I was sickened and all the efforts of beauty and sensuality were completely lost on me. Something has occurred this night and I'm not certain what. There will be another change in my life soon and it will be significant.

(Simin, the "Anti-Iranian". Ones who have escaped the most oppressive regimes know how to take every precious breath of life and enjoy it. Oh, and she's in Medical School too!)

Letting Go

People are always afraid to say the things they really feel for fear of being judged accordingly. They are afraid of defying convention, of offending or alienating themselves from the society, acceptance and love they so desperately seek. I’ve spent my entire life searching for the words, the words that would make a difference given a particular situation. I’ve searched many times for those words to express to you my feelings all the while withholding certain thoughts out of this fear. This manifestation can come in many forms ranging from stark emotional barriers and protectionism to complete panic and obsession. I strive to find the middle ground of honesty, openness and loving kindness and respect.

I don’t know what happened here, between us. I’m not angry and I’m not indifferent. Just confused, left without true resolution, something humans need more desperately than even a positive resolution. I’m just a person who feels, who allows himself to feel even though I’m often afraid of being misunderstood as extreme. I have lots of theories about your state of mind and emotions but I hate playing that game. I don’t feel like I should though it’s compelling to do so in absence of anything else.

It was nice, oh so nice. The messages, the calls, and of course the visits. More than that I cannot say for it did not have a chance to fully bloom. Maybe it wasn’t meant to. So, these words instead supplant attempting to create, form, mend, implore, assure, relinquish. We are all mad for sure as we think we can hide ourselves from humanity. It will serve us only so long as we choose not to feel. I refuse to be mad but instead expose myself in the basest emotional sense and for that I will suffer eternally.

All the best to you, my Love.

Jason