It was only a matter of time before my life was again flooded with awkwardness. The dialogue that follows is mostly translated from the original French...
I was in a bit of a rush Friday afternoon as I was a little bit late to meet some family friends on the left bank. We had plans later to go to the Moulin Rouge, so I had put on a cute outfit and was in the midst of a fast walk complete with an appropriate ipod soundtrack when I man in a tight argyle sweater flagged me down. He looked somewhat lost, and being that I am sometimes helpful to my own detriment, I stopped to aid him. He asked me in fast French if I was familiar with the Marais (an area in Paris). When I told him I was, he began what I can only describe as a frantic soliloquy describing his involvement in a literary festival to support homosexual writers. He then asked me where I was from as I clearly understood only about 85 per cent of what he had just said. I told him I was Italian (which I've taken to doing to avoid all the preconceived notions that inevitably accompany the American label). He gave me a book, a love story about two men in Paris, and thanked me for being friendly. He then made the following statement: "French women are so cold, you know? Sluts. They're all sluts." He then asked me for money for the book, "or a condom." I gave him a euro and told him I really had to go. He then told me he had something to give me "for good luck." He started to give me a hug, which turned into some sort of awkward waltz-like dance complete with some mildly inappropriate touching. He then kissed me on the lips and whispered that his name was David and he didn't like girls but that I was very sensual and very classy. He told me where to find him at a later date if I so desired.
I'm pretty sure I'm not going to take him up on that...
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Modern Misogyny
I’d like to take a break from my usual attempt to chronicle my European journey in an amusing if not comedic way to make a serious observation. Not only has my rupture with my usual daily interactions and events allowed me to grow as a person, it has allowed me to encounter sometimes shockingly different ways of thinking. Interestingly enough, it took a trip out of America to open my eyes to an American phenomenon I’ve come to find more than a little troubling.
To be honest, I’ve never been on board with today’s strain of the feminist movement. It’s not that I’ve ever found the general message of feminism to be flawed in any way; it’s just that I’ve always found its existence in the 21st century to be unnecessary. The use of “he” as a neutral pronoun has never bothered me. Statements such as “women belong in the kitchen,” or misogynistic song lyrics were more comedic for me than inflammatory.
Clearly men and women are different, but I find the very suggestion that one gender prevails over the other to be beyond ludicrous. Perhaps it’s because most of the people with whom I surround myself in the States are open-minded, respectful males, or perhaps it’s my own naiveté, but I genuinely thought that most educated Americans, particularly those of my generation, shared this opinion. It is this very ridiculousness that provides the comedy for the aforementioned anti-female slurs as well as the suite of others that exist. In my mind, feminism was archaic because the very frame of mind that inspired the creation of feminism was archaic. I thought that misogyny had gone the way of shoulder pads or Freudian psychology – something that was formerly taken seriously but is now somewhat laughable.
Surprisingly, not everyone gets the joke. Even the upper echelons of academia are wrought with men who, while they would never admit it, truly think of women as an intellectually weaker group. I’ve slowly come to realize in observing and partaking in conversations with some of the male students in my program that true misogyny is not a mindset that exists only for the proverbial shotgun slinging, barefoot, uneducated country boy. Despite the raw intelligence, refined education, and by and large liberal political alignment of many of my male classmates, I can’t help but feel that they’ve reserved the intellectual VIP room for the boys club.
I’ve never felt at all hindered by my gender. I haven’t always been secure in my femininity, but I’ve never seen it as an obstacle. My biological and psychological state of being female has never made me feel that there were things that I couldn’t do, places I couldn’t go, people with whom I couldn’t associate, or concepts I couldn’t explore. I’ve only recently experienced the frustration of being boxed out and looked down upon on the mere basis of an extra X chromosome. It is true that I’ll never be able to pee standing up, that I will occasionally find a boost of self confidence in artfully applied make-up and a pair of sexy high heels, but that doesn’t make me a lesser contender in a battle of wits. I assure you I can hold my own.
In a time of new beginnings, a new political regime, new scientific breakthroughs, and the continuous theme of change for the better, it is important to remember that true improvement is impossible without open-mindedness. It is neither possible nor desirable to be completely blind to the differences between the genders, but it is crucial to move past the “bro and ho” mentality in order to make any real progress.
To be honest, I’ve never been on board with today’s strain of the feminist movement. It’s not that I’ve ever found the general message of feminism to be flawed in any way; it’s just that I’ve always found its existence in the 21st century to be unnecessary. The use of “he” as a neutral pronoun has never bothered me. Statements such as “women belong in the kitchen,” or misogynistic song lyrics were more comedic for me than inflammatory.
Clearly men and women are different, but I find the very suggestion that one gender prevails over the other to be beyond ludicrous. Perhaps it’s because most of the people with whom I surround myself in the States are open-minded, respectful males, or perhaps it’s my own naiveté, but I genuinely thought that most educated Americans, particularly those of my generation, shared this opinion. It is this very ridiculousness that provides the comedy for the aforementioned anti-female slurs as well as the suite of others that exist. In my mind, feminism was archaic because the very frame of mind that inspired the creation of feminism was archaic. I thought that misogyny had gone the way of shoulder pads or Freudian psychology – something that was formerly taken seriously but is now somewhat laughable.
Surprisingly, not everyone gets the joke. Even the upper echelons of academia are wrought with men who, while they would never admit it, truly think of women as an intellectually weaker group. I’ve slowly come to realize in observing and partaking in conversations with some of the male students in my program that true misogyny is not a mindset that exists only for the proverbial shotgun slinging, barefoot, uneducated country boy. Despite the raw intelligence, refined education, and by and large liberal political alignment of many of my male classmates, I can’t help but feel that they’ve reserved the intellectual VIP room for the boys club.
I’ve never felt at all hindered by my gender. I haven’t always been secure in my femininity, but I’ve never seen it as an obstacle. My biological and psychological state of being female has never made me feel that there were things that I couldn’t do, places I couldn’t go, people with whom I couldn’t associate, or concepts I couldn’t explore. I’ve only recently experienced the frustration of being boxed out and looked down upon on the mere basis of an extra X chromosome. It is true that I’ll never be able to pee standing up, that I will occasionally find a boost of self confidence in artfully applied make-up and a pair of sexy high heels, but that doesn’t make me a lesser contender in a battle of wits. I assure you I can hold my own.
In a time of new beginnings, a new political regime, new scientific breakthroughs, and the continuous theme of change for the better, it is important to remember that true improvement is impossible without open-mindedness. It is neither possible nor desirable to be completely blind to the differences between the genders, but it is crucial to move past the “bro and ho” mentality in order to make any real progress.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Next Stop: Geneva!
After a full week of rest, I headed off to Geneva to visit DJ. After landing bright and early in the Geneva airport, I headed toward the exit following the signs marked "France." This made sense at the time given the fact that I had arrived from France. I was not, however, aware that the Geneva International Airport is the only airport that is situated on the border of two countries. So by following the signs, I actually ended up in France rather than in Switzerland. This presented a problem when I realized what I had done and was trying to get back. A small group of equally confused travelers and myself spent several minutes miming our pressing need to get through a locked glass door to a disgruntled customs agent on the other side. He finally opened the door and I met DJ in the correct country.
DJ lives in a homestay just outside of Geneva in a city called Nyon. After checking into our hostel (one of the nicest I've seen thusfar) we took a train there to eat lunch with his homestay family. Later that evening we headed to some bars in Nyon that featured a colorful, and definitely underage crowd, among which was a girl with a bright pink mohawk, her boyfriend who had probably the largest hickey I've ever seen, and a guy who had to be at least 7 feat tall. DJ ordered us a shaker, which he called "a mix of hard liquor and juice and stuff." This description called to mind a mix drink, so I was shocked when the waitress asked for 25 swiss francs (only slightly less than 25 dollars). The drink came out in a cocktail shaker with two shot glasses and contained very little actual juice if any at all. By the time we were finished with it, we were both wasted. At the next bar, Cactus Jack's, I realized that I had to use the bathroom. I descended to the lower level and was faced with an opening leading to some sinks, some more doors, and some urinals. I asked a man drying his hands if this was the bathroom for both sexes - a phenomenon that occurs pretty often in Europe. When he assured me that it was, I went into the nearest stall and threw up (thanks for that shaker, DJ). Only after I left the stall did another man inform me that the ladies room was across the hall. More classy points for Nicole...
Other than the Nyon bar scene, I got to see a bunch of cool museums and a cool church in Switzerland. The International Red Cross Museum, a museum of art and art history, and a medieval Swiss house are all located in the heart of Geneva. I enjoyed all of these attractions right up until an hour after I was supposed to be at the airport, missing my flight entirely. I had to pay 75 euro and wait about five hours in the Geneva airport. When I finally arrived home, I found a bus from Paris Orly that took me back to the city for only 1 euro 60. This being about 6 euro less than normal, I decided to give it a try. I had no idea that this bus took forever just to get to Paris and that it went through Ghettoville, France. The bus driver told me to take a tram and then a bus from the original bus to get back to my neighborhood. This ended up being the longest possible route. I arrived home, exhausted, 2 and a half hours later, really thankful that I don't live in a Parisian suburb.
Next weekend my program is taking us to a city on the northern coast of France that apparently has one nightclub and several fishermen's bars that are open mostly in the late afternoon and actually filled with fishermen. This should be interesting...
DJ lives in a homestay just outside of Geneva in a city called Nyon. After checking into our hostel (one of the nicest I've seen thusfar) we took a train there to eat lunch with his homestay family. Later that evening we headed to some bars in Nyon that featured a colorful, and definitely underage crowd, among which was a girl with a bright pink mohawk, her boyfriend who had probably the largest hickey I've ever seen, and a guy who had to be at least 7 feat tall. DJ ordered us a shaker, which he called "a mix of hard liquor and juice and stuff." This description called to mind a mix drink, so I was shocked when the waitress asked for 25 swiss francs (only slightly less than 25 dollars). The drink came out in a cocktail shaker with two shot glasses and contained very little actual juice if any at all. By the time we were finished with it, we were both wasted. At the next bar, Cactus Jack's, I realized that I had to use the bathroom. I descended to the lower level and was faced with an opening leading to some sinks, some more doors, and some urinals. I asked a man drying his hands if this was the bathroom for both sexes - a phenomenon that occurs pretty often in Europe. When he assured me that it was, I went into the nearest stall and threw up (thanks for that shaker, DJ). Only after I left the stall did another man inform me that the ladies room was across the hall. More classy points for Nicole...
Other than the Nyon bar scene, I got to see a bunch of cool museums and a cool church in Switzerland. The International Red Cross Museum, a museum of art and art history, and a medieval Swiss house are all located in the heart of Geneva. I enjoyed all of these attractions right up until an hour after I was supposed to be at the airport, missing my flight entirely. I had to pay 75 euro and wait about five hours in the Geneva airport. When I finally arrived home, I found a bus from Paris Orly that took me back to the city for only 1 euro 60. This being about 6 euro less than normal, I decided to give it a try. I had no idea that this bus took forever just to get to Paris and that it went through Ghettoville, France. The bus driver told me to take a tram and then a bus from the original bus to get back to my neighborhood. This ended up being the longest possible route. I arrived home, exhausted, 2 and a half hours later, really thankful that I don't live in a Parisian suburb.
Next weekend my program is taking us to a city on the northern coast of France that apparently has one nightclub and several fishermen's bars that are open mostly in the late afternoon and actually filled with fishermen. This should be interesting...
Monday, March 23, 2009
I've Got Worms
Part 2: Ben, Dana, and James' Parisian adventure that also killed Nicole...
After only a day to recover from Berlin, I met Ben, Dana, and James at Gare du Nord. Thanks to Paris' lack of open container law, we picnicked in the Tuilleries with bread, cheese, and some wine. Since it was Saint Patrick's Day, we decided to find an Irish pub. I know of a total of 1 Irish pub in Paris, so after first visiting our favorite cheap bar in St. Michel, bartended by a crotchety old man with a rather large bump on his head, we headed over to the aforementioned Irish pub. There we ordered Irish car bombs, a request that illicited nothing from the bartender other than a profoundly confused stare. Further attempts to explain the drink succeeded only in rendering the bartender more confused. We finally decided to just order pints of Guinness and shots of Jameson/Bailys. We sat at a table next to one with two French men seated at it, effectively boxing them in so they couldn't leave. This was not our original intention, but in retrospect their continued stay at the pub may have been due to this fact. We chatted with them in a mixture of French and English, although their English was beyond terrible. They asked at one point if Americans considered French men to be (insert gesture here that suggests the adjective "fruity"). I responded with a perhaps too eager "yes."
We took a break from partying the next day to fit in some touristy things, but recommenced the following night on the left bank. After relocating from a Canadian bar, we ended up at a bar whose most notable drink was the "Burn Island" - a long island ice tea with a French version of Red Bull in it. Just one of these, in conjunction with some persuasion by Dana, fueled my several minute session of dancing on the bar. The drink can also be partially blamed for the fact that Evan later passed out in my bathroom with the door locked and was unretrievable for quite some time.
The next night, we were supposed to meet Evan and the other GW friends he was with at a club called Showcase, which is located under the Pont Alexandre near the Champs-Elysée. The entrance was free before midnight, so Ben, DJ, James, Dana, and I decided to get a head start. We arrived just after midnight, but were prepared to pay a cover so we could meet everyone else. When we finally approached the door, we found it manned by both a huge bouncer and a small woman wearing a fur jacket and Christian Laboutin heels. She stared at me snootily and asked in French, "You are how many?" I replied that we were 5. She then demanded to see all 5 of us. I counted us off. She then looked us each up and down and responded (still in French) "It's not possible," and motioned for us to leave. Initially, I was shocked, but then later saw the humor. After this epic failure, we met Evan in the Bastille and went to a somewhat less discriminatory club. On the way out, Dana somehow found herself in the middle of an all out brawl. Being that she had finished an entire bottle of champagne by herself, she has limited memory of the pickle she was in.
And so concludes my over-partying. This week will include lots and lots of sleeping.
After only a day to recover from Berlin, I met Ben, Dana, and James at Gare du Nord. Thanks to Paris' lack of open container law, we picnicked in the Tuilleries with bread, cheese, and some wine. Since it was Saint Patrick's Day, we decided to find an Irish pub. I know of a total of 1 Irish pub in Paris, so after first visiting our favorite cheap bar in St. Michel, bartended by a crotchety old man with a rather large bump on his head, we headed over to the aforementioned Irish pub. There we ordered Irish car bombs, a request that illicited nothing from the bartender other than a profoundly confused stare. Further attempts to explain the drink succeeded only in rendering the bartender more confused. We finally decided to just order pints of Guinness and shots of Jameson/Bailys. We sat at a table next to one with two French men seated at it, effectively boxing them in so they couldn't leave. This was not our original intention, but in retrospect their continued stay at the pub may have been due to this fact. We chatted with them in a mixture of French and English, although their English was beyond terrible. They asked at one point if Americans considered French men to be (insert gesture here that suggests the adjective "fruity"). I responded with a perhaps too eager "yes."
We took a break from partying the next day to fit in some touristy things, but recommenced the following night on the left bank. After relocating from a Canadian bar, we ended up at a bar whose most notable drink was the "Burn Island" - a long island ice tea with a French version of Red Bull in it. Just one of these, in conjunction with some persuasion by Dana, fueled my several minute session of dancing on the bar. The drink can also be partially blamed for the fact that Evan later passed out in my bathroom with the door locked and was unretrievable for quite some time.
The next night, we were supposed to meet Evan and the other GW friends he was with at a club called Showcase, which is located under the Pont Alexandre near the Champs-Elysée. The entrance was free before midnight, so Ben, DJ, James, Dana, and I decided to get a head start. We arrived just after midnight, but were prepared to pay a cover so we could meet everyone else. When we finally approached the door, we found it manned by both a huge bouncer and a small woman wearing a fur jacket and Christian Laboutin heels. She stared at me snootily and asked in French, "You are how many?" I replied that we were 5. She then demanded to see all 5 of us. I counted us off. She then looked us each up and down and responded (still in French) "It's not possible," and motioned for us to leave. Initially, I was shocked, but then later saw the humor. After this epic failure, we met Evan in the Bastille and went to a somewhat less discriminatory club. On the way out, Dana somehow found herself in the middle of an all out brawl. Being that she had finished an entire bottle of champagne by herself, she has limited memory of the pickle she was in.
And so concludes my over-partying. This week will include lots and lots of sleeping.
In Communist Germany, Party Has You.
I'm aware this is a long time coming so it's going to be two posts. The following is part 1: Berlin, Germany.
While reviewing my plane ticket to Germany last week, it occurred to me that in my quest to find the cheapest available ticket, I had accidently booked one that left at 6 in the morning. This wouldn't have been a problem if the Parisian public transportation system weren't closed between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5:30 a.m. My oversight meant that I would have to take the night bus from the center of the city at 4:35 in the morning if I had any hopes of making my plane. A more responsible person might've gone to bed in the 8 p.m. family in order to be well rested for the trip. I, instead, chose to visit a suite of bars and forget the sleeping thing all together. My friends and I (toting a rolling suitcase), with the addition of an Australian boy we encountered on the street outside a random hostel, drank sangria and partied into the wee hours of the morning, after which I drunkenly boarded a bus to the airport.
I arrived several hours later, exhausted and still wearing the clothes I had partied in the night before, in Berlin, which is arguably the ugliest city I've ever been to. The people I was staying with live in East Berlin, so I took the subway from the train station to their adorable apartment. The most used feature of said apartment was a gravity bong that sat in the kitchen in a location that I may have put a blender if it were mine. It was almost like an appliance. This was the first clue that I may not be able to keep up.
The other GW people arrived a few hours later and started a string of partying unprecedented in my lifetime. Other than a few touristy visits such as pieces of the Berlin wall, a cool cemetery, the Brandenburg Gate, and a flea market, the only things I saw in Berlin were the insides of clubs, the first of which was a gay club with several rooms playing varying types of music.
The second club we went to resembled some sort of old warehouse with a bunch of different floors and rooms that were playing different types of music. Despite the heterogeneity of the music, the clothing sported by all of the men in the club was by and large the same: a tuxedo vest and a skinny tie. In fact, those of whom were not wearing a tuxedo vest and a skinny tie were so overwhelmingly outnumbered, it was almost as if they didn't belong. I found this to be amusing.
Anyway, I returned to Paris after three days with no voice and an epic cold. I then rested one day until the next string of parties...
While reviewing my plane ticket to Germany last week, it occurred to me that in my quest to find the cheapest available ticket, I had accidently booked one that left at 6 in the morning. This wouldn't have been a problem if the Parisian public transportation system weren't closed between the hours of 2 a.m. and 5:30 a.m. My oversight meant that I would have to take the night bus from the center of the city at 4:35 in the morning if I had any hopes of making my plane. A more responsible person might've gone to bed in the 8 p.m. family in order to be well rested for the trip. I, instead, chose to visit a suite of bars and forget the sleeping thing all together. My friends and I (toting a rolling suitcase), with the addition of an Australian boy we encountered on the street outside a random hostel, drank sangria and partied into the wee hours of the morning, after which I drunkenly boarded a bus to the airport.
I arrived several hours later, exhausted and still wearing the clothes I had partied in the night before, in Berlin, which is arguably the ugliest city I've ever been to. The people I was staying with live in East Berlin, so I took the subway from the train station to their adorable apartment. The most used feature of said apartment was a gravity bong that sat in the kitchen in a location that I may have put a blender if it were mine. It was almost like an appliance. This was the first clue that I may not be able to keep up.
The other GW people arrived a few hours later and started a string of partying unprecedented in my lifetime. Other than a few touristy visits such as pieces of the Berlin wall, a cool cemetery, the Brandenburg Gate, and a flea market, the only things I saw in Berlin were the insides of clubs, the first of which was a gay club with several rooms playing varying types of music.
The second club we went to resembled some sort of old warehouse with a bunch of different floors and rooms that were playing different types of music. Despite the heterogeneity of the music, the clothing sported by all of the men in the club was by and large the same: a tuxedo vest and a skinny tie. In fact, those of whom were not wearing a tuxedo vest and a skinny tie were so overwhelmingly outnumbered, it was almost as if they didn't belong. I found this to be amusing.
Anyway, I returned to Paris after three days with no voice and an epic cold. I then rested one day until the next string of parties...
Thursday, March 12, 2009
An Open Letter to Parisian Metro Riders
It's been awhile since I've posted anything but to be fair nothing has really occurred. My grandparents came for a weekend and I spent that time galavanting around Paris taking advantage of lots of different tourist attractions and eating delicious meals. A waiter at one café exclaimed after talking to me for a few minutes about where I was from that he was going to marry me and go live in America. Upon discovering I was in Paris until May, he wrote his phone number down on a receipt and gave it to me. He never gave me his name. I haven't called.
Otherwise I have nothing to report, which is why I will dedicate this post to the fascinating social group that is Parisian metro riders.
To the Parisian metro-riding constituents:
I would like to inform you all that with the end of M.C. Hammer's reign in the pop culture realm, so came the end of parachute pants. Parachute pants have gone the way of shoulder pads and Surge, placed in the category of "things that should never ever ever resurface." Please go buy a normal pair of pants.
Your heart-felt sob story that you've just recited those sharing your metro car about how you tried to get your degree but fell onto hard times and someone stole all of your money/worldly possessions and you just need some money or a restaurant ticket so you can eat is not particularly moving when you're barking it at everyone from your position in front of the doors. If you haven't noticed, most of us are desperately trying to avoid eye contact.
However, this does not mean that we will give you money if you don't have a speech. Those of you who come up to metro riders and shover your hand in their faces with no explanation as to why you are doing so are not likely to be rewarded.
These are just some of the ridiculous things I must call people out on. Others include but are not limited to: drunkenly smoking cigarettes in metro cars (which is very much not allowed), the mohawk I saw yesterday that actually didn't fit under the door without him ducking, and the pair of girls I saw the other night swigging from wine bottles, playing the harmonica, and dancing around in sort of circles arm in arm.
I'm off to Berlin this weekend so I will hopefully have some fun stories for everyone.
Otherwise I have nothing to report, which is why I will dedicate this post to the fascinating social group that is Parisian metro riders.
To the Parisian metro-riding constituents:
I would like to inform you all that with the end of M.C. Hammer's reign in the pop culture realm, so came the end of parachute pants. Parachute pants have gone the way of shoulder pads and Surge, placed in the category of "things that should never ever ever resurface." Please go buy a normal pair of pants.
Your heart-felt sob story that you've just recited those sharing your metro car about how you tried to get your degree but fell onto hard times and someone stole all of your money/worldly possessions and you just need some money or a restaurant ticket so you can eat is not particularly moving when you're barking it at everyone from your position in front of the doors. If you haven't noticed, most of us are desperately trying to avoid eye contact.
However, this does not mean that we will give you money if you don't have a speech. Those of you who come up to metro riders and shover your hand in their faces with no explanation as to why you are doing so are not likely to be rewarded.
These are just some of the ridiculous things I must call people out on. Others include but are not limited to: drunkenly smoking cigarettes in metro cars (which is very much not allowed), the mohawk I saw yesterday that actually didn't fit under the door without him ducking, and the pair of girls I saw the other night swigging from wine bottles, playing the harmonica, and dancing around in sort of circles arm in arm.
I'm off to Berlin this weekend so I will hopefully have some fun stories for everyone.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Belllllliiiiiiisssiiimmmaa!
I was going to wait until after I got back from Italy for this one, but I just couldn't. The awkward saga of Nicole Gulotta is far from over...
I arrived at my Florence hostel around 11:30 pm on Saturday night after having taken a metro, a train, a plane (where they had made me check my regulation sized carry-on bag), a coach bus, and a regular city bus. The regular city bus had been a little confusing, but I managed it after being helped by a very kind young woman who had witnessed me attempting to put a coin in the slot where your bus ticket is supposed to go. She helped me find my hostel and I was buzzed in. Upon arriving, the very confused hostel employee asked me when I had made my reservation, as he had no record of it. I gave him my piece of paper that proved I was staying there. He glanced at it, looked back up at me, and said, "Nicole, this says February 22nd, and it's the 21st." He then went on to explain to me that he didn't have anything open that night. As I was visibly distraught, he calmed me down and told me to try the hostel one floor above this one. Luckily it had a bed in a room that contained two Japanese boys who were sleeping with the lights on. While I found this odd, I had no complaints.
The next day I awoke, had breakfast, and had a brief conversation with a hostel employee named Kujtim (I know; it's almost impossible to pronounce) and his friend Sally (male). They were playing copious amounts of Mariah Carrey and trying deliberately to make me tragically confused by responding to all of my questions with obvious lies. They then gave me a map and I left. This, however, was not the last I saw of them.
Throughout the day, I had some time to kill before Evan got back from Prague so I went to the Uffizzi Galleries, a huge museum filled with Renaissance art. I also found this little Carnivale parade that featured lots of people from different countries, mostly in Latin America. The spectators were by and large little kids with their parents and most of the little kids were dressed in some sort of Halloween costume and throwing lots of confetti. But despite the costumes and the music and the dancing, the most interesting aspect of this particular parade was the old woman sitting next to me. We were sitting on the base of a really old looking ionic column with a pretty decent view of the parade when a few younger men came and stood in front of her. Now in New York, when you're leaning against or sitting on pretty much anything to watch a parade and someone comes and stands in front of you, you're out of luck. Any verbal attempt to remove the obstacle blocking your vision would be met by either apathetic stares or the requisite "fuck you," so generally you say nothing. Not so if you're a little old Italian lady. After a stream of angrily uttered, unintelligible words, the men responded apologetically and moved out of the way. Later, one of them lit a cigarette. The woman swatted at the air with a look on that suggested someone had just shoved something rotten into her face. She eventually repeated her angry rant, and the men moved down so as to keep the cigarette smoke out of her face. Again, in New York a similar rant may have resulted in a violent verbal exchange followed by something to the effect of "then why don't you stand the fuck up?" Apparently in Florence, the little old lady is not one whose aggravated bursts are ignorable.
In the event that my cell phone wasn't working or that Evan couldn't get through to me, I was supposed to meet him in front of the Duomo at 7:45. I was early, so I just chilled on the steps and people watched. At one point a dog ran by, and I looked up and accidentally made eye contact with its owner. This proved to be a huge mistake. The man looked at me, stopped, backed up a bit, and started talking to me in rapid fire Italian. When it surfaced that I didn't understand, he switched to English: "Would you like to take a coffee?" I explained that I really didn't have time because I was waiting for my friend. This was followed by "Can I know you? I mean, I don't know you but can I know you?" I was clearly confused by the significance of this question, so he switched gears. After learning that I was from New York, he preceded to tell me all about his experience staying with relatives in "The Queens," about his job with General Electric, his study abroad experience in Copenhagen, and many other facets of his life in a fashion almost as if he were reading it off an index card. He then asked for my phone number, but I refused and reminded him I was only on vacation for a few days and that I was waiting for my friend. He bid me farewell by attempting to kiss me on the lips, missing only because I turned my head. He then said, "Goodbye," and then more quietly "I want to bite your lips..." turned, and headed off, leaving me sitting on the steps of the Duomo, completely alone, but laughing audibly.
It was soon after that Kujtim resurfaced. He found me sitting on the steps becoming increasingly worried that Evan wasn't there yet. Being that I was on the verge of an epic freak out, he took me out for coffee and told me that if I couldn't find Evan he would let me stay in the hostel that night for free. Luckily this wasn't necessary. As it turned out, Evan's flight had been delayed, thus delaying his train, and the number I had given him to reach me at wasn't working. I got in touch with him only because one of his roommates had facebook mobile.
So the morals of this very long story are these:
1. Nicole should never EVER travel alone
2. Facebook is God. Long live Faceboook.
I arrived at my Florence hostel around 11:30 pm on Saturday night after having taken a metro, a train, a plane (where they had made me check my regulation sized carry-on bag), a coach bus, and a regular city bus. The regular city bus had been a little confusing, but I managed it after being helped by a very kind young woman who had witnessed me attempting to put a coin in the slot where your bus ticket is supposed to go. She helped me find my hostel and I was buzzed in. Upon arriving, the very confused hostel employee asked me when I had made my reservation, as he had no record of it. I gave him my piece of paper that proved I was staying there. He glanced at it, looked back up at me, and said, "Nicole, this says February 22nd, and it's the 21st." He then went on to explain to me that he didn't have anything open that night. As I was visibly distraught, he calmed me down and told me to try the hostel one floor above this one. Luckily it had a bed in a room that contained two Japanese boys who were sleeping with the lights on. While I found this odd, I had no complaints.
The next day I awoke, had breakfast, and had a brief conversation with a hostel employee named Kujtim (I know; it's almost impossible to pronounce) and his friend Sally (male). They were playing copious amounts of Mariah Carrey and trying deliberately to make me tragically confused by responding to all of my questions with obvious lies. They then gave me a map and I left. This, however, was not the last I saw of them.
Throughout the day, I had some time to kill before Evan got back from Prague so I went to the Uffizzi Galleries, a huge museum filled with Renaissance art. I also found this little Carnivale parade that featured lots of people from different countries, mostly in Latin America. The spectators were by and large little kids with their parents and most of the little kids were dressed in some sort of Halloween costume and throwing lots of confetti. But despite the costumes and the music and the dancing, the most interesting aspect of this particular parade was the old woman sitting next to me. We were sitting on the base of a really old looking ionic column with a pretty decent view of the parade when a few younger men came and stood in front of her. Now in New York, when you're leaning against or sitting on pretty much anything to watch a parade and someone comes and stands in front of you, you're out of luck. Any verbal attempt to remove the obstacle blocking your vision would be met by either apathetic stares or the requisite "fuck you," so generally you say nothing. Not so if you're a little old Italian lady. After a stream of angrily uttered, unintelligible words, the men responded apologetically and moved out of the way. Later, one of them lit a cigarette. The woman swatted at the air with a look on that suggested someone had just shoved something rotten into her face. She eventually repeated her angry rant, and the men moved down so as to keep the cigarette smoke out of her face. Again, in New York a similar rant may have resulted in a violent verbal exchange followed by something to the effect of "then why don't you stand the fuck up?" Apparently in Florence, the little old lady is not one whose aggravated bursts are ignorable.
In the event that my cell phone wasn't working or that Evan couldn't get through to me, I was supposed to meet him in front of the Duomo at 7:45. I was early, so I just chilled on the steps and people watched. At one point a dog ran by, and I looked up and accidentally made eye contact with its owner. This proved to be a huge mistake. The man looked at me, stopped, backed up a bit, and started talking to me in rapid fire Italian. When it surfaced that I didn't understand, he switched to English: "Would you like to take a coffee?" I explained that I really didn't have time because I was waiting for my friend. This was followed by "Can I know you? I mean, I don't know you but can I know you?" I was clearly confused by the significance of this question, so he switched gears. After learning that I was from New York, he preceded to tell me all about his experience staying with relatives in "The Queens," about his job with General Electric, his study abroad experience in Copenhagen, and many other facets of his life in a fashion almost as if he were reading it off an index card. He then asked for my phone number, but I refused and reminded him I was only on vacation for a few days and that I was waiting for my friend. He bid me farewell by attempting to kiss me on the lips, missing only because I turned my head. He then said, "Goodbye," and then more quietly "I want to bite your lips..." turned, and headed off, leaving me sitting on the steps of the Duomo, completely alone, but laughing audibly.
It was soon after that Kujtim resurfaced. He found me sitting on the steps becoming increasingly worried that Evan wasn't there yet. Being that I was on the verge of an epic freak out, he took me out for coffee and told me that if I couldn't find Evan he would let me stay in the hostel that night for free. Luckily this wasn't necessary. As it turned out, Evan's flight had been delayed, thus delaying his train, and the number I had given him to reach me at wasn't working. I got in touch with him only because one of his roommates had facebook mobile.
So the morals of this very long story are these:
1. Nicole should never EVER travel alone
2. Facebook is God. Long live Faceboook.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
