An old short poem

Found this poem in an old notebook of mine and thought I'd share it:

The three legged create trumpets forward,
Breaking barriers of sound and time and
struggling for cultural relevance.

Ears turned off from meaning
and opened to blasting garbage.
Dance floor boogie is dead.
Replaced with shit instead.

Faint

So a girl literally fainted in my Developmental Psychology class while we were watching a video of a live birth.  Right when the head began to pop out, she just lost all control and knocked out.  Everyone looked her way in shock, but I turned back and continued watching the movie.  I was going to let some fainted girl ruin my cinematic experience.

I eventually turned my head to look, because I thought I might look like a jackass for watching the movie while someone in my vicinity was in danger.  The teacher had brought her back to the realm of the living and was asking her questions to test her memory.  I heard an older woman behind me utter "someone oughta go fan her face".  I looked back to see the same woman walking over with a piece of paper to fan the girl's face.  Her motherly instincts took over.

The teacher cancelled the class after she called an ambulance and I headed out of class, unenlightened as to what I could expect when my time to be a father came around.  But that won't happen for quite awhile.  Sorry to disappoint you mom.

I guess I need to put some kind of image in the blog to make it more visually appealing.  Welp, here goes:

"What should young people do with their lives today? Many things, obviously. But the most daring thing is to create stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured."-Kurt Vonnegut

Happy Travels.  Watch for squirrels.

Lucas

Wah

About a week ago I went to the SF Public Library before rehearsal and wrote out a long, unfinished blog post about my day.  I even took a couple of pictures to go along with it.  And so I woke this morning with the idea that I would finish that same blog and post it.  But alas, it has vaporized into thin air.  Ca put. 

I could have gotten really upset and spent my whole day whining about the post the could have been.  But I chose to say FUCK IT and move on.  Instead I will post the pictures I took at the library so you can have some visual stimulant.

                                    A book I found on the desk I sat at.  I love San Francisco.

I've been keeping quite busy with rehearsals for my show, Dog Sees God.  I'm paying a buttload of money to get out there on BART, but its well worth it.  The show and cast are awesome,  I walk everywhere I go (calf muscle increase) and I've gotten to know the city much better.

I was called in an hour early the other day to record the famous Peanuts "wah wah" sounds on trombone.  My main instrument is the trumpet, so it wasn't too hard to get a decent sound out of the trombone.  One of the technicians, Ross, brought in his trombone and a makeshift "wah wah" mute for me to use.

Well, shit.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUyLwXhqlWU

The original Peanuts "wah wah"

Anyone interested in ordering tickets can visit this website:

http://www.boxcartheatre.org/

The house only seats about 50, so I'd suggest ordering soon if you wanna go.

I've had a lot of crazy adventures since my last blog that deserve their own post...but they will come in due time.  Until then, America.  Stay classy.

Lucas

                                                                               

Homeless Philosophy

You always meet the weirdest, most interesting people on BART.  Of course you occasionally meet some psychopaths, but for the most part people on BART are pretty cool.


I ran into one such fellow on the SF train.  For the sake of the blog, I'll call him Harold.  He was filthy and had a shopping cart full of bags.  To add on, he had a huge red birthmark on the left side of his forehead.  And out of nowhere, he began to speak loudly to no one in particular.  I put my book away and took out my journal.  I had to write this shit down.


"The priest don't really believe in God.  The priest travels to Rome and whatnot."

I jotted down the words as quick as I could.  I looked back up when he stopped.  His gaze was downcast and his eyes looked empty.  He was definitely in his own little world.  He lifted his head back up and began to speak:

"Do good things, like pick up litter and volunteer and stuff like that...And don't do it once a week, do it everyday."

I finished writing as the train came to the next stop.  I looked back up to see Harold wheeling his cart out on to the platform.  I opened my journal back up and read what I had wrote.  The stuff about the priest didn't really make sense, but what he said about doing good things resonated with me.  Surprising the wisdom one picks up from the homeless, eh?

This was my first of many encounters with the wildly diverse BART culture. I'll continue to post shenanigans when they arise.  For now, it's beddy bye time.

Good Night America.



 Lazy Luke

It's Nice to Have a Social Life

It really is.  I forgot how wonderful it feels to communicate with other human beings.
 GOD it feels magnificent.


I experienced a lot of greatness yesterday, much of which cannot be put into words.  And so I give you:

My Day in Quotes, Observations and Bullet Points (and maybe some pictures, because blogs are boring without them):


•Rehearsal was tight. We are currently learning how to dance like the Peanuts characters, which is a lot harder than it looks.  We use this video as a reference:
http://www.youtube.com/YBPcoI4OE9Y

•Went to the SF Public Library afterwards, which is literally right down the street from our rehearsal space.  It is massive.  I looked up the top 100 plays online, and wrote the first ten in my notebook.  My stomach is ready to consume the classics.  Well, if you want to be specific about it, my mind is ready for consumption.  My stomach's just on permanent standby.



•Got in touch with my nerdy side by playin' some Magic the Gathering with my friends Brian and Marcus. They're both ridiculously intelligent and opinionated, which makes for some passionate debate. Oh, America.  How I love thee for allowing such beautiful discourse.


After Brian and Marcus left, I headed to my brother's house to let loose.  When I got there everyone was already pretty trashed, but I sort of enjoy seeing everyone in a much more carefree state of mind.  Too many great things happened.  Since I don't feel like giving you a play-by-play narration, I will instead give you what I was able to scribble down in my notebook while still sober.

"As long as you make love to her, it's all good." -Anonymous

(Referring to me)
"It looks like he's been well suckled."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Doesn't matter, just write it down."

And possibly the best quote of the night:

"If your dick's tellin' you to fuck a dude, doesn't mean you're gay, just means your dick is telling you to fuck a dude." -Ethan

Take care ya'll.  Don't drive drunk.

Lucas

Jetlaggin'

I've been back in the states for two solid days and I'm still tired.  I guess it takes awhile for jetlag to wear off.  Or maybe I'm just too accustomed to having three caffeinated drinks everyday.  Who knows...All I know is that I'm tired.

It feels great to be in my own bed though.  There's nothing like it.

But I feel like I'm in a daze.   Like I'm not really American any more.  Interactions with people feel different.  I found my self responding to the guy making my burrito with "Si, per favore".  He looked at me funny and repeated his question.  "What kind of meat, sir?"  I guess they don't have the 'yes please' meat in America.

I jumped right into rehearsing for a play in SF called Dog Sees God.  It's kind of like a raunchy version of Peanuts.  It features the Peanut gang in high school, and they're either homophobic as hell or on a lot of drugs.  Or both.  My character (a grown up Linus) took the drug route.  Figures that the philosophical kid with a blanket would get into drugs.

Regardless, you (the three or four people who read my blog) should come see it if you can.  It's gonna be dope.  Once there is a legitimate avenue for ticket orders, I'll let ya'll know.

Well my dog's getting angry at me now, so I guess I should sign off.  Time to hit the hay and pass out.

I don't really have a picture that fits on theme, so I decided to post one of this guy.  I have no clue who he is...but I call him Brad.  Seems like a cool guy, eh?

Good night to you all.  Take care.

Lucas

Pompeii

I've been evading this blog with Facebook.  I guess that's what three glasses of wine and a shot of limoncello does to you.  Maybe there was some deeper Freudian shit going on here.  Maybe I don't want to acknowledge that I'm leaving this beautiful country.  But I am.

We arrived at Pompeii sometime around 11:00 and got lead around by a hilarious Italian tour guide.  It was amazing.  I was surprised at how well preserved it all was.

Highlights:
Sleeping dogs, ancient fresco paintings, and the red light district.

An ancient dog preserved from the historic blast of Mt. Vesuvius.

Some pretty neat old ass walls of Pompeii

And of course, the classic landscape.

After Pompeii, we had lunch at a local restaurant, then headed back to Rome.  One of the few girls my age in the tour, Krista (from Virginia), invited me to go on a run around the city.  Knowing I may never be able to set foot in this town again, I accepted her offer.  After packing at the hotel, we got in our jogging clothes and met in the lobby.  She was dressed in an entire jogging outfit, which was intimidating.  I learned later that she ran cross country in high school, which was even more intimidating.  Regardless, we had a nice talk as we ran around the city.  People don't jog too often around Rome, so we got a lot of weird stares and comments in Italian.  After a circuitous lap around the block, we decided to run up a gigantic set of stairs.  It felt great.  Now out of breath, we walked to a nearby park and walked around.  

Eventually we ran into a group of Italians sitting on the ground drinking beers.  Two of the women were doing some weird dancing, and Krista dared me to dance with them.  "Why the fuck not?" I thought.  I approached the women and asked them if they could teach me how to dance.  The whole group turned and looked at me, confused.  One of the guys spoke up.   "No speak English".  Not knowing they were Italian quite yet, I responded with "Habla espanol?"  They smiled and shook their heads.

I tried my best to communicate that I wanted to learn how to dance.  I knew bailar, but not much more than that.  Krista had taken some spanish in high school, so she helped me out in getting my point across.  They finally understood.  One of the women who had been dancing stood up and began to run me through the steps.  It was by no means your typical dance routine.  It was pretty weird, to be honest.  But I followed her as best I could, and afterwards the group, Krista and I shared a laugh.  They were probably laughing at my inferior dance skills, but I didn't mind.

After we finished running through the steps a few more times, we took a break and attempted talking to eachother.  After speaking horrible Spanish in vain for a few minutes, one of the guys explained they were all Italian.  That sure explained a lot.  After having a nice Spanish 1 conversation, we left the park and headed back to the hotel.

After confidently telling Krista I knew the way back, we got utterly lost.  I asked two different people for directions, but they were both from other countries.  One from England and the other from Scotland.  Shows how well I know my cultures.  We eventually found an Italian man who pointed us in the right way.

We got back to the hotel sweaty as hell and met up with Krista's mother, who was upset that Krista had taken the only key to their hotel room.  I left before it got too awkward, knowing I would probably never see the both of them ever again.  Our family made vague plans to have drinks with them later, but it never fell through.  And that was that.  After showering and putting fresh clothes on, my family got together and had our last Italian meal together.  The meal was delicious.  I had a bit too much white wine, and topped off my too much white wine with a shot of limoncello.

And now I find myself slightly tipsy, trying to think of what big lesson I learned from this entire trip.  Well, in general I learned that being an ignorant American makes you feel like an asshole.  To be more specific, I wish I learned a lot more Italian before I left.  But there's a much greater understanding I can't quite put into words.  An appreciation for something completely Un-American, I suppose.  You don't really realize how deeply steeped you are in your own habits and cultural norms until they're put on blast in front of an entire country.  You also don't realize how utterly lonely you can feel when you're unable to communicate with ninety percent of the people you run into.

And that's what I look forward to.  Being able to connect with another human being.  I don't care if it's some homeless hick from Texas.  I just want to have a passionate conversation in English.

I want to see my friends.  I want to see my girlfriend.  And I want to play my damn guitar.

That is all.

And so, I say good afternoon and good night for the last time, America.  To the few of you who did, thanks for joining me on this trip.  I look forward to seeing your beautiful smiling faces soon.

All my love,

Lucas

Italian Penis Envy: My Day at the Vatican

I went into the Vatican with little to no expectations.  I knew I was 'technically' going into another country, and I knew this country was full of amazing religious art.  But that's about it.

I wasn't at all surprised to see an array of marble statues and religious paintings; you can't miss 'em if you're on a tour. But today, I didn't want the typical tourist experience.  So I made a vow that whenever I saw more than five people taking a picture of something, I wouldn't pull out my camera.  As a result I began to see some interesting things.  Like this guy.  Judgmental, and yet wholly uncertain of his environment.  I don't know who he is, but it looks like he needs to talk to someone.

                           And then there was this guy.  Utterly ashamed of his best friend.

It was about this time that I started to become aware of the statues genitals.  Or rather, aware of their lack of genitals.

Example A:

If you take a good look, you'll notice someone has deliberately knocked off this poor man's penis.  It goes from being interpreted as, "What did mommy make for dinner tonight?" to "Well gosh darnit, where the hell did I leave my penis? Sally!"

This wasn't just true for one statue.  There were multiple statues in almost perfect condition, save for a missing penis.  I would have taken more pictures, but I didn't want to risk one of the tour members looking at my camera zoomed in on a statue's crotch.  That would have been one long winded explanation.

My personal theory is that there was a group of men, all castrated, who would run around Rome and knock off statue's dicks.  I imagine they were dressed in Clockwork Orange style garb.  Peet peet peeting away real savage like.

Okay, enough with the dick talk.  Now its time for some straight ridiculous statues.

The first attempt at breakdancing

The first Roman crack fiend

I know, this is all completely blasphemous.  I can only hope that my grandparents don't read this blog. Or the pope. I'm more worried about my grandparents, to be honest.  But I'm young and reckless, and I'm allowed an irrational view of the world, right?  Damn fuggin' straight.

After the Vatican tour we had free time, so my parents and I went out to lunch while my sister napped.  While sitting down, my dad said "scusi" to get by someone sitting close by.  He corrected my father.  "Me despiache.  I'm sorry."  My parents and I nodded and let out a short laugh, hoping he wasn't serious.  I turned around to see the man who reprimanded the man who reprimands me.  And sitting right behind me was a large, dark silver haired man with three of his shirts buttons unbuttoned.  Harmless.  Time for the small talk.

"I like your watch," I said.  "How do you say watch in Italian?"
"I don't know, I'm from Holland."

He let out a hearty laugh and we joined in when we realized how badly we had been fooled.

We continued a line of small talk during lunch, and after we finished, I looked at my map.  Today, I was going to geocache.  No matter what.  I told my parents of my desires, and they let me free with three hours to spare.  Sweet.

I had marked two positions I knew I could reach in time and went off solo in Rome.  I was completely confused with the first cache, mostly because my map didn't match up with any of the street signs.  I would find the street I was on on the map, check around for cross streets, and leave completely confused.  It was like the city of Rome decided to randomly change the name of half of their streets.  I spent a good hour circling around the marked area (with some shopping in between), and then I finally gave up.

On to the next one.  I checked my watch.  I only had about an hour to find the next cache.  I put on the jets and got in the area of the cache.  Then I got lost again.  After stopping at a McDonald's for free bathroom use (yes, they charge you to use public restrooms), I found my way to the general area of the cache.  Now it was all searching.  I felt around as nonchalantly as possible until I stumbled upon it.  YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.  Felt so good.

I didn't feel like posting a picture of the cache because it's not really visually stunning.  Instead, I give you some pretty dope street art I found while looking for the cache.  Yeeeuh.  Enjoy.

I walked back to the hotel and got back minutes before I was supposed to meet my family.  Score.  I was sweating profusely (which has been pretty normal for me these past couple of days), so I changed shirts and put some deodorant on.  It was time to go to Italian mass.

Our longtime family friend, Brian, was delivering mass in a small church in Rome, so we invited a couple of group members and went off to a tiny church in a beaten up alley in the middle of nowhere.  And it was great.  There were about five or six nuns there, one of who played classical guitar, and they graced the entire service with wonderful singing.  To add on, Brian managed to deliver a distinguishable mass in Italian while adding in English commentary for us Americans.  He is a skillful man.

We all took pictures afterwards, and then the group split up.  It was time for the Brandt family to have a legitimate Italian dinner with Brian.  We walked for about thirty minutes and eventually went in to a restaurant in the middle of nowhere.  As soon as we sat down our table was bombarded with twelve different plates of traditional Italian appetizers.  Fresh olives, eggplant cooked to perfection, seafood salad, you name it.  We ate to our stomach's content, and there was still a whole feast of food left over.  Now it was time for the first course.  Brian was a regular there, so he put on the charm and ordered for us in Italian.  I was completely full at that point, but its rude to refuse food in Italy, so I pushed on.

And soon enough, right as my appetizers were settling, an entire plate of spaghetti arrived.  I ate the whole thing.  I was near explosion.  But it didn't stop there.  The waiters flew in, took out plates, and replaced them with dessert trays.  As I was painfully eating my gelato, the post-dinner liquor came on the table, along with fresh coffee.  I couldn't refuse.  I took one of everything.  It was all amazing, and it left us walking out of the restaurant close to purging.

To soothe our stomachs and stimulate our visuals, Brian took us into St. Peter's square.  I had been there earlier on that day, but Brian claimed that it was much more beautiful at night.  And it was.  We chatted as we strolled around for awhile, and then parted ways.  We all thanked Brian profusely (who paid for our entire meal) and hopped on to the Italian train station.  In no time we were back in the hotel.

And now I sit on fresh linens with horrendously pungent feet.  I smell of adventure.  I feel inspired and restless.  Now that I'm nearing the end of my trip, I'm trying to think of some big life truth that I've gained from the whole thing.  I haven't formulated a complete thought yet, but the minute I do, all you blog regulars (the two of you) will hear about it.

Gahh.  I need sleep.  Tomorrow I wake up early to head to Pompeii.  It will be our last full day in both Rome and Italy, so I'm going to relish it.  Don't be surprised if tomorrow's blog sounds like I'm completely wasted, because there's a good chance I will be.  If you're reading this Grandma, I'm sorry.

I realize the last half of my blog was extra wordy, so I'm just going to insert some random images I took from the day to finish it all off.

Au revoir.  Salute.  Bon Appetit.

I love you all.

Lucas

Rome Day 8

Explored The Coliseum and a bunch of cool shit in Rome today (the exact opposite of a concrete description, but whateva).  Our tour guide, David, lead us on a personal tour of Rome (his hometown) and bought the entire group gelato afterwards.  It was pretty sweet.  The gelato, I mean.

Don't know who that fuck is, but he ruined my picture.

Went with my parents to see Bernini's masterpiece "The Ecstasy of St. Theresa" in our free time.  It was quite moving.

Had a phenomenal dinner with the entire tour group.  I recklessly challenged my sister to a wine chugging contest.  And I won by drinking my glass quicker (big deal right?)  After we had dinner, a bunch of the younger crowd decided to go out for drinks.  (Younger crowd being ages 16-32).  It was cool being able to legally buy and drink alcohol in public.  Our tour guide joined us for one drink, and it was then that I learned he was once a singer in a heavy metal band.  He continues to blow me away with his pursuit of his passions.  After drinking outside of a restaurant, we joined the parents at the hotel's rooftop gardens for more alcohol. 

I didn't partake at that point, since two guiness beers set me straight.

And now I find myself sweaty and half naked on my hotel bed.  Time to shower and talk to one of the most lovely women I know.

CIAO AMERICAAAAAA

Lucas  

Roamin' Rome

         Had a good hour or two of bus riding, with a stop at the beautifully scenic town of Orvieto sandwiched in between.  The 'main attraction' was the cathedral...but it didn't quite catch my fancy.  I mean, it was beautiful,  but there's only so many paintings of biblical scenes and striped marble design I can stomach.  It was neat the first time....now it just comes off as a lack of originality.  Regardless, took some pretty sweet pictures along the way:

One thing I've wondered this entire trip:  Where the fuck did all this marble come from?  They used endless amounts of marble to create endless amounts of churches.  Did the big man upstairs just drop it from the sky?  If not, then are we going through a global marble shortage?  I want answers.

         Soon enough we were in Rome.  At this point I could probably whip out some 'When in Rome' jokes, but they're so overused.  I want my descriptions of Rome to be fresh and hip.  Like sweaty toms and raggedy cardigans.

          After settling into our new hotel, we wandered the city to find some food. We settled on a fancy restaurant recommended by our tour guide.  The price was fairly steep, but it was well worth it.  I had 'traditionally Roman' roasted lamb with potatoes and red wine.  Magnificent.

           We met up with an old friend of the family who happens to be a priest in Rome after dinner.  I know him as Father Brian.  My clearest memories of him are when he would come visit us in Pinole.  Every single time he would bring two gallons of ice cream and fold our clean laundry for us.  If you hadn't already guessed, he's a wonderful guy.  He gave us a personal tour of Rome that stopped at the Trevi Fountain and ended with a surprise walk to the Pantheon.  It was all awe inspiring.  Apparently the legend is that if you throw a coin into the fountain over your back, it will ensure you return to Rome.  Father Brian joked that he's never thrown a coin in because he's scared he'll stay here for the rest of his life.  Apparently he's serious.  And I didn't learn this until later.

          I talked to my dad about it later.  Apparently when he took his vow to become a priest, he submitted himself to the will of his superiors for the rest of his life.  He does six year stints in Rome, and after he finishes up, he could very likely be put in for another six years.  Although I thought this sounded amazing, apparently he misses his family in America dearly.  So his joke about the Trevi Fountain wasn't really a joke at all.  He wants out of Rome.

         After The Pantheon, he took us out to gelato and then to his favorite Irish pub in Rome.  He was a regular there, mostly because he enjoys eating hot dogs and watching American sports on their televisions.  He was greeted warmly when we entered.  We were introduced to his friends: Pierre Luigi (can't get much more Italian than that, eh?) and his wife.  Pierre Luigi was born in Italy but is in love with America and its music.  Apparently he's been to more American states than I have.  Damn shame.

       The Pub had free WiFi, so I sucked it for all it was worth.  After finishing the Irish Car Bomb that Brian so kindly bought me, we all parted ways and headed back to the hotel.  And now I sit, tired but ready to experience Rome in its fresh morning state.

I must admit, I'm homesick for America.  Luckily it's easy to take my mind off of it when I'm surrounded by Italy's endless beauty.  And so, I'm off.  Good afternoon America.  Good night Italy.

CIAO

-LZG

Italian Opera Mishaps

Pictures and story from July 10th, 2012:

    

          Italian Operas are crazy.  Well, that’s a bit misleading.  My experience with an Italian Opera led to some pretty crazy occurrences.  On impulse I decided I wanted to be cultured and experience opera…an art form that Florence is famous for.  After I got back from the day’s tours (Piesa, St. Gimingano and Wine Tasting), I asked David if he knew of any opera performances going on around the city.  He did a quick search on his iPad and got some results.  The famed ‘La Boheme’ was playing at 8:30.  In exactly an hour.  I ran upstairs and asked my family if they wanted to go.  No one but my mom seemed interested, and since she knew I wanted some independence she suggested I go it alone.

                I walked down the hall to my hotel room, got my stuff together, and walked out into the fresh Italian air with my bag and a marked map of the city with my route.  I found my way there with fifteen minutes to spare.  Perfect amount of time to buy my ticket.  I got up to the desk and asked for a student ticket.   The lady shook her head.  “So there’s no tickets left?” I asked.  She shook her head again.  “Is there any way I could get a ticket if someone happens to not show up?”  She explained that three large groups had reserved seats, so it was highly unlikely.  Fuck.  If I wanted to wait just be sure though, I certainly could.  Bravissimo.

                At 8:30 I walked up to the desk with my most charming face.  “If you want, I sell you student ticket.  Ten Euro.  Just follow those girls.”  Victory.  The church, slyly designed to be used as a theater, had audience on three sides of the stage.  I was seated in the nonexistent audience space behind the performers.  And I didn’t mind at all.  I began to read the synopsis in the program, and before I knew it the show was on.  And it was phenomenal.  I had no idea what they were saying, but their voices were so expressive that I understood what was going on.  It was moving.

                At intermission I awkwardly stood outside the theater as Italian girls drank the complimentary champagne and took pictures.  I decided against the champagne since my stomach was still recovering from the wine tasting.  And then out walked a woman who was sitting near me that I knew to be American.  Her name was Arika.  We got to talking and I learned that she was a 27 year old semi-professional playwright from Kansas City.  I was awe struck.  I told her I was an aspiring actor and she began to recommend plays to read.  I took copious notes.   The lights flashed for Act II and we went back to our seats.

                After the show we got to talking more about theater.  We both hadn’t had dinner yet, so we decided to walk around and look for a place to eat.  We eventually found a pizzeria and sat down to eat.  We talked about theater, Italy and her impending heroin addiction.  “All writers are addicted to heroin, right?”  She agreed.  After dinner we split the bill, exchanged business cards and attempted to find our way back.  I offered my map for us to use.  “I don’t believe in maps,” she said.  I thought about it for a moment.

                Maps are security.  Maps are comfort.  But then again…I’m in a foreign country and wouldn’t mind getting lost. So fuck it.  Fuck maps.  We walked in the general direction of where we thought we needed to be, and when we realized we were in different directions we parted ways. 

At this point using my map would have been the sensible thing to do.  It was already past midnight, I had to wake up early, and I had a gigantic church as a landmark.  I thought about it for a second….

 Fuck maps.

 I walked down the street in what I thought to be the right direction.  Shops around me looked familiar, and I had a strange sense of comfort walking past the lively night life of Florence.  And then things started to go awry.  Monuments and businesses popped up that I had never seen, and the buildings around me started to look grimier than usual.  And just like that, I was alone and lost in a foreign country.  I looked at my watch.  It was 12:30.  I figured out the street I was on and scanned the map to try and find it.  I couldn’t.

Now at this point, the sensible thing to do would have been to ask someone for directions.  But fearing rejection and humiliation for being an ignorant American, I sucked it up and tried to find my way back.  But it was no use.  I was getting farther and farther away from where I needed to be.  I finally gave up and approached a bouncer at a nearby bar.

“Parle Ingles?  I’m lost and need help getting back.”

He pointed to a girl walking out of the bar.  “She can help you.”

I explained my situation and showed her my map.  “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”  She flipped the map around and told me where I needed to go.  “Grazie!”  I started down the road she pointed me to, but it still didn’t feel right.  I felt utterly lost.  After walking around a bit more, I approached a couple walking around town.

“Parli Ingles?  I’m lost and I need help.”

Her thick Irish accent came through immediately.  “Sorry dear, I’m lost meself.  Just got here an hour ago.  Good luck!”  I thanked her and wished her luck.  I looked at my watch.  It was near 12:50.  I accepted the fact that I would be getting little to no sleep, and finally approached a group of Italian looking teenagers smoking cigarettes on the corner of a monument.

“Parli ingles?  I’m lost.”

“A bit,” one of the girls responded, “Where do you need to go?”  I showed her my map.  She discussed it with her group of friends in Italian.  “So we…” she said as she traced the map with her finger, “…are right here.  Just follow this road up to this plaza, and once you’re there ask someone else for directions.”

We all chuckled at the advice.  It was better than nothing.  I thanked them very much in Italian and went off down the road.  As I got to the plaza, I looked at my map and figured out where I needed to go.  And soon enough, I was on the street of my hotel.   I got back right around 1:00 AM. 

But alas, the hotel doors were closed.  I rang the doorbell and someone behind the counter opened the doors for me.  I thanked him, apologized for the inconvenience, and went back up to my room, exhausted and exhilarated from the days happenings.  And I collapsed on my bed, both amazed and bewildered by the mishaps that followed the Italian Opera.

Florence Day 1

                I ran on three hours of sleep today.  This obsessive blogging habit has kept me up late.  Good thing I’m in a country with amazing espresso.  I swear, coffee here is half the price of Starbucks and ten times better.  Figures.

                I’m trying to get a decent sleep tonight, so I’ll really try to keep it short and sweet.  I know I said that in the last blog and ended up writing a novel, but tonight I’m serious.  Short and sweet.  Just how all us Facebook addicts like it.

                We all packed and ate breakfast in a hurry to leave for Florence.  We took a thirty minute boat ride and about a two hour bus ride.  The bus was manual transmission, which was pretty neat.  I desperately tried to sleep, but ended up reading.

Note: Pit stops in Italy are quite superior to American pit stops.  They’ve got gigantic candy, gigantic stuffed animals, and two licensed baristas that serve up any caffeinated drink you can dream of.

                Before we got to our hotel, David recommended we eat lunch before we had to meet up to tour around.  “I personally recommend lampredotto.  It’s a sandwich found only in Florence and it’s delicious.  I’m going to be blunt with you though, lampredotto is fourth stomach of cow.  It’s not for everyone.”

 

The crowd gave mixed reactions, but all I could think was how I wanted to DEVOUR that stomach.  I asked my family if they were going to try it.  They all said no.  Regardless, after settling in our rooms, we went directly to the local market to find it.  We ran into David in line, and he recommended how to order it.  I followed his instructions. And it was tasty as hell.  Sure, it kind of had a slimy texture to it, but it was tender and flavorful.  Definitely getting a second stomach sandwich tomorrow.

 The pose

The bite

We met up around noon and went on a tour of Florence with a local guide.  It was all gorgeous, but it was so hot that I began to space out on what the tour guide was saying.   After the tour ended we watched a demonstration on Italian leathermaking, in which we learned how to distinguish fake leather from real leather.  We had free time afterwards, so we got more gelato and listened to a classical guitarist play gorgeous music. 

Basilica of the famed Duomo

After finishing gelato, we walked around, took pictures, and looked at ritzy jewelry that was way out of our price range.  And then we went back to the hotel around 6:00 to meet up with our group for dinner.  This was probably the highlight of the night.

We took a fifteen minute walk to a restaurant that we nearly filled up.  We were quickly served food with ice cold water and red wine.  And then David stood up and tapped his knife on his wine glass until we were quiet.

           “I’m gonna do something crazy,” He said.  The whole room went silent.  He stepped back, took a deep breath, and began to sing Italian opera a’capella.  He had the voice of an angel, and followed all the proper singing etiquette I had picked up through the years.   We were all completely enchanted.    After he finished the crowd erupted with applause.  My father was in tears.  And my mouth stood ajar.  He sat down as if he hadn’t just graced us with his singing.  And the dinner continued.

But that isn’t where it ends.

Later on, as we were finishing up our meal, an older Italian man sitting at the head of another table stood up and lead us in an Italian song for toasting.  After he finished we lifted our glasses, drank to his health, and applauded loudly.  And then he challenged us to top him.  Our crowd urged David to stand up and sing.  And he did.  He walked up in front of the entire restaurant, all of which hadn’t been there before.  He stood there for a moment, focused in, and opened his mouth.  And out came yet another glorious Italian song.  He held a note so long and beautifully that the crowd erupted in cheers.  He quieted them with a gesture of the hands and went on singing.  He brought the song to a fantastic finish and bowed as we gave him a standing ovation.

We went back to the hotel after our meal, where my Mom and Chelsea decided to rest up.  The night was still young and I wanted to explore, so I urged my Dad to join me on an adventure.  We walked around Florence at night and stopped at a bar on impulse.  And I bought us a round of drinks.  When would I ever get another opportunity like that at the age of 20?

As we finished our drinks an older fat Italian man slowly walked in.  I lowered my voice.  “Do you think he’s drunk?”  “Either that or he’s mentally retarded.”  “Or both.”  We chuckled as he dumped his change on the counter to purchase his drink.  And then we were off.

Most of the shops were closed, so we wandered around town and talked about life and everything in between.  And then we sat on the steps of a church to watch yet another brilliant classical guitarist perform.  Only in Florence.  She finished and bowed after a few songs, and we got up to wander back to the hotel.  I saw even more amazing street art on the way, and I stopped every time I spotted some to take a picture.  I think I’m obsessed.  We found our hotel after some searching, and parted ways for bed.

            As I was finishing up my blog, I was joined in the hotel lobby by two drunken older ladies and their older male friend.  They were American.  One was relatively sober and the other was pretty wasted.  She was loud and tried to get her friend to drink more.  It was their last night here.  I occasionally glanced over to see what was going on.  The sober lady, who I now know as Ruby, spoke up.  C'mon Carol, we should give this boy some peace and quiet.  I laughed and told them I didn't mind.  I learned Carol was from Oakland and Ruby was from New Jersey.  "We just randomly decided to do some travelling."  We continued some small talk.  "Do you want some wine?  We have some wine left that we can't finish.  It's not amazing wine, but we can't take it with us and don't want it to go to waste.  I told them I would love some wine.  Ruby told her husband Roy to go upstairs and get it.  As Roy brought the nearly full bottle to the lobby table, Ruby slipped past the rope blocking the hotel bar and got me a glass.  I thanked them graciously.  Ruby and Roy eventually went upstairs, and Carol wandered over and plopped on the couch next to me.  We had a nice chat about Italy, and soon enough she was off.  I wished her a safe flight and said goodbye.  And that Jersey fucker said Americans were rude.  Pfft.

Lucas

Bleeding America

Woke up, dressed and went to continental breakfast.  Tried to keep it light, but still stuffed myself silly.  After we finished eating my mom and I rented bikes and biked around the Island of Lido.  We made it around the whole island in about 45 minutes.  Twas gorgeous.  I realized how much I love biking and how much more respect bikers get in Europe.  I accidentally lost track of my mom after we made the loop around the island, and so, on impulse, I decided to go off on my own for the last half hour of my rental.  I stopped at a poster for a local theater, locked my bike up, and went on a hunt to quench my theatrical thirst.  I found nothing but a gigantic deserted area of buildings with a bunch of broken windows.  I had a strange feeling that if I were to get robbed or murdered in Europe, this would probably be the place.  Luckily neither happened, and I got some cool pictures in the process.

After meeting back up with my father, sister and mother, we all went down to the beach for a swim.  Today’s beach visit provided me with a much different perspective on Italians.  I initially thought that only Italian men didn’t give a fuck, but fuck, Italian women don’t either!  I mean, there were some women who looked pregnant with fat wearing bright red bikinis.  Aged, wrinkled grandmothers wore tube tops.  And I was the pale, estranged American wearing a lavender speedo in the middle of it all.  Bellisimo.

After my beach experience, the family and I headed back to the hotel, showered, and hopped on a boat to Venice.  We got some delicious paninis at a local vendor, went to a museum display on the history of Venice, and wrapped it all up by eating fresh fruit on the steps of Saint Mark’s square.   It was still early afternoon at this point, so we decided to divide up and roam around Venice on our own accord.  My mom and sister went shopping while my dad and I hunted, for a Venetian geocache.  Geocaching, for those of you who don’t know, is like an online treasure hunt all around the world.  People hide caches of all sizes, post the coordinates online with some clues and send dogs like me hunting.  We spent most of our time winding through the alleys trying to find the area of the cache, until we eventually gave up and asked a local artist for directions.  His directions helped immensely.  We found the area in a breeze.  The cache, not so much.

 The clue told us to look in the trees, and we looked in every single one.  No luck.  I eventually came upon a tree with a huge hole and stuck my hand in.  After digging around for awhile, I still found nothing.  “Well, at least you can say you tried,” reasoned my dad.  As we began to walk out of the plaza, two locals stopped us.  “Scusi.”  We turned around.  On a bench sat an old withered Italian man with dark skin.  Next to him sat his old withered wife.  I could tell they couldn’t speak much English.  The man made a gesture that said something like, “What the fuck are you doing to my trees?”  I explained how geocaching works, and how people hide things all around the world.  The man looked confused.   My dad made a gesture like he was typing on a keyboard and explained “People do it with the internet”.    I don’t think he understood us, but he nodded with a smile and said “Ciao”.  And that was that.

We met up with my mom and sister and went on a hunt for a Bellini, which is a traditional Venetian cocktail.  We eventually found a nice little spot out of the way, and indulged in some mid-afternoon alcohol.  We followed the alcohol with some shopping, and when our stomachs began to shout, we began to search for a restaurant recommended to us by our tour guide.  After fifteen minutes of asking locals and trying to follow instructions on an Iphone, we found nothing.  In the midst of our search we walked past a jovial restaurant owner who talked to my dad.  “Where is your horse?” he asked.  He was making a joke about my father’s hat, which looked nothing like a cowboy’s.  My dad joked back.  “I let him go.”  The owner and my father shared a chuckle, and we left to find the Brandt females. 

We all finally decided for one last try.  My mom walked into a gelateria and asked the owner if he knew how to get to the restaurant.  “Go down the little alley to the left and take a right.  It should be right behind this store.”  We all smiled.  VICTORY.  We followed his instructions and found the restaurant.  And of course, it was closed. 

My dad, in all his brilliance, suggested we go pay a visit to the restaurant of our newly made friend.  And what a beautiful decision that was.  We knew it was a good restaurant right off the bat because everyone seated for a meal looked very Italian.  There weren’t any tables open yet, so the restaurant owner poured us all a glass of wine and gave us some delicious appetizers to eat.  And as soon as a table was open, we were seated at a gorgeous outside table.  We ordered our food and waited with excitement.  And suddenly, we heard the happy birthday song pour over the air in an Italian accent.  We all joined in.  An Indian family sitting next to us were celebrating a birthday, and the owner brought the birthday gentleman a cake with a gigantic “1” for a candle.  “Ah,” he remarked, “I start over again.”  As our drinks came in, an American family came in to get seated at the restaurant.  Damn.

They were a family of five from the New Jersey.  Most of them were fine and dandy, but boy, did the father say some douchey things.  “We have a rule that if we see more than five Americans at a restaurant, we walk out.”  I can understand why, but this guy was flaunting his stuff as if he was a regular in Venice.  He started talking to some local Venetians sitting at the restaurant about where to go and what to do.  And then he started bashing Americans.  “Boy, you guys are so friendly here. But I feel sorry for you.  If you were to come to America, everyone would ignore you.”  I squinted and gave him a dirty look.  The Venetian lady, who had spent some years in America, didn’t agree.  “Well, I met some very wonderful people in America when I was there.”  He went on as If she hadn’t spoke.  “I wish I could say Americans were as nice as Italians…but they’re not.”  The lady smiled and didn’t respond.

The past couple of days I had been trying, in vain, to blend into the crowd.  To hide any morsel of my American culture.  But now that my identity was under attack, a certain pride began to swell up in my belly.  I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my place to butt in, but at that moment I felt an eagle erupting from my soul.  In its talons it carried liberty and justice.  And though my chest bled from the eagle bursting free, I stood on my chair, wiped the blood with my hand and licked it clean.  “AMERICAAAA!”  My voice echoed through the alleys and tunnels of Venice.  The sheer power of my yell knocked the fat New Yorker out of his seat.  I jumped down, put one foot on his belly, and pumped my fist victoriously in the air. 

Alright, I’ll own up.  I didn’t lick my bloody hand clean.  I just sort of wiped it on my shirt.

But in all honesty, I was pretty pissed.   Yeah, sure, there might be some assholes in America, but there are assholes everywhere you go.  It just sort of comes with the package of life.  There’s no need to suck up to the locals and kiss their feet.  Just treat them like normal human beings.

Okay, I’m done with my rant.

                Luckily the food and service of the restaurant was exceptional enough to make my experience enjoyable.  The owner brought my dad and I shots of Limoncello on the house to tie up our delicious dinner, and we got up from the table with full stomachs and happy hearts.  After shaking hands with the restaurant owners and thanking them endlessly, we wandered around and soaked up our last hour of Venice.  We wandered down alleys, filled up on gelato, and snapped some pretty sweet shots of local graffiti.  We boated back around 11:30 and checked into our hotel around midnight.  And this is where I find myself now.  Tired, shirtless, and ready.  Tomorrow we wake up at 6:30 to take a 3 hour bus ride to Florence.  I’m going to miss Venice dearly, but I’m excited as hell to see new sights. 

I will continue taking pictures and scribbling observations, and I hope the few of you following my blog will continue reading.

Goodbye for now America.  I’m gonna try to get some sleep in.

CIAO.

Lucas

Day 2: Venice, Venice, Venice

I hopped out of bed at around 6:30, showered, and went with my dad to get a quick latte before continental breakfast at 7:30.  As I was ordering, I saw a fat Italian man in a bright purple shirt stuffing a hot croissant into his mouth as he was pouring sugar into his drink.  He did this all while standing.  After finishing his breakfast he left in a hurry.  Strange Italians.

We got to the hotel right around 7:30 and hopped in line for a quick breakfast.  It was an American style buffet with traditional Italian breakfast food.  I stacked my plate high with a bowl of cereal, fresh fruit and baked goods of all kinds.  As I looked around the table at everyone’s plates, I realized I had about double the amount of food.  Just fulfilled the American stereotype of being a glutton.  Wahoo.  After breakfast I learned that “most Italians” eat small breakfasts consisting of a croissant and an espresso.  Looks like the fatty in the purple shirt wasn’t so strange after all.

After the breakfast feast ended, my family and I sat in the lobby and talked with members from our tour group.  Some interesting people to say the least.

“You’re the guy who wants to drink in front of his parents, right?”  I guess my tour group now sees me as the alcoholic college student.  Might as well give ‘em what they want, eh?

I eventually got to talking about drinking with an older fellow named Dan, who was there with his wife.  He told us he had taken his son out gambling for his 21^st birthday, and he was surprised at how much his son could knock back.  That night his son won some big money.  “…And he didn’t really want to spend it all in one place, so he took my wife and I out to Hooters the next day.  Then he worried that he would blow the rest on something stupid, so he gave donated the rest of his money to the church.” Hmm…questionable to say the least.

At around 8:30 the whole group boarded a boat and headed to Venice.  We got off the boat around 9:00 and followed our tour guide to a gigantic statue (which I should know the name of, but don’t).  All I remember was at the bottom there was a funny carving of Romulus and Remus sucking the teats of a wolf.

At this point, our normal guide, David, left us with Louisa, a local guide of Venice.  We listened closely to her as she lead us around the island.  “And to the left you will see the island of Lido, which is a great place for bitches.”  I turned to my dad.  “Did she just say Lido was great for bitches?”  “No.  She said it was great for beaches.”  Ahhhh.  Fooled again.

We followed Louisa into the revered Doge’s palace, chock full of breathtaking art that rich rulers of Venice commissioned.  It was amazing, to say the least.  Gigantic ceilings were filled with elaborate paintings and lined with a flowery gold plated design.  Entire walls were covered with gorgeous religious and political art.  And underneath it all, (cue Gwen Stefani music) there was a prison.  Unfortunately I only got to photograph the exterior of the palace, but I’ll give you the best of what I got.

We ended our tour in St. Mark’s square.  Now would probably be a good time to give you a brief history lesson, but all I really know about the place is that Saint Mark’s remains are displayed in a nearby cathedral.  I’m an ignorant American, I know.

We were now lead again by our main tour guide, David, to watch a glass blowing demonstration at a local shop.   After it was done, we underwent a charming sales pitch by a glass blowing employee, which consisted of him almost showing off expensive glass and almost dropping it to scare us. I was sold, but I didn’t really have a couple hundred bucks to blow on glass, so I left emptyhanded.

After wandering around for awhile, we met back up with our group to prepare for the gondola ride.  We were told to divide into groups of four, five or six, so my sister, parents and I stayed together.  As soon as we could, we hopped on a gondola with room for four.  Luckily for us, the two musicians that our tour company hired for the gondola ride joined us as well.  And off we went, on a beautiful ride through the ancient waterways of Venice, accompanied by a complementary bottle of red wine and the sounds of an accordion and an Italian singer.  Both musicians couldn’t speak a lick of English, but after every song the singer would join us in yelling “Bravissimo!”  In the silence that followed he would let out a “YEE-HOO!”  It sounded EXACTLY like the noise Super Mario makes.

And then my dad attempted to communicate with the musicians.  “Do you know the song ‘Solo Refugio’?”  They gave him a confused look and shook their heads.  My dad pushed further and began singing the lyrics to the song, getting an even stranger look from the musicians.  The rest of us looked down and shook our heads in embarrassment.  Good old Pops.

A pang of hunger overtook us as we got off the gondola, so we decided to get lost in the alleys of Venice until we found a non-touristy place to eat.  Once we did we ordered food and a bottle of white wine.  As we finished our meal I noticed there was a good amount of wine left.  I decided to pour the rest into my glass.  My parents insisted that there was no need to finish the whole bottle, but I wasn’t going to let good wine go to waste.  And so, with a little help from my dad, I downed the entire glass.  “Good luck remembering Venice,” My mom remarked.

I stood up feeling much dizzier than I expected, and proceeded to purchase things with ease from the stores we visited.  One store had a 3D book titled “The Big Book of Breasts 3D”, which I proceeded to peruse.  Two Italian girls walked by and chuckled at what I was reading, and I chuckled with them.  3D Tits.  In Venice!  Who would have ever guessed.

After walking off my drunken stupor, we got caffeinated, did some more shopping, and met back up with our group to sail back to Lido.  After getting back my dad and I hopped into our swim trunks and speedo and went off to the beach.  There were a lot more people there, and I suddenly started to feel like an alien.  There were groups of kids my age playing with a ball in the water, but I didn’t have the balls to approach them to play.  And so, defeated, my dad and I left the beach to go check out the Maserati/Ferari car show going on down the street.  My dad made an interesting observation.  “All these dudes have blonde wives with big tits…that’s probably why the cars are so expensive.”

After getting tired of looking at cars, we met up with my mother and sister for dinner.  As we were looking at the menu, my mom reminded us of how we should order.  “We all need to order an appetizer, a main course, and some kind of meat.”  Apparently that’s what a family friend and local, Brian, had told her years before.  When we placed our order with waitress we got a strange look.  And alas, we ordered WAY too much food.  We were all filled up by our appetizer, but the food kept coming.  At a certain point we all left about 90% of our final dish on the plate.  I mixed my food around to make it look like I ate something while my mom tried stowing some of hers in the bush behind us.  The waitress didn’t seem too happy with us.  Ah well.  Live and learn!

                We walked off our full stomachs, got some gelato, and listened to a slew of Italian cover bands performing American songs in the streets.  We ended our day talking and consuming fancy drinks.

And now I find myself siting in my hotel room smelling of sand.  Chelsea is desperately trying to sleep, but my typing is keeping her up.  I think this means I should stop typing.  And so I’d like to conclude with some random statistics.

Total glasses of wine consumed: 8

Total scoops of gelato consumed: 5

Raunchiest Italian T-shirt worn: “All-American Cherry Popper”

Welp, it’s getting late America, so Au Revoir for now.  A bid you a good afternoon.

CIAO

-Lucas