We planned to spend one day around Siena with Pietro, the classically handsome Italian friend of Cadfael's. We met-up in a parking lot in the outskirts of the city, for Cad and me to switch to Pietro’s car for the tour with the native.
I sat in the back and watched those clay hills roll under the stunning Tuscan sky, with the pop Italian station and their melodic Italian chatter providing the soundtrack. We went to ancient Bagno Vignoli for lunch, then on to Pienza, where we lazily walked through the maze of old side streets. In our post-meal lethargy we were becoming cinematic-—conversing less, quietly resting more. We could be Jules et Jim et Catherine to the French tourists passing us; there was no way to outwardly know who we were, and our own crosscurrents were ricocheting off each other in various directions. (But that’s a subject for a different blog.)
We went hiking for a bit to see the Madonna of the Scouts (challenging in a silk duster and soft shoes), visited Abbazia di Monte Oliveto for the exquisite Sodoma frescoes on the life of Benedict, stopped by the ancient Rocca of Montalcino, then enjoyed a 6-course dinner at some local place. It was a full day. Pietro was driving us back to our own car when it began to pour, dangerously. It was a complete white out— oddly tropical for Italy. We had driven pretty far and had quite a way to go to get back, even though it was very late and we were filled with fatigue and alcohol. Pietro starts trying to tell jokes in English to stay focused and awake. They were awful—they didn’t make sense, even when he put them back into Italian. But he would not be deterred—he was now shouting at me to follow these bizarre funnies.
It then crossed my mind that we were in danger of a serious car accident. How strange is fate that draws people together, in space and time, for its own purpose. If I were going to die that night, it was going to be in the company of a gorgeous Italian and a good-looking monk. Well, okay. They would be fine companions to weather purgatory with (if, like in A Guy Named Joe, you get to hang out with those you go down with).
The white-out conditions were barely abating. Pietro was beyond tired, when he made a dramatic left turn into a car park of some office building. Suddenly it was quiet, and we were bathed in an eerie chartreuse neon light that illuminated the cement walls. It was a Batman-villain lair come to life--I was sure the ground was going to be on an angle when we got out. From the intense beauty of the day’s journey—the piercing Tuscan sun, the shocking red of the tomatoes at dinner, the mounds of pink impatients in the window boxes in Pienza—we were now in a deserted, cold, and foreboding place.
Cad, did you sign us up for this Antonioni movie? Didn’t you ask for script approval?
We huddled, we sang along with the radio, we walked to the other levels--it seemed like forever. Finally the rain let up, and we were back on the road to Siena, where Cad and I finally got back to our own beloved Micra. We had another 90 minutes drive to reach the farmhouse where we were staying, and we just beat the sunrise by the time our heads hit the pillows.
We decided to spend an immobilized day recovering before heading out to Elba.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
We interrupt this scheduled broadcast . . . .
There was a palpable malaise in people today, following the unequivocal nightmare of Bush's speech. And many blogs that I expected to post about it are more or less quiet on the subject, as though the speech is so beneath contempt that there's nothing to say.
I have a two small observations.
How quickly some of the networks went right back to the evening's programs, instead of going to talking-head interpretations. It felt like more well-deserved contempt to me: as though the networks were saying 'we have to carry this speech, but we don't have to really pay attention to it.' And many of the networks did not carry the Democratic response. Again, feeling like there was just no point to this anymore.
Also, from the point of view that small details can reveal much: Bush did not give this speech from the Oval Office, but from the Library. What a clear indication of a man competely lost. Even given his utter, criminal inepitude, does he not understand the power of the physical Oval Office? (Clearly one part of his staggering disconnect from reality is that he has never seen The West Wing.) Why would he remove himself from that uniquely empowered space? How clueless can one individual be?
In the face of such seriously, overwhelmingly bad leadership, there are few things the individual can do: vote; pray; and respect and exercise life as best we can, because we can.
And in that spirit, we return to our regularly scheduled program of chit, chat, musings, and storytelling.
I have a two small observations.
How quickly some of the networks went right back to the evening's programs, instead of going to talking-head interpretations. It felt like more well-deserved contempt to me: as though the networks were saying 'we have to carry this speech, but we don't have to really pay attention to it.' And many of the networks did not carry the Democratic response. Again, feeling like there was just no point to this anymore.
Also, from the point of view that small details can reveal much: Bush did not give this speech from the Oval Office, but from the Library. What a clear indication of a man competely lost. Even given his utter, criminal inepitude, does he not understand the power of the physical Oval Office? (Clearly one part of his staggering disconnect from reality is that he has never seen The West Wing.) Why would he remove himself from that uniquely empowered space? How clueless can one individual be?
In the face of such seriously, overwhelmingly bad leadership, there are few things the individual can do: vote; pray; and respect and exercise life as best we can, because we can.
And in that spirit, we return to our regularly scheduled program of chit, chat, musings, and storytelling.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Q.Q.F. File: Paging Thomas Crown
Q.Q.F. is that US Helicopter now offers service from the Downtown Heliport (near Wall Street) to Newark Liberty International Airport. It isn’t just for moguls, really.
And the benefit isn’t just that you beat the airport traffic by flying over it (total time to Newark: 7 minutes). It’s that you check in and go through security at the heliport.
When the copter touches down, you are whisked by shuttle bus to terminal C71—-and enter through a back door. If you have to travel on a crazy, high-volume day, being able to by-pass the long check-in line, and the even longer security line, at the airport might be worth the copter cost ($159).
They also have service to JFK, and I hear that their service from the 34th street heliport (which is much cheaper than the other services from there) is beginning in midJanuary.
And the benefit isn’t just that you beat the airport traffic by flying over it (total time to Newark: 7 minutes). It’s that you check in and go through security at the heliport.
When the copter touches down, you are whisked by shuttle bus to terminal C71—-and enter through a back door. If you have to travel on a crazy, high-volume day, being able to by-pass the long check-in line, and the even longer security line, at the airport might be worth the copter cost ($159).
They also have service to JFK, and I hear that their service from the 34th street heliport (which is much cheaper than the other services from there) is beginning in midJanuary.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Ian McShane Alert
It is fun to run into early guest roles of Swearengen. And he’s been on so many series in his long career that sightings are not that few and far between.
A McShane line from a recent sighting on Magnum, P.I.: “I swear Magnum, if I have to find you, I’ll gut shoot you and leave you for the rats.” Surely his whole career has been in preparation for Al.
A McShane line from a recent sighting on Magnum, P.I.: “I swear Magnum, if I have to find you, I’ll gut shoot you and leave you for the rats.” Surely his whole career has been in preparation for Al.
Note to NBC: Be Nice to "Women"
NBC is mistreating its female characters (a subject I know something about). Last week’s viewing brought sad examples of killing women characters and laughing at them—a strange perversion of the classic tragedy/comedy motif.
The series Medium gives us some of the most relentlessly ugly, graphic (fictional) scenes of women being harmed on a weekly basis. Last week’s episode—“Mother’s Little Helper”—brought us a woman being shot point blank while her daughter was listening terrified behind a locked door. When she finally breaks through, she too is shot, point blank.
What made this comparatively straightforward killing (remember the psychotic doctor/gynecologist who raped and murdered?) more disturbing is the amount of time the camera spent on the victims, with no quick cutting away. And that this scene was shown repeatedly throughout the episode in the series’s convention of the dreams of Allison and Ariel, which reveal slowly.
Then on Las Vegas, we had a oenocentric episode, with a subplot that a retiree convention brought grandmothers who wanted to hang out in the topless pool. One grandma in particular had huge, 80-year-old breasts, and the whacky hotel gang had to figure out how to get her covered up because the other guests were complaining of the unsightliness. HA HA HA HA HA. Breasts—always great subject for comedy.
I watch TV for different reasons at different times. The reason I tune-in to network weekly series is for an entertaining-in-its-way way to wind-down from the day. And I’m a sucker for storytelling and look for it daily. What a disappointment when those simple goals are tanked by such mean-spirited treatment of female images. It’s not just NBC, of course-- CBS’s Criminal Minds has had some revolting situations for women, and this dark trend hasn’t gone unnoticed. I should stop watching these series, if I don’t like them, and probably will. But I will still be sorry to know that these images go on and on on other sets.
The series Medium gives us some of the most relentlessly ugly, graphic (fictional) scenes of women being harmed on a weekly basis. Last week’s episode—“Mother’s Little Helper”—brought us a woman being shot point blank while her daughter was listening terrified behind a locked door. When she finally breaks through, she too is shot, point blank.
What made this comparatively straightforward killing (remember the psychotic doctor/gynecologist who raped and murdered?) more disturbing is the amount of time the camera spent on the victims, with no quick cutting away. And that this scene was shown repeatedly throughout the episode in the series’s convention of the dreams of Allison and Ariel, which reveal slowly.
Then on Las Vegas, we had a oenocentric episode, with a subplot that a retiree convention brought grandmothers who wanted to hang out in the topless pool. One grandma in particular had huge, 80-year-old breasts, and the whacky hotel gang had to figure out how to get her covered up because the other guests were complaining of the unsightliness. HA HA HA HA HA. Breasts—always great subject for comedy.
I watch TV for different reasons at different times. The reason I tune-in to network weekly series is for an entertaining-in-its-way way to wind-down from the day. And I’m a sucker for storytelling and look for it daily. What a disappointment when those simple goals are tanked by such mean-spirited treatment of female images. It’s not just NBC, of course-- CBS’s Criminal Minds has had some revolting situations for women, and this dark trend hasn’t gone unnoticed. I should stop watching these series, if I don’t like them, and probably will. But I will still be sorry to know that these images go on and on on other sets.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Wadadli New Years 2007
It’s not the Jamaica of Fleming’s Goldeneye nor Coward’s Blue Harbour/Firefly.
Antigua is more aloof than that. It has inspired great anger in Jamaica Kincaid, "You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder why a Prime Minister would want an airport named after him--why not a school, why not a hospital, why not some great public monument," and great healing for Eric Clapton at Crossroads, An International Centre of Excellence for the treatment of alcohol, drugs and other addictive disorders. It will come to the world stage in March 2007 with the Cricket World Cup, which will be hosted entirely in the West Indies. Antigua is just finishing the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium for its part of the series, a world-class arena named for its swaggering world-class favorite son.
An adventurous friend of mine moved to Antigua, lock, stock, and dachshunds three, several months ago, when the opportunity of a good position arose at one of the posh British resorts. It has turned out to be more the dark side of paradise—part “behind the scenes of a hotel” a la Down and Out in London and Paris, and part The Island of Lost Souls—the vivisection here being specifically of dogs. The island has a rampant stray dog problem—the government has enacted new legislation just last year to help get the situation under control—but there is some segment of the population that tortures and kills these animals. Ex-pat’s pets have often been stolen or poisoned.
That darkness is not the sum of the island, of course. The economy—-centuries ago based around sugar—is dependent on tourism. As one guide book said, the island is not the friendliest in the Caribbean, because the poverty is too great. But treating Antiguans with respect will be returned respectfully. And culture blossoms in the artist communities and in youth initiatives like the Wadadli Pen competition for writing.
And so my friend and I found ourselves driving around the less-traveled southern part of the island during 2006’s final hours, through the lush, lush vegetation, eating great food at a small neighborhood place on the water. Restauranteur Mr. OJ told us of the coming celebration for the neighborhood-—the boys would barbeque all night, and he would bring them 2 large bowls of rice for the feast.
At midnight we were in one of those white rooms (meaning the sterile white-on-white décor, although it describes the revelers as well), filled with representatives from across the Commonwealth, and a lot of Italians. It was a tableau of many families glad to be together, dancing happily to seventies disco.
On the way home, we passed the tents with the neighborhood celebration. Another tableau of many families glad to be together, dancing happily to island music. Hopefully 2007 will bring health and some prosperity to all.
Antigua is more aloof than that. It has inspired great anger in Jamaica Kincaid, "You may be the sort of tourist who would wonder why a Prime Minister would want an airport named after him--why not a school, why not a hospital, why not some great public monument," and great healing for Eric Clapton at Crossroads, An International Centre of Excellence for the treatment of alcohol, drugs and other addictive disorders. It will come to the world stage in March 2007 with the Cricket World Cup, which will be hosted entirely in the West Indies. Antigua is just finishing the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium for its part of the series, a world-class arena named for its swaggering world-class favorite son.
An adventurous friend of mine moved to Antigua, lock, stock, and dachshunds three, several months ago, when the opportunity of a good position arose at one of the posh British resorts. It has turned out to be more the dark side of paradise—part “behind the scenes of a hotel” a la Down and Out in London and Paris, and part The Island of Lost Souls—the vivisection here being specifically of dogs. The island has a rampant stray dog problem—the government has enacted new legislation just last year to help get the situation under control—but there is some segment of the population that tortures and kills these animals. Ex-pat’s pets have often been stolen or poisoned.
That darkness is not the sum of the island, of course. The economy—-centuries ago based around sugar—is dependent on tourism. As one guide book said, the island is not the friendliest in the Caribbean, because the poverty is too great. But treating Antiguans with respect will be returned respectfully. And culture blossoms in the artist communities and in youth initiatives like the Wadadli Pen competition for writing.
And so my friend and I found ourselves driving around the less-traveled southern part of the island during 2006’s final hours, through the lush, lush vegetation, eating great food at a small neighborhood place on the water. Restauranteur Mr. OJ told us of the coming celebration for the neighborhood-—the boys would barbeque all night, and he would bring them 2 large bowls of rice for the feast.
At midnight we were in one of those white rooms (meaning the sterile white-on-white décor, although it describes the revelers as well), filled with representatives from across the Commonwealth, and a lot of Italians. It was a tableau of many families glad to be together, dancing happily to seventies disco.
On the way home, we passed the tents with the neighborhood celebration. Another tableau of many families glad to be together, dancing happily to island music. Hopefully 2007 will bring health and some prosperity to all.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Green grow the rushes, O
I can’t get this song out of my head:
"I'll sing you one, O
Green grow the rushes, O
What is your one, O?
One is one and all alone
and ever more shall be so!
I'll sing you a two, O
Green grow the rushes, O
What is your two, O?
Two, two, the lilly white boys, clothed all in green, ho ho
One is one and all alone
and ever more shall be so!"
Steed is accompanying me to a house party at the estate of a famous book collector. Then I’m off to Antigua for New Year’s. (I told Steed I was going to Bermuda, so shh.)
Compliments of the season to all. See you in the new year.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed. . ."
"I'll sing you one, O
Green grow the rushes, O
What is your one, O?
One is one and all alone
and ever more shall be so!
I'll sing you a two, O
Green grow the rushes, O
What is your two, O?
Two, two, the lilly white boys, clothed all in green, ho ho
One is one and all alone
and ever more shall be so!"
Steed is accompanying me to a house party at the estate of a famous book collector. Then I’m off to Antigua for New Year’s. (I told Steed I was going to Bermuda, so shh.)
Compliments of the season to all. See you in the new year.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed. . ."
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