I Hate Boston, But I Love Boston

Monkey and I spent the past weekend visiting our friends from the Long Haul Project in Boston. I was not only looking forward to spending time with our “new” friends but never having been to Boston made me look forward to the impending travel even more. The fact that our excursion would occur over the July 4^th weekend made it even more exciting. After all, Boston (and its environs) is the epicenter of the Revolutionary War.

Now, some of you that are close to me, and even those of you who are not particularly close to me, but just happen to be around when I am in a sufficiently grumpy mood, might be a bit confused here, thinking, “Boston? I thought ATR hated Boston.” No. You misunderstand me. Let me clear that up. I do hate Boston…the band. I do not hate Boston, the city.

And, of course, now those of you not familiar with my hatred of Boston are curious to know why I hate said band (again: NOT the city). Well, it’s more than a feeling, I will tell you that. It’s a difficult loathing to describe, or even justify, but there is something about the style that they managed to carefully develop and hew to forever that just doesn’t sit well with me. Their sound is so clean, so clear, so “wah-wah without the wah,” if you will. It just always seemed so produced. And the pitch of the late Brad Delp’s voice was like Cartman’s “brown noise”—it just does bad things to me inside.

However, I stress, once again, that the city of Boston, despite its very, very close ties to the band Boston, is the object of no animosity on my part. Now that we have cleared that up, let’s move on.

There are many things that I expected to see in Boston, the famous Liberty Bell, the Washington Monument, a host of Celtics jerseys. Strangely enough, beside the jerseys, none of that other “patriotic” stuff was there. Our hosts calmly explained to me that those things are located in other cities, I think one of them was Atlanta, I don’t remember, but I still enjoyed some of the patriotic sites that we did see, like a bronze sculpture of ducks (which was being sorely abused by an army of three year-olds) and a veritable host of soldiers in His Majesty’s Dragoons, or something. I was confused; really, I thought we won the war. Apparently, nobody in Boston was told. Does that make Tom Scholz and Brad Delp the founders of a British band? Do they have more in common with The Who and Pink Floyd than .38 Special (WARNING: link plays "music") and Toto? But, I digress.

What I loved about our trip, aside from the company (both the expected and unexpected kind), was that we enjoyed such a range of experiences. We went to some lovely restaurants, where Monkey and I enjoyed plenty of (but not exclusively) seafood. We miss our seafood out here in the middle of the giant North American continent. We sometimes brave a fish dinner, but not often. It just isn’t the same as having it on the coast. For instance, at our first dinner, at a groovy South End place called the Beehive (where I had my recent smooth jazz experience corrected by the trio that played while we ate), I had a scallop dish that was so fresh and tasty that I nearly cried. It was so nice to have that kind of dining experience.

We also enjoyed Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts (for free—hooray for Friday!) and an exquisite sculpture garden, the de Cordova, where my highlight was Steven Seigel’s “Big with Rift,” which consists of newspaper and whatever happens to come along and grow on it. I give it no justice in the description, but I told Monkey that if I lived nearby, I would visit that piece everyday.

A visit to nearby Walden Pond was also part of the itinerary. The weather held just long enough for us to make our way around the shore to see the site of Thoreau's cabin, to watch a young man release a pretty big fish, and to overhear snippets of every conversation being had. Water is quite a carrier of sound!

While we did experience a wide range of historical, cultural, and gustatory delights, we did not enjoy any musicals. I believe someone did propose we try to get tickets to West Side Story, which was playing nearby. Lucky for everyone, we decided not to.

On the fourth, we headed to the venerable Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play the Toronto Blue Jays. There were a number of Blue Jay fans there. I think they came south from Canada, although it is possible they are simply part of the Boston population that still thinks they are British subjects. I don’t know what Canada’s status is vis a vis the Crown, but I think they are still more closely aligned than Boston is supposed to be. At any rate, the result of the ball game was favorable to the home crowd (the Red Sox lost—God Save the Queen).

After the game, we had another great dinner near MIT (I think my arctic char raised my IQ five to ten points), and then walked to a nearby bridge to watch the fireworks over the harbor. The evening’s show was great, despite the occasional T train that blocked our view momentarily. It did confuse me, however, when one of the nearby spectators told his son that the fireworks were to signal the Queen that all was still well in her most loyal of colonies. I thought to correct this historical misunderstanding, but the child’s beaming face in the glow of the rosettes and showers of flaming metal through which he waved his Union Jack was so precious, I thought, “Who am I to interfere?”

We walked home along with a mass of people who literally filled the streets. It made me wish we could just get rid of cars altogether, so that everyday bikes and shoes could ride and wander wherever they desired without fear of being run down, backed into, or blasted in the face with exhaust. This is a dream that may never be realized, but, even as it was suggested that this is what the zombie apocalypse might look like, I continued in my reverie undaunted.

And what did this fabulous trip to Boston leave me with? What is my final thought? I have learned that I love Boston, the city, far more than I hate Boston, the band. Rock on!

Hey, Woody and Buzz, Come Fix My Roof!

Don't let the rain come down
My roof's got a hole in it and I might drown.
--Serendipity Singers, "Don't Let the Rain Come Down"

Sometimes, a forty-one year old man can fool himself into thinking he is still a kid. It doesn't last for long, but there are those moments: the first day of vacation, an unexpected bout of inclement weather that keeps him from work, an exceptional ice cream cone on a hot day. These moments are quite valued, even by the most cynical and serious among us. Even a dour old coot like Ebeneezer Scrooge had a little bit of the child hidden deep within his Grinchy heart (an oddly mixed, seasonally inappropriate analogy, but, like a petulant six year old, I don't care).

Yesterday, Monkey and I went to see Toy Story 3 (2d). It was a wonderful, sentimental, exciting story, as you might expect. Disney's involvement notwithstanding, I enjoyed the film, and was even, perhaps, a bit touched by the picture's more maudlin moments. Afterward, we walked a few blocks to a favorite ice cream shop (where Monkey is apparently a Facebook celebrity (or nuisance...I couldn't exactly tell)), and spent an exquisite ten minutes sitting on a bench in the Haymarket, eating Peanut Butter Marshmallow and Pumpkin Praline sugar cones. The day was rather pleasant temperature-wise, which made the sitting outside all the more enjoyable, and, even on break, the sense of decadence brought about by a movie and an ice cream cone enjoyed on a Tuesday afternoon is undeniable and awesome.

But, days like today conspire to remind one that thirteen was a long time ago, and real life is always just around the corner to smack him into adulthood. During a recent spat of late Spring/early Summer rain, it was made clear that our roof has lost its integrity. There are three obvious spots (all on the first floor) where water has gotten into the house. Two of those three spots are brownish water spots, which, given much more opportunity (i.e., more rain) might develop into actual into-the-living-room drippers. The problem of pooled water above our heads notwithstanding, I am glad that these spots did not actively leak into our house. It saved us some pandemonium. However, there is a spot on the kitchen that left a bit of splish-splash on the floor. And, I am grateful for that. It convinced Monkey and I that we shouldn't wait any longer. We contacted a roofer for an estimate today. (Yeah, I know, we waited a bit longer...well....)

This is when the adult world really sucks, of course. A roof is going to cost a lot of money. And Monkey and I were just congratulating ourselves on the fact that we had been doing such a good job of setting aside money to put in the savings account every month. This isn't exactly why we were socking cash away, but I am glad we have it when we need it.

Now, to protest the ensuing five figure price tag that I am anticipating, I am going to go eat a Popsicle and submerge my feet in a kiddy pool. Anybody wanna come over?

***Grammar Note: The word "popsicle" is capitalized. It is a brand name of a kind of ice pop. In the same way that Band-Aid and Kleenex are brand names that have been adopted as the general name of the product that they refer to, so Popsicle. I did not know that.

So Real and So True

When we pass each other in the halls, sometimes we teachers, as most folks do, ask each other how its going. You know, a time honored way of acknowledging each others' being as we move through the atmosphere. Sometimes, we might respond, "Living the dream!" Of course, we are being facetious, to some extent, right? Is this the dream? Is this the life we imagined for ourselves? I guess it depends.

As a young child, if you asked me my dream, I suppose it would most likely have involved being a pirate captain. Nowadays, except for a relatively small and remote part of the globe, just off of the eastern coast of Africa, piracy is a pretty dead career choice. Okay, in any time period and any place, piracy was a pretty dead career choice. Literally. But, let us continue.

As a youngster, my idea of piracy was Captain Hook, and Treasure Island. A Romantic version of pirates, with sailing ships and cannon balls, grape shot and crow's nests, and navigating by dead reckoning and the starry night sky--with a few sword fights thrown in. That most definitely is a "ship on the horizon" dream in every way. The dreamer is never going to get there.

As I grew older, my late teens, my dreams shifted from pirates to science. But, still, I remained at sea; my dream became a career in marine biology. Okay, wait--that's wrong. My actual dream involved living on a South Pacific island (preferably one that hadn't been nuked, but I wouldn't be too picky), eating fish and crab everyday and playing guitar around a beach campfire every night. I'd live in a modest little wooden shack. I'd drink water from a stream. I'd have a dog. I never imagined other people there. Go figure, a recluse's dream. And, most certainly, another "horizon" dream. More possible than piracy, perhaps, but still pretty impractical. The marine biology thing was probably just a fall back.

But, as most of you know, any dream of the sea was an impossibility for me, due to my inability to keep myself from getting ill once I leave solid ground. Boy, is that just an ironic tragedy? Or, maybe, just more of life's absurdity. (Cue the circus music and enter Pere Ubu.)

But how did I get from there to here? How does anybody? Follow point A to point B and repeat...and here I am. Does it have anything to do with dreams? Only insomuch (which could be all) as de la Barca posited. Life is the dream. Or a dream among many possible dreams. Which gets me to thinking about the multiverse. So, I am going to stop now.

Sweet dreams.

The Mathematics of Gremlins: A - A = 0; A - (-A) = 2A (where A = What the Hell Did I Do Today?)

Mr. Horrible? Mr. Horrible?
There's a phone call for Mr. Horrible.
--They Might Be Giants, "Someone Keeps Moving My Chair"

Did you ever have one of those days when you worked for ten hours or so, and, when you looked around at the end of the day, you seemed to have accomplished not one thing? That was my day. We start our second semester on Wednesday, so today was a workday. I had one section of finals left to grade, which I didn't even look at until I got home this evening (I just finished them), and I had planning to do for the upcoming term. But, honestly, the most obviously productive thing I did today was make coffee, and that was done by 7:45!

I guess I just chalk today up to one of those bizarre time warps, where things happen at a pace that seems normal to the person inside the time warp, but where things are actually happening at a much slower pace. However, if that were the case, and I were moving that slowly, I imagine that I would be really tired, right now. It's hard to move directly and slowly for an extended period of time (and I am talking about eight hours of almost perpetual movement (at least of the arms)). But, I am not tired...at least not overtired.

So, what is it? What happened today? Perhaps, as often happens on these "work days," a troupe of gremlins imperceptibly undid everything that I had done almost immediately after I had done it, today. That would leave me with a sense of doing something, but having nothing to show for it. Hmmmm...that MUST be it.

Unless you have any suggestions.

***Twilight Zone still from The Stygian Port

New! New! New!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Things that are different this morning:

--dog is much better

--everything is one day older

--I am now a person who has seen AVATAR (in 2D)

--we are dangerously low on pie and cookies (the holidays must be coming to a close)

--Mizzou is embarrassed after dismantling by Navy

--about a million other things

Things that are the same this morning:

--it's snowing here (just flurries)

--the Ravens can still make the playoffs

--I am STILL only 40

--Monkey is still my favorite

--about a million other things

Am I Buggin' Ya? I Didn't Mean To Bug Ya.

Seventy years ago, today, the German army invaded Poland.

As a result, World War II erupted.

And so it goes.

The Personal Connection

A year ago this time, I was regaling you with the long story of our trip to Italy. I have been thinking a lot about this trip, since it was such a wonderful experience, and we are at that point (an anniversary) when the human mind tends to reflection. In addition, I am currently reading Salman Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence, which takes place in Renaissance Florence (and 15th century India, as well). It is an enjoyable read, thus far, and far more accessible than I expected (I'd never read Rushdie before), but the most exciting aspect right now, for me, is his description and mention of places in Florence that I have seen with my own eyes.

I always spend some time discussing with my students the strategies that good readers use. One of the primary strategies in comprehending and enjoying any text is making a personal connection, finding something in the text that you can equate in some way with your own life experiences. As I read the first section of the novel, which takes place primarily in India, I was making connections, but, for the most part, those connections were between the text and some other text I had read or seen, but, once the story shifted locales, the novel has taken off. When Rushdie writes of the burning of Savanorola in the Piazza della Signoria, I can picture the square exactly as I saw it (and imagine the Dominican monk horridly en fuego in the center of it). It is a vivid reminder of the power of personal connection and a pleasant stoking of the memories of a place that I hope to one day visit again.

And Away We Go!

Tomorrow, Monkey and I are off to Omaha to board a plane for Baltimore. We'll spend a few days visiting folks in Smallville, then we'll head to the beach for a week of sun and fun (we hope for sun, anyway) on the edge of the Atlantic.

Monkey and I both spent countless summer days at the beach as small fry, so a return to the old vacation spot is often nostalgic, sometimes bittersweet, and always a reminder of some of the things we have left behind, living in the Midwest. Family notwithstanding, the proximity to the ocean is one of the finest attributes of the Land of Pleasant Living. With that proximity comes a lot of the other things Monkey and I miss, namely seafood and hurricanes. Okay, we really don't miss the hurricanes. How can we, when we have such lovely tornadoes and hail storms to deal with?

But, this week and next, we won't have to miss any of these things, as we will be knee deep in the ocean (literally) on a daily basis.

The Odds

As you know, Monkey and I do most of our live music consumption in Omaha. I have been intrigued by a few shows here in Lincoln (particularly a recent appearance by Wichita's Split Lip Rayfield), but I have only managed a few in the two years we have been here (for various reasons--several of which sound suspiciously like the rationalizations of an aging man). Usually, it's off to Omaha for out-of-town bands. Even still, we don't see everybody we want to in O-town. A couple of friends of ours in a COMO band, Malone, played Omaha on Memorial Day weekend, but we were in Minneapolis. That's how it goes.

But, this upcoming week sees a parade of national acts coming through Lincoln (well, two, actually). Cursive plays here on Wednesday next, followed by Deer Tick on Thursday. Monkey and I would definitely check these shows out. The problem? We are leaving for Baltimore on Wednesday morning. We'll be out of towners for both shows! This is the worst music predicament since a couple of years back, when Bobby Bare Jr and The Hold Steady both played in COMO on the same night, and Monkey and I were in Cornopolis painting our new house!

Wholesome Goodness

Our weekend up north was great fun. Highlights for me include the seediest hot dog joint in America (said one diner: "It made me sick ALL DAY.") A groovy breakfast (best toast EVER) at the neighborhoodly Birchwood (If you put asparagus and fennel in my scramble, I will love you forever.)). An evening meal at Two Pony Farm that involved fresh greens, great cocktails, a tasty Mendocino wine (among others), and one (nearly) severed thumb (mine). Sleeping on the screen porch. Salted strawberries. A pleasant hike at Afton State Park. A second foray to the Blue Door Cafe (whose head honcho is a Lincolnite--go figure!). A nearly passed out trek to Izzy's for unique flavors of ice cream. And, a last morning chow of fried cactus and Cuban steak and eggs. In addition, Mr. Ambassador helped me clear my head and straighten my thinking on buying a new bike.

As usual, our hosts were awesome (and I know I am leaving out something). We will see them in a few months in Colorado, but, perhaps, we (or they) can fit in another visit.

The Unofficial Start of Summer

Monkey and I are heading north momentarily to visit the Ambassadors. We expect good driving weather and two days chock full of food, wine, and fun. I am laying in a new supply of allergy medication so that Frank the Cat and I can co-habitate. Looking forward to a good time (but not looking forward to driving after a tough week corralling the kiddos).

The Reason We're Here...

is to play the drums in our long underwear!

How Did I Get Here?

It seems like only yesterday, I was drunkenly stumbling through the York Road McDonald's parking lot telling anyone who would listen that I would be dead by the time I was twenty-five. Stupid me. I hadn't even graduated university by the time I was twenty-five (I wonder if it had anything to do with the drunken stumbling?). I suppose if you judged by my high-risk behavior in those years, I had an even chance of being right. I am fortunate that I was wrong. I am most fortunate that I grew up before any of my stupid behaviors resulted in truly unfortunate outcomes. The fates look out for children, drunks, and fools, and I have been one or more at any given time in my life.

I bring up this parking lot moment because I think about it often. Why did I feel that way? I suppose, on one hand, I was just being a drunken loud mouth. On another hand (we're dealing with more that two hands here--Shiva-logic), I imagine I was exhibiting a youthful dread of the future; on yet another hand, I was embracing the Romantic notion of "living fast and dying young." Whatever reason I may have had for this remark, it has never left me. This is a noteworthy phenomenon, since I have very little reputation for remembering things said or done, be they ten minutes or ten years ago. Just ask Monkey.

The point here being, for every year I click past that arbitrarily portended twenty-five, I thumb my nose at my young and stupid self. It isn't like I have done anything special. All I have done is manage another lap around the sun. Billions of others have done it, as well. It's not special. Except that it is.

I would rather not spend your time (and mine) pontificating on the preciousness of life. I am not going to tell you that I am a "carpe diem" kind of guy. I spend too much time reading to expect anyone to believe that. I am not a grab life by the horns, bungee-jumping, bull-running thrill seeker. However, I am happy every day to wake up and get another shot at being me.

Since that break point of twenty five, I have managed to do some things that I am proud of, I have managed to find a career that is worth doing every day, I have found a person worth being with every day, and, most of all, I have begun to learn who I am. It takes a while. At least, it's taken me a while. And, best of all, the more I get to know myself, the easier it is to know and understand others. This, too, like aging itself, is no great feat. Anyone can do it, but not everyone does. I guess I am just happy to be able.

Anyway, I am forty, today. According to Vital Statistics, I have about thirty years left. That's a bit sobering, but, using my grandparents as examples, I think I'll have a few more than that. Of course, it's not how much you have in front of you, so much as it is what you do with what you have. Today, I am going to a movie and eating some Indian food. And, I am going to enjoy as much as I humanly can.

The Dreaded Holiday Form Letter

Faithful Reader(s):

While it is not outside of the realm of possibility that I may find the time and the resources to post between now and 2009, my itinerary for the next several days is chock full. With that in mind, let me extend gracious holiday wishes to all, including salutations for the new year. Please kiss yourself (drunken and sloppily, please, for purposes of verisimilitude) at midnight on New Year's Eve, and imagine it's from me!

Sincerely,
ATR

The Speed of Life

It was a blisteringly fast week, last week. Friday came so quickly (as it sometimes can), that I was literally surprised by its arrival (which came on Thursday morning, I think). I was absolutely certain that I had lost a day somewhere.

This work week has the potential to seem as fast, due to its three day structure. Then again, those short weeks before a long weekend can sometimes feel like slow motion time. We shall see.

Beside a four day weekend, a holiday of conspicuous consumption, and a visit by the North Side Ambassadors (formerly known as, simply, The Ambassadors), I am looking forward this week to the return of my iPod. The old one's hard drive gave out on me, if you'll recall, and we're just now getting around to replacing it (with the new gazillion GB Classic). I am looking forward to having so much more capacity that I'll actually wonder if I should download some Barry Manilow. You know, just because I can.

A Pragmatist Prepares to Leave

Monkey and I will be heading due south tomorrow, returning to the scene of the Horse v. Dog Debacle of 2006. My Favorite Berry is getting hitched at the family farm, and we have been invited for the shindig.

It has been a long and grueling week. I feel like I have been behind the eight ball since Monday, and, no matter how hard I worked, I couldn't get out of its shadow. I was at work until 6pm today getting things together for my sub tomorrow, and I feel like I will most likely start Monday feeling about the same way as I ended today. But, being a skilled compartmentalizer, I am going to stick those worries in a box and not open them until Sunday night.

For now, I am going to roll up my Sunday-go-to-meetings in my saddle bag, get a good night's rest, stick my toothbrush in my pocket at first light, and head on down the trail to Indian Territory.

Let the Devil take Monday. I'll deal with it when I get there.

Evidence to Support Saving the Monkeys (and A Small Bit of Bird Business)

Okay, so, I found a link to this on kottke.org: basically, photos of people doing stupid things. I post the link here for two reasons.

First, if you click on the link for photo #2, you discover this act of stupidity takes place in Hammond, IN, a little town just southeast of Chicago, IL, and formerly the home of Phil Smidt's, one of the best restaurants I have ever patronized. Unfortunately, they closed last October after almost 100 years of fried lake perch and frog legs. Sad. Otherwise, I would have recommended a visit. We're running out of time for road trips (but, we'll watch for railroad crossings, I promise)!

Second, and most importantly, these stupid people doing stupid things obviously support the worldwide halt to consumption of monkeys. These people obviously eat monkeys, and they are obviously stupid. How do I know they are stupid? Well, look at what they are doing (especially the ones with the extension cord in the pool): they are stupid. How do I know they eat monkeys? Well, here is where my expert training as a logician serves me best.

I do not eat monkeys. I am not in the pictures of people doing stupid things. The people in the pictures are doing stupid things, UNLIKE ME. The people in the pictures are unlike me, ERGO (how ya like that?) they do not NOT eat monkeys. Thus, they eat monkeys AND thus, eating monkeys (either) makes you stupid or is stupid.

Stop eating monkeys, stupid people!

On an unrelated note, check out Shearwater's Jonathan Meiburg in Scientific American. Isn't this why people want to be rock 'n' roll stars? To get into august publications like Scientific American?

Goin' Up the Country (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Seven)

I'm goin' up the country, babe don't you want to go?

I'm goin' up the country, babe don't you want to go?

I'm goin' to some place where I've never been before.

--Canned Heat, "Goin' Up the Country"

Our jumping off day greeted us with showers. We had a light breakfast, settled our bill with Bruno (Ciao, Bruno!), and rolled our bags down to the river to rent our car for the journey south. We got a little wet, as we walked and navigated our way to the rental place, but, it was a minor inconvenience. The paper work for the rental was finished quickly, and in a flash our Fiat Punto was waiting for us outside.

Once we figured out how to get the car into reverse (a tricky little “lift up” trigger), we followed our directions out of Firenze. We only had to back track once. The streets there are crazy. they go in all kinds of directions, they change names in a heartbeat and without warning, and every round about and piazza can send you hurtling off in the exact opposite direction that you wish to go. But, we managed to get out of town and on to the autostrade, which is a lot like the New Jersey Turnpike (except that all the signs are in Italian (and metric)).

We had a really good map that we brought along and good directions from the vacation house in Pienza, so, after a few showers and a couple of hours, we were rolling up on our home base for the next week. The vacation house only took check-ins after 4pm, so, we had about three hours to kill. We explored the town of Pienza (which is about two kilometers from our HQ).

It is a quintessential Renaissance Italian town. This is most likely due to the fact that the town was planned out during the Renaissance by Pope Pius II, who had been born there when the town was known as Corsigliano, and he was known as Enea Silvio Piccolomini. It is clearly planned out, as the center

of town is the Piazza Borgia (the village square), around which sit the cathedral and the Palazzo Comunale (town hall). The main street stretches from each end of the piazza, the cathedral overlooks the slope of the hill on which the town is set and the valley below, and the palazzo's loggia squarely faces the cathedral. The positioning of the cathedral, however, is proving troublesome after five hundred years, as the effects of gravity are pulling the apse and the naves of the cathedral into the valley. The church is still a viable structure, but the cracks are clearly visible both inside and outside the cathedral, and the parola sulla via (word on the street) is that nothing seems to be arresting the inevitable downward movement of the building. In addition, the town also still has its older, back-when-we-used-to-be-just-plain-old-Corsigliano-home-of-Silvio-Piccolomini-not-Pienza-birthplace-of-the-pope church, Chiesa di San Francesco, which contains some 14th century frescos of the life of Saint Fancis, a wicked cool altar, and a chapel of Mary with some very interesting artwork.

After a few hours in town, we headed over to Casa Bertuzzi, but we arrived at 3:30. The office was locked, as the proprietors were enjoying siesta time, a common practice in Italy (we had to wait until 2:15 for the cathedral to reopen in Pienza). So, we napped in the car until 4, checked in, and settled ourselves at the casa before we headed back to Pienza for dinner at Latte di Luna.

This small town restaurant was a great place to eat. The prices were considerably cheaper than in Firenze, and the food was as good (or better) than any place we had dined thus far. We enjoyed the traditional Tuscan pasta, pici, with two different ragus. Excellent. Monkey had started with a bean and bread soup, and I enjoyed some sausage with a really tasty plate of white beans in oil. Everything was wonderful. Again, we stopped for gelatto, at a little store at the entrance to the central district, where we also lunched on foccacia that day. It was acceptable gelatto.

A long day of travelling left us with a head of steam for a good sleep. Tomorrow, we planned to head west, then east, to the wine making centers of Montalcino and Montepulciano.

Seven Hundred Years Ago, I'd Have Been Neighbors with Dante (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Three)

Our apartment, on an alley-like side street in Firenze, was nestled amongst a fine pasticheria and restaurant, a few shops, and a residence or two. Just a few housefronts to the east, on the corner, stood a structure that claimed to be the home of Dante Aligheri, Firenze's most famous literary son. I thought it would be an excellent opportunity, to tour the house of the author of the Divine Comedy, but, upon further investigation, Monkey and I discovered that the house was actually built in the 1970s, in the style of a 14th century Fiorentine house, on the foundations of Dante's house. We'd found our first tourist trap! We took it as enough to say that we were dwelling on the same street and, perhaps, trodding some of the same cobblestones as the great writer. We did not visit the Dante simulacrum.

However, on our first full day in Firenze, after a small breakfast of cake and coffee at the apartment, we were off to adventure and a trip back in time to Renaissance Italy! First, we returned to the Duomo, which we had perused from the outside the day before. With its accompanying Baptistry and Campanile, this Renaissance cathedral is the pride and joy of Firenze. After all, even if every semi-major town in the region has a cathedral they might call the Duomo (which just means "house of God"), few have such a magnificently realized, domed cathedral, and Firenze has the first octagonal dome built without the use of any scaffolds!

In addition to the architectural marvel of the cathedral, which also hosts some amazing sculptural work inside and out and a beautiful fresco inside the dome, the Baptistry, just across the piazza, is bedecked with gilded bronze doors sculpted by Ghiberti over the course of 21 years in the middle of the 15th century. Of course, the doors currently on the Baptistry are replications. The originals, after being restored, are displayed in the Opera del Duomo Museum, just across the street from the Cathedral (we'll visit there, later).

After spending the early morning inside the Duomo and outside the Baptistry, we walked around deciding what to do next. We had several hours to kill before our 2pm reservations at the Uffizi Gallery, so, we thought we'd warm up for that museum inside the previously mentioned Duomo Museum.

The Duomo Museum contains (as you may have gathered) many of the works from the Duomo and related buildings. Modern Italy has been hard on marble statues left out for five hundred to seven hundred years decorating building facades, so, they've gathered many of them, restored them, and brought them inside various museums. The Duomo Museum, which is located in what used to be the workshops for sculptors of the Duomo's facade and other decorative structures, is unique for another reason, also. Michelangelo's David, which used to reside in Firenze's Piazza del Signori, was scuplted in the courtyard of this workshop. Everywhere, the footprint of art and history.

The museum housed some pretty cool stuff, including the Pieta that Michelangelo sculpted for his own grave. The freakiest thing we discovered was a number of reliquaries, which are ornate silver and gold boxes, with glass windows in them that house the bones of saints or pieces of the cross upon which Jesus was crucified (at least, that's the claim). It was equal parts cool and creepy, looking at the leg bone of Saint What's-his-face, but it was nothing compared to some later morbid sights of Christianity (stay tuned!). We saw quite a number of these reliquaries over the course of our trip, probably somewhere in the hundreds, but this was our first real look at them. They are very beautiful things. They just hold thousand-year-old bones. Momento mori, baby.

We were then off to the Uffizi, the home of Botticelli's Birth of Venus and Primavera (Spring) , among other masterpieces. The museum used to be the offices of the Medici's, the ruling family of Florence. It became a public museum in the 1700s. It is an interesing building, as well as a museum, with long corridors and lovely views of the river and city. A museum highlight for me: Artimesia Gentileschi's Judith Slaying Holofernes. It's sort of down in the basement, almost at the end of this long room of seemingly random stuff. But, it's such a beautiful painting. The colors in it really jump out at the viewer. The action in the work is so brutal, but the colors and the use of light make it so beautiful, it's captivating. Why they have this gem stuffed down in the basement, I don't know.

After nearly four hours at the Uffizi, we paused at the casa and then were off to dinner at La Giostra, another Monkey-certified recommendation. It was awesome, people. I know Monkey will read this and think that I skimped on the meal's details, but, it's enough for me to say that I had some kick ass spinach ravioli, and Monkey had a spectacular papardelle with ciangale (boar) ragu. Also, the complimetary antipasti plate, filled with crostini and bruschetta and prosciutto and such--wow! It was a great meal.

More gelatto, at a place called Vivolui (chocolate and pear, I think), which was not as good as the first. Then, it was prep time for tomorrow's big museum, the Accademia, current home of Michelangelo's gigantic masterpiece, David.

Living on Italian Time (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Two)

Monkey and I woke in our plush accomodations in Newark (home of Cory Booker--good luck, man) and shuttled back to the airport to check in on the status of our flights. After multiple visits with multiple airline ticketing agents and other officials, we got our boarding passes for our afternoon flight to Milan and then spent some time hanging out in the spacious Newark International Airport.

The weather seemed fine in Jersey, and we boarded our flight and took off with no hitches at all. The flight, which I was not particularly looking forward to, while long, was pretty comfortable. I read, listened to some music, finished a game of travel Scrabble with Monkey, slept a bit, and generally managed to occupy my time and emerge at the other end of the trans-Atlantic leg of our journey, having passed from yesterday afternoon in Newark, New Jersey, to this morning in Milan, Italy, feeling relatively refreshed.

Once we passed (effortlessly) through customs, we found the bus that would take us to the train station, boarded it, and rolled away from the terminal of Malpensa Airport. Within minutes, we pulled up to another travel terminal-type building. Monkey was perplexed. The bus tickets had cost 7 Euro apiece. Monkey felt that this was too high a price for a five mninute bus ride, even on a double decker bus. I assured her that this was merely the other terminal of Malpensa Airport, which it was. She was happy to hear this.

The remainder of the bus ride took about 45 minutes. We sped down the autostrade, and winded (wound?) our way through the grafitti-filled streets of Milan to the train station, where we purchased our tickets on the next train to Firenze. The wait for that train was about 45 minutes, and the train ride was to be about 2 hours. It was strange and wonderful to stand in the station as the trains pulled in and out, watching the people come and go, and hearing the smattering of indecipherable conversations as people passed.

Once aboard the train, we rambled through the urban Milan and then the countryside of the Emilia-Romagna region and Tuscany. Arriving in Firenze with walking directions to our B&B, we wheeled our luggage through the cobbled streets of the central city, and, with some debate and distraction, found our address.

It was hard to stay focused on where we were going for two main reasons. The first, I was wary of ne'er-do-wells (whom were NEVER a problem on the entire trip, but, I've told you of my "urban area paranoia" before). The second, everywhere you looked, there were amazing things to see: people, eight-hundred-year-old buildings, churches with gloden doors and marble facades, restaurants, store fronts, signs, scooters and motor bikes, carabinieri, polizia, Ethiopians selling hand bags and sunglasses, tour guides carrying around all manner of things on sticks in order to maintain visiblity for their tours among the throngs of other tourists in the crowded piazzas and streets. Wow!

After we checked in, we stowed our gear, checked our maps, and strolled the streets to get a taste of the place. We had decided on a place for dinner and our host had made reservations for us (at the ridiculously early hour (we learned) of 7 pm). We strolled past the Uffizi Gallery, past the pink and green Duomo (Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, whose dome was designed by Brunelleschi and whose campanile was designed by Giotto. We meandered the winding streets to the Ponte Vecchio bridge. We stopped at a little focaccieria for lunch and had some pretty mundane sandwiches.

Dinner, on the other hand, was great. Trattoria Cibreo, where we ate, is a little place that is served by the same kitchen as a larger restaurant owned by the same folks. The menu is about the same, with fewer choices at the smaller place, and (even better) more affordable prices. We dined on a crostini with pate, a bread soup, a mushroom soup, and a polenta that were all phenomenal. We also enjoyed the house wine (no idea what it was). We probably would have ordered more food, but, our mediocre lunch had been quite late, and we didn't have a huge appetite. This was poor planning on our part, but, it was a mistake we never made again!

After dinner, it was gelatto time. Monkey, as is her inimitable way, had done quite a bit of homework on restaurants and gelatterias, so, she knew where she wanted to go. We found Gelatteria Neri right where we expected it to be on Via dei Neri. After a few tastes, Monkey decided on her flavors. I forget what she got, but a good bet would be chocolate and banana. Whatever they were, I do remember that they were very good.

A leisurely stroll back to our home base, and, with no real feeling of jet lag at all, we brought our first hours in Firenze to a dreamy close.