The woods and pastures are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this?
~ Wendell Berry
f. and so, to carry on the Minotaur story....Katie G. found out somewhere or another that the Trattoria de Maiano was the place to eat if traveling to Fiesole. So, of course we did our best to find it. Unfortunately, our best meant ending up on a dark narrow road some 30 minutes after sundown. At the first sign of civilization (a hotel this time), we waltzed in to the reception area and asked about it. "Ah!" said the jolly Italian bellhop, "the Trattoria. It's just down the road and a bit to the left. You'll pass the Frattoria first, but that's not it. You're looking for the Trattoria. The road will be narrow, so be careful." We left with far more confidence than we ought.
Another 20 or so minutes passed and we began to wonder if all those stories about Roman expansion were merely lies to make outsiders believe Italy was actually inhabited by people. They were not lies, I am happy to tell you. The Frattoria was now in sight! Which meant the Trattoria was only minutes away. So.....we kept going...and going...and going. Lights laughed at us from miles away, the wind blew a cold breeze in our faces, and the sounds of night saturated the air. Alright, so that's a little dramatic...But (!) we did finally see a sign that said Trattoria, and at this there was much rejoicing - which was followed by much lamenting - and shortly thereafter by someone making some comment about how it would be a good story anyways...(that was probably me). The Trattoria was closed - shut down for the season, as far as we could tell, and ne'ern a soul in sight. There we some lights up the hill, but they clearly belonged to some pedestrian who took up residence in the otherwise abandoned village. So we about-faced and walked 100 yards right into a couple of elderly Canadians who were either taking a midnight walk through the breeze (which we found highly unlikely) or hoping to find the same place we were. They were loud, a bit loony, and some of the kindest chaps we'd met all week.
My goodness, I haven't even gotten to the Minotaur yet.
e. Venice - a beautiful place, but sadly lacking trees. Two days was the perfect amount of time to stay, so that I could get my tree fix in Tuscany as soon as we left. While we were there, though, we rode a gondola (quite exciting):
and we passed by a restaurant on the corner of one of the blocks that was displaying a vibrant menagerie of sea creatures. Shannon: "Look! it's one of those...those flat fish(!) it's called a...a....." (Shannon clearly thought it was a sting-ray). An italian waiter nearby finished her sentence: "Eet's a Flounder!" Shannon, realizing that it was, in fact a flounder, and that an italian man she had never met before was yelling about flounders in the middle of the street, added: "Yes, a flounder!" and briskly walked on her merry way. I laughed heartily in her wake.
f. On day two of our Florence experience, we took the day off to head to Fiesole - a smaller Tuscan village on the hill just 15 minutes outside of the city. It was a lovely day: exploring pastry shops, hiking through the tuscan wilderness:
and watching the sunset over the city of Firenze. But as the sun was going down, the glory of the day was only just beginning...if I told you it involved Canadians and the Minotaur, you might not believe me. So I'll tell you it involved fish food and a taxi. Truth be told, it involved all four....
Some randomness from my rompings through Italy last week...
a. We started our journey on a RyanAir flight. mmm. what can you say about cheap airfare? First of all, they charge you for everything they can think of: this includes those "free" peanuts and drinks all plane flights are expected to give you out of gratitude, checking in a bag, lottery tickets that support some obscure charity, and of course, using the bathroom on board. Fortunately, they did not think to charge you for: getting off the plane, using the oxygen masks in case of an emergency, unlocking the overhead storage bins, or pulling down the tray-tables. Just you wait, Henry Higgins, just you wait.
b. Some Italians like it when you use their language. Others mock you when you try. Some smile. Some glare. Unfortunately, it was one of these latter kinds that I came across at dinner one of our first nights. "I'll have the [attempted pronunciation of long italian name] -" ::blank look:: "do you want meat sauce or tomato sauce?" I thought about asking her for a bucket of whipped cream instead so I could pie her in the face upon our next meeting.
c. Machiavelli continues to manipulate everyone around him to contrive against me. We went to a church in Florence where Galileo, Michaelangelo, Dante, and some of Napoleon's ancestors were buried - but I paid my 5 euro to see the grave of a man who will always be dear to my heart: Machiavelli. You see, good old Machi and I have the same personality type, according to Briggs and Myers: ENFP - which means we have high moral standards, but when we lose them, we become manipulative genii who can and will make people act the way we want. Machiavelli, as far as I can tell, advocated doing just this. Why this church wanted to bury him in their walls I will never know. (Dr. Seuss, I would like to point out, shared this personality type as well, so I could really go either way at this point in my life). Anyways, we got inside and I started looking around - wall 1 - no machiavelli. wall 2 - galileo. wall 3 - bonapartes. wall 4 - michaelangelo and dante - and then some construction work over a few other graves. All my walls being scanned, I looked through the construction fabric at what looked to be an important grave. yep. Machiavelli betrayed us all again, hiding himself behind rows of metal bars and fabric. What a fiend.
He followed me to Rome too - blocking off every Arch that could have been walked under with construction tape just to annoy the Christmas goose out of me. And then in Sorrento, he closed off the ferries to Capri on the one day we could have made it out to the island! I will have my vengeance. I'll just have to wait until the day I lose all my standards.
d. I still never explained the title of this post...but sleep beckons...more on the morrow.
You know all those stories in the Good Book where Christ is telling some parable and the people completely miss the metaphor? Like when he calls himself the living water and the lady thinks he's talking about a liquid. Or when he says his followers must eat his body and drink his blood and they think he's suggesting cannibalism. Well, I get to talk with these chaps every Wednesday - and it's quite the thrill, let me tell you.
My internship in London is with a community project based out of a local church that runs a soup kitchen for those "on the outskirts of society." This means not only the homeless, but the people with speaking problems or drug problems or schizophrenia. There's one lady who thinks everyone in the world is out to get her. "I'm still alive," she notified us today when we first saw her.
Needless to say, I have some really interesting conversations every week. I'm sure I'll share some with you one day, but for now I'd like to concentrate on the Bible study bit we do at the end...
"The question I have for you is this..." said Nic, our leader, after a 45 dialogue on the original Passover of Moses' day (really, the conversation included everything from fig trees to milk and honey to Gordon Brown, depending on whatever came to their minds). "If you had the choice to put the blood of the lamb on your doorpost, would you do it?"
"hm..." said one. "Now that is a very interesting question you have put to us, Nic."
"I - I know if - if I had blood of anythin on my - on my door," interrupted another, "I would wipe it off."
"Well, I might would need a house in the winter because it's cold, but I don't need one in the summer," added a third.
"A very interesting question, that is, Nic." And that's how it usually goes.
A few weekends ago, a few of us headed north for the goodly land of the Cotswolds. We rented a cottage in a small town
called Blockley about 4 miles from Moreton-in-Marsh, which has the train station and the nearest bus stop. When we got there on Friday morningish we strapped our luggage to our backs and found a footpath that took us underhill and overhill to our homely house. We passed through fields and ran into several flocks of sheep (I put my bags down in the first one and ran around with them...it was glorious.), a large tree which we sat under and ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (the only form of peanut butter I can handle), and a really old stone wall with moss growin out of its innards. The first time we did the trail, it took us about 3 hours if you include our lunch stop and all the stops we made to take pictures every 23 seconds. When we arrived at the cottage, Gloria, the house-keeper, met us with a smile and talked to us for about 20 straight minutes about every topic she could think of. It was a lovely introduction to an even lovelier place. The rest of
the day was spent walking about the town, playing on a playground, and scrounging materials for omelets that eventide. We all gathered around the fireplace that night and thought... 'ah! what a pleasant weekend this will be...' Little did we know the excitement in store for us.
"So what's the plan for the day?" asked Katyo after we went through half a box of Choco Puffs and a few oranges (which Katie G. pointed out would be a horribly awkward thing to eat on a first date).
"Well, we walk to Stow-on-the-Wold and rent the bicycles, bike down to Borton-on-the-Water and be back by night. We'll try and see if we can keep them overnight and return them Sunday evening."
So that was the plan. But after telephoning the bicycle people, and other bicycle people, and people who used to be bicycle people, we ended up figuring out that the nearest bicycles were actually at Bouron on the Water and not Stow. "No worries, though, it should only take 2 or 3 hours to walk there, and we're here to see the countryside anyways." This was mistake number one. Had we walked the whole way, it would have taken some 5 or 6 hours to get there by foot and the bicycle place would have long been shut-down.
Upon realizing this, we took a bus to Bourton after an already late start and meandered through the beautiful village until about 4 of the clock.
"do you have any maps of good bike-trails in the area?" we asked the kind man behind the counter.
"you're coming from Blockley, right?" "yeah" "well, you'll probably only have time to get back home before it gets dark."
We should have realized this would mean trouble. And of course we didn't.
The problem was that the roads were more uphill than downhill, and we stopped every time I came within half a mile of a sheep. Needless to say, it was dark before we were even half-way back. A quarter of the way back, even. But we had a brilliant idea - lock up the bikes in Stow and take a bus to them in the morning and continue our journey from there!
Brilliant, except for one thing. we forgot that the busses don't run on Sundays.
So the next morning, as we sipped tea next to the fireplace and had a lovely bible study together, we thought once more that this would be a calm, relaxing day. And then we found out about the busses. Soooo, we did the only thing we could and walked to Stow. a mere 8 mile stretch, and overestimating our human abilities we thought we could make it in 2.5 hours. try 4. and halfway through hour 2, Katie G. asked me if I remembered to bring the key to the bicycle lock.
"uhhhhhh....mmm. that's not good." "you're kidding right?" "uh.... no."
"well, maybe we can pick the lock." - another error in human reasoning.
We got to our bikes with 5 minutes to spare and quickly realized that the lock was going nowhere, which meant the bikes were going nowhere. So we called a taxi (poor man, he must have thought we were loons). "hey! we need a ride from Stow to Blockley." "Ok, I can do that." "and then back to Stow." silence. "think of it like a there-and-back-again type journey." "alright." "oh, and then we need to go back to Blockley." there was no way we were walking all the way back in the dark. (oh, I forgot to mention, that's what we did the night before, and it was quite the adventure, what with Katyo getting her shoe eaten by a mudpuddle and the rest of us getting covered with dirt and grass).
In the end, it was the story of the season, and we all laughed and smiled and shook our heads in disbelief.
A wonderful weekend it was - even if nothing went the way it was supposed to.
Today's journeys brought us west of London to the city of Bath - respectfully named for the hot springs which the Romans strategically exploited for all their worth a few centuries before the Bath city council did the same. The tour of the Roman Baths was hosted by a hand-held walkie-talkie lookin gadget that spoke to you when you typed in the right numbers. Fortunately, there were numbers specifically for children, so you could still learn as much as you wanted without having to listen to some old british guy telling you a bunch of nonsensical figures and measurements that you were sure to forget by the time you drank your afternoon tea. The children's audio guide even interviewed imaginary Romans who worked in the Baths, scrubbin the floors and laying the stones and such.
What they didn't warn you about was that one of the people they interviewed was a haruspex. And what, you may be rightly asking, is a haruspex? Well, since you asked....it's a soothsayer type who guts goats and studies their innards. And if you think that's a bit graphic, listen to the children's audio guide: baaaabaaaaaaa--(the noise of the goat suddenly stops with a "wwwwwesh") "He separates the liver from the rest of the innards and sets in on the table. Steam rises..." "Do NOT go to Londinuim!" he says - "The signs are not good."
More children, every day, becoming calloused about goat genocide.
Because I believe every day has at least one good story, and because I agree with Kate DiCamillo that "stories are light" in a dark world, here are a few to share with you from the last couple weeks.
I'm living with a four-year old Ethan who likes to call me by every name under the sun other than my own. As I casually slurp my potato stew for dinner, he suddenly looks up and me and grins. "Hello Fork," he says, smirking. "Hello Hair, Hello Lettuce, Hello Carrot." He continues naming me with every inanimate object in sight. Of course I responded in fashion ("Hello Ear"), and the madness continues. His sister, Emeline, tells me that I will never win, since he can and will go on forever. "He does this all the time at home," she says.
I'm in London right now for the semester and we met our neighbor the second night - a kind man named Roger. He told us all about the area around our house and all the good places to see art, authors giving lectures, public debates, bookshops, performances, and the like. At the end of his talk with us he said, "Now,
do you believe in accidents or purpose? because if you believe in purpose - that every meeting happens for a reason, and every moment is working together for some unseen vision to take place - then every meeting, every moment - life itself becomes Extraordinary." It made me smile.
After stopping by Shakespeare's Globe, which wasn't all that similar to his real Globe, according to our guide, we waltzed into St. Paul's Cathedral and climbed the 257 stairs to the Whispering Gallery above the choir. This may have been a most bothersome venture but for the little British schoolboy who was proudly showing his Pa how well he knew his numbers. Proudly, that is, until he got to the very top. "Two-hundred twenty-six, two-hundred twenty-seven...two-hundred twenty-EIGHT! There's 228 stairs, Dad!" "228, good job son," added his Pa. "No, 257," said an elderly woman matter-of-factly, "you must've lost a few." I was in shock - the nerve! To this his Pa added, "You must have lost a few, son."
Unbelievable.
While traveling about the city we came across a grand statue which read the following: "Milo the Cretonian / Who an Ox slew with his fist / and ate it up in one meal / Ye gods, what a glorious twist." Upon some consideration, we took this to mean that an overzealous ox took hold of Milo's fist and killed the poor fellow with it. After which, he detached the fist and gulped it down in one sitting. Thus, the glorious twist. And a lesson to us all in pronoun usage.
If you've stumble upon this bit-o-writing whilst periwandering through life, know I'm glad you've come. I hope you've not come thinking you'll find something more exciting or ingenious than the usual....I doubt you will. I hope you've come because it's good to have company.
We periwander
wondering
what will we all be
come.
We waltz and
whistle
merrily and sometimes
sing off key.
But if you stop
to ponder
and bring a bug
to mum
she may stop
and wonder -
and wonder
is for better.
for better
is
for we.
