DATELINE: Rome
Two old people, husband and wife, were found beaten silly in the streets of Rome.
No foul play is suspected as the wounds appear to be self-inflicted.
Witnesses interviewed at the scene observed the foreign couple leaving the Office
of the Questura, apparently having futilely attempted to renew their Permesso Di
Soggiorno (Permission to Stay) documents. They both were redfaced, sweaty and
cursing a blue streak, walking unsteadily and carrying wads of official documents,
with four copies of each, except those that required THREE copies, and the one that
required a special little colorful stamp purchased at the tobacco shop.
They seemed to be muttering to each other furiously. The muttering escalated to
shouting and one witness said he distinctly heard several expletives bantered back
and forth before the woman finally cried out, "I know you are, but what am I!"
Moments later, sticks were produced and the whacking began.
Emergency personnel were called to the scene and were attempting to disarm the
couple and tend to their bumps and bruises. Apparently, this was hampered by the
woman screaming over and over, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!"
She finally passed out, whimpering "There's no place like home...there's no place
like home..." and repeatedly clicking together the heels of her crocs.
The Man seemed more coherent. When asked if he was suffering any pain he displayed
his ten fingers and said, "My fingerprints haven't changed in the past two years
since you digitally fingerprinted me, you mother------s!" No one could make sense
of what he was saying and it was unanimously agreed that he had a head injury.
Tonight they are recovering in the psych ward reserved for foreigners who have the
audacity to think they can just march in to the office they marched into two years
ago, and just get their supposedly digitized, computerized Permesso's renewed.
They thought they could just breeze in and out, like they were in a first world
country instead of a medieval third world insane asylum running on corruption and
nepotism. They thought that perhaps with the advent of the computer in the last
century, the bureaucrats of Italy might have deigned to put into place systems to
actually assist people instead of running them into an early grave trying to comply
with archaic and undecipherable rules and regulations.
How ridiculous these foreigners are! Where do they think they are? Somewhere
culturally sophisticated? HA! This isn't CIVILIZATION! This is ITALIA!!
These foreigners must be taught a lesson! If they want employees who care (a
concept known as "customer service," which has no equivalent in this Godforsaken
country; if they want streamlined systems to expedite bureaucracy; if they want to
save the trees, instead of making endless/needless copies of documents that serve
absolutely NO purpose and will end up in some big dark storage room somewhere in
the depths of Rome; if they want to spend their days freely doing whatever it is
they do here, instead of traipsing all over the place, shuffling from one official
office to another, traveling in crowded, airless, filthy buses and trams, given the
runaround by polyester-uniformed sadistic lackies who got their job because their
daddy's friend worked there; if they want to make something as simple as a
stinkin' telephone call to an office to CHANGE their appointment date because
they're not going to be in this country on June whatever!...
then they should go to...Switzerland!
Monday, April 12, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
A Two Hour Tour!
This may or may not be my last post about our vacation to Sapri.
I can't decide.
The problem is threefold. One, I obviously don't get enough vacations. Two, I took
a lot (as in hundreds) of photos and I keep thinking someone might enjoy them. (Kind
of like when you'd go visit Uncle Phil and Aunt Millie and they'd insist on pulling out
the old projector and screen and insist that everyone sit and watch an unending slide
show documenting every breathing moment of their Winnebago trip to Lubbock in
ought 87, or whatever, and everyone's head would start lolling around and your Dad
would yell about it all the way home at, like, two o'clock in the morning.)
And, three, I really miss Sapri and seem unable to let it go.
So, bear with me.
On Easter Sunday we were walking along the beach sidewalk in Sapri when we ran into some
guy trying to rustle up some business for his boat tour. At first, we just walked past him,
but then we got to thinking maybe a ride in a boat on this glorious day would be a good idea.
Now, whenever The Man and I both agree that something is a good idea...well, that's when
Godzilla should show up and just step on us.
But, evidently, Godzilla was busy officiating at the annual Sapri Easter egg hunt. So,
without any supervision at all, off we went. And, the rest is history...a history of joyous
thanksgiving to be alive on terra firma.
It was all good until...well...until we seemed to just keep going and going with no clear
indication that we would EVER turn around and get back to our point of embarkation.
The passengers were all unremarkable EXCEPT for the woman who started throwing
up almost immediately. Luckily, Captain Mario had a bucket on board. This poor
woman had been, prior to boarding the boat, laying in the sun drinking herself into a
state of oblivion. I wasn't aware of the "oblivion" part until things became apparent.
Anyway, she got sick quickly. We all sort of accepted her "sea-sickness" with good
humor and sympathy. However, after many hours of endless boating and watching
her condition deteriorate, Captain Mario prudently decided to change heading to the
nearest port for a medical evacuation. At this point, I was on the floor of the boat
holding the woman, trying to keep the blue tarp wrapped around her and to give her
some of my body warmth because she was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering.
When we arrived at the port of Scario (which we have no photos of because I thought it
would look slightly callous to start filming what seemed to be an extremely serious
situation - I actually thought she might be dying!) the ambulance was waiting...along
with a major portion of the population of this small village where nothing much happens,
I guess.
There was a flurry of excitement. The seemingly comatose, once happily inebriated
land-lubber was placed on a gurney and wheeled into the waiting ambulance, official-
looking men in uniforms were waving their hands around, Mario jumped back and
forth from the boat to shore to offer explanations and, all the while, the townspeople
stared down at us like we were all guilty of something and should be punished. No one
smiled at us...even the children looked pissed off!
And then, suddenly, we were back at sea on our way (we prayed) to Sapri...to shore...
to our hotels...or homes...our loved ones...our pets...children...dinner...pizza!
So, anyway, I put THIS MOVIE together and I hope you like it.
Oh, and if you're planning a trip to this region, do take Mario's boat tour. It is definitely
worth the price of admission. I would go again even knowing that I might not see land,
a toilet, a bottle of water, or a life vest...again!
(I'm serious! I was without a bathroom for over FIVE hours! An Easter miracle!!!)
Oh, and The Man thinks my references to Gilligan's Island are stupid because he never
likes it when something is compared to something on television or in the movies. But,
I think most people still remember the premise of that show and, to me, it is applicable.
In fact, during our interminable cruise, using the passengers on our boat, I was able to
cast the entire show: The Skipper (obviously, Mario), Gilligan, (another obvious choice),
The Professor, Mr. and Mrs. Howe, Mary Ann and, even, Ginger!
And, just so you know, the sick lady (aka Mary Ann) survived and is back home counting
her lucky stars.
I can't decide.
The problem is threefold. One, I obviously don't get enough vacations. Two, I took
a lot (as in hundreds) of photos and I keep thinking someone might enjoy them. (Kind
of like when you'd go visit Uncle Phil and Aunt Millie and they'd insist on pulling out
the old projector and screen and insist that everyone sit and watch an unending slide
show documenting every breathing moment of their Winnebago trip to Lubbock in
ought 87, or whatever, and everyone's head would start lolling around and your Dad
would yell about it all the way home at, like, two o'clock in the morning.)
And, three, I really miss Sapri and seem unable to let it go.
So, bear with me.
On Easter Sunday we were walking along the beach sidewalk in Sapri when we ran into some
guy trying to rustle up some business for his boat tour. At first, we just walked past him,
but then we got to thinking maybe a ride in a boat on this glorious day would be a good idea.
Now, whenever The Man and I both agree that something is a good idea...well, that's when
Godzilla should show up and just step on us.
But, evidently, Godzilla was busy officiating at the annual Sapri Easter egg hunt. So,
without any supervision at all, off we went. And, the rest is history...a history of joyous
thanksgiving to be alive on terra firma.
It was all good until...well...until we seemed to just keep going and going with no clear
indication that we would EVER turn around and get back to our point of embarkation.
The passengers were all unremarkable EXCEPT for the woman who started throwing
up almost immediately. Luckily, Captain Mario had a bucket on board. This poor
woman had been, prior to boarding the boat, laying in the sun drinking herself into a
state of oblivion. I wasn't aware of the "oblivion" part until things became apparent.
Anyway, she got sick quickly. We all sort of accepted her "sea-sickness" with good
humor and sympathy. However, after many hours of endless boating and watching
her condition deteriorate, Captain Mario prudently decided to change heading to the
nearest port for a medical evacuation. At this point, I was on the floor of the boat
holding the woman, trying to keep the blue tarp wrapped around her and to give her
some of my body warmth because she was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering.
When we arrived at the port of Scario (which we have no photos of because I thought it
would look slightly callous to start filming what seemed to be an extremely serious
situation - I actually thought she might be dying!) the ambulance was waiting...along
with a major portion of the population of this small village where nothing much happens,
I guess.
There was a flurry of excitement. The seemingly comatose, once happily inebriated
land-lubber was placed on a gurney and wheeled into the waiting ambulance, official-
looking men in uniforms were waving their hands around, Mario jumped back and
forth from the boat to shore to offer explanations and, all the while, the townspeople
stared down at us like we were all guilty of something and should be punished. No one
smiled at us...even the children looked pissed off!
And then, suddenly, we were back at sea on our way (we prayed) to Sapri...to shore...
to our hotels...or homes...our loved ones...our pets...children...dinner...pizza!
So, anyway, I put THIS MOVIE together and I hope you like it.
Oh, and if you're planning a trip to this region, do take Mario's boat tour. It is definitely
worth the price of admission. I would go again even knowing that I might not see land,
a toilet, a bottle of water, or a life vest...again!
(I'm serious! I was without a bathroom for over FIVE hours! An Easter miracle!!!)
Oh, and The Man thinks my references to Gilligan's Island are stupid because he never
likes it when something is compared to something on television or in the movies. But,
I think most people still remember the premise of that show and, to me, it is applicable.
In fact, during our interminable cruise, using the passengers on our boat, I was able to
cast the entire show: The Skipper (obviously, Mario), Gilligan, (another obvious choice),
The Professor, Mr. and Mrs. Howe, Mary Ann and, even, Ginger!
And, just so you know, the sick lady (aka Mary Ann) survived and is back home counting
her lucky stars.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Re: Patient No. STU123PID
Dear Doctor Slash Candy Man:
I need to double up the dosage on my cholesterol meds. Yesterday I cut myself and
I didn't bleed. Instead, pasta dough oozed out of my veins.
Also, as long as you're writing out some script, gimme a good diet pill, too, because
I've gained about 184 pounds, my thighs have grafted together and I'm starting to
walk like a penguin. My double chin has quadrupled which, I guess, is a bad thing,
but I am finding the folds of fat useful as places to stick my sunglasses, a pen, and
even lose change.
You're probably wondering how this dietary derailment could possibly have happened.
Well, it wasn't my fault, I can assure you!
The Man MADE me go with him to southern Italy and he MADE me go into these
restaurants and eat an amazing array of carbohydrate-ridden foods and milk-derived
products that were all incredibly fresh, like right out of the goat, or cow, or water
buffalo, or sheep (yes, they milk sheep here!) all washed down with jugs of local wine
from grapes kissed by the gods of various volcanoes biding their time until the next
eruption because, like me, those volcanoes are ready to blow!
He MADE me eat every bite and wipe my plate clean of
every drop of precious olive oil, suck the juice out of every
mussel shell, and lick the ice-cold limoncello liqueur from
my chubby fingers in the style of Mme Hortense in the
movie Zorba the Greek which is really sickening and unfair
because The Man got to be Marcello Mastroianni throughout.
Anyway, I'm so innocent!
To help you better understand what has occurred, I've constructed THIS VIDEO
documenting the horrors of what I had to endure during my ride on this culinary
train wreck.
Help me!
As ever, I remain, dear doctor, your humble and most obedient patient,
M
I need to double up the dosage on my cholesterol meds. Yesterday I cut myself and
I didn't bleed. Instead, pasta dough oozed out of my veins.
Also, as long as you're writing out some script, gimme a good diet pill, too, because
I've gained about 184 pounds, my thighs have grafted together and I'm starting to
walk like a penguin. My double chin has quadrupled which, I guess, is a bad thing,
but I am finding the folds of fat useful as places to stick my sunglasses, a pen, and
even lose change.
You're probably wondering how this dietary derailment could possibly have happened.
Well, it wasn't my fault, I can assure you!
The Man MADE me go with him to southern Italy and he MADE me go into these
restaurants and eat an amazing array of carbohydrate-ridden foods and milk-derived
products that were all incredibly fresh, like right out of the goat, or cow, or water
buffalo, or sheep (yes, they milk sheep here!) all washed down with jugs of local wine
from grapes kissed by the gods of various volcanoes biding their time until the next
eruption because, like me, those volcanoes are ready to blow!
He MADE me eat every bite and wipe my plate clean ofevery drop of precious olive oil, suck the juice out of every
mussel shell, and lick the ice-cold limoncello liqueur from
my chubby fingers in the style of Mme Hortense in the
movie Zorba the Greek which is really sickening and unfair
because The Man got to be Marcello Mastroianni throughout.
Anyway, I'm so innocent!
To help you better understand what has occurred, I've constructed THIS VIDEO
documenting the horrors of what I had to endure during my ride on this culinary
train wreck.
Help me!
As ever, I remain, dear doctor, your humble and most obedient patient,
M
Saturday, April 3, 2010
La Certosa di San Lorenzo
Admittedly, I am a lousy video filmer person.
I'm video-camera challenged. For example, in the video linked below, there's a brief
segment where you have to turn your head 90 degrees to the right in order to view
it because I was filming longways and forgot that that is a no-no because there's no
way to turn things around after the fact, and you should have been there to see my
face as I made that realization whilst I was filming! D'ough!
In addition, I think my camera is a little dud.
I also don't know how to add music, which would really be nice.
So, pardon my bad filming, but enjoy the content.
I'm taking you back to the year 1306 when a guy named Tommaso di San Severino,
decided to build a Carthusian Monastery in a town called Padula. Actually, he was
the Lord around these parts, so he could build the monastery wherever he wanted,
but he chose Padula and I'm glad he did because...well...I'm here...and because it's
in a gorgeous setting in the Vallo Di Diano, a great valley surrounded with huge
mountains and gorges and rivers and sheep and cows with bells on.
They dedicated the monastery to Saint Lawrence and named it "La Certosa di
San Lorenzo." (Just so you know, Saint Lawrence was one of the first bishops of
Rome and when he was martyred by grilling over hot coals, he yelled out "I'm
done on this side, turn me over and have a bite!" Which is why Saint Lawrence
is the patron saint of comedians to this very day.)
The Carthusians are an order of hermit monks. They pretty much just meditate all
the time, not leaving their cells except for study in the library, some manual labor
and maybe taking a walk or something to get the kinks out.
Other than that, they live in silent isolation.
The history of La Certosa di San Lorenzo is one of great prosperity and inevitable
decline. The political winds blew by...so did Napoleon Bonaparte. (The winds
merely ruffled some feathers, Napoleon stole the artwork). In 1807 and then again
in 1866 the place was abandoned. It was declared a National Monument in 1882.
It was also used as a prison camp during the two world wars. Finally, after some
restoration, it was reopened to the public in 1982. It is now a World Heritage Site.
I've decided that this is the most beautiful and astonishing place I've seen in all
my years in Italy. I'm serious. As we traipsed around the grand interior of the
monastery I had to constantly grab hold of my chin and push my mouth closed,
I couldn't stop gaping and oooing and ahhhing, like the village idiot allowed inside
to observe greatness. I was properly speechless, awestruck, amazed and delighted.
But, it was so incredibly beautiful, the aesthetics of the design, the architecture, the
art work, the intricate woodwork on doors and chorus stalls, the brightly colored
marble mosaics, the frescoed ceilings and walls, the majolica and terracotta floors,
the tranquility in the courtyards and cloisters...in the gardens...and it all went on
and on, corridor after corridor, room after room.
The kitchen was astounding. The marble balustrades were extraordinary. The
one-of-a-kind spiral marble staircase (like a giant conch shell) which leads to the
library was off limits, unfortunately, but I did take a photo looking up into it and
it's all in the video.
In fact, just watch THE VIDEO. I'm all out of adjectives.
Oh, and as you'll see in the film, the day's adventure ends with a meal. Naturally!
We were famished after all that wonderment and found a local trattoria where
three local men eating there assured us that 1) the local white wine was better
than the red, 2) we should order fish (they were all eating the octopus) because
"you eat fish on Good Friday," and 3) the food is better here than in Rome.
They were right on all counts.
(Oh, and the pasta pictured is handmade fusilli, the pasta from this region, with clams.
It was better than okay.)
Enjoy the film.
I'm video-camera challenged. For example, in the video linked below, there's a brief
segment where you have to turn your head 90 degrees to the right in order to view
it because I was filming longways and forgot that that is a no-no because there's no
way to turn things around after the fact, and you should have been there to see my
face as I made that realization whilst I was filming! D'ough!
In addition, I think my camera is a little dud.
I also don't know how to add music, which would really be nice.
So, pardon my bad filming, but enjoy the content.
I'm taking you back to the year 1306 when a guy named Tommaso di San Severino,
decided to build a Carthusian Monastery in a town called Padula. Actually, he was
the Lord around these parts, so he could build the monastery wherever he wanted,
but he chose Padula and I'm glad he did because...well...I'm here...and because it's
in a gorgeous setting in the Vallo Di Diano, a great valley surrounded with huge
mountains and gorges and rivers and sheep and cows with bells on.
They dedicated the monastery to Saint Lawrence and named it "La Certosa di
San Lorenzo." (Just so you know, Saint Lawrence was one of the first bishops of
Rome and when he was martyred by grilling over hot coals, he yelled out "I'm
done on this side, turn me over and have a bite!" Which is why Saint Lawrence
is the patron saint of comedians to this very day.)
The Carthusians are an order of hermit monks. They pretty much just meditate all
the time, not leaving their cells except for study in the library, some manual labor
and maybe taking a walk or something to get the kinks out.
Other than that, they live in silent isolation.
The history of La Certosa di San Lorenzo is one of great prosperity and inevitable
decline. The political winds blew by...so did Napoleon Bonaparte. (The winds
merely ruffled some feathers, Napoleon stole the artwork). In 1807 and then again
in 1866 the place was abandoned. It was declared a National Monument in 1882.
It was also used as a prison camp during the two world wars. Finally, after some
restoration, it was reopened to the public in 1982. It is now a World Heritage Site.
I've decided that this is the most beautiful and astonishing place I've seen in all
my years in Italy. I'm serious. As we traipsed around the grand interior of the
monastery I had to constantly grab hold of my chin and push my mouth closed,
I couldn't stop gaping and oooing and ahhhing, like the village idiot allowed inside
to observe greatness. I was properly speechless, awestruck, amazed and delighted.
But, it was so incredibly beautiful, the aesthetics of the design, the architecture, the
art work, the intricate woodwork on doors and chorus stalls, the brightly colored
marble mosaics, the frescoed ceilings and walls, the majolica and terracotta floors,
the tranquility in the courtyards and cloisters...in the gardens...and it all went on
and on, corridor after corridor, room after room.
The kitchen was astounding. The marble balustrades were extraordinary. The
one-of-a-kind spiral marble staircase (like a giant conch shell) which leads to the
library was off limits, unfortunately, but I did take a photo looking up into it and
it's all in the video.
In fact, just watch THE VIDEO. I'm all out of adjectives.
Oh, and as you'll see in the film, the day's adventure ends with a meal. Naturally!
We were famished after all that wonderment and found a local trattoria where
three local men eating there assured us that 1) the local white wine was better
than the red, 2) we should order fish (they were all eating the octopus) because
"you eat fish on Good Friday," and 3) the food is better here than in Rome.
They were right on all counts.
(Oh, and the pasta pictured is handmade fusilli, the pasta from this region, with clams.
It was better than okay.)
Enjoy the film.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Travel Log Blog
We have made our way south to the Bay of Policastro, to the town of Sapri for an
Easter Getaway.
It's not our first time here. We always come here when we want some seashore
action. I think this is our fourth or fifth time. Our hotel is right on the beach, the
staff has changed, but they're always welcoming and very kind. They used to be
open before Easter and that's when we'd show up. But, now they don't open until
the Easter weekend. That means there are other guests here, but we don't mind.
We still got the best room in the house with a terrazza that overlooks the sea.
Google maps says it takes about 4 hours and 55 minutes to get here from Roma.
We took 8 hours. Well, we had to stop several times for a caffe and also to eat lunch
and also to stretch...hey, we're old people!
Anyway, I want to show you how wonderful this part of Italy is. I love it here.
This area south of Naples. Campania. Basilicata. The National Park of Cilento.
This VIDEO shows where we stopped for lunch, just off the main highway, at
what seemed to be a truck stop. Well, these truckers know how to eat, let me
tell you. As you will see from the photos, it's a far cry from the normal fare for
truckers in the U.S.
This little ristorante appeared and we both thought, hmmmm....there's cars
and trucks there...must be good...let's go there...
Well, first we ordered the vegetariano antipasto. I've never tasted such a
delectable selection of vegetables and cheeses...the mozzerella di buffala was
fabulous and the goat cheese!!! The sundried tomatoes in oil, the bit of omelette
and polenta, the peppers, the eggplant...Oh!
Then, I ordered the pappardelle with ceci (garbanzo beans). Heaven! Just look
at those little ceci beans sitting there all happy and everything!
The Man ordered a mixture of orrechiette (little ears) pasta and ravioli in an amazing
meat sauce of some kind.
We washed it down with a quarto (fourth) of vino della casa (wine of the house).
Mamma mia!
Then I walked outside and around the back and saw the source of some of our
meal. The pen of goats and chickens and ducks and turkeys and I don't know
what all. This place also had orchards for nuts and apples. Olive trees for the
best olive oil.
Then we got in the car and wound our way down into Sapri and the Med and
our hotel and our room and ... well, watch the video.
I'm going to post again tomorrow. We're going to explore the Cilento!
It's springtime and we're out of Roma!
Easter Getaway.
It's not our first time here. We always come here when we want some seashore
action. I think this is our fourth or fifth time. Our hotel is right on the beach, the
staff has changed, but they're always welcoming and very kind. They used to be
open before Easter and that's when we'd show up. But, now they don't open until
the Easter weekend. That means there are other guests here, but we don't mind.
We still got the best room in the house with a terrazza that overlooks the sea.
Google maps says it takes about 4 hours and 55 minutes to get here from Roma.
We took 8 hours. Well, we had to stop several times for a caffe and also to eat lunch
and also to stretch...hey, we're old people!
Anyway, I want to show you how wonderful this part of Italy is. I love it here.
This area south of Naples. Campania. Basilicata. The National Park of Cilento.
This VIDEO shows where we stopped for lunch, just off the main highway, at
what seemed to be a truck stop. Well, these truckers know how to eat, let me
tell you. As you will see from the photos, it's a far cry from the normal fare for
truckers in the U.S.
This little ristorante appeared and we both thought, hmmmm....there's cars
and trucks there...must be good...let's go there...
Well, first we ordered the vegetariano antipasto. I've never tasted such a
delectable selection of vegetables and cheeses...the mozzerella di buffala was
fabulous and the goat cheese!!! The sundried tomatoes in oil, the bit of omelette
and polenta, the peppers, the eggplant...Oh!
Then, I ordered the pappardelle with ceci (garbanzo beans). Heaven! Just look
at those little ceci beans sitting there all happy and everything!
The Man ordered a mixture of orrechiette (little ears) pasta and ravioli in an amazing
meat sauce of some kind.
We washed it down with a quarto (fourth) of vino della casa (wine of the house).
Mamma mia!
Then I walked outside and around the back and saw the source of some of our
meal. The pen of goats and chickens and ducks and turkeys and I don't know
what all. This place also had orchards for nuts and apples. Olive trees for the
best olive oil.
Then we got in the car and wound our way down into Sapri and the Med and
our hotel and our room and ... well, watch the video.
I'm going to post again tomorrow. We're going to explore the Cilento!
It's springtime and we're out of Roma!
Monday, March 29, 2010
Mortified!
I've got to write this while my
mortification is still fresh.
Okay. So, this morning I screwed
the top on the moka coffee maker
and, at the same time, completely
screwed up my back. I don't know
what happened physiologically,
but I do know that I'm unable to
stand upright. Luckily, my sitting
muscles are unaffected.
Okay. So, I'm just sitting, minding
my own business waiting for the
muscle relaxant to take effect,
planning our trip south to our favorite place on the seashore when I realize that
The Man is outside our door talking to some people. Who? I don't know.
He's just out there. Little Miss Busy-Body. Chattering away.
I'm thinking, "If he brings anyone in here I'll stab him with a pencil and at the trial
when I tell the jury what happened they'll let me off because everybody knows that
you don't bring uninvited strangers into the apartment of a woman with back spasms,
hot flashes and dirty hair.
Suddenly, without any warning AT ALL, he opens the door and says cheerily to me,
"Guess who's here? It's the Proprietaria (the owner) of our building and her son!"
Then, (and, I'm not kidding here!) HE INVITES THEM INTO OUR APARTMENT
WHICH IS A COMPLETE MESS AND LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING RECENTLY
RAIDED BY A BLACK BEAR WITH A BINGE EATING DISORDER BECAUSE MY
BACK IS IN A SPASM AND I HAVEN'T CLEANED UP ANYTHING OR WASHED
THE BREAKFAST DISHES, OR PUT AWAY MY OLD RATTY SWEATER THAT
IS HANGING ON THE BACK OF THE CHAIR, OR VACUUMED THE CARPET
WHICH HAS A WEEK'S WORTH OF CRUD ON IT, OR THROWN AWAY THE
HALF-EATEN APPLE AND EMPTY WINE BOTTLE ON THE COUNTER, OR PUT
AWAY THE SUITCASE THAT'S SITTING OUT ON THE SOFA, UNZIPPED
WITH A WHITE PLASTIC BAG HANGING OUT OF IT, AND TWO ODD-SHAPED
CARTONS OF STUFF I'M SHIPPING BACK TO THE STATES AND A BIG BALL
OF BUBBLE-WRAP PACKING MATERIAL LYING ON THE FLOOR AGAINST
THE WALL, AND WHY OH WHY ARE THE MAN'S CROCS STICKING OUT OF A
CERAMIC PLANTER?...oh, I'm hyperventilating!
It was absolutely mortifying and I had no place to hide. I just sat there, frozen, my
brain screaming "THIS IS BAD! THIS IS REALLY BAD!! DO SOMETHING!!!"
But, what could I do? I couldn't get up. Otherwise I would have fled the building,
so great was my shame.
Now I know how my mother felt when she'd have her bridge ladies over and they'd
mistakenly enter my bedroom while searching for the bathroom and discover my
den of filth and chaos. My mother used to have fits about my room. I forget all the
things she threatened to do if I didn't get in there and clean it up.
Well, Mom, you'll probably be somewhat pleased to learn that I finally got my just
desserts. Call it karma, universal justice or the hand of God, but today within the
blink of an eye, I was tried, convicted and sentenced for all my past, sloppy domestic
transgressions.
But, BUT the thing is I'm NOT a total slob...under normal conditions! I'm really
pretty good at keeping things neat and mostly clean and orderly.
But, today...today! Oh, the agony! The disgrace!
Can you feel my pain?
I almost cried. That's how bad it was. I actually had to fight the formation of tears in
my eyes! And, all the while, The Man is standing there TOTALLY CLUELESS, laughing
and talking away, having a good ol' time with these people...the owner of our building!...
"The Senora!" Who I'd NEVER met before because The Man always pays the rent by
wire or goes to her house. All the tenants go to her to pay the rent. This is the first time
in ten years that she has deigned to set foot in this crumbly old building, and it had to
be today and my back had to go out and I had to be sitting there in my most ragamuffin
clothes and I wasn't even wearing a bra...another punch to my solar-humiliated-plexus.
What's really weird is that after they all left (finally, thank God!) I got up out of my sick
chair and started cleaning. I put everything away, did the dishes, ate the half apple, all
in about five minutes. It's like I thought they were coming back or something.
And, in my distress, I forgot to remember that my back hurt. I actually started feeling
physically better.
Mentally, though, I remain a basket case.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Musical Treat
A phenomenal performance by Buddy Greene in Carnegie Hall.
Enjoy!
(I stole this link from janebretl.com)
Enjoy!
(I stole this link from janebretl.com)
Sunday, March 21, 2010
For Italian Wannabees
We aren't particular enough in the United States.
If, say, you're sitting in an eatery enjoying your deep fried peeps and you see some
green-skinned, antenna-headed martian walk in and ask for deep fried peeps with
ketchup, you just shrug and think, "must be from California....hmmm...ketchup...
I think I'll try me someadat!"
Americans are open to new ideas and willing to try new things...I'm thinking jello
shots and bungee jumping here.
But, in ITville, IT's an entirely different story.
Italians like things just the way they are, the way things have been for the last
seven hundred generations (with the exception of the automobile and the cell-
phone...oh, and naked dancing girls on television), so don't even think about
offering suggestions on improving trash collection or describing the beauty of
the catalytic converter unless you have an insane desire for ridicule. This is
NOT the land of entrepreneurial thinking.
Italians are often snooty and sometimes kind of sneaky. They like to know exactly
who (or what!) they're sitting next to. So, they have devised subtle booby-traps over
the centuries, specific social mores, cultural codes that are designed to expose any
impersonators, any charlatans, any ketchup-loving Californians among them.
Obviously, purple Crocs with the little trendy charms attached are a dead giveaway.
No, I'm talking about much more insidious methods to find you out, you faker!
The following list represents a decade's worth of research. Try not to get confused. I do.
1. Wear black. Italians always dress like extras in a funeral commercial. If you
show up in the piazza wearing white polyester pants and a pink qiana shirt expect
to be surrounded. They'll think you're a circus acrobat and they'll demand you
perform tricks. Do your best and don't fret. (To their credit, Italians will tolerate
the absolute worst and most meaningless street entertainment, like this and this
and this.
2. Don't order a cappuccino after 11:00 a.m. If you do, they'll regard you with
quizzical disdain, like you just ran outside and rolled in a pile of fresh cow manure.
It's considered udderly (sic!) disgusting to consume a milk product after a meal.
Just order an espresso and suffer. (For those of you who have been here and
enjoyed cappuccinos after a meal...well...you may as well know now...they were
watching and they were laughing at you behind your back.)
3. Remember that the salad comes at the END of the meal, not at the beginning
or during. Don't look for some big plastic bottle of Kraft's Creamy Poppyseed
Salad Dressing, either. Use the olive oil and maybe a bit of salt and pepper.
4. NEVER request parmigiano (that's parmesan's REAL name) or any other
cheese to sprinkle on any pasta dish that contains seafood. If you do, your
waiter will develop an uncontrollable eye twitch and fellow diners will snort
their mineral water. Cretin!
5. Avoid attempting to form a line. Line forming indicates that you are an anal
retentive Anglo Saxon. Just stand in that tangled mass of human chaos and
whimper, then charge the turnstile...or ticket window...or bus door when it
opens. This rule applies to driving, too. Those white lines on the road are merely
suggestions. No one takes them seriously, nor should you.
6. Never ever be intimidated by anyone, especially those in exalted positions of
power, like a policeman, a doctor or a lawyer or the Prime Minister...ESPECIALLY
the Prime Minister! And, never, EVER say you're sorry! Instead, say, "It wasn't
my fault!"
7. When you meet up with a friend you must shake hands and do the double kiss.
Woman, man, it doesn't matter. Everybody does the kiss - kiss on the cheeks. But,
make sure you go left, right; that is, you lean in with your left cheek first, then you
offer your right cheek. Practice this until you get it right because if you offer your
right cheek first all hell will break loose! (I know this from personal experience,
but "It wasn't my fault!")
8. Don't say "Buon Giorno" (good day) after 2:00 p.m., say "Buona Sera" (good
evening) and keep saying "Buona Sera" until just before you go to bed, at which
time you finally say "Buona Notte" (good night). This means that after an evening
out with friends, you depart by saying "Buona Sera." But, if those same friends
are sitting in your living room unwilling to leave your house, then you can walk in
wearing your pajamas and tell them, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.
BUONA NOTTE!"
9. On pain of death, never, EVER smugly suggest that "calcio" (soccer) is a game
for wimps and whiners. They will eat you alive...literally, but in a wonderful
tomato sauce infused with olive oil, garlic and peperoncino. (What do you think
tripe is?) In fact, if there's one thing that has lowered the Italian opinion of America,
it's American football. A bunch of enormous, strangely dressed (think about it),
mono-syllabic troglodytes crushing each others' guts out is the essence of crude
and unrefined behavior. Unless, of course, you're an enormous, strangely dressed,
mono-syllabic troglodyte who happens to be dating an Italian model or showgirl.
Then, you're okay, paesano.
10. Hold the mayo! Try to keep in check your insatiable desire for mayonnaise.
If you like it so much, go to France. Just today I mentioned to a Roman friend that
we were having panini with prosciutto for lunch. She was curious about how we
made our sandwiches. I replied that we ate them simply, with just a little mayonnaise.
You'd have thought I'd suggested we all jump naked into the nearby fountain. She
stopped in her tracks, put her hand on her heart and sputtered, "Mah, no!" I looked
warily about me thinking she must have misunderstood me. "It's a panino," I assured
her. But, she just stood there staring at me like maybe I was a New England Patriot or
something. She kept repeating, "No, no, no. You NEVER put mayonnaise on prosciutto.
Never!!!
Which illustrates exactly what I was trying to explain at the beginning of this post.
We just aren't particular enough. We're too easy. And, it's hard being easy.
So, pass the ketchup.
If, say, you're sitting in an eatery enjoying your deep fried peeps and you see some
green-skinned, antenna-headed martian walk in and ask for deep fried peeps with
ketchup, you just shrug and think, "must be from California....hmmm...ketchup...
I think I'll try me someadat!"
Americans are open to new ideas and willing to try new things...I'm thinking jello
shots and bungee jumping here.
But, in ITville, IT's an entirely different story.
Italians like things just the way they are, the way things have been for the last
seven hundred generations (with the exception of the automobile and the cell-
phone...oh, and naked dancing girls on television), so don't even think about
offering suggestions on improving trash collection or describing the beauty of
the catalytic converter unless you have an insane desire for ridicule. This is
NOT the land of entrepreneurial thinking.
Italians are often snooty and sometimes kind of sneaky. They like to know exactly
who (or what!) they're sitting next to. So, they have devised subtle booby-traps over
the centuries, specific social mores, cultural codes that are designed to expose any
impersonators, any charlatans, any ketchup-loving Californians among them.
Obviously, purple Crocs with the little trendy charms attached are a dead giveaway.
No, I'm talking about much more insidious methods to find you out, you faker!
The following list represents a decade's worth of research. Try not to get confused. I do.
How to infiltrate a group of Italians and not look like a complete dolt.
1. Wear black. Italians always dress like extras in a funeral commercial. If you
show up in the piazza wearing white polyester pants and a pink qiana shirt expect
to be surrounded. They'll think you're a circus acrobat and they'll demand you
perform tricks. Do your best and don't fret. (To their credit, Italians will tolerate
the absolute worst and most meaningless street entertainment, like this and this
and this.
2. Don't order a cappuccino after 11:00 a.m. If you do, they'll regard you with
quizzical disdain, like you just ran outside and rolled in a pile of fresh cow manure.
It's considered udderly (sic!) disgusting to consume a milk product after a meal.
Just order an espresso and suffer. (For those of you who have been here and
enjoyed cappuccinos after a meal...well...you may as well know now...they were
watching and they were laughing at you behind your back.)
3. Remember that the salad comes at the END of the meal, not at the beginning
or during. Don't look for some big plastic bottle of Kraft's Creamy Poppyseed
Salad Dressing, either. Use the olive oil and maybe a bit of salt and pepper.
4. NEVER request parmigiano (that's parmesan's REAL name) or any other
cheese to sprinkle on any pasta dish that contains seafood. If you do, your
waiter will develop an uncontrollable eye twitch and fellow diners will snort
their mineral water. Cretin!
5. Avoid attempting to form a line. Line forming indicates that you are an anal
retentive Anglo Saxon. Just stand in that tangled mass of human chaos and
whimper, then charge the turnstile...or ticket window...or bus door when it
opens. This rule applies to driving, too. Those white lines on the road are merely
suggestions. No one takes them seriously, nor should you.
6. Never ever be intimidated by anyone, especially those in exalted positions of
power, like a policeman, a doctor or a lawyer or the Prime Minister...ESPECIALLY
the Prime Minister! And, never, EVER say you're sorry! Instead, say, "It wasn't
my fault!"
7. When you meet up with a friend you must shake hands and do the double kiss.
Woman, man, it doesn't matter. Everybody does the kiss - kiss on the cheeks. But,
make sure you go left, right; that is, you lean in with your left cheek first, then you
offer your right cheek. Practice this until you get it right because if you offer your
right cheek first all hell will break loose! (I know this from personal experience,
but "It wasn't my fault!")
8. Don't say "Buon Giorno" (good day) after 2:00 p.m., say "Buona Sera" (good
evening) and keep saying "Buona Sera" until just before you go to bed, at which
time you finally say "Buona Notte" (good night). This means that after an evening
out with friends, you depart by saying "Buona Sera." But, if those same friends
are sitting in your living room unwilling to leave your house, then you can walk in
wearing your pajamas and tell them, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out.
BUONA NOTTE!"
9. On pain of death, never, EVER smugly suggest that "calcio" (soccer) is a game
for wimps and whiners. They will eat you alive...literally, but in a wonderful
tomato sauce infused with olive oil, garlic and peperoncino. (What do you think
tripe is?) In fact, if there's one thing that has lowered the Italian opinion of America,
it's American football. A bunch of enormous, strangely dressed (think about it),
mono-syllabic troglodytes crushing each others' guts out is the essence of crude
and unrefined behavior. Unless, of course, you're an enormous, strangely dressed,
mono-syllabic troglodyte who happens to be dating an Italian model or showgirl.
Then, you're okay, paesano.
10. Hold the mayo! Try to keep in check your insatiable desire for mayonnaise.
If you like it so much, go to France. Just today I mentioned to a Roman friend that
we were having panini with prosciutto for lunch. She was curious about how we
made our sandwiches. I replied that we ate them simply, with just a little mayonnaise.
You'd have thought I'd suggested we all jump naked into the nearby fountain. She
stopped in her tracks, put her hand on her heart and sputtered, "Mah, no!" I looked
warily about me thinking she must have misunderstood me. "It's a panino," I assured
her. But, she just stood there staring at me like maybe I was a New England Patriot or
something. She kept repeating, "No, no, no. You NEVER put mayonnaise on prosciutto.
Never!!!
Which illustrates exactly what I was trying to explain at the beginning of this post.
We just aren't particular enough. We're too easy. And, it's hard being easy.
So, pass the ketchup.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Number Two
I haven't posted any blogs for awhile. I've written several, but they were so full
of venomous angst I decided not to put them out there. The world has enough
bad stuff in it, why add more. Plus, I was depressed.
I get that way. I just slide down into a dark hole where everything looks bleak
and useless and sad. While in this place I try to talk myself out of it. I get mad at
it. I make myself go out and try to "walk it off." But, it doesn't go away. It sticks
like bubblegum to shoebottom*.
I've read a lot about what supposedly causes chronic depression, things like
genetics, not enough serotonin, not enough exercise, too much stress, too
much alcohol, coffee, and chocolate.
But, the other day The Man
(who is annoyingly happy and
content, like Steamboat Willy
driving his little boat down the
river, whistling a happy tune)
turned on a radio program and
they were talking about Numerology.
Oh boy! I'm saved! Like astrology,
Numerology describes various
characteristics that a person is born
with, depending on the birth date
and name given. It's "fate-based." You get your number the minute you come out of the chute
and that's it. You can't change it. You're stuck. Doomed forever. Ad infinitum.
Anyway, I started figuring out my numbers and reading up on my characteristics.
The findings were startling.
I'm a Number Two. Well, actually, I'm an Eleven, which is a master number, which
means that I'm really a Two, but in a heightened sense. I'm full of Number Two.
Now, Number Two's have good traits like: kind, humble, sensitive, helpful, etc. All
pretty mundane qualities. But, my bad traits are the real winners: timidity, fear, low
self esteem, lack of self confidence, and DEPRESSION.
So, at last, I know why I suffer from this debilitating syndrome. It's because I'm
nothing but a little piece of Number Two!
Whew! What a relief! Pass the chocolate!
Now, The Man is a Three.
In fact, three of his core numbers are three's: his "life path," his "soul urge," and his
"personality." He is 3 to the third power. A threefer.
The characteristics of a three are: creative, socially active, artistic, very positive
and optimistic, playful, happy and fun-loving, inspirational, imaginative, motivating,
enthusiastic and uplifting, great verbal skills, a talent for self expression, a great
communicator, you enjoy life and you don't take things too seriously.
Career choices include: Entertainer, writer, actor, musician, poet.
In short, he's an adorable angel with little wings and a halo making the world smile,
content with life having achieved his heart's desire.
I mean, gag me.
I, on the other hand, am like
a doomed salmon swimming
upstream, struggling every
inch of the way en route to
the promised land, only to
end up flying smack dab into
the mouth of a stinky grizzly
bear filmed live for some
National Geographic
documentary.
I mean, bite me.
It's like the fortune cookies. The Man opens a cookie and it invariably says something
like, "You are so awesome!" and "The God of Fortune is smiling down down upon your
head" and "If you were the weather, every day would be 72 degrees and sunny."
I open my cookie to find "Cheer up, you grouch!" and "You eat too much and your
nose is too big!" "Be nice to your husband for a change."
I'm not kidding. He always gets the good fortune. I get insults. Every time.
The world is made up of a myriad of elements, but FAIRNESS is certainly not
one of them.
Therefore, this old salmon is doomed to eternally swim up Number Two creek
without a paddle.
*Another good cat name to add to my list: "Shoebottom"
It's got a Shakespearean ring to it. Someday, when they find me dead in my
trailer with 65 cats, they're gonna say, "Wow! She sure could name a cat!"
of venomous angst I decided not to put them out there. The world has enough
bad stuff in it, why add more. Plus, I was depressed.
I get that way. I just slide down into a dark hole where everything looks bleak
and useless and sad. While in this place I try to talk myself out of it. I get mad at
it. I make myself go out and try to "walk it off." But, it doesn't go away. It sticks
like bubblegum to shoebottom*.
I've read a lot about what supposedly causes chronic depression, things like
genetics, not enough serotonin, not enough exercise, too much stress, too
much alcohol, coffee, and chocolate.
But, the other day The Man(who is annoyingly happy and
content, like Steamboat Willy
driving his little boat down the
river, whistling a happy tune)
turned on a radio program and
they were talking about Numerology.
Oh boy! I'm saved! Like astrology,
Numerology describes various
characteristics that a person is born
with, depending on the birth date
and name given. It's "fate-based." You get your number the minute you come out of the chute
and that's it. You can't change it. You're stuck. Doomed forever. Ad infinitum.
Anyway, I started figuring out my numbers and reading up on my characteristics.
The findings were startling.
I'm a Number Two. Well, actually, I'm an Eleven, which is a master number, which
means that I'm really a Two, but in a heightened sense. I'm full of Number Two.
Now, Number Two's have good traits like: kind, humble, sensitive, helpful, etc. All
pretty mundane qualities. But, my bad traits are the real winners: timidity, fear, low
self esteem, lack of self confidence, and DEPRESSION.
So, at last, I know why I suffer from this debilitating syndrome. It's because I'm
nothing but a little piece of Number Two!
Whew! What a relief! Pass the chocolate!
Now, The Man is a Three.
In fact, three of his core numbers are three's: his "life path," his "soul urge," and his
"personality." He is 3 to the third power. A threefer.
The characteristics of a three are: creative, socially active, artistic, very positive
and optimistic, playful, happy and fun-loving, inspirational, imaginative, motivating,
enthusiastic and uplifting, great verbal skills, a talent for self expression, a great
communicator, you enjoy life and you don't take things too seriously.
Career choices include: Entertainer, writer, actor, musician, poet.
In short, he's an adorable angel with little wings and a halo making the world smile,
content with life having achieved his heart's desire.
I mean, gag me.
I, on the other hand, am likea doomed salmon swimming
upstream, struggling every
inch of the way en route to
the promised land, only to
end up flying smack dab into
the mouth of a stinky grizzly
bear filmed live for some
National Geographic
documentary.
I mean, bite me.
It's like the fortune cookies. The Man opens a cookie and it invariably says something
like, "You are so awesome!" and "The God of Fortune is smiling down down upon your
head" and "If you were the weather, every day would be 72 degrees and sunny."
I open my cookie to find "Cheer up, you grouch!" and "You eat too much and your
nose is too big!" "Be nice to your husband for a change."
I'm not kidding. He always gets the good fortune. I get insults. Every time.
The world is made up of a myriad of elements, but FAIRNESS is certainly not
one of them.
Therefore, this old salmon is doomed to eternally swim up Number Two creek
without a paddle.
*Another good cat name to add to my list: "Shoebottom"
It's got a Shakespearean ring to it. Someday, when they find me dead in my
trailer with 65 cats, they're gonna say, "Wow! She sure could name a cat!"
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Montecalvello Day Trip
After two months of bliss we decided to give up the absolute best parking space
in the center of Rome.
This was a big deal. To have a parking place that is positioned in such a way as
to preclude sideswiping, mirror breaking, scratching, denting,graffiti spraying
and outright stealing is something to regard with awe and reverence, especially
because it's highly unlikely we'll EVER get that parking space AGAIN! So, as we
drove away from this hallowed piece of ground The Man turned around in his
seat and waved goodbye saying, "Farewell good little parking spot. We'll
remember you well."
It was kind of a weepy moment.
Then, off we bumbled in our little car, into the northern countryside of the
Umbrian hills where we ended up in this small village called Montecalvello,
which boasts a population of 84 citizens. But, what they lack in citizenry, they
make up for in Castlery.
The Castello di Montecalvello dates
from 774-776, a time when guys like
Charlemagne were running around
conquering the known world and
women stayed inside near the fire
because everything was freezing,
not to mention filthy...oh, and for a
good time they all went to church to
gaze at the psychedelic stained glass
windows, the equivalent of today's 3D,
unless, of course, you were a peasant
which is an entirely different depressing
story.
The Castello was enhanced over the
following centuries, and changed hands
frequently, depending on which way the political winds blew.
Balthasar Klossowski (aka Balthus), an artist of some renown, bought the place
in the 1970's and restored much of the castle. Today it is owned by his son who
graciously allows visitors to roam about the grounds. (Actually, I'm only assuming
he's gracious about it. I mean, I really don't know. Maybe he hates people walking
around on his property and stands inside, under the ancient, frescoed ceilings
screaming epithets at the bumpkins below. However, I can say that on the day we
were there, I heard no screaming.)
In this photo of the entrance
you'll notice the circular red
sign with the white horizontal
slash. This sign totally spoils
the view, and is, unfortunately,
typical Italian signage. In this
case, the sign is posted to keep
people from driving their cars
onto the castle grounds.I mean,
you'd have to be a complete
nullard to think that driving your
car through that ancient gateway
would be an okay thing to do. But, evidently, there is a nullard surplus in the area (Oh, I'm
so shocked!) that the castle owner had to put up a sign. Too bad.
In the middle ages when this castle was in the hands of the Monaldeschi clan (who
were NOT known for their diplomatic skills) they would have captured the errant
driver, impaled him on a spike and stuck him on the ramparts, leaving him there
to rot in the breeze as a warning to all future dumbbells.
Impaling. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
I guess it's where the expression "I get your point!" came from.
Anyway, here's a short slide show of Il Castello Di Montecalvello
in the center of Rome.
This was a big deal. To have a parking place that is positioned in such a way as
to preclude sideswiping, mirror breaking, scratching, denting,graffiti spraying
and outright stealing is something to regard with awe and reverence, especially
because it's highly unlikely we'll EVER get that parking space AGAIN! So, as we
drove away from this hallowed piece of ground The Man turned around in his
seat and waved goodbye saying, "Farewell good little parking spot. We'll
remember you well."
It was kind of a weepy moment.
Then, off we bumbled in our little car, into the northern countryside of the
Umbrian hills where we ended up in this small village called Montecalvello,
which boasts a population of 84 citizens. But, what they lack in citizenry, they
make up for in Castlery.
The Castello di Montecalvello datesfrom 774-776, a time when guys like
Charlemagne were running around
conquering the known world and
women stayed inside near the fire
because everything was freezing,
not to mention filthy...oh, and for a
good time they all went to church to
gaze at the psychedelic stained glass
windows, the equivalent of today's 3D,
unless, of course, you were a peasant
which is an entirely different depressing
story.
The Castello was enhanced over the
following centuries, and changed hands
frequently, depending on which way the political winds blew.
Balthasar Klossowski (aka Balthus), an artist of some renown, bought the place
in the 1970's and restored much of the castle. Today it is owned by his son who
graciously allows visitors to roam about the grounds. (Actually, I'm only assuming
he's gracious about it. I mean, I really don't know. Maybe he hates people walking
around on his property and stands inside, under the ancient, frescoed ceilings
screaming epithets at the bumpkins below. However, I can say that on the day we
were there, I heard no screaming.)
In this photo of the entranceyou'll notice the circular red
sign with the white horizontal
slash. This sign totally spoils
the view, and is, unfortunately,
typical Italian signage. In this
case, the sign is posted to keep
people from driving their cars
onto the castle grounds.I mean,
you'd have to be a complete
nullard to think that driving your
car through that ancient gateway
would be an okay thing to do. But, evidently, there is a nullard surplus in the area (Oh, I'm
so shocked!) that the castle owner had to put up a sign. Too bad.
In the middle ages when this castle was in the hands of the Monaldeschi clan (who
were NOT known for their diplomatic skills) they would have captured the errant
driver, impaled him on a spike and stuck him on the ramparts, leaving him there
to rot in the breeze as a warning to all future dumbbells.
Impaling. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.
I guess it's where the expression "I get your point!" came from.
Anyway, here's a short slide show of Il Castello Di Montecalvello
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
