between mouthfuls of pasta, dico ciao a tutti. i am where you do as they do and roads lead and ears get lent (and it's lent). i got here very quickly from turkiye, fled by night boat, bus, bus, night boat, train and bus across two seas and two countries in five days. greece was a bit pricey for me and i was getting a thing about time. had a very funny day in athens, hopped over to delphi to ask my asks of the oracle, got snowballed by french kids, told off by security guards, on another boat, lost on the southern italian railway system and finally here, somewhere in the ghetto of rome, about five days ago. i think. i slept for a few of them.
and it's a weird town. today i was hassled by carabinieri, romany and bangladeshi, but also bought lunch by a rock and roll kid with a beat up diy bmx (is tht the best acronym combo ever or what? someone start a band) and once again made to eat pasta by my ragazzi. i celebrated san valentino by going to the vatican and shaking my fist at the dome of papa fascist. die already! the previous day was spent dancing around the flames of a large priest effigy at a pagan anti-carnival in some medieval village an hour from here, where much wine and chocolate induced the kicking up of heels and shouting of slogans from the infoshop stall. tutto libero!
actually italy is such a painting of itself, such an artful cliche, that i find myself shouting 'stop it!' at everything. but i don't mean it. stand up for your espressos, squat that utopia, flaunt those ruins, drink that wine, curse and flirt like it's your last day. and if all those cliches are true, why not go ahead and steal my wallet outside the vittorio emmanuel metro on my second night in rome?
porco dio!
ah, it's not quite perfetto to be back in the west but i think youll be spared my i-love-turkey rants for a bit. hard to miss the çay when you got the espresso. i'm heading up to amsterdam next week for a bit of mail collecting and person visiting and such like. in the meantime, it's back to doing tarot readings for the tourists til i can get my bankcard back. and then only after much gnashing of bureaucrats from the embassy phone. and then only between visits to such wonders as the good ship pirateria, the midnight-star-esque ballroom ateneon, or the circuito, an old dogtrack stadium, can someone get the alf onto wentworth park pronto? i mean really.
and by the way yes, its illegal to sing on the trains, but there's no mention of whistling, so i consider myself at liberty.
ps congrats to em on the wee jasper, cant wait to meet him when i return and thanks jodes for passing on the good news!
and it's a weird town. today i was hassled by carabinieri, romany and bangladeshi, but also bought lunch by a rock and roll kid with a beat up diy bmx (is tht the best acronym combo ever or what? someone start a band) and once again made to eat pasta by my ragazzi. i celebrated san valentino by going to the vatican and shaking my fist at the dome of papa fascist. die already! the previous day was spent dancing around the flames of a large priest effigy at a pagan anti-carnival in some medieval village an hour from here, where much wine and chocolate induced the kicking up of heels and shouting of slogans from the infoshop stall. tutto libero!
actually italy is such a painting of itself, such an artful cliche, that i find myself shouting 'stop it!' at everything. but i don't mean it. stand up for your espressos, squat that utopia, flaunt those ruins, drink that wine, curse and flirt like it's your last day. and if all those cliches are true, why not go ahead and steal my wallet outside the vittorio emmanuel metro on my second night in rome?
porco dio!
ah, it's not quite perfetto to be back in the west but i think youll be spared my i-love-turkey rants for a bit. hard to miss the çay when you got the espresso. i'm heading up to amsterdam next week for a bit of mail collecting and person visiting and such like. in the meantime, it's back to doing tarot readings for the tourists til i can get my bankcard back. and then only after much gnashing of bureaucrats from the embassy phone. and then only between visits to such wonders as the good ship pirateria, the midnight-star-esque ballroom ateneon, or the circuito, an old dogtrack stadium, can someone get the alf onto wentworth park pronto? i mean really.
and by the way yes, its illegal to sing on the trains, but there's no mention of whistling, so i consider myself at liberty.
ps congrats to em on the wee jasper, cant wait to meet him when i return and thanks jodes for passing on the good news!
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