I’m in love

I have to admit that the day started out kinda rough… I hardly slept a wink because my mind and body are still stubbornly set to Chicago time. I lay in bed reading for a while and at around 2: 30, knowing that I was getting up at 7:30, I thought it would be best to force myself to sleep. So I turned out the lights and just lay…. For two and a half more hours while the church bells in my grandma’s town announced each and every half hour, two times, each time making me more agitated and making it ever more pressing, in my head, that I get to sleep. Thoughts raced through my head on loop. Conversations that were long past reemerged. My mind tried to work out prior conflicts, to make sense of relationships that had gone awry… and the circles under my eyes ground themselves a deeper groove. I finally decided that the insect-repellant incense was keeping me awake. It had at this point in the night filled my room and formed a poisonous, stagnant cloud. There were no mosquitoes, but I felt like I was choking. I put it out and after the bells chimed 4:30, I fell into a turbulent half-sleep.

When I finally woke up at 8:30, I was swollen with mosquito bites, and felt the makings of a day-long headache lurking in my temples. I made it to the train heading for Venice. I had two goals for the day: to switch my plane ticket at the airport with the most dysfunctional airline company I’ve ever run into (LOT- if you can avoid it, I highly advise doing so) and meeting my Venetian landlady to see the apartment that up to this point, I had only imagined and embellished from a two-line description.

The day then progressed into a series of small mishaps. I arrived in Venice, coated in sleepless stupor and jumped on the vaporetto that my landlady told me would take me to my stop. I sat in a daze as we passed the wonders of Venice, stopping to remind myself to appreciate these beautiful surroundings through my heavy, falling lids, and my insuppressible yawns. A family sat next to me, fluent in both English and Italian. The mother screamed at her daughters to appreciate the beauty in a whiny, nasal voice. She passed them a digital camera and dictated when to take shots: “Take the picture! Take the picture! This is the most important thing! Take it! Take it!” while the youngest daughter struggled to point and shoot, while also trying to maneuver the zoom. And then “Awww, you missed it! You missed it! Well, that’s ok, that’s ok… you have to be quicker.” This scene repeated itself for a good 20 minutes until they got off at Piazza San Marco. It was at this point that I checked the schedule posted on the inside of the boat and realized that I had taken it going the wrong way and had about 10 more stops until I made it back to where I started and then 6 more to get to the stop I wanted.

The boat trudged on, until it passed an industrialized area, full of warehouses. My heart sank. Was this desolate neighborhood the site of my beautiful imagined apartment? Were the beautiful views onto the canal that had been briefly described actually views of gray factories puffing out smoke? Fortunately, a few turns later, the canal turned into a beautiful and charming stretch I later learned is the Giudecca Canal. And, after an hour and a half on the boat, I saw my stop. I met my landlady who took me up to visit the apartment and… I fell in love. It was perfect: small bedroom, living room (that can be made into another bedroom) and kitchen both with amazing views. It’s in a residential neighborhood, removed from the tourist zones, but easily accessible… a short ride to the museum. As I sat working out the details of the apartment and chatting with my landlady (who is a great woman), at the café down the street, I day- dreamed about my new pretend life in Venice that I will act out in the coming month and the sleep that had enveloped me all day seeped from my body. I was filled with a renewed energy and my heart was beating faster. I was undeniably love struck.

In my email this morning was the promised list of vacant apartments for the month of August in Venice, sent by the Guggenheim program. I quickly sorted through the short descriptions: "beautiful view of lagoon," "shared bathroom/kitchen with italian male/female student/landlord," "near the vaporetto" "washer".... and all the small details of day to day life that I had put off in my mind. For months, I've been planning around this trip and for this trip, talking about it in generalizations and glossy images. Now, I have to decide whether I want to share an apartment with a couple of male students, or with a "very pleasant elderly couple," whether it matters that I have to "pass the landlord's apt" to get to my room, and if I wouldn't mind sharing a bathroom with a "young male professional." More importantly, I just have to get housing before the luxury of having all of these minute details to sort through and choose from dissipates as the apartments fill up. I called the first apartment that caught my eye (fantastic view from the terrace, shared kitchen and bathroom with young Italian male who works at a bookshop) and got to talk to an intern from the same program who's been there for the whole summer and who is staying through August. She suggested waiting until I get there so that I can shop around and actually see the various places and get a feel for them, but can I get on a plane without knowing that I have housing for the month of August... in Venice?

I consider myself to be a pretty well informed individual as far as pop culture is concerned. Thanks to my housemates' occasional splurges on US Magazine ("Stars, they're just like us!"), rented DVDs of shows like the OC (I'll admit it), and more frequent ventures to the movies, I have gradually recovered from the 4-year pop culture deprivation of my college years, when I had neither access to a TV, nor to a movie theater that showed current films. Not that I missed it or noticed, until I stepped out of my college bubble and provoked constant shocked expressions with my scant knowledge of celebrities and the trivialities of their day to day lives. "Who's Jessica Simpson?" I would innocently ask, as jaws dropped and eyebrows scrunched in perplexed disbelief. I consoled myself by reasoning that at least I was up to date on world news, all in all much more useful knowledge than Paris Hilton's latest sex scandal or what's her name's latest diet. Now, although I don't actively seek out celebrity news or really find it very entertaining, I do know that Britney is pregnant again and that Jennifer Aniston is no longer dating Brad Pitt.

All this to say that I didn't think I was that far out of the loop, until last night, when I witnessed the cultural phenomenon and hairy-chested sex symbol that is....... Tom Jones. I had no idea who this man was, let alone the astounding powers he has to make many a Midwestern woman's heart go pitter-pat, succumb to rhythmless flailing, and, if the mood is right (which it was for several ladies last night) to fling some form of frilly under garment on the stage. I felt like I was in a foreign country and had misplaced my cultural compass. How did I miss this guy? And why did everyone else in my family know who he was? I had come to the show to see Etta James and assumed everyone else had, until the polite claps for her set dulled and the thunderous applause for Tom Jones began. The lawn-seat crowd rushed the stage, camera phones in hand, to get a glimpse of his bare chest (little pink triangle from afar) and sweaty gyrations, and a tapestry of drunken dancing assembled. After my initial shock and confusion at the direction that the concert had taken and at the complete void that Tom Jones raised in my mind, I'll admit that I had fun.... I even joined in the rhythmically-challenged dancing. But for all who are wondering, I kept my panties on.

blue on blue

Yesterday, my whole family (including my grandma) and many friends rallied around the television for the final game of the world cup. Azzurri v. Bleus. Tensions were high being that my mom's side is Italian and my dad's side is French. Before the game started, my mom received a call from her brother, who lives in Italy and who gave her a friendly warning not to call my hot-tempered, soccer-loving aunt, if Italy were to lose. This is actually something that my family had already learned from experience when France beat Italy in the European Cup a while back and my dad gave my aunt a friendly overseas ring to teasingly rub in the defeat. Let's just say that she wasn't in any mood to joke about it right then. So it was noted that we would only call after the game if Italy won or just wait a few days til the air had cleared.

My brother, always the diplomat, decided to wear Italy's jersey during the first half and France's during the second half. Although he claimed to be neutral, I did notice that he was cheering a little bit louder for Italy to score. Maybe he was being swayed by his good friend sitting next to him, who had placed a bet in Vegas in Italy's favor. My dad also claimed not to care, but I suspected a secret desire for his country to win, judging from the little glint he gets in his eyes when the Marseillaise is sung at the beginning of the game. My sister was the only one who was believably neutral and my mom and my brother's friends didn't hide the fact that they were all for Italy. I also said I was neutral, but maybe because I felt the need to balance out the room, I cheered a little louder for the French side..... the score was 1: 1, first overtime, second overtime... everyone certain that it's going to go to penalty kicks. And then..... the head butt by Zidane, aimed directly at an Italian player's (Materazzi) chest with no ball in the mix to possibly make it an attempt at a sly jab during a play. We all stared at the screen incredulously, searching for a reason why this cool and collected, seemingly stoic player at the end of his career, would let himself lose control and be booted from his last international game. The mood was sad, like at the end of the book "The Natural" when the little kid tells Roy Hobbs, " Say it ain't so..." Italy won at the penalties... it was safe to call Italy except that all the lines were busy.

My family ended up going out to pizza and gelato to celebrate the victory (it would have been crepes had the French won). After the game and all the to-do, I think my brother summed up the sentiment of the day pretty well. He looked up at me and said with a gloomy face, "I'm just sad that it's over." Honestly, I am too. For the weeks that I've been home, the world cup has been a great bonding experience for my family. Whenever a game was on, I could always expect my brother, dad, and grandma to be sitting and commenting in our living room, and I loved getting into the drama: learning the player's names, shaking my head at the dirty plays and the players' dives, and cheering loudly for Italy and France. In another 4 years, it'll begin again.

beer chicken

It was about a year ago that my father became a US citizen. Shortly after, he purchased several books on grilling and beamingly announced that since he was now American, he would have to master the mysterious art of cooking out. Leafing through the cookbooks, he discovered the recipe for Beer Chicken, where a chicken is grilled while sittings on a can of Bud, and marinated in its juices. The rest of the family watched in amusement and skepticism as my dad set out to make this bizarre dish, apron strapped and an arsenal of grilling tools at hand. The last time that my dad had taken on any culinary endeavors were while courting my mom, who now holds the post of master chef in our household. The smoke billowed and the chicken darkened. In the end, it was great... the fierce critics of the house gave their nods of approval and licked their plates clean. This recipe has since become my dad's specialty (although my mom is often consulted at crucial times during the process) and a staple of the summer. Last night, my dad set out once again to cook up this patiotic fowl... it was a little tough since my brother and I got a hen instead of a chicken, but I'm sure that this won't be its last appearance this summer. Maybe he can be persuaded to make it for the world cup final, where my two countries (France and Italy) will be battling it off.