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Jake

Livin' the Dream!

Today, I find myself in Jenner, California, a very small town on the coast, just north of San Francisco, where the Russian River flows into the Pacific ocean.  We're staying with friends and their house sits atop a hill above the estuary.  The view from the front window is of a pewter blue river, bounded by steep, brilliant green hills, that force it left and right until it finally disappears a couple miles off in the distance.  Small bits of ancient and abandoned farm houses are visible here and there through the trees.  Large birds float past the window, riding the strong winds that seem a constant.  The picture from the side of the house is of a green-framed, though otherwise unobstructed, view of the never calm, white-capped Pacific Ocean, fading off into a bright grey fog somewhere, way the fuck out there.  The sky above is blue, cloudless.  And I am able to be here due, clearly, to the generosity of wonderful friends and as a result of the only thing good about getting old -- the freedom of  retirement.  I say to all of you who are not yet retired  -- and I invite all my retired comrades to sing along:

"NA-na-NA-na-NA-na!"

Sometimes I miss some of the work, but I never miss working:  the getting up at some specified, but always inconvenient hour, showering and shaving (I have nothing against showering actually, but I really prefer to shave only when I'm ready to change my fashion statement), rushing out into the light and the noise, stressed out by the clock and expectations, chugging along rat-in-maze style for eight hours or more at the direction of an incompetent and in concert with a legion of the equally discontented.

Certainly, there are people who enjoy their work.  It is not a universal truth that EVERYONE hates working.  But it is also not a universal truth that seeing a guy take a softball to the cajones is always  funny (for example, seeing it while you are looking in the mirror), but it is true often enough to make America's Funniest Videos possible. 

Most people will tell you that they don't really hate work, they just hate the work they're doing.  I've worked with waiters, limo drivers, and bartenders who wanted to be actors, writers, and musicians.  I worked with guys who wanted to be professional athletes and women who dreamed of being models.  I worked with a tubby, red-haired, little guy who aspired to be a chipmunk at Disney World and spoke frequently about how close he had come at the audition.  There are CEO's of multi-national corporations who lament their failure to pursue a career in carpentry -- except, of course,when they are lighting their cigars with hundred dollar bills -- neurosurgeons who wish they were forest rangers, farmers who wanted to star in porno films and housewives who wanted to be magicians.

We're all convinced that work would be easy and rewarding if we were only working in pursuit of our dream.  Things would be great, if you could just be the Blues guitarist you’ve always dreamed of being, if you were the Country Western singer that lives in your heart, if you could just open that pizzeria.

I was lucky enough to have spent a large portion of my life living my supposed dream, acting in film and television.  But even that job had its horrible moments.

On one gig, I worked as a pitchman on an interactive CD for an insurance company.  For two days, I sat stock still in front of a green chroma key screen, repeating each of twenty-five paragraphs, one hundred twenty five times each, changing only two items indicated in the script.

“And after twenty-five years, assuming you have not taken advantage of your cash withdrawal option, your policy will have grown to nearly X times your initial investment or $X.”)

Sadly, that was not the worst of it.  Not close!  The money was good.  During the hard times, I took jobs where I could get them.  For six months, I worked as a character at children’s parties:  I played a Ninja Turtle, Captain Hook, or Batman.  It had its pleasant moments: 

There was the joy on the little boy’s face when he realized a REAL Ninja Turtle had arrived at his 7th birthday party.  I can still see the gleam in his eye when he ran toward me and the way his little nose crinkled up as he karate kicked me square in the nuts.

There was that time when I was getting ready to perform the centerpiece of the party agenda, the twenty-minute, sit on the grass Indian-style, child astounding, company standard set of five ridiculously simple magic tricks, and suddenly realized that I, as Captain Hook, had only one hand and could not do any of the tricks with a single hand and a hook.

And then there was that day in Carson, a low income suburb on the south side of Los Angeles.    

I was booked to play Batman at a birthday party in a local park.  The normal routine was that I would arrive about half an hour before the scheduled time and, still wearing my street clothes, bring a tape recorder to the scene of the party.  I would collect the fee, then instruct one of the adults to watch for me to arrive at a particular location and, when I waved, press the 'play' button on the recorder.  The music would mark my entrance and the beginning of the Batman Funstravaganza.  After clarifying all this, I would retreat to my car and change into my Batman outfit.  On that particular day, I did everything according to the plan.  I walked down a long slope to a gazebo full of children and their parents, delivered the tape recorder and the instructions.  The mother of the birthday boy nodded understanding and I retreated to the parking lot to change into my costume.

The humiliation actually began with the costume.  It was godawful!  The muscles weren’t very muscular, the ears on the headgear flopped over like a dachshund’s and the black tights were very, very tight.  There I was, a little flabby and out of shape, dressed in tight black pantyhose, wearing a dachshund head and a cape, walking across a parking lot at a park full of people on a bright, warm Sunday afternoon.  I looked straight ahead, concentrating only on the fifty big ones, hiding behind my Barman persona.  I reached a little knoll overlooking the gazebo, stood arms akimbo for a moment, then waved boldly at the woman who would start the music.  Nothing happened,  I waved again.  Still nothing.  Suddenly, I heard a voice from somewhere outside my peripheral vision. 

“Hey, Batman!”   

It was the voice of an adult, obviously several quarts of beer into his afternoon.  I waved in his direction, barely looking, noticing there were actually four men, brown-bagged bottles in hand, getting up to move toward me.  I waved again in the direction of the mother with the tape recorder.  The voice bored through my panic and humiliation. 

“Hey, Batman!  What the hell is it with you, man!?” 

The voice was getting closer.  I smiled, barely turned, and said softly, "it's cool."  One of the other men chimed in.

“Yeah.  What’s with you man?” 

I smiled again, tried to wave them off, felt them approaching.  I signaled wildly to the mother down the hill.  The questioning continued. 

“How come you don’t fly, man?  Superman flies.  You don’t do SQUAT!”

“Bat powers," I mumbled, " I have bat powers,” hoping that would satisfy.  I waved once more frantically to signal the mother to start the music.  She continued to ignore me.  I could smell the breath of one of the men.

"And what's goin' on with you and that Robin, man?!”

I finally lost it.  Music or no music, I, a fully grown adult, standing at the top of a knoll, hands on hips, cape flapping, perspiring through my black, too tight tights, fearing I might cry from the humiliation, lost it.  To hell with mom!  To hell with the music!  It was time to use my bat powers.  I screamed, “Here comes Batman!” grabbed the edges of my cape and took off down the hill, leaving the four drunks behind, questions unanswered.

Living the dream!

She's Got a Ticket to Ride . . . But She Don't Care.

We left Sorrento on a Sunday morning and headed to Rome to spend two days before catching a flight from Rome to Frankfurt to Athens.  The Circumvesuviana -- the train that runs from Sorrento to Naples -- was more crowded than we expected -- breathe in your face, 'howdy neighbor,' is that a pepperoni in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? -- crowded.  We thought we were leaving so early on Sunday morning that there would be no one on the train.  But we had failed to recognize the change to Daylight Savings Time and so, it was an hour later than we had supposed -- an hour closer to the Napoli vs. Whoever football match time -- an hour closer to Miller time -- an hour closer to 'let's start a brawl' time. So our casual Sunday morning train ride up the coast got hot and very hairy when the fists started to fly in the next car. I immediately made the decision that, if the fight made it into our car, I would just start chanting, "Napoli! Napoli!" playing the odds that there would be more people defending my old ass.

On the morning of our scheduled departure form Rome, we made it to the airport in plenty of time and got to the Lufhanza check-in long before necessary only to find there was a strike in Frankfort -- our destination city -- and we would not be flying to Athens via Frankfort, at least not with Lufthanza.

So we got in line to get re-booked. We were third in line. Just ahead of us was a young lady, whose husband was a small forward for some minor league Italian basketball team with a baby, and ahead of her, was a Chinese tour group re-ticketing twenty people. It took almost two hours for the tour group to get re-ticketed.

In the meantime, there were a lot of angry people milling about, harassing the very German Lufthanza employees for not having more than two people to help with the process and for taking so goddamn long to complete each transaction. I have to admit I was among them. At one point, I actually told a Lufthanza employee . . .

Am I ashamed?  Perhaps.  I  do have days when I find my own behavior troubling.

I am not fond of religionists.  I find religion and religionists to be the greatest impediment to problem solving that exists in the world.  Religionists are trouble-makers.   And I despise religionists who insist on proselytizing.  As a staunch supporter of their right to believe whatever they will, I tolerate their existence; but when they encroach upon my space I get downright cranky.  I think of the several times I spotted Jehovah's Witnesses heading toward the house.  As I opened the door, I smiled broadly and greeted them warmly, stark naked, then invited them in for a little Bible study.  (They never would.)  It seemed appropriate at the time, but in retrospect . . .

*   *   * 

When I was living in Hollywood, I got on the freeway at the same spot every morning.  The on-ramp had an HOV lane -- a lane reserved for people with passengers in their cars -- which allowed said cars to zip on through to the freeway without stopping, while single occupant cars stood in line and waited for a green light that would allow one car at a time to enter.  The line to get through the light was always very long and, every morning, I watched single driver after single driver enter the freeway by the HOV lane.

  (There were, I might add, a disproportionate number of Mercedes and BMW's who committed this sin/crime.)  

And each morning, I would sit alone in my car, patiently trying to zen my way to a calm and forgiving place as I watched them go by.  But there came a day, probably the result of circumstances -- heat, perhaps, money issues, a nose hair that wouldn't stop annoying me -- and pent up rage related to the HOV cheating issue itself, when I just had to vent.  I decided no one was getting through without knowing exactly how I felt.  So, I stared into my rear view mirror, counting heads in each car. waiting for a car with only a single occupant to head down the HOV lane to my left. 

Spotting the first offender, I spun, thrust my arm and head out the driver's window and threw my middle finger at him like an emotional spear.  He passed, but never looked my way. 

The occupant of the second car, flipped ME off as he went by. 

The third driver was a dark-haired and very beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, dressed to kill, driving a black Mercedes 450 SL with gold trim.  I flipped that one off with both hands.  She winked and waved as she passed. 

A violent storm was brewing in my gut.  There were still two cars waiting at the light in front of me when the fourth, clearly single-occupant vehicle entered the HOV lane.  Things went into slow motion.  I unsnapped my seat belt and lunged, waist-high out the window, both fingers thrust high and hard, my face contorted in disproportionate rage.  The target car, stopped next to me in the HOV lane and, there in the passenger seat, sat a very mean looking, older, little person, smoking a cigar and silently sneering at me.  I panicked, slammed my foot on the accelerator, and ran directly into the rear of the car parked in front of me.  Shame doesn't begin to describe what I felt.

. . . anyway, I told an employee that I doubted these problems would have happened if the fuhrer were still alive.  In very German fashion, he completely ignored me; but, judging from the way he looked down his nose at me and sucked in his normally flaccid Arian cheeks, I think he might have agreed. 

As a result of another person's rant(One must assume that other person was a Business Class customer who felt that his premium price should have its rewards.  And who can disagree?), they opened a third window to accommodate people who had Business Class tickets and the line was immediately populated with some people who had Business Class tickets and a bunch who did not, but wished they had Business Class tickets.

Patti took note and, when the first of the counterfeits arrived at the window, she threw herself physically in front of the woman and told her that, unless she could show a Business Class ticket, she wasn't getting anywhere near the open ticket window. The woman said she was re-ticketing for a group of twenty people, some of whom had Business Class tickets. Patti told her that it would be best for everyone if they got into the line with their Business Class tickets and got re-ticketed on their own. Nobody showed up and Patti -- demure little kitten that she is -- threw her back against the counter and spread her arms across its full width, making it physically clear that this woman was not going to get a ticket for herself or anyone else.

There was such a threat of physical violence in Patti's voice that the ticket agent offered to re-ticket us, just to get rid of Patti.  But Patti is a true hero of the people.  She refused the offer, pointing to the basketball wife and announcing loudly to everyone, that the woman with the baby -- not she nor anyone else, was going to get re-ticketed next.  I stood in the background with my hand over my heart, proudly humming "La Marseillaise."

I Want You . . . Show Me the Way.

While we were in Sorrento, we went to see both Pompeii and her ugly, unkempt sister, Herculeneum.  They are some of the largest and most complete ancient ruins in Italy.  Pompeii is much larger than I had expected.  It really is quite a vast city and to see it all would take you weeks.  I'd like to have had a guided tour, but there were only two options: recorded tours, which always require that you go at things in a certain order (That's too German, even for me.), and live, bilingual, state-certified, site guides, all of whom know way too much about way too many things and cost a lot of money. 

Also, they chatter.  They have a tour all made up in their heads and think they know exactly what you need to know because it's important and fascinating to them.

"The building on your right, which is estimated to have been built in 326BC . . .

(Wow, I would've thought more like 318 - 320.)

. . . was, and I suppose continues to be, in the sense of all objects continuing to be what they have been . . .

(An intellectual whoopee cushion, if you will.  This guy's killin' me.)

. . .  a cistern, which held 1.2 metric tons of water, enough to serve a family of four, average-sized Romans, with middle class wardrobe, moderately good hygiene, and a high fiber diet, for 2.15 months during the summer."

(Could we just move along here?)

If I hire a tour guide, I want him or her to walk around with me, having pleasant conversation, and responding to things that I  say, perhaps confirming some of my simplistic observations,

"This, I'm guessing, is the amphitheatre."  

"Yes, in fact when . . . " 

"A simple nod will do."

responding to all my questions,

"Hey, what's this goofy-looking thing here?" or

"Tell me what it would be like if all three holes in the vomitorium were 'occupado' and a fourth guy came in, really needing to unload?"

 "Did the citizens of Popeii have formal dances?"

and joyfully and quickly acting on all my suggestions like:

"Speed it up,"

"Let's get out of here," and

"Show me where the erotic murals are."

***There is a sad side-note here:  90% of the erotic frescoes which once adorned the walls of the City of Pompeii have been moved to the Archaeological Museum in Naples, which we were unable to visit.  We'll have to see them on another trip, when we'll be much older and they will seem even less erotic. Ah, the cruelty of nature!

We hired only one guide during the whole trip.  His name was Giovane.  He spoke English with an accent that was almost too Italian.  He was thin, dark, good-looking, with a sleazy kind of Fabio smile. While he responded politely to all my questions, he spoke only to Patti.

"What woulda Signora likea to see nexta?"

"Woulda Signora likea to get a view froma the highesta point ina the city?

"Woulda Signora likea to makea the beasta witha two backs . . . I mean, have a picturea takena in thisa place?

Giovane couldn't take a picture worth crap.  Patti says he was perfect.

Torna a Sorriento (NOW, DAMN IT!)

Sorrento is a great place to be.  From Sorrento, you can easily access the Amalfi Coast, one of the most beautiful and terrifying bus rides in Europe.  We sat in the front seat of the tour bus as we made our way along the winding, narrow road that lies, in my opinion, much too close to the edge of cliffs that drop almost straight down a thousand or more feet into the Gulf of Salerno. (I'm not sure about the exact height of the cliffs; but, let's face it, five hundred, a thousand, two thousand . . .Who gives a crap?  As far as I'm concerned, if the question, "If I fell off of here, would I die in a bone splintering, terminal splat?" can be answered in the affirmative, I am officially terrified.)  Compound the height with the fact that buses -- big 'ol regular tour buses -- are passing one another going in opposite directions along a narrow two-lane road, filled with pedestrians, motorcycles and parked cars, and I begin to feel the heat in my feet.

Since I was a child, hot feet has been my response to any perceived potential falling threat.  I grew up in Buffalo, New York.

 ( Yes, Buffalo, friends. The city is not without its merits. It is the place where one of our least affective, shortest tenured presidents died as a the result of a gunshot wound. It is the place, obviously, where Buffalo Wings were born. It is the only place where you can eat "beef on 'weck," and it is known everywhere for its winter precipitation. 

When I was living in Sweden, about four hundred miles below the article circle, my friends would ask me, "Does the snow in Sweden bother you?" I would just say, "I grew up in Buffalo." and all of them would begin nodding in unison.

My favorite line ever about Buffalo was in "A Chorus Line." One of the dancers says something like, "There was a time when I became suicidal, but I couldn't go through with it because I was living in Buffalo and it seemed redundant." While I am a huge Ani DiFranco fan and I loves me some Polish sausage, I have never regretted my departure.)

Whenever anybody came to visit, they had to be taken to Niagara Falls, of course.  It's one of the seven wonders of the world and it is very close to Buffalo.  As I would approach the edge of the escarpment to look over the fence and into the water below, my feet would begin to burn, as though I were standing on hot asphalt, and it wouldn't stop till I backed far enough away from the railing to block my view.  My sister has the same bizarre reaction.

In addition, if I lived on the Amalfi Coast -- and there is literally NO chance of that -- and I had a car, I would have all the side panels removed from it and stored until I  was ready to sell it. 

The sole purpose this little Amalfi jaunt was to go to a town called, Positano.  It is supposedly one of the European haunts of the incredibly wealthy.  People with money "LOVE"  (exhale the word and throw your head back) the place.  People who carry their dogs in their purses go there to "get some rest" from the hideous torments of Beverly Hills, and the Upper East Side.

I just cannot bear the thought of one more, minute-long elevator ride to the penthouse, listening to that annoying, electronic buzz.  I've got to get out of here.  Fly me to Positano immediately!  Call Hollis, I'm sure she'll go with me.

So, we middle-class schmoes, the vast majority of whom will never experience that lifestyle . . .

 (. . . a lottery winning not withstanding . . . and, by god, I will not give up my right to dream of boundless wealth being bestowed upon me, not because I did anything, but just by sheer unadulterated chance.   It is my religion, my drug of choice.  Nothing gets me more buzzed or harder than contemplating the vaguest possibility that, through some quirk of fate, against all prevailing odds, I will turn so fucking rich over night that I will be able to start thinking about going to Paris for a weekend;  and I will consider becoming a Republican just for a moment because I really finally think I have enough to protect;  but then of course, I will opt instead to divvy the astounding fortune with all my closest friends, leaving me just enough to keep me in sex slaves and pharmaceutical grade marijuana for the balance of my life, as I wander from town to town, giving $10,000 gifts to  people who are nice and well-intentioned and need a hand.) 

. . . we envious middle-class decide instead to pay for trans-oceanic airplane flights, innumerable train rides, and tour bus fare to see what all the fuss is about. 

When the bus pulled into Positano, Patti and I looked to our left at the houses and other buildings above us, stuck to near vertical cliffs; then we looked to our right at the houses and other buildings below us, stuck to near vertical cliffs; then we looked at one another. 

I said to Patti,"This is where we're supposed to get off?"

"This is Positano," she told me.

"Yeah, but what are we going to do?  If you decide you want to go to a restaurant up there, we gotta hire a freakin' Sherpa to get there and if you want to see something on the right, down there, we're going to have to rappel down."

"We could just look around at this level."

"Walk along this narrow road with cars and buses and freakin' motorcycles passing and a vertical drop of who knows how many feet?  I don't think so."

"I guess we could just stay on the bus and keeping going."

I raised up my hand.  "I vote for that.  Worst case, you vote to get off here and we've got a tie, in which case, I promise you I will invoke the Klutchman Rule, a little known element of parliamentary procedure that states that:.

'. . .when a stalemate/tie occurs during discussion and it has been determined that either or all members of the discussion is/are neurotic, the deciding vote will be cast by the person with the largest penis.'

We're not getting off the bus."  

And so, we rode to the end of the line to the town for which the Coast is named -- Amalfi -- which is on reasonably flat land.  We had a glass of very nice wine and a lunch of Frutta de Mare Risotto; then we got back on the bus and, seated on the uphill side and at the rear, returned to Sorrento.

Katie? Have you been chewing on the rug again?

I have to take a moment out of this little travelogue to share some personal pain with you -- the beloved deranged -- who are following this blog.

We have had a family crisis.

Our darling daughter, a three-year-old boxer, Katie Rose, the light of our life, a not-very-pretty girl, perhaps, but a kind and loving soul, one for whose future we had great plans, announced recently that:

a) She is going into the Air Force (Thank god it wasn't the Marines.) and

b) That she is . . . (Lord help us.) . . . a lesbian.  

Editor's Note:  There was a time when a military career and an "alternative" sexuality were mutually exclusive; but as a result of recent changes in attitude, (and the gutsy work of our, until yesterday, not-quite-as-ballsy-as-we had-wished, but now ballsy-as-an-Angus-bull president.)military service is no longer the exclusive domain of heterosexuals. 

Frankly, we've suspected for some time.  All of her playmates are girls.  She's extremely athletic.  She loves to play with all kinds of balls, but frankly has no use for them when they are attached to another dog.  She's kind of tough-looking, although we think she's beautiful.  She has whiskers on her chin.  She kicks ass.

The news was hard for us at first.  I found Patti sitting in the dark, sobbing into a wedding dress she was keeping in Katie's hope chest.  We argued for hours over whether or not the early hysterectomy that I had insisted upon and Patti had resisted (She said she wanted Katie to have the opportunity to be a mother, but I suspect it was really more about the grandpups.) might have played a role in this distorted development.  We reviewed every aspect of our personal relationship, looking for reasons.  We spoke with our pastor, who wasn't entirely helpful, but assured us he would do everything he could to calm the congregation and prevent anyone from firebombing our house.

Then, finally, we came to terms with it.  After all, she is our only daughter.  We joined PFLAGD (Parents and Friends of Lesbian and Gay Dogs).  We began recording every episode of The Ellen Show, ordered Logo on the cable, and went to two Kathy Griffin concerts.  Patti bought a second wedding dress and stored it in the hope chest right alongside Katie's own.  We have decorated our house in rainbow flags. 

She's here.  She's queer.  We're used to it!

And just when we had formed a whole new vision of ours and Katie's future, just when we had gotten used to the idea of having adopted, special needs, mongrel grandpups, Katie tells us she's going to be permanently stationed in North Carolina -- an eastern state which, aside from Asheville, is populated largely be knuckle-dragging morons and hillbillies, overrun with Baptist churches, and whose major contribution to the American economy is the production, processing, and distribution of a poisonous plant that kills or maims more people every year than all the wars in the world.  It is a place where love is apparently reserved for -- purebred, heterosexual, Baptist canines.

There will be no wedding.  There will be no grandpups.  It just ain't fair, y'all.

Serving proudly, but unmarried!

photo ©Bill Resto

http://www.pixelelegance.com/

I Don't Care What You Say, I'm going to Sorrento!!

Our toughest travel day in Italy was the day we took the train from Sienna to Sorrento.   Up to this point, in the eyes of management,  my language skills had gotten us where we needed to go and what we wanted to eat, drink or do with only a few minor hiccups along the way.   I had, in fact, been hailed as the hero of the Italian crusades.  And then we left Sienna for Sorrento. 

The night before we traveled, I had gone on-line and plotted out our trip from Sienna to Naples, where we would catch the local train -- the Circumvesuviana  -- to Sorrento. We were to take a regional train from Sienna to Chiusi at 10:05, wait in Chiusi for twenty minutes and catch another regional train to Napoli at a cost of about €40/person.  I had checked the schedule innumerable times, making sure that I had properly interpreted the tiny little symbols on the schedule indicating that a particular train:

ran daily

ran only on workdays (which includes Saturday)

ran only on school days (The Feast of St. Barbara? Your guess is as good as mine.)

did not run on Saturday

did not run on Sunday

did not run on either Saturday or Sunday.

I did dry runs on the wording of my request for tickets.  I had it cold.  Dead fucking cold.  I was focused like Kobe in the last two minutes of the fourth.

We were up and showered and packed and dressed early.  I got a cab to get us to the train station by 8:20 -- enough time to have a snack before the train ride. Perfetto!!!!  I went into the ticket office and said, in what I'm sure was perfect Italian -- though I will not swear that the balance of the conversation was either perfect or entirely Italian:

"I want two tickets, one-way, second class, to Napoli on the train that leaves for Chiusi at 10:05 AM, please." 

The ticket seller did not appear to have the slightest interest in what I was saying.  About halfway through my little Italian aria, he swung his computer screen around toward me and, pointing at the screen, said, in Italian, "No. You go now or you go at 1PM."

I had heard that ticket sellers will attempt to sell you up to the more expensive express trains and, because I had studied the schedules extensively the night before, I knew that they were both express trains, so I started to interject, "I looked this up on the Internet and there is a train that . . . "

"No. You go now or you go at 1PM." He was absolutely insistent. He pointed out the window at the train sitting on the track. He held up two fingers. "Due minuti."

He was pretty insistent, as were the fifteen people behind me in line who became very vocal about their personal interest in getting on that train.  But I knew the schedule, dammit!  I wanted tickets for the 10:05 to Chiusi.  I wanted to take the thieving bastard down. 

People were grumbling.  I'm sure someone said, "Americani stupidi!"

The pressure was more than I could stand. Un-Kobe-like, I folded like a startled souffle and bought the tickets at a cost of €75/person, then ran like hell to get Patti out of the cafeteria, grab our bags, run downstairs through the underpass and then upstairs to the track, and then get on the train to . . . wherever.  We made it, but barely.  We stood in the vestibule of the train, sweating, panting, drained like hot sex with an entire car full of passengers staring at us unmoved, unconcerned, impatient and bored, as all commuters are. 

I was no longer Italio-heroic.  I was bathed in abject failure -- failure of language? failure of wills? failure of schedule interpretation skills?  The train ride from Sienna to, as it turned out, Florence, was pleasant enough. It should have been for the money. There were very few stops and we arrived in plenty of time to make our connection.  I grumbled anyway.

And, just when I started to feel better . . . well . . .  You may have heard of the infamous and beloved Italian work stoppage.  When we entered the train station in Florence, there was a notice posted on a flashing sign in the middle of the station that warned that, for a twenty-four hour period, there would be a significant number of delays and cancellations due to a shortage of people who felt like working at the train station that day.

So, we and hundreds of other people stood looking at the departure board like it was a huge crap game.   The words 'in retardo' (delayed) and 'Cancellato' rolled up randomly next to time and city combinations.  Every time another train was cancelled and it wasn't #4517 to Napoli, we'd pump our fists in the air and call for another roll of the dice. We were lucky as hell. As we boarded one of the few trains to roll out of the train station in Florence that morning, I had begun to conclude that the ornery ticket seller knew something we did not. Grazie, signore.  We were both heroes.

So, we rolled happily, gratefully, though somewhat expensively, to Napoli -- one of the ugliest, dirtiest, most graffiti-encrusted crapholes I have ever seen --  the Compton of Italy.  It is the only place in Italy during two long trips and one short one that I have ever felt in danger.  Turns out the rest of southern Italy is much more beautiful and pleasant than Naples.  But some things became immediately clear about the south. It is noisier, dryer, dirtier, LOUDER and less well organized than the north.

Now, as a German boy . . .

I am so German, sometimes it almost hurts.  When I was a cigarette smoker, which I gratefully am no longer ( Hey, can I bum a smoke?), I used to occasionally find myself in a half-lit room, sitting in a position where I could catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I would raise one eyebrow, turn my head to a more profile position, then flip the cigarette over so that I was holding it palm-up, between my thumb and forefinger, take a hit on the cigarette, blow the smoke out through my nose and ask myself, out loud:
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

"You still have a family in Germany, nicht var?"

It always startled me.  Sometimes so much that I would have little flashbacks over the course of the next couple days that would send a ripple of real fear up my back.

 
 . . . I know that, while Germans might have some less than pleasant qualities as a people (I'm not going to list them here.  We all know them.  Hmmm.  Then again, I wonder if I'm backing off of this  too soon because what I say about Germans as a "people," must in fact apply to me.  That is the nature of a generalization and I cannot therefore find true objectivity until I embrace them, verbalize them, test them, and come to terms with them.

1.  Germans . . . we . . . are more egocentric than many other ethnicities.

2.  We Germans believe we are better than anyone else, even our fellow Germans.

( I believe that I am better than most other people, but not because I'm German, because they're assholes.  Most people are just mean.)

3.  Germans are mean.  Deep in our bellies, we Germans love confrontation.

4.  We have a propensity for anal retentiveness, OCD, and over-grooming.

5. Altruism is not a recognized philosophy among Germans.  They are an utterly selfish folk.  At least that's what they're saying in Greece.

6.  We have a low tolerance for many things, but for ignorance, in particular.

While part of this little exercise is to cop to everything, I must insist, not that I am free of those horrid qualities, but that I have done everything in my power as a man to repress that part of my nature and re-train -- to the extent that humans can re-train their nature -- my responses through constant practice, biofeedback (That's what I call it when, during a discussion, my wife stands up, raises her arm over her head, and screams, "Zig Heil!"), and years of cognitive therapy.

On the other hand, the inherent qualities that mutate into the the aforesaid problematic behaviors, can be harnessed for the benefit of mankind:

1.  Germans can organize anything from a sock drawer to an awesome army.  We appreciate order.

2.  If you need rules, rules for anything, we got you covered.

3.  Quality craftsmanship (as defined by measurable qualities, such as precision, symmetry, and a tight fit) is paramount to us (and here I must include the Swiss, who are, as you might know, our more serious  tick-tock-tick,  obsessive, older brothers).  Nothing gives us a warmer flush of comfort than having stayed within the lines.

4.  We're very clean. 

The Germans have clearly exerted their influence on their neighbors in Europe over the years -- sometimes without their consent, and I think that there may be reason to believe that German influence might just have rendered the people of northern Italy cleaner, more prosperous, and better organized, if somewhat more reserved, than the people of the south.  Just sayin'.

When we got to the Garibaldi Station in Naples, we made our way to the area from which departs the small train that goes along the coast to Sorrento and inland to other places. It is called the Circumvesuviano, because it goes around Mt. Vesuvius. The next train to Sorrento was leaving within minutes, so I bought our tickets; we dragged our luggage through the too narrow little gates, and headed down to the designated track. The graffiti-covered  drek-wagon was just arriving.  Patti wanted me to ask someone something.  She always wanted me to ask someone something.  But I felt sure.  So, again, we dragged our luggage and our obviously foreign butts into the middle of the train, where we found ourselves surrounded by almost entirely Arabic-speaking people.  While there are a lot of North Africans in southern Italy, the concentration of them on that train seemed odd, but not a cause for panic.  I think Patti had doubts about my leadership skills on this mission, but kept them to herself from that point on.


On the big map over the door, I counted the number of stops to Sorrento and we sat our tired selves down for the ride. When we got to a place where we had determined there were five stations remaining, the train stopped at a place called Poggio-blah- blah-blah. The group of Arabic-speaking men sitting across from us stood up, approached us, and the apparent leader asked, "Where are you going?"

I answered, "Sorrento." In unison, they shook their heads. "No."

I said, stupidly, "Yes, we are."

They said, insistently, "No, you are not."

I was worried for a moment what they might be implying.  And then, the train engine turned off. 

We were at the end of the line in a North African ghetto.  The train was not going anywhere soon and Sorrento was the other way.  It was like a scene from the "Out of Towners."   We sat  quietly in the train station for one hour, legs crossed, arms folded, heads down, then re-boarded the train and headed for Sorrento.  Patti said nothing.  She didn't need to.