"Hi! Here's a post!"

and also,

"Happy Birthday, peppercam!"

Peppercam and Mr. Peppercam were just here for a visit. They were the last of our guests before we head back to the States, and made for a good finale. I took the photo below while sitting with them on the steps of Santa Maria in Aracoeli. This is the same spot where the three of us, plus click, shared a picnic lunch seven years ago -- the last time we were all in Rome together. There was no picnic this time, but we had just finished eating some desperately needed gelato. And fortunately for us, there were no stone-filled barrels were rolled down upon us by peevish princes (as happened here to foreigners in the 1600s). All in all, a pretty good day. Peppercam, here's hoping today has been even better!

a crack on the head / is just what you get: rome, italy, may 2008.

here began all my dreams: oxford, england, may 2006.

i'm just a country mile behind / the world: mn state fair, september 2007.

a big bright healthy smile: washington state, august 2004.

Yeah, um, still not really posting. Clearly. For the same reasons that you shouldn't even try to find a connection between the quote and the picture (as I'm sure you would have if not forewarned). Beyond the fact that everything (post title, picture title, and quote) comes from the same Smiths song, there is none. I didn't have time to try and come up with one.

(More to come later, maybe, I hope)

Write me for details if you haven't gotten them already...

take a glass with me: minneapolis, march 2007.

I don't know. To save time on my jam-packed Monday, I guess? No, that doesn't sound right. Hmmm.

the edges are no longer parallel: rome, october 2006.

Oh, and check out the swank clothing store that lies behind the above exterior:

Davide Cenci

I sort of doubt we'll be shopping there anytime soon...

It's springlike where I am. And it's about damn time. So here is a selection of springlike photos, interpreting spring in, I suppose, the most predictable way possible, in which spring = flowers. Whatever, time is short.

palette: minneapolis, mn, spring 2005.

elegy: new orleans, la, spring 2004.

spring tulips: minneapolis, mn, spring 2005.

orchid: san francisco, ca, spring 2005.

field: minneapolis, mn, summer 2005.

blossom: wales, spring 2006.

Taken right around Nicollet Mall and 9th Street.

apocalypse: minneapolis, mn, march 2006.

Hallelujah!

And oh yeah, I'm in Minnesota. Rochester, to be exact. But I suspect that anyone who reads this (however infrequently) already knows that. In any case, if plans remain as they are now, I'll be heading back to Rome in about a month's time.

Also, I've decided that, since I pretty much never post anymore, regardless of my ongoing intention to do so, I'm going to try something new--at least until such time as I do start posting on a (semi)regular basis, and probably beyond. From here on out, I'll try to post a photo every few days, since I manage to do that with some degree of regularity over at Flickr. This may just as well be a photo-blog as a no-blog. So here's today's image, in honor of yesterday's springtime holiday. Bunny Day, as I like to call it, but lambs are pretty cute too.

enjoying the view: somewhere in wales, may 2006.

My best photo of Moz. It's mediocre, but it's mine.

To refresh people's memories, it was at this point early May. The tickets for the show had been purchased all the way back in February, during a ski trip to Lutsen with J, his brothers, and the fiancee of one of the brothers (very soon to be wife!), to celebrate J's 30th birthday. I had brought along my laptop with a terribly delusional idea that I might work on a book that was already terribly, terribly late. It almost goes without saying that I didn't do any work, but for some reason I did turn the damn thing on--to discover that (for a small fee) I could enjoy wireless Internet and be totally antisocial.

And then I thought, well, I mustn't waste the evening like that, but...I could just quickly check my email, and as long as I'm online anyhow I could just quickly check on my Flickr photos and as long as I have Firefox open I could just quickly check on that one eBay auction for those Moz tickets...that one auction that would be over before we got back to Minneapolis on Sunday night. And before you know it I'd decided that I could just quickly bid a never-to-be-disclosed amount and then hope for the best.

Lucky for me, the best came true. I got the tickets! And promptly blocked out how much I'd paid for them! (Honestly--I had to look it up a few months ago when I realized I couldn't remember at all. And I was a little bit shocked. And now I once again cannot remember.)

At some point in the lead-up to the big day, I'd decided that if I were ever going to be a rabid fangirl and queue for a Morrissey gig, this was the one.

Reason #1: We had general admission tickets. So it was either queue or be far, far from the stage. While the show would still be great--as it was when we saw him in Manchester in July 2004--it would be SO VERY GREAT to be right up front.

For those of you who've not yet seen the light that is The Greatness of Moz, just know that he is truly incredible in concert--the (overused but apt) word "charismatic" does not begin to cover it. But it goes beyond that--he also exudes an astonishingly strong magnetic pull toward his physical person. I realized this immediately when I attended my very first Morrissey gig, in February of 2000 (a show I saw along with the Librarian from Milwaukee!). I remember marveling afterwards at the newly revealed truth that there are some performers who are perfectly fine to watch and listen to from some reasonable distance, and there are others who you just really, desperately, urgently want to touch. And good god if Moz doesn't fall into the latter category.

Reason #2: Manchester is always a very special place to see Moz. It's often been noted that Manchester and the music (and especially the lyrics) of the Smiths are inseparable, and while Moz's solo lyrics have grown farther apart from his home town, he still makes frequent references to the permanent state of Northernness and to the inescapability of one's roots. On top of that, Manchester fans are like no other fans--Morrissey is their lad, and they are passionate about him.

Reason #3: The Apollo is (for the Morrissey of 2006) a relatively small venue, with a capacity of about 3,500, giving me better-than-average odds of being pretty close to the man, and maybe...yes...maybe even within touching distance. I hardly dared to hope--but I did anyway. Plus, having paid the it-which-shall-not-be-named amount that I had for the tickets, I might as well make the most of them.

It was decided. Queue I would.

The day before the show, we had little time in the city itself--although we did squeeze in something we'd missed last time: a photo op in front of that Smiths-fan mecca, the Salford Lads Club. I got all giddy standing there, grinning like a madwoman (that photo is not posted, surprise, surprise) and casting furtive, embarrassed glances at the kids playing ball, who'd probably seen nine million of me doing this exact same thing.

The day of the show, I awoke early-ish, got dressed in my carefully planned outfit of pants (the better and less scandalously to hurl myself onto the stage should the opportunity present itself), black (what else?) top, fake pearls reminiscent of Moz's be-beaded days in The Smiths, and jean jacket decked out with many little Smiths and Morrissey badges purchased on eBay, at Ragstock, and at the 2004 Moz concert in Milwaukee. I was a little foggy-headed, but excited.

J dragged himself out of bed too, and very obligingly drove me to the Apollo, which we'd staked out the night before--as getting even mildly lost the morning of the show would no doubt have resulted in me becoming very panicky and probably also very unpleasant to be around. The theater was a full half-hour's drive from our hotel, which was not in Manchester itself, but in the charmingly-named-but-actually-quite-dull suburb of Bramhall. We'd have much preferred to stay in the city proper, but as usual J and I made our reservations at the last possible moment and therefore were denied. So we ended up in what is essentially the Edina of Manchester. For those of you (if there are any) unfamiliar with Edina, we're talking about a very pretty and well-groomed little place that sports a variety of spendy boutiques, some cute cafes, breakfast places that charge an obscene amount for the basics (but which offer the option of alcohol with your toast and eggs, which does help a bit), and very, VERY well-dressed ladies driving very, VERY expensive convertibles to do their shopping at the afore-mentioned boutiques.

So by approximately 9:30, we had left the boutiques of Bramhall behind and arrived among the grey stone streets of Manchester. We did an initial drive-by past the Apollo to see if anyone was there yet--for, while I had assured J that there would be at least some hardcore fans there very early, he had his doubts. And, yeah, I was totally right. There wasn't a throng, by any means, but I'd say there were around ten people. While I am normally pretty pleased with being proven right, this time it just made me nervous. I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of walking up to these strangers and settling myself beside them for a long, long wait. I balked and asked J to drive around a bit more while I tried to be an adult about the whole thing. Finally I was ready to take the plunge, but not before demanding that J let me out around the corner from the theater's main entrance, as if I were a teenager being dropped off at the mall by her mom. So much for being an adult.

By the time I finally got in the queue (after insisting that J go off and see stuff and leave me to my sick little obsession), it was about 10. Doors would open at 7. A mere nine hours of sitting and standing on the hard, cold concrete steps of the Manchester Apollo stretched before me!

Settling in to pass the time, I opened my copy of Lucky Jim and munched on a Hob Nob. I also had a more academic reading selection in my bag: See It and Say It in Italian. This book, helpfully and whimsically illustrated, proclaims that "If you can speak ENGLISH...you can teach yourself ITALIAN." True to its word, it arms the Italian student with fabulously useful phrases such as:

Dove è il turista? Il turista è all'hotel.
(Where is the tourist? The tourist is at the hotel.)

and:

Ha un leone in casa? Che orrore! Non ho un leone in casa.
(Do you have a lion in the house? How horrible! I don't have a lion in the house.)

I had every intention of using this valuable tool to hone my Italian skills as I waited, but Jim was so entertaining that, when I finally did get out the Italian book, it was only as a ploy--I'd overheard that one of the other queuers was Italian. Hoping he might live in Rome and be able to provide some tips, I read Jim for what I deemed a non-suspicious amount of time longer. Then pulled out the bait-book, which helpfully has ITALIAN in large, indiscreet, bright red letters on the back cover, and equally large, nearly as indiscreet green letters on the front.

It worked within five minutes. He sat down beside me and asked, "Are you studying Italian?"

Score.

Except that, as it turned out, he was Milanese. Not only that, but when I told him the reason for my study he had a few less-than-flattering words about my future neighbors ("Rome is very nice--except for the Romans"), but he did inform me that Moz would be playing Ostia Antica in the summer, and wrote down the relevant ticket website URL on the back inside cover of my Italian book. He also wrote down the name of a big record store on Via del Corso that sells tickets.

Even better, I loved the story that nameless Italian Moz-fanboy (why didn't I ask for his name? because I'm an idiot!) told me. He asked how long I'd been a fan, and I said since high school, when I'd had a terrible boyfriend who had introduced me to Morrissey's music, thus making the whole fiasco completely worth the pain. (A neat combo, that, handing out heartbreak with a side of Mozza. Like simultaneously giving someone a nasty burn and a salve.) He laughed and told me that he'd only been into Morrissey for a few years, and that for a long time previously he'd actively disliked Moz for all the things he'd heard about him--arrogant and all that. But then Moz came to Milan, and not-yet-a-fanboy-then figured that, since he was a legend, he'd best go see the show and at least know what the fuss was about. And then, the moment Morrissey came on stage, fanboy couldn't take his eyes off him. He'd been following him ever since, he said, going to as many shows as he could. I said that I felt lucky to have seen Moz on the 2004 tour, when he'd been performing "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out," and fanboy exclaimed, "Oh, I cried so much when he played that!"

Other people in the queue seemed very nice, and I really should've been less shy and at least tried to strike up conversations--the core of devoted Moz fans are legendarily friendly and tend to appreciate one another on the basis of their mutual devotion--but I chickened out. Part of the problem was that the dozen or so people ahead of me, plus about the next ten who arrived, all knew at least a few of the other queuers, as they'd all done this many, many times. For them, it was all sharing snacks and crossing the street in shifts to nap on a sunny patch of grass. J and I later heard one group of guys say that this was their first of seven shows in ten or twelve days. I would say that these people are crazy, but frankly, if I had the means (time, money, biscuits), I'd probably do the same.

Anyhow, point is, I fulfilled a grand old stereotype of Morrissey fans by being a complete wall-flower and sticking my nose in a book and resolutely refusing to make friends and then feeling vaguely saddened and disappointed about my alone-ness. Eh. Maybe next time.

All this is not to say that I didn't have ANY human contact during the wait--one somewhat odd guy did start talking to me while it was still morning, in an accent so thick (and northern, I think--I'm pretty sure he was a Mancunian himself) that I could barely understand him at first. He got a big kick out of all my badges, pointing them out to other queuers, and wanted to know my favorite Moz/Smiths song (his is "Asleep," a hell of a sad one), and tried to put his flat cap on my head, and then pulled a tall beer out of his jacket, cracked it open, and took a cod liver oil pill with it. He was quite nice and seemed completely harmless, but I did feel a bit silly about the whole hat thing. How are you supposed to graciously remove and return a strange man's hat?

I did enjoy watching and listening as I waited. There was one English guy, Chris, who clearly organized things (though unofficially), because he took the names of the first twenty or so people who got in line, and then when it got close to doors time he kind of helped us get arranged so that we'd be the first in. Pretty cool. He also handed out Jaffa Cakes. Super cool.

(If you are unsure what a Jaffa Cake is, not to worry. The expected McVitie's propaganda is here, but a more intellectually adventurous discussion can be found here: Jaffa Cakes: Biscuit or Cake? This article uses both the words "conundrums" and "squidgy," so it's well worth a read.)

Then there was the German woman with the cute dog, and the Japanese guy who the Italian guy said comes to all the shows, and two really pretty, skinny girls who looked Eastern European and wore cool clothes and had fabulous bangs and wore cherry-red lipstick that significantly brightened up the day. Sadly, one of them fainted a few songs into the gig and had to be taken out. There was also a group of people who played Morrissey Song Title Charades for an hour or so. Nerdy but fun to observe from the sidelines.

At about four o'clock, J joined me in line--which by then stretched well around the corner--bearing cheesy-veggie sandwiches (I didn't DARE eat meat in a Morrissey queue, though others were braver than I) and salt-and-vinegar chips (well, crisps, really) and water. I foolishly drank the water and then had to cross the street and go down the block to buy some gummy candy things at the gas station in exchange for using their incredibly disgusting bathroom. By six, there had been movement behind the doors, and the crowd began jockeying for position, pushing up towards the steps and packing in more densely. Honest-to-god palpable excitement thrummed through the queue. Our biscuit (or are they cakes?!?)-bearing friend Chris arranged those of us who had arrived the earliest, dividing us among the theater's four doors. J and I seemed to be well positioned, but now was no time to let our guard down.

And finally, finally! The doors opened. Security sternly forbade us from running to the stage, and even made one guy go back because of it. So what resulted was sort of a furtive trotting gait to the front, where I secured a front-row spot and nestled in against the comfy metal barrier. And got ready to wait another hour and a half or so--for the first opener. The FIRST one. Meaning that there were two. Dear god. (In their defense, both Kristeen Young and Sons and Daughters were quite good, but COME ON.)

In the approximately three hours between doors and Morrissey taking the stage, the crush steadily increased. One bitch who hadn't been in the queue managed to weasel her way into an almost nonexistent gap to my right. I'll give her one thing--she was really GOOD. She began by just putting her hand on the barrier, at which I cockily thought to myself, "Ha! there's no way in hell she's getting up here," but after an hour or so she was fully beside me. Several times I got the distinct sensation that she was somehow actually expanding her body. J, who was behind me and could see what she was doing, said she would wriggle forward a little after exhaling, get another inch or so of herself between me and the gorgeous tattooed girl next to me, and then take a deep breath. What resulted was a constant, full-body struggle on my part just to hold my ground. And I was losing. I was beyond pissed off, but in a shaky, over-tired way. When I finally turned to J and told him almost tearfully that I was too tired to keep doing this for the entire show, he valiantly tried to ask the girl to back off. She maintained her bitchiness with flair, telling him that "this is what happens at gigs, sometimes it gets rough." At which point J began defending me against her assault with more liberal use of his elbows. My hero.

(As some consolation, the soft-spoken and lovely forty-something Scottish woman on the other side of me, who I think had waited twelve hours, and who had clearly been to many, many gigs on the tour already--she said she was plenty sick of Sons and Daughters after seeing them open over and over--was very sympathetic.)

Of course, once Morrissey took the stage, all annoyance, worries, and cares evaporated--although the pressure of the crowd increased tenfold, as the faithful surged forward to get a few inches closer.

Moz looked great, naturally, with the quiff in fine form, and beautiful shirts (Italian?), and those gorgeous gray sideburns of his. I snapped as many pictures with my crappy disposable camera as I dared, and a couple even sort of half turned out.

Moz also sounded fabulous, in full rich voice and plenty vibrato--not to mention witty quips between songs, and clever lyrical changes during. "Life Is a Pigsty" (I know, I know. I cringed a bit when I first heard the title, but the song is just plain amazing. Even more amazing than Gucci.), which I had expected to be mind-blowing live--all intensity and building sadness and rumbling elegaic chords-- did not disappoint. Not a bit. Plus, we got to see how Boz makes the neat clinky-tinky sounds at the beginning by tapping glasses of water. Then Moz followed "Pigsty" up with "Trouble Loves Me," which sounds better than it ever has. Plus there were Smiths classics including "Still Ill" and "How Soon Is Now" (known as HSIN to aficionados), not to mention as-yet-unreleased Moz b-sides. And through it all, the crowd sang along, hands outstretched.

As for those fantasies of actual, physical contact--well, they were fantasies indeed. The pit between the barrier and the stage was a solid six feet. And as for the barrier--well, to call it sturdy would be a grave understatement. That thing was a fucking fortress. And even if someone could have managed to breach it, they still had to get past the line of security guys. Security guys who clearly knew what they were doing, and what to expect with a Moz show. As always, a few people did try to get over the fence, often with the help of the crowd, but they never stood a chance. The security guys would see them coming a mile off, grab them by the arms, and pull them down into the pit. The great thing is they weren't ejected--standard policy at Moz shows, by his request, is that people are removed from the pit or the stage (if they get that far) and then simply returned to the crowd.

At the end of the gig, after a rousing encore of "Irish Blood, English Heart" (aka IBEH), Moz said, "Ciao" and trotted off the stage. Then the lights came up, a full-fledged brawl broke out over of the sweat-soaked shirts Moz had flung into the crowd, I bought some pins from the official vendors and a t-shirt from an unofficial vendor, changed into both in the car as we pulled out of the lot, and J and I found a late-night Chinese place for dinner. Basically, an awesome gig. Plus, we did speak with one other queuer, who stopped us on the way out after the show. I hadn't talked to him while waiting, but I recognized him right away because I had noticed his amazing tattoos--a multi-colored swallow on each side of his neck, which is (but of course!) an allusion to a Morrissey lyric. He asked us if we were at the front, because apparently he'd seen me in the queue, and he seemed pleased to hear that the answer was yes. He also told us that the show had been the best of the dozen he'd seen thus far on the current tour. Double awesome.

The next morning, I woke up and immediately--before any thought even entered my mind--had that awful, enormous letdown sensation. I hate, hate, hate that feeling. And the whole previous day had already begun to blur and lose detail. What a relief, then to find while getting ready for my shower that I had several nice big bruises as proof that it hadn't all been a (very long) dream.

nb: The links below are to pictures or maps or webpages of the relevant locales, so don't forget to click!

(Oh, and just in case anyone out there should take this greatly belated update for granted, I must tell you that this is a big step for me--I have a serious affliction when it comes to any sort of journaling, known in medical circles as chronologicus severus, which makes it very difficult for me to recount historical info in any order but chronological. It's akin to a certain mindset when it comes to keeping a diary or journal--that dire situation best illustrated by the scenario in which you accidentally let your junior high diary get away from you for months and months, and then when you finally go to update so many dozens of REALLY BIG THINGS have happened that you're too overwhelmed to go through them one by one just then, although you certainly intend to eventually, so in the meantime you simply sum up like so:

So, dear diary, just so you know, since we last talked I was courted and wooed by this wonderful, amazing boy named [names changed to protect the stupid], and we fell totally deeply madly in love, and he wrote poetry for me, and we were so very in love, and then he met some hussy on the Maple Grove model UN team and subsequently he crushed my heart into a bazillion pieces (just like, incidentally, my sister said he would) and I wept hundreds of bitter tears and then I got over him and now I'm ready to face the world and meet a new boy and that pretty much brings me up to date.

And after said "sum up," you promise you'll go back and fill in all the details, but you never do.)

And yet! Here I am filling in details! Granted, in this case the intervening months involve lots of picture taking and also some Morrissey, both powerfully compelling reasons to update, but whatever. Yay for me anyhow.

• Our last few days before leaving were pretty godawful. The party the night before departure, however, was very fun--lots of people came, including my parents, which led to the strange universe of friends-and-relatives-all-interacting-together,-with-alcohol. Unnerving at first, but ultimately enjoyable. But then it ended (very late) all melodramatic and weepy. Plus, courtesy of skipping dinner, being exhausted, and dehydrating myself by (almost simultaneously) crying and drinking deceptively large amounts of wine, I was treated with a size extra-mega-large hangover for the 12 hours of travel that lay ahead! Dumb, dumb, dumb. Just a note: by all means try to avoid ever throwing up in an airport bathroom if you can help it.
  
  
• I am not used to traveling with a lot of luggage. Having now done so--J and I each had two suitcases and two carry-ons--I can state with authority that it is HORRIBLE. Especially when you're hungover and tired. In addition to being physically difficult, it also is a great way to reinforce a bunch of crappy ugly American stereotypes! That's especially fun when the whole world hates us even more than usual! I cannot count the number of times I said sheepishly, "Honestly, I never travel with this much stuff. I usually just have a backpack."
  
  
• When we checked into the hotel in London, we promptly went up to our room, fell down on the bed, and slept for about nine hours or so. What a fabulous use of our time in an exciting, culture-packed metropolis! But god did we ever need it. Even if we had somehow managed to drag ourselves through the streets to a sight, we probably would have ended up passing out in front of Buckingham Palace or something. And surely they have rules against that sort of thing.
  
  
• We did manage to get to the British Museum the next day, and it was, unsurprisingly, very cool. We'd made a rather large scheduling blunder on our last UK trip that resulted in our allotting one afternoon to the museum. This meant we pretty much dashed around from the Rosetta Stone to the Benin Bronzes and the other big stuff, all the while lamenting the fact that we didn't have time to go into the many other fascinating-looking galleries.
  
  This time we did better, although of course you could probably live there for a year and not see everything. Anyhow, I think the highlight for me was the Enlightenment gallery, in the old King's Library. Big tall windows, walls lined with books, beautiful sculpture, and lots of glass cases with cool things in them. And of course, the Elgin Marbles are highly impressive. (Oh no, wait! you're not supposed to call them that! they're officially "the Parthenon Marbles." Ignore the looting British nobleman behind the curtain!)
  
  
• After our brief stay/long nap in London, we picked up our rental car to begin a circuit through Wales, up to Manchester, and back. Remember the luggage? When we showed up at the rental place, they took one look and said, "Errm, terribly sorry, but you're going to need a bigger car." SO EMBARRASSING.
  
  
• Road trips in Britain are fun because British snack food is so completely awesome. For example: bacon-flavored potato chips. Not nearly as gross as they sound! Even better, though, are all the biscuits and digestives. Mmmm, Hob Nobs.
  
  
• Wales is obscenely, ridiculously green and pastoral in places, and then you turn around and it's really jagged and rugged and wild. I doubt I'd be thrilled about living there for any real length of time, however, since it's mostly pretty small-town. We did go to Cardiff, which of course is a genuine big city, but unless we missed all the good stuff (which is totally possible, since we went there with no information about what to do and didn't have much time anyhow), but it seemed to offer very little. Still and all, the landscape is just crazy gorgeous, and I already want to go back and see it again.
  
  Enough beauty! Back to food!
  
  
• Brits share my love of condiments. J suggested (probably accurately) that this is an effort to make the bland food more exciting, but nevertheless I feel a kinship with their love of sauces. Ketchup, mustard, horseradish, mayonnaise, and of course let's not forget the intriguingly ambiguously named "brown sauce!" After most meals, I left a small wasteland of flattened, squished-out plastic packets in my wake.
  
  
• British beer rocks. Most beer in the States has no point, in my opinion--it doesn't taste that great, and you have to drink a TON of it to even get a little buzz, long before which I usually get a lot sleepy. But two pints of very tasty British ale or lager or bitter or whatever--that's a whole different story. Also, it's cheap.
  
  
• The woman who owns and runs the Top Farm House B&B in Knockin (in England, but just a hair across the Welsh border--in fact, we had to ask her which country we were in, at which she laughed and cheerfully said that we could be hung for such question) is fantastic. Her name is Pam Morrissey--no relation to Mr. Steven Patrick Morrissey, though, because naturally I asked. However, she's only a couple of degrees removed from Moz in another way, as she told us that one of her sons ("not the gay one!" she specified) is a great Morrissey fan and once got on stage during a gig AND got a hug. Oh my god. She also said that his intense Moz phase had overlapped with reading Thomas Hardy, a combination she considered dangerous to his mental health.
  
  
• Anyhow, Pam proved to be very cool, even well beyond the Morrissey connection--at breakfast she sat down at the table (the only other guest, a gentleman in the business of pullet supply, had gone already) and we talked for something like two hours. The conversation somehow turned to politics almost immediately, and she casually asked if we were Bush supporters. When we simultaneously and fervently responded that we were not (I think I said, "God, no!"), she sort of heaved a sigh of relief and we proceeded to talk about just about everything--and agree on it. Topics covered included racism, homophobia, the environment, and the dangers of fundamentalism in all religions. She said she'd had some pretty unlikable and bigoted American guests in the past, and was encouraged by us--"my nice liberal Americans," she called us. She insisted on us signing her guestbook and hugged us both when we left. (Meaning, incidentally, that I have hugged someone who has hugged someone who has hugged Moz! Now we're getting somewhere!)
  
  
• The Welsh language is nuts. From the Street Welsh Phrasebook we bought in Blaenau Ffestiniog (from David, who chatted with us a bit about topics including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid), here are just a couple examples of its quirks:
  

  --LL is pronounced as follows: a voiceless L, pronounced by blowing between tongue and palate. Pam told us that a close approximation was a swallowed C followed by a swallowed L.

  --W is a vowel, pronounced oo, either short as in "good" or long as in "cool."

  --Y is also a vowel. Okay, sure, English kinda does that too. But in Welsh, it's pronounced uh as in "under," short i as in "bin," or long ee as in "see."

  --"I don't speak Welsh" is said, "Dydw i ddim yn siarad Cymraeg." Being able to say this sounds like being able to speak Welsh, as far as I'm concerned.

  Anyhow, Welsh is in danger of dying out, which is too bad. Something this interesting should be kept around.
  

• Llandudno, on the northern coast of Wales, is a bustling seaside resort town in the summer.
  
  May is not the summer.
  
  Off-season, it's a bit depressing--full of empty arcades, many, many elderly people, and knots of somehow threatening-looking youths. J and I tried to figure out why young Welsh men struck us both as so intimidating--because they had in Cardiff, too--and the best we came up with was that they almost all had extremely short hair. Which to us apparently made them look thuggish, or something. I have no idea why.
  

Here concludes Part 1. Next up, the Moz concert! Which, in my oh-so-biased opinion, deserves its own entry.

When we moved into our apartment, one of our very first purchases was a great big bottle of Campari. (It was 3rd on our list, right below 1) sheets and 2) towels.) Luckily for us, at the grocery store three blocks from our place, a whole liter of the stuff cost just 9,79--whereas, in Minneapolis, we paid about $20 for the same. We christened our new home by clinking together two lovely big glasses of Campari.

And then we did it again the next evening. And the next...

Well, you get the idea. And this was all well and good for some time.

But then, tragedy. One day, suddenly, Campari simply vanished from the grocery store. Weeks went by--weeks!--without a restock. Every time we shopped there (which was often, as we are rarely capable of planning further ahead than that night's meal and maybe some snacks), we hopefully checked the bottom shelf, even crouching down to push aside other bottles and peer back into the shelf's dusty recesses. Nothing.

What to do? We had seen bottles, way up high on the top shelf, at Castroni, a nearby café and gourmet grocery. In addition to serving the usual coffee and sandwiches, this establishment sells fancy Italian candies, freshly ground coffee, and assorted other things tourists might like to buy, as well as exotic imports such as Heinz Baked Beanz and French's Yellow Mustard. As you might expect, everything here is just a bit spendier than it should be. And the Campari? Highway robbery at 18 per bottle. Sure, we'd shelled out close to that in the States--but this is Italy! This is no longer an import we're talking about! No, we just couldn't bring ourselves to pay that.

So we began adopting various stopgap measures. We tried Aperol, a sweeter, pinker, lower-alcohol-content liqueur. In fact, we weren't even sure that this beverage had any relation whatsoever to Campari--for example, is it even a bitters? It sure seems awfully sweet for a bitters--but it was near where the Campari usually was, and it was sort of a similar color. We were DESPERATE.

At some point it occurred to us to check the shelves at Standa, which is quite a bit farther away and also pricier--but they did have Campari. Only in smaller bottles, though--750ml each--and only three of those bottles. This was unnerving--why only three? Was there (god forbid) a city-wide--or at least a Prati-wide--Campari shortage?

I hardly need to tell you that we weren't about to take any chances. We scooped up all three bottles and headed for the checkout. And boy, did I ever feel self-conscious as we waited in line. I determined that a good portion of my unease stemmed from the novelty (to a MInnesotan) of being able to purchase liquor at the supermarket. It's great, but it also a bit discomfiting if you're unused to it. At a liquor store, when all you're buying is alcohol, well, that's just fine--that's what you buy at the liquor store. But at a grocery store, it feels a bit...I don't know...irresponsible. After all, you could be buying breakfast cereal and fresh vegetables and all manner of other healthful, wholesome things. But not us. No, we were clutching 2,250ml of alcohol and a razor for J. A strange and potentially deadly combination.

*****

As long as I'm going on and on about our quest for Campari, I suppose some introductions are in order, just in case you're not acquainted with the libation. It is, as mentioned above, a bitters, and it is made from an old and super-secret recipe that I suspect is comprised mainly of roots and berries. The official website claims the following:

...the recipe, which has remained unchanged, originated in Novara in 1860 and is the base for some of the most famous alcoholic beverages around the world. Campari is an alcoholic aperitif obtained from the infusion of bitter herbs, aromatic plants and fruit in alcohol and water.

J and I tend to dispense with all the flowery language and just talk about "Vitamin C." The provenance of this very affectionate nickname is--much to my dad's chagrin--this: in the very early days of our stay in Rome, I'd said in an email to my parents that the language barrier was still very firmly in place, tall and metal and bolted to the floor and guarded by bouncers, even more imposing than the barrier between me and Morrissey at the Apollo show (more on that later). However, I added proudly, we were getting fairly adept at navigating the really important social interactions: ordering ice cream, coffee, and Campari. My dad wrote back to say that when he'd told us to take our Vitamin C, he hadn't been speaking of Campari.

Well! That was clearly a sobriquet we couldn't pass up. It was perfect. J and I even had several detailed discussions about getting our daily vitamins--C would be Campari, C₂ would represent coffee, and Vitamin G, of course, would be gelato. Mmm, nutrition.

As for how we take our vitamins, my dad himself always insisted that the best way to drink Campari, according to the Italians, was neat with a twist. I've had it this way and it's very good. But actually ordering it didn't turn out to be a breeze, which is part of why it was an accomplishment worth sharing. First of all, if you simply ask for "due Campari," you will almost definitely be served Campari Soda. This is just what it sounds like--Campari mixed with soda water, and served over ice. It's not bad, and can even be quite refreshing once in a while, but when you want the "real thing" the Soda pretty much just tastes watered down.

What you need to ask for is "bitter Campari." And no, you don't translate bitter--you just pronounce it as if it were an Italian word, so that it comes out "beetehr."

From here, if you specify no further, what you will get is Campari on ice. To get it without, the most stylish course is to order it liscio--the equivalent of "neat," and literally meaning "smooth." The more pedestrian but also much more straightforward senza ghiaccio (without ice) will work, too.

But we found that when we ordered "bitter Campari liscio," we received not only no ghiaccio, but also no twist of limone or arancia--just straight Campari in a glass. Again, this is good, but not quite as good as a twist could make it. And while I suppose we could have tried asking for "bitter Campari, senza ghiaccio, con limone," we...well, we just didn't. Instead we took the easy way out and started having our Campari with ice. What we discovered was that, as a summertime drink, Campari on the rocks--with a slice and sometimes a squeeze of lemon or orange--really can't be beat.

*****

By the time our grocery store's shelves had been bare of Campari for more than a month, I'd really begun to lose hope. I hardly even glanced in the old spot anymore when we shopped. J had greater faith, but conceded that the situation was bleak. As each day passed, it seemed less and less likely that our Vitamin C would ever reappear.

And then one day, we were doing our shopping and I had lagged behind J somehow, probably by stopping to gaze at the selection of cheese or some such thing. When I finally turned the corner into the liquor aisle I saw J standing there, transfixed, with a broad smile across his face. I followed his gaze, and there they were--gorgeous 1-liter bottles, neatly arranged four abreast on the bottom shelf, exactly where they used to be.

I actually squealed with delight. Right there in the grocery store.

And now, because it would hardly be fair to keep the benefits of a balanced diet all to myself, see below for the mixing instructions to a few cocktails that go beyond the basics. Just click for the recipe cards!

Americano	Campari Orange
Goodnight Kiss	Negroni

J and I had actually tried already to retrieve the package--a delivery of books for one of my writing projects--on Friday. The claim slip that I'd gotten in the mail appeared to indicate that I needed to pick up the package at sportello #40. The highest numbered desk in the place was 16. Hmmm. After wandering around for a while, we managed to match up one word on the slip to one word on a sign posted near the end of one line. We figured that was as good an indication as anything that this was where we were supposed to be.

Ahead of us in the queue were at least a dozen people, and no one seemed to be making much progress. Gauging how long we might be there was complicated by the fact that only about half the people waiting were actually in line, while the rest were seated on nearby chairs or leaning against the wall. Whenever someone new showed up to wait, a synchrony of pointing ensued, indicating who was last in line. At any rate, it seemed fairly clear that this would not be a short stop. Since J had pressing work matters awaiting him, and I hadn't brought a book to read while waiting, we decided it made the most sense to bail and I would come back another day, at a less lunchtimey hour.

So today I get there a little after 9. There's still a line, but it's shorter than last time. There are also still people sitting, though, so I first have to figure out if--as before--they're also "in line." I hang back for a minute and see another woman get in line, with no pointing performance. Satisfied, then, that she's the end of the queue, I go to stand behind her...

...at which point one of the seated women says something to me that I gather means the seated people are waiting after all. Okay, fine. I don't get it, but fine. But then she goes on to gesture at the claim slip that I'm clutching. She tells me (I think) that I can't pick up a package here anyhow. Uh oh. She does a fair amount of pointing (very popular here!), and although I don't get most of what she says I do manage to grasp onto the words fuori and sinistro.

So I get outside, I go to the left, and yeah, I have no fucking idea what they're talking about. There's a giant gate to my left, inside of which there looks to be a loading dock and yes, some packages. But the gate's closed and there's no buzzer that I can see and no one around. There is a sign on what looks to be a pedestrian (as opposed to delivery truck) part of the gate, but, well, it's in Italian. And the only thing I really understand on it is "chiuso"--closed.

As I continue standing there with my by-now-slightly-damp claim slip in my hand and, I expect, a look of bewilderment on my face, an elderly lady happens by and starts talking to me. She reads the sign, she gestures, she says a lot of stuff in Italian, she points at the door. The door back into the post office. Where I just was.

But, since I don't have any other leads to go on, and since this woman in her patterned housedress and orthopedic shoes doesn't seem to be playing a practical joke on me, I go back in. And there, to my right, is a separate room from the one I'd been in originally. It's still inside the building--which to me makes it not technically fuori--but at this point I really don't know where else to go, so I may as well try this.

I soon realize that the sportello I finally end up at is some kind of localized center of amnesia. The elderly man two spots ahead of me in line forgot his glasses on the counter. Fortunately, the man directly ahead of me called him back and there were subsequent thank yous and smiles all around. Then the man ahead of me, the man who did the calling back, forgot some sort of official looking slips of paper on the counter. Possibly the very slips of paper he had come to the post office to get. I don't know. I might have called him back and received my own thank you and smile if:

a) I had not been too wrapped up in my own little world of what amounts to a combination of stage fright and social anxiety to even register the fact that he'd left something behind

b) I had had any idea what the slips of paper that he left behind actually were

c) I had known any of the words necessary to call him back other than "scusa, signore"

d) I had been able to work up the courage to raise my voice above a whisper to actually get his attention

Suffice it to say, he remembered for himself and came back to get his slips of paper.

And then, after completing my own transaction at the desk, I forgot one of the coins from my change. The man behind me in line had to call me back to retrieve it. Clearly this place holds some sort of mind-erasing power.

Fortunately, however, it also turn out to be the right place. After a mere 40 minutes total, I escape with my life AND my package.

And now, to provide snapshot of my mental terrain, here are a few of the things that went through my head during this whole ordeal:

• This wouldn't be an "ordeal" if I weren't such a freak. It would be an "errand." At least I think that's what a normal/sane person would call it.
• Is this where I turn? I can't remember. I think this is where I turn. I'll just turn and if it's the wrong spot I'll just go around the block or something.
• Don't step in that, it's probably urine.
• Okay. Okay. I'm understanding like one fifth of what they're saying. That's not too bad.
• I probably have red marks on my nose from my sunglasses. That's so embarrassing.
• Am I going the right way? Is this what they meant? And if it isn't, are they watching me and laughing?
• What the hell. This gate is locked. I can't get in here. This must not have been the right way. Which means they were probably laughing at me.
• But they said "fuori!" Why would they say that if I didn't have to go "fuori?"
• I could just let them send the package back. I probably ordered too many books anyhow. I'm sure I can make do with what I already have.
• I'm sweating.
• I'm not sure what this old lady is saying. Oh wait, she just said "chiuso." Yeah, I figured that part out already.
• Okay, she's clearly indicating that I should go back inside. I should try to tell her that inside they told me to go "fuori." Oh my god, my mind is an utter blank. I can't think of a single word. I'll just follow her inside.
• Okay. Okay, this must be right. I don't know why it says it's for business, but whatever.
• I hope I get the desk with the girl. The guy looks a little bit mean.
• Oh good, I got the girl.
• She can't find the package. Oh my god. I'm probably at the wrong post office. I'm going to have to do this all over again.
• Please let another desk open. The people in line behind me are all going to be pissed off at me for holding it up.
• How do they give you your package, anyhow? It obviously won't fit through this little bank-teller money-slot thingy.
• She found my package. Great. But why is it in a giant white plastic-canvas bag?
• I'm going to look so stupid carrying a giant white plastic-canvas bag home.
• Ah, okay, so they hand it through the weird chute over there. Okay. How does this door thing work? Do I pull on it? Do I push on it? Does she press something from the other side that opens it automatically? Crap. OK, I'll just try tugging on it casually. That's not working. Crap.
• Oh good god, I forgot my change. This is so embarrassing. Grazie, signore. But honestly dude, you could've just kept the 20 centissimi.
• I wonder what that guy will forget? What happens if you forget something at that desk and there's no one in line behind you to call you back?
• This entire block smells like donuts. That is so awesome.
• I think that guy just smiled at me. And maybe nodded. Was it a flirty smile? Or a "heh, nice giant white plastic-canvas bag" smile?
• If it was a flirty smile, what's the protocol here? Am I supposed to smile back? If I do, does that make me look trampy? If I don't, does it make me look bitchy? What would an Italian woman do?
• Oh look, nuns!
• I'm sweating.

parole del giorno:

sportello: desk
fuori: outside
sinistro: left
chiuso: closed


quote to go:

"Waiting with folded arms for all conditions to ripen is tantamount to refusing to make a revolution."

--from one of the books in my package

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