Category: Europe
And so she said Yes.
It was right after a weekend at the Carnevale in Venice.
A romantic weekend like that is just the perfect magnifying glass under the sun. I found a kind of blinding focus that I wouldn’t have noticed so easily amongst the cloudy clutter of London.
Second to Paris in all things rosy, red, and amorous, Venice’s intimate cobblestoned streets and huddled buildings have a way of keeping any couple caringly cozy.
Carnevale, the ten-day virtual Masquerade Ball In The Streets, was going to climax, as we read in our Dorling Kindersley Travel Guide, the day before Ash Wednesday in a Mardi Gras. I don’t think this Mardi Gras has the bead-tossing, breast-flashing craziness of the Mardi Gras in New Orleans in the States though. Too bad.
Adorned with ornate costumes and lavish masks, the Carnevale participants wandered the tiny streets in search of fame—fame which took the form of sparkles of camera flashes from tourists of every flavor.
The atmosphere was totally surreal. Beautiful. Perfect.
At the established Trattoria di Forni, she giggled in between sips of Venetian Bellini at my faux imitation of a French accent. Her smile was more romantic than all of Venetia.
We both agreed that the Cassanova Style Scallops, though obviously catered to tourists, was the most delectable of our dishes. The risotto also struck a particular chord, though not because of this trattoria.
Back in London, she rushed to try her hand at her own lovely Chinese-style risotto. Single-cream, mozzarella, Chinese rice, and several other ingredients strayed from the norm. But you know what? I still had cravings for it days later.
It was right after our risotto dinner, after we finished a bottle of Vin de Pays des Còtes de Thau, as we were lying on our couch, that I looked at her and asked if she wanted to go out with me.
And so she said Yes.
. . .
How have you asked someone out?
“Three? You mean three? Three million. It’s three million lira,” Jo gasped. “That’s… fifteen thousand dollars Mike.”
Alfredo smiled and repeated his words in Italian again. Jo turned to me and translated, “Quality. This is quality.” She nodded in unison with him.
I walked over to the large, gold-plated frame and studied it’s intricate patterns. It was gilded with 24-karat gold with tiny patterns incised into the wood and gold. It took him several months to finish, he told us.
Alfredo lead Jo over to a counter full of photographs, newspapers, and books. He spoke and Jo translated, “He has six? No, five kids. They are…”
He picked up a black and white photo of five smiling faces surrounded by a gold-encrusted frame.
“…they are all musicians,” Jo continued while Alfredo talked. I looked up from the gold-plated frame and approached them, smiling at the picture.
“This one plays the… piano? Piano. This one plays the violin. This one… what?” Jo looked at Alfredo and cocked her head. He repeated himself, gesturing emphatically with his hands as he spoke. “Oh, this one also plays the violin. And this one the viola. And this one the cello.”
Alfredo smiled and nodded.
“Wow, that’s wonderful, Alfredo!” she cheered. “You must be very proud!”
He blinked, not quite understanding. Then I pointed at a small piece of art hanging on the wall.
Alfredo made a grand gesture with his hands then pointed to the lower left corner of the painting.
“That’s him. Oh, he painted this picture. That’s his signature.”
He beamed with pride and repeated his name.
As I studied the gentle brushwork, he walked to his workbench and picked up an egg shell.
“This is made with eggs!” Jo exclaimed. Alfredo grinned and continued. “And… and what? Minerals? Eggs and minerals?”
He pointed to the back of the room and led us to a shelf full of bottles. What looked like clumps of dirt rested in those bottles.
Alfredo took a clump of dirt out and gestured with it.
“That’s a mineral that he uses,” Jo said.
He smiled and put it on his lip and moved his hands away. It remained stuck there. We laughed and he smiled. The clump of mineral didn’t fall even when he grinned.
“That’s great, Alfredo! Eggs and minerals! That’s amazing!” Jo cheered. He put the clump back and scrambled back to the counter. We cast a sideways glance at the bottles before following him.
He opened a large art book and showed us a page. It was a full-color glossy photograph of him illustrating a long article about his life and his art. His name, Alfredo Barutti, stood out on top in strong, bold characters.
“This guy is famous!” Jo bellowed incredulously. “Holy shit!”
Alfredo picked up a small piece of paper and handed it to her. I walked by her side and looked at it.
It was a photocopied clip of an article from the New York Times, dated June 24, 1990.
“Alfredo Barutti, Gilder,” it was titled.
VENICE – Alfredo Barutti’s first love was music, but his father insisted that he learn a trade. He became a gilder, but when he had a family of his own, he encouraged his children to study music.
All five did so and became accomplished musicians. Now Mr. Barutti, who is 65 years old, has a family of musicians, but no one to continue his own dying art, which dates to the Middle Ages.
In his shop, El Dorador, at No. 4231 on the Campo Manin near the Ponte della Cortesia, Mr. Barutti designs and makes frames, mirrors and other furniture, carving and gilding it all by hand.
Jo and I stared at each other in amazement. We had no idea we had wandered into the Campo Manin.
The thrill of the Carnevale had somehow directed us in this direction, and the chill of the air forced us to seek shelter in a tiny open hallway which lead directly to Alfredo’s shop.
What a random encounter. I looked back at the article and skipped to the last paragraph.
Because he doesn’t have an apprentice or a child willing to learn the craft, Mr. Barutti is collecting his notes and pictures of his work in a book, which he hopes will someday benefit someone interested in pursuing his craft.
I looked up and smiled.
“Um, I’m not sure what he’s saying,” Jo whispered. Alfredo pointed at the article and rattled on without waiting for Jo to translate.
My mind wandered back to San Francisco, when I had decided to build an art collection. I wanted pieces that were created by friends and acquaintances, or had special meaning to them.
Part of the intent was to encourage the creative yearnings of budding artists and to support those who imbued special meaning into their work.
This random encounter with Alfredo and his artwork sparked something in me. That this father of five would spend months on one piece of art showed to me that he put a lot of heart into his work.
That he was sharing so much of himself—albeit with a healthy dose of pride—with strangers such as us stirred something inside.
I gestured towards a small gold frame.
“One… One million. That’s one million lira. Uh… that’s five hundred dollars Mike.”
I recoiled slightly. I knew that buying art wasn’t going to be cheap, especially for true quality work. But with a bunch of college loans, travel costs, a car lease, and other expenses to pay off—five hundred dollars? No can do.
“It’s pure? Pure. It’s pure gold on this little frame.”
I looked at a slightly smaller frame. Alfredo lifted it off the hook and put it in my hands.
“Six hundred thousand lira. That’s… three hundred dollars.”
Gulp. Not quite at my range yet. Some art collector I was turning out to be. Guess I’m going to have to wait a few years for my savings to have enough leeway to spend on non-essential expenses. Drat.
The spark wasn’t dead yet though.
Though it wasn’t exactly what he was known for, I pointed at the egg and mineral painting again. Again, Alfredo pointed at his name proudly.
“Two hundred thousand. That’s a hundred dollars.”
I gently picked up the painting and examined it. It’s monotone browns and tans over a light beige octagonal canvas revealed a scene that could only be Venice—beautiful gondolas drifting through the Canal Grande.
“This is the… San Maria della… Salute,” Jo stated as Alfredo pointed to a magnificant structure in the far background of the image.
“And look! Gondolas!” she added.
There was something about this painting that took root in me. Sure, it wasn’t one of the gold-gilded frames that he’s known for, but it was still a beautiful piece of art—a beautiful piece of art that helped visualize this special and unique trip.
I dug into my pocket and counted out two hundred thousand lira.
“This will be to remember our trip to Venice by,” I smiled at Jo. She hugged me and Alfredo gave us a big toothy grin.
. . .
Do you know any gilders?
“If you don’t have your health, you have nothing.”
I now know how utterly meaningful that old cliche is.
I have been having the worst bout of luck in the health department since I’ve been overseas. Holy guacamole it’s been bad.
First I’m hit with bronchitis. Then some flu. Now I’ve got Who-Knows-What.
Before you start thinking, “this boy ain’t taking care of himself,” let me retort by saying it’s “…isn’t taking care of himself,” NOT “…ain’t taking care of himself.”
And more than that grammar lesson, I’ve been taking plenty of multivitamins and vitamin C. I’m drinking plenty of water and eating plenty of greens.
I even wash my hands and brush my teeth often. Good hygiene is the staple of good health, my Momma always said.
So why oh why oh goodness gracious golly gee-willikers why am I feeling worse than a damp lukewarm mildewy sock under a Summer sun? Worse than shoving your head into a small but hot toaster oven?
Worse than a college student with ten Final exams in one week and only coffee to eat and drink? (And, if you’ve ever been in that situation, it’s BAD.)
People here have given me a couple of theories:
- Since this is my first time out of the States, maybe my immune system is just taking a brutal initiation into the International world of foreign germs?
- Most of the Americans I work with in my office have also been contracting all sorts of nasties. Maybe I’ve gotten ill because of them (those bastards, grrrr).
- My manager wondered if it could have been the water in my apartment. It’s not exactly diarrhea-birthing material though; London’s water system supposedly is fairly clean.
- Or, as one coworker said, “you just have a shit case of luck, dude.”
Ah, trust my coworkers to know how to make everything better.
This is such a horrible feeling. Major blaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
I’m so sick of being sick.
“If you don’t have your health, you have nothing.”
Well, I sure do have something… A shit case of luck.
. . .
Have you ever been really, really, really sick?
A tear trickled down her eye. Her voice, full of sadness, vibrated with an enchanting Portuguese melody.
I noticed a tear from Raquel’s Mom too.
The audience began to hymn and chant along, as if the melody’s chorus truly inspired a full chorus.
An upright bass player, a twelve-string fado guitarist, and a beautiful singer with an operatic voice. The perfect ingredients to fill in the wait between each course at Sr. Vinho restaurante.
After several magical minutes, the fado was over. The restaurant broke out in brilliant applause. Raquel even stood up and cheered.
“She sang about how sad she was because she lost her love,” Raquel explained. “She had such a strong voice. Did you see her crying? There was so much feeling in her voice.”
I nodded.
“She will sing two more songs now. Then they will serve us our desserts.”
Her mother put a finger to her lips and shushed her daughter. As Raquel took her seat, another melody floated into the air.
The blues/jazz/opera sound mesmerized everyone at our table. Raquel’s father’s eyes were closed, savoring every note in his mind. Her mother gently swayed side to side in rhythm with the bass.
Candles trickled shadows throughout the room. They danced in tune with the fado. A few flashes from tourists’ cameras broke the medieval spell, though the melody quickly captured our hearts again.
And after several minutes, this fado ended too.
We enjoyed a third captivating melody that suddenly brought the room, and perhaps, even the world, to a halt. Though I couldn’t follow the Portuguese lyrics, there was something special about this final fado. I caught glimmers of tears in the eyes of those around me.
Then the dimmed lights rose. The fado singer and company left in a chorus of vibrant applause.
“That was Maria da Fé. She is one of the owners of this restaurant,” Raquel said. She looked at her father and nodded. “She was singing a song from Amália Rodriguez, who is one of the most famous fado singers in Lisboa and all of Portugal.”
“Si, Amália has, uh, sung for…” her father added, trying his best at English.
“Forty,” her mother nodded.
“…Forty years.”
“Yes,” Raquel agreed. “The last fado was one of Amália’s most famous—it was about how she’ll sing until she can’t sing anymore.”
I could’ve sworn a tear began to swell in Raquel’s eye. She continued, “It is meaningful because she died a few years ago. And she truly did keep singing until she couldn’t sing anymore.”
“This is old Portugal,” stated her father proudly.
“Yes,” repeated Raquel. “This is a taste of old Portugal.”
. . .
Have you ever experienced a fado?
“Yu Americans ‘tink dat ze French only drink wine an’ eat cheese, oui?”
We stared blankly at the couple sitting next to us. They smiled warmly back at us.
“Iz funny, dats all,” the monsieur added. “I alwayz zee Americans ‘aving wine an’ cheese here.” He pointed at the Eiffel Tower behind us.
There was a generous offering of French cheeses and baguettes laid out on the bench between Joanne and Kelley, and a crisp bottle of red wine next to me. We could hardly disagree.
“That’s because French wine and cheese is the best,” Kelley replied.
“Mmmm,” Joanne added.
“Ah, oui oui,” the monsieur nodded, obvliously pleased by the flattery.
“And it’s such a beautiful day out today.”
“Oui. Wat a wonderful day f’er a picnic.”
We nodded and sliced open several packages of moist cheese. I poured the wine and the brisk Parisian chill brought me a whiff of its tangy aroma.
The couple turned to face each other to whispered sweet nothings. Kelley dashed some tantalizing strawberry jam onto a fresh baguette while Joanne carved a slice of stinky Camenbert.
“Ever since I started eating this with jam, I haven’t turned back,” Kelley said.
She offered Joanne and I a slice of baguette with cheese and jam, and we could only “Mmmm!” in reply.
“Wh’ere from America ‘re yu?” the monsieur asked us.
“Los Angeles,” Joanne said between delectable bites. With a mouthful of jammy and cheesy goodness, I couldn’t reply and didn’t bother to.
The couple grinned and nodded. “Ahhh… Los Angeles.” He let the word roll around his tongue for a moment, as if he was savoring a baguette and cheese as well. “I interned in America last ‘ear. While I waz der, I ate at McDonalds. ‘Amburger and fries!”
“Ahh…” We smiled knowingly.
“Americans, yu alwayz eat ‘amburgers and fries, oui? Iz the same as us you ‘tinking dat French eat wine an’ cheese. To us, all Americans eat ‘amburgers and fries.”
We returned their friendly smiles and laughed.
“Par’don us, we must be leavin’ now. We ‘ope yu enjoy Pari!”
“Thank you! Merci!” We shouted back as the couple walked away, hand in hand.
French wine, French cheese, and fresh baguettes on the Eiffel Tower lawn with good people around me. Shit, I sure feel damn cultured right now.
. . .
When was the last time you felt cultured?
“Burger King? Don’t eat that capitalistic carbohydrate-infested crap.”
“So I don’t suppose you’d want to do Pizza Hut either, huh?” I asked, looking at the Pizza Hut next to Burger King.
“No way! Are you crazy? We’re in London; stay away from that American trash.”
I looked through the glass and into Pizza Hut. “Shit, look. Everyone’s being served like it’s a fancy restaurant.”
“Yea, that’s what they do here.”
“Really? At a Pizza Hut?”
“Yup. Families go there together for dinner. It’s a big thing here.”
Wow. Another odd fact of London formerly unbeknownst to me, but now definitely knownst.
“Hey now,” I raised my eyebrow at some ladies crossing the street. “The women in Britain certainly aren’t coy with high heel boots and short skirts.”
“Did you just say ‘coy’“?
“Uh, yea, so? One of the Brits in the office used it this morning, and it’s been in my head all day.”
“Riiight. Okay. Well, yea, fashion is a bit raunchier here than in the States.”
“No shit. The ads here have no qualms about showing skin, that’s for sure.”
“Makes you realize how Puritan America is, doesn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yea, it does. How ironic. Land of the Free, huh?”
“There’s soft core porn on BBC 4 on Friday nights. It’s great. T and A everywhere.”
“Really? No shit. How, pray tell, do you know that?”
“I think I saw a commercial for one of it’s movies during an episode of Friends.”
“They play Friends here?”
“Yup. It’s a few seasons behind. But a lot of American TV shows are popular here.”
I tilted my head. “Like what else?”
“Ally McBeal. The Sopranos. A few others. They are all a few seasons behind though.”
“That must be odd for Brits to hear an American accent like that. It’s sure taken me a bit to get used to hearing the British accent on all of these other TV shows.”
“Nah, they love American accents here the same way we like British accents in the States.”
I nodded. “Oh yea, I think I’ve heard that before.”
“Let’s try this Italian place. The least we could do in Europe is go to an Italian restaurant, right?”
“Too bad all these places are closed. It’s only what, 8 o’clock? Damn.”
“You mean it’s 20 o’clock.”
I laughed. “Heh, oh, right, they do military time here.”
“Yea. I don’t know if the rest of Europe does it though.”
“Go figure. Well, okay, this Italian place looks nice. Let’s go in.”
. . .
Have you ever been to London?
Do you know what’s more fun than seeing the enchanted Westminster Abbey of London?
Hearing Raquel (Portuguese) and Marc (German) talk about how they met at the University of Westminster.
Want to one-up the wild and crazy Carnaby Street of London?
Buy Brad a warm ale at a bar on Carnaby and hear his wild and crazy stories.
I’ve discovered that there’s more to traveling to a different country than seeing the glorious sights. Talking to the locals and getting a glimpse of their culture is just as fun, if not more so.
I don’t mean to decrease the splendor of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, or the Tower of London in any way. Goodness no. There is certainly a sense of achievement and wonderment with standing in a locale with so much history imbued in it.
It just should be added that talking to the locals adds a whole new dimension to your travels.
I have always loved learning what makes people tick. What drives them to do the things they do? What steers them to think the thoughts they do?
There are such a variety of opinions and backgrounds in the people here that it has really opened my eyes. This planet we share now seems so much smaller and precious.
It has taught me a lot about myself too. Like how I’ve been such an Ignorant American all my life (and how that’s going to end now!).
Because I haven’t had the fortune of visiting a non-English speaking country yet, there’s still a whole new level of education for me to make. Paris will probably be the next city I’ll visit.
And when I get there, I hope I can meet some locals and talk to them. (And gosh, I hope they speak English too, because I can’t speak a word of French.)
. . .
Do you have any stories of meeting interesting people?
“English, French, German, Spanish, um, a little Russian, and a little Chinese.”
“You can speak ALL those languages?”
“Yea.”
“And how old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Damn.
This is my first time in Europe. It has been an amazing experience. Not only are the physical aspects of this continent remarkable (architecture, landscapes, etc), but the social aspects astound me as well.
I have never felt so humbled before in my life. I sometimes feel I have the words, “Ignorant American” stamped across my forehead.
Most Europeans easily speak several languages and understand different cultures. At least, most of the Europeans I’ve encountered so far.
Ignorant American isn’t really a fair label though. Beer-guzzling, lazy couch-potato American maybe. (Ha ha! Just kidding! That was a joke! Not all Americans guzzle beer—some can chug it.)
Ha ha! Just kidding again!
There’s an explanation to this Twenty-Language Speaking Phenomenon with these crazy European kids.
With so many countries lying so close to one another, it’s imperative for Europeans to understand their neighbors. Just drive a few miles in any direction, and BAM! You’re in Switzerland.
Imagine if each state in the United States had a different culture and language. We’d probably have a lot more world wars.
Ha ha! Just kidding again. That’s just my Ignorant American humor there.
There would be more of an emphasis on learning the languages and cultures of our neighboring states.
Right now, that kind of need doesn’t exist in the States to the extend that it exists in Europe. That’s why we all just know English, a few curses in another language, and where to find the nearest 7-11.
Oh sure, we are required to learn another language in high school and college. But how many of us really retain it?
I took four years of Spanish, and all I remember are a few curses.
Spanish perhaps is easier to retain because there is a large Spanish-speaking population in the States, because Mexico and the Caribbean countries are close by.
French is arguable another language that could be used in the States because of Canada. However, Canadians speak English too.
And hey, who cares about Canada anyway?
Ha ha! I’m so full of sarcasm today! I’m totally kidding around! Really! I have no idea why it’s so popular in America to poke fun of Canada, but we reallyhave nothing against Canadians. We love Canadians. Really. Especially their women. Heh.
Another sad trait about me as an Ignorant American is that I don’t even know much Chinese (more specifically, Cantonese). Oh sure, I know a few curses. But that’s not going to be too useful at a family dinner.
Although that sure would make for an interesting family dinner, eh?
But… Sigh… Not being able to speak my family’s tongue is one the most shameful issues with which I have to deal.
Well, you know what? If anything, I’m a person who strives to better myself.
So from this moment on, (insert theme from “Rocky”), I resolve to relearn how to speak Chinese (Cantonese) and Spanish again!
No more will I be branded an Ignorant American. (insert “I’d Like to Buy The World a Coke” song) I resolve to be more of a part of the world community!
. . .
Are you an ignorant American like me?
I still can’t help thinking, “Ohmigosh there’s no one driving that car!” whenever I see a car drive by on the street.
But duh, I keep forgetting that I’m in London now.
“The British drive on the WRONG side of the street, as well as the WRONG side of the car,” people tell me.
WRONG is a politically incorrect, of course. And betrays the American-centric view of us Yanks too. But that’s how us Yanks are, I guess.
This is my first time in another country. Can you believe that?
I can hardly believe it either. I mean, wow, I’m in ANOTHER COUNTRY right now! Another country! I am now a foreigner. In London. Wow. Cool.
(I sure do live a sheltered life, yes sir…)
The travel has brought on a horrid case of jetlag (eight hour time difference from San Francisco). Fortunately, I was able to stagger the shock. Before flying to London, I stayed in New York for a few days.
My very first introduction to this country was a rather rude one though. I was stopped by the Customs police as they molested my luggage.
I didn’t have the necessary Work Permit to give me permission to work in this country. And the Letter of Permission that my company gave me wasn’t adequate. So they detained me until they could straighten things out with the London office.
I stood there as the Customs officer removed every item from my luggage and threw it onto the table. He grabbed every piece of paper I had and questioned me about it—from random notes with phone numbers scribbled on them to some bank statements I had brought with me to take care of bills.
It was quite an ordeal. Re-packing my luggage was like scratching a butt wart—a major pain in the ass.
Fortunately, I found a friendly taxi driver who gave me a quick and dirty verbal tour of the city. What a good ole’ chap.
Then I discovered the dreaded two-faucet sinks.
Yes. Two faucets, one for hot and one for cold water. Either you burn or freeze your fingers. There’s no in-between. Running your fingers quickly through them both doesn’t work.
Some of the faucets combine them. But they literally just stick them next to each other. On one side of the water stream is burning water; on the other is cold water.
That, coupled with the lack of cleansing ingredients in the water and the history of London’s Great Stink of 1858 made me truly appreciate the plumbing systems of the United States.
According to the Dorling Kindersley Travel Guide for London, the Great Stink of 1858 occurred “when the smell from the Thames became so bad that Parliament had to go into recess… Joseph Baxalgett’s sewage system (1875), involving banking both sides of the Thames, eased the problem.”
You know what that means? For seventeen years, the people of Britain had to endure awful sewer smells from the broad River Thames.
Just imagining what that river must have looked like is causing a craving for some nice bottled Poland Spring water right now. Chunkalicious.
I also noticed that walking on the streets mirrors the WRONG driving habits of Britain. Oncoming pedestrian traffic will pass you on the right instead of the left, like they do in the States.
Pickpockets are supposedly rampant in this city as well. But that’s no different than New York City.
I guess it’s true what they say—that living in New York City prepares you for the rest of the world.
To be honest, it’s still a bit daunting to be in a new country for the first time. And exciting too! I’ve got oodles of touristy sites to see. Oh boy!
I wish I had done more travelling when I was younger. Oh well. Guess I’ll have to make up for all that lost time by travelling my brains out right now.
I will be in London for the next three months for work. My rambles may be posted at odd times because of the time difference and an uncertain work schedule. But I will keep as close to a weekly (Sunday) schedule as possible.
If you have any tips on travelling in London (or Europe in general), I’d love to hear them! Wish me luck!
. . .
Have you ever driven in London?
