oh my beardness

so, i was browsing some friends photo's and found this doozy. i had forgotten how ridiculous it looked. somewhat of a change from the me that is typing today.

those in the photo are, from left to right, an american girl whom i don't remember and have no way of finding out who she is. her, for lack of a better word through lack of understanding the situation, friend and her were in town, Palermo, Sicily, because her friend was a singer in a band that consisted of just him and an orchestra and some opera music which was performed in an opera theater. in fact, come to think of it, I don't think he was a band at all.

his voice made me think of some archvillan in some comic book series who could knock down entire villages just by hitting a low g note. he was not a particularly
evil looking person, in fact he resembled a very tall and thin version of a stork; a stork that wore a suit and had a people face arms for wings and legs for legs. also, he looked more like human version of Lurch Adams than a stork. He sang in Italian and rocked the house and then left us, never to meet again.

to her left, our right, is Jodi the folk singer. to her left is her best friend Rachel whom neither new the either would be in Sicily, let alone Palermo, let alone the same restaurant one evening in May. I was there and wasn't really too sure what all the screaming and crying and shouting and hugging was all about until the two of them settled down. Jodi was the first to settle because she was the only one to not have had an emotional spike comparable to when Tim Murphy was blown back off the T-Rex fence in the Jurassic Park. She explained that she had been at a village close the city with family on the past week and so or hadn't speak english, at all. I forgave her and she continued, her english coming back in leaps and bounds.

By this time, however, Rachel had come back to us and could form words again. sentences where a bit much just yet, but at least her communication was recognizable. The two had tried and tried to make their plans compatible but had abandoned all hope when the whole project appeared futile. Yet, only when they had given up completely had their plans worked out better than they ever could have.

Next to Rachel in the photo is the one girl who's name i can't remember. I feel even more terrible about it because she is the one who entertained me the most. She was traveling with Rachel and was friends with Jodi as well. The three of them went to school in Wash DC, USA and had been studying (I think Jodi did too) in Florence for the past four months. The four of us spent an afternoon at a small village somewhere just outside of Palermo and took some great photo's together. She-who-cannot-be-named was able to ascertain my love of taking photo's of other photographers without my talking about it. This might have been because i was also either asking the to take photo's for me (you see, my camera had broke a month previous) or because i kept grabbing for their camera and asking them after. Never the less, i need to find out her name. I feel a bit like Tom Tucker (anchorman for the Quahog Channel 5 News) asking for that girl he met last night at the sky lounge. I assure you this is not the case, I just feel bad that I remember everyone else in the photo.

Next is Valentina, from Sicily, Italy. Her mother is an America from Boston I believe, which means she loves to here stories from North America. She hosted Jodi for the one day she stayed in Palermo. Valentina is also a friend of a guy I stayed with near Verona with Grayson; you might remember that day better as the day i hitched from one place to another.

the last, and not least, is ... well, that's me and all my bearded glory. i kept it for a week or so once i got back to Ireland but it soon came off when people at work told me just how much older it made me look. there are some photo's of my last night at the pub before i left for italy, one particularly when i am up on a stool giving a farewell speech(it wasn't so much as speech as it was a photo opp). With myself standing next to the computer on which said photo is shown one of the regulars, one who came in to the pub one night completely locked and out of his mind drunk and I had refused because I didn't recognize him as he had recently shaved his beard, told me that it added ten years.

Not that age makes that much of deal to me, and not that i feel like i am thirty-five, thirty-six tomorrow, but I did go home a shave the old boy off.

I do miss him though, Finn at work told me I looked tougher with it.

edit: jodi was studying in London, England; not Florence, Italy.
edit: Carolina. she-who-could-not-be-named has been re-named Carolina, thanks to Rachel. Thank you very much.
edit: also, she had a really cool shirt.

hitch'n another ride

part one

"This will happen from time to time where you're forced to keep hitching and hope for the best"

So we hoped and we hoped and were given a german couple about half an hour later. They liked us so much they dropped us 15km past the spot they were going to stop at; not just their turn off, but thier bed and breakfast. He gave us his email and offered a couch for the both of us for Oktoberfest!

"just make sure to tell all your Canadian friends that Germans aren't all that bad"

we waited awhile at Lago De Garda and had a beer and discussed life and other things.

We got another ride from another guy, but I mostly stared out the window. We would be arriving in Garda shortly and from there it was just a short walk to our host for the evening. My first day hitching had been exciting and fantastic and addicting. I didn't want to stop, I wanted to put my thumb out again and again and meet more and more people. The sorts of people who stop and pick you up are the sorts of people I want to meet. They have stories to tell and are genuine and kind and considerate and understand what it's like to hitch. But even though it was exciting and wonderful it was also exhausting. The ware that came from a day spent on my feet, waiting patiently, thinking everytime I said goodbye and thank-you to a ride that it will be the last ride we saw that day was showing. we also needed to eat.

a polite good-bye, a thank-you and a short walk later we arrived on Guiseppe's doorstep and juggled until he got home from work. His parents watched from what they thought was an unseen window, offered us water and cookies and did what they do in the garden and kitchen.

hitch'n a ride

on what was our last morning in Trento we didn't set out as early as we would have liked. Grayson was somewhat anxious about finding rides, but if worse came to worse we wouldn't in too bad a position if no one picked us up: we were only a stones throw from the train station and it only cost five euros.

"you want to do this eh? i've never hitched with just another guy before, i don't know how this is going to go"

"damn right i do! you're leaving in two weeks and i won't have the caurage to learn to do this on my own."

so we hauled our rucksacks to a spot that felt right and made them look small. we held out our thumbs, smiled large and watched the people pass by. 

this is it. i thought this is what i've been craving. i'll be just like Sal Paradise and Gray will be Dean ... and we will be on the road.

Cars passed by, as they do most often, and we waved politely and smiled so they could see we were pleasant travelers. It must have worked because after only ten minutes a small red pinto pulled to the side. Luca was 27, worked with troubled teans and was an ex junkie. He talked and talked and told stories of traveling and bad people in Amsterdam and his bad ex-habbits. He liked that we were hitching and spoke decent english. He dropped us off in a small town next to anther trainstation, wished us luck and sped away.

Our next ride came an hour later, cinqua minuto before we were going to give up. A man was driving his mamma who had "just had a few McBiers and wanted someone to talk to" he joked about wanting someone to talk to her that wasn't him. They both laughed and then turned to us for a response that we couldn't give because they had been speaking italiano. We didn't get to have our laugh until nearly a half an hour later when we had decoded their italian and come to the end of our ride. The dropped us in a small town with no sign of a train station anywhere.

"This will happen from time to time where you're forced to keep hitching and hope for the best"

part two

Signor Pane

Here's a few things about Italian pronounciation, or at least as far as I've learned. It's fairly staright forward because the language is fawnetick (unlyk inglish) and once you know how the letters opporate you'll be well on your way. mostly this is to help you along with reading my future posts about Italy because I'll be throwing in some Italian words that I learn along the way.

Oh, and you remember that theory I said I had? It turned out to be true. There is no word in Italian for spelling because they don't have that problem. A word is written exactly as it sounds and therefore there's no need to communitcate a misspelling. Neat, eh!

 The Vowels:

 a - short a

 e - long a

 i - long e

 o - short o

 u - oo

 and that's that. come si scrivre is then read like com-eh see scree-v-ray. to help you out I'll be putting Italian words in bold like I did above.

 Some Other Things:

 ci - makes a ch sound

 ch - makes a k sound

 r - rrrroll up the rrrrim to win

 j - there is no j

 g - for the most part doesn't get pronounced, except in cases where it does

 all others - pronounce them as you would but with an italian accent.

 Young Elliott has been having trouble remembering/pronouncing my name. It's not Italian so the sounds are foriegn to his ears. However, he has, like others before him, discovered the similarities between the name Brad and the word bread. He has, along with the rest of the family, taken to calling me Pane (sound it out in Italian). There was a discussion at dinner tonight to perhaps name me a specific kind of bread (such as Bagel or Bagget or whole wheat ... that was my suggestion) but in the end Elliott had the last word and would still call me Pane.

 There is a saying in italian that says buono come pane which means good like bread. I couldn't agree more.

11 am; venician park

 the farm is great. we've had a blast being here, grayson and i. before i get too much into that, however, the how of how i, and we, got here needs some explaining.

 for this story you can picture me seated on a bench in venice. it is a small park and behind me, out of view, is the bus station i just came from. beside me is my rucksack and i've my arm around it. around my waist is the uncomfortable jab of a traveler's "thingthatkeepsthemoneyandpassportsafe" (that's not so much as important for the story as it is a reassurance for dad to know that i am wearing it this time around*). in front of me is the city of venice with all it's boats and canals and sinking buildings and tourists, and here is me on a park bench wondering what it is i am supposed to do.

 beside me is also a map of the city with a circle on it telling me what park i am in; the lady who sold it to me spoke enough english to draw a circle. you might also notice that i wrote bought a map which to those who have travelled or have been a tourist in any city might be thinking what the hell are you doing buying a map, let alone paying tre euro for it (i hadn't told you the price yet although i am sure most of you could have improvised a bit and carried on as if i had). this is an odd thing, buying a map in a tourist city, because the people in the city like you to be there spending your foreign money and make it as easy as possible to get the information you need to spend the money you're carrying in the stupid thingthatkeepsthemoneyandpassportsafe.

 grayson and i had exchanged a few txt's earlier that morning, the latest informing me he was en route. i had nothing to do but sit and watch the boats go by, the tourists spend money and the old lady crawl onto the park bench across from me. she didn't bother me, and i didn't want to bother her. after all, it was her city, and for all i knew it was her park too; who was i to make any suggestions.

 a month ago i was looking into flight costs to istanbul and athens when i had found a flight for 0.01 euro, so i booked it. turns out venice was in italy and grayson was too. little did i know i had arranged for us to meet up after having been simultaniously exploring the continent for the past six months. you see, we were supposed to be in ireland last spring at the same time and would have been had it not been for my dragging of the feet and the need for some money and a certian wedding i wanted to go to.

 so there i am: on a park bench in italy, waiting on a friend whom i was supposed to meet up with a year ago and still not really knowing what i was supposed to do. do i get a boat, or a glass of wine or take out my camera? i felt like asking the old woman, but she looked so peaceful sleeping there that i just couldn't bring myself to wake her. so i did what i hadn't been able to do for a long time; i read.

 however just as soon as i fished out my book from the bottom of my rucksack another rucksack was dropped nexted to it and the top hatted dude who had done the dropping was standing there waiting for a hello. so after a hug and some stories we set off to explore the city, which is what i was supposed to be doing after all.

 

*when i was in auz i had my wallet stolen just a few days into the trip. i'll try and tell that story another time

chow mama

so, here we go. at this moment i am sat at the table with an esspresso, the house is settling after sending thomas, 7, to school and grayson is still snug in his cocoon below. little elliott, 5, has grown tired of convincing me that mom put the video game on the top shelf in the kitchen because she wanted [him] to play with it and has resorted to helping me scrivre home.

(i have now poured myself a tea because the esspresso lasted no longer than it took to write the word down)

mom, margaret, having spent the morning running her hand through her short hair in unconditionally frustrated love, is now out feeding her kashmire goats and chasing the chickens out of her garden. echo's of this morning's chaos slowly fade as the chores wear on.

where's your homework, thomas? she asks the bedroom.

it responds in italian.

no, it isn't. i packed your bag. what did you do with it.

elliott smirks at me and i smirk at him. 

"come si dicie hi mom, elloitt?" 

"chow mama." 

"gracia. come si scrivre?" 

"c-i-a-o  m-a-m-m-a"

(the word for write and for spell are the same. i don't know why, but i have a theory. i'll ask around and find out more before i share this theory lest i sound like a babbling idiot)