MERRY CHRISTMAS!

A Very Meggie Christmas from megan Donovan on Vimeo.

Lions, Tigers and Bikes, Oh My! - Sports

I totally forgot about this. The photo included is teeny tiny, but I think you can still make out the bottle of Sierra Nevada I'm holding while on the podium.

Lions, Tigers and Bikes, Oh My! - Sports

Child abuse

-- Posted from an atoll.

From my mom's tomato plant.

-- Posted from an atoll.

One more thing for my Xmas wishlist.

-- Posted from an atoll.

What time is it?

Excuse me.

Some inspiration.

She's 12.

I like this.

-- Posted from an atoll.

Painted Trains

On my fourth day in Rome I thought it might be a good idea to visit the National Library so I could begin working on my research project. As the library was a few miles away from my apartment in Trastevere, I was looking forward to using Rome's underground Metro for the first time. Waiting on the platform, I was stricken with glee when I saw that it was a painted train that came whizzing out of the tunnel. Immediately, I had flashback to Brooklyn, during the summer of 1987. I was six, and I was staying with my grandma Rosa at her apartment in Williamsburg for two months. Every day we had different adventure, and every day we rode the subway. I visit New York fairly often as an adult, and it's pretty rare to see a painted train now, but when I was a kid, they were endemic. And for six year old Meggie, painted trains were like giant pieces of candy that people used for travel. It was as if they had escaped out of Toontown or something. I loved just the sight of them. And to see one while I was standing on the platform at the subway station in Rome, it was kind of like I had stepped into a time portal back to Brooklyn in the 80s. It was awesome.

Italy has such amazing street art, I really wish that I had taken more pictures of all the cool walls and posters and murals and trains that I saw while I was there. They all just offer such a colorful and engaging juxtaposition when set against the backdrop of Italy's architectural heritage.

Here are some pictures I took of some of the painted trains I saw:

Like I said, I wish I took more.

Megan

What NOT to do before bedtime:

Watch Goodfellas.


-- Posted from an atoll.

Wow.

This gem of a bookshelf was designed by Ron Arad.

http://www.designboom.com/weblog/cat/8/view/5972/ron-arad-new-works-at-the-timothy-taylor-gallery.html

Pretty amazing, huh? When I saw it I got really exited and inspired about getting back to work in the woodshop at Oxy. Can't wait to start making some stuff.

Megan

Greetings from SpinCycle

So I just downloaded an iPhone application that allows me to post blog entries from my phone. Lame? Awesome? It's really too early to tell. But I will admit I like the fact that I'm blogging from a laundromat.






Xoxo,
Meggie

-- Posted from an atoll.

Socialized health care: Yet another reason why I'd rather be in Italy...

Well, I've been back in LA for two weeks now and each day has been somewhat worse the one before it.  My theory is that I am now paying the price for having such an awesome ten weeks in Italy.  When not sitting at my desk in the library trying to write my research paper, I am mainly spending my time trying to figure out how to go back to Italy... permanently.  

Since I've been back in the States, the news has been dominated by the health care debate - if you can call it that - and all the dumb-fuckery of protests against Obama's socialist agenda.  Now, coincidentally, for the last two weeks I've been having excruciating neck and back pain that just won't go away.  So I see my doctor, she examines my neck and back, and tells me I need to go to physical therapy twice a week for the next few months.  So I go to a physical therapist, and surprise!!! my insurance doesn't cover physical therapy, at all.  I have to pay for each visit out of pocket.  So what do I do?  Nothing, I don't go to physical therapy, I just deal with it.   Oh well.  

My point: I HAVE health insurance, but I can't get the treatment I need because my insurance doesn't cover it.  And I'm just one example of millions and millions of other folks who can't afford to get proper medical treatment, (or even health insurance in the first place), many of whom have conditions that are much more painful and serious than the pinched nerves I've been griping about.  So when I turn on the news and see all the health reform protesters holding up signs of Obama in the likeness of the Joker, or even Hitler, I feel worse.  

Schleppin' Shit: Homeward Bound

By this time tomorrow, I'll be way up high in the sky and on my way back to Los Angeles.  It was a strange feeling to wake up today knowing it's my last day in Italy.  I'm going to miss it here very, very much, I'm really at a loss for words.  The past few months here have been such a fantastic experience for me in many respects, although very different from my last time living in Italy, which was through a study abroad program.  When I came with the PCC group, everything was arranged for us: our apartments, our daily itineraries, our transportation to and fro, and most importantly, we were all part of a group, so it was extremely easy for me to form bonds with others on the trip, many of whom I now consider to be some of my best friends and still keep in touch with regularly.  Coming to Italy this time, however, has been quite different, but equally wonderful.  On this trip I've had to plan and organize every single aspect of every single day here, which in truth, wasn't that challenging at all.  The hardest part, by far, was the scholarship application process, which was something that I worked on for months and months.  Yet once I got here, most things just seemed to fall into place.  Granted, it was a huge pain in the ass using Italy's libraries because they have such restricting usage protocol, but other than that, everything has been splendid (although I would like to add that I'm knocking on wood right now, because I still have a flight to catch tomorrow,  as well as a 30-page research paper to start working on as soon as I get back, so I don't want to count my chickies before they hatch).  

Forgive me for sounding juvenile, but I am going to miss Italy soooooooo much.  I love it here and I can't wait to come back.  I apologize for being so lax about updating this stupid blog, but I really hate writing and therefore didn't post a whole lotta stuff.  But, with that being said, I am more than happy to share my many tales in person, preferably over a beer or glass of vino.  

Baci,

Meggie

Twelve more days...boh.

Yikes.  In less than two weeks I'll be back in Los Angeles.  Too soon, me thinks.  

The last week has been pretty good on all fronts.  Been making good progress on my research project (the reason that I'm here in the first place, lest we all forget), have had a visit from my stepmom Linda and sister Laura, have gone to Firenze and Bologna, and most importantly, have become increasingly more bronzed with each passing day.  By the time I leave, I might actually have to upgrade my foundation shade from "Translucent Troglodyte" to "Ghost-Like Apparition."  The new, sun-kissed, Megan will be unrecognizable.  Or, perhaps, recognizable, as my skin is no longer see-thru.

To be frank, I will probably be a sad sack for my first few weeks back in the States.  I will be so happy to see all my friendsies and hopefully get to cram in as much fun as I possibly can before school starts, but I have really grown to love my life here...despite the fact that I STILL CAN'T SPEAK ITALIAN FOR SHIT!  

So tomorrow I'm off again for Firenze.  Will be checking out some stuff I missed last time, as well as seeing a David Byrne concert in Fiesole.  Then it's on to Bologna for Sulieman's birthday party, after which I will return to Rome and get ready for my last excursion: Los Angeles.

xoxo and see you really soon,

Meggie

A rant...forgive me.

Ok, this has been pissing me off for a while, so I'm just going to get it off my chest in the form of a blog that will most likely not be read by anyone.

Thank you, in Italian, is grazie.  It's pronounced grat-zee-eh.  Three syllables, grat-zee-eh.  Grazie.  It's not rocket science, it's just saying 'thank you' in another language.  

What I do not understand is why so many American tourists in Italy say it wrong.  About twenty times a day, I hear Americans saying 'grazi.'  Which is wrong.  It's grazie.  Grat-zee-eh.  Three syllables.  Not two.  

Listen, my Italian is dreadful.  It's really really shitty.  But I try.  My god, do I try.  But if anything, I'm confident that I can, at the very least, say 'thank you' correctly.   

So please, if you plan on traveling to Italy, or any other country where a foreign language is spoken, learn how to say 'thank you.'  

Gracias,

Megan

Twenty days from now I will no longer be sweating profusely in Rome.

Well, I've reached the homestretch of my summer Italian experience of sorts.  The past month has been pretty awesome to say the least.  I've been to Napoli, Pompeii, Capri, Bologna, Ferrara, Como, Milano, Venezia and last week, Biella (my personal favorite).  In each city, a new adventure.  Although I've come to the realization that blogging isn't my cup of tea (I'm more of an iced coffee person), I would still like to share some of the highlights, lowlights and insights from my recent excursions through Italy:

Napoli:

Damn, this place was fucking FITHLY.  I mean, seriously guys, Naples is the butthole of Western Europe.  To give you a visual, first imagine the layout, chaos and general urban vibe of Manhattan.  Then imagine Manhattan with out any laws.  Then imagine a lawless Manhattan without any garbage cans, anywhere.  Then imagine a lawless, garbage can-free Manhattan where everyone looked like a crazed, salivating werewolf.  Ok, I think you're beginning to get a feel for the place.  I'm not saying for you NOT to go to Naples, because I think you should if you get the chance.  I'm just giving my two cents on the matter, a friendly head's up, an amicable word to the wise, a loving 'hey, just so you know, this place has the highest murder rate in Europe,' piece of advice.  Hai capito?  Bene.  It's just that it's really really different from the cities in the north.  If you've read (or seen, as it's now a movie) Roberto Saviano's Gamorrah, then you know exactly what I'm talking about.  Read the book, then go to Naples, it'll put everything in context.  For those who have romanticized Italy as I have, visiting Napoli was as much enlightening as it was devastating.  To visit a city with such a weighty cultural and historical heritage and then see it in such a state of squalor and destitution, well, what can I say, it's a bummer, but that's the way it is. 

 

Pompeii:

Visiting Pompeii was great, but I should add that it was pretty much what I had expected it to be.  I went without a guidebook or map, so for the entire day I was just wondering around, curiously poking my head through what is perhaps the most fascinating archaeological portal to the ancient world.  If anything, it was a six-hour long reminder of death.  Carpe diem, bitches!

Capri:

By ferry, the island of Capri is about 40 minutes from Napoli, a minuscule distance, especially in consideration of the stark cultural binary that exists between the two locales.  For every fucked up, dystopic reality that exists in Napoli, there is a fucked up, dystopic non-reality that exists in Capri.   Think of it as a senile, ridiculously wealthy, great-great-aunt of Las Vegas.  For me, the opulence of Capri was just too distracting.  The island's per capita amount of designer boutiques, over-priced cafes, and gaudy yachting attire-wearing George Hamilton look-a-likes walking arm-in-arm with gaudy clubbing attire-wearing Paris Hilton look-a-likes is unparalleled.  I have never seen so many white people with such dark, dark tans.  In fact, I'm not quite sure if 'tan' is the word I'm looking for.  Perhaps 'rotisseried' is a more suitable description for these folks.  Either way, with my pale skin, tattoos, cut off shorts and beat up Converse low tops, I was noticeably out of place.  A highlight?  Capri has a chairlift!

 

Bologna:

Bologna is rad.  By train, it's about three to five hours northeast of Rome (trip duration depends on how much you are willing to spend on a train ticket), or, if you're in Florence, it's less than an hour by train.  My time in Bologna, as you might have already read in an earlier post, was mainly spent with the family of my friend Francis.  There's a big university in Bologna, so there's a good amount of stuff to do for young folks.  Bologna is definitely more relaxed than the major touristy cities of Italy, but that doesn't mean it's lacking in charm and character.  There's plenty, it's just not as in-your-face as Rome or Florence.  

I'm actually heading back to Bologna in a week for my friend Suleiman's birthday, so I'll try to take some good notes on good stuff to do and see.

Ferrara:

Another rad place.  Italy's bicycle capital...need I say more?!?  Ok, I'll say a little more.  It's super cute, super charming, and super under the radar.  Go.

 

 

Como:

Como was a lot of fun, aside from my little run in with the police (see below).  Going up there for my birthday was especially nice.  After an amazing dinner at a family-run restaurant just south of the Swiss border with Francis, Sulli and two of Francis' friends from Milan, we headed back to the lake house and sat on the porch and watched the most intense lighting storm I've ever seen in my life.  Best birthday to date perhaps!  

Milano:

Blaaaahhhh.  Not a huge fan of Milan.  Been there a few times now.  It's really New York-y.  So if you are a New York person, you'll probably like Milan.  My beef with the city is that it's a bit to grey for me.  Not too many public parks or natural beauty.  Just lots of city.  Euro city, that is.  Oh, and everyone looks like a rock star.  

Venezia:

Oh man.  This place is a classic.  If you've been there, you know this.  If you haven't been there, well, I'm sorry.  It's just that it's really really special.  There's something in the air in Venice, it's difficult to explain, but it seems as though the city is always lit in soft-focus.  And the smell of Venice is pretty unmistakable.  It's not a bad smell, just old, damp.  Not mildewy old and damp, but kind of like the way a sidewalk smells after it's rained.  I love that smell, and it permeates through the city.  

Venice is also the best place to get lost.  The first time I was there, about two years ago, I just wandered around for hours, without a map, without any clue of the layout of the city, just strolling through alleyways and hidden passages.  This time in Venice, however, I stuck to the road-more traveled, which was, of course, way more crowded, but I was still, of course, happy as a clam.  

The highlight of my Venice trip was seeing the Biennale, which is a really big contemporary art thing.  If you like contemporary art, go go go to the Biennale.  It's so cool.  You'll need a few days to see it all, but it's worth it if you're an art fan.  If you are not a contemporary art person, like my Venice partner in crime Suleiman, then skip the Biennale and go for an 80 euro ride in a gondola or something.  I'll take the art thank you.  

My advice for Venice is as follows: you do not need to stay in a fancy pants hotel or eat a fancy pants meal or go on a fancy pants gondola ride.  All you need to do is walk around the city and take it all in.  Every once in a while, grab a slice of pizza, a beer, and then find a good spot to sit and take it all in.  And then when nightfalls, grab your lady or dude or buddy or whoever, and take it all in.  It's Venice, and it's great no matter what.

Biella:

I have no idea why no one has heard of this city.  Even Italians don't know about this gem.  About an hour by train from Milan, Biella, is nestled in the mountainous northwest region of Italy called Piedmont.  I traveled there to visit the Pistoletto Foundation, which is organization/museum/art school founded by the artist I'm doing research on, Michelangelo Pistoletto, who was born in Biella.  I knew it was going to be kind of a random place to visit, as there is only one hotel and one hostel in the city, and there is no Biella section in any of my Italy guidebooks, or online for that matter.  So when I left Rome, I had one of those 'well, here goes nothin'' travel moments.  My expectations were pretty low: 'Just get to Biella, check in at the hostel, visit Fondazione Pistoletto, sleep, leave Biella.'   Little did I know that I was on my way to Italy's best kept secret.  It was like I stepped into one of those cheesy "The Villages of Italy" wall calendars but it was for real.  It was a bit unreal.  Every time I passed a quaint little cobblestone street lined with picturesque homes and cafes and bakeries and churches and little old ladies I just kept saying to myself "Are you fucking kidding me? This place is unreal."  It was just soooo cute.  I know, the word cute is stupid and annoying, but I think it's a good word to use to describe the pristine and somewhat unaltered character of Biella.  And another thing, there were absolutely NO tourists there.  None.  Every time I spoke with someone they asked me where I was from, and why I was in Biella.  Folks weren't asking out of hostility, either.  They were asking because they were genuinely curious as to where I was from and what I was doing in Biella, which was fine by me, I just got to practice more of my shitty Italian.   

Highlight of Biella: the fumicolare!!!

Good times, good times.  

xoxo,

Meggie

On the road again.

Tomorrow I'm off again.  This time to Torino and Biella for more research-related travel.  Looking forward to seeing the Northwest region of Italy again, it's remarkably different from the cities in the south (i.e. cleaner).  But before I leave for yet another excursion, I wanted to share a bit about my last excursion.

Bologna and Lago di Como

Ok, so last Tuesday morning I left Rome for Bologna to meet up with my friend Francis, a good buddy of mine who I met during the Florence study abroad thing I did a few years ago. Francis was in Bologna staying with his uncle, Dr. Hattar, for a few days and invited me to come stay with him at his uncle's place for a few days, and then for my birthday, we could take the train up to Lake Como to stay at his family's vacation house...not too bad, eh?  So I got to Bologna Tuesday evening and Francis and his cousin Sara (Dr. Hattar's daughter) met me at the train station and we headed back to the apartment and chilled out for a while.  This was my first time in Bologna (if you don't count all the times I stopped in Bologna when taking a train to somewhere else) and I gotta say, it's a really understated city.  After Francis's cousin, Suleiman, got home from studying all day, the three of us bought some beer and went for stroll around the city center.  It was a good night.

The next day Dr. Hattar asked me and Francis if we wanted to accompany him to Ferrara, which is about an hour away.  I agreed, so off we went to Ferrara, Italy's bicycle capital.  Like Bologna, Ferrara is super understated.  It's just this awesome little city with lovely old buildings and more people riding their bikes than anywhere else I've ever seen.  It was awesome seeing so many elderly folks whizzing around town on classic city bikes with baskets and bells.  Elderly folks whizzing around is just pretty awesome in general.

So, when we got back to Bologna that afternoon, we packed our bags for Como and then hit the road with Suleiman, who decided to come with us at the last minute.  

Francis' Lake Como house is in a little town called San Fermo which is about fifteen minutes south of the Swiss border, so a lot of the roads up there were these steep, narrow, labyrinth-like passages that seemed to defy all laws of gravity.  But once we got there, boy was it worth it.  His house was just so rad.  Since we were literally the first people to step inside the house in at least two years, there were oodles of cobwebs and creepy crawlers in every nook and cranny, so every time I entered a new room, I would walk inside with my arms swinging around like a windmill.  The coolest thing about the house was that not a single fixture, appliance or piece of furniture had been altered in about five decades.  Seriously, it was like walking into a time portal to 1958.  My mouth was agape the whole time Francis was showing me around.  Every time he took me into another room, I just kept saying "Awwwww...cool!...whoa....cool!...what's that?....really!?...cool!"  I guess I just really like old stuff.  

After hanging out in the house for a bit, the three of us got back in the car and headed to Milan to meet one of Francis' childhood friends for dinner.   Since I've been in Italy, I've gone out to dinner with Italians enough times to know the drill: everyone interacts while Meggie sits there nodding and smiling.  I can follow most conversations, but I usually don't get the jokes and I can rarely, if ever, contribute anything clever to the discussion at hand.  If I had a few minutes to think up something, I'm sure I would charm everyone, but when it comes to speaking Italian, I just can't summon up the words quickly enough.  So it's been really frustrating for me in that respect.  But dinner in Milan was fun, it was me, Francis, Suleiman, Francis's childhood friend Stefano and Stefano's friend Dada (great name, I know this).  After dinner we headed into the center of town for some gelato and drinks, and then around two we headed back to the lake house.  

The next day was mostly awesome and somewhat terrifying for Meggie.  When we got up, we spent most of the morning lounging around, enjoying the luxury of not having anywhere to be or anything to do.  All was wonderfully rad until I went into the kitchen and turned on the kitchen sink only to not be able to turn it off.  Of course this happened.  Why wouldn't I break the first appliance I try to use?  I was mortified, as I'm sure you can imagine.  Francis wasn't too happy about it either.  I don't think he was mad at me, per se, but I could tell he was a little irked that I caused a minor plumbing issue in the house that his grandfather built fifty years ago.  Oops.  Thankfully, Francis is one of those people that just knows how stuff works, so figured out a way to fix it before the house entire flooded.  After the incident, Suleiman appropriately deemed me "The Destroyer," and henceforth referred to me as such.  

After a nice lunch at a little trattoria in San Fermo, we headed into the city of Como to rent a little boat we could take out on the lake.  As we drove past the boat rental place looking for parking, my face, lit up with joy, was pressed up against the car window looking out at all the little boats for rent.  I was so excited!  I even had my swimsuit on under my clothes so that I could go for a swim in the lake once we took the boat out.  Since there was no parking in front, we circled the block looking for something else, and as we were passing the boat rental place for the second time Suleiman pulled the car over and stopped right in front.  There was silence, then there was a man in a uniform.  We had been pulled over for "control," which, I don't really understand but based on what Francis and Suleiman told me it's basically being pulled over just for the hell of it.  When cops do this in the States is called "profiling," but I guess when they do it here it's called "control" and it's pretty common.  So the policeman person walks up to the car and asks Suleiman for his license, which he has, except that it is destroyed.  I guess he left it inside some kind of plastic laminated thingy and all the info printed on the card transferred to the plastic laminated thingy.  Fantastic.  As Suleiman is explaining this to the officer, he cranes his head in the car and asks both Francis and me for our IDs as well.  ....STUPID!  Why does this jerk need our IDs?  We're just a couple of dumb passengers!  Francis didn't have his passport on him, but I had mine, and I handed it over to the dumdum po po man.  We sat there, in the car, waiting for about fifteen minutes for the cop to go check that all was A-ok with our documents.  The whole time we are sitting there, parked right in front of the boat rental place.  All those little boats, taunting me.  

When the officer came back, he told us that we had to follow him to the police station so that he could issue Suleiman a temporary license.  ...STUPID!  Ugh.  Now we REALLY weren't going to get to ride in any fun little paddle boats because it was already getting late.  So we get to the station, all of pouting and scuffing our feet, and wait for dum dum po po face to enter all of Suleiman's info into the system.  Then the dum dum pulls out MY passport and start typing in MY info.  I turn to Francis and mutter "why the hell is he doing that?" and Francis just tells me to chill out, and that it's only for 'control' and that it's not a big deal.  But this made me get even more jittery and I asked him if he was sure that it wasn't a big deal and that I'm not going to have any problems when I have to go through customs when I leave Europe.  At this point, the officer notices us whispering and asks what the problem is.  Francis says that there isn't a problem and then I pipe up and say that I want to make sure that there won't be any problems for me when I leave the country because of this.  The officer looks at me, then picks up my passport and tells me that if I want, I can take my passport and leave right now, and he did it in such a classic dickhead officer way I felt like I was at home dealing with the LAPD.  So of course, I told him that I wasn't going to go anywhere until my friend gets his new license issued.  He puts my passport back on his desk.  Sits for a second, then picks up my passport again and starts flipping through the pages.  Asshole.  He then proceeds to pick up the phone on his desk, dial a few numbers, mutter something into the phone, hang up the phone, look at my passport, look and me, and then say "wait here."  At this point I'm both very angry and very scared.  I'm angry because this guy is just being a total dick, and I'm scared because I'm sitting in a police station in another country and I have no idea what the hell is about to happen.  I go through my mental check-list of any and all trouble I've ever gotten into...I'm clean.  They have nothing on me.  It's impossible.  Unless I have ever been unknowingly arrested while I was sleeping or in a coma or something, I am not now, nor have I ever been, on the wrong side of the law.   But still, as I'm sitting there, waiting for whatever the hell he told me to "wait here" for, I'm getting a little freaked, and then another officer comes in and gestures me to come with him.  Francis and Suleiman protested, wanting to come with me they told the officers that I can't speak Italian and there's no point having me go alone.  With this, the officer replied "they speak English up there."  Up there?  Up there?  All I could think was "what the hell is going on?  I should be on a paddle boat in the middle of Lake Como right now, not following a man in uniform through the stark, overly lit corridors of an Italian police station."  A part of me wanted to just bolt through the nearest emergency exit, sprint through the parking lot, shimmy up and over the gate surrounding the station and then run, flying like a bat out of hell, until I reached the Swiss border.  Yet by the time I nixed this idea and was concocting a Plan B of escape, I was being led into a small office filled with about five men, some standing, some leaning against a table, one sitting behind a desk, and all of them had their arms crossed.  I don't remember any details of what they looked like, except, of course, that they were all very unfriendly looking.  What follows is my best recollection of the conversation that took place inside the office:

(Lights up on a nondescript administrative office inside an Italian police station.  Stage left, four officers standing, arms folded, one is in uniform.  Behind a desk is another plain clothes officer, he is examining an American passport.  Stage right, Meggie, an American girl in her late twenties, scruffy looking, sits slouched in a folding chair.  Her leg is twitching.)

Officer Plainclothes: Non parli Italiano?

Meggie: Nope.  

OP: Ok.  Do you know why we brought you in here?

M: I have no idea.  Maybe you could explain to me why I'm here.  I have not done anything wrong so I really don't understand.

OP: How long have you been in Italy?

M: Since May 16.

OP: And where are you living?

M: Well, I'm mainly staying in Rome but I've been traveling around the country a lot.  I'm a tourist.

OP: Did you register here?

M: What? No.  I don't live here permanently, I'M A TOURIST.

OP: But when did you come to Italy?

M: May sixteenth.  SEDICI DI MAGGIO.

OP: But where are you staying?

M: I told you, I'm staying mostly in Rome but I'm traveling through the country a lot, every other week I go to another city for a few days.  I don't understand why you are asking me this.  I'm a US citizen, I'm allowed to be in the EU for three months, I haven't even been here for two months, why is there a problem?

OP: The problem is when you got here.

M: What? I got here less than two months ago.  I don't understand this.

OP: There is no stamp in your passport.

M: That's because they didn't stamp it when I got here.  I don't know what to tell you.  I came from Los Angeles to Heathrow to Rome, I don't know why they didn't stamp it, that happens sometimes.

OP: But when did you get here?

M: May 16.

OP: And where are you staying in Italy?

M: I told you, mostly Rome.

OP: And are you registered?

M: I'm a tourist, tourists don't need to register.

OP: But if you do not register after your first eight days in Italy, you can be expelled from the EU.

M: What! I have never heard that before.  I'm sorry, I don't understand.  This is the second time I have been in Italy, and I didn't know I needed to register myself.  

OP: Yes.  (Picks up Meggie's passport) We have many problems with this.

M: What?!  Ok, well, then, can you register me here, now?  I swear to god I had no idea I had to register, I thought that because I'm a tourist I can stay in the EU for less than 90 days without any problem.

OP: If you are not registered, you can be expelled from the EU, and if you are expelled, you cannot return for ten years.

M: Ok, ok, so let's just get me registered right now then.  I really don't want there to be any problems with me staying here.

OP: We won't register you here, you need to do that in Rome.

M: Ok, so as soon as I get to Rome I'll register.  I just don't want any problems.  

OP: You cannot stay here without registering, or you will have problems. 

M: Yes.  Ok, I understand.  I'm sorry.  I didn't know, I'm sorry.  

(Officer Plainclothes looks up and nods at the uniformed officer, who then gestures for Meggie to follow him out.  They exit stage right.)

So that's pretty much how it went down.  The whole interrogation ordeal lasted about twelve minutes.  And each minute sucked more than the last one.  I don't know why there had to be five guys in the room when only one of them was asking me questions.  As the uniformed officer was taking me back to the office where Francis and Suleiman were waiting for me, I just lost it a little bit and started crying.  I couldn't help it, the whole experience was really unpleasant.  I think they just took me in there to scare me and give me a hard time.  Cops, because they're dickheads, get off on bullying people, and boy did those guys bully me.  I mean, really, if it was such a big problem that I'm not registered in Italy (which it's not, because I don't actually live here in any permanent sense, I'm just sort of city-hopping for a couple of months) then they would have gotten off their lazy asses and filled out the necessary paperwork to get me registered, but instead, they just scared the shit out of me by threatening expulsion and then didn't even attempt to rectify the situation.  They just told me that I needed to go somewhere else.  Bull shit.  I hate cops.  They're all such stupid bullies.  

After we were "released," from the police station, we headed back to the house, feeling somewhat defeated because we didn't get to rent a paddle boat.  But all was ok, because later on we had an awesome time doing all kinds of cool stuff I'll tell you about in my next entry.  I still want to fill you all in on my birthday adventures and my trip to the Venice.

xoxo,

Meggie

 

Oh, if you are curious to see some of my photos from the trip, check out my flickr account:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/meganrosedonovan/

I'm baaaaaaAAAAck.

Whoa, what a week it's been.  I just got back to Rome this evening and all I want to do is sit in on the sofa and watch MTV Italia for the next few hours with a jar of Nutella and a trowel.  I've been up to the Swiss border and back, so needless to say I'm a little pooped.  I will collect my thoughts for the next day or two and then post some of my adventures.

xoxo,

Megan

Going and going and going

Tomorrow morning I leave for what I hope will be a six city excursion.  I have no train tickets, no hotel rooms, and as of this very minute (11:32 pm), no bags packed.  All I know is that there's a 10:45 train leaving for Bologna and I will be on it.  But right now, I'm tired.  When I come back, I will let you know where I went, how I got there, and whether or not I slept under a bridge.  

xoxo,

Meggie

Road-Tripping on Fathers Day and Other Adventures

Tomorrow is Father's Day and next Friday is my 28th birthday.  

Is it me, or does time just seem to move at a much more rapid rate of trajectory than it did in the 80s and 90s?   I often cringe in disbelief when writing the date.  'TWO THOUSAND AND NINE!?!?!'  Shouldn't it still be, like, 1999, or heck, at the absolute LATEST, 2002?  I posit that 2002 is a much more reasonable date for the present.   How the hell did it get to be June of 2009?  Where have the 2000s gone? I humbly ask you.  

Of course, this is a rhetorical question.  

If you're somewhat in my age range, let's say late twenties, early thirties, mid-thirties or perhaps forties, you might have spent the 2000s becoming a grown up.  Maybe you have a grown-up job, drive a grown-up car, live in a grown-up apartment or if you're lucky, a grown-up house, and, most frighteningly, listen to (gasp!) grown-up music.  (I myself, can confess to not only NOT changing the station when a 10,000 Maniacs song comes on the radio, but also (gasp!) listening to it, and (double-gasp!) singing along.  If my fourteen-year-old, green haired, black lipstick-wearing and Suicidal Tendencies-listening self knew of this malarky, she would undoubtedly kick my present day self in the teeth with her steel toe Doc Martens.)  So all of a sudden, here I am, or better, here we are, in 2009, wondering where all those years went and how it came to be that there are now people of voting age who were born in the 90s (i.e. many of my classmates at Occidental).  Holy shit, right?  I can distinctly remember listening to "License to Ill" on my Sony walkman in 1990.  But alas, I digress.  

Back to the present, June of 2009.  Tomorrow is Father's Day, which will be my third since my dad died.   I didn't even remember that it's Father's Day was this week, but I was reminded, however, after reading this Op-Ed in the International Herald Tribune by Garrison Keillor:

Don’t bother calling to wish me a Happy Father’s Day because I won’t be here, kids, I’ve got the day off.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by. But I’m in Minnesota. So I’ll just climb in my black Lamborghini and head for the territories and west of Minneapolis pick up a county road that runs straight on flat prairie for a couple hundred miles.

I’ll let that 270 hp V-12 engine run free and reach the Dakota border in the time it takes to drink a cold one and listen to Waylon and Willie — and don’t call me on my cell because I don’t have it with me, just Mr. Samuel Colt, a deck of cards and a dog named Lucky.

It’s like Robert Louis Stevenson said: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labor.” That’s a man talking.

Father’s Day is all about retail sales and zero about me and I am having none of it. I’ve got enough cheap cologne to open a funeral parlor and I don’t need neckties — I just carry one for a tourniquet in case of snakebite — and I don’t want a card that says “It’s Father’s Day and I’m here to say: when it comes to the Long Haul, I’m awfully glad that you’re my Dad cause you’re the BEST of all!!!” because you and I know it ain’t me, babe, so why say it?

I never wanted to be a Father. All I wanted was the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, and a gray mist on the sea’s face and a gray dawn breaking. But I was in Minnesota at the time. We were dancing at Whiskey Junction, Suzanne and me, and she took me down to her place by the river — and how much of this do you really want to know? — and I touched her perfect body with my mind and the next thing I knew I was dating a lady with a basketball under her belt.

She got big and she got very needy. “Rub my back,” she said about 37 times a day. “Go get me some persimmon sherbet and dark chocolate with anchovies in it. The good kind.” She used to be wild and loved to jump on a horse and ride like the wind, and then she became Somebody’s Mother and was transformed into an obsessive neurotic. One minute she was Cindy Crawford and one night I came back and she was Dorothea Lange’s sharecropper’s wife from the Dust Bowl, a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timing man.

Women say, “Why don’t you talk to me anymore? I wish you’d tell me what’s going on with you!” so I start talking (like now) and they say, “How can you say that?” This is our dilemma.

It’s like the time I tried to celebrate the Fourth of July in Copenhagen. I invited 50 friends to a barbeque. Took me two days to find a butcher shop that sells pork ribs. Danes don’t eat ribs. But Chinese Danes do, and I found a Chinese butcher shop near Trepkasgade and bought all the ribs in his freezer. Then I had to find Tabasco sauce. I whomped up the ribs, the Danes came and scarfed them all down and got a little drunk, and we sent a few dozen rockets flying over the beach, and then in the spirit of the Glorious Fourth I said something mean about Queen Margrethe (You Don’t Do That There) and they blanched and pretended I was invisible.

So that’s why I’m heading out to the territories. I’m going to join up with the gang out near Yellow Gulch, saddle up and go. I want to be with people who know the words to the same songs I know and those songs are “Freight Train” and “Me and Bobby McGee” and “Hobo’s Lullaby” and “This World Is Not My Home (I’m Only Passing Through),” songs about hearing the lonesome whistle blow, high-tailing it out of here, feeling the wind in your face, driving through little farm towns and not stopping and seeing the envy in their eyes. The journey is the reward and don’t you ever stop.

Back on Monday.

I enjoyed reading this very much, as in some respects it reminded me of my dad, and his love of long road-trips.  I know that on his first trip to California from the East Coast in the early 70s, he hitchhiked there and back.  An adventure, I'm sure.   So I feel much better knowing that this Father's Day, I'm having an adventure of my own, because, well shit, it's 2009.

Allora, aspetta.

Hello friends!  I'm sorry it's been so long since my last update, it's just that, you see, I've been so incredibly busy dicking around aimlessly for the last few weeks that I haven't had the time to post anything.  My apologies.

Life in Rome has been unique.  Every day has presented somewhat of a challenge.  I hate it here, and then I love it here.  And then I hate it here, and then I never ever want to leave.  It's not that I've had any major mishaps or faux pas, but being a foreigner here is a bit isolating at times.  I'm not quite a tourist, as I am renting an apartment, speak the language (to a certain extent), and am now quite familiar with the lay of the land (also to a certain extent).  But I'm certainly not a Roman.  I don't have friends or family here, I don't work here, and I'm certainly not from here.  So I find myself somewhere in the middle, I'm not a local, but also, thankfully, I'm not a conspicuously out-place-tourist.  

I must say that Rome is a fantastic city.  Holy cow, I've never been anywhere that is as enchanting and lively.  The nightlife here is unparalleled.  Drinks at 8, dinner at 10.  Each night, every table outside every restaurant in my neighborhood is occupied.  This goes on until around 1am, and then the cafes turn into bars, and everyone just sort of spills out into the streets and piazzas.  And this goes on until about 3am.  Every.  Night.  It's great, really.  I don't think I could sustain a lifestyle like that, but once in a while it's nice to partake in the nightly festivities.

My favorite activity, thus far, however, has been going for really really long walks while listening to my iPod.  If I need to go somewhere across town, let's say about three or four miles away, I walk there, and it's great.  I never walk in LA.  Ever.  If I'm feeling randy I'll ride my bike or take the Metro, but I rarely walk to a destination.  So being here, in Rome, and walking for hours and hours, feels great.  There is always something new to see and of course, plenty of people to watch.  Walking a lot with headphones on also lends itself to some major introspection.  There's a lot to think about when you're alone in a city in another country, thousands of miles away from home.  

Top ten things I miss about Los Angeles (in no particular order):

10. Vietnamese food

9. Good live music 

8. My friends...DUH!

7. KPCC

6. Big cups of iced coffee from Swork or Cafe de Leche

5. Highland Park

4. Talking to someone and having them know what the fuck I'm talking about.

3. Being talked to and knowing what the fuck someone is saying.

2. Going to parties where I know people, or at least just going to parties.

1. Riding my bike around Highland Park and Eagle Rock

Top ten things I love about living in Rome (also in no particular order):

10. Riding my rickety old bike around town.

9.  Going for epically long walks in the afternoon when the sun is going down.

8. Food.  

7. All the really good looking Italians who know they're really good looking.

6. Having a decent conversation in Italian.

5. Art.

4. Having fantastic dinners after 10pm.

3. Taking a train ride to another city, then returning to Rome and feeling as if I've come home.

2. Trastevere.

1. Giving directions to Italians.

Ok, that's about all I can muster for now.  Let's hope it's not another month until my next post.

xoxo,

Meggie

Oh, this is me at Pompeii:

New apartment and Ravenna

I've moved.

Before: 

After:

Much better, no?

Also, this weekend I went to Ravenna, which is on the northeast coast of Italy.  I saw some mosaics which were very old yet still very sparkly:

And then I went to the coast:

Saw The Vivian Girls and The Pains of Being Pure at Heart play at a great little seaside venue:

I did not take a pics of the band.  I did this out of protest.  Why?  Because throughout both of the sets people were constantly taking pictures of the bands, which really annoyed me.  But I will say that I did get to chat with several of the fellows from Pains and they were very friendly and quite enthusiastic that I was from the States, which I found very endearing.  One of them told me that it was great to have someone new to speak English with, hearing this, I could only reply "You have no idea..."

Day 6

Wow.  I'm exhausted.  My feet are angry at me for walking so much, but at least I'm getting a nice tan.  I'm a little too burnt out right now to explain the somewhat surreal adventures I've had in the past few days, but trust me, I have some stories.  

Here's the view outside my bedroom window:

I swear, this is what it has been like EVERY NIGHT.  I cannot sleep.  I know what you might be thinking, "Fuck you, Megan.  You're in Rome, live it up you dumb bitch and quit complaining." But seriously, living directly above the carnival that is Piazza Trilussa is a little intense.  Besides, my apartment is the worst worst worst shithole I've even seen in my life.  Just totally yucky and weird.  Trying to find a new place, will keep you posted.  For now, going to try to get some sleep.  

Curiouser and Curiouser

After staying in two interim apartments, I finally moved in to the place I’ll be staying for at the next two and a half months.  I had high hopes for this place, having seen pictures that were emailed to me by the owner, however, and a BIG HOWEVER, the day before I moved in, three American college students moved out.  The place is trashed.  I mean fist holes through the wall and shoe prints on the ceiling trashed.  I am so sad.  The place just has a vibe that is way too frat boy-esque for me to be comfortable with.  And apparently, the maid was here all day yesterday.  Gross.  Thank god I brought my own sheets.  I actually went out earlier and bought a new bedspread and several bunches of flowers to lighted up the place.  (I will include pics soon.)

Also, as it’s a two-bedroom apartment, I’ll be having several roommates throughout the summer, fantastic.  I hope that they are all as unique as my current flatmate Johnnie:

*This is me, being really sneaky with my built in camera.  He had no idea I took this photo, but I wanted to give everyone a visual. 

From Las Vegas, NV via Cleveland, OH, Johnnie is an Air Force/USMC vet (!) in his late forties (?).  I know he has a son in Cleveland and is dating a Ukrainian woman.  Currently, he his hand in a multitude of entrepreneurial endeavors, some of which include: bar owner, “Women of the U.S.A.” calendar producer and distributor (I saw it, and it’s patriotic as fuck as and absolutely fantastic/horrifying), and Italian coffee importer/exporter (which is the reason he’s in Italy and I believe moving here in the Fall).  Keep in mind that these are all I can remember off the top of my head, when I met him yesterday he explained to me at great length his many intriguing business ventures, but once he handed me the “Women of the U.S.A.” calendar, I could no longer retain the things he was telling me and became wholly engrossed by the pretty ladies wearing patriotic-themed latex.  I will try to find a link at some point to share with you all such wonderful images.

Ok, so after about an hour of getting to know each other, Johnnie invited me to have dinner with him, his Italian cousin Filippo, and Filippo’s British girlfriend Julia.  So I went, as I am never one to turn down a free meal.  So we end up going to some trattoria around the corner and meet up with Filippo and Julia and some other crazy looking Italian guy, I mean like super far-out old (like, mid-sixties if I had to guess) Italian dude with long, slicked back hair, a pinstriped blazer, designer jeans and some seriously pointy-ass cowboy boots.  Of the five of us dining, I was at least twenty years younger than everyone at the table, and also the only one who can’t speak Italian (that is, unless you consider “I am American student, I am happy be in Rome this summertime, very happy” speaking Italian).  So yes, the five of us: Johnnie, my zany roommate, his cousin Filippo who apparently owns a newspaper in Rome, Julia, who is British, and quite lovely, and Giulio, crazy looking Italian dude, and me, Meggie.  Although I felt slightly awkward the first hour and kept asking myself how the hell I ended up at a table where I can only make out about 1/3 of the conversation and when I do say something it comes out sounding retarded, as the meal progressed and as I drank more wine, I began to enjoy myself immensely with these totals randoms.  I mean fuck it, I’m in Rome. 

 

To whom it may concern,

I think I might have found a solution to the shit show that is parking in Los Angeles:

Fuck parallel parking.  

Smaller cars = perpendicular parking = the future.

I'm pooped.

After about twenty hours of travel time in which I enjoyed two flights, two trams, one train, one taxi, one cobblestone street and a spiral staircase, I finally made it to my apartment in Rome.  I am actually staying in a temporary spot right now, which is a really cute apartment that's way nicer than my place in LA.  On Monday I relocate to an another in Trastevere, not really looking forward to hauling all my shit again.  When I met the guy who owns the apartments I'm staying in, he took a look at my bags and asked me how many years I'll be staying in Rome.  I think I might have overpacked.  

I took a little walk around Trastevere after settling in and this is what was waiting for me:

And then I ate pizza and gelato, and now I'm content.

xoxo,

Meggie

Schleppin' Shit

By this time tomorrow, I'll be wedged into some sort of micro-crevice passing as an airplane seat and on my way to Italy.  Barring the possibility that my extremities might begin to atrophy after hour ten of the flight, I am very excited about this adventure.  I've had the travel bug pretty bad for the past few months, and now that I've emerged from a semester of living in the bowels of the Occidental library, I am very ready for a change of scenery.  

Since I'll be traveling sans sidekick as a solo-flyer, I would very much like to share with my friendsies the many awkward/horrifying/bizarre/hilarious/wonderful experiences that await me in Euroland.  I hope my forthcoming tales will offer an inoffensive diversion at worst, an engaging narrative at best.  I also promise to disclose all personal humiliation and embarrassment experienced throughout my journey, so if anything, the inevitable alienation that accompanies foreign travel should at least provide some mild amusement.  

xoxo,

Meggie