Parklife

I'm not sure how excited people are elsewhere, but London (myself included, at least for the next three weeks) seems pretty excited that Blur is back together and touring this summer. I'm bummed to be missing it; Blur was one of the first bands I can remember listening to when I was little, specifically their hit "Girls & Boys." Anyway, I stole the title of this post from another of their great songs.

Now that I'm back in London for the final stretch of my exchange semester, I have a lot of free time on my hands. I admit, I cannot avoid the sense of guilt I have experienced lately having no particular plans for each day while the rest of the city goes about its usual tedious patterns. I'm sort of just living aimlessly right now, which I'm conflicted about. It's everyone's dream-to have nothing to do, no hard work or responsibilities. I haven't felt this purposeless since summer holidays in grade school. But what am I to do, with no coursework, a visa that prohibits labor or volunteering, and a plane ticket home three weeks from now?

Well well, what better time to pursue all of the things I have not been able to do yet? One of the lines from Blur's song is spoken in Cockney, and represents the standard routine of those living the parklife: "I put my trousers on, have a cup of tea and I think about leaving the house." Lawd, it's a struggle even to get through the first of these chores before noon, innit? If I lived in Paris, I'd likely call this ennui.

Here's another perspective on the guilt that accompanies urban lackadaisia:

I'm so lazy I don't even know the source of this passage; someone posted it on Facebook a while ago and I thought about it for a while after. Now here's the truth: I'm trying to avoid this lifestyle at all costs; I don't actually "live" in London, I'm just passing through; I have every excuse to gallery-hop, listen to experimental jazz, etc. Tempting as it is to stay inside and watch reruns of University Challenge or Graham Norton all day...No way. I'm in London for three weeks, almost completely free of any commitments-it's time to live, baby.

The weather has been nice lately, so I've been drawn to the parks. I'm always drawn to the parks. When I head out for an aimless walk, I always end up moving toward them-Regent's, Primrose Hill, St. James, Green, Hyde Parks. Zadie Smith calls them the lungs of the city.

When my mom visited last week, we just sort of gravitated to the parks. On her first day, we lazed in St. James's Park by the pelican pond, then on the enormous lawn of Green Park. The next day, we spent what felt like hours on Primrose Hill just observing all the usual commotion there, and then wandered through the very delicately arranged gardens of Regent's Park. Like me, mom loved sitting on the bus, and we agreed we could have sat on the second deck again and again and it would be just as much fun every time. She also loved Somerset House, one of my favorite places to sit on a sunny day.

(Incidentally, in case any Game of Thrones fans are reading, Natalie Dormer walked right by me when I was sitting there the other day. I tried to get a photo as she rushed out to the Strand, but each of my frantic attempts resembles the typical photo one might find when searching for images of Bigfoot-blurry, indistinguishable, probably fake.)

Since we were staying right there on the Strand for the week, we saw a few Waterloo sunsets.

The last day of mom's visit we took the train to Cambridge. It's exam period so all the colleges were closed, but it was a gorgeous day-and anyway, who wants to be stuck in some stuffy St. Someone's all day? We walked along the River Cam, stopped for coffee and drinks along the way through town, spent some time in the Fitzwilliam Museum (I promised mom she'd see Van Gogh and Monet before she left), then sat at Parker's Piece for a while before heading back.

Mom at Downing College, Cambridge

I've mentioned it before, but I love the trains here; from the perspective of someone who can't drive here, National Rail seems to be one of the greatest novelties of this country, even if it is almost two-hundred years old. It's so cheap with a railcard and honestly, half the fun is watching the countryside and small towns pass by on the way. Heading back to London with mom, watching the sunset over the flowery hills of Cambridgeshire was a very beautiful thing to behold.

Yesterday I spent most of the day at Hampstead Heath, which if you're not familiar, is an enormous swath of forest in the middle of NW London. It is magnificent. I felt like I was in a Thomas Hardy novel there. In more accurate literary terms, that haloed golden boy of English lit, John Keats lived in Hampstead. He wrote his poem "Ode to a Nightingale" there, what then was a small village on the outskirts of the city.

Keats listening to a nightingale on the Heath, by Severn (c. 1845)

Hampstead still feels like a village. It seems like the kind of place where people know each other. It feels much less like London and more like the provinces; I remember I felt this way about Richmond too.

I think the Heath is my favorite park I've been to yet. It reminded me of the trails I walk on the Cape-long grassy fields, dirt trails crawling with roots, birds cooing and cawing in every tree. 

Today, on another warm, sunny day, I went to Hyde Park. I have been here many times, but I don't feel like I know it like I know other parks. After roaming around the Serpentine and Long Pond, through the Flower Walk, I went into the Serpentine Gallery to poke around. It was a great day to be outside.

Of course, I wonder about how it will feel to leave, the closer my departure comes to the surface of reality. All of these places will still exist when I leave; the birds will still perch in the same places, the trees will wade on. This thought bothered Virginia Woolf a great deal-she famously told a friend that it exasperated her how the furniture would outlive them. This does not so much bother me as it does remind me that I need to do things when I'm awake. I am happy to know that these places will still exist, and if I wait and hope, perhaps I too will be there again.

I was thinking a lot today when I walked around. When I woke up, even when I left the house in the morning, I had no idea I would end up at Hyde Park today. But it's so close to my vicinity, of course it was conceivable. And in a few weeks it will not be. This idea became clearer when my mom visited; I was sharing a place I have grown to love, a place that I know well now, and will still know whenever I return. "Growing to love" is an interesting image to me-as if growing and loving are on concomitant scales of measurement. If so, now would be the time to recognize growth, in the early warm days of spring, when everything seems, smells, sounds fresh and new

So this is how I will make something of my parklife (which expires in 25 days): something new every day, eyes and ears open all the time. 

The Daze

The flight to Sicily was short, only about an hour long. As soon as the doors to the plane shut, a mad rush ensued, in which everyone shuffled around to find empty rows since there were so few people on the plane. After a few minutes of flight, the crew came around and offered snacks; I had a blood orange juice and biscotti. Throughout the flight, people kept standing up to stretch and meandering over to another row where friends were sitting. It seemed to me that everyone on the flight knew each other well, and this was a brief, suitable introduction to Sicilian culture.

Kenny met me off the plane in Catania. My plane had arrived a few minutes after the last bus to Siracusa, so we took a cab together and were there in an hour. Once I dropped my things in Kenny's apartment, we took off to wander the village streets. Kenny showed me all of the mythological and historical hotspots of the town, including the ruins of Tempio di Apollo and Fonte Arethusa. The streets were all lit by bright yellow lamps, and as we passed through the narrow alleys we could hear families shouting and laughing inside their homes. There were cats everywhere, placid when lounging, vicious when disturbed. We sat on a mass of rocks jutting into the Mediterranean and caught up on things since we last saw each other in London last month.

I should explain the geography of Ortigia, which I think is a part of what makes it so special. Siracusa is the mainland town, somewhat urban, and its architecture is fairly contemporary. Three bridges connect Siracusa with Isola di Ortigia, also known as Città Vecchia and Ortigia. It is, effectively, a sort of island, separate from the incessantly bustling mainland city. Cars drive through slowly and mopeds wend around every corner at terrifying speeds. At many of the village's doorframes are old Sicilian men smoking cigarettes and watching the passersby-what we in America would think of as the active pursuit of a whole lot of nothing. The main road, Via Roma is only a bit wider than the alleyways that stretch and loop off from it, and leads to grand piazzas fitted with cafes and local shops. The place is surrounded by water but there are no beaches to speak of. Much as I wanted to swim in the Mediterranean, I came to admire this quirk; I spent hours staring out at the bay and across the rooftops and even though little seemed to change but a few dinghies passing by and some pigeon feathers flapping, the view always captivated me.

from Kenny's balcony

Kenny had class in the morning so we got cappuccinos and croissants (with a choice of either Nutella, ricotta, or marmalade filling) and from there I wandered without aim for a few hours, until we met up at a cafe in the afternoon. I remember one moment really distinctly, when I was walking along the coast and an old man passed by me. In between us was a great heap of garbage bags left out on the sidewalk. He threw his hands up in exasperation, looked to the sky pleadingly, and carried on.

I crossed and recrossed the same small streets, seeing the same people standing in the same places each time. In two hours of wandering, I grew increasingly disoriented and tired, but I could not stop. I spent some time sitting in different places, but always felt compelled to continue exploring this small, strange, wonderful place.

Tempio di Apollo; can you spot the cat?

After Kenny was done with class, we ate arancini and then took the bus to Parco Archeologico della Neapolis in Siracusa. I have always been vaguely fascinated by Ancient Greece and Rome; by that I mean that to learn about those cultures is always interesting to me, but I don't seek out that information on my own. Kenny knew everything about the park, so hearing the old myths from him did indulge this fascination of mine. The park is also a vast natural space, and on a sunny day it was the perfect place to walk through.

Amphitheater where Plato and Archimedes once spoke and plays are still performed

The quarry of the park is now overgrown with lemon and orange trees. Similar to the effect of Tintern Abbey, I felt somewhat drawn back to memories of childhood when wandering through the ruins of an old place; a lifelong obsession with Lord of the Rings will do this.

On the way back into town, Kenny showed me what he called a postmodern cathedral that the local government funded and constructed in the middle of Siracusa; the project lasted from 1966 to 1994.

Santuario Madonna delle Lacrime

Inside the cathedral looking up

Later in the afternoon Kenny had class, so I stayed on his balcony sitting in the sun, drinking wine. Later, I called my mom just to let her know all was well, and she said she hadn't heard me sound so relaxed all semester. I think she's right, I hadn't been that calm for a while. London is always a bit hectic and with all the traveling I had done lately, I needed a good long siesta (which is not an Italian concept but is still applicable).

Fonte Arethusa

When Kenny returned from class, we watched the new Game of Thrones on his balcony. It was awesome.

The next day a similar routine of wandering and lazing in the sun unfolded. I think it was a daze I fell into, a cyclical pattern of aimlessness and rest.

Kenny took me to the local market, where we waited for sandwiches handmade by "The Scientist," Andrea, whose supply of cheese and meat and vegetables is baffling. We waited in line--all the while vendors shouting at passersby in the market--until it was our turn, and Andrea threw together whatever he felt like putting in our sandwiches. It was amazing to see someone just know what will taste great without a moment's thought. There were probably five different kinds of cheese in my sandwich, with salami and prosciutto, an unknown cured meat, a pepper tapenade, more olive oil than I could believe, all stacked between two halves of a baguette

Kenny begins the endeavor of eating the sandwich

I ate the enormous sandwich, or at least one half of it, on Kenny's balcony and stayed there in the sun watching the scenes below and out at sea. To take a trip and not feel obligated to go out sightseeing every moment is a great thing.

Later we had aperitivo with Karin, also from Saint Mike's. We went from dinner to have drinks at The Atrium, a bar that is popular with locals. Kenny and I tried to get a picture together there.

We couldn't get one with either of us looking normal so I'll settle for this one. 

I spent my last day in Ortigia attempting to find a place to swim. I thought since I'm surrounded by the Mediterranean here I should at least give it a try. The coast of Ortigia is strewn with craggy boulders and the shore is coated in small rocks and sharp glass. I really did try, but without success. I made my way back to Kenny's flat wearing only my swim trunks and shoes; passing by local men who wore parkas in the 75 degree sunshine proved an awkward experience. I caught one old man take a quick glance at my swim trunks, then widen his eyes and shake his head. This can't be too out of the ordinary for a Mediterranean village, can it?

Kenny and I watched the sunset from a rocky formation on the coast of Siracusa.

We walked back to the village from there, wandering down by the local docks. The town was beginning to light up for the night just as the sky turned dark and the shades of the sunset settled.

We had a final meal at a seafood restaurant where Kenny knows the chef. He had shown us a beautiful lobster that had come in that day; he was desperate to cook it but we told him we didn't have the stomach for lobster that night. He cooked it anyway and gave it to us free of charge with our meal of mussels and clams in pasta.

The next day I left in the morning to catch my flight back to London. On the way there I found this bottle in the middle of the street and just thought it was an unexpected sight.

I was sad to leave and held out hope that Mount Etna might erupt before my plane could take off; if ever there was a time when a French air controller strike should happen and cancel my flight, it was then. I wanted to stay a little longer in this wonderland, but my daze faded and I flew back to London (which was actually warmer than Sicily when I arrived). Interestingly enough, the plane back to London was packed with a group of older Brits who were on a tour of Sicily together; similar to the flight to the island, on the way back everyone seemed to know each other on board. I sat next to a very nice older couple and we talked the entire flight. It is always a great experience to pick a local Englander's brain.

This was probably my favorite trip I have taken so far. I did not expect to love a small Sicilian village after the great beauties Paris and Florence. But I did love my time there, and it was the best way I could have finished my brief tour of the continent.

Another April

In the morning I made my way to Gare du Nord to catch the Eurostar back to London. Every flight from Paris to Pisa was booked for the next week and I still had two flights to catch in Italy, so I figured it would be easiest to take a flight from London. Thanks to Ryanair, there were still cheap flights for the next day. So I had a rescue mission in place.

This should have brought me relief. But in the pummeling pitch of the Chunnel, I suddenly felt very alone. In retrospect, I should have recognized that I had solved a very difficult situation on my own, which is an occasion for celebration. But, I could not avoid the sense of complete isolation: not knowing anyone on the train, nobody knowing where I was or why I was heading back to London. Though I had everything in place for the rest of my trip, everything somehow felt very uncertain.

I neglect to mention that this was the day before my birthday. I think it might have been the prospect of traveling on my own even more than I had anticipated that was exhausting me. When I arrived at St. Pancras, I took on tunnel vision of a different kind-rather than feeling the darkness of isolation, I felt I could only go forward, back to my flat to calm down and prepare for the next day's trip.

The short interlude in London was actually wonderful-the gusts now graze over blossoms on every treetop, and the sky, as Caliban might say, has opened and shown riches. I spent the day lazing on my bed like a cat. It felt strange to have some time in my flat to reflect on the trip that technically was not yet over.

I did spend about eight hours of my birthday in transit, but I really could not complain about this-I was going to Italy. I arrived in Pisa just before sunset, and on the train to Florence I watched small villages rising over the vast Tuscan hills. I remember two images of the countryside I glimpsed from the train: an elderly couple picking grapes from their vineyard, and a group of Italian boys kicking a football around on a dusty field. To my eyes, these moments seemed too romantic to be real.

My friend Liv met me off the train; we have been great friends since high school, and I knew we would have a fun weekend. Since I lost one day of my trip to Florence I cherished my time there.

For the night of my birthday we had dinner at Osteria Santo Spirito, a ristorante tucked in Piazza Santo Spirito. We drank a bottle of Chianti and I ate a very rich and redolent truffle gnocchi. After dinner, Liv caught a picture of me in a distinctly European state:

We wandered through Oltrarno on the southern side of Fiume Arno, what seems to be the more authentically Italian and less touristy part of the city.

From there, we had drinks at Nof, a live music club. The bartender, who misheard us when we ordered, gave us glasses of a mysterious liquor that took effect in no time. The music was great, and after another round of lighter fluid or whatever it was we were drinking, we headed to Liv's flat on Via San Zanobi.

We began the next morning with cappuccinos and croissants at Nabuko, one of Liv's favorite spots for aperitivo, which we came back for that night. On our initial walk through the city, I dragged Liv into one of those floor-to-ceiling bookstores I am always longing to find.

Liv took me to the leather market from there, which we would come back to a few more times during my visit. Fresh leather has such a taste, it almost felt like I was drawn back there just to smell it again.

We walked to the Duomo, where we found an enormous ticket line, and then an even longer entry line. We decided against pursuing this quintessential Florentine experience; Liv told me the view was better from Piazzale Michelangelo, so we headed over there. On the way, we crossed the hectic Ponte Vecchio.

The view from the bridge

 On the other side of the river, we bought cheap meats and cheese and wine for a picnic. I think in total it cost about €5. An interruption: right now, at my desk in London my stomach is growling for that kind of cheap and delicious food; I actually dreamed about an endless aperitivo buffet last night.

Alongside the river are many collections of small houses and churches. This side of the river has a more local flair than the other side, as I mentioned before.

We climbed to Piazzale Michelangelo, which was probably my favorite spot in the city. In the sunshine, groups of friends were all eating lunch and gelato, drinking bottles of wine, appreciating the view.

If I lived in Florence I would aim to do this as often as possible. It was probably a better meal than any other I have had in Europe so far, just for its simplicity and deliciousness...and the view was pretty amazing.

From there, we continued climbing up to Abbazia di Santo Miniato al Monte, a quiet cemetery with another beautiful view. I know, I've visited a few cemeteries recently. I think it can be enlightening to observe not just how people live in the places I visit, but also how they die. Some of the headstones were simple, with names and dates carved into marble. Others had faces of the deceased on the headstone; Liv informed me this was as much an effort at eulogizing the dead as an opportunity to demonstrate wealth.

From the cemetery we could see a small hamlet on a hilltop not far away, just the kind of Italian village I imagine when I think of Tuscany: a few rooftops gathered around a modest church tower. I wanted to get closer, if not to the place itself. We wandered further, though could not find the town I had seen.

We crossed the road, which winded down the hillside back toward Florence. In London, I am used to crossing the road whenever I please. However, this habit is not compatible with most places. Hopping across the street, a Smartcar came rushing toward us, and we made it to the other side untarnished, though not without some momentary trauma.

Liv after the Smartcar incident

From this sidewalk, we found a wooded area just over the side of the tall stone wall beside Liv in the picture above. I wanted to jump over but Liv refused to assist me-understandably. So we kept on walking down until the wall ended and a small dirt path opened up. We followed it, against Liv's best intentions, through some underbrush and a few thorny thickets. It did not lead anywhere too pastoral or wild, but rather just down the hill to the main road. Still, it was a detour worth taking.

We had gelato back at the foot of Piazzale Michelangelo and headed off to the other side of the river for some more sightseeing. We walked with our gelato to the Basilica di Santa Croce, a beautiful Franciscan church decorated with many frescoes and grand monuments to great Italian thinkers and artists-Machiavelli, Galileo, Michelangelo, Da Vinci. We lingered for a while, then sat in the cloister.

By this late afternoon hour we wanted some caffeine so we sat at a small cafe across from Plazzo Pitti and drank espressos, observing the public square packed with locals and lively conversations.

In Forster's great Florentine novel, A Room with a View, he writes about such moments of observation:

"Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveler who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it."

The sky sank in a haze and, inevitably, I saw the kind of beauty I had hoped to find in Italy.

We browsed through the leather stalls again, and passed by a street artist who had just begun replicating a portrait when we had been there in the morning, so by this time he seemed close to finishing.

We ate aperitivo at Nabuko: an endless buffet of appetizers and a beverage for €7. We ate several pastas, salads made with fresh peppers and artichokes, hot pizza, and, of course, bread with meat (mortadella, salami, prosciutto, capicola, sopprasetta) and cheese (provolone, mozzarella). All day I had seen people drinking an orange cocktail at the trattorias we passed by. Liv told me about the Aperol Spritz, an Italian novelty I had heard of before. I ordered one with my aperitivo and enjoyed it. Not everyone seems to like them though, for their strong and bitter aftertaste.

The next day we had breakfast at a cafe across the way from Piazza San Marco, a church converted into a museum, which I had hoped to go into; however, I was leaving that afternoon and did not have enough time to go inside. If I had had another day I would have made it there-another time I will!

I had my eyes on a pair of leather shoes at a nearby shop we passed by the day before. We went there to try them on and negotiate. I bought them, knowing a pair of real leather shoes bought in Florence would be a great keepsake. 

We had lunch at Liv's favorite trattoria, Enoteca, splitting another bottle of wine and ordering a plate of antipasti. 

I have to say, I would be perfectly satisfied spending most of my days like this. Anything resembling this meal in London is probably twice as expensive as in Florence. 

It was later, in the airport that I began to reflect on my new age, twenty-one. April is always a nostalgic time of year for me, my old selves passing by in sequence as I grow older. It was pure coincidence that I found this poem by the American writer James Merrill when I returned to London a week later:

"Another April" (1971)

The panes flash, tremble with your ghostly passage

Through them, an x-ray sheerness billowing, and I have risen

But cannot speak, remembering only that one was meant

To rise and not to speak. Young storm, this house is yours.

Let our eye darken, your rain come, the candle reeling

Deep in what still reflects control itself and me.

Daybreak's great gray rust-veined irises humble and proud

Along your path will have laid their foreheads in the dust.

My ghostly passage across Europe continued as I boarded the plane to meet my good friend Kenny in Sicily. Flying over the Mediterranean at sunset was magnificent. Shades took shape in the sea as the night became darker, and another change in myself became clear: how suddenly the appearance of darkness seemed not so isolating as it had in the train, but now exciting and full of adventure on my way to Sicily. I shirked the stress of traveling in the knowledge that I have the best of friends here and everywhere, and that these months have been just as joyful as I could have wished them to be.