Alla Fiera Dell'Est...

Hello world,

There's an Italian nursery rhyme I learned a few days after arriving. It goes something like this:

Alla fiera dell'est, per due soldi, un topolino mio padre comprò

Alla fiera dell'est, per due soldi, un topolino mio padre comprò

E venne il gatto, che si mangiò il topo, che al mercato mio padre comprò
E venne il gatto, che si mangiò il topo, che al mercato mio padre comprò
Alla fiera dell'est, per due soldi, un topolino mio padre comprò

Now that's just the first verse out of nine, and it translates as follows:

At the Eastern Faire, for two dollars, my father bought me a little mouse.

At the Eastern Faire, for two dollars, my father bought me a little mouse.

And then came a cat, that ate the mouse, that my father had bought me at the market.

And then came a cat, that ate the mouse, that my father had bought me at the market.

At the Eastern Faire, for two dollars, my father bought me a little mouse.

At first this didn't seem strange at all. It's a simple nursery rhyme that instructs children on the use of the remote past tense. However, upon further investigation I realized this important point: Who buys their child a mouse at a MARKET of all places? I understand it's the "Eastern Faire" market, but what market sells living animals to anyone who will put down a few bucks?

This greatly puzzled me, until my first Italian market experience that is.

Let me start off by saying: this place is a sensory overload. As in, this area needs to be avoided by any and all persons prone to epilepsy and/or color, smell, and texture induced seizures of any kind. Beware, this place can kill. I'm serious about this. Gird your loins.

Just take in these images I was able to capture, but only seen through the safety of my protective camera lens.

We have about thirty bazillion scarves in every color from depress-your-pants-off blue to claw-your-eyes-out yellow. UV-protective sunglasses are highly reccomended.

One can see a cornucopia of toys with every imaginable whistle, bell, and buzzer installed. Avoid this table at all costs if you enjoy the sweet song of the turtledove.

We also have the citrus-intensive selections of a fruit vendor. This may seem innocent enough, but try skinning one of these bad-boys and you can kiss your bleach-budget goodbye, they're just that juicy.

Because you never know when you need a wall-sticking soap dish and a colored rubber googly man... Lucky for you this merchant has conveniently placed both in the same bin! Or did he have something else in mind...

This is the D-Day of all mercatino booths. I actually had to duck under yellow ticker tape to snap a shot,

passed out, and was rushed to the emergency room to have my nose surgically replaced. Or at least my sense of smell was majorly assulted...

The infamous assorted underwear bin. Proving that traditions in Italy never die; they simply evolve. Much like the feeding of the Christians to the lions, except the Christians are mismatched undergarments and the lions are middle-aged women with slightly too much makeup on.

I am afraid, dear world, to post anymore. If you would like a slideshow of these and many more, please do not hesitate to click here.

All said and done, if you need anything from figs to iron lungs the mercatino is the place to be. Everything, that is, except for little white mice for two dollars... I didn't see any of those...

Until next time. A dopo!

The Delicate Art of Family Christmas

Dear world,

Ever since I was old enough to understand the insane profitability of Christmas I have been in love with every bauble, bell, and bow. Apart from my fascination with shiny objects, the pomp and circumstance which fills the air indubitably caters to my obsession with theatrics. That is why the prospect of a Christmas season in Italy filled me with dread.

For starters, Italy's commercialism barely rivals the knock-down drag-out war of American companies vying for the consumers attention. The lack of miniature trains weaving through miniature towns covered in miniature

blankets of snow in every shop window left my senses un-overstimulated. My heart didn't melt every two meters, due to the absence of obscenely cute animals with near-illegal looks of "pity me" in their eyes. There were no people dressed as Mr. Claus standing next to buckets of change, ringing a bell with a pitch that causes glass to shatter. There was nothing of the sort. Instead there were millions of twinkling christmas lights strung across every corso, via, and viale. The community ice-rink in Piazza Del Duomo was consistently full of laughing children. Shop owners laid out red carpets in front of their stores and sprinkled the surro

unding stones with silver glitter on an hourly schedule. It was all so... honest.

My heart skipped a beat when I heard the melodies of an accordion player, but I was to be let down only moments later: there was no propped-up sign saying "All I Want for Christmas Is Beer." I would casually cock my head to hear the whining plea of a child in front of a store window, getting my hopes up once again that there was a hint of real Christmas. But the mother had simply to say "not now, dear" and the child would quiet and continue to kick a ball of snow around the street.

Then came my mother and sister.

I finally got my real Christmas: full of mistakes, high prices, and last-minute rushing.

Underscored of course by love...

The trip to the airport could have been a bit smoother. The invisible trains arriving and departing Pavia station caused me to concede to impossibly priced ticket exchanges and my wallet had finally taken it's Christmas beating. Then came the metro shutdown. On the way to Milano Centrale an anonymous someone decided to take their afternoon stroll on the tracks of the Milan underground, apparently unaware that those same tracks are the preferre

d courses of fast moving trains. This resulted in my forcible ejection from a crowded tram, one stop before were I needed to be. I stood in the rain for half an hour waiting for my saint of a friend to swing by, collect my wet, ragged self, and transport me to the airport were I would meet my family at the gate, smiling and beaming my ass off in order to highlight my martyr status. Unfortunately, their experience was even MORE martyr-y than mine...

Having lost the bags with the Christmas presents and my mother's clothing, my mother had stood in a line with what could have been tens of thousands of disgruntled, baggage-less jet-setters while my sister slept soundly on a bench. Personally, I would have slapped my sister awake and had her wait in line while I went for coffee to ease my parental nerves. Such are the small joys of parenting.

I arrived to what can easily be considered mass chaos. My baggage-missing, english-speaking, dollar-toting mother and sister were standing outside the airport, luckily out of the pouring rain, as I ran up, prepared to spout my tale of traveling woe. I quickly surmised I was trumped, and we drove back to Pavia with the quintissential american determination to make THIS Christmas the BEST Christmas of all. We were in Italy for godsake.

Suffice to say that their week in Pavia was much like my week in Pavia, full of coffee breaks, tea breaks, pastry breaks, snack breaks, lunch breaks, dinner breaks, and naps. A simply brilliant schedule that I adhere to quite viciously. Our day-trip turned night-trip to Milano was relatively

typical: the Duomo, couture stores, and christmas decorations interspersed with light shopping.I was able to convince my sister to reject her plaid-centered theory of fashion for a moment which I took full advantage of, and which resulted in the purchase of an absolutely ADORABLE knit beret, which I (being the thoughtful older brother I am) paired majestically with my metallic midnight green scarf. I think the result suits her perfectly. I also think she does not wholly agree.

Christmas lunch went smoothly, for me. As the endless meal wore on, I could see my mother and sister's bites begin to shrink substantially in size. Oftentimes I found myself unable to explain a particular dish, resulting in hesitant nibbles from my sister and tentative tasting from my mother. Yet no one can deny the sheer amount of food was sufficiently Christmasy.

The highlight of the week, for me, was the introduction of my family to my landlady, who quite possibly is as old and regal as this house itself. We spoke of the cold, the snow, and boots. I have yet to decide whether or not we spoke of these things because they are interesting, or whether it was simply that I knew that boots is stivali. Either way, my translation skills proved themselves to be adequate to speak on such topics. My landlady donated a fur to the the "Keep The Houstons Warm" fund. And my mother looked quite the donna elegante around town. Not to mention she was warm as asphalt in August.

All said and done, Christmas felt like Christmas, complete with all the hang-ups, awkward discussions, and sibling squabbling I have come to love so dearly. And now, dear world, you are caught up on the major moments of this happy holiday and I can finally shut the door to the deep recesses of my memory where, quite frankly, I feel I would rather not go.

And We're Off...

Hello world,

I'd love to say that this blog was born of an absolutely, unequivocally inescapable desire to share my thoughts and views of our existence; that I have a profound and original point of view to share with all of human kind. So I will:

This blog was born of an absolutely, unequivocally inescapable desire to share my thoughts and views of our existence. I have a profound and original point of view to share with all of human kind.

And now for the truth? I'm broke, bored, and blogging is free. Not to mention it's cold enough to freeze your snot outside, and that effectively keeps me in where my giant heater silently and graciously bestows its gift of warmth. Belying its massive size, I think it could work a bit harder. Then again, maybe it's hibernating (like me) and I'm not one to judge the work of others, especially those that keep my hovel heated.

In the lazy days of muggy summer I would kill my staggering amounts of free time by discovering ancient piles of brick and marble with magnificent names such as "Castello Visconteo" or the even ancient-er "Basilica S. Pietro In Ciel D'Oro". I still find time to explore amazing buildings, but these have inviting names such as "Pizzeria Da Giulio", "Pizzeria Il Piccolo Arcobaleno", and the mysteriously unnamed "Irish Pub in Piazza Vittoria, See You In Ten Minutes, Can You Text Nora And Tell Her To Bring My Phone" . The Basilica may have frescoes of gold dating from the early 7th Century that will melt your heart and mind, but a Bailey's Coffee from the unnamed, yet aptly placed, pub is just the thing to melt the ice forming between your toes. Never underestimate the ruthlessness of Madre Natura, but know you have a weapon of your own, forged by the gods of Gilbeys of Ireland Ltd.

The bells have begun to ring their unnecessarily loud song, signaling god-knows-what to who-knows-who. They do, however, have a Pavlovian effect on me, signaling the need to begin my yoga positions in my halftub. Not out of choice do I take on these increasingly phenomenal feats of astounding balance, oh no. I accept the challenge presented me by my insanely small and awkward shower, and I leave you, so as to battle this unrelenting foe for the sake of cleansing. Take comfort in knowing, dear world, that if and when we meet again, I will be cleaner than I am right now.