Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Hey....Moustache!!!


So, I ask you...would you trust this guy with your pyramids? Yeah, no I didn't think so, but it was worth a shot, after all...political office is not for everybody right? The fiscal year of 1973 (rough guess) might be a rough one should you not cast your ballots.

If this doesn't make sense to you then you're either a) normal or b) not my father or uncle. Both of these are acceptable excuses to such jabberwocky, but to explain:

On their trip to Egypt in whatever year (I guessed 1973, taking into consideration that ol' Kenny Billy would be approx. 24; the fashionable years for adventure) the story goes that while in Egypt Uncle Ian had a very similar moustache to Anwar as-Sadat (again, basing things on 1973 and egyptian nationalism) and the locals would shout "eh, Moustache!!" in conjunction with his facial hair similarity. Now, I don't plan on visiting Egypt in the near future, but this is my similar year of adventure (seeing as I also look like I just climbed Mt Kilimanjaro in 1956 with 14 sherpas)..without hesitation the Rollie Fingers Handlebar Moustache was dawned...and the people rejoiced. This particular shot is from the misty daybreak in Orvieto overlooking the town and a several hundred year old traversable well shaft...and again the people rejoiced.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

the Freize down in the South










We were seventy people cramped into two busses early in what was still a September morning. Heavy heads rocked along with the droning 5 speed convoy as we creeped along the roads that lead away from Rome and towards Cuma, Baia, Capri, Pompeii, Sperlonga, and our homebase, Paestum. We stayed in the same hotel as every class before us has ad infinitum and there was a mighty reputation to uphold for the University of Waterloo and although we definitely left with a reputation I'm not sure how well we upheld anything. Jazz piano in the lounge courtesy of Duncan 'Richard Manuel' Paterson until the wee hours and folk ramblings and dirty harmonies pouring out of the hotel piazza from the guts of the canadese may have sullied the otherwise stiff atmosphere of Casa del Mar. Fortunately there was still time for the collective group to venture down to the mediterranean for a bonfire of boxes, tree branches and driftwood. The guitars came, leaving the piano behind, and were the only things to not throw off their dress and run naked into the black of the night sea. It had been a full moon and from the shore specks of white danced in the waves, mirroring the stars doing the very same in the sky.

Paestum is home to the oldest, largest collection of Doric Temples, impressive in its duality just as Lethbridge, Alberta claims the longest, tallest wood truss bridge. Although the locomotive cuts through Alberta, Paestum sees very little in action, save for the drive and romanticism of our director, Eric Haldenby. In his youth he bought a bicycle and rode from Greece through the mountains and descended upon the valley in Paestum to find the valley of temples. For a young architect/archaelogical draftsman it was cause (after pleading with an innkeeper for board in his attic) to stay and to think while practicing his hand on the altars of Apollo and Venus. It was through this journey that he came to work on an excavation site and met his future wife who had sent word for an architect as she was tired of drawing all the material they were unearthing. Standing in front of the temples that he sketched 30 years previously he told us both of their history and his own. It was a wonderful story and a pleasure to learn of something other than Apollo or Venus and instead, Eric and Rosemary.

It was from here that we took daily to the bus or ferry to explore the neighbouring cities such as Pompeii, Capri and Sperlonga.

Pompeii left me a little ragged, spending the day walking through a city absolutely frozen in its daily activity some two thousand years ago. Casts of people cowering on the ground, or children in mothers arms are haunting as the buildings crumble around them. Architecturally and culturally it is an absolute paradise as it acts as an intensive learning tool. Practice and routine are preserved, evidence of the methodology which they built and designed with. It was wonderful; bittersweet knowing the consequence of having such a great register of life in the past.

The next morning, we woke early and caught the ferry to Capri. There has never been 60 more green faces than ours after the ferry finished its battle around the approach to the island. The waves were high and since we had been warned of this a handful of people took gravol and so there was only one person that threw up. I would have been hugging the porcelain right beside them had I not stuffed the pills in me before setting foot to the sea. Feet back on steady ground we climbed the 1000 some steps up to the bluffs that look back on our ferry ride. The city was fairly labyrinthian following the road up the hills. The steps cut a straight narrow path up to the top; the road bisecting it as it snaked along the same ascent. The old dirty walls give way to polished storefronts at the top of the path and the commercial Capri appears; the Capri of movie and rock stars. We ate a meager margharita pizza here and set off into the fabric of the town. Small streets were only vehicular accessible by strange golf-cart machines that deliver goods and people to their homes or shops, otherwise all travel was on foot. Along this path the homes slowly become more sparse as you climb around the landscape that looks out onto cruise ships, sailboats and small fishing dinghies that weave around the rocky crags the cut out from below the water. Finally, once entirely surrounded by florae and faunae we finally get our first glimpse of modern/fascist architecture. The stark buildings associated with this description fit snug into their landscape, their surroundings very much a part of their identity. This particular building (Villa Malaparte) by Italian Architect Libera hangs out over the rocks and sits low against the hills, cutting the sea breezes as its stepped approach looks out to the horizon.

We walked the rest of the way around the island before coming full circle again into the commercial peak. I slipped on my headphones and listened to the Velvet Undeground as I walked down the hillside by myself, reconvening in time to catch the ferry back to Paestum.

The last day we took the bus from Paestum and headed to Sperlonga on our way home for a day at the beach. After a temporary stop at a museum that commemorated a lengendary landing point by Odysseus in Homer's Odyssey we took to the sand for frisbee, soccer and swimming. Sperlonga itself is heavily influenced by the Arabic world and so the buildings that look down onto the beach are white washed and tall, fitting snug against one another on broken and stepping streets. Lines of drying laundry hung over head as we walked; staring up happiliy like children in their first carwash. The view out was a gradient of water and then beach, tree and hill and I sat on a stone ledge and drew the panorama with odysseus' grotto in the far distance, ending my journey in succession with his.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

La Notte Bianca


Rome's sun does not go down on the 17th of September. The city is awake past 6.00 in the morning as all doors are open to the public and all entrance fees are waived to promote a city-wide party that leaves the lamps of Rome without oil. I left to see the Palazzo Mettei, Casa S. Angelo, the Forum, the Pantheon, Capitoline Hill, Vittorio Emmanuello, the Trevi fountain and the Colisseum in a 8 hour tour of the city. It began raining the moment I stepped out of my flat and was still coming down at 5.30 when I slumped through the door. Rome benefits well from rain though, and it makes the city more mysterious and the buildings more ominous to see them drip with rain and shine under the spot lights. The city's artifacts are all lit as though they are ready to be photographed. Their light seems to come from nowhere and their mounts are hidden above the cornices of neighbouring buildings. Only the falling rain gives away their location as the drops are lit as they pass through. The oculus of the Pantheon allows the rain to pass through and onto the center of the floor, staging a circle of onlookers staring up into a black hole that is shouting out water. The area around Capitoline Hill is teeming with people, with music and with floods. People are split between those walking in the rain and those huddled under the sheltered ledges of buildings. Shane, Amanda and I are walking through the rain, spinning our newly purchased umbrellas and shifting through the thousands of people still hoping to see some of the city. We've since lost all the people we had with us, and have missed the ones we had intended to meet so the three of us are winding along the street singing softly in between the monuments. This was my first time seeing the colisseum and we stumbled through verses of 60s standards in three parts while we walked along its edge staring through the holes in its crumbled walls. Most of the sights that I have seen so far in Rome have been at night because it's the only time to avoid the tourists. As a result I've seen them empty and stark which is probably not the way they were intended to be, but their power is so much more inherent without tour groups that I could care less if I see them in sunlight. Notte Bianca seemed largely a national event rather than a tourist draw so although there were people everywhere it seemed more palettable and more like the way I would have imagined them to be in their time. Though it happens only once a year I saw more in 8 hours than perhaps I would have in 365 days of lazy tourism. Words will have to do until pictures can follow. much love, liam

Friday, September 09, 2005

Piazza del Popolo


At the entrance to Rome, you are struck with three choices in order to follow a procession into the city, the crux of which is marked by the Flaminian Obelisk, brought to Rome after the conquest of Egypt by the first Emperor Augustus. It marks the entrance to Rome and the significance of their militant exploits. It also happens to be where we began our bicycle ride down the curving stretch of the Tiber.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

The Pantheon


If ever you want to feel as though you are the smallest thing in the world, by all means stand in the portico of the Pantheon, cradle yourself in the concave of Hadrian's Basilica and stare at the massive transom and ancient beams that hold the stripped roof from falling the 40 ft. on your head. No surprise really, since the building is several hundred years old, stood the test of time and continues to convey the power and control of SPQR and their one-time stronghold on the eastern world. Its hard to feel significant in that presence. Chins up!!, much love, Liam.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Rome sweet home!

Seeing the coliseum, the remains of the aquaducts, the crumbling ruins and the cobbled streets that line the crux of the modern world has been a flurried intruduction to my home for the next 4 months. Life is beautiful here, if only at a glance, and although I'm overwhelmed by the whole of it, I'm mostly pleased to put my suitcase down. The travelling bug has taken a lot out of me, but I have no regrets, as it has been an indespensible journey. I promise to share the photographs of the things I have seen soon enough, and maybe some of my words will take true dimensions. Our apartment looks out over the streets that wind into the Santa Maria Piazza and music, performance and people cover its open space. It may be a loud sleep a couple of nights a week, but my bed looks out above the city and the cross breeze brings it just above where I lay my head. Sleep is going to feel so good in a steady place, with unpacked bags, showers and sheets, and a mailing address. I hope to hear from you all soon. Much love, liam.

Friday, September 02, 2005

Ole Ole...Ole Ole...La Tomatina, Non non!


Well, as I´m cleaning the remaining tomato out of every oriface, I have to recommend Bunol and Spain´s Tomatina Festival. If ever you could picture being violated by a vegetable this is it. At 11.00am a cannon sounds in the streets of Bunol to signify to the 30 000 people stretched along a 5m wide street that the tomatoes may begin, and the trucks are coming. Shoulder to shoulder the people are packed along the main drag, and however impossible it may seem, dump trucks of tomatoes push their way through, sending you pressed against the walls as the drivers and riders fling ripe, old, soggy tomatoes at your face, head, body and spirit. Never before have I willingly subjected myself to such torturous appeal, buy oh mama, it was glorious. The six of us Canadians stood hard and strong, arms locked in a circle of tripled gravity, resisting both Dump truck and drunk spanyard in one circular stronghold as tomato water passed by us in a torrent above our shins. We lost shirts, shoes and socks, but kept our bodies in tact, albeit covered in sauce and stem. When the second cannon fires at noon, the bodies flow out of the narrow street and down to the river bed where a PVC pipe has had holes drilled in it to serve as a makeshift shower. Lines of tomato soaked people played in the streams of filthy bath water, as still more came down the hills from the finished festival. Clean as best we could, we walked back up the hill and caught the bus back to Valencia for the night and the next day home to Benitachell to a warm meal and new clothes...and of course, we ate tomatoes for dinner. How could we not? We were owed the revenge. much love, Liam.