Sidetracked in Italy

Several days ago, we crossed the Franco-Italian border near Bardonecchia, a small, picturesque Alpine town. The transition from the somewhat dumpy, industrial villages south of Chambery to this more stereotypical “mountain resort” was marked. For somewhere to appear more suave, more elegant than France, admittedly a relatively impoverished corner of France was impressive.

Imagine the confusion that stared me down as our train sped out of the Alps and past Turin. As the mountains became flowing plains, the quaint hilly towns became messy, sporadic smatterings of settlement spread over farmland. The dust settled as the train came to rest on the tracks outside Milano Centrale, the pronunciation of which I wouldn’t discover until the following day. My fears were affirmed. That “rustic” element emboldened in the holiday brochures was equally pronounced on the ground. If truth be told, that aforementioned layer of dust never quite settled over the streets of Milan.

My early impressions of the Lombardian capital originated chiefly from the city’s two soccer teams, Internazionale and AC Milan, both of which have long been amongst the elite of the footballing brethren. A city that has the ability to support two of the world’s most cultural, respected clubs must itself me pretty suave, stylish, or so I thought. Some areas of the station looked downright dilapidated, a slap in the face to graceful phalanx that housed the station proper. Likewise, the long, endless avenues stretching from Milano Centrale down towards the Duomo were filled mostly with 6-floor high, rectangular buildings. The connotation of style was lurking around. I just couldn’t find it, or least not until squirming past some Senegalese touts and onto to the piazza outside Duomo. A site to behold it was. The Duomo, Castello and surrounding area brought some style, austere though it was, to the otherwise drab financial capital, Milan. The dust clung to the facades but the Castello was particularly impressive. Indeed, it seems to be a case of perspective. In the scorching midday sun, many cities will seem tired and boring but life seemed to come to the streets at dusk. Not a natural tourist destination, this made sense. The people were out of the office and the dust invisible. Milan’s potential shone through.

The train ride the following morning was equally impressive. In complete contrast to most modern intercity trains, the aging carriage bound for Trieste brought back the sense of adventure from a slightly bygone era. Dust clung inside and out but the sense of nostalgia was mostly evoked by the compartmentalised layout. The route itself passed through many key cities such as Verona and Brescia after speeding past Lake Garda. Several hours later, we rolled over a long causeway, passing by a long stretch of water. I wasn’t sure where we were bound, but when we pulled to a stop, the sign read “Venezia,” so whilst one dose of confusion abated, another arrived. Why had we strayed from the path to Trieste? I guess it really was a stopping train. Anyhow, that’s another landmark city I’ve “been” to.

We were only 150 miles or so from our destination but the remainder of the journey felt an eternity. The train began to empty but as we passed through Monfalcone, several miles east of Trieste Airport, I began to find my niche in Italy. The startling coastline, the redbrick roofs, this was the Italy I thought of. No more dull Milanese urbanity, the vibrant port city of Trieste awaited. After 15 hours of rail-riding, our journey was coming to an end, or so I thought. The train station lay some 3km from our hotel, so we searched in exhausted desperation for the appropriate bus. Unfortunately a teenager lay keeled over in the first, but soon we found the line towards Via Dell’Istria. The only problem was that we couldn’t find the street sign. In the end, we passed around the city several times before a kind old lady showed us the way, not before some alarming exposure to Italian Goths, more hardcore but paradoxically upbeat in comparison to the British counterparts. Still, a sense of relief mingled with the cool air-conditioning of the hotel.

Later that night, we stumbled through a rain-swept street and into a local restaurant. The pizza was amazing, completely contrasting to the previous dinner. The gelato next door was equally impressive. Italian cuisine, particularly as grassroots level, deserves every ounce of its reputation. The meal brought with it a need to exercise so we attempted to get down to the dock, although that proved impossible. Still, the vibrance of Trieste was obvious. Our short jaunt through Italy was drawing to a close, but still I was confused. There didn’t seem to any rhyme or reason as to the dynamic of the cities I had visited or passed through over those 48 hours.

Un Jour Parisien

I must start this series of blogs with an apology. What follows will at times be a diatribe of blather, thanks to most of the memories being week-old by the time I actually got round to putting together the posts. Nonetheless, I hope there's something enjoyable about them.

***

For all of nine days, I had been building up to August 6^th, the day I would first experience the apparent wonder that is Paris. True, I had driven through a rough section of the urban fringe last summer on the way to Chartres but this time, the true Paris waited.

Another dream of mine has been to “do” Europe by train, so shortly after 9am, we pulled out of Meldreth train station bound for the line’s terminus at King’s Cross/ St. Pancras Intl. After arriving in North London, it was a short trek to the Eurostar Terminal within the newly-renovated St. Pancras. Check-in was a reassuring breeze, little more complicated than putting a ticket through a set of turnstiles. I was beginning to understand the allure of train travel versus the human abattoir that constitutes the low-cost sections of Luton and Stansted airports.

The “departures lounge” pleasingly didn’t offer the plethora of duty-free junk seen at most airports, merely offering a coffee shop, sandwich bar and news-agent. Likewise, the lounge itself refrained from becoming a human cattle-pen, instead providing well-spaced seating, the same of which would be true aboard the Eurostar itself. Indeed, as we whizzed to Paris, arriving Gare du Nord in barely two hours, I only had one complaint. The luggage racks couldn’t fit much of anything in them, a small price to pay for the convenience of international train travel.

Gare du Nord itself greeted us with a whole-hearted, hot and sweaty handshake and by the time we managed to weave through its sprawling mass to the D-Line, towards Gare de Lyon, our knees were beginning to quiver, not purely due to the prospects of the city beyond that awaited us. After a similarly exhausting discovery of the maze that is Gare De Lyon, we basked in sweat-stained relief. Our hotel beckoned.

An urgent “fresh-up” was required but soon we were on our way with no real aim or direction. Intending to sample the famous Velido scheme of Paris, we instead trundled through la Musee de Sculptures en Plein Air. Eventually we ended up, via an aqualemon rest stop at the Centre George Pompidou with no real idea of what lurked within. I had heard that the centre was an architectural masterpiece. Although a very unique structure, it would be difficult to describe the Pompidou as masterful; Zany, most definitely but definitely not stylish.

This perception is in contrast not only to the immediate area, which is brimming with buskers and bustling cafes but also to the galleries and exhibitions of the Pompidou. The two most striking galleries occupied the top two floors, which also commanded fantastic views over Paris. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and other legendary, traditionalist sights were staring us back in the eye, an ironic experience to say the least.

The 6^th floor exhibition contained the most contemporary of abstract, socialist-themed art. There seemed to be an emphasis on destiny for directions and guidance were nowhere to be seen. Highlights included a praying Hitler and a darkened room titled only as “Punishment.” My feet were shaking as a meandered back into the humid confines of the exterior escalator. Contemporary art can be awesome, immediately thought-provoking or dull, bland and cheap. The exhibition entirely fulfilled the former category but unfortunately parts of the gallery below our jelly-legs didn’t evoke that quivering wonder bestowed by its literal and metaphorical higher-ups. That isn’t quite fair – Miroslav Vichy’s exhibition was fascinating. To think that his photographs were produced entirely from homemade camera equipment shows the ingenuity and mastery Vichy possessed in regard to his discipline. Unfortunately those qualities were lacking from his gallery neighbors. Many canvases were merely splattered with paint. The awe of the more memorable exhibits could not, however, be damaged. My brain was raging right through until we arrived across the Seine in the Latin Quarter, in search of gelato. This was evident for we walked halfway to the Louvre, completely the wrong direction in other words.

Once we actually made it tour intended destination, the scents and sights of the Latin Quarter descended upon me. The smashing plates, the oozing crowds and the delicate food. I understood the hype. Still, tens of thousands of my fellow temporary Parisians also understood this concept for elbow room was hard to come by. After the gelato madness, we headed back to the Gare De Lyon, meandering along the vibrant banks of the Seine. I must admit to feeling bewildered upon arrival in Paris but by the conclusion of my 6 hours on the streets, I felt six months may have been a long enough period to begin to get a feel for the city.

Back on the Long and Winding Road

Just under a week ago, I was sitting, crammed into one of American Airlines' new-age economy seats at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. Rendered senseless by fatigue and frustration, I ridiculed the airline. Along with the entire airline industry, they can breathe a sigh of relief next week. Wednesday marks the day I leave for Croatia, but with a twist. Not once will I soar 38,000 feet up in the air. No, I'm taking the train to Hrvatska, via Paris, Milan and Trieste.
My only previous experience of long distance train travel came in China, where I endured "state-regulated heating," invasion of privacy and a snoring bunk-mate. Then again, I loved it, so if anything I'm wary of our Eurostar and TGV jaunt across France and Italy.
Then again, the luxury of no unexplained rolling halts in the middle of nowhere combined with guaranteed heating carry some merit in offsetting the lack of excitement. Whereas Chinese train travel is fun in a more earthy sense of the word. Due to the design of the carriages, people are forced to be more open and social, so the climate arises for interesting and for the most part enjoyable experiences. For the record, yes, I enjoyed that frozen night in Pingyao.
On the other hand, I can enjoy a smooth but somehow less fun journey in Europe. Everything runs at 200km/h+, so I will be able to sample that Germanic efficiency but at the same time, I hope that something interesting will happen.
Still, until I actually get on the Eurostar in North London, my suspicions will remain as such. Unfortunately as the clock winds down to departure, the notion that we're leaving after only arriving back 9 days ago sinks further in. That in itself is not bad, but the accompanying realization is that I have to PACK! (PANIC?)

Au Revoir/ Ciao/ Nabai

An Awkward Changing of the Guard

Markus Naslund, 12-year Canuck veteran, long-serving captain and record scorer jumped ship to the New York Rangers. An extremely durable player, Naslund never suffered a major injury but all the while his production had been in decline since 2004, when he tallied 104 points.
Naslund was 35 when he left the Canucks, so his production had been suffering since his 30th year. Some players, such as Chris Chelios or Joe Sakic manage to be elite-level players well past the 35-year mark, but it is hugely dependent on the style of game played. Naslund relies on his speed and agility whilst Chelios and Sakic are great thinkers of the game, whereas Naslund's playmaking ability, whilst nothing to be sneezed at, left something to be desired. Likewise, his leadership abilities have been called into question time and time again. It wasn't so much that Naslund was a bad influence, more that his manner was not commanding enough to stand out as a leadership force.
In steps Pavol Demitra, signed from the rival Minnesota Wild. Demitra is a more versatile, grittier, slightly younger replacement who likely will not be burdened with any official leadership responsibilities. As such, he has the playmaking ability Naslund lacked as well as a mindset that allows him to step away from finesse plays, whereas Demitra has no bones about winding up for a slapshot. Essentially, Demitra's style is much better suited to the Canucks, so to suggest that the Canucks only came out even in this loss of Naslund and acquisition of Demitra is purely a mathematical recognition. In Demitra, we have a player who wanted to play here and whose game should better stand the test of time.
From there on, people bemoan the fact that we let Brendan Morrison walk whilst only acquiring Steve Bernier as a top-six replacement. Morrison, whilst a durable two-way player had little else to offer. Indeed, he was something of a third wheel on the West Coast Express bicycle. It wasn't clear where he'd fit with the acquisition of another top-six centre such as Mats Sundin, so Morrison was allowed to sign in Anaheim. Moreover, Bernier is young, strong and right-handed, the holy grail linemate for the Sedin brothers.
Moreover, GM Mike Gillis has been saying that he'll leave some roster spots open to young guns such as Michael Grabner or Jannick Hansen. Both Morrison and Naslund were into their 30s, so neither fit the moneyball descriptors of talent, youth, speed, size and character that Gillis wants to build his team around. Admittedly Demitra is 33+ and Sundin, if he signs, would add 37 years to the age tally but both play timeless games and no-one doubts Sundin's leadership qualities. Furthermore, both would be on short-term contracts, more evidence to suggest that a youth movement is underway. As Barack Obama says, "Change we can believe in."

Not so fast!

Many "old-school" tennis players believe in the notion that it is the player that makes the racket, not vice-versa and whilst that it true, for a recreational player will never match the heady heights of Nadal & co thanks to a racket, the equipment is vital to the success of a tennis player, of any level.
First off, there are some basic fundamentals. The larger the headsize, the greater the sweetspot and thus the easier it is to hit an effective shot. However, large-faced rackets throw caution to the wind regarding control so more advanced players, with the exception of the Williams sisters, tend to go for something a little more conservative as they will have the ability to consistently strike with the centre of the racket.
Likewise, rackets with a thicker beam allow for more power on shorter swings but again put a compromise on control. Therefore, recreational/beginning players tend to go for thick-beamed, large-headed fare whilst players with developed strokes go in the opposite direction.
But there's more to it than that. Rec rackets tend to have more open string patterns to allow for more spin potential, whereas once more a denser pattern allows more control.
This all makes sense, but behind racket specs, a player must have confidence in his or her racket. This allows them to take proper swings, thus having a fluidity to their game. There's no such thing as a holy grail racket, but all the same, trust in one's racket can make or break a match.

I slept!

Seems like the title of my last post it out of date. In the 6.5hrs that have elapsed since then, I have spent around 5 snoozing, broken intermittently by sudden, neck-crunching pitching of the seat in front of myself. Can’t complain too much – this is what keeps me real. In any case, we blasted off from Chicago at about 1.30am local time, so our flight wasn’t overly disturbed, other the jolting of take-off and landing and raw excitement of our prolonged Iowan fuel dump (don’t tell the EPA!!!)
Anyhow, I woke up properly to the bright sunshine of the Irish south coast and from there on in, it was an uneventful flight, just like the breakfast. Nothing bad, but the coffee was lacking in taste and the croissant tasted as though it had been fashioned cookie-cutter style from a loaf of white bread.
Still, we managed to make it in to Heathrow with the minimum of fuss and the frequent smuggle-runs from my grandmother, snuggled up in business class, helped ease the pain of a seat that could barely get past 50 degrees. Speaking of which, it felt like 50 celsius when we disembarked and I could almost feel the humidity forming water droplets on the back of my throat. Sure enough, by the time we reached immigration a thin mist of sweat was forming where the sun don’t shine. However, we considered ourselves home and dry at last after reaching the fast track line (business comes in handy!) but the passport control officer had other plans.
Being Dutch, American and English, we’re used to breezing through security and don’t make a habit of preparing properly, so when we handed our US passports to the officer, the Big Guy in the Sky dumped a bucket of red tape over our heads. According to the officer, owner of a tortuously pitched voice, we had no proof of residency. As I should have known by now, when a man in a dead end job has an opportunity to cause some pain, he will. Thankfully after this perverse toying session and a warning, we were allowed to scurry over to baggage claim. After that, it was a prolonged walk to the car but as they say, all’s well that ends well.

Sleepless in Chicago

So here I sit, several meters above the midnight tarmac at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. No, I didn’t plan to be here. Indeed, I should probably be over northern Quebec or even Greenland right now, but neither American Airlines nor I can help it.
Personally, I blame the airline’s dire need to avoid the red, but according to the captain, it is the fault of the auxiliary power system. Apparently, we were “dispatched” with said part to test mid-flight, and if all went well, we would be to continue onwards and upwards over the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, the part failed, meaning that due to FAA redtape regulations, we can’t fly over water, which is pretty much a necessity when flying between the Americas and Europe.
Oh well, at least I get to add Chicago to my Facebook Cities list. Not much of a tonic for arriving home at least 2.5 hours later than planned, but it’s a start. Still, it seems that so far this year airline travel has not been kind to me. In seven flights, I’ve endured 4 mid-air medical emergencies (all on Finnair…), one missed flight and one forced landing. Things do not bode well for me and airplanes. But hey, let’s keep it in perspective. There is no gaping hole where the luggage bay was meant to be and I’m E27 richer. It just blows to be stuck on the ground, not allowed to leave the plane just to keep a struggling airline in the black.
As Palisades Tennis Center are aware, I’m committed to keeping my local businesses in operation, but if we’re calling American Airlines a local business, we may as well refer to Costco as a front yard vegetable stand. What’s more, I’m stuck in one of SeatGuru.com’s red seats for the second flight in a row. For the uninitiated, a red seat is one you should avoid at all costs. It’s not like I didn’t try. On the way over, I tried getting different seats, but my brother – bless his heart – was desperate to sit together, so we did. However, on this sector, we had the opportunity to share some quality bonding time once more, in Business Class, but the indifferent guy he is, those seats were quickly warmer the prosteriors of my Grandmother and her “Special Friend.”
Anyhow, end rant perhaps? The captain just came in over the PA and announced that the repairs had been completed and the paperwork was nearing completion, so with a smidgen of luck, we’ll pushback in 15 minutes and be on our way. So long as it doesn’t interfere with American Airline’s profit margin.

California Complications

Television programs such as The OC and Desperate Housewives portray my motherland as one of sunny sex, fashion and air-headedness. This implied notion is both California’s saviour and nightmare.
To the outsider, California is synonymous with Hollywood and beach-living, both facets which bring many visitors in search of this deceptive “reality.” True, Hollywood exists, but the associated lifestyle is unheard of. The beaches are there, and they are certainly frequented by the locals. Essentially, the producers of the aforementioned programs did what they are famous for doing, twisting the truth. From what I can tell, it hasn’t had the greatest result on the state-wide psyche.
Cast as a flip-flopping no-brainers, Californians must feel insulted. There is a reason that 7 Top-50 universities reside in the state. Indeed, at UCLA, Berkeley and UCSD, well over 75% students come from California. Moreover, I had never come across the supposed stereotypical Californian until last Christmas, and whilst I’m not exactly Mr Popular, I’m no wallflower either.
Point is, California is so much more than beach and sun, love and lust. There is a strong intellectual tradition and a rich Spanish culture, whose roots can be seen state-wide today. Indeed, California is also one of the US’s most diverse states – in Los Angeles alone, 47% of the population is Hispanic. There are also considerable quantities of East Asians, African-Americans and of course Whites.
All this combines to form a melting pot of peoples and cultures so rich that it would put Hollywood bank accounts to shame. But its about more than wealth, right?

Claremont Breakdown

Today our "by the wayside" college tour continued, after a brief stop at UC San Diego yesterday. To many, the Claremont Consortium reflects an unknown quantity. The colleges, with the exception of "reefer haven," Pitzer, the colleges are ranked highly by authorities such as US News. Still, they don't attract the same name recognition as their East Coast brethren, such as Williams and Amherst Colleges.
Anyway, the Claremont Colleges are located on the Northeastern fringe of LA County, in the town of Claremont (surprise, surprise,) nicknamed the "Town of Trees and PhDs." From the drive through the town to campus, it seemed like a well-serviced town with a pleasant, relaxing ambiance. As my grandmother put it, "a little bit of Midwest within easy reach of Hollywood." To summarize, this is a safe, comfortable town where it seems everyone knows someone, if not everyone. In a region known for its inherrent lack of community, this little town provides a pleasant respite.
The actual campus area is on the fringe of town, with the five undergraduate colleges, two grad schools and amalgamated buildings packed tightly together. Given this, the difference between the five colleges is amazing. Pomona College strikes a similar pose to Stanford - grand, Spanish architecture and tall trees and an unquestionable academic reputation. Claremont McKenna is essentially the same, just with 400 less students and a Republican slant. Scripps and Harvey Mudd Colleges did not apply to my interests so it would be unfair to make any assertions about them, but I can tell you than Pitzer was also very impressive. Once the proverbial plastic wrap wears away, the place will feel great. The architecture was much more blocky than its partners but that helped it feel less precious. Although the college seems to be somewhat lost in translation due to a cycle of redevelopment, the place should make a worthy safety college for any high school whiz. I only had two concerns - the prefab feel that will hopefully wear away, as well as the quality of faculty - why should the college rank so much lower than its partners? Given that most classes can be taken at other colleges, all this shouldn't be too much of a concern, and there were plenty of positives, especially the emphasis placed on the school's extensive Study Abroad Program.
However, it seemed like the school didn't take itself too seriously. I can't help but cringe when I see a professor in shorts and flip-flops, so I think I'll let Pitzer play second fiddle to Pomona. Still, I did figure out a lot during my 3 hours exploring the Claremont Colleges. My ideal school size lies between 5000 and 15000 students. Big enough for all the resources you could possibly need yet small enough so that professors --might--- know your name or so that you should get into your desired classes. Essentially, schools like JHU and Stanford have become a lot more attractive to me on this trip, as well as UC San Diego, although that will require further investigation given that I barely got out of the car in the La Jolla campus.
In any case, I can happily say that only one school was knocked firmly off the list by this trip, and that would be UC Santa Cruz. Just too quiet for a kid in search of the big time.

Actions, Not Words

In his quest to become the guiding light of the US, and maybe even the world, Al Gore has been Mother Nature's attorney in the fight with the Greenhouse effect. Like any good lawyer, Gore makes sure his tongue is quick on its proverbial feet, and when the audience was cast as judge, jury and executioner in Gore's now epic documentary, "An Inconvenient Truth," he proved just how slick he could be when given the numbers to back him up. All he did was lay the facts out there and let us lap them up. That was undeniably a very effective tactic in promoting global knowledge of the environmental crises we face. But guess what. The gospel is out. Now, I do not doubt Gore's brains - I don't know anyone who would, but his resolve seems a little shaky.
Granted, "An Inconvenient Truth" was a powerful piece of cinematography, but at the same time, hypocrisy was more rampant than the Plague was in the Middle Ages. Other than in the auditorium, a lot of scenes were shot in airplanes or cars. What kind of message does that send out? I know I'm being a cynic, but if Jesus was an Infidel, his words and actions would have carried a lot less clout. I congratulate Gore for drawing together a posse determined on negating the Greenhouse Effect, but now is the time for action, so we need a role model who can show us the next step. Preferably not one who accumulates more airmiles in a year than most will in a lifetime. Sure, integrity and charisma are different things but it would be nice if in Gore's case there was some correlation.
Still, I understand his messiah-like status. In the years following the release of “An Inconvenient Truth,” global understanding and appreciation of the problems that could wreak havoc on mankind has increased tenfold. The Toyota Prius is one of the hottest-selling cars there is, thanks in no small part to celebrity endorsements from stars such as Leonardo Di Caprio and NHL defenseman, Scott Niedermayer. Likewise, hydrogen cars are now a reality. Recycling schemes are sprouting up everywhere. Gore has got the message through. Now time for direct action and deliverance of the gospel.
Point is, Al Gore said during a recent C-SPAN press conference that 100% of America’s energy needs could be derived from solar installations. I wasn’t listening very closely, but I didn’t hear any supplementary, hard fact. That amount of solar paneling would set the Treasury back quite some distance, probably well into the billions and so whilst there is potential, there are other important considerations to be made. More over, why such reluctance to adopt nuclear power? No current power source is as efficient, so if we are in the dire straits illustrated by Gore, urgent action is required. What should we do? Go Nuclear. No greenhouse emissions is all we need to know. Sure, nuclear waste is hazardous, but it’s not like a little vitrification can’t sort things out.
Modern humanity relies on power to live and simply couldn’t go cold turkey. Pollution of some form is a given, and we can control things, but at the same time, its about time we stopped hypothesizing and actually did something about this "impending disaster".