David

After a week of constant conversation, cordiality, and hand shaking, I decided that the best way to wrap up a week in Italy would be to go to Florence and stare at Michelangelo's Statue of David.  I woke up early, bought a train ticket, and pressed my face against the window at the passing Apennine Mountains wrapped in fog.  The ride only took 58 minutes, and, camera in hand, I was ready to take on a new city.  Following the narrow cobblestone streets, I dodged groups of high-schoolers, dog shit, and Vespas, before coming upon the very average-looking Gallery of the Academy.  Surprised that this ordinary building could hold such an extraordinary naked man, I took my place in the winding line outside.  

"I think mint gelato is my favorite," said a tinny female voice behind me.

"What do you think would happen if you only ate gelato for, like, 2 days straight?" replied her tucked-in polo shirt-wearing companion.  

Though it's been almost four years since I studied abroad myself, I can remember exactly this type of conversation.  It was the kind that you were forced to have whether you liked the person next to you or not, waiting in line for an hour to see a monument that is mandatory on the lists of all Western European travelers.  I tried, to no avail, to tune out the potential lovers and opened my book.  

"Who do you think the most attractive male actor over 50 is?"

"George Clooney by far.  How old do you think he is?"

"Maybe 57."

"That pigeon's going to poop on you."  

"I hate birds."

"I have a bird."

"Oh."

"It got stuck inside my dog's mouth once."

"HAHAHAHA"

"It was really traumatic for her."

-long, awkward pause-

"I think Guinness is my favorite beer."

"I think it tastes like coffee."

"It's crazy to think we only have 40 days left."

"I know, it's gone by really fast."

"Crazy."

"Crazy."

Crazy was where I was well on my way to going as I listened to this endless, awkward conversation.  Finally, the line started to move towards the entrance and I grew excited at the thought that I was finally going to see this statue of so-called perfection.  When I approached the ticket booth, the woman asked for 7 Euro.  I told her I didn't have cash, and she told me to go around the corner to the ATM.  This ATM, and any other cash machine, apparently didn't exist in the Galleria neighborhood.  As I searched, I  wondered why it was so important for me to see this statue, how it would benefit me, and whether it was worth standing in another line with obnoxiously awkward American tourists spitting bits of ice cream at my neck as they exchanged exaggerated stories and cliches.  So I took a picture of the Statue of David postcards at a little stand outside the entrance and felt quite satisfied.

Throughout my wanderings and ramblings the rest of the day, I realized that the streets and piazzas of Florence are replete with outdoor statues of muscular, uncircumcised men with bulging scrotums, so I really felt like I hadn't missed out on anything. 

Notes From Italy

A few notes from my time at the Bologna Book Fair:

-A friendly old man greeted me as I dropped my backpack into my seat after boarding the long flight to Paris.  Like most people I know, I generally enjoy solitude during a flight - not so much chit-chat, and a little more movies, wine, and Ambien.  I could tell right away that this wasn't going to be that kind of flight.  I usually open my book as fast as I can in order to avoid any preliminary formalities, but this particular man, and his wife, didn't get the memo that headphones + book = I don't like airplane convos.  They proceeded to tell me about nothing in particular, their son, their home in Utah, their travels, their cat's age/weight/favorite toy... They asked where I'd been in the world and when I mentioned teaching in Thailand they were flabbergasted.  "Was it a calling you had from God to do that?"  I smiled and told them no, that it was basically just for the experience - to which they responded with facial expressions resembling those they might have given had I just told them I had no belly button.  That was when I pieced together the puzzle: Utah, friendliness, callings.  These people lived Under the Banner of Heaven, this man probably had 40 children, this woman probably competed for his love.  (Okay, so maybe they're not extremists... but you never know.) This couple was Mormon.  I politely ended the conversation after a while and clicked on the movie "The Duchess," a film in which Kira Knightly has intercourse a good portion of the time.  Not the holiest of movies but having it on definitely kept their mouths shut.  

-I've found that in different countries, people answer their cell phones with various words.  In Thailand, it is very formal: sawatdeeka or "greetings."  In Spain they say bueno or "good."  In America some people say their first and last name.  Others say hi, or hello, and some say yeah go.  Similar to this last one, in Italy, they simply say pronto which means "I'm ready."

-I think the most interesting part of the fair, besides my realization that there are hundreds upon hundreds of children's book publishers across the globe, was looking at the differences in women's fashion.  The line for the ladies' room was always ten women deep, and since nobody knew what language each other spoke, everyone was intent on looking one another up and down, silently taking note and making guesses as to where the others were from, and wondering where they could find yellow pumps like that.

-Most of my meetings were with international publishers who spoke perfect English, or at least understood it well enough to follow my schpiel.  There were a few, though, who came with translators by their side.  I went through our list of Fall 2009 titles, telling the story of each, and then patiently waited for the translators to recount what I said.  I found it interesting that with some languages it took quite a bit longer to retell my tales, and with some only a sentence or so would sum it up.  One meeting in particular made me wish I didn't speak Spanish.  I sat with a group of 4 women from Barcelona, each exotically beautiful and exquisitely made-up.  I began telling them about Dark Life - one of our newest, most sought-after titles at the moment - and they began speaking Spanish to one another as I was giving the synopsis.  I've never been good with interruption, so I simply stopped talking.  Four sets of beautiful, light-brown eyes looked up at me.  I continued, they jumped right back into conversation, and I stopped again.  This went on throughout Dark Life, Shiver, and Lips Touch - and because of how long this particular process went, those were the only titles I was able to present.  They may not have spoken so freely had they known that I understood them, especially when they commented at the end, "she must be new."

The Avett Brothers

www.theavettbrothers.com

Ready, set, go.

Karma

As I got on the train this evening, I was exhausted as usual.  Aching for a seat so I could read my book in peace without wobbling around in an awkward pole dance in the middle of the car, I opted for the empty "Reserved for Elderly or Disabled Persons" seat in the corner.  I do this generally when there are no elderly or disabled persons around, and plan to stand if either comes on board and is in need of a resting space.  So I sat down, opened my book, and immediately smelled human excrement.  I stood quickly, looked down at the shit-streaked blue seat and looked around at the strangers who were riding alongside me.  Nobody said a word.  That's how it is here in New York I guess.  I bet some of them knew that the fresh deposit had been made by someone either wearing thin pants and couldn't wait to go or a baby who sat bare-bottomed and wiped itself all over the slick, cold seat.  Nobody had told me it was there.  Appalled, I figured that it must have just been karma kicking me in the ass for not observing the Reserved sign, and made a mental note to have my jacket washed.  

A few people sat, or began to sit, on the same seat as I had... and I didn't say a thing.  

Brooklyn Flea

The moment we walked inside the Brooklyn Flea Market, the high ceilings strung with white lights and the cool, slippery floors held a smell that I recognized from long ago.  Somebody's basement.  Old, worn clothes and slow afternoons spent talking on a tattered plaid couch.  Pretending and playing hide and seek.  Making big plans and telling little secrets.  I haven't been there in 15 years but this warehouse took me back there immediately.  

I didn't bring any money- the government is taking it all out of my paycheck.  But I soon realized that I didn't need any money to enjoy myself, and samples were as plentiful as vintage boots so I indulged.  40-year-old cameras - stop signs - beaded lampshades - soap.  Rolling Stones records - winged sunglasses - postcards from the 1920's - and ART and ARTISTS everywhere.  Passions hung on jewelry trees and displayed on shelves.  These people make what they love and they love what they make in turn.  A man from Athens sold Greek yogurt - and Karin fell in love with him.  A woman rubbed lavender scrub on my hands and rinsed them with warm rose water.  An Australian woman with gold eyeshadow and her American husband (who may or may not have been gay) told us everything we needed to know about their wax soaps.  "We both use it to wash our hair every day, see?"  Their greasy hair blindingly shined in our faces.  A man obviously high on caffeine showed us his hand-held espresso contraption, gave us a free sample of coffee, and sent us over to his friend who sold chocolate - said they taste like heaven together.  They did.  The people wandering about wore faded shoes and smiles, linking fingers with their significant others, browsing for knick-knacks to clutter their apartments with.  Lavender on our hands and chocolate lingering on our tongues, we caught the F train home.

Goblin Fruit

I've begun reading books written for 4-year-olds.  And 10-year-olds.  And 0-year olds.  But this one, written for 17-year-olds, has had me for over 3 hours ever since I started it on the train ride home from work.  People say "don't bring work home with you" but this book, to be read for work, is worth as many evenings at home as it takes.

"Kizzy wanted to be a woman who would dive off the prow of a sailboat into the sea, who would fall back in a tangle of sheets, laughing, and who could dance a tango, lazily stroke a leopard with her bare foot, freeze an enemy's blood with her eyes, make promises she couldn't possibly keep, and then shift the world to keep them.  She wanted to write memoirs and autograph them at a tiny bookshop in Rome, with a line of admirers snaking down a pink-lit alley.  She wanted to make love on a balcony, ruin someone, trade in esoteric knowledge, watch strangers as coolly as a cat.  She wanted to be inscrutable, have a drink named after her, a love song written for her, and a handsome adventurer's small airplane, champagne-christened Kizzy, which would vanish one day in a windstorm in Arabia so that she would have to mount a rescue operation involving camels, and wear an indigo veil against the stinging sand, just like nomads."

-from Lips Touch Three Times by Laini Taylor

If I could ever write like that, I would die a satisfied old woman...