Vacation in Reverse

I returned recently from a month-long 'vacation'* in the States.  I think of it as a vacation in reverse because ordinarily in my experience, vacations don't involve going home. 

But 'home' is a problematic term, given where I currently live, which is home-for-now, or not-really-home. And my actual address in the United States is rented, so that's another confusion about 'home.'

Regardless of this, I have to say that this was not a vacation involving a lot of lolling about on beaches or getting spa treatments between stints of drinking cocktails festooned with tropical bling (and monkeys swinging out of them, for good measure) and meandering road trips with lots of pit stops and goofy shenanigans.

In fact, The Spouse would cringe at the thought of any of that stuff (except for maybe a goofy shenanigan or two, and one pit stop).  

And to be honest, I squeezed in a few professional shenanigans.

First, a conference with educational role-playing game designers.

*it's actually called 'home leave' in diplomatic circles, and it is required after you have been out of the country for a set period of time.  Home leave sounds nice, but it is an expensive proposition, since it IS required, but nothing (no lodging, meals or travel expenses) is paid for. And when you've rented out your home because you don't live in the country anymore, you do what you can to minimize what could otherwise amount to a hefty price tag in total...like staying with friends and family.

It took place at a university in south Florida, which happens to be pretty upfront about the alligator population in its immediate environment.

The 'do not feed' message is prevalent. This is a relatively new university. It has sustained no incidents with the, ahem, 'locals' so far.

I was grateful to playtesters of my freshly authored game about the Allied bombing of the Italian Monte Cassino abbey in 1944 (if you are curious to know more, send a message or leave a comment!). It went well. And by 'well,' I mean the playtesters rendered a lot of helpful feedback and ultimately said that it was 'playable.' This is the first and most important objective a game creator can have. I have work to do, still, but only for the sake of improvement.

17 professors of various fields gathered in the round, as Allied commanders, Monuments Men, Vatican clergy, monks, Italian citizens, and British and German ambassadors to try to solve the dilemma of penetrating the Nazis' Gustav Line without damaging a very important monastery.

Of course, I assisted in playtesting others' games, as well.  In one, I was Ludwig von Beethoven, repeatedly asking others to speak louder because I was deaf (and sporting an earhorn fashioned out of a rolled piece of paper), but nonetheless angling for my compositions to be played at the hottest salons in Vienna.

And yes, costuming can be a part of the experience, but I had no room for such garb in my suitcase, as I had to live out of it for a month. 

Plus, it was hot.

Everywhere I went in the United States.

Upon concluding the conference, I left the soupy air of Florida for the next destination, which had more soupy air. 

I flew home to the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia. 

This guy was my roommate. 

His name is Charlie.

Charlie is living large; he has his own recliner.

He's a handsome fellow.

A fellow who is old enough to know that you only explore the heights of home furnishings when the boss is at church. 

He is also curiously keen for head scratches for remarkably brief passages of time. Charlie's lap visits are 2-3 minutes long, and then he's Done. 

But I figured out the way to Charlie's heart....and enhanced nap regimen.  He loves to chase the mousey. So Charlie got a serious workout every day. He looks like he's snoozing, but he still has a tired eye on the mousey.

My reward for staging cat workouts? A surplus of garden-grown vegetables.

After spending a lot of time with Dad before (and a little time after) back surgery, The Spouse and I drove north. 

We stopped briefly at a place that neither of us - as state natives - had visited since childhood.

People who have not taken advantage of Park Service-run sites in their home states are MISSING OUT. This particular site may be a Virginia Treasure, but we could also all agree that Park Service employees are national treasures. Kind, professional and informative. Helpful. Genuinely interested in inviting and sustaining your interest. 

I'll spare you the recitation of facts and figures about this place, and simply provide it all in a photo.

A view from the back side (below).

Somewhere within the arch are George Washington's self-inscribed initials on the rock face.  I think I saw them, but they're about 200+ years old, so they're a bit faded.

We also walked a bit further to see a living history exhibit of a local Native American tribe that formerly inhabited the area.

Amidst all the current talk about immigrants and their 'rights' in this country, the irony of this part of our visit is not lost on me.

The Park Services attendant said, as she handed our tickets to us before we walked to Natural Bridge, that we would see 'real Native Americans' at the living history exhibit. We should talk to them, she urged us. Again, the intention was sincere. 

But because of this current national dialogue and seeing two women in what I presume was historical attire, busy tanning leather, it felt even more awkward to me. I harbor no judgment against the exhibition or the intent of it, and I see how this scenario enables people to garner some wages. 

But I could not help feeling as though we (almost all Caucasian visitors to the park) were treating indigenous people as if they were on exhibit at a zoo. Including photos of the site in this post is also ironic, I admit.

I later asked a Park Services employee if he knew anything about whether a reservation for this tribe existed.  I was first told that my question was a 'good one,' but ultimately, he did not know the answer. Now I realize I should have asked instead about a corporation. I wish that I had learned this information while I was there.  It would have decreased my own sense of awkwardness. 

The mountains that literally and figuratively framed the first two decades of my life sheltered more than just the Scotch-Irish immigrants who arrived in the 1600s and 1700s. 

We walked back to the car, and drove north to D.C.

We then took a train to New York.

The irony of staying in a hotel in the Bowery, near Little Italy, is also not lost on me.

This meant that we were also very close to Chinatown. 

I should mention that at every opportunity in this month-long sojourn, we sought out all the great culinary wonders of America.

This meant that we almost never visited a corporate restaurant.  We were unabashed about any uniquely American things we wanted, like bbq, pancakes or ice cream. And we tried to tick all the diversity boxes we could: Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Mexican...and Greek. 

Of course, New York is GREAT for such objectives.

The Spouse went for grilled octopus on a bun.

I went for calamari. 

We both went for a tray of traditional dips with pita bread: tzatziki, taramasalata, skordalia, tiroktaferi...and there is no picture, because we scarfed like two starving people.  SO GOOD.  Ditto for the dim sum in Chinatown, and the Thai food we had in Brooklyn.

But in the general case of American food, regardless of who or what culture made it, I must contribute my observation (which only reinforces what others have made): the portions are often ridiculous in scale. It is only after you have lived elsewhere for a significant period of time and therefore forgotten what American portions usually are that you can return and be frankly blown away by enough food for two or three people, easily. 

I should add that an Italian-American student I know recently spent a semester at Emory in Atlanta for her 'study abroad' experience.  Her take on American food? 

It's EXPENSIVE, she said.

Now, if someone cut portions in half, it could potentially be half the cost - to not just our wallets, but also our waistlines. 

So, to work off some of that food.....we prefer to travel by public transport, and while I'm grateful for air conditioned subway cars, the stations are like saunas in the summertime. I wish they would employ large fans, as they do at MARTA stations in Atlanta. The only diversion from the heat was the tile art in the stations we frequented.

Sights on the subway cars are always interesting, but I'll just provide this one, since the subject's face is completely covered. 

That's a mighty large floral arrangement to bring home (no really, those are green stalks between this person's knees). 

Because I've become very interested in book making, we went to the city's Center for Book Arts.

To more closely examine works in this exhibition - Poetry is Not a Luxury - I had to don white cotton gloves to handle beautiful books or discard my shoes so that I could sit in the chair and rest my feet on the 'rug' (which was made to look like a prayer rug, but was not woven) while perusing the book on the table nearby, which was about living as a minority in America. 

The Center for Book Arts also offers classes (no pix because of that aforementioned zoo problem) and leaves its studio spaces and library open for visitors to peruse. 

I was frankly itching to play with all of the letters.

And to take home some books.

When The Spouse ventured out to have drinks and dinner with college buddies, I stayed in, but picked up dinner at Noodlelove, and recognized a (Space) Invader piece as I crossed the street to get my order.  Do you see it?

And as I sat in my air conditioned room that evening...fireworks in the city! 

Why? No idea.

We also went to the Brooklyn Historical Society to see an exhibition on public health - the Spouse's area of interest. 

I was struck by this fancy antique - a condom box.

I was also surprised to learn that an early anti-vaxxer was a man named Charles Higgins...whose name still appears today on bottles of artists' colored inks. He invented what he called 'India' ink.  I have Higgins ink in my studio.

Most likely funded by his inky fortune, he also launched a vociferous campaign against compulsory vaccinations.

We visited an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, called 'Play it Loud.' It featured musical instruments belonging to various rock artists. We both found this fascinating, but The Spouse bought the exhibition catalog.

Some of these instruments were lovingly worn, and in this showcase, they no doubt inspired melancholy feelings for musicians who are no longer around to use them.

I never knew that Eddie van Halen called this thing 'Frankenstein,' but since I could finally see it up close and also read about what he did to make it name-worthy, I better understand the moniker.

Prince's 'workhorse' guitar. Watch him use one of them in this, which is considered a good display of his virtuosity.

I don't have to tell you whose keyboard this is, right?

This guitar, accompanied by a video of Keith Richards gazing at the design that he painted, and saying, 'oh it must have been something I was writing about at the time, as you can see a sun and a moon and...(long pause)....no, this is the result of acid.  I was definitely on acid when I did this.  It can be so very inspiring!'

I'm pretty sure that this was a Pete Townsend destruction, but to be fair about it, he's not the only artist to have destroyed an instrument on stage. 

Upon returning to D.C. for the last couple of days in the U.S., we visited the Natural History Museum for an exhibit on...public health, naturally.  The Spouse studied under one of the first champions of the One Health initiative, so it was great to see how it was explored in this highly interactive (and well attended) display. 

As the Spouse what he works with, career-wise, and this is essentially his answer (if you switch out 'virus' and switch in 'bacteria'):

Pretty creepy with the bat bodies suspended from the ceiling.

Previously, I said that I squeezed in some professional things on this trip.  The conference was the first. Here is the second:

Hiawatha and Minehaha at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

 I've become fascinated by the topic of 19th century American artists living and working as ex-pats in Rome, and the most fascinating artist of them all - to me - is Edmonia Lewis. I want to give her a separate blog entry later, but for the purpose of this present entry, I should say that in the interest of creating a game about her, I sought out her work in available collections during our travels.

The Indian Arrowmaker and his Daughter, Smithsonian American Museum of Art

Trapped Cupid, Smithsonian American Art Museum

A copy of Michelangelo's Moses, Smithsonian American Art Museum

Death of Cleopatra, Luce Center, Smithsonian American Art Museum

This life size work (all of the others featured here are considerably smaller) of the death of Cleopatra was Lewis' standout submission to the Philadelphia World Exposition of 1876.  For years it was lost to the art world, and since its junk shop discovery some time ago, its murky history has been pieced to together, including a stint as the marker for a burial spot of a famous racehorse named Cleopatra.

More about Lewis later!

We returned to Atlanta for a day so that we could then hop on a flight back to Rome. As we waited for our departing flight in the E terminal, I shot pictures of a display of artists' books. Wherever possible, I included the artist name, title, etc. I don't know if many people take advantage of seeing all the art that is in the Hartsfield International Airport, but I'm grateful for it.  It makes the very tiring experience of air travel better, and it keeps you from constantly staring at your phone. 

The following images of the work by this artist (Stansell) BLEW ME AWAY.

Our return 'home' to a shuttered, hot apartment was equal parts good and bad: good to be home and not live out of a suitcase anymore, bad to struggle to make the interior livable, temperature-wise. We violated our own rule of 'stay up through the first day in order to adjust to the time zone,' too: we took naps after arriving in the morning. We later stared into our empty fridge, braced ourselves for going out in the heat, and then did what we always seem to do when we return to Rome: we went out for pizza (and chilled house wine, which really makes sense in sweltering August, honestly).

We actually had pizza in Little Italy in New York, too, and while it was ok, it was not this pizza. Nothing will ever compare to the thin, crispy crust and fresh ingredients here. 

Now, to be absolutely fair, America offers some superlative cuisines, friends.  There are many foodie finds to be enjoyed without the need for a passport.  But this Roman pizza remains unparalleled, and it's not issued by just one joint in the city. It is pervasive.

We strolled home afterwards, and stopped for The View on 'our' bridge, contemplating how we felt about being back. 

IS it good to 'be home,' when home is as challenged (economically, politically, socially) as this place can be? Is home where your heart (or your stomach) is? Can we actually ever 'go home again,' as they say?

It is good to 'be home' for the sake of our daily rhythms, routines and creature comforts. But this involves shutting out the challenges that remain - or trying to, at least. So 'home' might mean 'that which is consistently good.'

But 'home' has also officially become a relative concept for me, as I find that my heart resonates equally with a range of places and their unique features: the productive fun I have with like-minded educators wherever that conference happens to be held, the pleasant interactions I have with smiling Atlantans, the gut-level feeling of warmth at the sight of the smooth, Blue Ridge mountains ringing a valley, the energy of a diverse and ever-evolving city like New York, and the love I have for my nation's capital and its generosity of access to art, history and science. I find that I am equally fond of the sound and the feel of Italian in my ears and on my tongue, and that I am struck by how much more I now understand when I hear it spoken to me. And without exception, an in-season, sun-ripened tomato from an American OR an Italian garden makes me happy (and the weak, anemic versions that saw little to no sun? You can keep them).

While in Virginia, I managed to see a friend from high school, another friend I've had since college, and my former 9th grade English teacher/public speaking coach.  We spoke mostly about our current lives and not our previous ones, but this was still pretty close to 'going home again.' Perhaps some people find this revelation unbelievable, but that's the special nature of my first home.

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And finally, my 'hail of bullets' - quick, retrospective observations that don't fit easily into an essay:

I am seriously lash-challenged: the trendy doll-eyelash phenomena on real people is surreal.

Ditto for long, pointy, blingy false nails - except that I can't help seeing them through the lens of my adolescence in the 80s, and therefore cringe. How do you text with those things on?

I suspect that I am also in the tattoo-deficient minority, but defiantly remain so, even if I do think seriously about it from time to time.

I am firmly convinced that American fast-food restaurants are engaged in an open competition to create the most disgusting, artery-clogging 'new thing' to market and sell to Americans who really do know better. And on that count, why mess with Oreos? Why is this thing blue? 

food is not supposed to be blue

People who think that New Yorkers aren't nice have not been to Washington DC's airports, where the staff are really not nice. Furthermore, New Yorkers ARE quite nice. 

I officially question the point of going on vacation in July and August. It's too hot to enjoy a city or a walk in the woods. I'm actually pretty good with propping up my feet in an air-conditioned living room at the advent of Italian vacation season, when the nationals have all left to go sit cheek-by-jowl at the beach. We can park in front of our building now. The traffic noise has diminished considerably. I know a couple of other city residents who feel the same way, but I have agreed to keep their identities secret, because it goes against everything quintessentially Italian to not like a hot August vacation.

And finally, can we have a moment of silence for my epidermis? 

One month in America, and my nails looked like this:

10 days back in Italy, and they are already breaking and peeling.

So it's a known and experienced fact: Roman water is, like so many other things that are Roman, brutal. It rapidly clogs drains and wrecks appliances with its over-abundance of calcium deposits, and it dries out everything else that it touches. The water pressure here is way better than most places in the States (which, by the way, largely sells plumbing fixtures that intentionally limit your water pressure), but wow, I question the trade-off.