We're Not in Kansas Anymore...

This morning I went to the Vatican library with Marilyn to acquire my reader card.  "Byzantine" is the way everyone had described the process, and they weren't far off.  I realized, first of all, that I've never really been "inside" Vatican City.  I've been inside the museum, which is technically inside the city, but I've never just walked  around the streets of the city proper.  To do that, you pass through the gates and their Swiss guards, and hand over your passport or carta d'identita' at the checkpoint.  You've literally entered another sovereign nation at this point.  They will hold onto your document until you exit.

The modern-day library is a three-story wing that bisects the huge Belvedere courtyard, designed by Bramante to connect the papal palace with the Belvedere palace.  Looking up at our surroundings was the first time I really had the sensation of "holy crap, I'm doing this..."  We go and present our badges (mine is still a visitor's badge) to be scanned by the guard.  Then we knock at the Secretariat, so that I can be interviewed and my documents reviewed, before I'm permitted to fill out an application and get a card.  I brought some truly awful photo-booth photos with me, which the guy openly laughed at (I look like a confused raccoon); they took their own digital photo, which he pronounced as much better.  Since I'm a doctoral student, they gave me twenty entrances to start with, which I can renew if needed.

Next stop: drop off all your belongings.  Swipe the tessera (card) in the locker room, and a locker pops open for you automatically.  Then back out to the lobby: swipe to go up the stairs.   Reach the main reading room, where you scan your card again, and sign your name next to your locker number.  Once you've found your desk, you go back and write your desk number next to your name.  And that's just to get in.  You repeat the whole process in reverse when you want to leave--and if you haven't been scanned-out upstairs, the automatic gate downstairs won't let you leave.  This is some Fort-Knox-level shit right here.  This explains why people who are using the Vatican apparently often work right through lunch--it's a pain even to go out and use the little cafe in the courtyard.

I also enjoy this gem, from the Rules for Readers:

Readers must wear attire appropriate to the dignity of an ancient institution of culture and study

Lost Week

This morning, like the last several mornings, I've woken up and thought blearily, "I should really drink less."  Flash forward twelve hours, people are handing me prosecco or a waiter is ready to pour some red wine, and, well, that resolution goes right out the window.  Everyone here is feeling it, except I suppose people who were already heavy drinkers, or the two second-year fellows, who assured us that "you totally get used to it!" Even aside from regular dinners, there are so many events.  Example: Tuesday night Amy decided to throw herself a 59th birthday party, with 30 bottles of prosecco and a dozen bottles of wine.  There were no leftovers.  Last night there was an art opening here--more wine and prosecco! I think I've lost my taste for prosecco entirely after being here a month.  But I still love wine.

So not that much has really been accomplished this week.  On Sunday we had a guided tour of my favorite spot in Rome, the non-Catholic cemetery, since one of AAR's advisors also sits on their advisory commitee.  Afterward I walked to the Baths of Caracalla, which I've never visited.  Walking there took a lot more out of me than I was expecting, since I was still getting over whatever ailment I had from last week.  Only the hulking skeleton of the structure stands today, with a few fragments of mosaic pavements on display here and there, but its scale is so incredible!  Coming to Rome is a good way to feel small.

Yesterday Claire and I went to Palazzo Farnese for our tour appointment.  This is the palace of Pope Paul III, under construction when Titian was in Rome.  It was cool to go inside, but it's the French embassy, so no pictures, no moving away from the tour, and, worst of all, the Carracci gallery?  Closed for restoration until June 2015!  Bah and humbug.

Afterward, we went to a fabric store, where we fondled Versace and Dolce & Gabbana silk fabric. There were a couple of really beautiful ones, including a print of Greek ruins from Sicily overlaid with brightly flowering tree branches.  We were there because  I had mentioned buying some fabric to decorate my office.  Now, Claire clearly comes from money, and she has a lovely, '50s-inflected wardrobe, much of which has been custom-made. Thus, she thought nothing strange about these fabrics costing 75 euro per yard (a dress would probably require 3 yards, and the dress-making easily another 200 euro!)  I raised my eyebrows at that, and she shrugged and said that she never puts a budget on her wardrobe.  Mmmm.  We are from verrrrry different worlds.  Thrift store, anyone?

Post-Birthday

Well, one of my birthday presents was a cough and a sore throat, so today is a non-real-clothes-wearing day.  I'm wearing yoga pants and a tank top, but I suppose I'll add a scarf for our last Italian class (Italians have a deathly fear of catching cold via the neck area).

This has been another action-packed week.  Monday I went with about eight other fellows to Villa Medici, seat of one of the two French academies in the city.  This is a 16th-century villa with absolutely incredible visual command over the city; just sitting in the lecture room, I was looking out a window straight toward St. Peter's.  We may be higher in topographic terms, but their placement is enviable.

The morning session was effectively three hours of the heads of all of the foreign academies in Rome exchanging hot air on how to unite their institutions more closely (maybe we should have a cultural week? but who will pay?  what about a website?  but who will design it?  etc, etc).  It was boring in terms of content but great in terms of practicing comprehension, since the language of the day was Italian and not French.  In fact, the French had gone to the great effort of providing simultaneous translation headsets, but, as I discovered when I tried to use it for the couple of folks who spoke only French, the English translation sucked.  This explains why the number of AAR fellows still present had been whittled down to me and Denise by the time the session was over!

Unfortunately, it was really their loss, since it was lunch and the afternoon sessions that really gave us the chance to get to know people from the other academies.  Well, really I met people from the French academy and the Dutch academy, as well as very briefly some guys from the German academy.  It was interesting to learn how different the structure is at each institution.  For example, the fellows at Villa Medici don't eat meals together, except for the monthly dinner with their director; Villa Medici also hosts mostly artists and writers, along with the lone art historian, Francesca, while other scholars go to the Ecole Francaise down in the center of the city.  You only need to be francophone to win a fellowship, too, as I learned when Josephine ran up to us, excited to meet other Americans!  It turned out that she teaches at Yale and also knows one of our artists, Amy, who was her old teacher. (On Tuesday night, Josephine came to dinner at AAR, along with an all-too-friendly former fellow from the French academy, an Israeli photographer named Assaf.  He was really not at all subtle about hitting on me, to the great amusement of Amy in particular; it was less amusing when she told me the next day that she's pretty sure he has a wife and kid in France.  Gross).

During the afternoon breakout, the art historians met with Claudio Strinati, who also happens to be one of the AAR advisors.  I knew he was old, and I was expecting someone grave and unsmiling, but he turned out to be charming and self-deprecating, and we had a good time with him.  Then Francesca and Eleonora, two of the French fellows, walked us out to Ferdinand de Medici's studio out on the grounds, which was frescoed with an incredible panoply of birds and other creatures.

Yesterday morning was our trip to the Foro Italico, once called Foro Mussolini, the Fascist sports complex in northern Rome.  Fascists, like Nazis, were obsessed with physical vitality among their youth, and this was designed to be a training center no less in ideology than in sports. We saw some huge mural paintings of truly bad quality in the upper meeting room, and visited Mussolini's private gym.  Outside we checked out the Stadio ai Marmi, still in use as a running track (with a couple of Italians randomly flinging a baseball back and forth in the center).  In the adjacent piazza there are mosaics with Fascist slogans (molti nemici, molto onore) and, repeated over and over, "DUCE A NOI": Il Duce, to us!  A nearby slab contained the text of a proclamation of the beginning of the Italian empire, after the African conquests in 1937.  At the end of the piazza, an obelisk with MUSSOLINI DUX and the fasces.  What made all this so incredible is not only that it's all still here, but that it's all right in front of the soccer stadium built for the 1960 Olympic.  Thousands of people walk by that obelisk and over these mosaics every weekend to cheer on Lazio and AC Roma.  It's an incredible testament to the ways in which Italy has simply chosen to ignore its Fascist past, rather than deal with it.

Anniversary

Today is the 8th anniversary of my mom's death.  Could I have imagined, then, where I would be and what I would be doing now?  I miss her.

Some Temples and a Wedding

On Friday, we visited the two closed temples on the Forum Boarium, which I first saw when I was in Rome for a month in 2009.  (Denise, as an arch historian, was scandalized that my Roman art class didn't include them).  They've never been open to the public in recent memory; even the Academy people have never been able to get in before.  Somehow this year the stars aligned (we suspect they may be getting closer to opening them to the public and this is why we were permitted) and people were on hand to open the gates both at the round temple of Hercules and the temple of Portunus.  Both are totally empty, of course, but retain some fragments of fresco that attest to the reason for their survival--conversion into Christian churches.  Mussolini, of course, tried to erase all that intervening history to go back to the pure Roman days, but some bits and pieces survived, here and there.  It's great to see these things not only with architectural historians, but conservators, too; for example, I learned that the horrible condition of the travertine on the Theater of Marcellus is not just due to time, but to a chemical agent used for cleaning in the 70s that turned out to be corrosive!

After lunch in the Jewish Ghetto with Paul, Steve, and his wife Sue (he has a Fulbright to study honor killings in Southern Italy up through the Fascist period, which is very interesting), I wandered around the Campus Martius for a while.  I found a couple of cloth shops, and am contemplating buying a few meters of fabric to drape in swags around my office, just to break up the unrelenting white walls.  I stopped into the big Feltrinelli book store, and was amazed, as I always am, at how much more interested Italians seem to be in philosophy, classical literature, etc, that these genres get prominent forward space in the store, not a forgotten shelf in the back like in Barnes and Noble!

Carla and I met up for the Warhol show, which was all objects taken from the collection one guy, Peter Brant, who was a friend of Warhol's.  Lots of interesting stuff, including an extensive collection of his Polaroid portraits of friends and famous people, from Farrah Fawcett to Arnold.   I really enjoyed Vote McGovern, as well as the series he charmingly titled "piss paintings", which constitute his only true abstract work.  Warhol, and later his assistants and hangers-on, urinated on canvases covered in a copper paint, causing blooms of oxidation to appear on the surface.  They were surprisingly lovely; unlike Carla I wasn't really put off by the method of their creation.  It was also interesting to spend some time actually looking at the pop art icons: images of Campbell's soup, the dollar sign, the Coke bottle, or the screenprinted celebrities.  It really does work (even if he claimed there was no point to his work), in terms of making you focus on an object that otherwise is simply part of the mass-produced background of life.  Or, as the audioguide put it, he elevated these objects to the status of icon.  I still think Pop Art is a movement that especially requires contextualization, though; the heady economic boom of the 1960s, with consumerism on a seemingly upstoppable roll, but before we had adopted the kind of conscious awareness of its artificiality that many people have now.

The other highlight of the week was attending Carla's boss' wedding last night.  The ceremony took place in one of the churches on Trajan's forum, which was very small and very Baroque.  Tourists had no issue coming in and out during the ceremony--several even took communion when it was offered.  I'll admit, I found that sort of unsettling.  The priest was very weird, and made comments about gays, and how only marriage can make you a "real" man or woman, how family means something different than what it does in the US (the bride was American, and her family didn't speak Italian, though he kept addressing comments to them).  Even the Gospel reading was about prostitutes!  Odd, indeed.  Afterward, we threw actual rice at them on the steps, and then were forced to walk all the way across Piazza Venezia, on the cobblestones and then up the stairs to the Campidoglio (even though there is supposedly an elevator somewhere) in heels (and the strap to my right heel, as I had discovered, was on its last leg.  Those shoes have done good service, though; I bought them for Anna's wedding and have worn then to almost every other wedding since!)

The reception was on Terrazza Caffarelli, overlooking the city toward St. Peter's.  It was incredibly lovely.  The reception had an incredible amount of food (I thought) but Carla assured me this was definitely restrained for an Italian wedding reception.  The wedding favors were the black glass goblets with which we toasted, and I took Carla's so that there would be a matched set here for us to drink prosecco out of.  We were both exhausted after the toast, so we left; faced with that sloping incline down to the street, I said "fuck it" and pranced down in bare feet!  Together with the glasses, I probably looked like a drunkard.  My feet were black when I got home, but it was worth it not to be terrified that I was going to fall down a hill!

Un Bel Giro

I spent Sunday morning and early afternoon wandering the historic center.  My first port of call was Sant'Ivo, since I had run into Amy waiting for a cab on the steps and she mentioned she was going; it's only open on Sundays, so when I saw its conspicuous flame-like spire hovering above the rooftops ahead, I had to stop in.  What a beautiful, dynamic space, inside and out.

Close by is Palazzo Altemps, which has a collection of ancient sculpture that belonged to a single family.  On each label there's a sketch of the sculpture, with dark color on those parts which were restored or added in the 17th century.  It's really fascinating to see the way fragmentary statues were "completed", often at the total fantasy of the collector.  One awesome piece I noticed this time: a rare, "true" copy of Phidias' Athena from the Parthenon, signed on the peplos by the sculptor himself (also super rare).

They also had a wonderful temporary exhibition on the collection of a man named Evan Gorga, who basically bankrupted himself buying thousands upon thousands of antique objects, many of which were popping up in the late 19th century as Rome tried to modernize, digging new roads, building bridges, etc. (and the accompanying video to the exhibition featured incredible photographs of what Rome looked like in the 1880s...very different from today!)  His collecting mania went well beyond the usual relief sculpture, coins, and painted vases, though--there were Roman dolls, miniature votives of body parts, tons of gorgeous glass, small low-quality bronze figurines of gods and goddesses...just reams of stuff, all organized simply by type of object.  He had many pieces of detached, frescoed wall surface from various emperors' homes, including some 4th style fragments that combined three-dimensional stucco work with the paint surface.  There were also some fakes, which were noted on the wall labels, that apparently fooled him at the time.

What's really random?  Before becoming an antiquarian, Gorga originated the role of Rodolfo in La Boheme in 1896!

Sunday Night

Reason #645657 why this place is amazing: you play Cards Against Humanity on a Sunday evening, in a group that comprises three graphic designers, two classicists, one journalist, one architectural historian, one artist, and one writer, and the shit they come up is more vulgar than anything you've ever heard before.  Also, the game takes places in a gigantic salone in front of the fireplace, and the marble tabletop is littered with open bottles of wine and prosecco.  Yes.

Piazza Augusto Imperatore

We've had two "walks and talks" this week.  The first, on Thursday afternoon, was a tour of some contemporary art galleries in the city.  Some of the art I found interesting; other pieces much less so.  I've realized that I tend to like work that displays evidence of the process behind it, the marks of how it was made--carving, brushstrokes, etc. The final gallery we visited, which had just opened two days earlier, offered us prosecco on their rooftop terrace, which abuts the Orto Botanico, one of my favorite places in all of Rome.  There was also an awesome statue of Batman adorning one edge of the terrace, all in white, rising out of a slender column formed by the cloak wrapped around himself.  His head was bowed.  It was a wonderful contrast to the gardens behind him, and also such a wonderful high-low contrast to discover in a contemporary gallery.  I think I frightened Peter, the arts director at AAR, with my enthusiasm.

Yesterday's walk started at 9am, and focused entirely on the structures in Piazza Augusto Imperatore, which is a completely failed piazza since there is no central open space; rather, there's the gated-off hulk of the remains of Augustus' mausoleum blocking the center.  We started with the Fascist-era "rationalist" architecture that encloses two sides of the piazza, where we got a chance to see some paintings virtually no one ever sees, which was awesome! First there were a set of middling-quality frescoes by an artist named Giulio Rosso, in a little entrance-way on the side of one of the buildings.  Only a gate divides this alcove from the street, but Lindsay, our humanities director, noted that virtually no one ever even realizes they're there.  The frescoes recorded some moments in the life of this area, which was once the Roman port of Ripetta.

Inside the building was another group of four frescoes, which Adam perfectly described as "Fascist WPA" works.  These commemorated the history of the mausoleum, from its origins in antiquitiy, through successive incarnations as sculpture garden, bullfighting arena, and at the turn of the 20th century, Rome's opera house.  Mussolini, of course, stripped away all those accretions to reveal the remains of the burial site of the emperor with which he hoped to connect his own reign, but Lindsay pointed out that it's unusual there was still an effort to record those past moments, which would otherwise have been completely obliterated.

Our last stop was the Ara Pacis, housed in Richard Meier's controversial shell.  We were actually in Rome the day the building opened, in 2006; I remember that we took one look at the length of the line and said "screw that!" But I've loved the interior, and the way it bathes the altar with light, ever since I first went in.  What was interesting to me, experiencing it this time with this very heterogenous group, was the way in which my understanding of the detractors to the building changed. The building makes no attempt, consciously, to make any sort of connection with the buildings around it on the piazza; it is stridently modern, white, and Corbusier-like.  From the inside, it's definitely a wonderful stage for the main attraction, but outside, it turns its back on its surroundings and funtions like a wall that squeezes the piazza away from the river.  As one of the graphic designers said, the worst insult you can give to an architect is "I like your building...from the inside" and here it seems to really apply.

So this showed me that participating in these kinds of group conversations can be really fruitful, even if it's focused on something I'm already quite familiar with.  We also learned, from Anna, who is a sculpture conservator at the Met, that ancient sculptors frequently made mistakes; they would then gouge out the error and fit an "in-kind" patch in its place, fixing it with plaster or an iron pin.  If we look closely at ancient sculpture, she said, you'll start to see this little fixes everywhere.  Not even the great classical sculptors were immune to a slip of the chisel!

Augustus, 2000 Years Later

Last night a small group of us took a cab down to the Forum after dinner to check out a laser-light spettacolo that restores the Forum of Augustus to what it looked like during the emperor's lifetime (this is the 2000th anniversary of his death).  Unfortunately, when we got there all the tickets for the 10pm and 11pm shows were sold out, but we decided to stick around, off to one side, and just watch, without the headsets that added the music and narration.  That turned out to be the perfect choice, because our "multivocal" narration of what we were seeing (I know a fair bit about ancient architecture, and Denise teaches architectural history)  was probably more interesting, and definitely funnier, than whatever enshrined narrative was being intoned in the ears of the paying visitors.  And we saved 15 euro apiece!

The light show itself was truly spectacular.  Honestly, I'd never known exactly where Augustus' forum was; it's next to Trajan's in the "Imperial Forum" to one side of Via dei Fori Imperiali, the Mussolini-constructed avenue that bisects the archaeological site, and not on the other side, the "Roman Forum".  Centered around the temple of Mars Ultor, it featured an atrium with porticos and two large apses, each of which contained a ring of sculptures (the niches for these, and some of the columns, survive).  The show reminded you of the vast amount of color that existed then, not only in the statues, but in the marbled floor and the painted walls.  As I had hoped, they also showed the gradual decay and ruin of the buildings during the Middle Ages, with sheep grazing in what was then "Campo Vaccino", and earth burying the apses halfway up.  As it is, to stand at the level of the modern road, you look down at least 20 feet into the earth to see the ancient Roman ground level.

We finished the night wandering toward the Pantheon for gelato, which I didn't partake in (I have no problem turning down gelato, but somehow I can't resist a potato chip...) and then walked back across the Tiber and up the hill.  Our last stop was a peek into the courtyard of San Pietro in Montorio so two of our group could get their first glimpse of the Tempietto. I was back in my room and ready for bed by 12:30 (or 00:30, as it reads on clocks here).  A long day, and a good one!

Tonight will be another long one; we have the opening reception at 6:30, and a late dinner at 8:15.  It's been described as "medium formal"; fellows will be wearing corsages to identify us to various guests (including the American ambassador to Italy!)  More importantly, Carla is coming!  She's already been here to sip prosecco on the roof, but I'm looking forward to introducing her to more of my companions.  She also gets to sample the awesome dinner, though hers will be different--vegetarian and gluten-free. *shakes head*

There Once Was a Girl from Nantucket...

How did I never know this limerick existed?  Liz told me about it today.  I suppose it's not classy enough to appear in scholarly literature...

While Titian was mixing Rose Madder
His model lay posed on a ladder
Her position to Titian
suggested coition
So he climbed up the ladder and had her

Doppio Macchiato

My coffee virginity, such as it was, is gone.  Aside from a gag-inducing sip of people's drinks here and there, I've never had a coffee, something that inspires no more than average surprise in the US but which here in Rome arouses a disbelief that mounts toward indignance. I don't drink coffee?  What do I do in the morning?  What about after lunch?  How is such a thing possible?  These aren't even Italians reacting this way--just other fellows!

I had already had the thought that perhaps I should begin to accustom myself to coffee during my time here.  Literally, when in Rome, right?  I had mentioned this to Carla, who said she would have me try some of her cappuccino the next time we're together in the morning (for, as any Italian will tell you with another look of disbelief, no one  in their right mind drinks cappuccino after 11am).  Then it came up toward the end of lunch today.  Denise was busily recommending a cafe near the Pantheon, Sant'Eustachio, to which Tommaso added a recommendation for the gran caffe, their specialty.  I agreed to try it at some point, as we shifted to the bar so Denise could get an espresso.  The bartender, Gabri--who I have described to general acknowledgement as a slightly older and bald Daniel Craig, particularly in the piercing blue eyes--rebuffed the Sant'Eustachio recommendation but was horrified to hear I was not a coffee drinker.  He looked at me with this semi-intimidating wide-open stare and asked "Doppio macchiato?  You want one?"  What could I do but say yes?

Denise assured me she'd drink it if I didn't like it.  The little teacup appeared, Gabri frothed some milk into it.  Denise puts in some sugar and demonstrates the proper slow stir technique.  Then, the first sip: gross!  Bitter, awful aftertaste, blech.  But I am standing in a crowd of coffee drinkers, Gabri is bustling about behind the bar, I'm not going to just quit.  Another sip: I try to actually consider the flavor.  It's not so bad in my mouth this time, but the aftertaste is still a bit much.  I manage to drain the cup (much slower than Denise, who is herself apparently a slow drinker; many people just shoot the cup) until there's only froth remaining.  Denise tells me that the aftertaste is why so many people in cafes have a glass of water at their elbow; it's not just me.

Result: not very pleasant, but doable.  Probably it will grow on me.  White wine certainly did, followed by red (which I was also sort of forced into by my roommates the last time I stayed in Rome).  One of my only regrets about Florence was that I didn't enjoy wine then, after all; at least now I will enter coffee the right way...which means the Italian way, of course!

Michelangelo show

Krys and I went to see the Michelangelo exhibition at the Capitoline museum on Saturday.  It was a good show, but oddly arranged, with most of the material on the top floor with one big gallery downstairs where you enter.  There were a number of really great items, including the sonnet in which Michelangelo complains about painting the Sistine, the preparatory drawing for the Libyan sibyl, and the massive model for the facade of San Lorenzo.  The show-stopper, for me, was the drawing after Michelangelo's lost Leda, attributed to Rosso Fiorentino.  I've seen it reproduced, but had no idea of its scale: 16 full-size sheets of paper, making it something like six or seven feet across and four or five feet high!  The composition also struck me as remarkably tender and even sensual in its drawn form, as opposed to the painted copies that exist, which tend to appear colder and more sculptural.  It was a surprise to find myself appreciating the sex appeal of a painting depicting bestiality!

More

...I started to write a blog entry yesterday, around the same time (noon) about how something about the shift in time, plus the energy-consuming nature of this place, has rendered me both constantly hungry and in need of daily naps.  I didn't get further than a couple of lines because...I went to take a nap before lunch! Haha.

It hasn't even been a week yet, so it still really hasn't sunk in that this is my home now.  I haven't even crossed the Tiber yet; today after lunch I'm planning to go to the Capitoline Museum to see the Michelangelo exhibit that ends on Sunday, possibly in the company of some other people (I need to learn to stop mentioning my plans aloud...), and that will be my first venture into the centro.  Afterward I need to hit the Vodafone store to finally acquire a new SIM, and then I guess I'll come back here, though I have to head back downtown for dinner.   Carla has her conservatory entrance exam today, so tonight we're going out to Alfredo e Ada's, the little hole-in-the-wall place she introduced me to last year, where the wine is all house wine, and the menu is whatever Alfredo tells you (but which always includes my favorite, matriciana!)

Living on this side of the river  kind of has that same sense of distance that Brooklyn has from Manhattan.  Getting from one to the other requires effort.  There, it's  subway rides; here, it's walking or riding the bus.  Walking back here is no joke; we may not be on one of the seven named hills of Rome, but holy shit is it steep! [Edit: that's not exactly true; our hill is named--Janiculum--it's just not one of the famous seven on the other side of the river, where the Romans actually lived] Going to the grocery store yesterday felt like traversing San Francisco: up and down, up and down.  I walked to Carla's on Thursday afternoon, which first takes you along the beautiful ridge of the Gianicolo, so you get an incredible view out over Rome, and then goes down a super-windy switchback road...then a super-steep straight road...then stairs!  I took a cab back...

I haven't taken a single picture here yet after the first batch I put up on Facebook.  Today is the first day I'm even bringing my camera.  The sense that this is a place of permanence frees me a little from the desire to obsessively capture every instance of beauty.  Even when I do take pictures, I'm going to resist the urge to post lots of them on FB. Maybe I'll get an Instagram.  (Someone here suggested creating a blog, and I was like, um, well...?)  I don't want to appear to be shoving it in people's faces, "look how great my life is, peasant!"  I remember feeling like that about Jasmine's posts, mostly out of my own feelings of dissertation-related-despair.  It wasn't her fault, but I also don't want to be that person to someone else.

At Last

I'm sitting in my room, in a little white-covered chair, with my feet up on the red damask coverlet on the bed.  Through the open window you can hear the sound of the courtyard fountain.  It's surprisingly loud, since the courtyard amplifies noise; even a couple of people chatting sounds like a small group.  Two massive pine trees dominate the courtyard space, and block my view of my office window, directly on the other side.  It's beautiful, peaceful, and like everyone else here have already asked myself a dozen times, "is this my real life now?"

I wouldn't say that my jaw actually dropped when the van from the airport pulled up in front of the main Academy building, but there was distinct awe.  It was so much bigger, so much more imposing and elegant than the photos were able to communicate, and that sense of wonder hasn't diminished from getting to know the layout more thoroughly.  More than ever I recognize why Jasmine say Academy fellows were thought to be "insular and pretentious": they treat us like rock stars, we eat like kings, and everyone is so different, in their work, their background, that I can't imagine ever running out of things to discuss at the dinner table.  For example: Paula is an experimental composer who will be doing field recordings of ambient sound in Rome's aqueducts; Liz and Khrys are novelists; Anna works as a restorer for the Met with Egyptian artifacts; Sarah is a historian working on the brothels of Pompeii--and we're all eating dinner together.  It's really awesome.

In the vestibule to the McKim building, there are two ancient Roman fountains affixed to either wall, pouring water constantly.  Above one, a plaque records the names of the original donors to the Academy, which include JP Morgan, Vanderbilt, Carnegie, and Henry Clay Frick of the wonderful NYC museum.  Robber barons, in other words, and this stately pile is well worthy of their money. The site is the highest one inside the ancient walls of Rome (Morgan, who bought the land, supposedly wanted to be higher than the French academy across the city in the Villa Medici).  The view from the roof is incomparable--all of Rome is spread out beneath you.

I feel like I could write so much about everything I've experienced here...and it's only been three days!  The first night, I got up from the dinner table to use the restroom, and walking back toward the table, looking down that long, candle-covered table and everyone clustered around it talking so animatedly I thought "Two years of nights like this?" in this sort of awe-filled but also uncomprehending way.  It just doesn't seem possible, that this is a thing I am now doing, and will do for a considerable period of time.  But it is--and the only thing that's going to make it even better is when I get to share it with Sean!

Moving Day!

Holy crap, it's finally here.  In 9 hours I'll be on a plane to Dublin!

In other news, I checked the intranet to find menus for this weeks' meals posted.  Tomorrow's dinner:

Pomodori al forno 
Pollo al mattone con salsa verde e limone
Granita di fragole con panna fresca

YUM.

Damn it, Janet

Janet is the name of the Academy's new intranet system (based on Janus, the two-headed Roman god who is an unofficial AAR mascot), to which I had eagerly been awaiting access.  Now I know that my room is number 206, and my office is 242.  Same floor, woohoo!  (There are only two residential floors, but still).

We also got an email today about our pickup in Rome; sadly, my dreams of a private car with blacked-out windows has gone by the wayside--two other fellows are on my flight, so we'll all be piling into the same van.  Still, someone is going to be waiting past customs with an AAR sign. That is going to be fucking awesome, especially given my 100 lbs of baggage!

While I was in the library the other day, photocopying my master's degree (which I need to present in order to gain access to the Vatican, the Bibliotheca Hertziana, and a couple of other places), I flipped through Anthony Doerr's Four Seasons in Rome, his account of spending a year in Rome along with his wife and 16-month-old twins.  Carla's mom lent it to me years ago, when the phrase  "American  Academy" meant diddly-squat to me, and I even mentioned it in my interview, which seemed to please my interlocutors.  I really only had vague memories of the book by that point, though, and what stood out most in my memory were the bad things that happened.  For example, he saw a fatal traffic accident, an American tourist driving a car hit an Italian family in the crosswalk.  That's one of my nightmares when we drive in foreign countries--and honestly, here too.

Flipping through it again left a very different impression.  It sounded miserable!!  A lot of that had to do with the aforementioned twin babies which they arrive with.  No parents of twins would be getting a lot of rest, but living in another country with babies?  Christ.  Also, I know the Academy's on a hilltop, but reading his description of hefting a double-stroller down those stairs almost made me sweat.  They spoke barely any Italian, and knew next to nothing about Rome or Italy in general. His wife spent most of her time cooped up in their apartment, which led to a collapse from nervous exhaustion.  They didn't interact that much with the other fellows, from the sound of it, and when they did make appearances at the communal table (which was pre-Alice Waters intervention, so the food sucked) he reported feeling completely lost by the scholarly discussions that were going on about classical history or music or what have you (he's a novelist).

Part of me reads this as "cry moar, don't move to Italy with babies." It's especially hard to feel bad for him after reading that this asshole didn't even have to apply for his Rome Prize.  Nor did he interview!  He just mentions getting a letter saying his work had been nominated anonymously, and then getting another letter informing him of his win!  What the shit is this?  The nominations come from former fellows, I know that much, since I got an email a month ago inviting me to nominate up to three people.  But it seems kind of unfair that some people (is it only scholars, I wonder?) have to go through the application process while others have it dropped in their laps.

That said, his perspective did shed some light on what Jasmine had told me, that AAR fellows are often seen, by people at other research institutions like the Hertz, as "insular pretentious people."  The pretension thing I can certainly see, because AAR is definitely full of itself, institutionally speaking, and they encourage fellows to see themselves as super-duper-special.  The lavish prize ceremony in NYC, for example?  No other fellowship bothers with an award ceremony.  As for insular, I think the language barrier is a factor; I'm sure plenty of the fellows, particularly the non-scholars, don't speak Italian, and for some this might be their first experience living abroad!  That would be pretty nerve-wracking, and if you can just stay in the pretty villa where they feed you, why wouldn't you?

That said, I have every intention of making connections with people at the other institutions, particularly the Hertz, since some people Jasmine knew are still there.  Most of the institutions reciprocally invite people to their events and parties.  I don't know if AAR does, but at least one reception in September included an invitation to "Rome friends."  I made Carla put it on her calendar!

Ready, Set...

I don't want to have to say goodbye to Sean, but at the same time...I'm ready to go!  I'm tired of being in this constant state of "preparing."  Almost all of my stuff is packed in the two larger suitcases, which weigh a combined 86lbs.  Most of my clothes are in vacuum space-saver bags, which means all my shit is going to be incredibly wrinkled when I get to Rome.  Hm, maybe I should have bought that iron that another fellow was offering?  Oh well.

Most of my goodbyes have already been said.  I had lunch with Jen and my cousin Lisa in Waterbury on Wednesday, and then Jen and Vinny came to Linda's for dinner that night.  Jen gave me a ton of cash, which was really sweet and unnecessary, but Vinny's gift was just awesome: he took two used Samsung phones, turned off the cell-tower-seeking part, and stripped them of everything but Skype. That means Sean and I can talk for free, anywhere there's a wifi connection, instead of having to use our laptops!  He warned me that the batteries are really lacking in life, but so what.  It was such a thoughtful gift.  Linda also gave me a wonderful going-away present: she pulled photos from my FB account to create an awesome collage on Snapfish, and had it framed in a lightweight frame so I could have something to put on my wall when I get there!  Also incredibly thoughtful!

My to-do list has literally been whittled down to "switch Costco card into Sean's name" and "check for Ilchman diss at post office on Sat" (and cross my fingers that it doesn't come!) Yesterday I deep-cleaned the house, top to bottom, and took particular glee in employing Magic Erasers, which I am like the last person on the planet to learn about.  Those fuckers are amazing!  Walls, bathtub, microwave, they clean it all!  I even used one on a pair of flip flops before packing them this morning.

Today's agenda includes my last yoga class and a pedicure.  Sean and friends are playing at a golf tournament in honor of Jon Ward's dad.  Theoretically I should go to the "banquet" at 3, but I'm also meeting the other girls for dinner in Milford at 6, and then we'll probably meet up with the guys afterward, so....I need to conserve my energy!

Victory Tour Commences

Looking at my Google calendar, almost every night until my departure is booked, a fact that makes the introvert in me a little uncomfortable!  Last night we met TJ and a very-pregnant Anna in South Norwalk for dinner at Mama's Boy, a delicious Southern restaurant; tonight my very last Danny G dinner; tomorrow night the Greek festival in Orange with my sister; Saturday night to South Norwalk again with the rest of our Fairfield friends; Sunday to Linda's camper with Jon and Kathy to go hiking. Etc., etc.  Meanwhile, if one more person asks me "oh, are you packed yet?" I will strangle them with a luggage tag.

Getting to dinner last night was a wee bit stressful, as I wound up driving down I-95 trying to focus both on driving and on listening to Frederick Ilchman give me advice on how to structure my time in Rome.  He's a curator at the MFA who was one of David Rosand's most successful proteges, and I'd emailed him earlier this month to see if I could meet with him if I went up to Boston.  Dr. Cooper had suggested it, since she'd been talking me up to him when they were together in Venice this summer.  Unfortunately, he didn't respond until this week, and I don't have time any more to go north, so we talked by phone instead--which, having experienced an hour-long, rapid-fire phone conversation that was no less surprising for length than intensity, I am actually happy about.  He could only talk at 6pm, and I assumed it would be a quick get-to-know-you chat, but instead we left at 6:45 and he was still talking!

He was very enthusiastic about my research, which was great, and had lots of useful suggestions.  Some of the best weren't even specifically about research, but rather how to make the most of my time in Rome.  His chief point was guard your time, particularly when you have people visiting: make clear boundaries about when you're available; accompany guests to places you actually want to visit--not the Borghese or Vatican for the 17th time; don't make hotel reservations for people as it will end in disaster, but do encourage people to stay in your own neighborhood, so you're not constantly schlepping cross-city.  He even suggested that if you have an academic friend visiting, you shouldn't feel bad about taking them along to the library for a couple of hours; in the Marciana he once gave an Americanist friend a copy of one of DR's books to occupy herself with for a couple of hours and she loved it.

He also reminded me of the importance of seeing things, something that PFB had mentioned in her "Home From Rome" talk in New York; just experiencing the city and its monuments itself can have a powerful impact on what you think and write. His suggestion was libraries and archives in the mornings, and "real things" in the afternoons. He also told me to take advantage of Rome's cosmopolitan status to see all kinds of art, ancient to Dada, whatever comes my way (an appropriate stance for a museum curator!)

I also took the opportunity to ask him how he approached connoisseurship. I mean, I knew the answer he was likely to give (see lots of works), but I suppose I wanted some kind of assurance that he didn't absorb it from DR via osmosis consider himself born with it, or something.  I even told him about my awful embarrassment in front of Bernard Aikema!  He outlined his notion of the totem pole of art snobbery: people at research institutions looks down on the liberal arts people; liberal arts people look down on the museum people; museum people look down on the auction house people; and auction house people look down on the dealers.  Ironically, he said it's often the dealers who have the best "eye", simply because they see a torrent of this stuff at every level of quality.

He asked me if Dr. Cooper had told me that he'd just completed his dissertation.  I tried to be careful in my reply, because I certainly knew from the grapevine that he'd just gotten around to finishing it, more than a decade after the fact, but she didn't tell me that explicitly.  His response: "I took seventeen years to write my dissertation.  Don't take seventeen years to write your dissertation.  That's my advice."  Haha. Of course, he still managed to rise to a level of prominence in the field, and a coveted job at the MFA, without his PhD--and he's probably one of the last who will be able to do so, since a doctorate is pretty much a prerequisite for a curatorial job these days.

Finally, we talked about DR, and Ilchman said that as the deadline for submitting his dissertation approached, and he was still iffy on the final intepretation, he and Rosand happened to be on a four-hour train ride together.  They went through his dissertation page by page, until he was fully confident in it.  He was a nice man.  Ilchman said "well, if he'd lived five more years he would have been on your committee too."  Honestly, I'd trade that (cool as it would have been) for a visit to Venice with him in the flesh.

Four Weddings and (One Hopes) No Funerals

After the nuptials of Sara, Jen, Sean's step-sister Morgan, and finally Sean's classmate Greg, wedding season 2014 is over.  My bank account rejoices!  For this last wedding we traveled to Plattsburgh, NY, on the shore of Lake Champlain, just about an hour south of Montreal.  It's really lovely country up there, albeit very isolated once you're outside Plattsburgh itself.  Unfortunately the weather was grey, cold, and drizzly until we left on Sunday; otherwise it would have been an incredible opportunity for star-gazing.  I've only seen the night sky without light pollution when we camped for HILL class, when we saw the meteor shower (which I now realize was probably the Perseids).

The countdown is now under three weeks.  I haven't really done anything work-related in like a month, which one the one hand I do feel kind of guilty about, but on the other, I remind myself that in Rome there will be no lazy Saturdays spent eating chips and watching bad television, so I should make the most of it now!  Even just to make breakfast, I'll need to be decently dressed to use the residential kitchens.  (It's tempting to think of this being college 2.0, but then I remember that the average age of the fellows seems to be like 37, so I should probably not roll out in my bathrobe).  And on the weekends there will always be things to do, whether Academy-related or Rome-related or Carla-related, so the chances of spending an entire afternoon reading a Diana Gabaldon book, as I did yesterday, seem slim...

Beethoven's Ninth

Stuart and his family should be arriving in Rome this morning, for the start of their two-week vacation in an enchanting little villa near Tivoli.  We've exchanged furious numbers of emails in the past month or two, particularly once I asked him for book recommendations for Phyllis.  Not only did he respond with a long list, he offered to send her his own books after he came home from vacation!  That's the kind of generous person he is...though sometimes his generosity won't take no for an answer!  A book on Christianity and paganism during the Middle Ages, for example, which came up in one of our conversations, appeared in my mailbox shortly thereafter--despite my protests that I'd have no chance to look at it for at least two years.  A few months back, my offhand comment that I frequently feel the lack of my knowledge of music history led to a whole packet, including a DVD of a PBS special on music and the brain, as well as a book that I just read this week: The Ninth: Beethoven and the World in 1824.

Written by a music historian, Harvey Sachs, the book interested me chiefly for the first third, which built up the historical and cultural context around the premiere of the symphony in Vienna in 1824.  Honestly, I had to go to Youtube to remind myself which one the "Ninth" actually was; I only recognized the last movement, the "Ode to Joy" (which, as I discovered, represented the first time choral and symphonic music had ever been combined).  With pretty much zero musical knowledge in general, and about as much about Beethoven, the parts of the book that analyzed the technical and emotional aspects of the symphony (in one part, moving practically note-by-note) or discussed its impact on other composers like Verdi and Wagner, was over my head.  Still, I always enjoy learning about parts of history that I don't know very well, and the early 19th century is certainly one of those.

I liked this line, which occurred quite early in the book, as an inoculation against the adoration of this or that particular "genius":  "Many human beings need to worship someone or something, but the object of a worshipful person's worship says more about that person than about the worshipped object."  (Sean just noted that he's never felt the need to "worship" any particular figure, which I suppose I haven't either; I guess we're not "worshipful people"?)  I learned that Beethoven was irascible, suspicious, and constantly obsessed with money, most of which he earned through the printing and dissemination of his music (making him, Sachs argues, the first composer who worked with an eye to the future).  He couldn't do multiplication, having received only a fairly basic education.  Due to his deafness, conversations were frequently carried on by means of little "conversation books", written in by his interlocutors, a number of which survive.  When his hearing began to fail, still a young man, he wrote a somewhat despairing "will" to explain himself to those he might leave behind:

"O ye men who think or say that I am malevolent, stubborn or misanthropic, how greatly do ye wrong me, you do not know the secret causes of my seeming, from childhood my heart and mind were disposed to the gentle feelings of good will, I was even ever eager to accomplish great deeds, but reflect now that for six years I have been a hopeless case, aggravated by senseless physicians, cheated year after year in the hope of improvement, finally compelled to face the prospect of a lasting malady (whose cure will take years or, perhaps, be impossible), born with an ardent and lively temperament, even susceptible to the diversions of society, I was compelled early to isolate myself, to live in loneliness, when I at times tried to forget all this, O how harshly was I repulsed by the doubly sad experience of my bad hearing, and yet it was impossible for me to say to men speak louder, shout, for I am deaf. Ah how could I possibly admit such an infirmity in the one sense which should have been more perfect in me than in others, a sense which I once possessed in highest perfection, a perfection such as few surely in my profession enjoy or have enjoyed - O I cannot do it, therefore forgive me when you see me draw back when I would gladly mingle with you, my misfortune is doubly painful because it must lead to my being misunderstood, for me there can be no recreations in society of my fellows, refined intercourse, mutual exchange of thought, only just as little as the greatest needs command may I mix with society. I must live like an exile, if I approach near to people a hot terror seizes upon me, a fear that I may be subjected to the danger of letting my condition be observed - thus it has been during the past year which I spent in the country, commanded by my intelligent physician to spare my hearing as much as possible, in this almost meeting my natural disposition, although I sometimes ran counter to it yielding to my inclination for society, but what a humiliation when one stood beside me and heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone heard the shepherd singing and again I heard nothing, such incidents brought me to the verge of despair, but little more and I would have put an end to my life - only art it was that withheld me, ah it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce, and so I endured this wretched existence - truly wretched, an excitable body which a sudden change can throw from the best into the worst state - Patience - it is said that I must now choose for my guide, I have done so, I hope my determination will remain firm to endure until it please the inexorable parcae to bread the thread, perhaps I shall get better, perhaps not, I am prepared. Forced already in my 28th year to become a philosopher, O it is not easy...
Although there are absolutely strains of great ego in this passage, I found it very moving.  I can't imagine what it would have been like to lose the faculty upon which the whole central structure of your life relies, or to be unable to say something so seemingly simple as 'shout, for I am deaf'.  The last line I quoted also reminded me of Sean, who has frequently raged against what he perceives as the injustice of being saddled with anxiety, insomnia, thinning hair, etc., before he's even 30.  I've pointed out that his friends have sciatica, are on statins for cholesterol, have unstable heart murmurs, etc.; it's not the universe pointing the finger of fate at him alone.  And yet, to be "forced to become a philosopher" about something you can't change...that's hard.

The most interesting notion in the book for me was that Romanticism, the great 19th cultural/literary movement, can be understood as an internalized expression of the frustrated revolutionary ambitions that had begun with the French Revolution and which had come to a final end with the defeat of Napoleon in 1815. Sachs points out that the younger generation in Europe was captivated by the sheer scale of Napoleon's adventures and ambitions, whether their nation was against him or not.  His defeat, and more importantly the subsequent repressive structures adopted by European states following the Congress of Vienna, gave those ambitions nowhere to escape except through art, literature, and music.  Romanticism, Sachs suggests, is the child of the French Revolution, and a grandchild of the Enlightenment. Another fascination point is that the defeat of Napoleon and the carving-up of his empire removed France from a position of European cultural dominance it had enjoyed for a century.  The gap was filled by the "ethnic and nationalistic" fervor that would become part of Romanticism.  German nationalism, in particular, would start to see a distinct rise in this period (and we all know where that goes...)

Finally, even though I couldn't follow Sachs' line-by-line exegesis of the composition itself, I appreciated this statement spoken against the tendency to read biography into artistic production: "Whatever, whoever Ludwig von Beethoven may have been in everyday life....[his] music is a distillation, not a representation, of his life experience--a distillation that passed through the chastening refinery of his spiritual and compositional processes."   Hear, hear.

Sad News

After we came home late from Morgan and Paul's wedding last night, I saw an email from Dr. Cooper, letting me know that David Rosand had died.  The news surprised me somewhat, despite his age and ill health.  When I saw him at AAR in New York in January, he certainly looked frail, but he looked somewhat heartier at the RSA meeting in March.  Of course, that was almost six months ago...

I feel fortunate that I got to know him when I did.  Originally, when Dr. Cooper suggested taking his Titian class, I was only outwardly enthusiastic; driving an hour up to Princeton each week didn't really appeal, despite how much I admired Rosand's work.  Thank God I did.  That man had such a voice: husky, soft, a bit cracked with age, but when he talked about the pieces onscreen it was like sitting under a trance.  He had a good sense of humor.  Most of all, he could make the artwork come alive when he spoke about it.  I've never really had another professor who was able to make that kind of impression.  It's the kind of effect I hope to have on some of my students, even in a very small way...having awakened them to something.

Dr. Cooper pointed me to Save Venice's Facebook page, where the most recent photo is him lecturing to a group in the Frari.  I wish I'd had the chance to hear him speak in a site visit, in addition to a darkened seminar room.  That picture must be several years old, though. Even during the Princeton course, in 2011, he got quite ill after a plane trip, and mentioned that he had to wait a long time before being able to fly again.  Then he had hip surgery, and was quite ill...it was during this period that I was frustrated by his lack of response to my emails, and then letter, regarding my fellowship applications, despite his earlier enthusiasm.   By the time I saw him in New York, he needed a cane for support, and told me he'd been forbidden salt, alcohol, and plane travel.  You can joke about the first two, but the travel ban?  I realized that meant no more Venice for him, ever, unless he took a steamer across the Atlantic.  How terribly sad, given that he'd mentioned with pleasure during the Princeton seminar that now that he was retiring from Columbia, he and Ellen would be able to spend more time in their beloved city.

I think it was just about this time last summer when he invited me to his house in Guilford.  How awkward I felt, and how nice he was.  That was when he offered to write recommendations for anything I might need.  He had this extraordinary faith in my future as a Titian scholar, right at the point when my own fears and insecurities were at their height.  Even when I saw him in New York in the spring, at the Save Venice panel, he told me "keep sending me stuff" as I progressed in Rome. Even though he was in poor health, I think I had some sort of idea that I would get to discuss my ideas with him again in the future, but it wasn't to be.

I don't usually remember my dreams, but I had some weird ones last night, several involving time travel.  In one, I was among a group of students being taught by him in some brightly-lit European palazzo.  Somehow, something clued him in that someone in the group--he didn't know it was me specifically--had knowledge of the manner of his death in the future.  I knew it was "wrong" in the dream, but I couldn't resist, so I grabbed him hand and told him "you died happy."   I don't know if that was really true, in Dr. Rosand's case, but I hope it was.  Such a wonderful man, and scholar, whose memory will live on in the minds of everyone who knew him.

ETA: the lovely slideshow on Save Venice's website.

One Month!

5:30PM on Sunday, September 7.  It seems simultaneously so distant and so close!

Pompeii

I've never been to Pompeii itself.  When I was in Rome in 2009 for that visual aesthetics course, we did take a day trip to Naples (and there was a stretch of road south of Rome where grassy green fields gave way to low, rolling hills, themselves backed by mountains, in a panorama that was computer-desktop-perfect), but our goal was Herculaneum, the secondary excavation site, a little further away from Vesuvius itself.  I remember being interested in the sheer depth of solid rock that excavators had had to drill through to uncover the town, but I also remember my disappointment, once we visited the Archaeological Museum in Naples, at seeing many of the seemingly "in situ" works from Herculaneum on the museum's walls.  We saw very little of Naples itself; I have a hazy idea of streets that were narrow, crowded, and dirty, and pizza with buffalo mozzarella that was absolutely delicious.  Not much else.

I've just finished reading Ingrid Rowland's From Pompeii: The Afterlife of a Roman Town.  I picked it up because I recognized her name from work she's done on Renaissance Rome, but rather than a straight history, I found the book to be an evocation of the unusual place Pompeii has occupied in our collective cultural imaginary since it was buried in 79 CE.  Most of the chapters started with a single key figure's experience of the site, whether it was Renoir, Mark Twain, or Emperor Hirohito, and then broadened outward to encompass the historical, political, social, and environmental factors operating in Pompeii, Naples, and Italy itself at that precise moment--similar to the kind of approach of the BBC's wonderful History of the World in 100 Objects. 

One of the first interesting things I learned was that Herculaneum and Pompeii were destroyed by two different types of forces; Herculaneum was wiped out by "pyroclastic flows", fast-moving, super-hot flows of liquid gas that destroyed all organic material before hardening into the solid rock that buried the site, while Pompeii was hit with a (relatively) gentler combination of volcanic stones called lapilli and ash.  Lava itself, surprisingly enough, played no part in the destruction.

Although I have the faint feeling of "I knew this once", I was surprised to read about how quickly Pompeii disappeared from memory in the ancient world.  I wonder if it would have been remembered at all if Pliny the Elder's nephew, Pliny the Younger, hadn't written up his famous description of his uncle's death in the disaster?  Fairly soon after, the name disappeared from maps, and by the time of the Renaissance, its destruction was something of a poetic legend. 

When the ancient sites first came to light in the 18th century, it was Herculaneum that was found first, accessible at first only through subterranean tunnels entered by being lowered down a well in a village on the surface.  When Pompeii proper was discovered, it offered a much easier excavation as opposed to the pyroclastic material.  One of the most interesting points, for me, was the issue of taste on the part of the 18th century Europeans, when confronted with the vivid wall paintings of the Pompeiian houses. They were horrified by the gaudy, indecorous wall paintings, largely because, as Rowland points out, they were expecting the kind of vision of antiquity gifted to them by the artists of the Renaissance, one that was orderly and graceful instead the riot of decoration that they found. Vitruvius, the Roman architect, offered only two requirements for painted decoration: variety and copiousness.  But that sort of chaos was a turn-off to Enlightenment viewers.

Rowland concludes the book by reminding the reader that Vesuvius, which has always been an active volcano, with a number of sizable explosions after 79, is long overdue for another.  The last was during World War II, and the period of silence suggests that the volcano may have formed the kind of solid plug that will ultimately end in a catastrophic explosion close to the most famous one.  Unlike the ancient explosion, some 600k people will be in the disaster zone, and they will have relatively short notice.  I've seen Dante's Peak, I know what that means.  See if you ever get me in a hot spring in Naples!

Celebrations

Friday was Sean's 29th birthday, the last one either of us will celebrate in the U.S. for the next couple of years!  We went to Kitchen Zinc for their delicious pizza, and our waiter was a guy who Sean knew from some Little League connection back in the day (admittedly, this happens all the time when you hang out with Sean or Linda...another restaurant we really like, Leon's, also has a former baseball colleague working the floor.  It's nice to be known!).  Afterward we saw Guardians of the Galaxy, which was really fun. I knew the reviews were positive, and I'm always easily entertained by a popcorn flick, but I was pleasantly surprised by how genuinely funny it was. Sean really enjoyed it too, which is rare kudos.

Last night was the 12th annual crab sauce fiesta in Sean's honor.  It's always fun, and even though I don't really even like crab sauce, Linda's pepperoni bread and that fucking delicious pistachio cake are always to die for.  Shane and Nicole, whose May wedding I'll be missing, informed me they're going to launch a Kickstarter to pay for my ticket home.  Then Ward suggested a Kickstarter to take all of them to Rome, instead.  Then they thought perhaps do both, and see which one makes more money!  Hey, I'll gladly attend their nuptials if they want to fork over the $1,000.  As it stands now, I don't even actually have a ticket back to Rome in January.  I'm waiting to book it until the autumn.  It's a little tricky, since I'll have to pick a "return" date that's within my first visa period, and then change it later once I have the visa renewed. They won't let you buy a one-way ticket anymore, apparently, in case you decide to become an illegal alien; the airlines can even force you to buy an exit ticket at the gate, not something I'd like to risk.

In other Rome news, I've added a printer, speakers, and a foldable guest bed to the pile of trophies awaiting me!  AAR posted our bios and photos on the website, and after I'd gone to the trouble of having a little "photo shoot" with Sean down at Yale, they just used the professional shot they took in NYC, anyway. Pfft. They wanted a photo of Sean, too, for "internal communications", so not a total waste of time.  By the way, they call him and other spouses "Fellow Travelers", which I found amusing because that used to be a term for Communist sympathizers.  In the words of Homer Simpson, go back to Massachusetts, pinko!

Now that August has begun, we're almost at the 1-month mark.  I keep looking at my closet and thinking "but how much can all that really weigh?"  I have 122 pounds of luggage allowance total, which sounds like a lot, but which has to include heavy things like all my shoes, my rainboots, my winter coat, and my laptop.  Forget about bringing lots of supplies like shampoo, either; there's no point, when I'll just have to buy it there eventually anyway.

...Part of me doesn't want September 7 to ever come, so Sean and I don't have been separated.  Another part of me just wants to GO already!

Success!

I finally managed to successfully snag some items from an outgoing AAR fellow.  Among the haul: 2 lamps, an electric kettle, a bathroom scale, and blankets, and I paid about $90.  Not bad.  I'm keeping something of a list of items I think I'll need upon arrival, like a blender if I want to keep making shakes for breakfast.  I discovered that Amazon Prime in Italy costs only 10 euro a year, probably because a) the country is tiny and b) there's no Amazon Instant attached, which is fine (technically I shouldn't be able to watch Netflix or Amazon from Italy anyway, but I found a IP-switcher for Chrome a while back in order to access BBC's iPlayer, so it shouldn't be an issue).

I've been working through pre-Italy my to-do list: supplemental health care, for example, to cover doctor's visits without having to haggle with Yale back in the US; life insurance policies for both of us (I cost twice what Sean does--thanks, cardiac-arrest-having parents!); finally talking to Phyllis' financial adviser to get an outside perspective on our portfolio.  Meanwhile, the online class for Temple is, just like last time, sucking up lots more of my time than I had hoped.  There have been so many technological issues, the most major of which was my laptop hitting a death spiral when I tried to update its service pack last week.  Sean took it to school as "his" laptop and they quickly pronounced that they needed to scrub and reinstall everything! We brought them our backup drive, so they should be able to give the laptop back with all my files restored.  As a bonus, they're updating my poor Windows Vista OS to Windows 7. The nerve-wracking thing was that the software to record/edit the class videos was on that computer, and I wasn't sure if Temple would need to go through the (long) process of buying me another license.  Luckily, I was able to download it onto Sean's laptop, and use the same key as the first time.

The long and short of this is that I got virtually nothing research-related accomplished last week...and this week is not looking good either.  I have their first "tests" to grade, and two more lectures to record for this week.  I'd be doing that right now, but naturally, Sean is trying to scramble together an abstract for a conference in Portugal next year (linguists, always meeting in awesome European places), so I'm on the loaner laptop Yale gave him.  Le sigh. One of my students, failing to hand in the quiz on time, told me he was exhausted from having driven home late from a family wedding in Virginia, after springing one of the guests, a relative, from jail.  WTF? Who are you people? Go away!

Le Sigh

As I mentioned before, I've thus far been somewhat disappointed by what I've found in terms of gyms in Trastevere, both in terms of price and in terms of activities offered.  I find myself reflecting on how much I'm going to miss kick after each and every class, even today, when my lower back is killing me after the "swoops" we did yesterday.  Kickboxing and yoga are the first group physical activities I've really enjoyed and looked forward to, and it seems I'm going to have to give up both.  Although there are plenty of yoga studios in Rome, I'm concerned about how difficult it would be for me to comprehend the instructions while taking positions.  My first ever experience of yoga was in Italian, at Middlebury, but least that teacher knew she was speaking to students with varying levels of proficiency. I don't think I'd mistake the nouns for elbow/knee as I did then, and I'm certainly much more flexible (if no less sweaty), but if an Italian started dropping the Hindi names for poses into the mix, I think I'd be totally thrown off.  What would utkatasana sound like in an Italian accent?  I don't even know.

The other added issue is timing.  I've had such a flexible schedule this past couple of years that I could easily go to a kick class at 4:45 on Mondays, or a yoga class at noon on Fridays.  Now I have to figure out a schedule that will accommodate library and archive research at various spots around the city with the meals at the Academy, 1pm for lunch and 8pm for dinner.  Lunch is a little more negotiable (I'm sure there will be plenty of times when I'm all the way on the other side of Rome at the Hertziana or somewhere else where getting back to the Academy won't be practicable) but sharing dinner is an important component of the Academy experience, and not something to be lightly missed. (Plus, someone is offering to cook me delicious, healthy meals for FREE twice a day? Hell yeah!)  Of course, when do evening yoga and meditation classes tend to be offered? 8pm.  And don't even mention early morning classes--Italians scoff at the American notion of hitting the gym, or anything else, at 6am.

Yoga is something I can do on my own, of course (and I've already found a number of websites with free class videos), but I'm much more motivated in a group setting, not least when I need to peek under my arm at the woman next to me to understand what bodily contortion I'm supposed to be assuming now.  I know yoga must be popular among Academy fellows, because I've gotten a dozen emails from those departing offering goods for sale, mostly space heaters and yoga mats.  (Try as I might, I haven't yet managed to email quickly enough to score anything--and I was particularly disappointed to miss out on an air mattress for $40.  I just can't compete with people getting emails on their phone, I suppose). It gives me a little encouragement that maybe there will be an informal yoga practice among the group, or something.

Speaking of, an email just came in offering a brand-new iMac for $1000. He's apparently an artist who works primarily in film.  Artists, architects, etc must have to invest in a lot of expensive equipment, it seems, if they can't bring it with them; I've seen several projector systems and even a soldering station offered up! Go humanities--all I need is my computer and my camera.  I'm bringing my poor aged laptop with me.  I had considered buying a new one in advance, but since I replaced the power cord and battery, there's nothing terribly wrong with this one, and I do love that it's 17" across. It's just old, and the programs are old; I'm still running like Word 2003 on this baby!  My plan is to purchase a new laptop when I come home for Christmas, to take advantage of sales.  The rewards cash building up on our cards will be put to this purpose. Right now it's at about $200 between the BoA and Chase cards, and the BoA has the benefit of an added 10% if you cash it out to a BoA account. I've only cashed it once so far, when the $400 balance netted me an extra $40, which purchased Sean his lovely piano keyboard.  If it gets to $400 by Christmas, that would help me buy a more expensive laptop than a super-cheap version.  How I wish I could just use a Chromebook...but I do need programs. Alas.

A Busy Week

My sister's wedding turned out to be a lot of fun!  There was stress on the day of, of course; Jen discovered she'd left the foundation garment for her dress at the bridal salon in Chicopee, which wasn't answering its phone.  Without it she couldn't actually wear the dress!  In the end, we bought her a new one at a nearby bridal shop, which happened to be the one where our mom bought her wedding dress, a neat full circle.  The wedding went off without a hitch, and the reception was truly a blast.  It was wonderful to spend time with my aunts and my cousins (at a non-death occasion). Our family table was packed with thirteen guests, including Sean's mom and my great-aunt Louise, my grandmother's baby sister (now 82).  Once the dancing started, my aunts both kicked off their shoes and went at it with gusto--when you add in me, Jen, and my cousin Sara, the DiMarzos were, surprisingly enough, the ones holding down the dance floor all night!  Donna, wearing a hat after losing her hair to the chemo, danced more than anyone else.  It was awesome.  Then we all went back to the hotel and tucked into the subs and fried chicken that my aunts had bought in advance (they are geniuses) and washed it all down with prosecco.  (We DiMarzos love our prosecco; I think among all of us we contributed at least 5 bottles at the hotel over the course of two nights).

That was Friday night.  After recuperating on Saturday, we spent Sunday morning kayaking with Jon and Kathy Ward, which was a lot of fun.  I've never been in a kayak before, and was fully expecting a) to fall in the water and b) to ache the next day, neither of which happened, despite a good few hours on the water. That afternoon we went to Sean's dad's for a Jack-and-Jill shower for Sean's stepsister Morgan and her fiancee Paul.  Once night fell and most of the guests had left, it was finally cool enough to light the fire pit.  By this time Sean was already feeling weird pains in his stomach, which he attributed to all the bad food over the weekend, but when he still felt unpleasant on Monday night, Linda suggested appendicitis. Ruh-roh.  On Tuesday he felt almost fine, but went to get checked anyway, and though he had no other symptoms, as a precaution they sent him for a CAT scan at the hospital.  Surprise, surprise: appendicitis!  One laparoscopic procedure later, he was sans appendix, which thankfully hadn't ruptured but was still pressing on his intestines and causing the discomfort.

Most of this week has been Sean recuperating from the procedure, which did have a more significant amount of pain after the fact than he was expecting.  He can't drive for a little while, or jog, or lift anything heavy, so I was really proud of myself for being able to haul the big upright air conditioner up the steps from the basement.  I wouldn't have been able to do that this time last year--thank you kickboxing and yoga! (I've begun to realize how much I'm going to miss kickboxing once I move; I've looked into gyms in Trastevere, but not only are they expensive--to the tune of 80 euro a month--kickboxing doesn't appear to be "a thing" in Italy, blerg)  Today he felt a lot better, so we spent the afternoon at his aunt Kathy's house, the annual 4th of July party having been transformed into a graduation party for his cousin Maxine, who just completed nursing school with her RN.  A lucky shift, too, since today was so beautiful after yesterday's gross weather!  Finall, we capped off the evening by walking  to the sea wall to watch the fireworks across the harbor in West Haven.

Monday marks the start of my online class, my last bit of teaching for two years.  It also marks exactly two months to the day until I fly to Rome...eep.

A Study in Contrasts

Two weddings, two very different approaches: last weekend, we were up in the Catskills for Sara and Zach's wedding, which was undoubtedly the most laid-back and enjoyable wedding weekend I've been a part of so far.  For example, at one o'clock on the wedding day (the time for which was "five-ish"), the bride and groom came pedalling back from town with sandwiches from a deli, and Zach hopped into the pool.  The wedding site was Sara's cousin's backyard, the officiant was Zach's dad, ordained online, and formal pictures included a trampoline; definitely not your average wedding.

Sean's toast at the reception was named Zach's grandma's favorite, of the many that were given, as he welcomed Zach as a lifelong member of the Significant Other Brotherhood--the SOBs.  I can't imagine that flying at my sister's upcoming nuptials on Friday, which could not be more different in tone.  To begin with, it's a fairly standard wedding scenario (church, country club, DJ), with standard trappings (poofy wedding dress, bridesmaid gowns, etc).  My sister is not what I could ever call "relaxed", either.  Antic, neurotic, childlike, all yes, but relaxed no.  Add to that a truly unpleasant mother-in-law, who has no counter-balancing force on Jen's side, and it's a complete recipe for stress.  Trying to show some support, on Friday I drove up to Newingtown (45 minutes) to join Jen, Vinny, the mother, the father, and the creepiest brother at the venue to determine final seating arrangements, one of those ridiculously unnecessary steps that people with stressful weddings inflict on themselves.  I endured about an hour of the mother-in-law's neurotic carping (things like "oh, we have to split our family up on both sides of the dance floor? oh dear, oh dear, I wasn't expecting this, what will we do" which actually caused me to chime in "think of those signs people put up at the church: Choose a Seat, Not a Side!" (translation: it's fucking twenty feet, Jesus Christ, shut up)) before I left, pleading a previous engagement with Sean's friends in New Haven...which was in fact our dinner reservation at a new restaurant in Branford, run by the former chef from Geppi's the restaurant Sean worked at in high school, and site of our first date.  That wasn't all we were hoping it to be, but a couple of glasses of wine definitely took the edge off my impotent rage and desire to shoot Vinny's mom in the face.

So I can understand Jen is stressed, but still, she is too much for me to handle right now.  In addition to unwillingly going to Newington Friday night, she'd asked if we could hang out on Sunday night, to which I grudgingly agreed, hoping she'd forget.  Saturday night we were in the Bronx for Anna and Tj's housewarming/you're pregnant/welcome back from China party and got home really late, so I claimed hangover when Jen texted to ask about dinner and boy, was she pissed, because she was expecting super-awesome-buddy-hangout-time (which I am really uninterested in, at the best of moments, and definitely not on a day when I had no plans to shower whatsoever). She tried to do the icy "I guess I'll see you at the rehearsal" bit, so I finally just called her.  She managed to run the gamut from from passive-agressive to bitchy to crying about a) my mom b) the wedding c) my impending move to Italy and d) her therapist's retirement, all in less than ten minutes!  Long story short, she's coming to New Haven Tuesday night and we're going for pizza, while Sean is up in Wallingford taking Vinny's on a gentleman's evening.  I'm hoping a public setting will prevent--no, let's say limit her tendency to be morose and sniffly, but I doubt it.

...It will not be a hardship to be separated from Jen by an ocean.  It will not.

On the plus side, I don't have to spend the night before the wedding in her hotel room, like she originally demanded, which is awesome.  I had actually forgotten to book the room until this week (shades of Heather Flanagan, who kept forgetting to book the room for Sara's wedding and so wound up in the "bunk house", which was not indeed proper rooms but tiny rooms with two bunk beds--so much ire).  Sean's not going to stay at the hotel the night before, so it's going to be a DiMarzo women party up in the Holiday Inn, woohoo!  (of course, Jen is a wimp about drinking, Lisa and Auntie Janice are both pre-diabetics who can't have sugar, and Auntie Donna is on chemo...my cousin Sara and I are going to drink so much prosecco together).

Vive La France: Quatrième et Dernière Partie

If the third part of this magnum opus was the longest, that's because we enjoyed Bordeaux the most.  In fact, we were heartily sorry to have to leave on Thursday to head back to Paris, but as Maureen said, better to wish you'd stayed longer, than to wish you could have left earlier!

We dropped the car off at the Hertz office in Bordeaux, having suffered no accidents or issues in five days of driving, something I was rather proud of.  (OK, in Nimes we did think we'd gone down a street the wrong way, but I think we just mistook the no-parking sign for the wrong-way sign.  Even if we'd been wrong, there was no one on the street, anyway). The train ride back to Paris was uneventful, and as I mentioned in my first post, once we got back to our hotel we found ourselves ensconced in the lovely red-draped room on the 8th floor, looking out over the Paris rooftops toward the ungainly bulk of the Pompidou Centre, and in the distance, the Eiffel tower.  Carla had arranged to come by the hotel at 4pm, so it was only an hour or so after we got back that she arrived.  I had only realized recently that it had been an entire year since I'd seen her, during the great stress-fiasco that was our Rome trip.  It didn't feel that long, certainly.

The weather had finally gotten a bit warmer, so I was able to change into a dress and sandals and we took off to walk around the city.  Our path took us by the Canal St Martin, where we watched the lock system lowering a tour boat, and then through the covered shopping arcades called things like Passage du Panoramas and Passage Jouffroy.  Their 19th-century steel-and-glass architecture reminded me scenes from Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, where Amy Adams and Frances McDormand are shopping in the (far grander and more ornate) Royal Arcade in London.  From there we went to Monmartre, where just leaving the subway required seemingly a dozen flights of stairs.  Carla and I are lazy SOBs, so naturally we chose to take the funicular to the top, while Sean jogged up the stairs.  By the time Carla and I were taking a photo of ourselves with Sacre Coeur in the background, he was already standing up by the church, calmly surveying the city below.  We popped our heads into the church itself, but there was a Mass going on, and...it's 19th century church architecture, I can pass.  We had a drink in an outdoor cafe instead, until it was time to head to dinner--at Le Felteu, of course!

Carla can't actually speak much French, but her opera training means that her pronunciation is perfect.  Therefore, Sean and I were more than happy to let her do any and all communication with French people.  We got the same gruff-but-nice treatment from the proprietor this time as we had on our last visit, and the same quality food--not as heavenly or refined as La Poudette, but certainly better than the tourist-trap fare we had with Delphine and Herve (which was itself, I should say, not bad; just not very distinguishable in memory).  Carla has actually gone vegan and gluten-free, which quite honestly boggles the mind, but luckily she's flexible, because there was literally no option on the menu that didn't feature meat, even the salads.  I can't believe she doesn't eat cheese anymore either!  What a loss, to live in Italy and not eat pasta and cheese!  Still, she tucked into the potatoes gratin with gusto, and had earlier inhaled some fries, so I knew my friend had not gone entirely mad. After dinner, we walked to the Pont Neuf, watched the hourly light show of the Eiffel Tower, and then separated; Carla took the metro back to her hotel, and we walked.

Our last full day in Paris was fairly subdued.  After breakfast, we headed in the direction of the Pere Lachaise cemetery, which turned out to be quite a lengthy walk.  The most famous inhabitant here for Americans is Jim Morrison (we couldn't find his grave on our way out; Carla and I didn't care, but Sean wanted a picture for his brother, so we sat while Sean hunted him down), but it's absolutely chock-full of famous names: Oscar Wilde (whose monument was covered in lipstick kisses, making me wonder if these women were aware Wilde would not have returned their affections), Delacroix, Nadar, Proust (whose tomb had several notes reading "Merci" and "grazie", but no madeleines) Edith Piaf, Maria Callas, and even some recent academic names for me: Pierre Bourdieu and Fernand Braudel.  The cemetery was impressive, but it was sprawling, with little of the piquant charm that I love about the tiny Protestant cemetery in Rome.

The most moving part, however, was in the rear right corner, where at least a dozen separate large Holocaust monuments commemorated French victims at the many camps.  I'm often brought to the verge of tears by reminders like these.  In the war museum in the Invalides, for example, I wanted to cry looking at a display case of all the items carried by a infantry soldier; I suppose it reminded me of all those who went, whether out of duty or desire for glory, and never returned home.  The same was true for the Holocaust memorials, they called the mind the awful destruction of all those lives.  Many of these featured relatively abstract sculptural representations, or stylized depictions of skeletal, abused bodies.  One featured a 10-foot-tall pair of hands, crossed at the wrist and chained, inscribed DACHAU.  But the one which really brought tears to my eyes was a smaller monument, on top of which was reproduced graffiti reading, in a slanting script "Nous sommes 900 Francais."  The plaque below said that the graffiti was found in one of the way-stations from which French Jews vanished to the concentration camps in the east, written by a member of "Convoy 73", which left France on May 15th 1944.  Of the 878 Jews in that convoy, only 22 returned in 1945.  I was incredibly moved by this monument, at the demand implicit in that graffiti to be recognized, to be remembered, and not as Jews, but as Frenchmen.  It didn't even hit me until looking at the picture again that they were deported three weeks before D-Day.  True, Paris wasn't liberated until August, but to think how close they came to salvation feels particularly awful.

It was D-Day's 70th anniversary as we walked through the cemetery.  I wish we could have seen Normandy, but it was just too far to fit it into our itinerary.  Instead, as we ate lunch in a cafe near the cemetery, we watched live coverage of the arrival of dignitaries at the site of the memorial, trying to guess the identities of various heads of state from flags, since the muted TV had no captions. Of all of them, only the Queen of England and Italian president Napolitano were alive during the war.  We tried to imagine how awkward it must be for Angela Merkel to go down the row of Allied veterans thanking them for their service, and watched Hollande's solemn inspection of the French troops.  Funny, we never would have bothered to spend two hours watching these ceremonies in the US, where they'd have aired at 9am, but there we were, Americans in France, unable to look away from a TV we couldn't even hear.

From there, we headed to Ile-St.-Louis for ice cream from Berthillon's, a place well-worth its fame.  Carla remembered coming here on her first trip to Paris, which was a 16th birthday present from Claudia (they even flew first class!), and has stopped here ever since.  Best vanilla I think I've ever had.  For dinner, we'd asked the receptionist to find us a place that wasn't too formal, and not ridiculously overpriced.  I think she misheard, because when we finally found Cafe Marly, which was inside the Louvre, on a balcony looking at the pyramid, it was very chi-chi, full of nattily-dressed French people, many of whom were smoking al fresco.  We sat for about two seconds, wedged into the people next to us, before I made an executive decision and called for a retreat.  Sean can't stand cigarette smoke when he's eating, and I also refused to spend my last night in France feeling awkward in a pretentious restaurant (the waiters were in black tie), to say the least of paying through the nose for the privilege.  We walked away from the Louvre, found a likely-looking spot, and went in; as luck would have it, our waiter turned out to be from Rimini, so he and Carla were fast friends, giving us a relaxed and quiet spot to share a final meal together. Parfait.  (When Sean looked online later, Cafe Marly was described as a favorite hangout of French movie stars.  I don't know what the receptionist was smoking, but then again, she also called that first room "an upgrade"!)

Our plane left at 1pm from CDG, so Carla came over in the morning so that she and I could go on a coffee-and-croissants run.  The fabulous bakery that I had seen recommended in guidebooks, which bears the rather uninspiring name 134 RTD Boulangerie, was closed again.  Merde!  Five mornings total in Paris, and they were only open for two of them.  Their croissants were so buttery, they left big grease stains on the paper bags.  So worth it.  (Carla thought we were kidding about how good they were, relative even to other French croissants, till she actually got to try one).

And then it was over! We had a fantastic trip overall, despite the slow start on the first round in Paris.  Our of favorite day was the first day with the car,  because it was the most adventurous.  Bordeaux won for best scenery, even if there wasn't as much brilliant sunlight as Provence.  For food, Sean claims the onion pie over toasted foie gras at Le Chat Touilleur wins best app, while my entrecote at La Poudette definitely has best entree.  We never had a bad bottle of wine, though the bottle we had with dinner in St. Emilion was probably our least favorite. I wish French wineglasses weren't so tiny; you're constantly having to refill them!  Sean liked Paris, but I wasn't really that charmed;  the 19th-century architecture, with the grey mansard roofs and black wrought-iron balconies, is definitely charming at first, but it's all in that style.  I also found Paris quite loud, a fault it shares with Rome and other European cities, because of those goddamned motorbikes and scooters--when New York City streets sound calm in comparison, you know you've got an issue.  Sean, on the other hand, wasn't bothered by the bikes at all, and thought Paris was one of his favorite cities, with Madrid.

I was more impressed by what I learned about Paris from some of my train-ride reading material, a book called How Paris Became Paris: The Invention of the Modern City, the main argument of which was that while we tend to give Napoleon III and Haussmann all the credit for making the Paris of today, they merely built upon and enlarged projects and ideas begun in the late 16th and 17th centuries.  Much of this early modernization came under the lengthy reign of Louis XIV.  Among the innovations which appeared in Paris for the first time in history during his rule: public transportation, mail delivery, street lights, a city police force, park benches, and sidewalks.  Not all of these lasted; for example, the mail and public transit services were actually run by private investors, and when they stumbled after a few decades, the services vanished, not to be seen again for a couple of centuries.

Haussmann didn't invent the boulevards, either; Louis XIV did, by ordering the destruction of Paris' medieval ring wall.  He declared them no longer necessary in his newly-secure realm, protected by its outer band of Vauban-designed fortresses; this destruction not only allowed the creation of a massive greenway constructed expressly for the recreation of the populace, it also limited the possibilities of another protracted siege of the city--which he had personally experienced as a child, during the Fronde uprising against royal authority.  The very term "boulevard" intially referred to a single bastion (think of the connection to our word "bulwark") that was among the first to be flattened; the wide area that resulted later became an interchangeable term for all wide streets.  The Fronde itself also gave us the beginnings of the newspaper industry and the concept of "headline news", some of spread by making up factual lyrics to go with popular songs; these compositions were called, quite literally, "goes around the city": vau-de-ville, or vaudeville.  The path between a Frondeur news report and Cary Grant doing pratfalls must be a long and interesting one, indeed.

To conclude: the French may not have been the most welcoming nation we've ever encountered, but we certainly did more, learned more, and ate and drank better than we have anywhere else in the world.  Or, I should say, anywhere else in the world so far!