Sirmione

The Romans had it right.

This weekend, I went to Sirmione, a small fishing village built on the end of a peninsula that juts out into the middle of Lago di Garda. It's location affords some impressive views of the lake, the Alps and the surrounding foothills and farmland on the shores of the lake. The town itself is riddled with layers of history and of the traces of generations of pleasure-seekers looking for a bit of rest and relaxation.

Frankly, it's remarkably beautiful. Look:





















The reason why I say the Romans had it right is because at the very end of the peninsula there are the ruins of the Grotte di Catullo, a kind of Roman bath resort, spa emporium, pleasure island, villa all in one. Why it went into disrepair, we can only guess but the scale of the ruins is a testament to the might of Rome and of course the spectacular excess that comes with the wealth of one of the world's largest historical empires. Now though, where once the elite of Rome wined and dined today remains only olive groves that sway in the breeze and the sound of waves lapping the cliffside.













Walking around, I could only wonder if in a 1000 years, our modern day shopping malls, big box stores, McMansions or cruise ships will be in the same shape and have quite the same power of place as the Grotte di Catullo. What will they be a testament to? Sirmione, for example, is a testament to the fixity and continuity of place: a once Roman resort that today remains a vacation destination and even boasts the Terme di Sirmione spa. Is this vocation informed by geography? by cultural memory? How is it that place and identity can resonate throughout the ages?

I leave you to ponder this with a photo of a Roman pillar. An Italian tour group invaded the church that appears in the photos above right as my friend Diego and I were leaving to continue our exploration of the peninsula. The tour guide explained that the church, like much of the town in it's present form was built with recycled marble and construction materials from the Roman era. Such ingenuity was of course the product of forced necessity, as roads in the medieval era were overrun by bandits that made it near impossible to transport and exchange such materials.

Again, I ask, what if we had to do the same?

Paris In Glances [because it’s just too big to touch]

Paris is monumental. It’s esthetically pleasing. It’s sidewalks are wide and unencumbered by cars (like some other cities). Parisians themselves are beautiful people that are for the most part well-dressed and who ultimately enjoy an appreciable standard of living [at least in the impossibly expensive center of the city].

Paris is without a doubt the City of Light.

This all being said, it’s easy to get lost in photos of grand monuments that finer details of urban life in such a dynamic city go seemingly unnoticed. Residential street scenes, architectural detail, wide open and constantly changing skies, Paris is a stimulating experience for all the senses. The crunchy of the crust of a fresh baguette, the rhythm of French spoken the streets, the texture of cobblestones and the gently varying topography, the uniformly white façades of it's residential buildings that absorb the incredible variations of lighting and of course the pungent aroma of cheese.

I will post some obligatory shots of the Eiffel Tower, but this trip I found a lot more to look at.

European Air Travel: A Saga

My recent trip to Paris was made possible by the conjunction of two universal forces: first, RyanAir offering a substantial discount on many flights across Europe. Secondly, my friend Sanaz who frequently checks RyanAir’s website and was thus ready to pounce on the Milan [Bergamo] to Paris [Beauvais] flight as soon as it appeared. In the end we landed 2 Euro rountrip tickets for four people [with no added taxes and airport fees I might add] to Paris.

There are many gimmicks, however, that make RyanAir travel not as glamorous as a 2 Euro price would suggest. If you check in at the airport you have to pay an additional 40 Euro fee. If your bag doesn’t fit in the check bin, then again, you get slammed with an unreasonable fee. The flight itself seems more like a series of those inopportune commercial breaks during [insert suspenseful TV show here] that leave you hollering at the TV and cursing the inane repetition of the same Oxy Clean ad. Not even your iPod headphones can protect you from the onslaught of advertisements for lottery cards, smokeless cigarettes for the plane and incongruent security announcements in at least three languages. In the end travelers get what they pay for; if you can resign yourself to that fact, than RyanAir travel is the way to go. If not, please, hop on a train and save yourself the stress because you probably won’t like the trumpet celebration over a recorded announcement informing you that you arrived ahead of schedule [because somehow RyanAir flights also seem to bend the forces of the space-time continuum and ALWAYS arrive early].

Apart from strange fees, the constant bombardment of advertisements, and let’s just say precipitous schedule, RyanAir operates cheaply for two apparent reasons. The airports that it services are a far cry [and distance] from the principal airports that service most major European cities. In addition, the flight hours are, by all accounts, ungodly.

Let me give you an example of how this changes the travel experience.

My courageous group of 2 Euro traveling buddies and I had tickets from Bergamo for a plane that departed at six in the morning. The only problem is that Bergamo is located an hour away from Milan and of course mass transit [re: an awkward combination of buses and trains] doesn’t run at three or four in the morning. The only solution for those travelers without automobile access or amazingly generous friends willing to give a lift is to take the shuttle bus from Milan’s central train station to Bergamo at midnight and spend the…evening/morning…in the airport.

One could muse for hours about the economic inefficiencies of incongruencies in transport system schedules whereby travelers have to spend obscene amounts of time at ungodly hours in an airport. That though, would just be too easy.

In any case, we set off. Happy travelers at ten in the evening, with water and snack food in hand thanks to the recommendations of my friend Karin who astutely checked www.sleepinginairports.net and found out that the café in the Bergamo airport closing in the evening, leaving travelers without access to comestibles that would in theory provide some degree of comfort in an otherwise hostile environment. The cafe, fortunately, remained open thereby allowing Karin and me to enjoy a generous three Euro cup of whiskey to induce some level of sleep before departing at six in the morning.

The airport in the evening looked more like a refugee camp than an airport. Here is the proof:



It was fascinating to see in any case how people made use of seemingly any nook and cranny to catch up on some sleep before departing at the wee hours of the morning. This game of survival was truly a testament to human ingenuity.



So, after six hours of almost-not really sleeping, we departed to later enjoy three intensive days of walking, wining and cheesing in Paris.

Coming back from Paris [Beauvais] was a different story in European airline travel, more of a conundrum in the complexities, inefficiencies and absurdities of airport and airline security coupled with the already quirky experience of RyanAir travel. Our flight departed at roughly ten in the evening. The bus company that offers a shuttle service between Beauvais and Port Maillot suggested that travelers leave at least three hours prior to the time of their flight, putting our estimated time of departure at roughly seven in the evening, just shy of the tail end of rush hour.

We sat in traffic for a bit but arrived with ample time to check in at the airport.

Beauvais itself is a very small airport. There is one information desk, three gates, a rather large duty free and a few overpriced snack stands. You would expect such a small airport to be run with a little less, let’s just say caution than Paris’ larger airports like Charles de Gaulle and Orly, but our evening in Beauvais offered some outstanding insights into the complexities of airport security. Airport scale isn’t proportional to intensity of security, seemingly.

At one point, while sitting to make the check in, I specifically noticed that there was an unattended black computer back. People were coming and going, so I personally didn’t pay too much attention and went back to overdosing on French cheese and baguettes and savoring what I could of France before daring to pass airport security with “gelatinous substances” that could in theory be confiscated. So, I ate. While I ate, within five minutes first a fire man came over and stood a fair distance from the bag, observing it. Then, there was an announcement in French asking its owner to kindly come pick it up. Two police officers in heavy boots joined the fire man. They all stood for awhile and scratched their heads, seemingly waiting for the thing to explode before taking action. A perturbed airport manager then came over and pulled out her walkie-talkie to communicate the disturbance to someone at the other end. The bag sat and slowly one of the police officers began to not so delicately poke at it. He asked for a flashlight and continued to look. Again, another announcement. Again, no owner. Finally, not so delicate searching became downright shaking and the security crew of no more than eight people shook eachothers hands for a job well done when finally ANOTHER security person came to escort the clandestine bag filled with only a pair of pants to some other security area.

Now based on this account and going back to my mention about shoving my face with French cheese at the airport, when I traveled to Paris a number of years ago, I bought some amazingly delicious and expensive French cheese in Rue Mouffetard to bring back to Italy that was consequently confiscated when I went through security. The reason: gelatinous substances, along with more then 100 mL of liquids, can somehow be made into a bomb.

This time, I believed myself somewhat smarter. Not only did I eat half of the cheese I was carrying to begin with, but also, this time in the airport, I was carrying a number of objects [accidentally] that would have in theory diverted security’s attention. Not only did I have a razor and a fork, but in the side pocket of my backpack I also had a pair of stole away pliers that are very heavy and very sharp. I even had an open bottle of water in the other side pocket. There was, in short, a lot that the could’ve confiscated besides the cheese.

So, I stood on line, anxious. I placed my bag on the security belt with whatever was left in my pockets in one of those ubiquitous plastic bins and walked through the metal detector without a beep and proceeded to wait for my bag. There, as I waited, I noticed the security guard was spending quite a fair amount of time studying my bag. I glanced at the screen and very, very clearly made out the METAL fork, razor and pliers. After speaking with his colleague, the security guard asked me to step down the line with my backpack. The guard stared coldly at me and asked me firmly to open my bag. I responded cheerfully and did what she asked. With military precision she went right for the bag with the metal fork AND the cheese. To throw her off, I made an innocent comment something to the tune of “oh, I forgot about that metal fork, silly me”. She instead reached with her nimble fingers and plastic gloves past the fork and extracted my half opened cheese with lightening speed. “Sir, this is not allowed. You are not allowed to have this”. Crushed, I repeated in the form of the question what she just said in a defeated tone, “I’m not allowed to have this?”. With a victorious snicker, she threw out my cheese [that would surely later be extracted from the cheese garbage can and eaten as a snack].

So, I was defeated by Beauvais, twice. It is impossible to fly cheese out of France.

One past Beauvais’ insanely intensive security line ironically still in possession of all my dangerous weapons but sans fromage I proceeded to the duty free where I overdosed on cologne shopping and almost past out because of all the suffocating scents.

Now, I’ve decided that my new test of airport security will be to see how long I can make it will the pliers and razor in my backpack. If I make it back to the States after more European airplane travel with everything intact, I will reward myself with a Guinness to lament the absurdities of the system.

Back in Milan, we touched down with a heavy thud that could only be explained by an overworked pilot wanting desperately to finish the last run of day. We rushed out of the airplane, surprised and jolted by the landing but ready to go with bus tickets in hand [because we were of course astute enough to by roundtrip tickets]. Presenting them proudly to the bus diver, we were informed that in fact our tickets were for THE OTHER bus company that would be arriving in approximately 30 minutes [it was already 11:45 at night, and we would be arriving in Milan at that point by the time all the mass transit was closed]. So we waited for five minutes and in the ate the extra six Euro cost and bought the ticket for the first bus. Somehow, we finally made it home.

To conclude this saga, the rules of RyanAir are the following: all is fair in love and war and free market enterprise, especially in an international traveling context where airport security, travel connections and flight schedules are better described by the laws of chaos rather than traditional scheduling. By all means, take advantage of the reasonably priced ticket, but buckle your seat belt and cautiously prepare for take off as you plunge yourself into what is by all definitions a quizzical of a travel experience. Happy travels and caveat emptor.

Goals

A list of things for me to keep in mind and goals for the coming year now that I've had some time to find my bearings in Milano. You all can hold me accountable as well.

--->it's ok to be imperfect
--->it's ok to say NO
--->more healthy eating and active living [work out twice a week/ core work out three times a week]
--->BREATHE: there's ALWAYS enough time
--->it's not personal [EVER]
--->photography and writing [more of it]
--->LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN
--->return emails within a day
--->less needless time online
--->decisions: you LOSE if you wait
--->"WHY NOT?" instead of "WHY?"
--->cook for friends
--->stick to THE BUDGET

The Orange Bathroom

University residences in Italy [like everywhere] have many shapes and sizes. Some are big, some are small, some have common kitchens, some have mensas. Some are for undergraduate students, some are for doctorate students, some are old and some are new.

This may not seem to be a very interesting variety of residential accommodations for students coming to Milan, but the Politecnico di Milano has managed to keep the international students of the university guessing. This is because the choices, or rather, immutable assignments based on scholarship contracts, span the spectrum from pristine, privatized and ruthlessly regulated dorms to recently converted bachelor apartments in social housing in more depressed areas of the city. Last year for example, I lived in the, let’s just call it the upper end of the Politecnico residence specimens. I consequently found the social control, enforced through strict meal times and an idiotic residence director with a napolean complex, to be quite suffocating [I’ll reserve these tales for another day]. The space was by all accounts objectively beautiful, but the ambience was oppressive.

Now, I live in Casa dello Studente. It holds about 500 students and is located about a five minute stroll from campus. The building itself occupies a whole city block near the university and shares a courtyard with an elementary school. Each floor has common kitchen facilities and suites of two single rooms. Each suite has a common bathroom and food preparation area with no stove. I learned to my dismay that the building was originally a hospital during World War II. This means that, during the course of its existence, people have died here. This of course flies right in the face of my “no bad juju” rule for places where I live, but since it’s a free place to say, I’ll have to just smudge the space with burning bay leaves and lavendar before entering and exiting and sleep with a circle of toothpaste around my bed.

These first photos may lead you to believe that it is in fact a normal residence that you may happen to fine at any large university across the globe. A room with a desk and a view is fairly standard.





Wait though, here we see how the experience here gets somewhat quirky. Here, for example, we find a specimen of Italanglish with the rules and regulations for cleaning.



Of course though like everything else in Milan, here you have to dig a little deeper to truly see what makes this space so great. Walking into the the white hallway of the suite, your eyes are immediately drawn to this wonder of human innovation: the orange bathroom.



The bathroom itself is no more than a single square meter. It holds a toilet, a shower and sink, with the shower corner being slightly lower than the rest of the floor to allow for the drainage of water. The walls, ceilings and floors have been covered with single pieces of seemingly plastic orange paneling. It’s by all definitions a work of art. A relic of Euro-chic design from years gone by. A micro-space, serving all basic hygiene functions in style.





What is it? Who designed it? What architect deemed it essential to insert this burst of color amidst the monotonous hallways of a former hospital? Why the bathroom?

And more. The cat curtains? Is this room somehow a time portal to the the 70’s? Am I meant to pick a mood in the morning based on the first corresponding cat that I happen to contemplate?

I still have to figure out the proper yoga position to optimize cleansing in such a confined space, but I can safely say that I will have to ponder this bathroom for a long, long time. Being inspired by the bold bright colors, I put red sheets on my bed.



Everyone needs a little burst of energy to start the day, now at least I have two.

New York Transit

For my part, I usually travel with my headphones on, as I had done earlier in the morning. Even though the world that we create for ourselves listening to headphones is not nearly as interesting as the world we isolate ourselves from by constantly listening to music, somehow I always seem to find something inspiring to set the mood en route to wherever I'm going. Earlier in the day it was Broken Social Scene on the Long Island Rail Road and later on MC Solaar on the G line while I danced and lip-sang in my seat. Looking at the people filtering in and out though, I counted, a dad playing with his son, a random assortment of hipsters, one of whom was seven feet tall, the other of whom had on a pair of interesting but awkward pilgrim shoes, some guys in dark hoods and a chinese man asking for directions. After awhile I turned off my headphones to eavesdrop.

Everybody had a purpose in that subway scene.

In the afternoon, I again took the subway from Brooklyn to Woodside to hop on the Long Island Rail Road and get hopefully get home for dinner at my grandparents place without putting on headphones. On the elevated 7 train heading to Woodside there were a lot of people speaking Spanish and a father who walked on with his young child who was asking the whole time if the train was express. The father said that the boy always wanted an express ride; I said that at least the subway was an inexpensive form of entertainment. Everyone smiled.

Now, Woodside is subway stop and a local stop on the Long Island Rail Road heading to and from Manhattan. As such, all the trains that go to all points east on Long Island have to pass through the terminal. This can get especially confusing if you know what train you HAVE TO take and know that it won't technically be coming for awhile, knowing full well that there are indeed others that you could take.

I met Debbie on the Long Island Rail Road platform when I had my headphones off.

She was an older woman, modestly dressed, with a gentle disposition. She was coming back from the US Open, which consequently was rained out that day, and was traveling by herself.

We met as I was frantically checking and re-checking the train schedule posted on the wall. The train schedule to Babylon often has and in that case had a green label. Debbie walked by and asked me for directions. Her schedule was red, it was a special schedule for the US Open but would've eventually landed her in Port Washington instead of Babylon like me. She seemed a bit lost and courteously asked if she could follow me as we navigated through the complexities of the public transport system in the New York Metropolitan area. I agreed.

So, being that we would somehow eventually hop on a train headed to Ronkonkoma at 6:28, changed at Jamaica and wouldn't be arriving until 7:58 in Babylon, we became travel buddies.

She lives in a small cottage in Sayville, owned in part by her neice and nephew in law. She helps raising their kids and seems to be open to new adventures. Instead of going to Florida on vacation, her family ended up going to New York City for four days, to hopefully do some proper exploring of Manhattan. Debbie though, said that she would like to eventually do a yoga retreat in Costa Rica. She was by far more interested in new adventures than laying on the beach with a cocktail. Nature and the outdoors seemed important to her. She was happy to move back home to Long Island from Rochester to be close to her family and to the ocean.

So, we talked. A lot. We talked about the city, the horrible weather for the US Open, planning on Long Island and the need for more walking space, how horribly inconsiderate Long Island drivers can be, the solidarity that comes from living in colder climes, how ridiculously expensive it can be to try to move to Long Island, downtown Rochester, Montreal winter fashion, accepting lateness, cycling in the suburbs and her family.

The time passed much quicker than it would have, had I been myself on that horrendously local train home that even stopped in Saint Albans. For her, having someone else that was heading in the same direction must've been promising and reassuring. In the end, our paths parted. She was heading east to Patchogue and her double decker train was waiting across the platform as we were getting off our train at Babylon. We both said goodbye, good luck and thanked each other warmly and courteously for the pleasant conversation.

What happened next I couldn't explain. I thought I had extended my hand to shake hers, but somehow must've opened up a bit more. She, instead of shaking my hand, gave me a hug. Whether or not that was by some subconscious gravitation or by her initiative, I couldn't really tell. A hug from a stranger though is a fairly powerful gesture and there's really no other word to describe what happened but nice.

In the end we shared no more than the confusion of a journey home, a few words and a unexpected act of warm kindness, all courtesy of the Metropolitan Transit Authority and of random circumstance in a city full of a fascinating people. What more is there to say than just that.

A Humble Tribute

A view of Lower Manhattan from the Pulaski Bridge in Brooklyn...

El Norte?

Gringos often get a bad wrap. We are loud, we eat a lot, we don't speak foreign languages that well, we expect and complain when we don't receive the highest quality services at hotels and restaurants; we can be fairly picky and demanding. In terms of global issues we've been referred to as ignorant, imperialists, with a knack for causing more harm than good by meddling in other peoples affairs. Somehow we moved beyond Theodore Roosevelt's "speaking softly and carrying a big stick" to "speaking loudly and beating people over the head with a big stick when we don't get our way."

To make matters worse, we even pompously adopted the name two whole continents to describe ourselves: Americans (I had to stop myself half way through this post to correct that!).

It's easy to be unforgiving in any case. I myself have had to defend United States international politics, healthcare issues, corporate culture and waist sizes from other students, friends, professors and casual observers in the past, and have to say that it becomes an exhausting task to be caught between an innate sense of [global opportunism] with personal desire to blend with my surroundings and an equally strong and innate sense of American patriotism that seems to somehow developed over the course of spending so much time abroad.

I admit that, for my part, I am only now beginning to wrap my head around the laundry list of United States offenses abroad. It appears to be fairly long by all consideration, especially taking into account the fact that friends from Vietnam, Argentina, Colombia, Iran (to name a few) have somehow ALL been impacted by United States foreign policy abroad. Helplessly, when I was informed that a friend's family was displaced from Buenos Aires to Patagonia simply because they were communists and the newly elected, American-backed, military regime at the time was not having anything in the way of dissent in matters of domestic politics in Argentina resulting in he and his family being forced to move, I was left in the very awkward position of shoulder shrugging while wimpering a soft, but sincere, "I'm sorry", knowing full well that we had never quite touched upon THAT injustice in world history class.

People make it real. Just listen.

In any case, the purpose of this post was not to rail into the inequities of Americanism. I'm certainly not going to try to add to an already growing laundry list. However, my question to myself in all of this listening and understanding about the States' impact abroad is: are we all really that duplicitous? Are we really that bad?

What I do want to do is present you with a small exercise in subjectivity to ultimately say to everyone else outside the States "give us a break, we are human too" and to those of us from the States "wake up and take some responsibility". We, collectively, the common guy, the average Joe, on a day to day basis have little to no conceptions of the "big stick" that we are wielding and probably in the grand scheme of things would resemble a child clumsily swinging an incredibly heavy metal poll rather than a majestic eagle or Theodore Roosevelt effortlessly himself carrying his "big stick" while single handedly carving out the Panama Canal.

Let's take a look at the facts (sorry but you're going to have to do some cutting and pasting until I can figure out how to imbed videos on this)

Exercise A.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Continents
The continents, there are seven, right? Wrong. I fell into this conversation with a number of friends from South America and Europe over apperitivo in Milan. After two caiparinhas I admit that at first it was somewhat difficult to keep the story straight, but in the end my other friend from the States and I were surprised to learn after a heated discussion that maybe there are only six or five continents. In some parts of Europe and Latin America, the Americas are combined, whereas in China and the English speaking world, we always learn that there are seven continents. "Eurasia" exists in Russia and Japan, but not in South America or the States.

My point here is that our concept of place is somewhat culturally subjective, with early education strongly framing how we view the world. Thinking back to World History again, we did do a good job of dissecting Confucianism, but often fell short in discussions of United States incursions in Latin America. Educational baggage is a hard matter to contend with, so it looks like I'm going to have to take two continents for your one.

Imagine the subtle implications though. Suspending gringo continental reality and looking at real geography, why is it that WE make the difference between North and South? Is it then easier to "other" since we don't share the same "continent"? See how that subtle difference already sets someone else "down there" a world apart?

Exercise B.
http://www.ted.com/talks/alisa_miller_shares_the_news_about_the_news.html
This is a video that talks about the United States media that I pulled from TDE [see Tools for Opportunity]. Miller's point is that our opinions are distorted, in a big way, by our media. In her studies she notes that United States media coverage this past year has focused primarily on two places: the US and Iraq. She created a map of "perceptions" to understand American conception of global issues based on number of reporting from abroad.

I'm not going to solely blame the media for the "ignorance" of the United States populace, as it's fairly easy in a blue state world to pick up a New York Times or listen to NPR, but it is interesting to think that how we are somewhat collectively narcissists within all of our own national boundaries. Maybe the "I" in America should be capitalized to reflect this distortion of our relative importance in the world, but isn't the media alway somewhat problematic and skewed. In the end, though, I think the most salient point is that, much like saying "you are what you eat", what we consume collectively and mentally in terms of media coverage does have an affect on our national conscious and may in fact distort our perceptions of what really is the outside world as much as Texas size portions distort our waist bands.

Exercise C.
http://www.elmalpensante.com/index.php?doc=display_contenido&id=1265
This is a view from the other side of our apparent Great Wall of Education and Media escrito en español. El Malpensante is a Colombian literary magazine that posts commentary on culture and politics. It's well-written and it's authors are not afraid to voice seemingly "alternative viewpoints".

In this specific article the author makes the point that United States' prohibition style drug war in Latin America is causing more problems than solutions. The "war on drugs" in his opinion is the exportation of American domestic struggles with drugs abroad (coupled with a rampant abuse of far-reaching military power). The solutions are simple; rather than destroying and trying to restrict and control the drug trade, the author and many Latin American leaders have flirted with the idea of legalizing the drug trade. Not being such a high stakes game, a price deflation would eventually occur and defer future traders. The author also encourages taking a look at other foreign models of drug policy, such as in Canada and Europe, where the debate is more open and alternatives to American interventionism seem to exist in relative peace. Although the risks associated with social problems associated with such a legalization, as well as the insurmountable power of certain individuals and lobbyists to keep prices high, the idea is interesting.

Unfortunately, "thanks but not thanks for the help" is not a response our government in the States takes kindly to.

The recipe for seeming disaster of miscommunication and misunderstanding is impressive when you fit these three puzzle pieces together. The gaps between what we're taught, what we read, and what the other guy REALLY thinks, in whatever country we or you come from are somewhat shocking. Unfortunately, change in the States comes like turning a cruise ship; slowly and with precise and calculated micro-moves that eventually move the whole ship around. We can change educational curriculum, encourage people to read more and maybe listen once in awhile to what the rest of the world has to say, but unfortunately the cumulative affect of such change doesn't happen overnight, and we are a fairly impatient populace.

This all of course, what I've written, isn't a sorry so much as an explanation for US. To say sorry would be an easy way out. THIS requires a larger effort to fix a bigger problem. In the mean time, friends from elsewhere, be patient with US. We're doing the best we can with some admittedly distorted tools in the mean time. We're only human. Everyone in the States, read more, ask more questions, listen. Good Morning America rolling stories about "dog showers" and the amazing products that you can have to satiate your canine's tiny heart's desires for dog food in the shape of burgers may not cut it when in other parts governments are collapsing and people are starving.

Hopefully the rest will fall in place in time.

So after all that, maybe, just maybe, we en el norte aren't that all bad guys like we're made out to be.

A Light Day

Enough of administrative affairs and housekeeping. I wanted to start things off on a lighter note now that some of the nitty gritty of organization can be pushed to the side.

I was looking through a book of quotes by Antoine de Saint Exupéry last night. For those of you who don't recognize this name, Antoine de Saint Exupéry is a French writer who wrote a book called Le Petit Prince [the Little Prince]. The point of this book was to capture the innocence and purity of childhood, with the conviction that we should live out our greatest dreams to be truly content. It's meant to be a children's book to teach lessons about love, friendship and loss, but it consequently resonates with adults as well.

All of you may already know this, about le Petit Prince and about Saint Exupéry. What you may not know and what I was interested to read, was that the most influential and inspiring quote from Le Petit Prince,

"on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur, l'essentiel est invisible aux yeux"
[we only see with the heart, the essential is hidden from our eyes]

was in fact written on Long Island in a small town called Northport, according to my book. Northport is only about a 15 minute drive from where I live, and reading this, for me at least, it's funny to see how a place so close to home could've inspired such a remarkable writer. I went to Northport twice this summer alone and figured that, as such, it would only be fitting to post some photos of this small town and it's beautifully quaint harbor to let you walk in the footsteps of Saint Exupéry as well.

This is a tribute to dreamers everywhere.


This is Northport Bay; it teems with life. Snappers jumping, tidal pools filled with baby fish and horseshoe crabs, oysters; it's a fairly amazing ecosystem.


The is Northport Bay looking toward the Long Island Sound and Connecticut.


Northport Harbor, always picturesque.


Another shot of the boats in Northport Harbor.

Clear skies, gently sloping hills, calm waters, tidal pools full of life; it's no wonder Saint Exupéry found some peace from war torn France on the shores of Northport in what is best described as amazing place for simple, childhood adventures. Clawing beneath the seemingly homogenous layers of life in suburban America, there are little discoveries to be made even on Long Island. This, for me, is a constant reminder that adventure is just around the corner; it's up to you to find it.

Decisions and Beginnings

So of course, I think I'll have to start off, or rather, restart this blog by dispelling some of the negative connotations of the word, opportunism. To be "global" is just fine, if you can really presume to be something so incredibly complex and all encompassing. An "opportunist", though, that seems a bit more problematic.

Just to get the ball going, an "opportunist", by definition is a person who places expediency over principle, OR, a person who takes immediate advantage, often unethically, of any circumstance of possible benefit.

[Global Opportunity] in this sense, may just seem like an excuse to travel. It may also seem like an attempt to avoid the inevitable "9-5" office job. But for me at least, it's a bit more than just looking for free stuff (although free stuff is always a perk). It's more than traveling and more than being a student. It's about riding the waves of change in a world that is continuing to "shrink" and opening your eyes to see the potential in this change. It's about decision making, being true to yourself, it's about having an ethos that allows you to think and feel beyond the impersonal nature of most of our day to day interactions and by most importantly living your life by the rules you set. It's about stopping to look around once in awhile and living in the moment.

Not convinced yet? Maybe if I tell my story you'll have a better sense at what I'm getting at.

I’m currently doing a Masters of Urban Planning in Milan, Italy. It’s funny how such a simple phrase, such a simple, cocktail party presentation of who I am and what I’m doing at the moment, will in all actuality require posts upon posts of explanations and probably inspire countless future observations and musings. So, for your sake, and for the sake of time, let’s just say for the moment that I study in Milan.

How I got there though? Well, that is a whole story in it of itself.

From my humble point of view, higher education is a fairly complex issue in the United States. It’s costly, requires that you practically sell your soul to get a decent FAFSA standing and has become an incredible spectacle of marketing. The campus tours, university sweaters, football games, applications, SATs and interviews are a dizzying and seemingly unending maze of soul searching and spending with the ultimate goal of finding that perfect match. This, we all know of course. It’s nothing new to complain about the impressively long list of inequities in American higher education, but for the stake of setting the context in which I made my decisions, it’s important to reaffirm the frustration.

Needless to say, looking for a masters, I wasn’t about to let myself go through all of THAT again and waded into the waters of university shopping with a number of fairly clear non-negotiables. I, most importantly, refused to let myself be sucked into the vortex of student debt. I was also unwilling to feed the impersonal and unfair corporate arm of educational experience in the States and as such refused to take the GREs. If I was going to be judged and accepted, it would be on my terms and based on my strengths as a student and most certainly not my test scores. Finally, I refused to limit myself to only the States when looking for graduate programs. So, sticking to the opportunist code of ethics, I looked for a way to minimize costs whilst maximizing life experience, global career opportunities and of course, travel experience, by not playing anyone elses game but my own.

To make a long story short, somehow, with a fairly strong undergraduate experience and some inspiring statements of interest, I was able to land myself in three schools: Université de Montréal, NYU Wagner and the Politecnico di Milano. Each program had its perks, which made matters more difficult. Université de Montréal was an accredited planning program taught in French, which would’ve allowed me to stay in Montreal and broaden my linguistic horizons. NYU Wagner was of course NYU and thus, had amazing connections, pristine facilities and was located right in the heart of bustling New York City. The Politecnico di Milano was a longshot, but afforded me the opportunity of immersing myself in a completely new context, challenging myself linguistically and hopefully broadening my career horizons to Europe and beyond.

In the end, much like a bad episode of house hunters where you holler at the TV because the idiots choosing clearly went with the worst option, I was leaning towards NYU Wagner. Milan was far and unknown, maybe too risky of a shot in the dark, and Montreal became too costly to consider because of living expenses. NYU Wagner was thus the most bang for the most buck, but in the end probably would’ve been the “right” decision for future career opportunities.

Accepting NYU Wagner was hard at first, but slowly and surely I began to own the experience. I networked with professors to hopefully land a fellowship position, wandered around Washington Square Park studying the crowds of people coming and going, and like every self respecting future NYU student, paid an impersonal visit to the Bursary Office to hopefully land that mythical interview that you hear about whereby person x was able to negotiate the university into giving them a full ride. My negotiation skills aren't the best and in the end I was told to fill out the FAFSA forms and wait like everyone else. Oi.

I have no qualms in saying that I believe that what happened next was somehow an intervention of fate and sure enough, right as I began to accept NYU, the Politecnico threw me a curveball and decided to choose me instead. Two days before really confirming with NYU Wagner, the Politecnico di Milano sent me an email offering me a full scholarship. This meant that both tuition AND living costs would be covered in Milan. Suddenly, the idea of Milan being “too far” and “too different” was scrapped and I promptly sent an email to NYU that I had been offered an opportunity that I couldn’t turn town. Milan. Free masters. Free euro-chic residence. Other international students. Italian. Europe. Traveling. It’s funny how the cards seemingly all fell into place and my next life step became magically a bit clearer, or rather, a bit less nebulous.

So here I am again at the beginning of my story and the end of this post, telling you that I go to university in Milan. The process to get there in it of itself being somewhat of an exercise in [global opportunism].

The point to this musing about my choice of the Politecnico di Milano is a little more than to just establish my credentials to you. To fire off just a few lessons to round out this post, there exist a plethora of opportunities in the world that fall beyond the primrose path of American university education and eventual employment. Life is full of curveballs and opportunities that we really can't afford to miss. Option Bs may in fact be Option As in disguise. Small ponds need their big fishes.

The whole point, in the end, is to see a horizon open before you and to have a courage to see where it's leading. It's about being willing to buckle up your seatbelt and letting the world take you on a wild ride. It's about being a captive observer and listener to the tides of change in your life and the lives of those around you. And finally, I think it's a fittingly auspicious and humble start to this whole project.

New Beginnings

I'm currently reworking this blog to make it something more functional and interesting... keep your eyes peeled for more updates!