Statue in the Branches
Taken February, 2012 - Villa Borghese, Roma
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Brand Name Comedy
One of our favorite pastimes at the supermarket is spotting products with ridiculous names. Obviously, due to language differences, products sometimes end up with unfortunate names that are guaranteed to make foreigners giggle. I'm sure this works both ways, and a Roman wandering through an American grocery store would find just as much to entertain them. I have found a gold mine of great product names recently...here is a sampling.
My personal favorite: Hello! Spank chocolates.
SMAC chrome cleaner
F.U. oil
This was one of Roland's favorite finds...Rio Bum Bum Neutralyzer (dish wash)
Last but not least...MAJOR cream.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Fight for the Rubber Stamp
I stumbled across this video this morning. Though this takes place in Spain, it still rang hilariously true to me in the bureaucratic debacles I have experienced here in Italy. It is tongue in cheek - but nonetheless - this video is not an exaggeration for Spain, and the experience Italy is exactly the same!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
NYC Photo Blog
In the beginning of December, we took a trip to New York City. It was Roland's first time, and though I had visited once before, it was only for a two day business trip. We were both very excited to get a good dose of Christmas Americana, and explore NYC during the holidays. We were there for 3 full days days, which was fleeting and basically transformed us into "Super tourists." We spent our time visiting some of the most famous sites - The Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, Grand Central Station, Times Square, Wall Street, The State of Liberty, The New York Public Library, Little Italy, Chinatown, The Museum of Natural History, and the newly unveiled 9/11 Memorial. Needless to say, it was a very busy three days. Both of us really enjoyed the city. While trying to avoid sounding too cliche, it had an amazing energy and life - something I realized I really missed about living in a big American city. However, we both agreed that we feel we have only just barely scratched the surface in terms of really seeing the city. We spent much of this visit waiting in lines and viewing the sites from among a massive throng of tourists. I don't think we could have done it any other way for a first visit, but next time, we hope to explore some different neighborhoods and see America's biggest city from a different perspective. Here are some photos from our visit:
Checking out the view from the top of the Rockefeller Center
NYC Public Library
View of Times Square from the top of the Empire State Building
Inside Grand Central Station
The famous Charging Bull, near Wall Street
"The Sphere," a statue formerly in the World Trade Center Plaza, symbolized world peace. It was damaged in the 9/11 attacks, and now stands in Battery park as a monument to the lives lost on 9/11.
The Eternal Flame was lit on September 11, 2002 in remembrance of the victims of 9/11.
View of the skyline from the boat out to Liberty Island
A fellow traveler on the boat to Liberty Island
Inside of the 9/11 memorial. The memorial is a beautiful, tree lined park in the area where the World Trade Center towers stood. Each tower is represented by a beautiful 30 foot illuminated waterfall cascading into a peaceful pool.
Surrounding each memorial waterfall are the illuminated names of each person lost in the attacks on 9/11.
One of the things Roland was most excited about was seeing the steam coming out of the sewers on the streets of NYC..."just like in the movies."
Fountain in Bryant Park
Ice skaters in Bryant Park
The entrance to Grand Central Station
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Skiing: Me vs. Gravity
This year, I have decided to join Roland in a new winter hobby. I am learning to ski. While I spent last winter back in Chicago, Roland spent his free time learning to snowboard in the mountains of Italy. He absolutely loves it, and his excitement was infectious. We visited the sports supply shops, stocked up on the necessary apparel, packed up the car, and headed down to Roccaraso, a ski town about 2 1/2 hours south of Rome.
For most of my life, skiing was something I just never gave much thought to. As a Midwestern girl growing up in the Chicago area, skiing simply wasn't on my radar. With the closest mountains several hours North, few of my peers grew up learning the sport. I always thought it looked cool, but was something that other people did. "Maybe someday..." was the usual sentiment.
Well, someday has arrived. It has arrived fiercely, joining forces with gravity and fear in an effort to pick me up and slam me down, repeatedly, on the side of a cold, hard mountain. But I am getting ahead of myself.
When I arrived at the ski resort in Roccaraso for my first ski experience, I really wasn't nervous. More excited, and curious. I met with Guido, my ski instructor, for a two hour introductory lesson. Thankfully, Guido spoke some English, so our lesson started off just fine. I learned how to put on my skis, maneuver around, walk slowly up a hill on a parallel edge (insert beginning of full-on sweat here) and practice the ever important Snowplow technique. The Snowplow, for those of you not acquainted with skiing, involves, bending your knees and making a triangle shape with your skis. This pushes the front of your skis together, and widens them in the back, effectively allowing you to control your speed and "plow" yourself to a stop. This, Guido informed me gravely, was the most important skill I would need to learn as a beginning skier.
At this point, I graduated to the baby hill to practice my snowplow on an actual incline (albeit a tiny, barely recognizable incline). I did OK, moving along, frozen in my snowplow position, never picking up even a hint of what one might classify as "speed." I learned how to turn gently, and slide to a gradual stop (Snowplow! Snowplow!). I tipped over a few times, but Guido was always right there to yank me back upright. As our two hours drew to a close, I felt a little bit of blossoming confidence. I could easily handle the baby hill, control myself enough to follow my instructor in his gentle turns, and the skis no longer felt quite so foreign on my feet. Guido shook my hand and wished me well, waving over his shoulder at the massive looming mountain lurking behind him as he informed me I was free to give it a go.
This, my friends, is the point where my first ski experience began to go terribly wrong. First of all, in Italy, green ski runs - which are the gentle, beginner runs - rarely exist. At Roccaraso, the easiest run available is a blue run. However, amid some hesitation, I decided that if Guido had given me the green light to hit the mountain, I might as well give it a go. Roland and I took the ski lift up...up...and up some more. At the top of the mountain, I felt my resolve begin to waver a little bit. We were so...high. And the run was so...steep. But there was only one way down. As small, toddler-sized children launched themselves down the first incline without hesitation, I gathered what was left of my confidence and tipped myself down the slope.
!!!&%#$@!***!!%#%@*@*!%@%#*#*....CRASH!!!!!
At the bottom of the first short incline of the slope, I landed in a sweaty, adrenaline spiked heap of twisted skis and limbs, and a dreaded realization spread through me. My precious snowplow didn't work. It. Didn't. Work. With any sort of speed, there was no coasting to a gentle stop or carefully carving gentle turns. And what was more, I had no idea how to stand up. I began to curse Guido for misleading me and sending me down this forsaken mountain unprepared. I couldn't stand up...and I didn't know how to stop. Yet I still had 90 percent of the ski run to finish. Roland appeared and coaxed me back onto my feet, speaking gently to me as one might to a frightened animal. I knew I had to continue down the mountain, so the next hour passed like this:
Start down mountain, squeezing snowplow position with legs like life depends on it.
Oh God, too fast! Throw self down onto mountain to save self from certain death.
Lie panting and sweating for 5 minutes in snow.
Burst into tears.
Curse Guido.
Attempt to stand, fall in twisted heap.
Remove skis. I quit. Skiing career over.
Another gentle, speaking to a scared animal speech of encouragement from Roland.
Put skis back on. I am not a quitter!
Down slope again. Speed! Too fast! Certain death!
Crash. Feel large bruise blossoming on hip. Also quite sure knee should not twist in that direction
Finally discover the secret of standing up with skis on. Not easy, but I can do it!
Down slope again. Attempt to turn.
Crash! Why does gravity hate me?
Spend 10 minutes lying in snow, trying to catch breath. Watch technique of tiny children as they fly by effortlessly.
Stand up, wonder which cursed person ever created such a barbaric sport. Shake packed snow out from under back of coat.
Stay upright on skis for 15 seconds!
Realize that everything about my current turning technique is opposite of what I learned. Correct errors.
Yay! I can turn!
SPEEEEEED! Certain death! Crash!
Lie in snow, close my eyes and daydream about waking up somewhere on flat ground. All has been a bad dream.
Nope, still on horrible, horrible, mountain. Decline help of itty-bitty child offering me a hand. Stand up.
Ski.
Crash!
Stand.
Tears.
Profanity.
Stand.
Ski.
Crash...
And so it went, until I reached the bottom. (Insert two consecutive shots of Sambuca here.) Roland was an amazing cheerleader, and without him I would, doubtless, have ended up removing my skis and walking down the hill. Somehow, after my traumatic first run, he convinced me to attempt the run again not once, but twice. I fell a little less each time, but I still can't stop at with any acquired speed and my poor thighs were absolutely screaming from trying to implement the snowplow all the way down the mountain. My body had never worked so hard, or been so sore and bruised. It was exhausting and demoralizing, but as we drove away from the mountain at the end of the day, I felt a tiny bit of pride. I had overcome a major amount of fear. I hadn't overcome it gracefully by any means (tears, tantrums, profanity) but I made it down the mountain three times. Guido and I will meet again, and when we do, he's got some explaining (and teaching) to do. I don't plan to give up yet, so more to come as I carry on with my death-defying new hobby.
!!!&%#$@!***!!%#%@*@*!%@%#*#*....CRASH!!!!!
At the bottom of the first short incline of the slope, I landed in a sweaty, adrenaline spiked heap of twisted skis and limbs, and a dreaded realization spread through me. My precious snowplow didn't work. It. Didn't. Work. With any sort of speed, there was no coasting to a gentle stop or carefully carving gentle turns. And what was more, I had no idea how to stand up. I began to curse Guido for misleading me and sending me down this forsaken mountain unprepared. I couldn't stand up...and I didn't know how to stop. Yet I still had 90 percent of the ski run to finish. Roland appeared and coaxed me back onto my feet, speaking gently to me as one might to a frightened animal. I knew I had to continue down the mountain, so the next hour passed like this:
Start down mountain, squeezing snowplow position with legs like life depends on it.
Oh God, too fast! Throw self down onto mountain to save self from certain death.
Lie panting and sweating for 5 minutes in snow.
Burst into tears.
Curse Guido.
Attempt to stand, fall in twisted heap.
Remove skis. I quit. Skiing career over.
Another gentle, speaking to a scared animal speech of encouragement from Roland.
Put skis back on. I am not a quitter!
Down slope again. Speed! Too fast! Certain death!
Crash. Feel large bruise blossoming on hip. Also quite sure knee should not twist in that direction
Finally discover the secret of standing up with skis on. Not easy, but I can do it!
Down slope again. Attempt to turn.
Crash! Why does gravity hate me?
Spend 10 minutes lying in snow, trying to catch breath. Watch technique of tiny children as they fly by effortlessly.
Stand up, wonder which cursed person ever created such a barbaric sport. Shake packed snow out from under back of coat.
Stay upright on skis for 15 seconds!
Realize that everything about my current turning technique is opposite of what I learned. Correct errors.
Yay! I can turn!
SPEEEEEED! Certain death! Crash!
Lie in snow, close my eyes and daydream about waking up somewhere on flat ground. All has been a bad dream.
Nope, still on horrible, horrible, mountain. Decline help of itty-bitty child offering me a hand. Stand up.
Ski.
Crash!
Stand.
Tears.
Profanity.
Stand.
Ski.
Crash...
And so it went, until I reached the bottom. (Insert two consecutive shots of Sambuca here.) Roland was an amazing cheerleader, and without him I would, doubtless, have ended up removing my skis and walking down the hill. Somehow, after my traumatic first run, he convinced me to attempt the run again not once, but twice. I fell a little less each time, but I still can't stop at with any acquired speed and my poor thighs were absolutely screaming from trying to implement the snowplow all the way down the mountain. My body had never worked so hard, or been so sore and bruised. It was exhausting and demoralizing, but as we drove away from the mountain at the end of the day, I felt a tiny bit of pride. I had overcome a major amount of fear. I hadn't overcome it gracefully by any means (tears, tantrums, profanity) but I made it down the mountain three times. Guido and I will meet again, and when we do, he's got some explaining (and teaching) to do. I don't plan to give up yet, so more to come as I carry on with my death-defying new hobby.
Before my third trip down the mountain.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
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