It's been a week since I've been home from Europe, *sigh*, I miss it. I've been terrible about posting and promise to catch everybody up over the next few days. Be patient with me!
Here's what's happened over the last week:
I arrived home on Thursday, the 14th of June and went straight to Andy's bachelor party with a toga and a laurel wreath on my head. Pretty tame night, but that's a good thing considering I didn't sleep on the flight back.
I got fitted for my tux the next day, and the wedding was on Saturday(i have pictures of me being photographed with the wedding party. Hilarious and worth a look, check again later.) The wedding was phenomenal and I ushered with Brett, my best friend. Andy was a proud man. I could tell when I went up for communion, I've never seen anyone look so proud and happy.
I danced like a fool to "play that funky music white boy" at the wedding reception and had a blast.
My sister's grad party was on Sunday, and I unpacked on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday, Brett and I started demolishing the shed in our driveway with sledgehammers and crowbars, we finished Thursday and began painting the house on Friday.
I don't have a job this summer since I'm home for only a month and a half. I'll be doing a few jobs around Rockford and I have some business ventures I'm investigating otherwise.
My plans for the summer:
I'm putting in a retaining wall this week.
I'll be in Chicago next weekend, the 30th of June.
I'm working at Rock Valley College from 7-6 from the 5th-14th of July.
I'm hoping to be in the Boundary Waters on the weekend of the 20th-23rd(approx.).
Third Eye Blind concert on July 26th
July 27th I leave for Arizona with my buddies, be back on the 10th of August.
11th of August: Another Third Eye Blind concert
12th-15th of August: Family Vacation in Chicago
Few more days until I have to be back at school.
Marquette starts on the 27th
That's it for now, more to come! I'll bring everyone up to speed on the events in the past few months, don't worry! More photos to come as well.
Rudz
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Spiritual Epiphanies, a note to the Vocation Seekers out there
Expectations are rarely fulfilled. I figured as much when I made it to Rome, expecting a warm, tropical paradise of great food, beautiful women and a easy classes. Well, I was right about the food and the classes, but most of what I expected wasn't even close to reality.
I came here hoping to be affirmed. I got that at Marquette, instead, Italy humbled me. I expected easy, and got knocked on my ass.
In hushed conversations on lonely afternoons, mom and I would talk and type for hours, discussing the rollercoaster bumps of life: Bud has cancer, it's hard making friends abroad, Julie is having trouble finding a college that works, I'm depressed, we don't talk enough. I miss you.
And life goes on. I realized that I had come here hoping that I would figure out somethings about myself, affirm the person I wanted to be and become, well, awesomer than awesome. Sounded reasonable at the time.
"Did you ever think that you aren't in Italy to fall in love, but rather to figure out what it is about yourself that you love?''
I quiver at the thought. What do I love about myself? I'm not really sure. I'm lovable, I know that. Heck, I'm The Rudz. To know me is to love me. But do I love myself? Do I know myself?
My mind was obsessed with the question. Always questions, always answers more complicated than I wanted.
Dad visited, we traveled, ate gelato, I pondered love of self. Can I love myself? Am I allowed to do that? Isn't that selfish?
I hiked back to our hotel one night along the Vatican Wall, pondering the self, myself, late into the night. I had always read that self-realization, fulfillment, the pinnacle of human endeavors is the death of the self. Christ lives inside us, he is apart of us as we are his children. So then, logically, the self has to be put to death in order to reach Christ. The Ego, the selfish wants and needs of one person, are all that stand in the way. They must be defeated in order to reach fulfillment. That's what I'm after, right?
And then it hit me: in order to put the self to death, I have to love myself first. I.e. I have to love myself to put the self to death. Only then can it be given away. I stopped in my tracks, realizing I had reached the sign for the "Musei Vaticani." I was stunned at my revelation.
Time passed, I pondered more on the subject of fulfillment, of my purpose. Everything must have a purpose for an ENFP like me, everything fits in a cosmic whole. In God's Divine Providence, there are no coincidences.
And then my best friends came to visit. Brett revealing how much I value their company, and yesterday, Tim revealing to me just how much they mean to me emotionally. Those were the 2 best hours of my week while Tim was here.
We shared a cone of Gelato at Old Bridge Gelateria, on the same corner as that sign for the Vatican Museums. Rarely in life do we have the privilege of hearing our thoughts clearly, concisely, piercing and firm in our minds. Thoughts that speak like a booming voice, overwhelming everything else in our heads. But that's what I heard when I walked back from dropping Tim off at the Stazione Termini.
Coming to Rome has made me see something else in man that I've missed before, something that was so crystal clear yesterday afternoon as I walked back home: we are full of hope. I see it in each and every face on the street, people walking, begging, sitting, photographing, kissing, driving, staring.
There is so much love in the world, I see it reflected in my friends. If I ever doubted God's love for mankind, then those doubts were dashed by my friends. We have so much potential, so much Hope in us. So much ability. I can see it in everyone, clearer than ever before. I haven't quite sorted out the feelings, and I feel they fall on the page like a shattered glass. But yesterday, I swore I could see something different in people, a love for people that wasn't here before, wasn't something I identified with myself. Each person visiting me in Rome has revealed something to me about myself, something I do love about me. Something I didn't know before.
I watch the faces as I pass them in the street, overwhelmed with the hope of it all. Mankind has never done well underneath restrictions, never reached its potential by being forced into anything.
Instead, we reach our peak, our very best, when we are inspired. When we find someone, something to follow, someone to believe in, we can go wherever we want, as far as we want. We only need that inspiration. The hope is there, waiting to be harnessed, waiting to push us beyond our potential.
Anyways, this was my most recent epiphany as of late. It still leaves me with questions, but at least it's something I can grasp, something I can identify with my own eyes.
I'm still getting used to this whole notes/blogging thing, but I thought that if I penned this, some good might come of it. Bene, bene.
hope this note finds all who read it well, keep safe and say a prayer for Virginia Tech and for US Embassy in Morocco.
God Bless, Ciao Ragazzi,
Rudz
I came here hoping to be affirmed. I got that at Marquette, instead, Italy humbled me. I expected easy, and got knocked on my ass.
In hushed conversations on lonely afternoons, mom and I would talk and type for hours, discussing the rollercoaster bumps of life: Bud has cancer, it's hard making friends abroad, Julie is having trouble finding a college that works, I'm depressed, we don't talk enough. I miss you.
And life goes on. I realized that I had come here hoping that I would figure out somethings about myself, affirm the person I wanted to be and become, well, awesomer than awesome. Sounded reasonable at the time.
"Did you ever think that you aren't in Italy to fall in love, but rather to figure out what it is about yourself that you love?''
I quiver at the thought. What do I love about myself? I'm not really sure. I'm lovable, I know that. Heck, I'm The Rudz. To know me is to love me. But do I love myself? Do I know myself?
My mind was obsessed with the question. Always questions, always answers more complicated than I wanted.
Dad visited, we traveled, ate gelato, I pondered love of self. Can I love myself? Am I allowed to do that? Isn't that selfish?
I hiked back to our hotel one night along the Vatican Wall, pondering the self, myself, late into the night. I had always read that self-realization, fulfillment, the pinnacle of human endeavors is the death of the self. Christ lives inside us, he is apart of us as we are his children. So then, logically, the self has to be put to death in order to reach Christ. The Ego, the selfish wants and needs of one person, are all that stand in the way. They must be defeated in order to reach fulfillment. That's what I'm after, right?
And then it hit me: in order to put the self to death, I have to love myself first. I.e. I have to love myself to put the self to death. Only then can it be given away. I stopped in my tracks, realizing I had reached the sign for the "Musei Vaticani." I was stunned at my revelation.
Time passed, I pondered more on the subject of fulfillment, of my purpose. Everything must have a purpose for an ENFP like me, everything fits in a cosmic whole. In God's Divine Providence, there are no coincidences.
And then my best friends came to visit. Brett revealing how much I value their company, and yesterday, Tim revealing to me just how much they mean to me emotionally. Those were the 2 best hours of my week while Tim was here.
We shared a cone of Gelato at Old Bridge Gelateria, on the same corner as that sign for the Vatican Museums. Rarely in life do we have the privilege of hearing our thoughts clearly, concisely, piercing and firm in our minds. Thoughts that speak like a booming voice, overwhelming everything else in our heads. But that's what I heard when I walked back from dropping Tim off at the Stazione Termini.
Coming to Rome has made me see something else in man that I've missed before, something that was so crystal clear yesterday afternoon as I walked back home: we are full of hope. I see it in each and every face on the street, people walking, begging, sitting, photographing, kissing, driving, staring.
There is so much love in the world, I see it reflected in my friends. If I ever doubted God's love for mankind, then those doubts were dashed by my friends. We have so much potential, so much Hope in us. So much ability. I can see it in everyone, clearer than ever before. I haven't quite sorted out the feelings, and I feel they fall on the page like a shattered glass. But yesterday, I swore I could see something different in people, a love for people that wasn't here before, wasn't something I identified with myself. Each person visiting me in Rome has revealed something to me about myself, something I do love about me. Something I didn't know before.
I watch the faces as I pass them in the street, overwhelmed with the hope of it all. Mankind has never done well underneath restrictions, never reached its potential by being forced into anything.
Instead, we reach our peak, our very best, when we are inspired. When we find someone, something to follow, someone to believe in, we can go wherever we want, as far as we want. We only need that inspiration. The hope is there, waiting to be harnessed, waiting to push us beyond our potential.
Anyways, this was my most recent epiphany as of late. It still leaves me with questions, but at least it's something I can grasp, something I can identify with my own eyes.
I'm still getting used to this whole notes/blogging thing, but I thought that if I penned this, some good might come of it. Bene, bene.
hope this note finds all who read it well, keep safe and say a prayer for Virginia Tech and for US Embassy in Morocco.
God Bless, Ciao Ragazzi,
Rudz
On fat little Italian boys named Fabrizzio
I have this theory on fat little Italian boys. There's a million of them around Italy, and their unmistakable. You can also tell when you see a fat, grown Italian man with a 12 o'clock shadow. He may look 50, but deep down, there's a fat little Italian boy wiggling to get out.
Clear whatever's on your mind and prepare for this mental picture. These little boys are
usually about 8 years old, roly-poly fat, and have the shorter, greasy, curly black hair. For whatever reason, they love the color orange, and usually prefer orange-striped shirts. Their pants, regardless of jeans or khakis, are usually a few inches too short to cover their socks.
And they love to skip. You can see them down the sidewalks of Via Nazionale in the hot Italian sun, swinging their arms as they hold a coat in one hand and lick the lollipop in the other, stopping at candy shops as they go. If you're really lucky, they wear one of those multi-color beanies with the propeller on top. Priceless.
If you come to Rome, watch out for little Fabrizzio, he's always around.
Clear whatever's on your mind and prepare for this mental picture. These little boys are
usually about 8 years old, roly-poly fat, and have the shorter, greasy, curly black hair. For whatever reason, they love the color orange, and usually prefer orange-striped shirts. Their pants, regardless of jeans or khakis, are usually a few inches too short to cover their socks.
And they love to skip. You can see them down the sidewalks of Via Nazionale in the hot Italian sun, swinging their arms as they hold a coat in one hand and lick the lollipop in the other, stopping at candy shops as they go. If you're really lucky, they wear one of those multi-color beanies with the propeller on top. Priceless.
If you come to Rome, watch out for little Fabrizzio, he's always around.
Camera Broken!
I've lost a limb! The other night, I broke the shutter on my Nikon D50! It was sitting on a box in my room, and then things got tangled up in cords. Next thing I knew, it was on the ground. I didn't think anything of it, it was a very short fall, but apparently enough that it broke the shutter and debilitated my digital camera abilities.
2 weeks to get it replaced, I leave for Morocco on Friday, hopefully it'll be done soon! Good thing I brought a back up camera. It's film, but she's a beaut.
I'm very excited about Morocco, after this weekend, I'll have been on every continent except Antarctica! Have to brag.
Long overdue
Ragazzi,
It's been a month since I really sat down and blogged. Here's an overview of what's been going on in my life(more details to come in the future with stories):
Carrie visited me, we had a blast wandering around Rome, seeing the Vatican Museums and the beautiful Sistine Chapel, going to Assisi(also beautiful) and hanging out. At the end, we saw Gino again, then went to the Hilton for the night(thanks dad) and watched a movie with ice cream! Perfect ending. It was great to bond with my little sister, we barely get to see each other now that we're in college so it was great to hang out.
After Carrie left, I went to Termini and left with my two friends Esther and Pooja for Venice, Italy. Venice is amazing! We drank wine out of water bottles from a little place in Venice that pumps wine out of flasks(into water bottles, of course), we tried on Carnavale masks, ate on the banks of the river, fed the pigeons from our hands in St. Mark's Square, and found the X from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. Remember? Indy goes to Venice to find the tomb of the knight that contains the other half of the grail map. We found the library(actually a church) in the center of Venice at Campo San Barnaba, or the Church of San Barnaba. It's relatively easy to find in the center of the city. Have some gelato in that square and then walk south to the canal.
A week later was spring break and brett visited me. I was supposed to pick him up at the airport at 7:30 am, so I set my alarm the night before and did my laundry. When I woke up at 11 am, I nearly peed my pants. I raced to Fiumicino airport, illegally riding the train there, but brett wasn't there. Afterwards, I took the train home, racing to find Brett. I didn't buy a ticket that time either, but this time they checked! I got up real casual, walked to the front of the train, and realized I was screwed. I talked to the conductor at the front, who informed me that I'd have to pay a fine of 25 euros in addition to the 11 euro ticket. I talked with him for 10 minutes, and the ticket collector had already walked through the train. He saw me speaking with the conductor, and he must've assumed I had a ticket, because I walked right by him! Crisis avoided and 36 euros richer, I walked off the train. Later that day, I found brett and was thrilled to see him. I set him up in my place and then went to the US Ambassador's place for drinks(more on that later).
Brett and I had a blast in Rome. We went to Naples, Pompeii, saw most of Rome and many churches in the city. Best of all was our talks. We're deep talkers and our conversation inside the Vatican prayer area is one that I'll never forget. We were both marveling at where we are in life, and Brett told me some advice his friend had gotten. Whenever he would despair, Brett's friend's dad would stop him and ask "Joe, look at your feet. Look where you are." I think it's some of the best advice I've ever heard. Look where you are. Think about it.
Anyways, I was sad to see brett go, but glad I stayed in Italy. The rest of Europe was freezing that weekend in March!
So, the last weekend of March, I went to Ravenna for class. It's a little town north of Bologna in the arch of North East Italy. I went for my Early Christian and Byzantine Art class, and we spent the weekend looking at ancient churches and murals. It wasn't too exciting, but I did get to see an amazing mural, very famous that I've seen in history books in the Basilica of San Vitale(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_San_Vitale). Very cool.
My Easter was splendid. I went to mass with the Pope at 10:30 am, it was awesome. I had bought a tie from Enzo, an Italian friend I made in a tie shop on Via Vittorio Emmanuelle. He's 79, 6', and used to play on the Italian National Basketball team. I told him about my grandfather and how he made the Polish olympic soccer team, but never went because he broke his leg. Enzo still plays basketball, we swapped more stories, he sold me a 100% Italian Silk tie, and then invited me back for coffee sometime. To know me is to love me. I wore that tie to Easter mass, but didn't recieve communion at Mass. There were too many people. People were screaming, waving, jumping up and down for communion. But the tight schedule of the mass seemed to take priority, and many priests turned back before they finished. One priest, God Bless his soul, kept administering communion until he was literally pulled away by a security guard. I ended up going to a nearby church for communion.
There were no more Romans left in Rome on Easter weekend, they all left! Millions of tourists took their place. It was insane. Very eerie feeling in the city.
I started eating at 1 pm that day, and didn't stop till 11 pm. My friend Gillian had her family in town, and they were gracious enough to take us all out to dinner. Great to be in a family atmosphere for Easter. They were very kind and I am in their debt.
Gillian's friend Nikki came over Easter, and next thing I knew all of us were partying every night! I've never gone out so much, and I don't think there was a night I went to bed before 4 am. What a blast.
Finally, I went to Pompeii this past weekend and climbed Vesuvius! A live volcano, and I climbed it. I was looking down into the pit of Vesuvius, marveling at this amazing mountain that had just erupted 63 years ago. Really blows the mind. It was raining, but still magnificent. While in Pompeii, we wandered the large city(all single floor, so very spread out, a lot of walking) for a few hours with a good tour guide. Incredible to see the actual petrified bodies of the dead(they were very small), bent backwards in a horrifying scream of agony, arms protecting their face, as they were overcome by hot ash. Apparently, the air was so hot that their heads exploded. Pretty awesome. I thought of the movie Mars Attacks! where they play Hank Williams until the aliens brains pop. I'm in Pompeii and this is what I think of, sheesh.
Anyways, we saw Sorrento after that, beautiful city. Had a great view of the coast and made my way back to Rome on Sunday.
Yesterday, one of my best friends, Tim was here, it was so good to see him. We hadn't gotten together since January, and then suddenly we were in Rome together. It was great! He saw me across St. Peter's Square and we were running towards one another "TIM!" "MIKE!" We hugged. I might have twirled him. We looked like we were a little too close, but we didn't care. Nothing like an old friend. I've seen so much of Rome, Italy and Europe, but there's so much more to do! Hard to believe that it's almost over!
It's been a month since I really sat down and blogged. Here's an overview of what's been going on in my life(more details to come in the future with stories):
Carrie visited me, we had a blast wandering around Rome, seeing the Vatican Museums and the beautiful Sistine Chapel, going to Assisi(also beautiful) and hanging out. At the end, we saw Gino again, then went to the Hilton for the night(thanks dad) and watched a movie with ice cream! Perfect ending. It was great to bond with my little sister, we barely get to see each other now that we're in college so it was great to hang out.
After Carrie left, I went to Termini and left with my two friends Esther and Pooja for Venice, Italy. Venice is amazing! We drank wine out of water bottles from a little place in Venice that pumps wine out of flasks(into water bottles, of course), we tried on Carnavale masks, ate on the banks of the river, fed the pigeons from our hands in St. Mark's Square, and found the X from Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. Remember? Indy goes to Venice to find the tomb of the knight that contains the other half of the grail map. We found the library(actually a church) in the center of Venice at Campo San Barnaba, or the Church of San Barnaba. It's relatively easy to find in the center of the city. Have some gelato in that square and then walk south to the canal.
A week later was spring break and brett visited me. I was supposed to pick him up at the airport at 7:30 am, so I set my alarm the night before and did my laundry. When I woke up at 11 am, I nearly peed my pants. I raced to Fiumicino airport, illegally riding the train there, but brett wasn't there. Afterwards, I took the train home, racing to find Brett. I didn't buy a ticket that time either, but this time they checked! I got up real casual, walked to the front of the train, and realized I was screwed. I talked to the conductor at the front, who informed me that I'd have to pay a fine of 25 euros in addition to the 11 euro ticket. I talked with him for 10 minutes, and the ticket collector had already walked through the train. He saw me speaking with the conductor, and he must've assumed I had a ticket, because I walked right by him! Crisis avoided and 36 euros richer, I walked off the train. Later that day, I found brett and was thrilled to see him. I set him up in my place and then went to the US Ambassador's place for drinks(more on that later).
Brett and I had a blast in Rome. We went to Naples, Pompeii, saw most of Rome and many churches in the city. Best of all was our talks. We're deep talkers and our conversation inside the Vatican prayer area is one that I'll never forget. We were both marveling at where we are in life, and Brett told me some advice his friend had gotten. Whenever he would despair, Brett's friend's dad would stop him and ask "Joe, look at your feet. Look where you are." I think it's some of the best advice I've ever heard. Look where you are. Think about it.
Anyways, I was sad to see brett go, but glad I stayed in Italy. The rest of Europe was freezing that weekend in March!
So, the last weekend of March, I went to Ravenna for class. It's a little town north of Bologna in the arch of North East Italy. I went for my Early Christian and Byzantine Art class, and we spent the weekend looking at ancient churches and murals. It wasn't too exciting, but I did get to see an amazing mural, very famous that I've seen in history books in the Basilica of San Vitale(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_San_Vitale). Very cool.
My Easter was splendid. I went to mass with the Pope at 10:30 am, it was awesome. I had bought a tie from Enzo, an Italian friend I made in a tie shop on Via Vittorio Emmanuelle. He's 79, 6', and used to play on the Italian National Basketball team. I told him about my grandfather and how he made the Polish olympic soccer team, but never went because he broke his leg. Enzo still plays basketball, we swapped more stories, he sold me a 100% Italian Silk tie, and then invited me back for coffee sometime. To know me is to love me. I wore that tie to Easter mass, but didn't recieve communion at Mass. There were too many people. People were screaming, waving, jumping up and down for communion. But the tight schedule of the mass seemed to take priority, and many priests turned back before they finished. One priest, God Bless his soul, kept administering communion until he was literally pulled away by a security guard. I ended up going to a nearby church for communion.
There were no more Romans left in Rome on Easter weekend, they all left! Millions of tourists took their place. It was insane. Very eerie feeling in the city.
I started eating at 1 pm that day, and didn't stop till 11 pm. My friend Gillian had her family in town, and they were gracious enough to take us all out to dinner. Great to be in a family atmosphere for Easter. They were very kind and I am in their debt.
Gillian's friend Nikki came over Easter, and next thing I knew all of us were partying every night! I've never gone out so much, and I don't think there was a night I went to bed before 4 am. What a blast.
Finally, I went to Pompeii this past weekend and climbed Vesuvius! A live volcano, and I climbed it. I was looking down into the pit of Vesuvius, marveling at this amazing mountain that had just erupted 63 years ago. Really blows the mind. It was raining, but still magnificent. While in Pompeii, we wandered the large city(all single floor, so very spread out, a lot of walking) for a few hours with a good tour guide. Incredible to see the actual petrified bodies of the dead(they were very small), bent backwards in a horrifying scream of agony, arms protecting their face, as they were overcome by hot ash. Apparently, the air was so hot that their heads exploded. Pretty awesome. I thought of the movie Mars Attacks! where they play Hank Williams until the aliens brains pop. I'm in Pompeii and this is what I think of, sheesh.
Anyways, we saw Sorrento after that, beautiful city. Had a great view of the coast and made my way back to Rome on Sunday.
Yesterday, one of my best friends, Tim was here, it was so good to see him. We hadn't gotten together since January, and then suddenly we were in Rome together. It was great! He saw me across St. Peter's Square and we were running towards one another "TIM!" "MIKE!" We hugged. I might have twirled him. We looked like we were a little too close, but we didn't care. Nothing like an old friend. I've seen so much of Rome, Italy and Europe, but there's so much more to do! Hard to believe that it's almost over!
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Monastic Life, Revisited
Dear Abbot,
I am sending this letter to formally request an opportunity to photograph at your monastery and to meet with you in the near future.
I am a John Cabot University student studying photography in Rome and am interested in photographing members of the monastic community in Italy. With your permission and guidance, I would like to request the opportunity to photograph at your Monastery. I am interested in compiling a photographic documentary on the monastic life in Italy.
I have photographed at a Monastery in the United States with monks of the Cistercian Order. I will call by the 5th of March to speak with you and discuss the possibility of this project.
Sincerely yours,
Michael Rudzinski
I sent this letter, in both english and Italian, over 2 weeks ago to the Monastery of Fonte Colombo in Rieti, Italy. A small industrial town near Assisi, Rieti and its 4 monasteries were the original 4 abbeys that St. Francis of Assisi visited. Fonte Colombo is still active, so I thought, why not do another photo project on monks?
My professor suggested the idea about a month or so ago, and I’ve been trying ever since to get ahold of Fonte Colombo. Whenever I call, I explain my situation in broken italian and receive a “call back in a few days.” A few friends helped me at JCU and interpreted for me, only to receive the same response.
So finally, I decided I was just going to go there this weekend. I got sick and couldn’t make it out there today, but called them and, to my surprise, someone picked up on the other end who spoke a little english. It turns out that Fonte Colombo doesn’t have an Abbot, which means no one read my letter. I’m staying there tomorrow night as a pilgrim inside the monastery and will start my project. Hopefully, I can win the trust of the monks and start to take more of the photos that I’d like.
More on this after I get back.
I am sending this letter to formally request an opportunity to photograph at your monastery and to meet with you in the near future.
I am a John Cabot University student studying photography in Rome and am interested in photographing members of the monastic community in Italy. With your permission and guidance, I would like to request the opportunity to photograph at your Monastery. I am interested in compiling a photographic documentary on the monastic life in Italy.
I have photographed at a Monastery in the United States with monks of the Cistercian Order. I will call by the 5th of March to speak with you and discuss the possibility of this project.
Sincerely yours,
Michael Rudzinski
I sent this letter, in both english and Italian, over 2 weeks ago to the Monastery of Fonte Colombo in Rieti, Italy. A small industrial town near Assisi, Rieti and its 4 monasteries were the original 4 abbeys that St. Francis of Assisi visited. Fonte Colombo is still active, so I thought, why not do another photo project on monks?
My professor suggested the idea about a month or so ago, and I’ve been trying ever since to get ahold of Fonte Colombo. Whenever I call, I explain my situation in broken italian and receive a “call back in a few days.” A few friends helped me at JCU and interpreted for me, only to receive the same response.
So finally, I decided I was just going to go there this weekend. I got sick and couldn’t make it out there today, but called them and, to my surprise, someone picked up on the other end who spoke a little english. It turns out that Fonte Colombo doesn’t have an Abbot, which means no one read my letter. I’m staying there tomorrow night as a pilgrim inside the monastery and will start my project. Hopefully, I can win the trust of the monks and start to take more of the photos that I’d like.
More on this after I get back.
My Extended Italian Family (Take 2 and 3)
Carriekins, my lovable faux-hawked sister, visited me a couple weeks ago. And again we stopped by Gino’s, more than happy to oblige us. When I made the reservation for that night, GIno insisted on feeding me a small plate of food and giving me white wine. When you’re Roman, you’re family.
As many of you know, Carrie doesn’t drink. That left me in quite the predicament when Gino poured 2 glasses of white and then brought a bottle of red. Add the grappa at the end of the meal, and I was feeling it. I finished just about all of it, and held my own, anything for Gino!
When Gino brought us the cheese platter, the center of the plate was a hearty piece of blue cheese. Oh baby. Gino came by and drizzled that puppy with honey, at which I proclaimed “Gino! Questo e mi favorito!” And it is, that combination of thick honey with moldy cheese is unbeatable.
Later on, Gino returned with a plastic bag, reached inside to reveal . . . a jar of honey! I realized I should have specified “gorgonzola e miele sono mi favorito”. I’ve been eating honey on toast every morning since.
A week after Carrie, my best friend from back home came with his parents. There are 2 types of funny in this world: regular funny, and Brett funny. This is roll around on the floor, sides, aching, crying, pee-your-pants funny. I was happy to see Brett.
We visited Gino again this past Wednesday, this time with Brett and his parents. After a bottle of white, and two bottles of rosso, we were feeling pretty good and enjoying the great food. Of course, the best wine was from Gino’s home region of Puglia, a dark, rich Nero wine by the same makers of the Primitivo wine Gino sells. Gino even made a special dish just for Brett who had given up meat for lent. Grappa came afterwards, clearing the sinuses, and we even got a couple of pictures with Gino.
I gave Gino his present from my dad, 2 Chicago Bears T-Shirts, pretty crappy if you ask me! This guy gave us a bottle of fine olive oil, honey, and a Rosso del Montalcino and he gets 2 t-shirts? Come on dad, you gotta do better than that.
As a parting gift, Gino gave us 2 more honey jars, and a bottle of wine. I’m sure I’ll have more Gino stories to come.
As many of you know, Carrie doesn’t drink. That left me in quite the predicament when Gino poured 2 glasses of white and then brought a bottle of red. Add the grappa at the end of the meal, and I was feeling it. I finished just about all of it, and held my own, anything for Gino!
When Gino brought us the cheese platter, the center of the plate was a hearty piece of blue cheese. Oh baby. Gino came by and drizzled that puppy with honey, at which I proclaimed “Gino! Questo e mi favorito!”
Later on, Gino returned with a plastic bag, reached inside to reveal . . . a jar of honey! I realized I should have specified “gorgonzola e miele sono mi favorito”
A week after Carrie, my best friend from back home came with his parents. There are 2 types of funny in this world: regular funny, and Brett funny. This is roll around on the floor, sides, aching, crying, pee-your-pants funny. I was happy to see Brett.
We visited Gino again this past Wednesday, this time with Brett and his parents. After a bottle of white, and two bottles of rosso, we were feeling pretty good and enjoying the great food. Of course, the best wine was from Gino’s home region of Puglia, a dark, rich Nero wine by the same makers of the Primitivo wine Gino sells. Gino even made a special dish just for Brett who had given up meat for lent. Grappa came afterwards, clearing the sinuses, and we even got a couple of pictures with Gino.
I gave Gino his present from my dad, 2 Chicago Bears T-Shirts, pretty crappy if you ask me! This guy gave us a bottle of fine olive oil, honey, and a Rosso del Montalcino and he gets 2 t-shirts? Come on dad, you gotta do better than that.
As a parting gift, Gino gave us 2 more honey jars, and a bottle of wine. I’m sure I’ll have more Gino stories to come.
Croatia and Plitvice, part 2
Didn't think my post on Croatia was adequate, so here's the rest of what I typed:
Croat |ˈkrōˌat; ˈkrōˌät; krōt|
noun
1 a native or national of Croatia, or a person of Croatian descent.
2 Ethnically, somewhere between Italian, Greek and Slavic Russian. Eats squid. Speaks funny sounding language similar to polish. Lives in a beautiful country. Hates Italians. Tasty trout.
I realized I never blogged on Croatia. It is a beautiful country and very cheap. Unfortunately, many Americans are still underneath the impression that there’s still a war raging in the Balkans. You’ll find a lot of bullet riddled houses(and land mines, if you venture off into the wilderness), but no war. The Croats are very nice as a people, and polite, not to mention cheap.
Croatia has yet to join the EU, and even though they have a deal to use the Euro for tourism, their main currency is the Kuhn(“Coon” just like the end of “raccoon,” which, oddly enough, means “Fox” in Croatian). It’s about 5 Kuhn to the American dollar, which is pretty awesome when you want to travel around one of the most beautiful places in Europe. Split and Dubrownik are considered the most beautiful part of the world by National Geographic(this is hearsay, but probably valid), but we didn’t have the chance to make it down there.
We did make it to Zagreb in the north, the Istrian Peninsula, and Plitvice National Park.
Croatia, despite claiming to be ‘South Central European”, is extremely Eastern. Conquered by from every direction by a variety of peoples(including the turks, russians, romans and italians), they’re a pretty unique culture that’s just starting to become more well known in the years after the war. We rented a car in Zagreb and drove to Istria, a peninsula of the northern coast. I had hoped to go to Venice while dad was in town, but there was a warning for Americans during Carnevale and we found cheap tickets to Croatia instead. Stumbling around the coastal towns, not really finding any tourists or anything of interest, I was starting to wonder how smart that decision had been. In Rjeki, a small town in the south of Istria, dad and I stumbled into a Carnevale festival.
In Croatia, men dress up as wolves during Carnevale to chase the evil spirits out of town(as I understand it). While waiting for all this commotion to occur, we were enjoying a cappuccino in a sidewalk cafe when a pickup with four guys playing homemade tambourines, trumpets and electric keyboards pulled up, one yelling into a megaphone. They tell me he was ‘singing.’
Behind the european redneck band, was another pickup with a lifesize plastic cow in the back, being chased buy a dozen men in masks and monkey suits. One was carrying a live chainsaw.
I had hoped they had come to sacrifice the band to the cow god, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, they danced around the cow in the square for a while, my favorite devil-worshippers being the guys dressed up as a wolf and a gorilla doing the tango.
Dad and I left after the guy with the chainsaw started spicing things up by chasing passers-by while revving the motor. I’m pretty sure he was drunk. All this time I’m thinking “I could be in VENICE right now at the real Carnevale!” I was kicking myself.
At the next town, dad and I stumbled into a wedding, which was also very Eastern European with fake tuxes and a bride with bad makeup. I think it was in the church courtyard where we decided Istria was a bust.
We piled back in the car after buying some bread, cheese, wine and baklava and started driving south. Switching plans on a trip can reinvigorate things, especially if your first plan doesn’t work out. In our case, it was just time to get out of Istria.
The road to Plitvice National Park was mostly highway until we started driving east. Climbing up a mountain in our tiny Fiat, we were taking 180 degree switchbacks along a narrow, wet road and praying hail marys like nobody’s business. That was before the fog. Once we hit the fog, we couldn’t see more than 20 feet in front of us, and ended up turning back for the nearest town.
We found a hotel just as the kitchen was about to close, and dad ordered squid for the 2nd night. I had veal, or what looked like a dark meat, as it was floating in a puddle of grease. Neither were anything to write about, but the irritable waitress and the owners were a trip.
We thought our server was a piece of work, until we were shown to our room. The two owners, an elderly german looking gentleman with a million wrinkles and teeth like nails, spoke in a raspy German accent to his accomplice. He stood no taller than 5’ 10”, but was the toughest looking Croat I had ever seen. Built like a brick wall, ‘Dozer,’ as I’ve come to call him, had a shaved head and looked like colonel from the war. When they led us into our room and discussed prices, I was convinced they were going to gut us both and take our money.
Dozer obviously had a way with women, especially his wife the irritable Croatian waitress who served us dinner. She had a way of rolling her eyes each time you asked a question and only responding when she felt like it. I’ve since decided to marry a Pole.
In the morning, we left Dozer and drove to Plitvice through still-thick fog. Totally worth the trip. The Hotel Jezero, overlooking the system of waterfalls Plitvice is known for, was very nice and the staff spoke english well. Plitvice has 10,000 visitors a day during the summer, but in February it was abandoned. One of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.
Croat |ˈkrōˌat; ˈkrōˌät; krōt|
noun
1 a native or national of Croatia, or a person of Croatian descent.
2 Ethnically, somewhere between Italian, Greek and Slavic Russian. Eats squid. Speaks funny sounding language similar to polish. Lives in a beautiful country. Hates Italians. Tasty trout.
I realized I never blogged on Croatia. It is a beautiful country and very cheap. Unfortunately, many Americans are still underneath the impression that there’s still a war raging in the Balkans. You’ll find a lot of bullet riddled houses(and land mines, if you venture off into the wilderness), but no war. The Croats are very nice as a people, and polite, not to mention cheap.
Croatia has yet to join the EU, and even though they have a deal to use the Euro for tourism, their main currency is the Kuhn(“Coon” just like the end of “raccoon,” which, oddly enough, means “Fox” in Croatian). It’s about 5 Kuhn to the American dollar, which is pretty awesome when you want to travel around one of the most beautiful places in Europe. Split and Dubrownik are considered the most beautiful part of the world by National Geographic(this is hearsay, but probably valid), but we didn’t have the chance to make it down there.
We did make it to Zagreb in the north, the Istrian Peninsula, and Plitvice National Park.
Croatia, despite claiming to be ‘South Central European”, is extremely Eastern. Conquered by from every direction by a variety of peoples(including the turks, russians, romans and italians), they’re a pretty unique culture that’s just starting to become more well known in the years after the war. We rented a car in Zagreb and drove to Istria, a peninsula of the northern coast. I had hoped to go to Venice while dad was in town, but there was a warning for Americans during Carnevale and we found cheap tickets to Croatia instead. Stumbling around the coastal towns, not really finding any tourists or anything of interest, I was starting to wonder how smart that decision had been. In Rjeki, a small town in the south of Istria, dad and I stumbled into a Carnevale festival.
In Croatia, men dress up as wolves during Carnevale to chase the evil spirits out of town(as I understand it). While waiting for all this commotion to occur, we were enjoying a cappuccino in a sidewalk cafe when a pickup with four guys playing homemade tambourines, trumpets and electric keyboards pulled up, one yelling into a megaphone. They tell me he was ‘singing.’
Behind the european redneck band, was another pickup with a lifesize plastic cow in the back, being chased buy a dozen men in masks and monkey suits. One was carrying a live chainsaw.
I had hoped they had come to sacrifice the band to the cow god, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, they danced around the cow in the square for a while, my favorite devil-worshippers being the guys dressed up as a wolf and a gorilla doing the tango.
Dad and I left after the guy with the chainsaw started spicing things up by chasing passers-by while revving the motor. I’m pretty sure he was drunk. All this time I’m thinking “I could be in VENICE right now at the real Carnevale!” I was kicking myself.
At the next town, dad and I stumbled into a wedding, which was also very Eastern European with fake tuxes and a bride with bad makeup. I think it was in the church courtyard where we decided Istria was a bust.
We piled back in the car after buying some bread, cheese, wine and baklava and started driving south. Switching plans on a trip can reinvigorate things, especially if your first plan doesn’t work out. In our case, it was just time to get out of Istria.
The road to Plitvice National Park was mostly highway until we started driving east. Climbing up a mountain in our tiny Fiat, we were taking 180 degree switchbacks along a narrow, wet road and praying hail marys like nobody’s business. That was before the fog. Once we hit the fog, we couldn’t see more than 20 feet in front of us, and ended up turning back for the nearest town.
We found a hotel just as the kitchen was about to close, and dad ordered squid for the 2nd night. I had veal, or what looked like a dark meat, as it was floating in a puddle of grease. Neither were anything to write about, but the irritable waitress and the owners were a trip.
We thought our server was a piece of work, until we were shown to our room. The two owners, an elderly german looking gentleman with a million wrinkles and teeth like nails, spoke in a raspy German accent to his accomplice. He stood no taller than 5’ 10”, but was the toughest looking Croat I had ever seen. Built like a brick wall, ‘Dozer,’ as I’ve come to call him, had a shaved head and looked like colonel from the war. When they led us into our room and discussed prices, I was convinced they were going to gut us both and take our money.
Dozer obviously had a way with women, especially his wife the irritable Croatian waitress who served us dinner. She had a way of rolling her eyes each time you asked a question and only responding when she felt like it. I’ve since decided to marry a Pole.
In the morning, we left Dozer and drove to Plitvice through still-thick fog. Totally worth the trip. The Hotel Jezero, overlooking the system of waterfalls Plitvice is known for, was very nice and the staff spoke english well. Plitvice has 10,000 visitors a day during the summer, but in February it was abandoned. One of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
@ The Ambassador's:
Mired in midterms, our class continued presenting on artists for my Landscape Painting class on Wednesday. After sitting through 3 hours of Matisse and driving a screwdriver through my eye to relieve the boredom, class was dismissed and my professor casually mentioned "oh yeah, the US Ambassador to Italy wants to have drinks with some of the young American and Italian artists going to school in Rome. Anyone interested?"
BAH-ZING!!!
Oh baby, I'm there. I left my email for the invite and skipped out the door. And then, I received a little something in the mail:
The Ambassador of the United States of America
and Mrs. Spogli
request the honor of the company of
Mr. Rudzinski
at an Evening of Art and Music
on Friday, March 16
from six-thirty to eight-thirty o’clock
How do I pull this stuff off? Private mass with the 2nd most important man in the Catholic Church? Papal audiences? Dinner with bishops? Drinks with US Ambassadors? To know me is to love me.
More on this topic after I've networked the art scene at the embassy. Live vicariously, friends. Vicariously.
BAH-ZING!!!
Oh baby, I'm there. I left my email for the invite and skipped out the door. And then, I received a little something in the mail:
The Ambassador of the United States of America
and Mrs. Spogli
request the honor of the company of
Mr. Rudzinski
at an Evening of Art and Music
on Friday, March 16
from six-thirty to eight-thirty o’clock
How do I pull this stuff off? Private mass with the 2nd most important man in the Catholic Church? Papal audiences? Dinner with bishops? Drinks with US Ambassadors? To know me is to love me.
More on this topic after I've networked the art scene at the embassy. Live vicariously, friends. Vicariously.
Monday, March 05, 2007
My Extended Italian Family
This post is over a week late, but one of my best experiences in Italy so far.
My dad visited over a week ago, and while trying to get out of the rain one day, we stumbled into a restaurant off Via Trastevere.
The secret to finding a good restaurant in Italy is quite simple: find someplace where no one speaks English. Not hard to do, but a challenge once you’re in the restaurant. But the reward was well worth it when we found “La Vecchia Bottega del Vino” at 9A/11 Via S. Maria del Pianto.
Brown wood shelving stacked 4 high to the ceiling with wine, impassioned romans having intense conversations(evident by theatrical hand motions) over glasses of vino, and a lime-green bottle of Olia di Oliva on every goomba’s table. Oh baby, you can’t go wrong. We were ushered in for lunch sometime around 1 p.m.
I knew we were in business when the owner addressed us in Italian despite our undeniably American looks. I had to work with what little Italian I knew, but we had only ordered two glasses of Barbera D’Alba(a Hilberg 2004, in case you’re interested) when a plate of smoked fish arrived. Thin slices of salmon, tuna and a few other pesce(fish) sat atop a salad of rugetta, a bitter but tasty green leaf that looks like dandelion, and the freshest cherry tomatoes I’ve tasted.
The next plate sold us on this place. I can’t really describe everything we ate, beauty would be lost in translation. In Croatia, we ate well. In Italy, we dined on art. My mouth is watering just remembering the plate. As dad said, it was a “cacophony of positive flavor.” That’s my dad.
The zucchini here is picked earlier, and is therefore smaller, tastier and more flavorful. A mountain of zucchini slices was the center of the plate, surrounded by different appetizer like pieces of food. Prosciutto wrapped around hard Italian cheese with a sprig of rosemary. Zucchini flowers stuffed with a cream of ricotta, parmesan and pistachios. Or ricotta in pineapple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. Every one was different, each was a work of art.
That was the best lunch I’ve ever had. But then we came back for dinner the next night.
We arrived before they opened and introduced ourselves to the owner, Gino, who seated us, gave us a tour of his private wine cellar(there was no one else in the restaurant except for Gino, Dad and I, and Gino’s brother), his 2000 year old Roman column and 2 glasses of Brunello di Montalcino. If you know anything about the town of Montalcino, then you know it’s wine, Brunello. It’s perhaps one of the best wines in all of Italy, starting somewhere around 30 euros a bottle and going up to 600 euros a bottle(when I was there with a school trip, I bought a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino for 20 euros. It’s 95% the same wine and much cheaper. But do let it age, dad wanted to drink it and it was much to early. You owe me wine, dad).
This wine was good, but nothing compared to Gino’s choice for the night. Gino speaks only a few words of english, my dad speaks no Italian, but there was never a misunderstanding between the two of them that night. By the time we left, they were brothers. Dad asked where Gino was from, next thing you know Gino has the map out explaining where his hometown is, he’s bringing us meatballs made by his grandmother, we’re getting loads of appetizers.
But what really amazed me here was watching my dad. Over dinner, dad kept asking about ingredients, about Gino, about his family and his restaurant. Dad was genuinely interested. And that’s where the story got interesting for me. I remember stories about my grandfather, and dad always used to talk about his father’s hunting trips out west. He would go out west, walk up to some farmer’s door and ask to spend the night. Years later, he would return and find they had added a room or an extra building just for Stan. I never understood how he did that until I watched dad and Gino talk. Dad really is interested in Gino, he really wants to know everything about the food, the ingredients, the wine. But more importantly, he’s interested in Gino. They didn’t speak each other’s language, but understood every word.
After another plate of fish, and then a collection of different food arts, dad and I enjoyed a Primitivo from Gino’s region of southern Italy. THAT was an amazing wine, better than the Brunello.
Later in the night, we had desert and Gino opened his private collection of Grappa(5 bottles!) for us. On the house, courtesy of Gino and Papa Rudz. Who better to enjoy grappa with than dad? 7 glasses of Grappa later, we left, dad and Gino exchanged emails, and they hugged. Somehow we found our way back to the hotel.
My dad visited over a week ago, and while trying to get out of the rain one day, we stumbled into a restaurant off Via Trastevere.
The secret to finding a good restaurant in Italy is quite simple: find someplace where no one speaks English. Not hard to do, but a challenge once you’re in the restaurant. But the reward was well worth it when we found “La Vecchia Bottega del Vino” at 9A/11 Via S. Maria del Pianto.
Brown wood shelving stacked 4 high to the ceiling with wine, impassioned romans having intense conversations(evident by theatrical hand motions) over glasses of vino, and a lime-green bottle of Olia di Oliva on every goomba’s table. Oh baby, you can’t go wrong. We were ushered in for lunch sometime around 1 p.m.
I knew we were in business when the owner addressed us in Italian despite our undeniably American looks. I had to work with what little Italian I knew, but we had only ordered two glasses of Barbera D’Alba(a Hilberg 2004, in case you’re interested) when a plate of smoked fish arrived. Thin slices of salmon, tuna and a few other pesce(fish) sat atop a salad of rugetta, a bitter but tasty green leaf that looks like dandelion, and the freshest cherry tomatoes I’ve tasted.
The next plate sold us on this place. I can’t really describe everything we ate, beauty would be lost in translation. In Croatia, we ate well. In Italy, we dined on art. My mouth is watering just remembering the plate. As dad said, it was a “cacophony of positive flavor.” That’s my dad.
The zucchini here is picked earlier, and is therefore smaller, tastier and more flavorful. A mountain of zucchini slices was the center of the plate, surrounded by different appetizer like pieces of food. Prosciutto wrapped around hard Italian cheese with a sprig of rosemary. Zucchini flowers stuffed with a cream of ricotta, parmesan and pistachios. Or ricotta in pineapple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. Every one was different, each was a work of art.
That was the best lunch I’ve ever had. But then we came back for dinner the next night.
We arrived before they opened and introduced ourselves to the owner, Gino, who seated us, gave us a tour of his private wine cellar(there was no one else in the restaurant except for Gino, Dad and I, and Gino’s brother), his 2000 year old Roman column and 2 glasses of Brunello di Montalcino. If you know anything about the town of Montalcino, then you know it’s wine, Brunello. It’s perhaps one of the best wines in all of Italy, starting somewhere around 30 euros a bottle and going up to 600 euros a bottle(when I was there with a school trip, I bought a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino for 20 euros. It’s 95% the same wine and much cheaper. But do let it age, dad wanted to drink it and it was much to early. You owe me wine, dad).
This wine was good, but nothing compared to Gino’s choice for the night. Gino speaks only a few words of english, my dad speaks no Italian, but there was never a misunderstanding between the two of them that night. By the time we left, they were brothers. Dad asked where Gino was from, next thing you know Gino has the map out explaining where his hometown is, he’s bringing us meatballs made by his grandmother, we’re getting loads of appetizers.
But what really amazed me here was watching my dad. Over dinner, dad kept asking about ingredients, about Gino, about his family and his restaurant. Dad was genuinely interested. And that’s where the story got interesting for me. I remember stories about my grandfather, and dad always used to talk about his father’s hunting trips out west. He would go out west, walk up to some farmer’s door and ask to spend the night. Years later, he would return and find they had added a room or an extra building just for Stan. I never understood how he did that until I watched dad and Gino talk. Dad really is interested in Gino, he really wants to know everything about the food, the ingredients, the wine. But more importantly, he’s interested in Gino. They didn’t speak each other’s language, but understood every word.
After another plate of fish, and then a collection of different food arts, dad and I enjoyed a Primitivo from Gino’s region of southern Italy. THAT was an amazing wine, better than the Brunello.
Later in the night, we had desert and Gino opened his private collection of Grappa(5 bottles!) for us. On the house, courtesy of Gino and Papa Rudz. Who better to enjoy grappa with than dad? 7 glasses of Grappa later, we left, dad and Gino exchanged emails, and they hugged. Somehow we found our way back to the hotel.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Photos from Plitvice
Istria:
Almost forgot, photos from Plitvice:
Check out the rest on my flickr page:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rudz1985/
Almost forgot, photos from Plitvice:
Check out the rest on my flickr page:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rudz1985/
Hidden Treasures: Plitvice National Park
Frustrated by a fruitless wine tour of the Istrian Peninsula, Dad and I piled into our 4-door Fiat and left Croatia's beautiful Coast. We had had enough of empty vineyards, vacant hotels and grumpy locals. We wanted wine, there was no wine; we wanted beautiful countryside, everything was brown; we found the coast, and no one was on it. Time to move on.
Luckily, this decision came on the 2nd day of our trip to Croatia, my father's 3rd day while visiting me in Europe. Instead of sticking around the unexpectedly vacant coast, we reverted to our original plan: Plitvice National Park. The first shot of the Serbian war was fired in the park, killing a ranger. That was 15 years ago, and, to our delight, most Americans still think the war is going on. Over 10,000 visitors a day during the summer aren't afraid of the park, its maze of waterfalls and dense forest, or the sound of water crashing on the rocks below the 70 meter Veliki Slap waterfall. Although we drove through several old warzones(complete with bullet riddled houses, buildings with half the frame gone from tank shells and one outdoor display of heavy armor, including a MIG, modified Sherman Tank and some Russian armor)
, Croatia is probably one of the safest countries I've been in.
But Plitvice is an amazing treasure, mostly undiscovered by Americans and Western Europeans. It reminded me of something between Yellowstone National Park and Niagara Falls. It didn't have the dramatic fall or breadth of Niagara, and lacked the buffalo, bubbling mud pits and grizzlies of Yellowstone, but I could have spent another 2 days hiking and exploring the huge network of waterfalls, emerald green lakes and beautiful birch forest.
What really made our morning arrival special was the thick fog. We had to stop at a hostel the night before, forced back before the park due to thick fog, and the next day was no different. We drove to Hotel Jezero in thick fog and hiked the main network of lakes in heavy blanket of white fogginess. Loved it. The forest was a thick, soupy consistency 100 meters in front of you, and every lake ended in white.
Favorite moment: hiking past Veliki Slap, the tallest waterfall at 70 meters, and finding a spot hidden from the roar of the waterfalls. Just on the edge of one of the lakes, we were behind a hill, hidden from all the noise, so quiet all we could hear was the running water and the Croatian ducks flapping their wings above us. Dad and I agreed it reminded us of Boy Scouts, hiking long days and sitting in the tent late at night when all that we knew were the stars, the wind and our own whispers. Of course, what good is silence if not enjoyed with a cuban cigar and Croatian wine drank from a plastic water bottle? Not any good at all.
We enjoyed a delicious dinner of Croatian trout(the waters are teeming with them, but fishing is forbidden in the park. Damn). We also met a large group of Americans, on tour in Croatia; another couple of Americans from Venice, on vacation for their anniversary; and another couple, Barry from Virginia who was working at the US Embassy in Moscow for the State Department, and his fiance, Nina, who had the most contagious laugh ever and worked at the Embassy in Sarajevo. She said it was beautiful, I'd like to go.
Both mentioned working for the State Department, and I must say that it sounds quite appealing. Traveling the world, expenses paid, working for the government. I have been bitten by the travel bug.
Croatia is beautiful, I highly recommend. But no one beats Poland.
Luckily, this decision came on the 2nd day of our trip to Croatia, my father's 3rd day while visiting me in Europe. Instead of sticking around the unexpectedly vacant coast, we reverted to our original plan: Plitvice National Park. The first shot of the Serbian war was fired in the park, killing a ranger. That was 15 years ago, and, to our delight, most Americans still think the war is going on. Over 10,000 visitors a day during the summer aren't afraid of the park, its maze of waterfalls and dense forest, or the sound of water crashing on the rocks below the 70 meter Veliki Slap waterfall. Although we drove through several old warzones(complete with bullet riddled houses, buildings with half the frame gone from tank shells and one outdoor display of heavy armor, including a MIG, modified Sherman Tank and some Russian armor)
, Croatia is probably one of the safest countries I've been in.
But Plitvice is an amazing treasure, mostly undiscovered by Americans and Western Europeans. It reminded me of something between Yellowstone National Park and Niagara Falls. It didn't have the dramatic fall or breadth of Niagara, and lacked the buffalo, bubbling mud pits and grizzlies of Yellowstone, but I could have spent another 2 days hiking and exploring the huge network of waterfalls, emerald green lakes and beautiful birch forest.
What really made our morning arrival special was the thick fog. We had to stop at a hostel the night before, forced back before the park due to thick fog, and the next day was no different. We drove to Hotel Jezero in thick fog and hiked the main network of lakes in heavy blanket of white fogginess. Loved it. The forest was a thick, soupy consistency 100 meters in front of you, and every lake ended in white.
Favorite moment: hiking past Veliki Slap, the tallest waterfall at 70 meters, and finding a spot hidden from the roar of the waterfalls. Just on the edge of one of the lakes, we were behind a hill, hidden from all the noise, so quiet all we could hear was the running water and the Croatian ducks flapping their wings above us. Dad and I agreed it reminded us of Boy Scouts, hiking long days and sitting in the tent late at night when all that we knew were the stars, the wind and our own whispers. Of course, what good is silence if not enjoyed with a cuban cigar and Croatian wine drank from a plastic water bottle? Not any good at all.
We enjoyed a delicious dinner of Croatian trout(the waters are teeming with them, but fishing is forbidden in the park. Damn). We also met a large group of Americans, on tour in Croatia; another couple of Americans from Venice, on vacation for their anniversary; and another couple, Barry from Virginia who was working at the US Embassy in Moscow for the State Department, and his fiance, Nina, who had the most contagious laugh ever and worked at the Embassy in Sarajevo. She said it was beautiful, I'd like to go.
Both mentioned working for the State Department, and I must say that it sounds quite appealing. Traveling the world, expenses paid, working for the government. I have been bitten by the travel bug.
Croatia is beautiful, I highly recommend. But no one beats Poland.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Honest Critique and Discerning Photographic Tastes
A few weeks ago I updated my flickr.com profile concerning my frank and honest comments. I consider flickr.com to be a site for photographers, no matter their seriousness, and intend to treat other members as such. Therefore, I stated in my profile, I am going to be blunt, honest and forthright in my critiques of your photographs. I’m here to evaluate real photography, not “ooo” and “ahh” all over somebody’s cute kid pictures.
I treat photography seriously because, for me, it is serious. I really want to give it my all and try and make it in the business of photography. Only recently have a come to the conclusion that I love and honestly want to try photography, throwing myself into the craft with all I’ve got. But quite honestly, all of life should be treated in this way.
Shouldn’t we give everything our best? Shouldn’t we approach each new idea, pursuit, and love like its the first, last and only thing we’ll ever do? If anything is worth doing, it’s worth our best. I realized that I’m wasting my time if only doing half the effort I’m capable of, only attempting something halfway. If you really want something, really love something, really want to do something, then go for it, completely and all the way.
As I get further into photography, taking more photographs, evaluating my own more critically and being enlightened by the industry’s best, my taste has matured. I have become increasingly critical of photographs, looking at them in a completely new light from before. My inspiration: Magnum Photos, the best photography in the world. If you get the chance, I do suggest you pick up a copy of the Magnum catalog in your local library. It’s a thick book with a multicolored cover and MAGNUM in large, white letters on the front and side. I spent the better part of 3 hours pouring over its photographs, couldn’t pull myself away. Truly the best.
I treat photography seriously because, for me, it is serious. I really want to give it my all and try and make it in the business of photography. Only recently have a come to the conclusion that I love and honestly want to try photography, throwing myself into the craft with all I’ve got. But quite honestly, all of life should be treated in this way.
Shouldn’t we give everything our best? Shouldn’t we approach each new idea, pursuit, and love like its the first, last and only thing we’ll ever do? If anything is worth doing, it’s worth our best. I realized that I’m wasting my time if only doing half the effort I’m capable of, only attempting something halfway. If you really want something, really love something, really want to do something, then go for it, completely and all the way.
As I get further into photography, taking more photographs, evaluating my own more critically and being enlightened by the industry’s best, my taste has matured. I have become increasingly critical of photographs, looking at them in a completely new light from before. My inspiration: Magnum Photos, the best photography in the world. If you get the chance, I do suggest you pick up a copy of the Magnum catalog in your local library. It’s a thick book with a multicolored cover and MAGNUM in large, white letters on the front and side. I spent the better part of 3 hours pouring over its photographs, couldn’t pull myself away. Truly the best.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Pick pocket THIS! Gypsies, humility and begging
My pic for the day:
I just posted on mugging, so I figure what the hell? Why not ad pick pocketing advice to the mix? Living in Rome, I see Gypsies ALL the time, as in everyday. I get asked for spare change on almost a daily basis, but have yet to give anything out yet. I think about them a lot, but have to be careful how I handle beggars.
I realized just how horrible begging was when I visited Prague. I had seen a lot of poverty in Peru, Thailand and Poland, but it was more of an accepted living condition than a state of poverty or homelessness. People in Peru were poor, yes, but they were happy and content. They didn't spend a lot of time on the streets begging for loose change. They worked the fields.
Not to say there's not extreme poverty there, there most definitely was, but in a different way. In Prague, I remember walking off one of the main stretches in the city and onto a shopping avenue. I almost stepped on this guy on the ground. He was kneeling, body prostrate and limp in front of him, his face planted in the pavement. He had stretched out his spindly arms, a dark brown from soot, towards the passing crowd and held his hat in his hands for loose change.
I gave that guy change. I realized that even if he was a scam, even if he got up and got into a car at the end of the day (there's a lot of that out there, more than we realize) and had a place to stay for the night, or if he was a drunk, it didn't matter. The sheer fact that this man was willing to place himself in front of all these people, in this filth, with his face in the pavement that thousands of people walk on daily, made it worth whatever change I had in my pocket. I remember feeling the same way about a man in London who had on a coat in the subway, but nothing else. He was barefoot a week after Christmas in a stairwell in the subway, without any pants on. That is poverty.
I have always been rather cautious of beggars, I think, because I'm sensitive to being taken advantage of by others. Something in my mental makeup has made me severely cautious to people manipulating me, and it's the reason why I'm so cautious with friendships and relationships. I can be really scared sometimes.
But over the summer, a friend of mine showed me how to give with a pure heart. We were downtown in Rockford over the summer just walking around when a guy stopped us on the street and tried to sell us some drugs or something. Tim asked him if he wanted money, and the guy said yes. So Tim walked into one of the nicest restaurants in Rockford with this bum and bought him dinner. I've never been so humbled. That's humility and selflessness in action.
Since then, I've approached beggars with a different attitude: I can't enable them, but I can provide for them.
When I moved to Milwaukee, I found it interesting how beggars would target me instead of my roommate. I may just look like a sucker, but I figure there had to be something that set us apart. We're almost the same height and build, so it had to be presentation.
I began to change the way I looked, how I walked, and how I acted on the street. I know it sounds silly, but something as simple as looking like you know where you're going, not making eye contact, and walking briskly does wonders for avoiding bad situations. Most of all, just looked ticked, like you're irritated at everything you see. The downside is that no one is going to ask you for directions, but then again, you want people to leave you alone.
The only time I've been stopped by a gypsy was the 2nd day I was here when I let my guard down. Your face says everything. People on the street make a living off of begging, so they get really good at figuring out where the money is and who's giving it up. You don't have to be rich to be a target, you just have to be easy to read and look approachable.
It may sound ruthless to avoid beggars, but there's a flipside: no pickpockets. Generally, the casual pick pocket is going to avoid anybody that might be wise and is aware of their surroundings. Stick your hands in your pockets where you can feel your wallet (of course, all the really valuable stuff, like your passport, credit card, etc will be in your money pouch, tucked away safely inside your pants) and make yourself into a bad ass. People will leave you alone.
One more thing on pickpocketing if you're traveling in Europe: read Rick Steves. He has a lot of info on how to avoid bad situations. Gypsies will grab you by the arm to get your attention and bully you into buying something, people will guilt trip you, create distractions, women throw babies into your arms while they rifle your pockets. Italian children are infamous for mobbing tourists with little cardboard signs with things written on them, pushing them in your face and cleaning out your pockets while you read. Gypsies are smart.
In France, as you approach the Arc de Triomphe in the underground tunnel, watch out for the woman and her rasta friends that speak perfect English. She's very convincing and sounds like she's got something important to say, but she's really just selling a bracelet made from string. Another tactic is to run up to you, tie a bracelet to your wrist and then insist on you paying for it. I prefer to walk off and say "merci!" with a big smile.
Pickpockets also orchestrate attacks. Beware of bottlenecks and tight areas where lots of people congregate close together. Someone in the front of the line may "get into a fight" or "drop something", stopping the queue. Suddenly the person behind you "bumps into you" and your wallet is gone. The bus is also a great place to get robbed. Always wear your backpack in front of you on the bus, it's easy to slip a knife into your backpack and empty it out when it's behind you. Be extra careful at main bus/train stations, they're a great place for crime and not always well patrolled by police.
Places to be extra careful in Europe: Warsaw and its train station, Istanbul, Prague late at night(LOTS of drugs being sold, can get dangerous).
I just posted on mugging, so I figure what the hell? Why not ad pick pocketing advice to the mix? Living in Rome, I see Gypsies ALL the time, as in everyday. I get asked for spare change on almost a daily basis, but have yet to give anything out yet. I think about them a lot, but have to be careful how I handle beggars.
I realized just how horrible begging was when I visited Prague. I had seen a lot of poverty in Peru, Thailand and Poland, but it was more of an accepted living condition than a state of poverty or homelessness. People in Peru were poor, yes, but they were happy and content. They didn't spend a lot of time on the streets begging for loose change. They worked the fields.
Not to say there's not extreme poverty there, there most definitely was, but in a different way. In Prague, I remember walking off one of the main stretches in the city and onto a shopping avenue. I almost stepped on this guy on the ground. He was kneeling, body prostrate and limp in front of him, his face planted in the pavement. He had stretched out his spindly arms, a dark brown from soot, towards the passing crowd and held his hat in his hands for loose change.
I gave that guy change. I realized that even if he was a scam, even if he got up and got into a car at the end of the day (there's a lot of that out there, more than we realize) and had a place to stay for the night, or if he was a drunk, it didn't matter. The sheer fact that this man was willing to place himself in front of all these people, in this filth, with his face in the pavement that thousands of people walk on daily, made it worth whatever change I had in my pocket. I remember feeling the same way about a man in London who had on a coat in the subway, but nothing else. He was barefoot a week after Christmas in a stairwell in the subway, without any pants on. That is poverty.
I have always been rather cautious of beggars, I think, because I'm sensitive to being taken advantage of by others. Something in my mental makeup has made me severely cautious to people manipulating me, and it's the reason why I'm so cautious with friendships and relationships. I can be really scared sometimes.
But over the summer, a friend of mine showed me how to give with a pure heart. We were downtown in Rockford over the summer just walking around when a guy stopped us on the street and tried to sell us some drugs or something. Tim asked him if he wanted money, and the guy said yes. So Tim walked into one of the nicest restaurants in Rockford with this bum and bought him dinner. I've never been so humbled. That's humility and selflessness in action.
Since then, I've approached beggars with a different attitude: I can't enable them, but I can provide for them.
When I moved to Milwaukee, I found it interesting how beggars would target me instead of my roommate. I may just look like a sucker, but I figure there had to be something that set us apart. We're almost the same height and build, so it had to be presentation.
I began to change the way I looked, how I walked, and how I acted on the street. I know it sounds silly, but something as simple as looking like you know where you're going, not making eye contact, and walking briskly does wonders for avoiding bad situations. Most of all, just looked ticked, like you're irritated at everything you see. The downside is that no one is going to ask you for directions, but then again, you want people to leave you alone.
The only time I've been stopped by a gypsy was the 2nd day I was here when I let my guard down. Your face says everything. People on the street make a living off of begging, so they get really good at figuring out where the money is and who's giving it up. You don't have to be rich to be a target, you just have to be easy to read and look approachable.
It may sound ruthless to avoid beggars, but there's a flipside: no pickpockets. Generally, the casual pick pocket is going to avoid anybody that might be wise and is aware of their surroundings. Stick your hands in your pockets where you can feel your wallet (of course, all the really valuable stuff, like your passport, credit card, etc will be in your money pouch, tucked away safely inside your pants) and make yourself into a bad ass. People will leave you alone.
One more thing on pickpocketing if you're traveling in Europe: read Rick Steves. He has a lot of info on how to avoid bad situations. Gypsies will grab you by the arm to get your attention and bully you into buying something, people will guilt trip you, create distractions, women throw babies into your arms while they rifle your pockets. Italian children are infamous for mobbing tourists with little cardboard signs with things written on them, pushing them in your face and cleaning out your pockets while you read. Gypsies are smart.
In France, as you approach the Arc de Triomphe in the underground tunnel, watch out for the woman and her rasta friends that speak perfect English. She's very convincing and sounds like she's got something important to say, but she's really just selling a bracelet made from string. Another tactic is to run up to you, tie a bracelet to your wrist and then insist on you paying for it. I prefer to walk off and say "merci!" with a big smile.
Pickpockets also orchestrate attacks. Beware of bottlenecks and tight areas where lots of people congregate close together. Someone in the front of the line may "get into a fight" or "drop something", stopping the queue. Suddenly the person behind you "bumps into you" and your wallet is gone. The bus is also a great place to get robbed. Always wear your backpack in front of you on the bus, it's easy to slip a knife into your backpack and empty it out when it's behind you. Be extra careful at main bus/train stations, they're a great place for crime and not always well patrolled by police.
Places to be extra careful in Europe: Warsaw and its train station, Istanbul, Prague late at night(LOTS of drugs being sold, can get dangerous).
On how NOT to get mugged in Rome
I was in the library late last night looking at photo books, admiring pretty Italian women, typing emails and didn't get home until 10:30ish. I ate dinner and tried to go out, but my phone died, thus killing my social life for the night. I opted to stay at home with a bottle of cheap Sicilian Syrah and read a book until I fell asleep.
I woke up two hours later to the door slamming and someone yelling "I GOT MUGGED!" over and over while screaming and running into the apartment. At 3 a.m., I don't care if the president's been shot, I don't want to get up. But my roommate went back outside, which made me really worried. Going after the guys who just mugged you is rarely a good idea.
It turned out he had come home from the bars late, alone, at 3 a.m. He was drunk and was on the phone with a friend pacing back and forth in front of our apartment complex door. The guys came from either side, asked him for directions, then told him to give them his passport. He said he didn't have it and tried to get inside, and the two men pushed him against the door and put a knife to his throat. I don't think they had any real intention of hurting anyone, but pretty scary nonetheless. They took his wallet, 3 credit cards and his phone, plus the 10 euro he had on him.
When they went to run, my roommate managed to grab the one guy and slug him in the face, probably breaking his nose(he's an amateur boxer). He had blood on his shirt from hitting him. I managed to get him in the apartment, call his parents and cancel everything, and then calm him down.
Now, I've only got two more continent to hit up before I can claim I've been all over, and I've been through Europe, North America, Australia and some better parts of Asia. I've never been mugged or even pick pocketed. But in case you should ever be in a foreign country, there's few things you should know.
1. Don't advertise: no one needs to know how much money you have on you or where you keep it.
2. Never go anywhere alone, especially late at night.
3. Don't get yourself in situations where you are not in control (i.e. don't get too drunk that you can't tell what's going on and/or make stupid decisions)
4. Avoid carrying all of your valuable information on you at once(like passport, credit cards, IDs, tickets, etc.). It's better to split them up to reduce your losses. If the hotel has a safe and you can trust them, use it. Be cautious of leaving things in your hotel room in the open. Close the shades so no one can see inside.
5. Don't yell things in English at proper football(soccer) games. Most of the locals won't know what you're saying and will assume the worst. In Krakow, Poland, there are two teams that play once a season. The rivalry is so fierce that after the game, the crowds meet outside with 4x4s, chains, knives, etc. and someone usually dies. No joke.
6. Always ask for help, but be cautious of those that openly give it on the street.
7. Use your head and research your destination/flight/hotel/location before you go.
8. Don't be stupid: If 3 guys in a dark alley ask you for your camera and produce a knife to convince you, give it up. It's not worth your life. Better to insure your valuables before you leave.
Check out any one of Rick Steve's travel guides for more travel tips/info. He's full of wisdom and ideas on how to travel safely and avoid bad situations.
My roommate was lucky they only pushed him on the pavement. There's a dark alley near our apartment they could've pulled him into, it could've been much worse. Say a prayer for him and don't worry about me, I'm being careful!
I woke up two hours later to the door slamming and someone yelling "I GOT MUGGED!" over and over while screaming and running into the apartment. At 3 a.m., I don't care if the president's been shot, I don't want to get up. But my roommate went back outside, which made me really worried. Going after the guys who just mugged you is rarely a good idea.
It turned out he had come home from the bars late, alone, at 3 a.m. He was drunk and was on the phone with a friend pacing back and forth in front of our apartment complex door. The guys came from either side, asked him for directions, then told him to give them his passport. He said he didn't have it and tried to get inside, and the two men pushed him against the door and put a knife to his throat. I don't think they had any real intention of hurting anyone, but pretty scary nonetheless. They took his wallet, 3 credit cards and his phone, plus the 10 euro he had on him.
When they went to run, my roommate managed to grab the one guy and slug him in the face, probably breaking his nose(he's an amateur boxer). He had blood on his shirt from hitting him. I managed to get him in the apartment, call his parents and cancel everything, and then calm him down.
Now, I've only got two more continent to hit up before I can claim I've been all over, and I've been through Europe, North America, Australia and some better parts of Asia. I've never been mugged or even pick pocketed. But in case you should ever be in a foreign country, there's few things you should know.
1. Don't advertise: no one needs to know how much money you have on you or where you keep it.
2. Never go anywhere alone, especially late at night.
3. Don't get yourself in situations where you are not in control (i.e. don't get too drunk that you can't tell what's going on and/or make stupid decisions)
4. Avoid carrying all of your valuable information on you at once(like passport, credit cards, IDs, tickets, etc.). It's better to split them up to reduce your losses. If the hotel has a safe and you can trust them, use it. Be cautious of leaving things in your hotel room in the open. Close the shades so no one can see inside.
5. Don't yell things in English at proper football(soccer) games. Most of the locals won't know what you're saying and will assume the worst. In Krakow, Poland, there are two teams that play once a season. The rivalry is so fierce that after the game, the crowds meet outside with 4x4s, chains, knives, etc. and someone usually dies. No joke.
6. Always ask for help, but be cautious of those that openly give it on the street.
7. Use your head and research your destination/flight/hotel/location before you go.
8. Don't be stupid: If 3 guys in a dark alley ask you for your camera and produce a knife to convince you, give it up. It's not worth your life. Better to insure your valuables before you leave.
Check out any one of Rick Steve's travel guides for more travel tips/info. He's full of wisdom and ideas on how to travel safely and avoid bad situations.
My roommate was lucky they only pushed him on the pavement. There's a dark alley near our apartment they could've pulled him into, it could've been much worse. Say a prayer for him and don't worry about me, I'm being careful!
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
On Mass with Vatican higher-ups, or the time I snuck into St. Peter's
So some friends asked me if I wanted to go to Mass this morning at 7 am. It was early, but hey, what the heck? I'm in Rome! Of course I want to go to Mass. Plus, I want to start doing daily mass on a regular basis.
So we showed up just as they were shutting the night time lights off. As my friend Gretchen mentioned, it's quite beautiful at night. St. Peter's square is especially beautiful at night after a good rain. I highly recommend it.
Anyway, we made our way to the front of the Vatican to the main altar, because that's where Mass would logically be, right? We knew something was wrong when we sat behind 100 or so priests, followed by another hundred that sat behind us. Feeling really awkward in my khaki cargo pants and blue sweater, I realized I was the only man in the crowd without a collar. Of course, my awkwardness can't compare to my friends Esther and Gillian, who were the only females in the crowd save the nun singing.
Eager to know who was saying Mass, we tried our best to blend and avoid dirty looks from security while waiting for Mass to start. When it finally did, a man in white who looked like at least a Bishop or Cardinal walked to the altar. I did a double take and realized it was Cardinal Bertone (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardinal_Bertone). I had just been introduced to him the night before when I read Time Magazine's interview with the Vatican Secretary of State. Basically, if there's a #2 at the Vatican, it's Bertone. He's the Pope's right hand man, diplomat and runs the Vatican and the Church when the Pope is unable, away or ill.
So here I was, sitting in a crowd of 300 priests( who I towered over), clearly at the wrong Mass, receiving communion from the number 2 man in the entire Catholic Church. As in this guy directly influences, in part leads 1.1 billion people.
After Mass, security finally became aware of our presence and ushered us out. We also had to gloat at the 300+ people behind us(where we were supposed to be) and behind gates with the rest of the laity.
Unbelievably, we snuck into an exclusive Mass said by the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church who gave me communion. I'm still reeling from this whole experience.
At the end of mass, all I could do was put my head in my hands and laugh, because God's sense of humor is truly divine. I had just read the interview with this guy the night before, and here I was standing next to him. Only in Rome.
So we showed up just as they were shutting the night time lights off. As my friend Gretchen mentioned, it's quite beautiful at night. St. Peter's square is especially beautiful at night after a good rain. I highly recommend it.
Anyway, we made our way to the front of the Vatican to the main altar, because that's where Mass would logically be, right? We knew something was wrong when we sat behind 100 or so priests, followed by another hundred that sat behind us. Feeling really awkward in my khaki cargo pants and blue sweater, I realized I was the only man in the crowd without a collar. Of course, my awkwardness can't compare to my friends Esther and Gillian, who were the only females in the crowd save the nun singing.
Eager to know who was saying Mass, we tried our best to blend and avoid dirty looks from security while waiting for Mass to start. When it finally did, a man in white who looked like at least a Bishop or Cardinal walked to the altar. I did a double take and realized it was Cardinal Bertone (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardinal_Bertone). I had just been introduced to him the night before when I read Time Magazine's interview with the Vatican Secretary of State. Basically, if there's a #2 at the Vatican, it's Bertone. He's the Pope's right hand man, diplomat and runs the Vatican and the Church when the Pope is unable, away or ill.
So here I was, sitting in a crowd of 300 priests( who I towered over), clearly at the wrong Mass, receiving communion from the number 2 man in the entire Catholic Church. As in this guy directly influences, in part leads 1.1 billion people.
After Mass, security finally became aware of our presence and ushered us out. We also had to gloat at the 300+ people behind us(where we were supposed to be) and behind gates with the rest of the laity.
Unbelievably, we snuck into an exclusive Mass said by the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church who gave me communion. I'm still reeling from this whole experience.
At the end of mass, all I could do was put my head in my hands and laugh, because God's sense of humor is truly divine. I had just read the interview with this guy the night before, and here I was standing next to him. Only in Rome.
ah, Paris! And nutella banana crepes
I was feeling depressed and a little sorry for myself last week, so I called someone I had met on the plane over here. As I wrote about in my post on rewarding friendships with the opposite sex, I had a really great talk with someone I barely knew. Tina and I have a lot in common(despite our height difference: she's 4'11" and I'm 6'7") and our families are a lot alike.
I randomly asked her if she wanted to go to Paris, on a whim, and she agreed despite knowing me for 4 hours. We had a blast.
I had heard pretty terrible things about the Parisians: anti-American, rude, snooty and mean. All wrong from what I experienced. Parisians don't seem to be any worse than New Yorkers or White Sox fans(vicious, I know), and were really helpful. Our first day there, we did the whole Louvre in 5 hours, every floor, every wing.
I was exhausted, disappointed in the Mona Lisa(Hammurabi's Code is waaaayy better) and happy I milked the museum for all it was worth. While frowning in front of Leo D's greatest work, the Australians from Brisbane remarked "looks nice, mate. Where's the pub?" See the Egyptian exhibit if you get the chance, very worth it.
That night, we found a Lebanese restaurant next to our hotel and had no idea what to order. A woman from Belgium who had been living in Paris leaned over and showed us what to order. I was recovering from an ear/throat infection during all this, but never felt testy around Paris, everyone was very accommodating.
The next day, we visited La Defense, a testament to Paris' design consciousness and architectural genius. Cold, but much like walking through a sand castle contest, trying to figure out which sculpture is the coolest.
Afterwards we hopped the RER(subway) to the Arch de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees(Shahn-zay-lee-zay). Really breathtaking. You have a lot more respect for France's military(but not too much. Did you hear the French army is having a sale on weapons? Pretty cheap, and only dropped twice ;) The walk from the Arch to the De Gaulle statue is well worth it and gives you a good feeling for the city.
Tina and I managed to make it all the way to the Louvre, where we had crepes(apricot) and admired the Obelisk of Luxor. Still a little bewildered at traveling with one another, Tina payed me one of the nicest comments I've ever received: "you know why I like you so much? Because you're not fake, you're just you. Everybody's quirky and weird underneath, but afraid to show it. You're not, and you're just yourself." (but she thought of it in the bathroom. Wonder what inspired her) Very nice of her to say, I was flattered.
Somewhere around this time, we made it to Beaubourg(which I still can't say, it's like "beau-boh" or something) where I interviewed a photographer I met on the internet. You can see his work here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/all_the_names_are_already_taken_pfff/
A little scary at first, I know. But explore his portraits, he's excellent and well published for only starting 2 years ago.
He was one of the nicest people I've met and incredibly inspiring. I'm going to blog about him soon.
That night, we bought a bottle of wine and some ice cream and sat down with the 3 algerians running our hotel. They were awesome. One is an opera singer and a biologist, all three were going to school for their masters or doctorate, and they had great advice on cheese and what to do in Paris. I made a lot of friends.
I didn't fully wake up on Sunday until I reached Notre Dame Cathedral. If you know anything about the state of Catholic Europe, then you might be familiar with the dire state of France. France is perhaps the worst off of the classically Catholic European countries, and, unfortunately, it's showing. I really got a taste for how far off the deep end France has gone, and how much of its previous Catholic identity has been lost. People don't really go to Mass for Mass, they go to take pictures and leave halfway through. Out of everywhere I've been, this was the worst. Especially when compared to Poland (but more on that later).
However, if there is one place that makes me hopeful, it's probably Notre Dame. This great cathedral is such a magnificent monument to medieval architecture that it breathes Catholicity. Its name, Notre Dame de Paris, means "Our Lady of Paris" and is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Few places on earth have taken my breath away: The Sunday evening Mass at the Dominican Church in Krakow, The Vatican, Grand Teton, the Great Barrier Reef. Notre Dame is one of them. God put something extra special in this great cathedral, and it has convinced me that no matter how dire the situation is in the Church, there is always hope. That is what I found in Notre Dame: Hope.
Since taking photography seriously, I have a reputation for stopping in the middle of the street and proclaiming "ooooo, fabulous light." Notre Dame has fabulous lighting. No artificial light is needed, because the sunlight brightens it from the Nave to the sea of intention candles at the back.
I lit one, and plan to start a photo series of lit candles for people I know. Thought it might be cool.
After Notre Dame, I had the eating a baguette, camembert and goat cheese under the Eiffel Tower. We also found some Orangina, a French soft drink that has orange pulp in it. Weird, but just my style. Afterwards, we climbed( as in stairs) to the second floor of the Eiffel tower as the sun was setting. I only had black and white film, but I think the photographs will be quite nice.
That last night in Paris, I interviewed another photographer who is also quite good. You can see his photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hughes_leglise/
Make sure to explore some of his black and whites. They're quite brilliant. He's a really nice guy, I was late to the interview and he came back!
I payed 35 euro to watch the Superbowl at The Hard Rock Cafe with some Bears fans, and despite the loss it was worth it. Made a lot of friends and then wandered through paris at 4 am after the game. One of the guys was Bulgarian, but had been living in Chicago most of his life. Thick Chicago accent, great guy, been practically everywhere. Another girl is teaching english an hour from Paris and doing quite well.
I stayed up all night for the Superbowl, but made it back to Rome by noon. Paris is wonderful, and I got a great friend out of it. Thanks Tina!
I randomly asked her if she wanted to go to Paris, on a whim, and she agreed despite knowing me for 4 hours. We had a blast.
I had heard pretty terrible things about the Parisians: anti-American, rude, snooty and mean. All wrong from what I experienced. Parisians don't seem to be any worse than New Yorkers or White Sox fans(vicious, I know), and were really helpful. Our first day there, we did the whole Louvre in 5 hours, every floor, every wing.
I was exhausted, disappointed in the Mona Lisa(Hammurabi's Code is waaaayy better) and happy I milked the museum for all it was worth. While frowning in front of Leo D's greatest work, the Australians from Brisbane remarked "looks nice, mate. Where's the pub?" See the Egyptian exhibit if you get the chance, very worth it.
That night, we found a Lebanese restaurant next to our hotel and had no idea what to order. A woman from Belgium who had been living in Paris leaned over and showed us what to order. I was recovering from an ear/throat infection during all this, but never felt testy around Paris, everyone was very accommodating.
The next day, we visited La Defense, a testament to Paris' design consciousness and architectural genius. Cold, but much like walking through a sand castle contest, trying to figure out which sculpture is the coolest.
Afterwards we hopped the RER(subway) to the Arch de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees(Shahn-zay-lee-zay). Really breathtaking. You have a lot more respect for France's military(but not too much. Did you hear the French army is having a sale on weapons? Pretty cheap, and only dropped twice ;) The walk from the Arch to the De Gaulle statue is well worth it and gives you a good feeling for the city.
Tina and I managed to make it all the way to the Louvre, where we had crepes(apricot) and admired the Obelisk of Luxor. Still a little bewildered at traveling with one another, Tina payed me one of the nicest comments I've ever received: "you know why I like you so much? Because you're not fake, you're just you. Everybody's quirky and weird underneath, but afraid to show it. You're not, and you're just yourself." (but she thought of it in the bathroom. Wonder what inspired her) Very nice of her to say, I was flattered.
Somewhere around this time, we made it to Beaubourg(which I still can't say, it's like "beau-boh" or something) where I interviewed a photographer I met on the internet. You can see his work here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/all_the_names_are_already_taken_pfff/
A little scary at first, I know. But explore his portraits, he's excellent and well published for only starting 2 years ago.
He was one of the nicest people I've met and incredibly inspiring. I'm going to blog about him soon.
That night, we bought a bottle of wine and some ice cream and sat down with the 3 algerians running our hotel. They were awesome. One is an opera singer and a biologist, all three were going to school for their masters or doctorate, and they had great advice on cheese and what to do in Paris. I made a lot of friends.
I didn't fully wake up on Sunday until I reached Notre Dame Cathedral. If you know anything about the state of Catholic Europe, then you might be familiar with the dire state of France. France is perhaps the worst off of the classically Catholic European countries, and, unfortunately, it's showing. I really got a taste for how far off the deep end France has gone, and how much of its previous Catholic identity has been lost. People don't really go to Mass for Mass, they go to take pictures and leave halfway through. Out of everywhere I've been, this was the worst. Especially when compared to Poland (but more on that later).
However, if there is one place that makes me hopeful, it's probably Notre Dame. This great cathedral is such a magnificent monument to medieval architecture that it breathes Catholicity. Its name, Notre Dame de Paris, means "Our Lady of Paris" and is dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Few places on earth have taken my breath away: The Sunday evening Mass at the Dominican Church in Krakow, The Vatican, Grand Teton, the Great Barrier Reef. Notre Dame is one of them. God put something extra special in this great cathedral, and it has convinced me that no matter how dire the situation is in the Church, there is always hope. That is what I found in Notre Dame: Hope.
Since taking photography seriously, I have a reputation for stopping in the middle of the street and proclaiming "ooooo, fabulous light." Notre Dame has fabulous lighting. No artificial light is needed, because the sunlight brightens it from the Nave to the sea of intention candles at the back.
I lit one, and plan to start a photo series of lit candles for people I know. Thought it might be cool.
After Notre Dame, I had the eating a baguette, camembert and goat cheese under the Eiffel Tower. We also found some Orangina, a French soft drink that has orange pulp in it. Weird, but just my style. Afterwards, we climbed( as in stairs) to the second floor of the Eiffel tower as the sun was setting. I only had black and white film, but I think the photographs will be quite nice.
That last night in Paris, I interviewed another photographer who is also quite good. You can see his photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hughes_leglise/
Make sure to explore some of his black and whites. They're quite brilliant. He's a really nice guy, I was late to the interview and he came back!
I payed 35 euro to watch the Superbowl at The Hard Rock Cafe with some Bears fans, and despite the loss it was worth it. Made a lot of friends and then wandered through paris at 4 am after the game. One of the guys was Bulgarian, but had been living in Chicago most of his life. Thick Chicago accent, great guy, been practically everywhere. Another girl is teaching english an hour from Paris and doing quite well.
I stayed up all night for the Superbowl, but made it back to Rome by noon. Paris is wonderful, and I got a great friend out of it. Thanks Tina!
Monday, January 29, 2007
Rewarding relationships . . . with the opposite sex
These first couple of weeks in Rome have been tough, mostly because it's been hard to meet people. Most everyone here came with friends and it's been difficult breaking into groups. But hey, to know me is to love me.
Last night, I called my friend Tina that I met on the plane. She's one of the few people here that actually look Italian, and very sociable. She's also 4'11", which is a lot funnier than it sounds when she stands next to my 6'7" frame.
We planned on a movie in English, went to grab some pizza and ended up talking for 4 hours. Completely missed the movie! Oh well, I have more fun talking.
Turns out, she's in the same situation I am right now: not quite fitting in, but very sociable and outgoing, really trying to connect with people here in Rome. It's like I found my long lost best friend! We had a great conversation and ended the night with some of the best strawberry gelato I've ever had(well, the only strawberry gelato I've had, but still).
We talked about a lot, but it reminded me of a conversation my friend Tim and I had. I talk to just about everyone I can, I love making friends and she's the same way. But that doesn't mean we're interested in everyone we meet.
Tim, one of my best friends, and I talked about this before I left; how friendships with the opposite sex NOT based on attraction can really be quite rewarding. Everyone makes mistakes or misinterprets things, but I feel almost insulted when people immediately interpret friendliness as romantic interest.
I've had some great friendships with women(Lindsey . . I hope you're reading this) that weren't based on attraction, and some great conversations with women about life( becca, isn't now just great?). Why does everything have to be shallow? Why does everyone of the opposite sex, or of the same sex, have to offer me something in return?
People immediately assume you're pursuing something. Why does that always have to be the case? It takes a lot of humility and maturity to accept friendships in all shapes and sizes. They don't always come from where you expect.
Rudz
Last night, I called my friend Tina that I met on the plane. She's one of the few people here that actually look Italian, and very sociable. She's also 4'11", which is a lot funnier than it sounds when she stands next to my 6'7" frame.
We planned on a movie in English, went to grab some pizza and ended up talking for 4 hours. Completely missed the movie! Oh well, I have more fun talking.
Turns out, she's in the same situation I am right now: not quite fitting in, but very sociable and outgoing, really trying to connect with people here in Rome. It's like I found my long lost best friend! We had a great conversation and ended the night with some of the best strawberry gelato I've ever had(well, the only strawberry gelato I've had, but still).
We talked about a lot, but it reminded me of a conversation my friend Tim and I had. I talk to just about everyone I can, I love making friends and she's the same way. But that doesn't mean we're interested in everyone we meet.
Tim, one of my best friends, and I talked about this before I left; how friendships with the opposite sex NOT based on attraction can really be quite rewarding. Everyone makes mistakes or misinterprets things, but I feel almost insulted when people immediately interpret friendliness as romantic interest.
I've had some great friendships with women(Lindsey . . I hope you're reading this) that weren't based on attraction, and some great conversations with women about life( becca, isn't now just great?). Why does everything have to be shallow? Why does everyone of the opposite sex, or of the same sex, have to offer me something in return?
People immediately assume you're pursuing something. Why does that always have to be the case? It takes a lot of humility and maturity to accept friendships in all shapes and sizes. They don't always come from where you expect.
Rudz
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Photography expedition through Rome 1/27
After an invigorating couple of hours doing my email, I went to the Anglo-American Bookstore in Rome to buy my books. I took my camera along, know that there are always photo opportunities wherever you go. I wasn't disappointed.
On the way there, I put my camera bag in front of me and rested my camera on that, using my thumb to press the shutter release as I walked. With all the noise, it was actually a very effective way of taking picture inconspicuously. Most people never caught on to what I was doing(although a few did as you can see in my photos).
Quite a lot of fun.
After I paid the bookstore inflated prices for 1 of my 3 books, I kept taking pictures, and found my way to the Castle on the north side of the Tiber. The light was magic, just perfect. Really strong evening light for long shadows. There were vendors out, street performers, and a good sized crowd. I was really happy with the results, especially with a few of them. If you want to see all my photos, check out http://www.flickr.com/photos/rudz1985 for the rest of them.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
First impressions
Here it is, my second week in Italy, and I haven't even posted to my blog! I've been so busy with registration, exploring and photography(of course) that I haven't taken the time to really settle down and blog.
After climbing the hill to the lookout point behind my apartment at Piazza della Rovere, it became apparent that Rome will take your breath away. Rome, for all its grittiness, is magnificently beautiful. No other city on earth will politely greet you, budge in line, steal quietly from your pocket and serve you chocolate gelato all in one go.
On my arrival in Rome, I hot footed it to the Vatican for my first site and I must say, the Vatican at night is an entirely different experience. Right now until February 3rd, there is a large Manger scene in St. Peter's Square, perhaps the largest Manger scene in the world. The scene, the size of a small house, surrounds the obelisk in the center of the Square by a 50 foot radius and includes a Manger on a ~7-10 stage, at least 50 foot tall Christmas tree and a full entourage of manikins, plastic animals and of course, Vatican police. Get your tickets now!
I wouldn't come to Rome especially for the Manger, but if you're in the area, it is worth seeing.
However, one event you should not miss is Mass at The Vatican, which I had the privilege of attending on Sunday. Absolutely amazing. I came early for 4 pm mass(16:00 Roman time), and had no problem getting through security(yes, you can bring a camera, backpack, and babies, but they scan everything). Once through and past the fountain by Carlo Maderno, the long promenade before the steps to St. Peters seems much longer than it appears, and to the right the Pope's window overlooks the long line to The Basilica.
Ask a guard "Scusa, parla inglese?" Excuse me, do you speak english?" and most will say yes. The first one I asked pointed inside and said "to the back of the Church you will find mass." I had to keep asking once I entered because I was so overwhelmed.
The Vatican isn't just the church, not just the Basilica, it's the center of all Catholicism. The focal point of 1.1 billion believers is most impressive.
Immediately to the right is the Pieta, as in Michelangelo's Pieta. One of the greatest works of art of all time. It's much smaller than I had imagined, maybe no more than 5 feet tall, and placed on a pedestal of marble.
Walking further in, I found Pope John XXIII's grave on the right aisle of the Church. It was one of the more popular sites for tourists, but not unobtainable.
Further down to the right, I was happy to find a place for confession, which is heard every day and I believe before each mass(you can find them online). Just ask the man at the gate and he'll let you through.
For mass, I again had to ask for directions and was bewildered when I realized 'the back of the church' meant the great stained glass window with the Holy Spirit in it, past St. Peter's grave. I told the guard I was there for Mass and he let me through(if you're not there for Mass, you stand in the back with the rest of the non-believers! Just kidding, you can get through and attend Mass even if you're not Catholic).
Mass was incredible, but all in Italian so I didn't understand a word of it. I plan on going there as much as possible, more to come!
ciao!
Rudz
After climbing the hill to the lookout point behind my apartment at Piazza della Rovere, it became apparent that Rome will take your breath away. Rome, for all its grittiness, is magnificently beautiful. No other city on earth will politely greet you, budge in line, steal quietly from your pocket and serve you chocolate gelato all in one go.
On my arrival in Rome, I hot footed it to the Vatican for my first site and I must say, the Vatican at night is an entirely different experience. Right now until February 3rd, there is a large Manger scene in St. Peter's Square, perhaps the largest Manger scene in the world. The scene, the size of a small house, surrounds the obelisk in the center of the Square by a 50 foot radius and includes a Manger on a ~7-10 stage, at least 50 foot tall Christmas tree and a full entourage of manikins, plastic animals and of course, Vatican police. Get your tickets now!
I wouldn't come to Rome especially for the Manger, but if you're in the area, it is worth seeing.
However, one event you should not miss is Mass at The Vatican, which I had the privilege of attending on Sunday. Absolutely amazing. I came early for 4 pm mass(16:00 Roman time), and had no problem getting through security(yes, you can bring a camera, backpack, and babies, but they scan everything). Once through and past the fountain by Carlo Maderno, the long promenade before the steps to St. Peters seems much longer than it appears, and to the right the Pope's window overlooks the long line to The Basilica.
Ask a guard "Scusa, parla inglese?" Excuse me, do you speak english?" and most will say yes. The first one I asked pointed inside and said "to the back of the Church you will find mass." I had to keep asking once I entered because I was so overwhelmed.
The Vatican isn't just the church, not just the Basilica, it's the center of all Catholicism. The focal point of 1.1 billion believers is most impressive.
Immediately to the right is the Pieta, as in Michelangelo's Pieta. One of the greatest works of art of all time. It's much smaller than I had imagined, maybe no more than 5 feet tall, and placed on a pedestal of marble.
Walking further in, I found Pope John XXIII's grave on the right aisle of the Church. It was one of the more popular sites for tourists, but not unobtainable.
Further down to the right, I was happy to find a place for confession, which is heard every day and I believe before each mass(you can find them online). Just ask the man at the gate and he'll let you through.
For mass, I again had to ask for directions and was bewildered when I realized 'the back of the church' meant the great stained glass window with the Holy Spirit in it, past St. Peter's grave. I told the guard I was there for Mass and he let me through(if you're not there for Mass, you stand in the back with the rest of the non-believers! Just kidding, you can get through and attend Mass even if you're not Catholic).
Mass was incredible, but all in Italian so I didn't understand a word of it. I plan on going there as much as possible, more to come!
ciao!
Rudz
Friday, January 12, 2007
Packing is simple
A word about packing: pack light.
I have an enormous amount of admiration for my roommate, for Rick Steves and for anyone else who can travel halfway around the world and take the bare minimum with them. And still get by. I remember hastily stuffing underwear into Ziploc bags the night before I left for London a few years ago. My father was frantically arranging the alarms on lights and a radio(yes, a high level of home security at this household) while we tossed our clothes into bags.
I don't mind packing last minute. It's a little nervewracking, granted, but packing isn't that big of a deal. Mr. Rick Steves, travel author and european travel veteran, travels Europe every summer
and lives out of a backpack. As in the one you take to school, not one of those huge hiking backpacks that I'm taking.
There's something to be said about living out off so little. A) there's less to worry about, and B) it shows you either really know what you're doing or you haven't a clue.
I'd like to think I'm the former, but I've already filled up one suitcase and my wash just got done. Ando a Italia!
Rudz
I have an enormous amount of admiration for my roommate, for Rick Steves and for anyone else who can travel halfway around the world and take the bare minimum with them. And still get by. I remember hastily stuffing underwear into Ziploc bags the night before I left for London a few years ago. My father was frantically arranging the alarms on lights and a radio(yes, a high level of home security at this household) while we tossed our clothes into bags.
I don't mind packing last minute. It's a little nervewracking, granted, but packing isn't that big of a deal. Mr. Rick Steves, travel author and european travel veteran, travels Europe every summer
and lives out of a backpack. As in the one you take to school, not one of those huge hiking backpacks that I'm taking.
There's something to be said about living out off so little. A) there's less to worry about, and B) it shows you either really know what you're doing or you haven't a clue.
I'd like to think I'm the former, but I've already filled up one suitcase and my wash just got done. Ando a Italia!
Rudz
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