a random walk down 55th street

While walking to Starbucks, I passed a sign for JavaPop (the "healthy alternative to coffee"), a small white dog whose hair had been dyed blue, and a man selling his poetry on the street corner. I'm back!

A pints a pound the world around...

...except when you're in London. Then a pint is at least 3 pounds.

Wachau

There were no flaxen-haired children singing and dancing in the hills to the sound of music, but this may be because the Wachau half marathon had no hills! Boh. I guess I'll have to head to Tyrol next time.

On the bus to the starting line, I sat next to a 46-year old highschool history/Latin teacher. His marathon PR was 2:28; however, due to an illness earlier in the week, he was hoping to finish the half in under 1:20. He had never run outside of Austria. I wonder what the German-version of "Ubaldo" is.

The course was beautiful. To the left were hills, vineyards, and sometimes castles. To the right was the Donau River. Alongside a water station, one of the wineries offered runners Riesling to sample.

On the train ride back, I fell asleep and must have dropped my book, pen, and jacket, because when I woke up someone benevolent put them in a neat pile next to me.

MQ and a tangent to Knedliki

That [pop] you heard was my head imploding during today’s visit to the MUMOK, Vienna’s modern art museum in the MuseumsQuartier. The lower floors were outside of my “envelope of comfort” in a way more extreme than even the Kunsthalle’s “Tram and Trama” (Dream and Trauma”) exhibit. There were just too many deformed babies and naked people in mud for one afternoon.

On my way out, I stopped by the designform, which had an exhibit on the “stuff” people use in every day around the world. It was quite progressive (it emphasized similarities rather than differences) and had a little section on cooking. (Yes, you knew I’d get to food somehow). I think I spent a good fifteen minutes marveling at the different spoons of Japan and watching a video of ladies making dumplings (“Xina – Ravioli”).

Speaking of dumplings, it dawned on me the other day that Austria, the land of meat and potatoes, is actually the perfect place for making gnocchi. I don’t love them, but Georgia does, so I dug up my notes from Italy and went to the kitchen.

Gnocchi – Put whole potatoes in cold water and bring to a boil. Cook until they are fork mashable, drain, and put into an ice-water bath. Peel potatoes and mash until smooth. Add flour (Marco used Type 00, I used Type W480, you should use All-Purpose), a little at a time, and knead. You’ll have added enough flour once the dough stops sticking to your hands. Cut off a bit of dough and roll into a snake on a floured surface. Cut into nickel or quarter-sized pieces. Add grooves by pressing the sticky end of the gnocchi (i.e. the interior of the snake) onto the tines of a fork. Let gnocchi rest on a plate of flour. To cook, add to boiling salted water until they float.
Fresh gnocchi don’t keep long, so I think it’s better to shape them right before you plan to boil them. If you decide to keep extra dough in the fridge, you’ll have to add more flour before shaping them again.

Gnocchi are good in rich sauces and small quantities. Kind of like post-modern art.

This is kind of gross if you think about it. . .

This does not include chocolate...

Pope, Soap, Rope

The Pope was in town visiting this weekend, which meant that all the churches put up yellow and white flags (to show support? to help him get through the city? to demonstrate the diversity of God’s real estate portfolio?). Georgia and I were walking through Stephansplatz and we came across a gospel concert.

The performance was broadcast on telescreens throughout the city center. A young man in black was directing an Austrian choir, singing things like Glory, Glory, Glory and Praise the Lord, Lord Jesus Christ. Their diction was excellent, their songs all in English, and their enthusiasm terrifying. Some of the audience were quite moved by the music—they stood up, danced, clapped to the beat, sang along, shouted back. I wanted to run away. It began to rain. The choir director finished a passionate solo.

“Well,” said Georgia, “he does do a good job of trying to be a black woman.”

The premiere of The Magic Flute was on Friday, which we expected to be very good because (1) This is one of Mozart’s only operas in German (the rest are in Italian) and (2) Austrians love Mozart. The opera itself was disappointing—the singers weren’t anything special, the costumes seemed like those of a high school musical, and the orchestra and singing wasn’t in sync. The people watching, however, was fantastic. We saw a woman dressed in a corseted, aquamarine dress, which made me think of Ariel the Little Mermaid, Part XXXVIII. We saw men in full tuxes drinking 9 euro glasses of champagne. And, finally, we saw

Austrians making out in their box seats before the show started
Austrians
making out in the refreshment hall during intermission.

I know Friday night is date night, but I thought Italy was the country of love. I never saw this hanky panky at La Scala.

Maybe this is why Italy is shrinking and Austria is not.

Loafing is hard work

There are times now when I really miss Italy. I wish I could pop into a café and get an espresso for 75 eurocents. (Austria’s fault.) Or speak the native language. (My fault). Or not feel guilty about feeling busy but doing nothing. (Georgia’s fault). We don’t have internet in the apartment (instead, we have several mannequins, a hookah, and a paella pan), so I’ve taken to studying Accounting with the book Bain sent me.

It’s a fill in the blank workbook. Sample question:

“The Garsden Company balance sheet has two sides. The heading of the left side
is A_____, and the heading of the right side is L_________ and E______.”

New-hire training will also include finger painting and naptime! Just kidding. Consultants don’t take naps.

Why do I get vegetables by the kilo?

I went to the Nachtmarkt, which has a wonderful selection of spices and a surprising variety of asian food (homemade tofu!). Most of the produce comes from Italy.

My inability to speak German resulted in the purchase of one kilogram of spinach, which is in fact heavier than one kilogram of anything else because it comes with odd stares on the metro. (Imagine getting onto a crowded subway with a Costco-sized bag of carrots. Or a sofa pillow full of green leaves).

I am not obsessed

Vienna is a culinary enigma. Home of wiener schnitzel—veal smashed flat, breaded, and fried; delicious drizzled with lemon—sausages, and sachertort, it’s also the host to health food stores stocked with brown rice. I’m still recovering from my butter binge in France, so I haven’t had any pastries yet.

Near Georgia’s language school is the fanciest kebab shop I’ve ever seen. It is clean and has leather seats and an LCD TV playing Turkish (?) soap operas. The bread is soft and freshly toasted. The tomatoes are pretty good and the falafel is made to order.

I think I need to start work soon. Or get a new hobby.

Highlights from Paris (only half is about food):

* Rose wine and spring rolls at the rooftop restaurant of the Pompidieu
* Notre Dame at night
* Caramel, chocolate, and salt macaroons from Cacao et Chocolat (36, rue Vieille du Temple).
* Spotting tile spacemen throughout the city
* Lunch at Bastille market (Roast pork, baguette, comte, crepes).
* Wandering around the Marais
* Chocolate and raspberry croissants, courtesy of kind hosts Iris and Irv
* Conversation about the future direction of journalism (and the Wall street Journal), once again courtesy of Iris & Irv
* Roasted tomato stuffed with lamb confit at La pamphlet (38, rue Debelleyme)
* Running along the Seine (morning run through the dew around the Eiffel Tower; afternoon long run)

Francia

After the initial cultures shock (village to city), it was nice to be among tons of people again. Montpellier was very relaxing and full of good French food, cheap wine, and delicious yogurt. In a café/bookstore, I found Adam Gopnik’s Paris to the Moon, which I read over a cup of tea. His writing was marvelous, as usual.

En route

On the journey from Chamonix to Montpellier, someone rummaged through my bag and stole the one thing that was very dear to me and (I thought) no one else in the world—my running shoes. So, I visited stores in Montpellier like Courier (“To Run”) and Footlocker. They do not sell ANY sports equipment.

UPDATE: The list of missing things continues to grow – a bit of zyrtec, American cell phone, unlaundered Arizona State basketball t-shirt. I don’t know the full extent of the damage, partially because I never took a census of my stuff and partially because I’m very disorganized.

One thing I forgot to mention

Marco is a great chef and entrepreneur. He opened the restaurant where I work about three years ago. The restaurant is decorated with bold colors and modern art and features a courtyard out back where visitors, both Italian and foreign, can enjoy the Tuscan dusk.

Most of these visitors must be surprised by the tattoo/piercing parlor that opened across the way in June. Nestled in the a thousand year old castle, the shop is painted black with gold trimming and also features Lucky 13 Apparel. Leaving work one day, I saw an Italian grandmother in a cashmere sweater looking first at a black hoodie encrusted with a fake diamond scull (100 euro), then at a pleather belt (35 euro), and then at a set of handcuffs ("for sex").

The shop has caused a small stir among the more conservative citizens of Ambra, and students of economics know that the solution should be Coase's--the family restaurant should buy the tattoo shop. And then shut it down.

The latter will never happen, because the former already has.

Marco, a great chef and entrepreneur, is also a tattoo artist and the athiest drummer in a heavy metal band. Anticipating public consternation, he named his tattoo parlor "Doctor Madd" rather than "Doctor Satan." The shop in Ambra is doing quite well. Marco plans to open other stores in Florence and Arezzo.

I mention this to shed light less on Marco than on the area, because Marco's shop can survive only as long as there are people who require his services. There are British and German tourists that walk among the castles and celebrate the red wine and rolling hills. There is the nearby bridge, which Leonardo da Vinci painted into the background of the Mona Lisa. And there is the youth culture. Here, you can get a piercing with your pasta. You can drink prosecco with folks with multiple tattoos and barbells in their ears. You can learn about scarification until the explainer must go home for dinner with his mother.

Rock on.

In my room lives quite possibly the dumbest mosquito in the world. It bit the bottom of my foot.

In which I fell off the face of the earth

Dear loyal blog readers (aka, Dad):

Sorry for not updating lately. Things that happened in July:

- Umbria Jazz (Perugia) - Ironically, all the musicians I saw (Sonny Rollins, Eric Alexander / Vincent Herring) were from New York. The jazz was excellent, tickets inexpensive, and, by nightfall, streets full of drunk Italians wandering throughout the city from one concert to the next. Also had Grom.

- Cathy came to visit, so we rented a car and wandered around the countryside. Woo freedom! I got to see Montepulciano and we visited a few wineries. A favorite: Pian Dell'Orino, an organic winery in Montalcino. They have distributors in CA and NY, so the best part is I can get their wine when I get back to the states!

- Marco turned 31, the twins who live across from me turned 24, and I turned 22. Walter, Monica's son, and a few other people turned a year as well. The unusual number of summer birthdays makes me think that there must be something romantic about post-crush and the olive oil harvest... (This is rivaled in funniness by the Corcoran family, whose members were born predominantly in November.)

- Had one final meal at I'Toscano (via Guelfa 70r, Florence) and a final ice cream at Vivoli. Now they're closed for the August Holiday :-(.

- Apparently, between July 21 - Aug 21 is the hottest time of the year in Italy. Temperatures of 40 degrees C have seriously sabotaged my motivation to run...

Will post more about food later.

Tuscany's red light district (is nearby)

Along the state road between Ambra to Siena, there are five hookers.

They are only out during the daytime.
They are black women dressed like 7th grade girls at the mall.
They have clients from not only this area but also anyone who wants to take a detour on the highway from Florence to Rome.

After hearing about Tuscany’s underground sex trade, I thought Walter (Monica’s dad) and Fiorella (waitress) were joking. Since then, I’ve seen them three times.

First, coming back with Russ from the beach in Maremma, where we ate cantaloupe and peaches from a fruit stand for lunch, and I got a very strange tan. We saw two standing in the shade of a side road.

Second, returning from a daytrip with my parents. They were on the main road this time.

Third, returning from Norcia, the land of black truffles and embargo-breaking sales of Harry Potter. One of the women talking to—BARGAINING WITH—the driver of a stopped Mercedes station wagon.

“That’s the dangerous part,” Walter said when I told him about it later. “If the police see them then they’ll take away the car. Having sex in a car is illegal in Italy.”

Harry potter and the small italian mountain town

I GOT HARRY POTTER #7 EARLY! The lady at the Norcian bookstore told me not to tell anyone. "You like Harry Potter? You just lost five points," Marco said as I read it in the kitchen. Anyway, I finished it at 4AM this morning (a beautiful 120 minutes before the first copies go on sale in the US).

Yes, other things have been happening. Backdated posts will be up shortly...

How to watch the world go by

Venice is beautiful, and the best way to enjoy it is on the terrace of the Westin with a bottle of white wine, great company, and a book. If snack food doesn't fill you up, head over to La Boutique del Gelato for Vivoli-league ice cream, as a reasonable dinner is quite difficult to find. “Look over near Ponte Rialto,” one shopkeeper suggested. “At least they won’t poison you there.”

(Backdated, 23/07/07)

Out-run and out-eaten

After the Notturna di San Giovanni, a 10K in Florence, I left thinking four things:
- Running in Italy is like driving in Italy. There must be rules, I just don't’ know what they are.
- Clocks in Italy are like Saints. These days, their utility is aesthetic.
- Thank God Vivoli stays open until 11PM.
- Racing in Italy can’t get any better than this—what other race will start with a parade (men in tights throwing flags), feature a vocal crowd, and offer views of half the curriculum of Art Hum?

I reconsidered the last point at the finish of a 7-point-something K near Siena, where they gave each participant a bottle of wine. I chuckled to myself and began to think about how my friends would react when I told them this once I got home.

We didn’t go home. Ubaldo had indeed kept his promise to take me with him to races, but, here in Tuscany, “race” also means “dinner” (which is proceeded by a “post-race shower” and followed by “drinks”).

Fast forward to the food: Walking toward the dinner tent, I heard my name. The race organizers were conducting a raffle among participants, and I had won a chocolate pastry! All the participation prizes were food—olive oil, salami, good wine, sweets.

We waited in line to order and get a table. An eight year old served beer on tap, while his mother managed the cash register. As we sat down, one of Ubaldo’s friends uncorked his raffle prize (DOCG olive oil) and poured it over bread for the table. Half a wheel of pecorino rosso appeared (origins: unclear). Then, finally our order: a crostoni platter. Beer. Prosciutto and melon. Pici with ragu. More beer. Mushroom and prosciutto pizza. A pork chop. Orange pastry. By this time, the Italians—most of whom had run sub 2:40 marathons in the last two weeks—started to smoke and speak quickly in dialect. Another round of beer. I checked the time; it was 1 AM.

“Don’t worry,” Ubaldo’s wife whispered to me as she surveyed the mess. “I’ll drive.”