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Wednesday, November 17, 2004 It's a strange life, this, skipping around the western world like a stone across a lake. There are those moments -- often after a bout of skidding around the Earth's surface, with resulting insufficient sleep (a potent combo that can produce plenty of feelings) -- when I am not sure where the hell I belong, what I want to be doing, who I want to be doing it with. Generally a good time to remind myself how fortunate I am, that my life is swimming with blessings -- a simple process I do often, actually. After which I turn my attention to things that need to be done, whatever they may be, and get the carrying-on of life underway. The day moves along, my state of mind moves on with it, before I know it I'm absorbed in my existence, often a bit clearer about myself, about what I want for this extravaganza that passes for my little life. I've done some releasing of tethers during these last few years, moving away from a relatively settled situation in favor of one where I increasingly follow the flow of my impulses. It's been a conscious choice, one I've arranged my resources to support, and it's produced a fluid existence that's taken me places I don't think I could have pictured in earlier years, both internally and externally. The goal is not necessarily to be moving about, more to be paying attention to where I am and the information contained in my ongoing stream of responses -- that information is me communicating with me, part of what some might call the inner voice. It speaks clearly, and it doesn't mislead. And the more I pay attention to it, trusting the counsel of my own feelings, the clearer I become about who I am and the more interesting, the more satisfying my journey on this planet becomes. I babble, I know -- the result, I'm afraid, of a weekend spent with a friend that included abundant philosophical blab. Blab and a heap of extremely decent Italian food, against the backdrop of northwest Italy. Pretty good backdrop, as it turned out. Flew out of Madrid early Friday afternoon, this end of the trip fast and smooth. The leg from Linate Airport into Milano and north from there to the 'burb of Merate (40 miles? something like that) took as long as the trip from my front door to Linate. (*#"@%Ç!!!) Milano: an enormous, sprawling mother of a city. Industrial, high-density. The bus from the airport to the Central Railway Station (the grass along the highways the brilliant, shining green of spring) wound its way through old neighborhoods, along tree-lined avenues and the longest, most extensive display of graffiti I have ever seen, even more than in the New York City I remember from the late 70s/early 80s, and that's saying something. Without the wild, colorful creativity of the Big Apple's graffiti explosion -- just pedestrian, ho-hum tags along the sidewalk level of every building, giving the impression that come nightfall the streets are overrun by hordes of teenagers armed with cans of spray paint and minimal imagination. (Pause for an inquiry: Why are European busses so much more comfortable and well cared for than their U.S. counterparts? I ask the question out of genuine curiosity. I have yet to plant my adorable butt in an American bus that comes close to the body-friendliness of its continental cousins -- and I use that modifier 'continental' to exclude busses my butt has experienced in London, which are wonderful vehicles just by virtue of being in that swinging burg but not necessarily designed for comfort. To speculate on this or compliment my adorable posterior, please click on the 'fire away!' link beneath this page's masthead photo. End of question pitstop.) The Stazione Centrale is the real item, a huge, majestic transit crossroads, a bit overwhelming in its scale, or at least it was to this poor bastard, trying to thread my way through the beginning of evening rush hour to the right ticket window, then to the right train. The ticket guy dealt with my Spanish with good-natured ease, tossed a ticket my way, told me the platform number, warned me I'd have to change trains in Monza. Found the train, found a window seat. The coach filled up around me with commuters headed home, the train pulled out as Milan's early darkness fell. Stations were not announced -- me aware I'd have to change trains, with no idea where Monza was, I kept an eye peeled as each successive station appeared, ready to jump up, drag bags down from luggage rack, push my way through commuting Italians, toss myself out the door. Did that when Monza rolled along, found myself out on a cold platform, Italians pushing past. Followed the crowd down some stairs, through a concrete hallway, up another flight of stairs and into what passed as a station where an extensive, cryptic train schedule covered much of a wall. Stood there studying it until I thought I might have found the listing I needed, then did it all over again just to be sure. Then again just to make real damn sure. Finally headed back out into the night, pushed my way downstairs, through corridor, up other stairs onto platform. And waited as one train after another passed through, listening to the stationmaster's announcements, asking people on each likely train if it would be stopping in Merate. The correct train -- the one I'd found on the schedule -- showed up 30 minutes late. Me and my bags got on, got off four stations later in Merate. Cars picked up travelers, voices greeted each other in Italian. And then they were all gone, leaving me looking futilely about for a taxi. None appeared, not even at the taxi stand across the narrow two-lane that cut between the station and a small bar/convenience store. After 20 minutes of standing about in the cold, damp dark hoping a ride would materialize, I stepped into the store, asked the counter guy for help. He handed me the local taxi company's card, showed me to a phone. I dialed, a woman picked up. I addressed her in Spanish, she commenced yelling at me. Thirty seconds later the shouting continued, my hand quietly hung the phone up. The counter guy cocked an inquiring eyebrow at me, I shook my head in the negative. He came over, took the card, dialed. The same woman answered, I could hear her starting up with him -- he waded through it, got her to send a cab. Hung up, looked at me, said, "Horrible!" I could only agree. [continued in next entry] Madrid, te quiero. rws 9:21 AM [+]
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