The second train from New Haven to Penn Station is about 6 or 7 cars, again quite comfortable and on time. On my laptop I watch Sokurov’s Moscow Elegy, I have never seen anything by this Russian director, I am somewhat suspicious of his fame to by mystical. I am struck by the images of Tarkosvsky in Italy that open the movie. I did not know it was a documentary. It is a paradoxical way to make my way back to Tuscany. From my backpack, I take out my three tomatoes and some pecocrino romano and have an early lunch as I watch Tonino Guerra conversing with Tarskovski. The sight of New York in the background is quite moving. As I get off, in a dustbin, I leave the knife I have been using for lunches since I got in the US. As I arrive early at the airport, it is still raining, I have a last American coffee at the Tuscany Coffee, the one nearest to the Lufthansa check in area. On all the tv screen they are showing the view from the elicopter of the place in Los Angeles where the private and family service for Michael Jackson is being held. After I check in it is instead the procession of black limousines that transports the corpse and the vips to the staples center. The commentator on CNN are amazed by the fact that the freeways have been closed for this very special convoy. The obvious comparison goes to the funerals of Elvis Presley. As I am about to board the young daughter of Michael Jackson, Paris, makes her very brief and moving speech, is she the only person with true feelings in that crowd?
As I board on the plane the speakers welcome us in German: even if I do not speak the language, I like the sound of it, and also, for reasons unclear to me, its sounds is familiar, and somehow tells me ‘welcome back home’. That’s however is the question, as an Italian song goes, la casa dov’é? At the Frankfurt airport, it is raining, I cannot resist using euros for the first time again for a cappuccino which, I know it now, stands midway between the Italian and the American ones.
As the small plane reaches the mountains, the clouds disappear, the sun is shining on the alpine lakes, some haze on the Padan Plain. I can already feel the hot July Italian sun preparing to hit me badly. Instead, south of the Po river, clouds reappear and when I land in Florence, it is warm, but it is under thirty degrees celsius, that is mild to be July.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
on the way to JFK
At 6 45 in the morning I am all ready and waiting for the taxi that will take me to Hartoford Union Station. Here I am, a week ago, as I traveled cross country, I had a car full of stuff, finally I managed to reduce everything to the original volume with which I had landed 6 months ago. It is impressive.
Hartford is one of the poorest cities in the US, it would be difficult to guess it from the skyscrapers that populate the downtown area. The Amtrak train station, that sits above the bus station from where I took the bus to Boston just few days ago. The place is in decay, there is only one track serving running on wooden laid track. Once this was a three platforms train station with en extra fourth track running on the outside. Now the main platform is not used and only what once was platform 2 is the only one where trains runs. As it should in a moment like this, it rains, lightly. One of the reason I chose to take the train on my way to the airport was also to try the Amtrak train, on my way up, in January I had run on Metro North, Amtrak is the national company that runs across country. When the two wagons plus the locomotive approach, I feel like sadness, this is after all the line that runs from New York to Boston, and all that is running is a couple of wagons. Nothing compared to what runs on the highways. Inside seats are equipped with sockets and you can comfortably run you laptop on the fold up table. No wireless though.
Hartford is one of the poorest cities in the US, it would be difficult to guess it from the skyscrapers that populate the downtown area. The Amtrak train station, that sits above the bus station from where I took the bus to Boston just few days ago. The place is in decay, there is only one track serving running on wooden laid track. Once this was a three platforms train station with en extra fourth track running on the outside. Now the main platform is not used and only what once was platform 2 is the only one where trains runs. As it should in a moment like this, it rains, lightly. One of the reason I chose to take the train on my way to the airport was also to try the Amtrak train, on my way up, in January I had run on Metro North, Amtrak is the national company that runs across country. When the two wagons plus the locomotive approach, I feel like sadness, this is after all the line that runs from New York to Boston, and all that is running is a couple of wagons. Nothing compared to what runs on the highways. Inside seats are equipped with sockets and you can comfortably run you laptop on the fold up table. No wireless though.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
4th of July in Boston, the irish pub story
The craziest thing about the day was one of the pub we stopped by with my friend T. We enter this Irish pub, 10 people in it, a sad family at one table, few men at the counter and a woman with a Red Sox bluse, nobody says a word, nobody gives us a look, the bartender does not welcome us. It is a local pub. Irish gig music is playing. If Dante's limbo in modern time can be anything, it is something similar to this, spend the eternity in an Irish pub populated by silent souls staring in the void and back to their drink. And Gaelic music. An old poster of JFK is hanging with under it a black and white photo of the JFK aircraft carrier. A Budweiser map of Ireland. a Samuel Adams old clock. a sign saying 'we proudly serve Guinness'.
After 10 minutes, however, as I am watching the dark pattern of the red bricks and mortars that compose the wall near our table, a realization takes forms in my head: this is the real thing, IRA and Sinn Fein, there are no signs but the walls still smell of them, these people are the orphans of "the cause". Who knows how many meeting, how much money has been raised on Sundays afternoons? Few minutes afterwards the confirm comes from the music, political ballads from the 1920s on Ireland and IRA come through the modern digital system. We remain for a couple of hours, paying drinks to the local, Jameson, the republican whisky of course. We play Irish songs by the Pogues, and some old ballads. The other damned souls appreciate and they rescue for us some comments and stories about being 'republican', the pub has been here throughout the 20th century and the fathers of this people dwelt here, some even tell the story of visits to Ireland in the 1970s and 1980s, stories of family, awful food, and religion that possess a powerful scent, coming from another century.
After 10 minutes, however, as I am watching the dark pattern of the red bricks and mortars that compose the wall near our table, a realization takes forms in my head: this is the real thing, IRA and Sinn Fein, there are no signs but the walls still smell of them, these people are the orphans of "the cause". Who knows how many meeting, how much money has been raised on Sundays afternoons? Few minutes afterwards the confirm comes from the music, political ballads from the 1920s on Ireland and IRA come through the modern digital system. We remain for a couple of hours, paying drinks to the local, Jameson, the republican whisky of course. We play Irish songs by the Pogues, and some old ballads. The other damned souls appreciate and they rescue for us some comments and stories about being 'republican', the pub has been here throughout the 20th century and the fathers of this people dwelt here, some even tell the story of visits to Ireland in the 1970s and 1980s, stories of family, awful food, and religion that possess a powerful scent, coming from another century.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
4th of July morning, from the bus
My day starts at 830 with a taxi ride from farmington to Hartford Union station, with a Pakistani driver who does not bucle the belt. He has been in the US for 20 years he tells me, but he complains: no matter how much money you make, no social life. I ask if he has tried to go back to his country, two times, he answers, but with no success.
So this is my first time on a bus in the US, at the very end of my trip. The ride from Hartford to Boston on the Greyhound bus, costs 32$. If you buy the ticket online it would be 22, but then you have to come and pick it up one hour before depart, a clear way to discourage online ticketing. If you buy from the Peter Pan Buses web site, the african american lady at the counter explains me, you can print the ticket yourself, but they are not very strict with the greyhound rules either.... This is a tip for everybody travelling by bus in the US.
The 9 15 Boston bound bus (they do not call them coaches on this side of the atlantic) is a Peter Pan bus, evidently the two companies Peter Pan and Greyhound have now joined forces. A normal bus with 52 seats, a bathroom, and a black dust bag in the front as common bin. We are about 20 25 people on board, difficult to see who they might be, normal people, of different ages, races etc. The driver welcomes us onboard through the speakers and reminds us that smoking and alcohol are federally prohibited on buses, with the accent posed on the federal. Restrain from the use of cellphone as a courtesy to your fellow traveller etc, and there is free wireless on the bus. Thus I am writing this very note from my seat at the front. I have been to Boston less than a week ago but I was too tired, I hope today is going to be better. I have found a guide book, not very good, but informative. Now I remember a movie, a bad romantic comedy (I am not good judge of romantic comedies, I do not watch them) Everybody wants to be Italian, which is set in the north end district of Boston, the one traditionally lived by Italians immigrants. Really I do not know much else. It means that I will learn a lot today.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Car finale...con brio
so, after the cross country car adventure one way and back, I get the car insurance adventure. Complete experience, till the end.
On monday evening the accident, the phone calls. Tuesday afternoon the appraisal guy that works for the insurance company of the car that hit me comes round to have a look at the car. He has italian origin, from Puglia. He explains me that he is just collecting data and pictures and that he will do an estimate when back to his office. Subsequentely I drive the car to a car body shop, one that has been recommended by one of the librarians. He looks at the car and predicts what may happens. The car is too damaged for a repair. Even if it is just the body it is not worth repairing it. The insurance is going to declare it a total loss and "total it". That is it is going to give me money and substantially buy the car from me. This is the best solution, as I will not have to find a buyer for the repaired car.
The following day nothing happened, they let me in a frying pan of preoccupations the entire day, will this be solved in time? will I need to reschedule my flight? At the end of the day I called the insurance, the profecy was fulfilled, it is a total loss and we are going to buy the car from you.
At this point I could start to relax, I would not need to sell it, time and how much? are now my concerns.
Today again was a day of waiting, waiting for receiving the phone call that would tell me the final word, how much and when. In the end, around 3 30 I received the call, they are going to give me 4000 $ and the check is going to be there by tomorrow.
I will need to provide them with the title of ownership duly completed. The plate need to be taken off and sent back to the DMV by post ( one could actually just take them there, however it is closed from thursday to the tuesday for Independence Day).
The incident was on monday afternoon, we have a solution by wednesday, and a check by friday, this is an incredible efficiency for a insurance to give money away.
Celebrate the 4th of july.
My last question to the appraisal guy in our last conversation was, what will happen to the car? The car, he answered, will be sold at an auction, and will be bought either by a salvage yard who will break it down for parts, or will be bought by a rebuilder who will repair and try to sell it.
On monday evening the accident, the phone calls. Tuesday afternoon the appraisal guy that works for the insurance company of the car that hit me comes round to have a look at the car. He has italian origin, from Puglia. He explains me that he is just collecting data and pictures and that he will do an estimate when back to his office. Subsequentely I drive the car to a car body shop, one that has been recommended by one of the librarians. He looks at the car and predicts what may happens. The car is too damaged for a repair. Even if it is just the body it is not worth repairing it. The insurance is going to declare it a total loss and "total it". That is it is going to give me money and substantially buy the car from me. This is the best solution, as I will not have to find a buyer for the repaired car.
The following day nothing happened, they let me in a frying pan of preoccupations the entire day, will this be solved in time? will I need to reschedule my flight? At the end of the day I called the insurance, the profecy was fulfilled, it is a total loss and we are going to buy the car from you.
At this point I could start to relax, I would not need to sell it, time and how much? are now my concerns.
Today again was a day of waiting, waiting for receiving the phone call that would tell me the final word, how much and when. In the end, around 3 30 I received the call, they are going to give me 4000 $ and the check is going to be there by tomorrow.
I will need to provide them with the title of ownership duly completed. The plate need to be taken off and sent back to the DMV by post ( one could actually just take them there, however it is closed from thursday to the tuesday for Independence Day).
The incident was on monday afternoon, we have a solution by wednesday, and a check by friday, this is an incredible efficiency for a insurance to give money away.
Celebrate the 4th of july.
My last question to the appraisal guy in our last conversation was, what will happen to the car? The car, he answered, will be sold at an auction, and will be bought either by a salvage yard who will break it down for parts, or will be bought by a rebuilder who will repair and try to sell it.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
car adventure : the twisted finale
After a pleasant weekend between Rhode Island and Massachusetts, of which I will write later, yesterday morning I set off from East Greenwich westwards to Farmington. I will spend the week there. It is somehow like going back home. Certainly it is for the car, as I am taking it where I bought it. This 100 miles or so to the Lewis Walpole Library are also my last drive in the US. Once there I will sell the car tomorrow or on Wednesday. As these thoughts start to gather in my head I get a little emotional while driving. This car has been a good companion of adventure in the last 4 months, and I am sad I have to leave it behind. The weather continue to be gray and showery, trees and plants are display their best green. I stop for the last gas and I also take a last coffee refill, just for the fun of it. It is funny to drive again in these roads where I drove first at the beginning of February. The I-95 I-84, the 372, and finally the 10 that took me from New Haven to Farmington. When I arrive to the library the odometer marks 133869, it was 130043 10 days ago when I left LA, the trip coast to coast West to East was in the end 3826 miles. When I left Farmington in late February it marked 121840. In the last 4 months I have done more than 12000 miles, more than 19000 km, what I have been usually doing in three years back in Italy.
The day passes between greetings, tales from my past months and some work in the reading room, reading some early 19th century accounts of English Clubs life.
At 5 pm I take everything off the car and clean it, then I take it to the car wash, I want to make it look beautiful for the perspective buyer who is coming to see it at 6 30.
As I am driving back home on route 6 I stop at a yellow traffic light. A GMC small SUV hit me from the back and pushes me on the other side of the intersection. I cannot render the thousand thoughts that hit me on those seconds, insurance, no sale, mechanic, my flight, my money, my buyer, time, time.
I get off and look at the car, the rear bumper the lights on the passenger side needs replacing the trunk and some of the fairing needs bodywork. Nothing major but certainly significant, and it will go on the record of the car, the resale price will just drop and drop. What will I do?
The other guy stops and calls the police, it is a nice guy, from down the road. He is sorry. A first car of the local municipal police arrives, but the policewoman is at the end of her shift and a sergeant comes 10 minutes later. A report is filed. I explain my situation, I leave the country in a week or so, they tell me to leave the registration certificate, my title of ownership already signed for the sale to a person I trust. What a mess.
In the evening I call both my insurance and the other guy insurance. They will contact me for the appraisal. maybe today. I walked to the local plaza, back in february, with ice on the sidewalk this had seemed to me quite a distance, now it does not take me more than 5 minutes to get there. The liquor shop is not there anymore, a casualty of the crisis? difficult to believe. I was ready to indulge in a bottle to forget the day, but I will have to find other means to sedate my soul, what a stroke of luck, they give star trek the next generation on the sci-fi channel....
The day passes between greetings, tales from my past months and some work in the reading room, reading some early 19th century accounts of English Clubs life.
At 5 pm I take everything off the car and clean it, then I take it to the car wash, I want to make it look beautiful for the perspective buyer who is coming to see it at 6 30.
As I am driving back home on route 6 I stop at a yellow traffic light. A GMC small SUV hit me from the back and pushes me on the other side of the intersection. I cannot render the thousand thoughts that hit me on those seconds, insurance, no sale, mechanic, my flight, my money, my buyer, time, time.
I get off and look at the car, the rear bumper the lights on the passenger side needs replacing the trunk and some of the fairing needs bodywork. Nothing major but certainly significant, and it will go on the record of the car, the resale price will just drop and drop. What will I do?
The other guy stops and calls the police, it is a nice guy, from down the road. He is sorry. A first car of the local municipal police arrives, but the policewoman is at the end of her shift and a sergeant comes 10 minutes later. A report is filed. I explain my situation, I leave the country in a week or so, they tell me to leave the registration certificate, my title of ownership already signed for the sale to a person I trust. What a mess.
In the evening I call both my insurance and the other guy insurance. They will contact me for the appraisal. maybe today. I walked to the local plaza, back in february, with ice on the sidewalk this had seemed to me quite a distance, now it does not take me more than 5 minutes to get there. The liquor shop is not there anymore, a casualty of the crisis? difficult to believe. I was ready to indulge in a bottle to forget the day, but I will have to find other means to sedate my soul, what a stroke of luck, they give star trek the next generation on the sci-fi channel....
Monday, June 29, 2009
Cambridge Boston, 8th day
The weather has completely changed, since I passed Buffalo going east, it is grey and it is raining. Today it is the same, I did not know that summers in new england would be so mild, so englishin a sense, in the traditional sense of what summer used to be in England.
Getting to cambridge is relatively easy, I am there in less than 2 hours, but the only parking available is very expensive. I walk around this little town for half an hour before getting to the research library where a booklet has been set aside for me. In less than three hours I have finished with it and decide to drive through downtown Boston before heading for Providence where I have an appointment with T. I stop in Boston and have a walk around and stop at the public gardens, I see the victorian and edwardian architecture of the houses, but I am too tired to be really looking around and getting a sense of the city, a seagull is carrying with its beak a plastic bag full of bread crumbs, from time to time stops rest and then picks up its bag and walk another 5 6 metres. I think I am so tired I am having allucinations, thus I take a picture of it, just to be sure. After an hour or so I get back on the car and drive to Providence, RI. Traffic getting out of Boston is worse than in LA, it takes me two hours to get to Providence. My friend is waiting at a bar in Thayer street, where Brown University people hang out. A very trendy and lively street.
After a couple of drinks we head to East Greenwich some 15 miles south of Providence, where T is living at the moment.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Niagara falls, 7th day
I wake up very early with a beautiful feeling, maybe it is the lake shore, after all I was born on the shore of another lake. I drive up from Geneva on the Lake to the next town which bear a native sounding name Ashtabula, I stop on the shore where there is a coffee house, it is about 7 30 in the morning and the coffee place doesn't open until 8. A solitary fisherman looks at me with that look that fishermen give you, "are you going to bother my fishes and my peace?"; a tractor is cleaning the beach, I touch the water expecting freezing water, it is warm, not less than 18- 20 degrees, it is now or never, I put on my swim suit and throw myself in the water, which is clean too. At 8 o-clock I am the first and happy customer of the coffee house.
Back on the I-90 the noise at the front of the car is getting bad, I ask advice at the first rest area and pull over at the next gas station. At the back there is a garage where a lame mechanic welcomes me, he evidently does not deal in non-American cars. The place contains some of the Americana that one dreams to find in the USA. His diagnosis is clear, it is a wheel-bearer, the front right one. 260 $ and few hours of work. I am glad I have found him, he is clearly competent and honest. In less than three hours the car is back on the road and drives perfectly again.
My early start has turned into a late day. What the hell at this point I want to break the day in full. The next sign is a welcome center for the Niagara Falls, I pull over and get instructions.
As I arrive in Buffalo, the weather changes, a huge storm is over the city. When I get to Goat Island Car Park at the Niagara Falls, the rain is pouring down.
There they are the Niagara, from the top it is difficult to evaluate the dimension, but when a boat approaches them from below, you can appreciate how gigantic they are. Water, water, when was I in the desert? three, four days ago? I wander in the park for about one hour, before heading back to the car.
The rest of the day is driving on the I-90 till late to get as close as possible to Boston, where tomorrow morning I need to resume my scholarly clothes for a few hours. When I approach Springfield MA, I decide to pull over, it is about 10 pm I am very tired, but most of all , I want to sleep in a Springfield before going back to Europe. This is my last chance. I wish there could be Moe's pub round the corner.
Friday, June 26, 2009
day 6, south and then north again
Last night I slept, south of Chicago, to avoid being stuck in the morning traffic, the motel was in a place with a funny name on the I 65 that will take me down to Indianapolis where I will rejoin the I 70 that will take me to Columbus where I have a meeting for lunch with N a long time friend of mine. I am in the state of Indiana, and the landscape continue to be dominated by cornfield and by another plant which I am not able to identify. However in relation to Colorado where this central flatness begun, the number of trees has continued to increase, and so has the presence of water. When on the 70 I enter in Ohio, the landscape more or less remain the same. The skyline of Columbus is the usual series of skyscrapers. My lunch appointment is in a neighborhood north east of downtown, a sort of upscale suburban village with restaurants and shops. For the first time I eat at the Cheesecake factory a well known chain of restaurants, renown for their cheesecake that I forget to taste, the salad was not bad.
After lunch there is a decision to take, which way to the east coast, I have three option , the I 70 which will continue east to NY the I-80 which will proceed 50 miles north and pass north of NY, or the I 90 that will take me to Boston. Checking my mail I find out that a pamphlet I wanted to read is waiting for me in a library in Cambridge Massachusset. Thus the decision is taken: after traveling south from Chicago to get to Columbus, I will go back north to get to the 90. As I drive in the evening light, a noise is becoming evident, it comes from the front. Looking at the map I set my mind in sleeping on the lake Erie. It should be nice to touch the water of the Great Lakes. There is a village on the map, it is called Geneva, and has its little seaside resort, Geneva on the lake. I think it is perfect, last summer I passed on my motorbike trip to france and switzerland near the lake of Geneva, this summer I sleep in Geneva on the Lake. I should be there around sunset. As I leave the 90 to get to the coast I look at the houses, many are not well maintained, crisis? Decadence, or just the local culture. I missed the sunset on the lake just for minutes. Geneva on the Lake turns out to be a summer resort with gambling and family attractions, many bars and restaurants are biker friendly. I choose the sleaziest one, run by an Italoamerican from Campobasso.
After lunch there is a decision to take, which way to the east coast, I have three option , the I 70 which will continue east to NY the I-80 which will proceed 50 miles north and pass north of NY, or the I 90 that will take me to Boston. Checking my mail I find out that a pamphlet I wanted to read is waiting for me in a library in Cambridge Massachusset. Thus the decision is taken: after traveling south from Chicago to get to Columbus, I will go back north to get to the 90. As I drive in the evening light, a noise is becoming evident, it comes from the front. Looking at the map I set my mind in sleeping on the lake Erie. It should be nice to touch the water of the Great Lakes. There is a village on the map, it is called Geneva, and has its little seaside resort, Geneva on the lake. I think it is perfect, last summer I passed on my motorbike trip to france and switzerland near the lake of Geneva, this summer I sleep in Geneva on the Lake. I should be there around sunset. As I leave the 90 to get to the coast I look at the houses, many are not well maintained, crisis? Decadence, or just the local culture. I missed the sunset on the lake just for minutes. Geneva on the Lake turns out to be a summer resort with gambling and family attractions, many bars and restaurants are biker friendly. I choose the sleaziest one, run by an Italoamerican from Campobasso.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Chicago, day 5
The goal of the day is reaching Chicago in the afternoon so to visit it. Iowa is an infinite theory of cornfields and cows fields with the occasional small forest to break the sequence. The bridge over the Mississippi is under revision, thus I have to get round Davenport through a southern junction. As soon as one sets into Illinois, there are lots of road work to slow the pace of the car. Finally I get to Chicago around 5 pm. The lake side drive is a rather impressive way for a first contact. Driving north, the skyscrapers on the left , the beach on the right. It takes a while to find an outrageously expensive park for the car. Then I set off for a walk downtown. It is humid and hot, as it has been in the last two days. After driving two days among caws and corn I arrive in the capital of the Midwest. I follow the advice of a friend: strolling along Michigan and going up to the Signature Room bar at the top of Hancock Tower. I start with the latter. The elevator takes no more than one minute to go up to the 96th floor, then you are there, on top of the world, which is flat around you, both the water and the land till the horizon.
Walking in the city, at street level, I am reminded of what the adjective urban is meant to feel in its most extreme, that is Metropolitan, London, Paris New York. After few months in Los Angeles this is quite shocking. I can say now, I never had this specific feeling. LA stands really apart from the other metropolis. Chicago however has its own specific feeling. Let me put it this way. It is monumental, punctuated by statues, quite overwhelming in the beauty of the skyscrapers. This is somehow the Chicago that in home to Batman, its dark knight. Then there is the magnificent and luxurious city, made of an endless superposition and juxtaposition of palaces and skyscrapers, a city that shows its sheer wealth with unashamed pleasure. It made me think of Venice, the richness of the individual palaces, the many facades that the city presents to the world, the view from the lake, the one from the river, the one from Michigan Avenue. It shares something else with Venice; there is a specific source of wealth that has made these cities rich, in the case of Venice it is the commerce of spices, in that of Chicago, cows, in neither of the two there is an explicit acknowledgement of this basic fact. In simple words, where is the monument to the burger?
Entering Midwest, day 4
The day starts with an oil change, in the outskirit of Denver. In the waiting room they show the US open of golf. They were also on in a diner two days ago. Golf must be more popular than one imagine. A short drive north to Boulder where just under the mountains, where I have a coffee with T a colleague met at the Huntington. Downtown Boulder is a lovely are with coffee houses and restaurants. Leaving Boulder around 1 pm I drive north for few miles and then eastbound to reach the 25 north and then the 34 east to reach the I 76 that will lead me to the I 80 in direction of Chicago. As soon as I leave the mountains behind me a new landscape sets in. It is a well known one, the flatlands of the Midwest. Caws hanging on the field alternate to cornfields or to some other form of cultivation. There is nothing to see. It is as vast as the desert, but for reason that are hard to explain, not as exciting and of course lack any sublimity. When I stop at the first gas station I am struck by the heat. Humidity must be very high, close to 90 or 100 %. I remember the same sensation getting off the airplane in Cuba. A pool of liquid is dropping from under the car. Damn, they have done something wrong at the oilchange!!! Under the hood, everything looks fine. I am worried. What could it be? I touch and smell it, definitely water, with a car scent. As I am still checking I notice that other cars produce their pools too, the air conditioning, that’s what it is. Relieved I resume my journey.
Nebraska’s green is a little more intense, but basically the same, the only thing to do is to follow the activities of the caws as the afternoon pass, they eat they ruminate, they doze, they eat. Eventually evening sets in and I am relived of this never changing landscape. As I enter the urban area of Lincoln on the 80 something tipical happens: I am passing a lorry, speeding just over the 75 miles per hour limit. Since we are entering a urban area, the speed limit decreases to 65, as I am completing the overtaking, a patrol car is standing there and they come and stop me. As I explain the tricky situation I was, I am issued a warning and I continue. However I am driving more carefully. I stop in a place called just passed Omaha, Underwood, in Iowa.
Nebraska’s green is a little more intense, but basically the same, the only thing to do is to follow the activities of the caws as the afternoon pass, they eat they ruminate, they doze, they eat. Eventually evening sets in and I am relived of this never changing landscape. As I enter the urban area of Lincoln on the 80 something tipical happens: I am passing a lorry, speeding just over the 75 miles per hour limit. Since we are entering a urban area, the speed limit decreases to 65, as I am completing the overtaking, a patrol car is standing there and they come and stop me. As I explain the tricky situation I was, I am issued a warning and I continue. However I am driving more carefully. I stop in a place called just passed Omaha, Underwood, in Iowa.
Colorado, Day 3
Entering Colorado is also leaving the desert, the land of rivers and water and forest. A completely different environment from either the mixed environment of Utah and the deserts. As I am crossing the river Colorado leaving Utah I cannot but think how crazy It is that Los Angeles gets its water from this river, two days away from the metropolis. Rather extreme. I leave the I-70 for route 50 which takes in a loop south and east, following the river Gunnison. It is a long detour but it will grant quite remarkable sceneries. The Black Canyon is just north of the 50 and it is a National Park. The view from the top, at the visitor center is one to be remembered, the river flows quite richly down about 200 meters or more. The comparison with the Gran Canyon which I visited 4 months ago is impossible, like comparing an island to a continent. Continuing on the 50 and following the Gunnison one encounters the Blue Mesa Reservoir, an artificial lake. At the junction with the 285, turning north towards Denver, the road starts to climb. Patches of snow covers the trees, the top of the mountains are free of trees, I wonder how high are we getting… When I get to the pass I am unprepared it is at 9346 feet, serious altitude, but one of the lowest passes in this area. This is the Grand Divide, that sets the US’ rivers east or west bound. Stopping in a fancy place near Fairplay called Coyote Cantina full of Americana hanging from the ceiling, a full motorcycle and a statue of a Viking warrior among the most remarkable item. Over a door hangs a chain of beer cans, called the redneck doorbeads.
In the evening driving to Denver I stop at a motel in West Village.
In the evening driving to Denver I stop at a motel in West Village.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Southern Utah
“If you are driving back, you should not miss southern Utah”, I was told more than two months ago, I am glad I listened to that advice, yesterday drive was incredible throughout the day, with the help of some luck.
Las Vegas’ strip in the morning is like a half empty glass of wiskey looked with hangover eyes, it is hard to look at it. The huge clown of the Circus hotel looks too big and the colourful neonlights structures are dwarfed by the desert sun. One rather hit the road and get away.
However if you want to stop there is no much around, industrial plants for the estraction of minerals, cement from the mountains sides. With some luck, and the help of a sign, GOOD FOOD, I find a diner in a god forsaken place called Ely, near a phantom place called Glendale. It is a diner, like the one you would see in a road movie. Entering it is like entering in a movie set, the blonde, once upon a time pretty waitress behind the counter, the other, stouter, one that only smiles to regular customers, who are mostly large men. Two huge tv screens showing golf and a reality are the vivid reminder that you are indeed in reality. They would not be there if you were in a movie. The diner offer a meat-lover menu. The big-boy breakfast includes a ½ pound ham steak, scary.
The highway 15 is a beautiful ride, but when I leave it to get towards the national park the scenery becomes amazing. The layered rock formations are all red in the great majority, but also white, grey, and white. However, within the desert there is a small river, the river Virgin, which allows for agriculture and farming. John Smith the prophet and founder of the Mormons had pointed to Utah as the promised land and a good section of the population in this area are Mormons.
In spite of this the National Park is called Zion, it is beautiful with its coloured mountains and its rivers. Exiting it means changing shape of desert yet another time, this time is more of a western tipe with large plain and at the bottom this large flat hills.
Driving with the evening sun behind you means having a good lighting of the landscape. Between Salina and Green River on the I-70 there are 110 miles without services, without a town, only the occasional ranch. It is the kind of place where god may give signs: It starts to rain, and a rainbow appear. Driving for about one hour with a rainbow, a full one, in front of you, and driving in the middle of it, in the rain, and lightning in the far back, I do not know why but is a filling experience.
Las Vegas’ strip in the morning is like a half empty glass of wiskey looked with hangover eyes, it is hard to look at it. The huge clown of the Circus hotel looks too big and the colourful neonlights structures are dwarfed by the desert sun. One rather hit the road and get away.
However if you want to stop there is no much around, industrial plants for the estraction of minerals, cement from the mountains sides. With some luck, and the help of a sign, GOOD FOOD, I find a diner in a god forsaken place called Ely, near a phantom place called Glendale. It is a diner, like the one you would see in a road movie. Entering it is like entering in a movie set, the blonde, once upon a time pretty waitress behind the counter, the other, stouter, one that only smiles to regular customers, who are mostly large men. Two huge tv screens showing golf and a reality are the vivid reminder that you are indeed in reality. They would not be there if you were in a movie. The diner offer a meat-lover menu. The big-boy breakfast includes a ½ pound ham steak, scary.
The highway 15 is a beautiful ride, but when I leave it to get towards the national park the scenery becomes amazing. The layered rock formations are all red in the great majority, but also white, grey, and white. However, within the desert there is a small river, the river Virgin, which allows for agriculture and farming. John Smith the prophet and founder of the Mormons had pointed to Utah as the promised land and a good section of the population in this area are Mormons.
In spite of this the National Park is called Zion, it is beautiful with its coloured mountains and its rivers. Exiting it means changing shape of desert yet another time, this time is more of a western tipe with large plain and at the bottom this large flat hills.
Driving with the evening sun behind you means having a good lighting of the landscape. Between Salina and Green River on the I-70 there are 110 miles without services, without a town, only the occasional ranch. It is the kind of place where god may give signs: It starts to rain, and a rainbow appear. Driving for about one hour with a rainbow, a full one, in front of you, and driving in the middle of it, in the rain, and lightning in the far back, I do not know why but is a filling experience.
The evening is spent in Green River.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Death Valley to Vegas
I am writing from a trendish coffe shop organic store in the middle of southern Utah, a beautiful valley along a River named Virgin. The valley is green all along in the middle of this huge desert.
But this is today. Now I have to write about yesterday.
Setting off from LA was not easy, both on an emotional level and on a practical level too since there is quite some traffic leaving the city. Setting off on the 210 and turning north on the 15 towards Las Vegas, this was the plan, but as the 15 was quite busy, and Vegas not far I decided to make a detour and drive through Death Valley.
Approaching the area for the first time I saw the water cooling indicator of the car going beyond half way up where it stood the past three months. The air is quite hot. As you get over a some hills and dive into Death Valley the bottom of it, which stands under sea level, is covered in white sand. But there is life, lots of life even in this terrible heat. it is 5 in the afternoon, and the temperature is well over 43 degrees c°
I take a gravel road through what is calle "immigrant pass" the indicator continue to raise. As the road goes up and the speed decreases the hand reaches closes the black zone that indicates (too) high temperature. A panel on the road says, Radiator water 1 mile, the water was not there. After a couple of miles I stop and wait, hood open, for a quarter of an hour. Finally I make it over the pass. After some time I get on the route 90 again. And it takes me to Zabriskie Point!!!
A coyote has stopped in the middle of the road to eat a run-over reptile. I stop and wait for it to finish his meal and leave me going over my way. This is the first coyote I see. I am very happy I have seen one.
Driving through death valley to emerge back to new (fake) life in Las Vegas is sort of ironic. So I am very happy as I get to Vegas just as sun has set and neon lights are taking over.
Mine must be one of the cheapest motels on Vegas strip. However, it has a wedding chapel, two white limousines parked in front and the doors painted in pink. No wireless.
I walk all the way on the strip, which is made of these giant hotels/casinos/theme parks, Sharah, Circus, Treasure Island, on the stroll tons of visitors and tourists and lines of peoples offering cards of the flourishing prostitution industry. When I arrive in the one copied from Venice I can hardly believe it, the houses, the bridges, the gondola, S Marco. The gondolieris are singing italian songs, and the tourists are clapping their hands, as their gondolas slides through crystal-clear water.
The Paris one does not look much like Parisian street, more like austria or the netherlands, but the effect is good enough. And the crepes are real.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Jacaronda
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
end of the month report, May
No much to register for this month, evidently the sense of impending travel and the fact that at one point I will have to pack things up and throw away what does not fit in my two suitcases is starting to affect my consumption patterns.
1 baseball cap to cover my head when the sun pours hard
1 new sunscreen cream protection factor 70
1 nivea hydrating cream
1 new agenda to replace the one I washed away in the washing machine
in the fridge there is hardly anything left, I need to go grocery shopping.
1 baseball cap to cover my head when the sun pours hard
1 new sunscreen cream protection factor 70
1 nivea hydrating cream
1 new agenda to replace the one I washed away in the washing machine
in the fridge there is hardly anything left, I need to go grocery shopping.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Watt Towers
One striking feature of Los Angeles is the absence of monuments, this may also be a general feature of US cities in general, especially if compared to european ones. Statues do not abound anywhere or they are confined in certain places. After all the most famous monument in the US, the statue of liberty is a gift from the french people.
In LA there are very few monuments, one is a bust of James Dean at the Observatory, which could be arguably considered a monument itself. The other is the Hollywood sign, which evolved from advert sign to monument. A third, and a non-hollywood related one is the Watts Tower. I had never heard of them, but in Reyner Banham landmark book "Los Angeles, the architecture of four ecology" published in 1971, a book I have read recently, the watts towers figure as reference point in all of the maps of the city. Thus, on a saturday morning, with an English American colleague from the Huntington we set towards south east LA. It is also the opportunity to drive in some of the freeways I have not driven yet, the 110 (san pedro) south of the junction with the 10 (Santa Monica), the 105 and the 710. The Towers are located in the vast plain that stands south of Downtown LA. An area inhabited by the less wealthy sections of the immigrant population, the African American who populated it for most of the 20th century, and more recently by the spanish speaking population. The area is famous for the Watts riots of 1965. There are no signs on the freeways, directing to them, they stand around 105 streets. As you park the street, a security man wearing a kippah and speaking spanish welcomes you. The towers are the legacy of an Italian immigrant who moved to this area and in the back yard of his house started to built these structures in reinforced concrete and then decorating them with fragments of tiles, of porcelain, with seashells and pieces of broken glass. They are surrounded by a wall, also decorated in the same fashion. The immigrant name was Simon Rodia, he built them between 1921 and 1954, in 1955 he moved away from LA and left the property to a neighbour.
The african american guide that tells the story frames it in terms of one-man-dream pursued throughout his life. However, the towers can best be understood in terms of folk art. They are repetitive and somewhat neurotic. One is not surprised that in the 1950s and 1960s there were several plans to take them down. But eventually, after the riots, they were slowly transformed into a monument and they have become one of the landmark of LA and certainly a focus for the Watts area. They were recognized the status of National Landmark in 1990. A cultural center was established as early as 1970 and it hosts a small art exhibitions.
In LA there are very few monuments, one is a bust of James Dean at the Observatory, which could be arguably considered a monument itself. The other is the Hollywood sign, which evolved from advert sign to monument. A third, and a non-hollywood related one is the Watts Tower. I had never heard of them, but in Reyner Banham landmark book "Los Angeles, the architecture of four ecology" published in 1971, a book I have read recently, the watts towers figure as reference point in all of the maps of the city. Thus, on a saturday morning, with an English American colleague from the Huntington we set towards south east LA. It is also the opportunity to drive in some of the freeways I have not driven yet, the 110 (san pedro) south of the junction with the 10 (Santa Monica), the 105 and the 710. The Towers are located in the vast plain that stands south of Downtown LA. An area inhabited by the less wealthy sections of the immigrant population, the African American who populated it for most of the 20th century, and more recently by the spanish speaking population. The area is famous for the Watts riots of 1965. There are no signs on the freeways, directing to them, they stand around 105 streets. As you park the street, a security man wearing a kippah and speaking spanish welcomes you. The towers are the legacy of an Italian immigrant who moved to this area and in the back yard of his house started to built these structures in reinforced concrete and then decorating them with fragments of tiles, of porcelain, with seashells and pieces of broken glass. They are surrounded by a wall, also decorated in the same fashion. The immigrant name was Simon Rodia, he built them between 1921 and 1954, in 1955 he moved away from LA and left the property to a neighbour.
The african american guide that tells the story frames it in terms of one-man-dream pursued throughout his life. However, the towers can best be understood in terms of folk art. They are repetitive and somewhat neurotic. One is not surprised that in the 1950s and 1960s there were several plans to take them down. But eventually, after the riots, they were slowly transformed into a monument and they have become one of the landmark of LA and certainly a focus for the Watts area. They were recognized the status of National Landmark in 1990. A cultural center was established as early as 1970 and it hosts a small art exhibitions.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
S Barbara
Last Saturday, after more than 2 months I had my first experience of driving in heavy freeway traffic. Direction west and north towards S. Barbara on the 101, formerly called Ventura Freeway, or within LA, Hollywood Freeway. It was not a gridlock, but was very slow getting out of LA. And was packed on both directions. To see a 4 or 5 lanes -on each direction- freeway full of immobile cars is quite a sight. And the usual dumb question comes to your mind, where are all of these people going on Saturday at 11 am? Are they going to have lunch at the in-laws with their packed "pastarelle" sitting on the back seat? Are they going to the seaside beaches north, to the parks? to their weekend jobs?
Why is it that seaside cities tends to center away from the coast? And why the upper classes prefer the hills to the ocean view? It is such a general phenomenon that involves both medium and large cities, I am sure somebody must have written something clever on this.
After 3 hours and more of driving and radio, with L. we finally arrive to S Barbara, some 90 miles away, the average speed is after all not too bad. Just in time for lunch at the house of a couple of friends I know from Italy. They have a house overlooking the city from the south east. The weather is very misty and one cannot see very far into the sea where some islands are supposed to be. However from downtown looking to the hills I am very struck by how much familiar it looks. Could well be anywhere in southern Italy. Or Spain? Could it not? The white flat-roofed houses, the green hills, Only when you look closer then the size of streets and the quantity of palm trees tells you are not in the Mediterranean.
Infinite variations of what it is called the Spanish style line up in the streets.
Downtown S Barbara is very pleasant, a seaside resort kind of atmosphere, overpriced shops, fancy restaurants, many of which are Italian. However, and in this it differs from a seaside resort, downtown and the main promenade area are all inland. As you get closer to the freeway that runs parallel and close to the coastline shops disappear and buildings get rougher.
Why is it that seaside cities tends to center away from the coast? And why the upper classes prefer the hills to the ocean view? It is such a general phenomenon that involves both medium and large cities, I am sure somebody must have written something clever on this.
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