The Heat and The Whore

On a hot day in mid-July, I was making my way home from the bank. It was one of those swelteringly hot days in Rome where the ancient buildings and umbrella trees seemed to be bleeding into the golden haze of the scorching sun.

Like a melting Monet.

Waiting at the bus stop, Romans and tourists alike were performing various cool-down rituals: fanning, drinking, shading, stripping, complaining, cursing.

The bus arrived and I was hopeful that the ride would be quick and painless. Stupid, really.

There’s no quicker way to induce an anxiety attack, even in a calm person, than to walk onto a claustrophobic cattle trailer of a bus that has the air quality of a polluted bathhouse.

The bus would jerk, and all of us weary travellers would bump into and fall onto each other. Bodies overheated and limp, damp sweaty skin touching damp sweaty skin. Some of the passengers were panting like dogs. Others stood in trance-like states as sweat beads escaped down their faces, arms and legs. The shower-haters were stinking up the joint.

It felt like the entire caravan was breathing directly on me. An inescapable itch that can’t be scratched.  At a particularly sharp turn, an old man sitting in front of me seized the moment and grabbed my inner thigh, using it as a thick pole with which to steady himself. His hand slipped however, because I was sweating even from my thigh. (ha!)

When we finally arrived at my stop, I emerged from the bus and was hit by the hot, humid outside air. I was feeling dirty, nauseous, violated, and incredibly happy to be getting closer to home and to having a cold shower.

In my hood – an area called Trastevere, which is across the Ponte Sisto from Rome’s historic center – people were sitting under the shaded umbrellas at outdoor cafes, and others were walking around as vendors sold trinkets, purses and 1950s still frame shots of stars from Italy’s golden age in cinema (Mastroianni, Loren, Cardinale, Lollobridgida…).

Making my way through the cobblestone streets, I looked down and noticed that my orange sun dress had turned red from a gorgeous combination of my sweat and the bus strangers’ sweat and I wondered if this sort of thing ever happened to Sofia Loren and Gina Lolllobrigida.

Sofia Loren

I stopped to light a cigarette, as I did from time to time in Rome. As I put my lighter away, a handsome man approached me. He was wearing a fitted, grey Zegna suit, white shirt & purple and green tie. His curly grey-flecked dark hair was slicked back, but in not in a greasy Ross from Friends way, more like Antonio Bandaras in Desperado. This man wasn’t melting; a heat-resistant anomaly in a sea of sweaters.

He stopped in front of me and asked for my lighter, which I gave to him. Handing the lighter back, he inhaled his cigarette deeply, smiled over at me and said “grazie, bella.” To which I said “prego, signore,” and got ready to walk away.

The beautiful man then stopped me, putting his hand on my sweaty arm. He leaned in close and poetic Italian words spewed out of his mouth in a sentancetoorushedtobeunderstood. I asked him to repeat a bit slower, so he did – still speaking quickly, but clear enough for me to understand. After I heard what the question was, I wished I hadn’t asked.

The rough translation of what Zegna suit said is: “will you come with me?” (he pointed behind him at a blacked out Mercedes waiting by the curb), “we’ll have sex and I’ll give you money.”

He continued smiling and smoking and eagerly waited for my response like he was Pat Sejak telling me the great prize I would soon be getting after I did that one little thing. Solved that one little puzzle. Had sex with that one random stranger.

How does a non-hooker respond to this?

I started laughing in a frighteningly shrill and uneasy way, and the man tried to touch my shoulders. I backed away and he looked at me the way a man looks at a woman after he offers her money in exchange for sex and finds out she’s not selling.

If the heat and the demonic bus ride had put me on the edge of losing my cool, this man asking for paid sex sent me flying over it. My laughter quickly turned into tears. Hugging myself, I began heave-crying like a Kim Jong Il mourner, which means I would make a very bad real-life hooker.

I asked him why he thought I was a prostitute. He didn’t answer. Passers-by began to notice as I, a sopping wet sweaty mess of a girl, cry-yelled at a very composed, well-dressed Italian as he calmly smoked his cigarette.

He started backing away from me, limp jazz hands in front of his chest that said: “I didn’t do anything, calm down.”

Then he said: “Allora, no?” Which, as you can surmise, means “so that’s a no?” “Stronzo,” I said. That means asshole. I was more mad at the fact that he was patronizing me than at the whole trying to make me a hooker thing.

The wannabe John (or Giovanni) walked back to his blacked out Mercedes. He turned around and waved at me as his driver opened the door for him. “Son of a bitch,” I said to myself. 

Penis pointing to whorehouse, Pompeii

The walk home was a strange one. If I was hot before from the heat, I was on fire now from my frustration.

I wasn’t just mad at Giovanni. He was a pathetic moron, yes, but it was but one in a very long line of failures that were leading me to believe that romance was dead.

Even in Italy. The Italians, who supposedly invented the courting game, were seriously fumbling the ball. In fact, I had never been asked more to hook up than I had in Italy. A couple of my favorite lines were: “we can fall in love if only for one night,” (thanks, Pietro) and “why deny yourself the pleasure of using your body for what it was built to do?” (thank you, Mario).

I didn’t fall for either of the above, but I have had my fair share of romantic misjudgments. Had the act of choosing the guy who’s obviously devoid of any long term potential instead of maybe sifting through the rubble for something a bit more… connected? meaningful? significant?… turned up the dial on my desensitization to the warm fuzzy feelings romance, of love? Had I closed myself off to it long before I began wondering why I wasn’t finding it?

Maybe I have been prostituting my heart pro bono to men for the past 15 years, in which case, I am indeed a hooker with a heart of gold.

I went home and had two showers, one for the bus strangers’ sweat and my sweat, and one for the shame of being thought a prostitute. As I lotioned myself with some Nivea, I realized I had forgotten to ask Giovanni what he would have paid. Not that it would have mattered. 

I washed my sun dress in the sink. I ate some cherries. I prepared for the unknown battle of my next Roman outing.

********

An aside.

Getting mistaken for a hooker didn’t make me feel like Pretty Woman but would you think I was a hussy if I told you that I contemplated Zegna suit’s offer for the briefest second? Not while it was happening, but after, upon reflection.

This is a part of the reason I was so upset by it all. Had Italy made me insane? Only if overblown romantic notions make a person insane (and they probably can). If romantic fantasies can’t run amuck in Rome, where can they? I wasn’t actually thinking about turning tricks, but here’s a snapshot of my totally unrealistic and possibly offensive after-the-fact daydream about it all…

I’m imagining this as a scene from Bertolucci movie come to life. (I have to switch to third person now because I’m a Catholic, failed, but still guilt stricken…)

Foreigner in Italy is approached by a handsome stranger after she is turned away from the store because her card was declined. The kind, hot man with his chiseled face and perfect suit offers the strapped-for-cash damsel cash money for an afternoon delight. She contemplates, accepts and brings the man home to her small, old Roman apartment. They don’t speak. They’re skin to skin, in a sweltering hot bedroom. The fan’s pulsing, the sheets have been kicked to the floor, sweat is dripping. They fall in love, for an afternoon. Afterwards, she falls asleep. He puts money and a handwritten note under a bowl of fresh cherries on the nightstand, kisses her forehead and leaves. They never see each other again.

I only thought about it for a second…

Reminiscing about Roma

I was thinking today about  how I’ve all but abandoned this blog since moving back from Rome. Sure, Rome was a profound and unique experience for me, but it can’t stop there, right? Life can be profound and interesting elsewhere and I’m going to try to bring you profound and interesting things and keep this blog up better. Maybe I’ve been hesitant to blog because I know that nowhere can compete with Italy, at least for me.

In Rome, the beauty was in the buildings, the people, the trees, the air. You’re spoiled by it and haunted by it and most of all, mesmerized by it. I sometimes joke with people that living in Italy ruined me for life. All jokes are half true, you know? The experience of living in a place where Disney princess fairy dust floats through the air is indeed mind altering. In my old apartment in Trastevere, which is one of Rome’s oldest and illest areas, I’d work sitting by an open window. Everyday, like clockwork, the smell of fresh baked bread and the most delicious candy you can imagine would waft in on a gentle breeze. I’d look up at the little angel statue carved into the building across the street and the groups of ivy crawling up the wall beside her, and then I’d look down at those charming, uneven cobblestone streets and shake my head. how is this real?

I’m fully aware that Italy has more problems than not. Especially now. What I’m referring to has nothing to do with national debt crisis, or the backwards politics, or the illogical bureaucracy or the bunga bunga bullshit. It’s more the fabric of a culture that was built around living for pleasure. Once you’ve experienced living in a place where they want to enjoy everything they see, taste, smell and touch, it’s hard to come back to concrete sidewalks and frothy, burnt cappuccinos. 

It’s also hard to compete with the pizza. Pizza is the best thing Italians ever invented, in my opinion, and I do enjoy it in all of its forms. But I’ve actually been thinking about Italian pizza all day. The thin crust, the simple punchy tomato sauce, the mozzarella. I’m officially salivating. I will return to Italy one day and the first thing I’m doing is getting myself a pizza. 

Pizza Margherita, love of my life

Speaking of beauty and enjoying life, I just witnessed two construction workers have an uncontrollable giggle fit in my back alley. It was pretty beautiful. 

Uncle Bruce is 62!!

If he were a character on The Simpsons, Springsteen would work with Homer at the Nuclear Power Plant during the day and play rock n’roll with Little Steven and the crew at Moe’s Tavern every night… wait. Why hasn’t this happened on the Simpsons yet? Matt Groening, I’ll write that episode!

He’s a legend, an icon, a rock star, a poet, but at the end of the day, a big reason why Bruce Springsteen is loved, respected and admired by so many is because despite his greatness and incredible accomplishments, he’ll never let you forget that he’s just a man.

Happy Birthday Bruce!

Read about when I met the King of New Jersey in Rome last year:

http://thegypsylied.wordpress.com/2010/11/03/springsteens-in-rome-i-think-ill-meet-him/ 

Please Don’t Ruin the Dancing!

In 1987, the world was a simpler place. The air was cleaner, the roads were emptier, and moms, dads, kids and cousins used to pack into the family Volvo to go see a double header at the drive in movie theatre on Saturday evenings.

My family did just that one fine Toronto summer night. The double bill was Back to the Future and Dirty Dancing. Back to the Future was not a new movie at the time, but Dirty Dancing was.

Even though I was only 5-years-old, even though I peed my pants halfway through the film and my mom forced me to put on one of my little sister’s diapers, even though my older cousin called me “Carla Smelly Diaper Pants” because of this for years to come, watching Dirty Dancing for the first time is one of my favorite memories from childhood.

The movie is pure nostalgia. A movie about dancing because you want to. Dancing for money. Dancing for love. Dancing in a sexually provocative way in front of children and seniors even though the boss man tells you you can’t.

But it’s not just a movie about dancing. It’s also a coming of age love story, and a film that was largely untroubled by Hollywood expectations. A simple, captivating story that no one knew would be a hit when they were making it.

This is why remaking Dirty Dancing 25 years later solely to make money will never work. You can’t recreate movie magic by ripping off a classic. Will you never learn, Hollywood?

I don’t want to see anyone else as Johnny Castle or Baby Houseman or Penny or even grumpy old Max Kellerman.

Children of the 80s, it’s time to stand up and REVOLT!

Eddie Vedder at the Paramount Theatre

The day after a great concert is always a strange thing, isn’t it? Like waking up from the loveliest dream you’ve ever had, or meeting the love of your life and then saying goodbye after a few hours. The next day, you’re left with wonderful memories, but you’re also sad that it’s over.

Last night’s Eddie Vedder concert at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland was, in a word: enchanted.

Using a Disney princess adjective to describe the concert of a seasoned rock star might be a bit Pollyanna, and Vedder hasn’t lost too much of his edge, but age, waves, marriage and fatherhood (he’s 47, a surfer, and married to the mother of his two little girls) have given Eddie a certain… quality.

If Vedder used to be the cool older cousin you desperately wanted to hang out with but didn’t know very well, he’s now graduated to being your awesome and accessible favorite Uncle. Uncle Ed surfs, plays the ukulele, likes to make jokes, has lots of cool friends, and loves the green. Eddie made a few references to his love of mother nature’s greatest, greenest herb last night. When he forgot the lyrics while singing Just Breathe, he blamed it on smoking too much pot as a kid.”It helps you write songs,” he said. “Then it makes you forget ‘em.” He went on to finish the song up flawlessly.

Back to that gracefully aged quality Vedder’s acquired. In short, his tortured-artist days of swinging from rafters and jumping into crowds have given way to a genuine peacefulness. It’s a virtue that he’s long toyed with but never fully lived by before.

Yep, Vedder’s pretty much Easy Like Sunday Morning now. At one point during the nearly three-hour-long show, during which Eddie played a mix of classic Pearl Jam songs and hits off his Ukulele Songs album and alternated between a litany of guitars, ukes and even a banjo, he asked the audience if they had any requests. Realizing the trouble such a statement could get him into when rowdy audience members starting hollering song names him – including one very obnoxious woman, who happened to be seated behind me before she was “removed,” who starting screaming: “Pooooorch! Play porch Eddieeee! Pooorch!” I’ll think about it,” he responded.

I desperately wanted to scream out “play something by the Boss Eddie!” but my polite Canadian disposition wouldn’t let me do it, so instead I quietly wished and willed him to do so.

Eddie Vedder playing at the Paramount Theatre, July 12, 2011 ~ RIP Clarence

Eddie has an acclaimed catalogue of his own, but he also played a solid handful of classic covers during the first set and second encore.

The first, and sweetest (in my opinion), was his take on James Taylor’s “Millworker.” Vedder added a sorrowful quality to the song that Taylor’s version skirts around but never really gets to the guts of. A beautiful rendition.

Before starting the Rolling Stones’ “Waiting On A Lady,” Vedder told a story from when Pearl Jam toured with Stones in the late 90s. They happened to be in Oakland one night when Eddie found himself standing in the back of the Rolling Stones’ elevator, which was aptly decorated with walls fully lined in leopard print and dangling scarves, when two of the band’s crew guys walked in. With an impressive British accent (think the Vultures from the Jungle Book cartoon), Vedder recounts the conversation between the two wizened roadies: “Do you reckon the band thinks the whole world looks like this?” the first one says, checking out the over-the-top decor. “I think they do,” the second replies.

In addition to this story, Vedder also gave us funny anecdotes and moving tributes to many of his famous friends and acquaintances, including: Tim Robbins (he dedicated Long Road to the memory of his parents), Johnny Depp and Hunter S. Thompson (a funny story of how Vedder had to tell Depp he was still talking like Thompson long after the filming of Fear and Loathing had ending), Neil Young (Neil slyly changed one of the verses in Long Road to “Neil walks the long road” on the track’s original recording), and more. If he ever grows tired of music, there might be a future for Vedder in stand up comedy.

“Waiting on a Friend” was a hit, but even though Hansard came out near the finish to help us along, the audience still didn’t quite get on board with the sing along bit (it’s in times like those that I wish I was in Italy, where crowds would sing along so loudly the building would shake). In the audience’s defense, the riff in that song is extremely high and kinda difficult  to sing (oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo o ooo yeah yeah).

Vedder also covered The Beatles’ “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” which he recorded a few years back for the I Am Sam soundtrack. It’s a song built for Vedder. Like Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town (from Vs.), the song brings out both the subtle delicacy in his voice and style, and also showcases his gritty bravado. Happily, the crowd managed to sing along with “Hey! you’ve got to hide your love away!” much better than they did to the Stone’s high-pitched diddy.

And you’ll be glad to know that my wishing must have worked because, right before he launched into a raw acoustic version of Porch, Vedder delivered a powerful cover of Springsteen’s “Open All Night.” The guitar on the song was enough to get us dancing, and with his booming vocals, Vedder pretty much out-Bossed the Boss.

I could really go on and on about last night’s show. It was everything I could have ever hoped for and more. Eddie was more relaxed than he is with Pearl Jam, probably thanks in part to the much smaller, more intimate venue.

Speaking of the venue… it deserves its own post. The Paramount Theatre in Oakland is stunning. Completed in 1931, it’s a rare example of Art Deco in America.  The room’s acoustics are pitch perfect and the intricate detailing on the walls, ceiling, floors and stage is breathtaking.

The ceiling and stage at the Paramount

Today is Eddie Vedder Day!

I have declared today Eddie Vedder day because I like to declare things and because every day should be Eddie Vedder day.

When I was 13, I had a poster on my bedroom wall of Vedder pulling up his shirt while singing. I was a little pervert, I guess.

Look I found it!

But more than a man with killer abs, Ed Ved has been a constant source, or voice, of comfort and inspiration throughout the years. He’s an insanely talented, passionate musician, and he has that silky but towering baritone that can tear you apart one minute and melt you like butta the next.

I took the above picture at Virgin Fest 2009 in Calgary where I got to be up close and personal with the band from the press pit. As I prepare to see Mr. Vedder this evening at Oakland’s Paramount Theatre, where he’s playing the second of two sold-out shows in support of his album Ukulele Songs, I’m telling the 13-year-old girl inside of me to calm down. This concert will be one of contained passion – just Ed and his uke, singing songs, sotto voce.

While the soulful crooner may no longer occupy any scandalous wall space in my bedroom, he’s made an indelible impression on my life. I sincerely thank him for what his music has given to me and I can’t wait to spend tonight singing along with him.

Here’s a video of Eddie singing Elderly Woman Behind a Counter in a Small Town – one of the first songs that started off my lifelong love affair with Pearl Jam.

Ready? 1, 2, 3, 4, 2, 3 . . .

Bad Love

I just watched the film Blue Valentine starring Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams. A terribly stark look at the sun-kissed glow of love at the beginning of a relationship contrasted with the souring stench of a love gone bad in that same relationship years later.

It was a sad, uncomfortable movie to watch, but one that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since it finished. So please excuse me while I get a little philosophical on you. Actually, let’s invite 19th century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche into the conversation.

He was famous for his “God is dead” theory, but Nietzsche also said: ”There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

We hunger for love, look for it, maybe even need it, and have the ability to feel it so profoundly. To intensely connect with another human on that level might be the most beautiful, fulfilling thing in life, and yet equally as great as our ability to love is our ability to hurt and devastate those same people we loved. No one wants to cause pain to someone they once loved so purely (well, usually not), but it happens. We take advantage of each other, we stop appreciating each other, we cheat on each other, we fall out of love with each other, we ruin each other.

Since we do this to each other over and over again knowing what we’re getting into, we’re all a little mad, no? Anyone who has ever had his or her heart broken knows full well the terrifying pain and torment it is to go through that loss, and yet, many of us can hide the scares of past hurt and jump right back in when the opportunity for love presents itself again. To me, this is a brave, courageous thing to do, and one I’m trying to be better at.

Dr. Maya Angelou, who is my guru of life unbeknownst to her, says: “Have enough courage to trust love one more time. And always one more time.”

In honor of living through love gone bad, here’s Arcade Fire’s Crown of Love:

All’s Quiet on E Street

Clarence Clemons passed away today. E Street has never been so quiet. Love and condolences to his family and friends. RIP Big Man.

Springsteen’s songs can hit deep, but before that hurt can linger, Clarence’s sax always sweetens the sting & carries us home.

http://thegypsylied.wordpress.com/2011/06/13/the-big-man/

Rollerblades!

Right around my 10th birthday, I was obsessed with the following: Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, the Bryan Adams song from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, perms, puppies, Blossom, The Traveling Wilburys, trampolines, and the beautiful thought that I soon be the owner of a pair of rollerblades.

I had told all of the cool girls from school that I was getting rollerblades for my birthday and they had agreed that if I had rollerblades, I would finally be able to join their rollerblading posse. They all had really cool nicknames like Bo and Flo and Jo and, if I got in to the group, they would give me my very own nickname (Ho?) and we would rule the neighborhood.

The Dream of My Life:

On the morning of my 10th birthday, my mother walked into my room carrying a very large box.

I was so, SO excited that she had obviously gotten me the rollerblades I had been asking for all year.

I shredded the wrapping paper in a delirious fit of delight as my mom happily watched, perhaps slightly scared of my enthusiasm.

The moment of truth arrived as I lifted the box open.

And there it was…

A pink bathrobe.

I looked at my mother with the sort of serious disappointment one has when their life’s dreams are beaten down until barely recognizable and then murdered.

Like this, except although I was awkward looking as a child, I was still a human:

“Thank you,” I said to my mom, desperately trying to hide my heartbreak and suppressing the cry lump that was rising in my throat. Clearly my mother was intent on ruining my entire childhood.

I didn’t complain because when someone gives you a gift, you pretend you like it, no matter what. Even when you are expecting rollerblades and you get a really stupid, ugly, pink grandma robe.

The worst part about this was I now had to tell my friends who I had bragged to that I was going to have the coolest rollerblades in town, that I hadn’t gotten the rollerblades.

Upon hearing the news, those bitches swiftly kicked me out of the rollerblading club and I spent the summer riding my old, ugly bike.

I also fell off my bike that summer and still have an inch-long scar on my upper thigh from where the pedal cut me. I’m not saying this would’ve been avoided had I gotten rollerblades, but probably.

For months, every time I saw that pale pink bathrobe hanging on the back of my door, I cringed and secretly planned how I could light it on fire in my bathtub and then collect the ashes and leave them wrapped in a nice box for my mom as a present. I never did this, because I’m mostly only psychotic in thought, not action.

I avoided bathrobes for most of my adolescence and early 20s because of this event. I only recently bought one because when I first moved to Rome, I lived with a strange, hairy Romanian philosopher who would stare at me when I ran from the bathroom to my bedroom in a towel.

My 10th birthday taught me important life lessons. One should never expect anything! It seems the minute you start thinking “I’m the Rollarblading Queen of the World!!!” something will happen to remind you that you are, in fact, a pink-bathrobe-wearing plebeian.

In retrospect, being denied entrance into the cool kids club due to lack of rollerblades was probably for the best. Humiliation, disappointment and having your childhood dreams squashed builds character like nothing else can.

*Also, my mom bought me rollarblades the next year and I used them for two months before retiring them to the garage for good. I was a terrible child and she is actually the world’s greatest mother.

The Big Man

Everyday, I open up my laptop to this image:

Clarence Clemons and Bruce Springsteen. The perfect rock pairing. Clemons is the smooth, soulful yin to Springsteen’s energetic, rocking yang. This picture makes me happy because it reminds me not only of a great album (Born to Run), but of great friendship as well.

Springsteen and Clemons adore each other, and their onstage interaction makes every concert with the E Street Band a little more playful.

Clemons is a big man. In fact, Bruce refers to him as the “big man” because he’s built like an oak tree. Tall, sturdy, lovely – a calm, sweet, big presence, even on a massive arena stage.

And like an oak tree, I’ve always thought of Clemons as an invincible and ever-present being. He was there at the beginning – an original member of the E Street Band, and it’s oldest at 69 – and he adds much of the soul to Bruce’s rock n’ roll.

His sax contributions to Lady Gaga’s latest album Born This Way have put Clemons on the map for millions of her “little monsters” who might have never heard of the great saxophonist save for from their parents, maybe.

Clemons has recently suffered a serious stroke and is said to be quite ill right now.

I’m praying for him and I hope you will too. Get better big man!