Bespectacled

OK, so I got glasses.

The bad part was that I had to go pick them out on my own since no one else was around at 10am on a Saturday morning (who could blame them). And I know that I should not be trusted to pick my own frames (ooohhhh those pink ones look nice!). But hopefully I did OK. I have 30 days to return them if they are voted off the island.

Thoughts? Click on the image to see a larger version of the picture. (a couple of poses/hair styles so you can judge the full effect)

My new part-time job

No kidding, I was head-hunted to be an escort. No, really. I am not joking. Stop laughing.

This is the job offer:

$$$$Party Escort & Entertainment$$$$
With us you are guaranteed all the assurance, security, and financial stability of an upscale agency without ever having to sacrifice the self-sufficiency of working independently.
We are a referral based service, directing our “A-list” of existing clients to independent and non-pro escorts. (Essentially we work for you). Our newsprint, online and web-site advertising (With photos) will provide you with the necessary exposure needed to become successful in this business. We provide competitive wages along with security, booking, supplied transportation, and a Nextel direct connect cellphone. (See below for rate breakdown)

These rates are starting rates. Increases will depend on a girl’s performance and service.
$150.00 per Hour (For the first hour)
($75.00 for an additional ½ Hour)
$300.00 per 2-1/2 Hours
$550.00 per 5 Hours

Now, come on. REALLY. My first thought was... $150 an hour to be a scintillating conversationalist and dinner partner for a lonely businessman??!! I am worth WAY more than that. My second thought was....hmmm, what does "performance and service" entail? Yeah, maybe not.

But hey- did you see a Nextel direct connect cellphone is included? Right on! Sign me up!

(kidding, Mom. I would never do that. At least not for $150.00).

Jetrosexuality

I've been informed by dear Stephanie that I am sooo Jetrosexual.

What is Jetrosexual you might ask? According to a CNN article about a Virgin Atlantic Ultimate Jetrosexual Contest:

Ignoring borders and time zones, they make the world smaller with each journey, the company said, and it is these travelers that have made the airline a successful venture for Virgin.

But that's not enough. There are 11 commandments to determine whether or not you qualify as the Ultimate Jetrosexual. See below for a complete list.

I don't think I actually qualify... I am a notoriously heavy packer and it's a bit of a stretch to claim I leave terra firma behind in order to move business and culture forward. But I am no chatty cathy nor do I own an inflatable pillow (it's a föm pillow, dammit).

A quick Google search indicates that this term is actually not so new. To quote Philip Sherburne's Blog entry from September 2004:

I may be a jetrosexual, but damn if it ain't giving me rugburn.

Indeed. Well, the prize for the Ultimate Jetrosexual Contest are two upper class plane tickets to London. And you know I am having quite the love affair with London this year. Deadline to enter is Sept 15...hmmm, that gives me just enough time to figure out how to order a beer in 2 more languages.

Poker, Wigs and Vodka

My lonely stack o' chips

Shuffle up and Deeeaaallllll!

You know what, I just suck at poker. I played OK. I really did. But lady luck just would not smile on me, even after I put on a hat. You know, that's my motto... when things aren't going your way, put on a hat. If I would ever play strip-poker, I would wear more layers than Mary-Kate Olsen would need if stuck in a meat locker. But when ladies play poker we get distracted. Here are some of the things that we had a "delay of game" to discuss:

1. hats
2. wigs
3. proper hair removal of the pubic region
4. vodka
5. where to get a good hair cut (not related to #3)
6. Boys
7. cameras/digital pictures and how to get the multi-shutter function to fucntion

Here is a story in pictures:

The Game Begins, we are masters of the Poker Face

Ann does her best impression of Gob from Arrested Development
(if you haven't seen this show, shame on you)

the trash talkin' begins

Then we get down to serious poker business

I am convinced that Carrrrmen is hiding aces up her sleeves. Well, she doesn't have sleeves, but I am convinced that somehow she is cheating...look at this face, is it not the face of a cheater???

I need something to improve my karma, so I ask Ashbloem to borrow her cowboy hat. I love this hat. Then we all decide to don some kind of headgear. Except for Carmen who doesn't want to break her winning streak.

And before I know it...my dwindling stack o' chips...

...are all gone and I am out of the game. Not even the hat helped. Bah!
And of course I should admit that the real winner was of course Carrrrmen, that cheating bitch.

"Me? Gloat? No way!"
(hahaha suckers!)*

*Just kidding Carrrrmen, you are a winner full of humilty and grace. No. Really, I mean it.

Chocolate, Beer, Fondue and Republicans

Maybe I just have a thing for cities with canals. Other than Amsterdam, Venice and Brugge...what other cities have flowing canals crossing the city? Oh, Delft I think, yes. Anywhere else?

On November 2, 2000, my friend from college Guy (on the left) and his friend Johnnie (on the right) came to visit Amsterdam. We decided to go on a little spontaneous road trip to the teeny-tiny-Epcotesque little town of Brugge, Belgium. We ate a little chocolate, they ate a little fondue (I can't eat the cheesy kind) and we drank a lot of great Belgian beer. My personal favorite is Palm. You know a beer can't be all bad when it's brewery history dates back to 1597. We drank quite a lot of it in Amsterdam on our recent trip.

Anyway.

So Guy, Johnnie and I rented a car and drove to Belgium. Belgium is a cute little country with a funny history and diverse culture. Brugge itself looks too cute to be real. In fact, one of our Tour Directors once told me that a client on one of our tours actually asked, "When does Brugge close?" The client apparently thought that the city was an open-air museum that packed up and closed itself up every evening. And supposedly holidays.

Aren't they just adorable?

We stayed at the cutest hotel called the Hotel Bourgoensch-Hof which was in a perfect location just a few blocks away from the main square. This took a lot of convincing because the boys, being boys, just wanted to stay in a random hostel; but I guess after traveling so much to so many nice places (mostly for work) my tastes have become more...refined. My backpacking/hostels days are most likely all behind me. (thank god) But we found this little gem of a hotel that was not expensive and just as quaint as the town itself.

The thing about Guy and Johnnie, as cute as they are, they are both Republicans. At least they were at the time. This probably wouldn't have been such a big deal if the elections were taking place on that very day. So through the course of the day while browsing around Brugge we tried to get updates on the Gore vs. Bush battle while we (me vs. the boys) held a few political debates of our own on the side.

The three of us shared a room, and ended up staying awake all night staring at the tiny TV mounted to the wall hoping to see who won the election. Thank God for CNN's international broadcasting. I couldn't believe I was sharing a bed (even if platonically) with a GWB supporter on election night. It made me want to take a long shower. Even if I still felt a hint of the crush I had on Guy when we were in college together. Wait, what? Did I just say that outloud? No. I have no idea what you are talking about. I didn't have any crush on any Guy.

Here's me definitely not having a crush on Guy

The next morning, before dawn, I grabbed a train back to Amsterdam to get back to work. All the way I was SMSing Ashbloem and friends for updates on what the hell was going on with this election. Well, we all know how that turned out.

I saw Guy one other time, strangely in Seattle (where we were both visiting friends and family). I haven't seen him since, and that must have been at least 4 years ago. I heard he returned to Pittsburgh (where we went to college) and opened up a gelateria with his Italian family....

Holy Crap!

I just did a quick search and found out an update! (I love google!) He has opened up a cafe called Grasso Roberto (Fat Robert, Robert is Guy's first name) in Bloomfield. He has been awarded one of the top 40 people under 40 years of age shaping Pittsburgh's future. Yay!

La Serenissima: Parte Due

So as I mentioned yesterday, I kissed Diego goodbye, got on the train and presumed that was the end of it. Ahh, but life is funny sometimes...

Fast Forward 3 years...

Since I meeting Diego I have graduated from university, sailed around the world, moved to Boston and then transfered to Amsterdam for work. It was a blustery Valentines day, and a group of us girls went out to dinner together. Most of us were either single or had boyfriends who were far away (I was in the first category). We went to this terrible Chinese restaurant, near Dam Square. We had been in Amsterdam only a matter of weeks, so figuring out where the good restaurants were was still kind of tricky. We didn't have any Dutch friends yet, so it was mostly co-workers clinging to each other for friendship while we navigated the relocation process. It would be another full month before my furniture was released from Dutch Customs. I was sleeping on the floor of my empty apartment.

We had a lot to drink that night. We were entitled. The transition was not going smoothly.

Towards the end of the sloppy evening we started talking about romance. Inevitably we went around the table and each shared the story of our most romantic night ever. I had not forgotten the chilly night walking around Venice with Diego and the poem he recited to me by memory. This is how the conversation went:

Me: ...And so, I got on the train and said goodbye.
Random Office Friend1: Did you get his number?
Me: No.
ROF1: Why?
Me: It just didn't occur to me to do so.
ROF2: Aren't you and Meghan going to Venice in a few weeks to for a negotiations trip?
Me: Yes...
ROF2: You should go see him!
Me: NO WAY!
ROF1: Why not? You know where to find him, he's probably still at the Caffe` Aurora!
Me: It was a perfect memory. Why go back now and find out he's a jerk, or ugly, or doesn't even remember who I am? It's better just to keep the memory perfect as is.
ROF1,2: That's boring and unromantic. You should be banned from celebrating Valentines day (fine with me, I thought).

So, yes, Meghan and I trotted off to Venice a few weeks later to visit our suppliers. She was responsible for hotels, I was responsible for guides and restaurants. Business was booming and we needed to find new vendors to support our growing tourism volume. Venice is always tricky, since the local mafia essentially prevents new businesses (like hotels) from taking hold by controlling the companies that transport cargo down the canals. And since there is no other way to transport cargo in Venice, getting "unapproved" businesses off the ground is nearly impossible. There weren't enough hotels to support the tourist boom which meant prices were being jacked up from the skyrocketing demand from all the tour operators like ours.

The only thing to do was cash in on every favor, follow every lead in our network and try to charm the pants off (not literally) every hotel manager in the city. This was our mission. I was 25 at the time, my manager traveling with me, Meghan, was a year or two older than me.

We went to see one of our agents, Roberto, who sent us to see his wife's friend's daughter's boyfriend's fifth-cousin-once-removed (you get the point) who was the hotel manager at the Hotel Savoia. He called ahead for us and put in a good word. We were skeptical but excited since the Hotel Savoia is in a great location just off San Marco and is simply gorgeous.

We arrived at the hotel and asked to speak to the manager, let's call him Giuseppe. I noticed, in my quest to find new restaurants, that the hotel also has a restaurant set a little bit apart from the hotel structure which also has a great outdoor patio seating facing the canal. Giuseppe offered to show us the hotel, and I asked him to show us the restaurant too. He started the tour in the restaurant. While walking through the beautiful dining area, Giuseppe said, "Let me introduce you to our Food & Beverage Manager."

Yes. You know what's coming next.

Out came the F&B manager and of course it is Diego. The one and only Diego. We were introduced, we cordially shook hands and I gave him my card. He said he would be happy to prepare some sample menus while Meghan and I went on a tour of the rest of the hotel. I smiled and said "that would be great". I gave him a second look, but didn't see a flash of recognition in his eyes. Granted, it had been 3 years and I now had long blonde hair, not the short red hair I had when we first met.

Leaving the restaurant, I sharply elbowed Meghan and mouthed to her (as not to draw the attention of the hotel manageer), "THAT IS DIEGO. YOU KNOW. THE DIEGO!". She mouthed back, "NO WAY!". I mouthed back again, "I SHIT YOU NOT!"

I am certain the Hotel Savoia is lovely. Filled with Antiques, facing the intersection of St. Mark's and the Giudecca Canals. I hear the walls are covered with beautiful brocade and the bathrooms are all marble. I don't remember any of this. I have not a clue what those rooms looked like. They could have had orange shag carpet for all I knew. When we were on the tour of the hotel all I could think was, "H0-LY CRAP". I was sweating. Profusely.

We finished the tour and Giuseppe took us to the office so I could talk menus and prices with Diego. Yes. I have to negotiate with him. I was nervous, for obvious reasons plus it is actually the first time I was negotiating with a vendor in person. Sure, I had done it on the phone from Boston various times. But face to face is a whole different issue. As we walked into the office, Meghan whispered to me, "This one is alllll up to youuuuu" and gives me a wink. That doesn't help my nerves.

He presented a menu. It was too expensive.
We made a few changes to the menu. The price came down, but still too expensive. I could not pay more than 30,000 Lira. He would not budge below 33,000 Lira. I sold him all the reasons he should work with my company. He still would not budge and we came to a stand still. A few quiet moments passed and I said...

Me: Didn't you use to manage the Caffe` Aurora in Piazza San Marco?

Suddenly, I see the recognition in his face. He remembers me.

Diego: Ah, yes. I thought you looked familiar.
Me: Can't you give me a good price...you know... for a friend?
Diego: Fine. We'll do the menu for 30,000.

And then Diego became my supplier.

We worked closely together for another year and I saw him a few more times, most memorably when I arrived in Venice on the Orient Express (what an incredible experience-- and once again all in the name of "work"). Diego sweetly met me at the train station with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. We dated for a while. But the distance wasn't ideal for either of us, and one day he called to tell me that he was going to be a father of another woman's baby and, well, that was the end of the affair. Not long afterwards I changed divisions and Venice was no longer my territory. I've never spoken to him since.

But you never know when you might cross paths with someone unexpectedly. Again.

La Serenissima

I have an obsession with Venice.

Yes, I admit Venice is crowded and over-run with tourists (at least in the summer) and the prices are insane. But still... there is something about the floating city that touches the pit of my soul. In a good way. I frequently dream of impulsively jetting over to Venice just to get pleasantly lost in the quiet alleys for hours on end, poking into the little grocery stores, boutiques, and hidden gardens. In Venice, you never know what you'll find around the next corner.

I have been to Venice on a number of occasions, usually on my own, having formerly worked with various hotels, restaurants and guides in the city. But the first time I really went to explore the city was the most memorable.

It was March 1995 and I was nursing a badly broken heart. My boyfriend of a few years cheated on me and I had recently found out in a most horrible and unexpected fashion (a story for another day). I was 21 and broke, but threw caution to the wind and put a plane ticket I couldn't afford on my brand new shiny Visa for Spring Break (oh, some things never change). I convinced my best friend Sue to come with me. She had never been to Europe before and I wanted to show her around.

I learned quickly that Sue is not a Traveler. She was frequently frustrated and rude with "the locals". When she wasn't happy, comfortable or satisfied, she made sure that everyone else within earshot was aware of it. I was frequently annoyed. She was perpetually oblivious.

We met a nice guy on the train on the way to Venice, Alan from Canada, who ended up tagging along with us for several days. We even let him share our room (just as friends, of course) in the preciously cheap Hotel Caneva. All three of us were on a pretty tight budget and sharing a triple made sense-- plus I was glad for the extra company. Alan was kind and easy going and broke some of the tension already building between me and Sue. The Caneva is a little pensione which has several rooms overlooking the canals situated in the perfect location between San Marco and the Rialto Bridge.

A few nights into our trip we went to The Devil's Forest Pub for a few drinks where apparently half the English Navy had gathered to watch a football (soccer) match. There aren't a whole lot of choices when it comes to Venetian nightlife, and this seemed as good as anything else we had found on previous nights. At first it was all fun and merriment, but then things got a little crazy. Some drunken bastard kept alternately rubbing himself up against Sue and running loops around the pub screaming at the top of his lungs, "SPACEMAN! SPACEMAN!" Before Sue punched him out (she would have for sure), I pushed her out of the crowd into one of the booths to get her to calm down. Sitting on the other side of the booth was a quiet Italian man. I introduced Sue and asked if she might share his booth for a moment. He said he didn't care; he was watching the game and didn't mind at all.

His name was Diego. We started talking (for those of you who don't know, I speak la bella lingua Italiana). We talked for a while about what the US is really like, politics, and the best places to visit in Italy. We talked about my studies, since I was an Italian major and doing a lot of work in Italian literature that semester. He asked about my favorite Italian author, and I told him it was poet Giacomo Leopardi. Now this is going to sound super cheesy, I mean MOLTO FORMAGGIO, but at that moment dear Diego recited by memory, in that stupid bar filled with obnoxious brits, my favorite Leopardi poem, L'Infinito:

Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
E questa siepe, che da tanta parte
Del'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminato
Spazio di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e 'l suon di lei. Così tra questa
Infinità s'annega il pensier mio:
E 'l naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.

It's so typical. So stupidly stereotypical. I know, you don't have to remind me. But naturally I was hooked. How could I not have been? The only thing my recent ex could have recited by memory was the latest basketball stats. Diego invited me to ditch Sue and go for a walk. It took me about 3 seconds to find my purse, put on my coat and place Sue in the care of Alan the Canadian.

It was cold that night; it must have been mid-March or so. Venice, like Amsterdam, feels colder than it is, I think because of all the water. The dampness of the cold gets into your bones and it chills you deep down. We walked for a long time. He pointed out parts of the city I never knew existed, the parts that you could only know if you grew up there. There are very very few people who live in Venice who actually were born and raised in Venice.

Finally, as I am sure you would have guessed, he kissed me, on top of a picturesque little bridge over a solitary canal that was perfectly lit. I could just make out the operatic voices of the Gondoliers echoing down the canal. No, really I could. It was very well planned and executed. It was perfection. Maybe even too much so; there is something to be said for a little spontaneity. He then graciously walked me back to the Caneva, holding my hand of course, and invited me and Sue to come see him the following day at the caffe` he managed in the Piazza San Marco, the Caffe` Aurora.

The following afternoon Sue and I went to the Caffe Aurora to see Diego after exploring the islands of Torcello and Burano (Burano is pictured above). He set us up in a gorgeous private salon overlooking the piazza and brought us whatever we wanted. After we could not eat another biscotti or drink one more shot of espresso he sent us away but told us both to come back and he would take us to grab a bite to eat before we had to board the overnight train to Rome.

I remember I had pizza and Baywatch was on the TV in the restaurant. The conversation was easy and fun. Sue was in a good mood. He walked us all the way to the train station where Sue graciously disappeared into a shop for a few moments (see, she's not all bad) so we could say our goodbyes.

We didn't exchange numbers or addresses. It wasn't an emotional goodbye in the least. But, I knew that I would regard that time in Venice as a perfect memory. What was the point of keeping in touch? In the back of my head I knew that I conformed, and not for the first time, to the silly stereotype of the naive American being schmoozed by the dashing Italian. Surely what I regarded as the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me to date was just another Saturday night, another gullible American girl, for him. But really, I didn't care. A jolt of sugary romance was exactly what I needed.

So Sue and I boarded the train to Rome and I assumed that was the end of the Diego story.

But I was wrong.

To be continued...