Walking around the Collosseum was an incredibly exciting tourist experience.  I pretended to be an ancient Roman and walked proudly around the grounds as though I was a nobleman who is fortunate to sit near the emperor.  I would have pretended to be the Emperor, but I hear those guys  almost never have any clothes.   It was almost ironic to find out that the Collosseum was once rubbled in the 1300s and that beautiful Marble was extracted from the quarry to construct St. Peter´s Basilica.  The Basilica is such as gorgeous testament to purposeful religous architecture and it was constructed from rubble of an arena stained with Christian blood.  Is there meaning to this recycling?  Is this retribution?

Trevi fountain was beautiful and quite big.  My mom told me before I left that she visited, so I tried to think about where she would have taken a picture or stood to look.

Later that evening I met up with my USC pal Siva V. and his friends.  We had tremendous fun at bars adjacent to the river.  Jas joined us later on and when the Italy crew left for the evening, my cousin and I carried on by conversing with many different boys and girls from around Italy and England.

During the course of the evening we met a group of Polish youth around our age who walked with us around Rome at night.  Unfortunately, we were a bit concerned when one of them drank out of a fountain.  Actually, I was grossed out.  Back home in LA drinking out of a fountain is non hygenic and frowned upon.  However, I drank out of a fountain near the Vatican a few days later (And surprisingly Jas did too) when I found out that foutain water is potable in Rome. 

We finished our first night in Rome exhausted but nevertheless engaged in conversation with folk in our hotel lobby.  Jas and I met a rather aesthetically pleasing woman who did not speak a lick of English.  Actually, I tried talking to her in spanish but that didn’t work either.  My loyal readers, I’d like for you to imagine that for 5 minutes this conversationalist lady and I (We kept her husband -my assumption-waiting) spoke together: she talked to me in Italian and I responded in English.  We most probably were not even speaking about the same topics.  To my surprise she whipped out her mobile and asked me to put my number in there…I don’t know why either.  As I don’t have an Italian number I used my cousin Kam’s instead.  Hopefully his girlfriend doesn’t pick up his phone when my new gal calls him….JK…I used my UK number.  There’s no way I’m sharing this one with Kam.

As it turns out she was not his wife and they were not a couple…yet again I was wow’d when I found out next morning I had in fact unknowingly piqued a hooker’s interest.

Our night finally ended after a lenghthy talk about freedom, America, and national identification with a Saudi Arabian endocrinologist turned politician.  Although I was too tired to remember what our conversation was about while writing this post, I do remember that he believed America was an incredible country because Americans possess freedoms that would usually be otherwise persecuted in other countries, including his.  I wonder what I take for granted back home…

What did I learn from the Italians?  The underlying reason behind choosing a suit, interacting with another individual, or preparing a meal is not for the sake of the act, but the art that comes out of the end product.  This ‘self’ lives in the moment and seeks to approach endeavors with playful boldness.

I’m deathly tired and will continue blogging tomorrow (It’s 3.47 AM in Croatia).  Thanks for reading about my travels so far and bearing any fragmented sentences!

Chance encounters with strange characters before our flight took off would be a prelude to the spirit and adventure of our travels throughout Europe.  For instance, Jas and I decided to grab a snack at an airport restaurant and when we sat down at our table, an older woman who was rather noisy began to stare at us.  In order to break any form of awkward tension that would make my cousin and I anxious before our flight, I struck a conversation with her.  With…Dillon.  Dillon–no joke–was birthed from the 80s.  She still wore a mullet and her noticeably thin frame adorned with a faded black rock band tshirt suggested that Dillon was the type of gal whose drink justified her outlook on things…a glass of beer in the hand.

You see, Dillon for some odd reason fancied me and my cousin; though the only evidence I have of her affections is a first account of constant flattery and lewd remarks directed at us.  However, Dillon taught me a very, very valuable lesson.  She resides in Hawaii and is an artist by trade, though her occupation is talk entertainment.  I did not know what talk entertainment was until I met Dillon.   When men call her at an enormous expense, they think they’re talking to this.  But, as you know from my description….they’re really talking to Dillon who constantly tells Jas and I to dial 461 if we want to have some fun.

So…what did I learn from Dillon?  Desperation is its own salesman.  Think about this one: a desperate man picks up the phone when he cannot gain acceptance or affection from anywhere else…and he reallyt thinks he’s on the phone with a hot bonde, and he will pay for that fantasy.

Taking the most important nugget from that quote, I’d like to say that I’m beginning this post college journey with no provision but an open sail.

During our interview a USC tourguide herded his attentive group toward us.  He stopped right in front of our bench and gave his sales pitch about the school’s housing facilities.  The DOZ journeyman and I were taken out of our conversation and we observed the crowd.  Prospective students, high schoolers interested in USC, parents who were dying to blurt out their kid’s accomplishments…the usual crowd.  As they were observing us we were observing them!  I was not going to continue my conversation with the journeyman, because then I’d be a part of the SCenery.  Kind of like when you’re own a river boat tour in Disneyland and the local creatures are part of the landscape.

The tour guide was trying to pitch diversity and comfort for incoming freshman by giving them the option to live on a floor that accommodates their interest: cinema, arts, outdoors, lgbt, latino, black… etc  My astute journeyman friend noticed that his attempt to sell diversity was actually a blatant acknowledgment that segregation keeps social order in the freshman dorms with special-living floors.  I’m not in the mood to write any more, so I’ll cop out and say you the reader should think about this further.

Down the main road from my home in Granada Hills there is a DWP plant that processes incoming water from the aqueducts.  When you can see through the thicket, it’s a large facility inhabited by reservoirs, miniature concrete buildings, and from a distance DWP trucks roam around like ants from building to building.  I used to measure our walking time together by time, distance, and then in order to make things more fun walking my dogs was measured in milestones: pass the shop, pass the golf course, go beyond the residential area, walk past the DWP facility, make it to Foothill, and more recently go past Foothill into the commercial tracts.  Though, geographical locations became boring the first time my ears heard a rustle behind the derelict DWP fence.  Lizzie, my belgian shepherd with an auburn coat, burst forth toward the fence for her prey but luckily I stood strong and kept her from entering through the broken fencing.

On another night when I walked Lizzie again by the DWP our paths crossed the beast.  This time, I caught site of its magnificence.  Among the street lights and partial lunar illumination through the clouds, this grand stag’s muscular stature presented itself through the foliage.  I stood in awe wondering how this beast could reside in the DWP facilities.  Lizzie and I were fascinated by this creature, as its eyes captured mine and Lizzie’s in enchantment.  Our stag calmly nibbled on the rest of a bush, gave us one more look, and left us standing in the seclusion of our own wonderment.

Every now and then I see the stag on a walk, though I mostly find myself exercising up Balboa without spotting it.  As a result of his absence I’ve imagined his origins.  Perhaps he’s a god in an animal’s body, or even a DWP captive provided by the Granada Hills council for the hunting pleasure of the employees.  In an attempt to mythologize the stag, I’ve intertwined his seldom appearances with my psychological moods.  As a lesson in patience I made myself believe that he only appears when I least expect him to as a lesson to not force outcomes or expectations.

If you are a married man, there was a time when you had dominion over your life.  Your taste whether good or poor was evident in everything you possessed.  Your love for sports memorabilia, arcade/parlor games, and everything else that is masculine and relegated to the man cave is indicative of who you are.  Since possessions are items you have collected over time, they are treasures that are tangible benchmarks of your personal history as a man.

And now we have man caves.  I have gone spelunking before, and I do appreciate the allegory of the cave, and Bruce Wayne does have the ultimate (bat)man cave…but caves have this certain connotation of secrecy, hiding, refuge.  The worse part about man caves is that they are becoming a fad among celebrities who by endorsing man caves are really telling men that storing all your loot in a basement or garage safely away from your female significant other is okay.  It’s not okay.  In fact, if you need a fortress of solitude in your own home or wherever else, then psychologically associating a spatial location where the tangible manifestations of your gender are set aside is indicative of more latent problems in your relationship.

Yes, there are times when men and women deserve their personal space.  But a man cave?  This guy lives in a man cave.   All other cave dwellers bought into a gender stereotype.  Sorry fellas.

After the initial deja vu occurred since I dreamed of this moment a few weeks ago, one of the most potent emotions I can experience surreptitiously made its way into my consciousness after masking itself first as enjoyment, then childlike-wonder observing my miniature red soldiers march; it was nostalgia.  A most favorite quote in my adolescence was “I’ve got simple taste, I’m satisfied with the best” but as I have aged that simplicity evolved into complexity at the request of my inner self.   Between traveling and cultivating my tastes, the simple pleasures that used to be sufficient could no longer satiate my appetite for the desire to live an interesting life.

The sublime phantasmagorical images that nostalgia conjured this evening are proof that there is a thread between activities performed in youth and various ages along our lives.  When I was a youngster at Egremont Elementary School, I used to spend my recesses playing sports, reading, or running around on the green grass.  There is nothing more rewarding than a grass stain on my white polo after recess: that green spot that I earned was a passport stamp that perhaps I had traveled to another world, another time, or…fell down while playing tag–at least I got exercise.  If I was not returning with a green spot on my pristine polo then I was spotting lady bugs in the bushes.  A few friends and I would scour the grounds for lady bugs just so we can admire their beauty.  Think about how much nature and evolution goes into symmetry; and if the dots are not symmetrical than the lady bug by design just looks pretty.

I was too young back then to appreciate all lady bugs as some made draft pick and others were discarded.  Perhaps their wings were not red enough, or merlot as opposed to ferrari pininfarina red…who knows.  Nevertheless, exploring the school grounds for ladybugs was a simple task and it was a simple joy.  These days wine tasting could be a simple joy, but it becomes banal if you’re looking for a good time.  The complexity of that task arises when I infuse an objective into the experience: tasting mindfully to appreciate wine.  If my palate is not educated enough for this task, then sipping becomes less of an enjoying activity.

Luckily this Easter experience revealed to me that I am still capable of simple pleasures…thanks mom for the lady bugs for Easter!

While sitting in my ‘Masters of Power: 10 Ancient Lives’ class I began to wonder off while the Professor was speaking about focalization, or through whose lens do we view a certain character.  Things are never simple.  I do not just appreciate my smart phone; instead I’m engaged in a love/hate affair as it is an incredible learning tool when I want to do research on the fly.  Of course, this is during class time that I’m swept away by my own curiosity when I should be listening to the Prof.  I discovered a website where the author discusses graphologist’s analysis of royal signatures and how a signature is reflective of the person within.  It seems a bit far fetched to assume a lot from a person’s handwriting but I’m open to the idea, especially after a dear Professor of mine shared a quote with me:

“Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary . .”

In order to test my newfound approach to the how’s and why’s of life after class I asked this girl what her ridiculously loud colored purse said about her (Not in those words, mind you).  Of course she replied with an embarrassed smile, shifty eyes, and her chest depressed a bit.  Wow!  She said so much more by not talking.  As the old Sherlock Holmes phrase loosely goes, “What the person doesn’t say is superbly more important that what is actually said.”  (On a side note: In that last sentence I used ‘superb’ in the form of ‘superbly.’  Which, makes twice in this post because I just read the word ‘superb’ in a passage in my recent reading Rakes, Highwaymen, and Pirates and I have not seen ‘superb’ in print for a while.  This is all unintentional of course but it’s great to catch yourself in the act some times).

After class I walked with a friend to the Farmer’s Market on University for the first time.  Unfortunately the guy who was trying to sell hummus without providing samples was not making any sales.  He did not listen to my advice that if he provides samples he would most likely generate sales. He viewed samples as lost inventory, which is valid though from what I gather he could not see the potential sales. I was not in the mood to persuade him as I was enjoying my time with my new friend.

I’m glad to be blogging again now that I’m back in the US.  I will leave you with an observation I saw earlier:

On the way to the parking garage today I saw a plant that had bulbs from which protruded mini spheres on sticks kind of like your avioli in your lungs..how cool that nature is supremely connected in design?

And now for something more appealing to you:

On the way into Leavey Library I saw a gorgeous creature whose sun-soaked physique exuded a certain divinity about her.  She was casually posing in front of the Leavey fountain with her feet wading in the water and talking on the phone.  Now, I think that is a rather gypsy thing to do, having your feet in that fountain water, but nevertheless I swear she was a mermaid in another fairytale.