Speaking of hair...

All that talk just reminded me of one time up the farm (that is, our way of saying "at our farmhouse in upstate New York," sibling of the famous "down the shore" expression-- I guess it's a Jersey thing.) I had my famous fauxhawk and was bouncing around on our gynormous trampoline with two little girls around the age of 6 that I had just met that day (who were cousins of my cousins visiting our farmhouse.)

All of the sudden, one of them stops bouncing and gives me a perplexed look. The other one stops to give a perplexed look to the one with the perplexed look. I return the perplexed look to both of them.

First perplexed one says "Uh...why is your hair like that?!"

Before I'm even able to open my mouth to somehow explain my eclectic and sometimes impulsive choices in life that aim to represent and emphasize uniqueness, diversity, feminism and the role hairstyles play in gender-typing in post-modernist America, the second one says, without missing a beat and with an air of confidence and frankness like Johnny Cochran in a courtroom: "Duuuhh. She was born that way."

:D

New hair and stuff.

My friend Jessica (whose son, Nico, I used to be babysit for about once a week for over a year while doing my Italian teaching certificate at Montclair State University) recommended a great hairdresser to go to here in Italy. So my bike and I headed to the next town over, Busto Arsizio, to get a much-needed haircut. Except, as soon as I get to Busto, I have no idea where I am. (Don't even try to tell me that I should have gotten a map-- if it's not of a big city, they don't exist!) I stop at a bike store to buy a bike lock and possibly ask for directions but an old man more than thrice my age in a suit on a bike that's probably also thrice my age tells me it's closed. So I kindly ask him for some directions and he insists on guiding me the way there on bike. (One thing I do love about Italians-- they will bend over backwards to help you out if you ask and are also full of all kinds of information all about their town and every single person who lives in it.) Suddenly, though, I realize that we're racing through the streets of Busto as if competing in the Tour D'Italia, between traffic and streetlights, and that my octogenarian guide must be Lance Armstrong's granddaddy. At one point, he even turned around to ask me if he should slow down for me...!

Anyway, it all ended well-- he even offered to wait for me to lead me back to the train station! I should have gotten his number and made him my personal trainer. Ah well.


Just a few silly pics to celebrate finally looking presentable in public.




Might be what I look like in 50 years, post-plastic surgery, post losing all my teeth.



After I stuck my finger in the socket (obviously.)


Sumfin smells funky...wait, what? Oh.




Despite feeling appropriately Italian with funky cut and all, it won't last for long. Why? I gotta cut the fauxhawk again. For a few reasons:

1. About a year ago, I made a bet with my boyfriend that he wouldn't be able to grow out his hair to a nice, shaggy/funky 'do (i.e., he would get sick of the awkward "in between" stage and just shave it all off again.) Bet was that if I won, I get the hairstyle I want on him and if he won, I cut the fauxhawk. Well, as you can see in our Ibiza pictures, he's winning.
   
2. I really hate hair. All kinds. Any kind. I've always told people that I would love love love to shave my head someday. I'm still hoping to do it but right now (being a teacher and tutor, i.e., a semi-professional) is not the time.
3. I figure it would be a great way to deter scummy Italian men (I'll have to make a separate post just on that in the near future), something I, and most women here in Italy have to do on a daily basis here. When I had the fauxhawk in 2005, I can barely remember 1 guy hitting on me (instead, chicks were-- but that was much easier to deal with.) But here, every single day, men of every age, weight, color, race and shoe size, on bikes, in cars, on foot, rollerblades, with canes, suits, sweats or sneakers speak, whisper, yell or whistle cat calls to girls and women that look beddable (which pretty much only cancels out a small sample of the female population.) It's degrading, demoralizing, disgusting, and any other pejorative adjective I can think of that begins in de- or dis-. Needless to say, I abhor it. And as for self-defense? Ignoring them is the best way (and the only safe way) to handle the situation. Unfortunately, nothing really can be done about the situation unless you want to risk your own safety (after all, you never really know what people are capable of...and you certainly don't want to find out, so better not respond to avoid a potential provocation.)
   

Anyway, I do realize that if I did like having hair, I'd be cutting the fauxhawk for all the wrong reasons. But that's not the case. I love short hair. It makes life sooo much easier! I got a pixie cut for the first time in 2000 and remember saying to myself "Christ! Men have it easy!" Haha. Cuts down showering and self-preparation time by 30 minutes, if not more.

Yay, pictars!

Enjoy some pics of my pad here (full description here):

Kitchen:


Bathroom:







Balcony:







(Balcony entrance from kitchen)


View from living room/bedroom:








Bedroom/Living Room:



As you can see, it's pretty darn sweet despite a few things that are lacking; namely, an oven, proper bed, dresser/closet and washer-dryer ( I just do my laundry --the vice principal just does my laundry-- downstairs.) :P

The Last Supper... now in high definition, straight to your computer screen.

16 billion pixels, to be exact. Very cool indeed. I just zoomed in and saw that Jeebus had a boogie in his nose.

Nice to know this is what our government and media has come to.

Fake News Briefing by FEMA Draws Official Rebukes

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/27/washington/27fake.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

By ERIC LIPTON

Published: October 27, 2007

WASHINGTON, Oct. 26 — The Federal Emergency Management Agency staged a fake news conference this week, with agency staff officials, pretending to be reporters, peppering one of their own bosses with decidedly friendly questions about the response to the California fires, the Department of Homeland Security acknowledged Friday.

The action, first reported on Friday in The Washington Post, drew a rebuke from the White House and Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff, and an apology from the agency official who was at the lectern, Harvey E. Johnson, the deputy director.

“We have made it clear that such a stunt will never be tolerated or repeated,” a spokeswoman for the department, Laura C. Keehner, said on behalf of Mr. Chertoff.

The questions from the staff were posed after FEMA gave reporters only 15 minutes notice for a news conference on Tuesday, meaning that other than television camera crews, no reporters showed up before questioning began. A toll-free telephone line was provided so reporters could listen in, but it was not set up to allow questions.

As a result, staff members asked Mr. Johnson a series of friendly questions like, “Are you happy with FEMA’s response so far?” and, “What lessons learned from Katrina have been applied?”

Mr. Johnson gave no indication that the questions came from his own staff.

“I’m very happy with FEMA’s response so far,” Mr. Johnson said in response to one question, according to a transcript.

Dana Perino, the White House spokeswoman, said the event was mishandled. “It’s not something I would have condoned,” she said. “And they — I’m sure — will not do it again.”

*****

Is this new news? FEMA fucks up as usual. Ok, not really. But I posted this article because much worse than this fake news conference actually taking place is the disappearance of this news article from any major news source top headlines or front pages in a matter of hours or possibly minutes. I found out about this through a message board and had to actually perform a search on nytimes.com to find the article. This just happened yesterday. See what I'm trying to get at? It's not just government that's doing something wrong, but it's the fact that no one is finding out about it. If media treats these issues like passing matters, how can they ever succeed in lighting a fire under our collective asses so that we can do our job of checks and balances. Because when the government's system of checks and balances fails, does it not fall upon the people to react, compensate, adjust, balance, fix it?! It's been almost eight miserable years of the US going down the drain because of a rotten administration and suddenly media is just flushing is down the toilet instead of causing a flood.

Let's Get Ready to Rummmbbbbbblllllle!!!

I owe this one to my former professor (although he'll always be the reigning professor of my spacial-poetry-and-gay-literature-loving heart), and undoubtedly my favorite diva, Andrea.

Legnano is actually known for a famous battle, called, ahem, The Battle of Legnano.



In the right corner we have, made up of 3,000 farmers, some pretty measly foot soldiers and a coupla knights, led by commander Alberto da Giussano: the Lega Lombarda, aka The Lombard League!!! And in the left corner, we have 3,5000 properly trained and probably insane soldiers led by the heavyweight champion of the world, Federick Barbarossa I and defended by the Father, The Son, and the Holy Friggin' Spirit: The Holy. Roman. Empiiiiirrre!!!!!

The scene:

1176: A battle between foot soldiers and infantries, knights on horses, Germans and Italians, calvaries and armies...Frederick advanced to the Carroccio (which means a sacred war wagon cart pulled by oxen, see picture below...or above...whatever floats your boat..), and assaulted the Lega's infantry, largely made up of farmers and the Company of Death and in total the largest contingent of the League.

"Nine hundred desperate patriots forming the Company of Death defended the sacred car. Seeing the Germans were gaining ground, fearful for the safety of their treasure, they suddenly knelt down and renewed their vow to God that they would perish for their country." M.B. Synge wrote this about the Company of Death.

Federick and his army surprised the Lega lookouts and took them on for a skirmish at the Carroccio. It got pretty bloody and at the helm of the fight, the Lega infantry positioned itself in a phalanx-like line and fought like hell. Eventually, the Lombard infantry brought the Imperial army to a stalemate. But, oh, what's that?? Oh my! It looks as if some of the Lega reconnaissance troops called for a tagteam-- the Lega Lombarda slaps five with a surprise calvary from Brescia and the match turns the corner in favor of the Lega!! Who knew this would be tagteam match?! Lucky for them because the Imperial army would kicked the Lombard's asses if not! Federick's personal bodyguards get viciously murdered and Freddy's knocked off his horse, and believed to be dead (but someone shoulda poked a spear in him, that guy is like night of the living dead!) Anyway, it's a decisive victory for the Lega Lombarda! Woohoo!


But alas, according to the almighty Wikipedia: The battle is traditionally tied to the name of Legnano, since the League's forces came from that town. Actually, as local historians have ascertained, the battle was fought a couple miles west of Legnano, where today Villa Cortese and Borsano, frazione of Busto Arsizio, stand.


***

God, that was sooo anti-climactic. :/

Home sweet home.... for now.

So, it being nearly impossible to find apartments in Legnano since I was living too far way and had no transportation except for Carla or Marco or Mago, I now finally live in Legnano...with the vice principal. For now. Hehe.

About 3 weeks ago, I moved into my new apartment. Carla was so incredibly helpful in assisting me with apartment hunting via colleagues and friends, but no such luck has arisen (I don't even know if that's correct English-- when you teach English, you forget the English language completely. Ask any ESL teacher. Fact.) from any potential landlords. One day there was a 3 hour long teacher conference in which the principal spoke about all things new and old and announced my pathetic homeless situation. In front of 180 teachers. Great. Afterwards, the vice principal offered me free housing for a month in her house. How could a cheap-ass like me say no? Now, you're thinking "Christ, you're living with the VP?" Not quite. Most Italian households are structured like small apartment complexes, where each family lives in their own apartment (generally 1 apartment per floor.) Nicoletta (the VP) lives on the first floor (which is the 2nd floor for us Americans, since 1st floors in Italy are actually "ground floor" symbolized by a zero, etc....), while her cousin's family live on the 2nd floor and the 3rd floor are two studio attic apartments. I live in one of the studio apartments. They're actually not for rent and never have been, as they don't have a the Italian equivalent for the Certificate of Occupancy for the place. I don't really have a closet, I have a very small bed, a stove but no oven and no washer/dryer. But shit, it's free! And it's actually really pretty. I'd love to post pics of it and will do so immediately when my digital camera battery charger arrives from Berlin. :)

Anyway, it's literally in the center of the city, a 25 second walk to the main piazza, 10 minutes from the train station, 2 minutes to the supermarket... you get the picture. Only problem is is these damn churches, always ringing their bells at every hour and half hour! And then it's like they want to wake up the whole damn city at 8am with some Jesus, Lamb of God, Prince of Peace semi-synchronized jingle. Ugh. So. damn. LOUD.

Anyway, I did entertain the thought of getting an apartment in Milan instead of living my days in Legnano (jeez, that sounds so terminal..), especially since there's no transportation between Milan and Legnano between the house of midnight and 6am...But, in search for an authentic Italian experience, I decided living it up in a big city wouldn't exactly provide me with such, it being all metropolitan and whatnot (read: Milan is way too expensive and as I mentioned in a previous post, I'm a cheapass-- but not by nature.)

Ok so put on your imagination caps everybody, and I'll take your for a imaginary tour of my Swiss chalet...

As you walk into the apartment and tilt your head upward, you will notice a gorgeous, sealed wooden beam ceiling with two skylights, one in the living room/bedroom and one in the bathroom. To your right is the kitchen, complete with wooden shelves, countertop, funky silver fridge and navy blue cabinets. Across from the kitchen is a very large window and glass balcony door, leading to the luxurious, trapezoid-shaped private terrace, complete with basic outdoor furniture, and of course, fully-functioning dragon-head water fountain (which delivers cool, refreshing water that I use everyday to fill up my nalgene.) To the left of the terrace is extra-large glass sliding door that leads into the bedroom/living room. Entering back into the apartment this way, you will see three medium-sized round windows (think cruise ship) around the perimeter of the living room/bedroom. To the far left is my full-size wooden table with benches (very comunal and cute), with my bed next to it on the right, large couch to the right of the bed, and loveseat on the right side wall along with TV. (Couches are extra comfy-- in fact, sometimes I decide to sleep on them instead of the bed.)

Last, but certainly not least is the bathroom. Highlights include skylight and wooden beam ceiling, which, after a hot, steamy shower, smells and feels like a sauna. Who can ask for more?

*Watch this Space. Pictures to follow.*

So, it's pretty spoiling to say the least.

The bad part is, how the hell am I ever gonna leave my temporary home?! I'm actually secretly praying that the VP will actually ask me if I want to stay here, to which I'll respond with a resounding "Ma, Sìììì!!!!"

After these messages, School Days will be coming up next, so stay tuned!

Don't tread on me...damnit.

One thing I've learned is that people (by people, I mean Italians that I've met here so far) actually believe that it was the American people that wanted to go war with Iraq. Bringing up the war in conversation has become commonplace to any American whether at home or abroad...but it's usually worse when you're abroad.

First, I had a rather uneducated guy my age ask me: Why do Americans always want to go to war? That one I had to laugh off. How can you argue with stupidity. I had to do my best to keep my cool instead of adding WD-40 to the fire he lit under my ass (which was also exactly what he wanted to do.) Another time, an older man decided to "school" me with a harangue on America's thorough hypocrisy, praising Germany's "true democracy" (which is funny in its own right, because Germany is actually a Republic) and then storming off, not offering a mature discussion or even asking me how I felt (except for asking me rhetorical, sardonic questions.) He also didn't shy away from blatantly blurting out that he really, really, really dislikes America and Americans. This all during our first meeting. Classy. Hey, I'll be the first one to criticize my own country but, first of all buddy, get some tact. It's obvious he's an angry political dilettante-- which is fine. But the problem is that he's taking it out on me since I'm the only American in his provincial grasp. Anyway, since he's a fellow colleague he's hard to avoid-- and harder to ignore because Italians in general (yes, I am stereotyping) will interrupt you no matter what you're doing...I was actually in the middle of an online placement exam when he decided to do so.

So if you were Italian and visited the US, and as soon as I met you I began telling you how incredibly greedy, racist and insular your people are, what would immediately you think of me?

I figured out that that's actually the trendy thing to do these days (dislike America/ns), and the dumber half of the sheep blame Americans and not the government for the war. But, even if solicited by a total ignoranus (someone who is stupid and an asshole), it still made me backtrack and ask myself whether I, as an American, in some way, however minute, responsible for the war in Iraq?

It's easy to be an outsider, stand by, watching America's decency and dignity fall to pieces in a matter of less than a decade. Does it occur to my colleague how Americans actually feel about it all? How our identity has been marred? How angry we are that we weren't able to stop this abomination before it happened, that we aren't able to bring our troops home, that our protests and demonstrations in the form of books, films, clothes, posters, sit-outs, stand-ins, and boycotts have done absolutely nothing? The title of an article in an Italian newspaper today was "The 80s generation erased by the war." I am part of the 80s generation and this is what I must tell my grandchildren-- that history repeats itself and that the entire spirit and soul of a generation was silenced in more ways than one. I know people who have gone to war and I know people who died there, too. Everyone does these days and that doesn't make it less digestible. It's still a huge lump in your throat that you can't swallow, knowing you have unwillingly taken part in something that you never wanted or wished for. I'm assuming that he doesn't know anyone that died in the war. I'm assuming he doesn't know anyone that went to the war in the first place.

I know that the war has and will be a passionate subject for many years to come. But if you can't have the decent sense to learn to listen to others, even just for a moment, to see what they have to say, to have an open dialogue, to share ideas, break barriers of prejudice and discrimination and other nonsensical beliefs, then you're just as bad as the administration that decided to go to war without listening to any proper rationale.

It's a BOY!!!!!!

Ok, I really did want a niece but whenever you find out what sex the baby is, it doesn't matter because it's SO exciting. When I opened the email to see the sonogram, I almost fell out of my chair and nearly peed my pants laughing so hard. Check out my nephew, chillin' Busciglio style with hands behind head and all-- just like my brother and my dad. And that little belly!!!!!



In the third one, seems like he's sucking his thumb.

I decided I'm calling him Lil Jimmy (my dad's nickname) until they decide on one. Genetics are truly unbelievable.

I put the first sonogram pic as my desktop wallpaper. I crack up every single time I look at it. Is that a Bush or what?!?! :D

Skype

has to be one of the best innovation/innovation/whateveryouwannacallits of the century. Most people know about it; I did know about it around 2003 but used it rarely, but now I definitely need to use it. Skype is a telephony service that allows you to call someone's landline or cell phone from your computer or vice versa for less than 2 cents per minute. So you buy a minimum credit amount of 10 bucks and have hours and hours of talk time. There are a bunch of services that they offer (like a subscription that allows you to call from your telephone to another telephone for a pretty cheap subscription rate) but that's the basic one. Most people in Italy have prepaid phones and the domestic calls costs around 35 cents (that's Euro cents, so that would be more like 45 american cents) per minute while domestic texts cost 15 euro cents per minute. Let's not even talk about international rates or roaming rates. Ugh. I've been here just over 2 weeks and probably have spent over 60 euros on my damn phone. I can't be living the lush life here, that's for sure! However, the only good thing is you don't pay to receive calls and when your credit runs out, people can still call or text you.

My Life Italian, Part 1.

Well, it had been a rough first week for me in Italy for a few reasons, some of which I'll explain in a later post. I decided to leave Berlin slightly earlier than planned because Michi found out his exams were coming up very soon and needed some peace and quiet to study. I booked my flight for the 21st and on the 20th, I receive a phone call from my Italian "tutor" (aka mentor-guide person) Andrea that the apartment I'm supposed to be occupying is no longer available and that there are no arrangements for me at this time, but that I will be temporarily staying with another English teacher from the school, Carla, and her family at their house in Cuggiono, a very small, pretty ancient town located about 30 minutes away from Legnano (on a good day), or 40 minutes west of Milan. Though I suddenly feel like a 16-year-old exchange student, I keep an open mind. And I'm glad I did, because Carla and her family are truly great people. It ends up that there was another Carla who also teaches at the high school, who has an independent apartment in her house, which was where the other two interns stayed before me. But this time it was rented out to someone else, since Andrea didn't bother asking her until two days before I was coming if it was free and then blaming her that I had no place to stay. Good job there, buddy.

That was the first and last thing that my tutor did for me.

Anyway, I get off the plane expecting my tutor to quickly scoop me up since, after all, I had sent him a picture of myself to make life simpler. So you think that after 20 minutes of me standing around in the arrivals hall alone like a jackass, he'd have figured out that the girl looking slightly perturbed, lost and annoyed standing 15 feet away from him with two luggages would be me, right? Right. We finally greet each other and quickly part ways, as I went off with Carla and her husband Franco to Cuggiono.

As we politely get to know each other during the drive home, I tell them how I came to learn my Italian, from my high school days with my genius/crazy teacher, to how I was discouraged by my professors in my undergrad, to my post-baccalaureate days. But instead of saying scoraggiata, which is the correct word for "discourage," I accidentally blurt out scoreggiato, which means farted. I tried to cover it up like one, since I immediately realized my humiliating error, but it was useless. (A week later we all have a good laugh about it.)

Although I'm now living in the city center of Legnano (I'll leave details on that for another post), I spent 10 days living in an apartment in Franco and Carla's 18th century triangular home complete with courtyard and automatic gate. Check out the before and after pics:

1800s:


2007:



View from inside the courtyard.

Since my apartment didn't have a kitchen, I enjoyed all meals and downtime with the family, which was an excellent source of conversation on everything from history, politics, culture, jokes, school systems in Italy vs. the US, etc. Despite having a clogged nose as a result of me being allergic to something in the house the entire time I was there (they didn't have any pets), and usually freezing since the house was normally maintained at 19C (66F), it was really a great way to start my time here in Italy.


Franco is a really amazing cook. He says that he would dedicate his time to cooking and taking cooking classes if he didn't have to work. He sometimes wore an apron that said "Il mago del fornello" which literally means "the wizard (or magician) of the stove," so from then on, I began to call him Mago.


The magician and his lovely assistant, Carla.


Setting the table on the rooftop terrace, or as I like to call it, the secret garden.


Marco (son) and Carla.


Street in Cuggiono, church tower.


City Hall in Cuggiono. Not too shabby, eh? There is a massive public park behind the city hall that once used to belong to an aristocratic family.


Archway leading to the park grounds.


There are about 7 or 8 peacocks that live on the grounds as well. Pretty little things.


Random tiny house towards the middle of the park, which probably belonged to the service of the aristocratic family.


Front of the tiny service house.


Back of city hall.


The little anarchist in me.


The first official day was a bit of a doozy, having spent it at school meeting tons of colleagues and getting weird looks from most. (It's an Italian thing. Why do people love to stare here?) The weather was lovely the first few days here, so after we returned to Cuggiono Carla took me on a personally narrated bike tour all around the surrounding areas, which are flanked by the Naviglio and Ticino rivers. The Ticino is one of the many tributaries of the larger Po River. The Po actually dried up in several spots in May this year, most likely because there hasn't been enough snowfall on the Alps, since Italy had its warmest winter in 200 years. Yikes. Global warming much?


Castle on the Naviglio


Ticino River, where people sunbathed topless on the pebble beach. An old Italian man stopped me just after taking a few pictures, livid about the "scandalous" nature of these topless bathers. Haha.

One particularly gorgeous site that I wasn't able to capture with my camera was also one of the most beautiful. Each day around 7:45, on our way to school with Carla and her daughter Benedetta, I stared out the left hand window to catch sight of the towering snow-topped Alps in the distance, bathed in the pink and lavender morning light.

Marco, the reserved, anti-conformist 24-year-old son of the Mago and Carla, was kind enough not only to let me basically commandeer his computer on a daily basis but also took me out with his friends while I stayed at his house. But while he's on stage, it's a whole different side of him that comes out. He's the lead singer and guitarist for his band, Shopping , who define themselves as "power pop" or under the general indie rock umbrella genre. While I'm familiar with some indie rock, I'm a pretty harsh music critic in general but I honestly have nothing but good things to say about these guys. Marco is a completely self-taught singer and guitarist and the band's music is pretty darn original and the lyrics are far from banal (in fact, some speak volumes; unfortunately, most songs are in Italian) and they've only been playing for a few months. Check out the link above to listen to one of their most popular tunes, Ragazze Bavaresi (Bavarian Girls.)

Shopping in concert:

I feel pretty.. oh so pretty

I quarantined myself for 24 hours.

Not only did I wake up with a fever blister yesterday that has it's own codice postale but I also came down with a stomach virus that left me on the bathroom floor with such nausea I begged for youthenasia. And then I woke up and found six very red, very itchy mosquitoes bites. On my cheek and neck. Wtf. And I've been scratching myself like a crackhead ever since. So not only do I have Hitler's corresponding white mustache but I also look like a fully fledged flaky-skinned leper. Ugh.

Lucky I have my slowband internet to keep me company, eh?

Teh Intarweb is Mine!

Well, sort of... I finally got broadband in my pad. So all is pretty much complete, but the connection speed is seriously lacking and the fees for going over your allotted amount of internet traffic are insane. (Oh yes, I can't wait to post about all the silliness and absurdness of options and fees in basically every Italian company. And I thought the US was Land of the Fee... sheesh.) Oh, wait, and it only works if my balcony door is open somewhat. Agh. Nothing can ever be simple, right? :/

The Griswalds go on vacation. European Vacation.

Ibiza 2007

We had the kind of vacation that you couldn't even write about for a National Lampoon's movie, I swear. We decided to go to Ibiza for our 2 year anniversary (thank you, thank you) as well as to meet up with 5-6 friends of ours from Germany that were going to be there as well. I was initially a lil leary on going in the first place because Ibiza is expensive, especially with the Euro bitching-slapping the Dollar upside the head. But more importantly, we had been to ibiza before with Billy, Cameron, and Porky in 2005. And it was the best vacation ever so I knew pretty much nothing could top that Ibizan adventure.

So, I've come to the conclusion that Ibiza had gone down the Miami WMC, models & bottles downward service spiral as price-gouging due to greediness has skyrocketed in the past few years due to a serious influx of visitors. Each year is a record year for Ibiza in terms of footprints on the isle. Just some examples: renting a bed on a beach was 90 Euro or 125 USD. Simply sitting at a table at Cafe Mambo to hear some music from BBC Radio 1's Pete Tong and enjoy the sunset on San Antonio's beach was 175 Euro or 245 USD-- minumum price. Anyway, here's pretty much how our vacation went, mishap by mishap, with a few saving graces:

We arrive at Berlin Schoenefeld airport and our flight is already 1 hour and 45 minutes late. Great start. But I taught Michi how to play Scala Quaranta (a famous Italian card game) and enjoyed kicking his ass repeatedly on the plane ride.




Passing over the Alps.

Saturday night: We arrive at our hotel in Ibiza, check into our hotel. The reception is particularly nice and quite energetic and begins to go over all the services we have with them, which include buying illegal drugs as well. How nice of them to offer to be drug dealers. I mean, hell, who wants to go find drugs on your own when your reception has them at the front desk for you! We finally get to our overrated hotel room, which does have air conditioning but has zero ventilation in the parts where you really need it. Ahem. Then we go over to our friends' hotel room to pregame before going out to Pacha. I plug in my iPod player to get the entertainment going, and Boom! Everything blacks out. Not only did I blow a fuse, I also blew my nice, expensive JBL OnStage speaker. (ipod is still alive, though, thankfully.) Great, $150 down the drain.

We get to Pacha around 2am and the entrance is 60€ per person. We make an about face and decide to have a few drinks at the very chic but not so expensive Beach Bar near the port of Ibiza Town. The check arrives, Michi picks up the tab, and inadvertently gives our waiter a most gracious, whopping 17€ tip. Anja, Dennis and myself decide to protest and demand that he get his money back, even though the deed was already done. Dennis and Michi go off to the management with red faces (for more reasons than one) while Anja and me enjoy the rest of our drinks. A half hour goes by and we decide to survey the situation. Ends up they're chatting it up (and spilling their sorrows) to the owner, Maria, who, interestingly enough, happens to be from Calabria but was raised in Germany, and who also happened to make a phone call for us at Pacha to make sure we get in for free and subsequently saved us a massive total of 240€. After having a chat in Germany, Italian and English, we make friends and head to Pacha, pockets full. Michi got 5€ back too. Nice.

Sunday: The next day we pick up our rental car, which looks like one of those mini vacuum cleaners. Unable to correctly understand the rental car agent's broken English, I even thought it was called the Broomster. (In fact, it was called the Roomster.)

By the way, the weather sucks in Ibiza at this point. It's cold and cloudy and I'm not liking it thus far.

Monday Day: Weather's getting better and we spend the day at my favorite club in Ibiza, DC10. Michi and I dress in matching boyscout outfits (off-beat costumes are the norm here. My favorites so far were the house-cleaning trio, complete with broom, brush and dust pan, and feather duster and well as the killer chefs) to dance to bassy minimal techno all day long. I even met some random friends from NYC there! The party goes til midnight but our friends wanted to leave early to get a disconap in for Cocoon @ Amnesia with Sven Vaeth and friends.

Best day.

Monday Night: After a few too many Fanta vodkas, Anja decides to stay in. The party at Amnesia was meh, except for the ice cannon of course, which is basically like a regular smoke machine on crack, furiously spitting out dry ice (aka vaporized carbon dioxide) at god knows how many miles per hour. The first time, 2 years ago, I lost my sunglasses, because anything loose on you will indubitably disappear forever. So when you hear it roaring, you brace yourself good. While it only lasts a few seconds, maybe 10 at the most, it's the best part of that club in my humble opinion. After one went off, I screamed out (most likely in the tone of a 5 year old): "It's like being on a rollercoaster without the rollercoaster!!!!!" Oh yea, I live on the edge. :)

Video of the ice cannon in action (Fast forward to the 2 minute mark to see it)



Tuesday: Weather sucks, again. We sleep til late, and go to see the revered Mr. Laurent Garnier at Space with Carl Cox. It was the first time I had ever seen LG, so I was way excited. Amazing music, just as I expected from one of my favorite DJs.

****I kept forgetting to take my camera everywhere we went, sorry for the lack of interesting photos, or photos at all!****

Fast forward to Wednesday: Michi gets baptized by his first ever fever blister. (Many thanks to me.) Weather's ok, Anja's got full-on flu symptoms, so Dennis, Michi and I decide to hit up a glorious mountain side beach called Cala D'Albarca. With hunger learing at bay after 1 hour of purposefully hiking a mountain path that seemingly crossed the mountain instead of going down the mountain, we decide we'd better grab a bite and then hit up another beach "easy" beach (ie, one where you don't have to descend a steep, rocky mountain path for 45 minutes on foot before actually reaching the water.) Michael decides to drive and as we're finally coming to the main road, makes a right turn and hits a cement sewer drain protruding from the ground. Hard. None of us saw it, of course. In the past 2 years, there has been much new construction all over the island; new highways, new roads, and apparently, new sewers. Who the hell builds a cement sewer drain the protudes 1.5 feet from the ground? The axel of the car is now bent and the car is rendered undriveable. However, be it that we're at least 15 miles away from civilization, we have no choice but to drive the car further, to the nearest city to figure out what the hell to do now. We drive it to the nearest rental station and they tell us to drive it another 15 miles to the airport, where we rented it. We drive it to the airport, where they tell us to drive it to the headquarters. What did you say, a "tow truck?" I think Ibiza has none. God knows how much more damage we caused to the broomster doing so. We get to headquarters and after having 2 mechanics look at the underside of the car for 4 seconds while it's still in the makeshift parking lot (grass), they decide that the costs will be €1250.00 to repair everything. Oh, and they also tell us that we don't have CDW (collision damage waiver insurance) so we'd have to pay for everything out of our pockets unless we can perform a miracle...

Thursday (Miracle Day): After a long day of researching via internet and going around to fax and copy shops to send things to a friend of ours who happens to be a lawyer, I decide to call my CitiBank Mastercard on a whim, which happened to be the card I charged the rental on (also done on a whim. Hey, I'm a capricorn.) Incredibly, I have complimentary rental car insurance with them. Ho-lee Shit.

The day-- the vacation, rather-- has been saved.

So after losing exactly 24 hours of our vacation, we finally trade the car in for another, pay the damn damages and get on with life.

Michi and I decide to celebrate by driving to a semi-secluded beach and eating dinner (on the beach) at Ca Na Sofia, one of Ibiza's best restaurants, located in Cala Vedella. Although not particulary well known, it has an amazingly artistic menu, albeit, with high prices. But after 24 hours of praying for divine intervention, a gourmet salad with arugola, spinach, rocket, melted brie, goat cheese, crispy parmesan and almond slices was really what I needed.


Ah, but not so fast. As usual, the plot thickens.


Friday Day: Nice weather. We decide to hit up another beach so we go to the car. But there is no car. Oh yes, the car is gone. Despite the lack of designated areas where it is legal or not legal to park, the car is towed. (Huh, guess there are tow trucks when it's convenient.) The next hour and a half are spent going to the towing lot to get it back again. Another €110 down the drain.

Friday Night:



The 3 Musketeers go to Villa Mercedes, a sweetass (i.e., unexpensive and supernice) villa-cum-lounge/bar in the San Antonio port before heading out to Amenesia again for Manumission, a party known for wild cabaret-type dancing and acts.


The boys lounging in our cabana thingee.

Saturday: Our flight was around 8:30pm, so we decide to have a nice drive around the island, since I had been complaining that we hadn't done one new thing since the last time we were in Ibiza in 2005. So, with less than 1/8 of a tank of gas in the car, we decide to drive up Sa Talaia of San Josep. About 80% of the way up, the gas light comes on and I feel my heart in my throat, my eyes bugging out, and my gut about to explode. I'm hyperventilating even though Michi's telling me it's going to be just fine since we're already at the top and on the way down, no gas is needed. So, with all my rationale in tact (obviously), I decide to turn the car around, head back down the treacherously serpetine mountain to get gas 3 miles away and then drive allllll the way back up again. Pure genius, I know.


View of Ibiza Town


View of San Antonio


South of the island

Shadow on the mountainside


peekaboo!




Pretty darn high.




Michi not wanting to leave Ibiza


Michi the Explorer decifering species of trees or something. "Would this be ok to use as toilet paper?"




Shit bricks much?


This is a two-lane road, by the way.


Who wouldn't feel a sense of accomplishment doing all that now, right?