A friend of mine rang me a few hours ago from Bracciano, site of the TomKat wedding. Where was I?, he wanted to know. Why wasn't I with him jostling for a quote from John Travolta or Brooke? Because my students are covering it, I informed him.
Oh.
Yep, the recently launched newspaper of John Cabot University is now online in blog format for all the world to see. They're covering interesting topics: train crashes, a BabyShambles show where Pete Doherty smashed up the stage and yes, the wedding of year. Check it out. Per favore.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Back from the great white north
Il Sette Bello returned to Rome a few days ago, back from the frozen tundra of St. Petersburg. It's only 25 degrees centigrade warmer here. That's how cold it was in St. Petersburg, and how balmy it is here!
St. Petersburg, unlike Moscow, is a wholely European city with magnificent 18th-Century palaces, meandering canals and quaint cobble streets. It's also frigidissimo. This is only my second trip to Russia. I can't wait to return. It's an overwhelming sensory experience. Rather than blather on, I'll let the pics do the explaining.
Oh, in case you're curious, I wasn't chained to a bar this time.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
The Ministry of Health...and Sillyness
Italy has historically had a lax attitude towards cannabis. How lax? The new Center-left government feels as if the legal limit of a half-gram of dope is a bit stingy in these trying times. Yesterday, the government gave the OK to double "personal use" to one gram -- the equivalent of 40 joints, the Ministry of Health helpfully pointed out.
Explains Livia Turco, minister of Health (and, apparently, Happyness): "I intervened so thousands of young people don't have to go to jail or suffer a criminal proceeding for smoking a joint."
Erm, or 40 joints.
Explains Livia Turco, minister of Health (and, apparently, Happyness): "I intervened so thousands of young people don't have to go to jail or suffer a criminal proceeding for smoking a joint."
Erm, or 40 joints.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Behind the Iron Curtain
Il Sette Bello is yet again on the road, this time off to Mother Russia for a few days. Yep, I'm back to the scene of the crime. This time, St. Petersburg, the land of Tolstoy and the Winter Palace.
I'll return here in a few days with a report and pix, but in the meantime, here's a small tale of my last trip to Russia. Moscow, to be exact. First, let me set the scene. It's a Saturday night in December, 2004. I am part of an international group of journalists -- French, Swiss, German, Austrians, Brits and me, plus a few Russian hosts -- out on the town. What could go wrong?
On our last night, we hit the clubs. Yep, Saturday night in Moscow. Moscow night clubs are prowled by packs of women. Women with a purpose. You have little chance to hide behind your mug of beer before one tries to pull you and your mate onto the dance floor to shake your Western ass to truly awful Russian pop covers or the obligatory local folk dance.
Happily, there was only one international incident worth mentioning to the consulate. At an upstairs bar, we watched in awe as a pack of Muscovites participated in ritual self-mutilation, taking turns consuming conflagrating concoctions, stuff that could power an old Russky tank up a hill. The first victim was forced to suck through a
straw a flaming cauldron of some rust-colored cordial. Complicating matters, they stuck her in an old Colonial-era wooden stock – the heavy wooden plank that locks your head and hands away from the rest of your body – forcing her neck to contort in reptilian fashion to suck out the alcohol. She didn't fare well.
The next vicitm, a guy, was treated more inhumanely. This monster was fitted with a construction helmet and an even heavier stock that was attached to a chain. They shackled him to the bar, presumably to keep him from fleeing at the sight of the drink they were preparing. The mixologist grabbed a beer mug and began filling it with alcohol: a double shot of gin, a double shot of what I can only assume was grain
alcohol, two different kinds of rum and topped it off with pink champagne. We all winced as he struggled to down it. Encouraging cheers turned to moments of shocked uh-ohs as he belched and wheezed his way through about 3/4 of the mug. Defeated, he took a few dizzy steps to the side while his friends rushed over to keep him from
tipping over and strangling himself with the chain.
We all agreed this must be some Soviet-era ritual that survived perestroika. Just then, a big bear of a Muscovite tapped me on the shoulder and informed me: "You're next."
Next?
"Yes, Englander", he growled.
Realising I was a goner, I stifled my urge to correct him. What would they do to a Yank? Suspend me upside down from the ceiling and force kerosene through my nose?
I turned to a sensible fellow reporter: "How can I worm out of this?" His advice? "I'm sure they won't make you drink ALL of it. Just look at that guy," he said pointing to the young buck who'd just staggered away from his executioner. The guy was now propped up against the wall. He wore a vacant expression, like he was trying to read instructions off the underside of his eyebrows on how to regain his equilibrium.
Just then, my challenger picked me up and carried me a good 15 feet to the bar. When we landed, he gave me a simple command: "You drink, Englander!" He then made a brief speech in Russian that drew a small crowd of loud drunks. I imagined he was insulting us, calling us weenie Westerners. My mates drew the same conclusion. "Did you hear
that? He's challenging us! You have to do this, mate! For England!"
"For England? You can take your in-bred royal family and shove…" Just then, Lerch came back. "Ready, Englander?"
I tried to make a brave face, but found it harder to stifle an oncoming sob. I really didn't want to drink this thing. My heart was pounding nervously. I called over our Russian chaperone and pleaded with him to command the bar men to go easy on me. I'm old, I informed him in a cracking voice. He said something in Russian. No response. The mixologist and his toady assistant instead went into action.
I could have been imagining it, but it seemed the portions of alcohol were larger, and new and more varied bottles were being pulled off the shelf. "Dennis?" I asked my Russian guide. "Is that green stuff absinthe?" "Of course. Is Russian tradition," he informed me unhelpfully. I'd never tried the absinthe before, mainly because I have a strict policy against alcohol that was considered dangerous (something about causing blindness in some, madness in others) in the 19th century. Now, a retina-scarring dose was being emptied into my mug. The finishing touches of pink champagne turned the mug into a brimming, fizzy mess – like dropping Alka Seltzer tablets into a jar of paintbrush water.
I was beginning to hope the blindness would be sudden and painless. Particularly, when the toady produced a sawed-off beam and began banging on the bar. They fastened the construction helmet on my head and began the countdown in Russian. At one, or what I guessed was one, the toady wacked me over the head with the beam. Slightly dazed, slightly confused and incredibly angered I looked up at him, only to
catch out of the corner of my eye the mug coming at me from the other direction. To avoid the indignity of being force-fed Soviet-style, I had to wrestle the mug away. Mustering all the Yank defiance I could manage, I cocked my head up and brought the mug to my lips. I took a deep breath and muttered something resembling a vow that, should I survive this alcohol stew, I need to start acting more like an adult
for a change, which includes doing my best to avoid Russian bar challenges. How is it at the mature age of 32 that I'm about to drink a mug of jet fuel to uphold the honor and dignity (in my mind of course) of the West?
The instant the concoction touched my tongue, the yells and cat calls
went quiet. Not silent exactly, more of a muffle. For a moment there, it was just me and my mug. I'm still shaking my head about what happened next. (yes, there is photographic evidence of this. Not my proudest moment.) I'd like to think that in a different era – when this was the capital of the evil empire – my actions that Saturday night would have fit somewhere between a Hollywood treatment of
Miracle on Ice and Rocky IV. But you be the judge.
In three, dare I say, heroic glugs I inhaled the entire mug. Gone in seconds flat. I
slammed it down on the bar to a blur of stunned Muscovites and a few jubilant Westerners. I gave the crowd a victory belch and started to hoot obnoxiously about Yank supremacy wins again!!! If I was wearing my Uncle Sam boxer shorts at the time you can bet they would be doing a victory dance on the bar.
Untouched by my rant, Lerch was the first non-Westerner to greet me. I tried to reach out and give him a no-hard-feelings hug, but forgot I was still chained to the bar. Like a dog, I was yanked back into place. The Russian informed me I wasn't through. Obviously, they had underestimated me, and they needed to work on a second concoction. "No way, Boris" I told him. Lerch poked me in the chest. Justifiably,
I (or, in retrospect, the booze) poked him back. Suddenly, Dennis, a German and two Brits jumped into the dispute. Dennis started to negotiate on my behalf in Russian. The German produced a key and the Brits created a diversion. Unshackled, denuded of the construction helmet and dock, I was, for the second time in a 3-minute span being
carried, this time to safety, out of the bar by Westerners. 10 minutes later Dennis found us. He's determined to make me pay, Dennis informed me. I was feeling fine until that moment. My bravado was gone. I really didn't want to drink another concoction. He can't make me. The others nodded. Dennis wasn't so sure. Dennis told me to hide in a downstairs bar. So, I did. Nursing a pint of Guinness (why Guinness?
It seemed like the neutrality of Ireland was what I needed), I found the most inconspicuous spot in the joint – on the dance floor between a pack of Russian women who happily pulled me into a Russian folk dance (replete with an encore that probably still hasn't ended). Vegas has nothing on this town! Considered yourselves warned, comrades.
I'll return here in a few days with a report and pix, but in the meantime, here's a small tale of my last trip to Russia. Moscow, to be exact. First, let me set the scene. It's a Saturday night in December, 2004. I am part of an international group of journalists -- French, Swiss, German, Austrians, Brits and me, plus a few Russian hosts -- out on the town. What could go wrong?
On our last night, we hit the clubs. Yep, Saturday night in Moscow. Moscow night clubs are prowled by packs of women. Women with a purpose. You have little chance to hide behind your mug of beer before one tries to pull you and your mate onto the dance floor to shake your Western ass to truly awful Russian pop covers or the obligatory local folk dance.
Happily, there was only one international incident worth mentioning to the consulate. At an upstairs bar, we watched in awe as a pack of Muscovites participated in ritual self-mutilation, taking turns consuming conflagrating concoctions, stuff that could power an old Russky tank up a hill. The first victim was forced to suck through a
straw a flaming cauldron of some rust-colored cordial. Complicating matters, they stuck her in an old Colonial-era wooden stock – the heavy wooden plank that locks your head and hands away from the rest of your body – forcing her neck to contort in reptilian fashion to suck out the alcohol. She didn't fare well.
The next vicitm, a guy, was treated more inhumanely. This monster was fitted with a construction helmet and an even heavier stock that was attached to a chain. They shackled him to the bar, presumably to keep him from fleeing at the sight of the drink they were preparing. The mixologist grabbed a beer mug and began filling it with alcohol: a double shot of gin, a double shot of what I can only assume was grain
alcohol, two different kinds of rum and topped it off with pink champagne. We all winced as he struggled to down it. Encouraging cheers turned to moments of shocked uh-ohs as he belched and wheezed his way through about 3/4 of the mug. Defeated, he took a few dizzy steps to the side while his friends rushed over to keep him from
tipping over and strangling himself with the chain.
We all agreed this must be some Soviet-era ritual that survived perestroika. Just then, a big bear of a Muscovite tapped me on the shoulder and informed me: "You're next."
Next?
"Yes, Englander", he growled.
Realising I was a goner, I stifled my urge to correct him. What would they do to a Yank? Suspend me upside down from the ceiling and force kerosene through my nose?
I turned to a sensible fellow reporter: "How can I worm out of this?" His advice? "I'm sure they won't make you drink ALL of it. Just look at that guy," he said pointing to the young buck who'd just staggered away from his executioner. The guy was now propped up against the wall. He wore a vacant expression, like he was trying to read instructions off the underside of his eyebrows on how to regain his equilibrium.
Just then, my challenger picked me up and carried me a good 15 feet to the bar. When we landed, he gave me a simple command: "You drink, Englander!" He then made a brief speech in Russian that drew a small crowd of loud drunks. I imagined he was insulting us, calling us weenie Westerners. My mates drew the same conclusion. "Did you hear
that? He's challenging us! You have to do this, mate! For England!"
"For England? You can take your in-bred royal family and shove…" Just then, Lerch came back. "Ready, Englander?"
I tried to make a brave face, but found it harder to stifle an oncoming sob. I really didn't want to drink this thing. My heart was pounding nervously. I called over our Russian chaperone and pleaded with him to command the bar men to go easy on me. I'm old, I informed him in a cracking voice. He said something in Russian. No response. The mixologist and his toady assistant instead went into action.
I could have been imagining it, but it seemed the portions of alcohol were larger, and new and more varied bottles were being pulled off the shelf. "Dennis?" I asked my Russian guide. "Is that green stuff absinthe?" "Of course. Is Russian tradition," he informed me unhelpfully. I'd never tried the absinthe before, mainly because I have a strict policy against alcohol that was considered dangerous (something about causing blindness in some, madness in others) in the 19th century. Now, a retina-scarring dose was being emptied into my mug. The finishing touches of pink champagne turned the mug into a brimming, fizzy mess – like dropping Alka Seltzer tablets into a jar of paintbrush water.
I was beginning to hope the blindness would be sudden and painless. Particularly, when the toady produced a sawed-off beam and began banging on the bar. They fastened the construction helmet on my head and began the countdown in Russian. At one, or what I guessed was one, the toady wacked me over the head with the beam. Slightly dazed, slightly confused and incredibly angered I looked up at him, only to
catch out of the corner of my eye the mug coming at me from the other direction. To avoid the indignity of being force-fed Soviet-style, I had to wrestle the mug away. Mustering all the Yank defiance I could manage, I cocked my head up and brought the mug to my lips. I took a deep breath and muttered something resembling a vow that, should I survive this alcohol stew, I need to start acting more like an adult
for a change, which includes doing my best to avoid Russian bar challenges. How is it at the mature age of 32 that I'm about to drink a mug of jet fuel to uphold the honor and dignity (in my mind of course) of the West?
The instant the concoction touched my tongue, the yells and cat callswent quiet. Not silent exactly, more of a muffle. For a moment there, it was just me and my mug. I'm still shaking my head about what happened next. (yes, there is photographic evidence of this. Not my proudest moment.) I'd like to think that in a different era – when this was the capital of the evil empire – my actions that Saturday night would have fit somewhere between a Hollywood treatment of
Miracle on Ice and Rocky IV. But you be the judge.
In three, dare I say, heroic glugs I inhaled the entire mug. Gone in seconds flat. I
slammed it down on the bar to a blur of stunned Muscovites and a few jubilant Westerners. I gave the crowd a victory belch and started to hoot obnoxiously about Yank supremacy wins again!!! If I was wearing my Uncle Sam boxer shorts at the time you can bet they would be doing a victory dance on the bar.
Untouched by my rant, Lerch was the first non-Westerner to greet me. I tried to reach out and give him a no-hard-feelings hug, but forgot I was still chained to the bar. Like a dog, I was yanked back into place. The Russian informed me I wasn't through. Obviously, they had underestimated me, and they needed to work on a second concoction. "No way, Boris" I told him. Lerch poked me in the chest. Justifiably,
I (or, in retrospect, the booze) poked him back. Suddenly, Dennis, a German and two Brits jumped into the dispute. Dennis started to negotiate on my behalf in Russian. The German produced a key and the Brits created a diversion. Unshackled, denuded of the construction helmet and dock, I was, for the second time in a 3-minute span being
carried, this time to safety, out of the bar by Westerners. 10 minutes later Dennis found us. He's determined to make me pay, Dennis informed me. I was feeling fine until that moment. My bravado was gone. I really didn't want to drink another concoction. He can't make me. The others nodded. Dennis wasn't so sure. Dennis told me to hide in a downstairs bar. So, I did. Nursing a pint of Guinness (why Guinness?
It seemed like the neutrality of Ireland was what I needed), I found the most inconspicuous spot in the joint – on the dance floor between a pack of Russian women who happily pulled me into a Russian folk dance (replete with an encore that probably still hasn't ended). Vegas has nothing on this town! Considered yourselves warned, comrades.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Behold the blessed tuber
No bigger than a cookee. Weighing in at roughly 25 grams. Packs a powerful, fungal perfume that we still can't quite get rid of. We'll miss you, amico.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Once you go white...
I am writing this post under the influence.
On Saturday evening in a shady corner of Amandola, Michael and I met a guy -- let's call him "Nello" -- for a rather sizeable transaction. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues, wore a blue knit cap and four-, maybe five-days growth. Between us, Michael and I were sporting maybe 6-hours of stubble. We'd been eyeing Nello's cache for a few minutes, but we lacked the confidence to pounce. We waited and waited and waited, mainly for the crowd to thin out and move on. We were buyers. We meant business. "Not the black stuff", we informed him by way of introduction. "The good stuff. Bianco". He pushed forward a scale and rattled off prices, prices, he boasted, that were below the going market rate. 150 euros per 100 grams (more pricey than gold) is what they charge in the big towns. Nello could score us a better deal, he assured. He held up the goods. Pungent. Fungal. Sold.
48 hours later and I am hovering a few feet off the ground. Having finally ingested my purchase this evening, I'm having a pleasant wave of flashbacks. There's definitely a lingering sense of euphoria, still some light-headedness. And, yes, I love you all.
My drug of choice? The white truffle.
I am also feeling a bit nostalgic. (Could I be coming down?) It will be another year before I get the chance again to eat nature's most precious tuber.
While we ate our tagliatelle dripping with while truffles this evening, we all wondered what this meal would cost in the most lavish cities of the world (the assumption being only lavish cities ever source the rare white truffle). In New York or London, Tokyo or Paris, I'd venture a guess that a single, overly garnished and truffle-deprived dish would run a diner more than the five of us paid for the entire meal -- last night's meal too, and probably tomorrow night's as well. In case you're wondering, I handed over a 30-spot for our hunk of earthy, pungent goodness, but that's not important.
The important part is that Amandola is on the map, one of the few places on this planet where the mysterious white truffle grows in select sub-terranean hollows. A year ago I went hunting with tartufai and we came back with zesty summer truffles, enough to stink up our apartment for days and put exceptional pasta dinners on our table. But the true king of the tubers is the white goddess. Tartufo bianco. As Xtina says, "once you go white, there's no going back." It's an expensive habit to kick. The good thing is they are only available in late Oct and early November. The odor usually fades by Spring.
On Saturday evening in a shady corner of Amandola, Michael and I met a guy -- let's call him "Nello" -- for a rather sizeable transaction. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues, wore a blue knit cap and four-, maybe five-days growth. Between us, Michael and I were sporting maybe 6-hours of stubble. We'd been eyeing Nello's cache for a few minutes, but we lacked the confidence to pounce. We waited and waited and waited, mainly for the crowd to thin out and move on. We were buyers. We meant business. "Not the black stuff", we informed him by way of introduction. "The good stuff. Bianco". He pushed forward a scale and rattled off prices, prices, he boasted, that were below the going market rate. 150 euros per 100 grams (more pricey than gold) is what they charge in the big towns. Nello could score us a better deal, he assured. He held up the goods. Pungent. Fungal. Sold.
48 hours later and I am hovering a few feet off the ground. Having finally ingested my purchase this evening, I'm having a pleasant wave of flashbacks. There's definitely a lingering sense of euphoria, still some light-headedness. And, yes, I love you all.
My drug of choice? The white truffle.
I am also feeling a bit nostalgic. (Could I be coming down?) It will be another year before I get the chance again to eat nature's most precious tuber.
While we ate our tagliatelle dripping with while truffles this evening, we all wondered what this meal would cost in the most lavish cities of the world (the assumption being only lavish cities ever source the rare white truffle). In New York or London, Tokyo or Paris, I'd venture a guess that a single, overly garnished and truffle-deprived dish would run a diner more than the five of us paid for the entire meal -- last night's meal too, and probably tomorrow night's as well. In case you're wondering, I handed over a 30-spot for our hunk of earthy, pungent goodness, but that's not important.
The important part is that Amandola is on the map, one of the few places on this planet where the mysterious white truffle grows in select sub-terranean hollows. A year ago I went hunting with tartufai and we came back with zesty summer truffles, enough to stink up our apartment for days and put exceptional pasta dinners on our table. But the true king of the tubers is the white goddess. Tartufo bianco. As Xtina says, "once you go white, there's no going back." It's an expensive habit to kick. The good thing is they are only available in late Oct and early November. The odor usually fades by Spring.
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