I was there for the round dance of 2012
With drumming and a thousand Native voices
filling the rotunda for treaty rights.
And the next year when they arrested two women
who had organized a protest that never happened.
I missed Black Christmas last year
but covered the trial afterward.
Today I have no notebook.
I’m not working, but I can’t stand still.
I work the room. Chatting with my artist
friends who have shown up to
mingle by the Christmas tree.
Alleen is in town for the holidays.
Carl’s having a baby soon.
Corrie gives a rundown of his new job.
Shoppers line up along the tiered balconies
Watching through their cell phones
the ground floor of the rotunda
where bodies mill about
under the hovering proclamation:
“This demonstration is not authorized”.
The storm troopers create a circle
around the people who have gathered here
Later, a photo on Facebook reveals
the riot-gear welcome brigade
under the Mall of America sign.
There will be memes, it’s that kind of day.
There’s shouting. A young man is being
taken away by three cops in bullet proof vests
One of them drops his helmet
and they have to stop for him to pick it up.
A crowd forms around the scuffle
but we are being told to move away
to head toward the trains
A short, black woman waves her arms
to us that it’s time to leave
Inside the freedom train,
the light rail to justice
We tetris together. There’s a song
but it dwindles.
So far, this has been a quiet protest
No chanting, no speeches.
We are heading somewhere
but I don’t know where.
Remember that time we flew to Denver and drove a truck to Las Vegas, then flew home, all in two and a half days? Yeah, that sucked.
In the future, we will tell ourselves this. Actually we already have told ourselves this. How did we actually do that? What set of circumstances made such a ridiculous journey necessary?
It was for my boyfriend's work, of course. He’s done these types of trips before, and I’ve always worried endlessly about him for various reasons. This time, he asked me to come, and since I’ve said no the last couple of times he’s asked, I agreed, even though because of my schedule, I had to be back on Wednesday, so I couldn’t spend an extra night in Las Vegas with him.
Therefore, my Vegas experience was limited to about three hours, which was just about the perfect amount of time. That city has never been one that has enticed me in any way. Gambling? Bright lights? Hookers? Uh, no thanks. I’d rather go to New York or San Francisco.
Hector actually asked me to come to Las Vegas earlier this year. It had been a hard spring, and despite my preconceived notions of Vegas’s unpleasant debauchery, I actually was looking forward to it. It would be a chance for us to have some fun, go out, relax, and maybe I could do some writing about it.
That trip didn’t end up happening, so all I got was the three hour version. But that wasn’t even the best part of the trip.
We arrived in Denver on Sunday night. Hector had to load the set up for his work the next morning, so the main thing to do was relax. At the same time, I knew our eating options wouldn’t be great on the road, so I put the pressure on to go someplace nice.
There’s a place I found called Tamayo, a fancy Mexican joint, that I felt would satisfy Hector’s tastebuds and my need for a heightened experience. There’s always a danger with my boyfriend anytime you go to someplace that serves Mexican food, because he’s quite critical, despite the fact that he’d prefer to eat that type of food over anything else. But the Yelp reviews were stellar so I thought I’d risk it.
We took an Uber to get there, and I liked it right away. There was a bright mural that took over the front wall that I thought was neat, and a long bar with almost nobody there, so we had a chance to chat with the bartender.
What Hector really wants, almost always, is carne asada. The only option they had for that was a dish with beef doused in a mole-esque sauce. Hector was skeptical, as was I. He makes killer mole and carne asada, but one time when he put mole on steak it didn’t taste very good. We ended up liking it, though, because the mole was really more of a light sauce than a traditional mole. What was annoying was that they charged extra for tortillas. Who eats carne asada without tortillas? Just lump it in with the cost of the entree, dummies!
We also had Mexico City-style corn on the cob, which was delicious and spicy, and I wanted to have an extra helping.
We pretty much crashed right away to start our day in the morning, which started with a trip to the Budget Truck place. Oddly, it was located in a furniture store, and the guy running the joy kind of cracked me up. He was on the phone when we got there, mouthing off to a surly customer.
After he got off the phone, he asked us: “Where you headed?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Oh, you mean Lost Wages?”
Har har. He picked up the phone before he finished with us (Budget employees take forever), he answered the phone and started complaining to his boss about the guy he had been on the phone earlier. “I told him to sock on a rock!” he said on the phone.
Finally, we were on our way. We loaded up the set and started on our crazy journey.
Honestly, the drive was scary as shit. Driving up and down these mountains, especially with the amount of road construction, was enough to give me a heart attack, especially in the truck. It was gorgeous, especially when we were still in the rockies, climbing up and down these breathtaking passes of rock and sky that took my breath away, but I got a stomach ache thinking we were going to tip over at any moment.
There were also some things we saw that Hector said meant they were fracking, which was quite disconcerting. To think they can just tear apart some of the country’s most gorgeous scenery to make a quick buck is awfully sad.
We stopped the first night in Grand Junction, where we had a decent hotel and Hector had a chance to watch the Chargers game (they lost). We decided to order Chinese food, and when I placed the order, the woman over the phone said that it would take an hour and a half since there were two orders ahead of us. “We’re slammed!”, she said. Hilarious! I guess that’s small town for you!
The drive on the second day wasn’t quite as scary, although the first part of it was every bit as beautiful. By that time we were in Utah, and there were long stretches of what seemed like desert, but with these ghostly rock formations reaching up into the sky. Some of the rocks were bright red, and there was one stretch of rocks that rippled like waves, and I thought that was really cool. No wonder they call this God’s country, is what I thought.
I forced Hector to stop at this “Viewing Area” where we were supposed to be able to take a look at “Ghost Rock” or something like that. It actually wasn’t such a spectacular view, because there were trees in the way, but there was a Navajo lady selling pottery and jewelry and we ended up getting two pots and a necklace. Because, why not? I asked her if I could take her picture and she told me no way. I felt like an asshole white tourist for asking, but she wrapped up our purchases very nicely. She told us her relative made them- which I’m choosing to believe (there’s a nagging feeling in my stomach they might be mass produced but I don’t care, I really like them).
By the time we got into Nevada, the drive got a lot more boring, and by that time we were so extremely tired of driving. I just wanted it to end but we kept having so much longer to go! It didn’t help that traffic was slow.
We made it into Las Vegas at about 8:30 p.m., and amazingly found a parking spot right on the street. Apparently, not many people drive in the city. We checked into the “D”, and after some anxiety about what to do in the short amount of time, we decided to just walk down Fremont Street and see what there was to see.
What we saw was the fall of Rome. I mean, it was everything I pictured it I guess. As we walked out of the hotel area, we saw the drones at the slot machines and the go-go dancers looking bored. One of them, in a red-sequined bikini, was actually dancing, but the others seemed tired and were lethargically going through the movements.
On Fremont Streets there were lots of entertainers hawking whatever gimmick they had to make money on. There were some people in costume- pirates and the like, and mostly naked girls in feathers etc., charging people for pictures. There were musicians- a really good saxophonist, and a terrible group on one of the stages. There was actually one guy that was handling a Native American marionette, which was fascinating and also horrifying. Las Vegas hasn’t seemed to caught on that cultural appropriation is not cool.
At some point, Hector had to go turn over the keys to the theater guys at the venue, but then we were free to get some burritos at a place called “Nacho Daddy”, which was frequented to what seemed to be mostly working girls. We chatted with a fellow that was explaining that he somehow makes money by shaking people’s hands or giving them high fives. Apparently someone had written up a newspaper article about him. He seemed nice enough- and Hector talked to him about peppers and Mexican cooking. He also, in the spirit of the moment, bought me a “Nacho Daddy” t-shirt, which is embarrassingly sexy and I probably will never wear.
And that was that. We finished our food and headed back to the hotel (where we didn’t sleep the night), and from there we were back at the airport.
Maybe because it was my last day in Rome, maybe because I got to spend so little time here on this trip, but today I held a nagging desperation throughout the day. I wanted to see so much, do so much, experience everything there was to experience that I ended up feeling spent and frustrated. Even as I chided my parents, who traipsed across the city with me, furiously studying their map, for worrying too much about the destination and not enough about just being in Rome and seeing all that there was to see all the time and listening and smelling (this is it, I said to my dad as we hustled down the sidewalk- this IS the vacation), I didn't take my own advice.
We got a late start to the day. I woke up at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., but there was waiting for Mom to wake up and then Dad and then we had to put the laundry in but before that we had to find a store that would sell us detergent. Finally we went to have our coffees at a little cafe on the Trestevere plaza.
It was a bit too chilly to be sitting outside, and the waiter didn't seem to be paying attention to us. I felt that unpleasant feeling of it not being perfect. Because nothing ever is but when you're on "vacation" you have this ideal that your whole time spent will be one idyllic experience after the next. My dad ordered "cafe con latte" which he thought would bring him milk on the side, but instead we got "cafe lattes" which is fine, but not as good as the cappuccino that was my true heart's desire. You see how I am? It's amazing how ridiculously privileged I can be, how ungrateful, how foolishly focused on the immaterial.
We went back to the hotel, did some more dawdling. Mom and I got a second coffee- this time a real cappuccino (you see? I shouldn't have worried) and after more dawdling and losing each other we were on our way. We went to an outdoor square where venders were selling fresh produce, t-shirts, jewelry, knick knacks and anything else a tourist could possibly think of to purchase. It was the start of feeling like a giant herd of tourist cattle.
Then we went to another square with a bunch of Bernini sculptures, where Dad insisted on getting his picture taken with the guy who sold selfie sticks. My parents bought a drawing from one of the venders (they wanted to know if the guy selling it really did draw it himself and he insisted he did).
Throughout the day, I got some nice footage of all the street musicians (see my little video above) which I really did enjoy and always tried to give money to, especially since I was filming them. Even that, however, turned unpleasant when they got too aggressive with asking for money.
By chance, we happened upon the Chiostro del Bramante, which we had planned to visit later in the day. They were having an exhibition of Chagall drawings, prints and paintings. I had seen an advertisement for it and thought it might be fun, mostly because I thought it would be somewhat tolerable for my Dad. It turned out to be a 45 minute wait, which unbelievably my Dad was all for doing. I felt guilty, because my parents were obviously tired of standing up. But I think they did enjoy the show. I refused to listen to the audio tour, but missed some of the key points because of that. I didn't want to feel like I was working, but I did anyway because eventually I started taking notes. I thought maybe I should pitch a story somewhere until I convinced myself that I was supposed to be on vacation. It was kind of cool though, both for the art and because of the interactive elements. Yes, the whole selfie thing can be annoying, but they had this other feature too that was video animation projected onto the black and white drawings. The projected video were in full color, bringing to life the dreamlike images of floating couples, musicians melting into their instruments, donkeys and circus performers with a swirl of color.
We had some lunch, all thankful to be able to get wifi for a moment, and headed to see the three Caravaggio paintings of St. Matthew at Cantarelli Chapel. That's where the cattle herd feeling was at its height, and my dad simply had to go home after that.
I got home and was exhausted, furiously uploading photos to Instagram. I supposed I should have just taken a bath or read or done something to relax, but I wanted to go do something else. I didn't want it to be the end. It was only 4 in the afternoon, after all. So I looked up different places to see contemporary art, but they were all just so far away- it would have taken me over an hour to walk. I particularly wanted to see the Maxxi Museum, mostly to see the architecture. But finally I had to accept that it wasn't going to happen.
Then, around 5:30, I got the idea that I wanted to see the sunset, and was consumed by this notion. While I did see one sunset in Sorrento, I actually technically missed the sun going down, only seeing the colors after it set, and on another day I missed it entirely. So I really, really wanted to go see the sunset even though I was so late in deciding it, as the sun sets at about 6.
The problem with seeing the sunset in Rome is that there are so many buildings in the way. Dad suggested I get Mom to show me how to walk up the hill, and I started to go with that plan before realizing she would be too slow and I wouldn't see it. So I walked myself, feeling bad for being rude.
I found a hill and started walking up it, eventually finding steps to climb as well. Climb. Climb. Climb. There were so many steps. I got to the top and there was a spectacular view of the city, but it faced East, not West. Perfect for sunrise, but not set.
It took me a while to figure out that latter point and by then I realized I would never find an uncovered view in time. But I decided to try. I walked and walked, feeling so frustrated and really devastated actually that I would miss it. I walked along a busy street with no sidewalk, almost getting killed and kept running into dead ends. Finally, at about 6:15, I came across this park and I could tell the sunset would be on the other side, though at that point I realized I wouldn't see the full one. Still, I walked and got a nice picture of the pink sky behind this old relic building and felt somewhat satisfied.
Of course, there are sunsets in Minneapolis too. Just as bright, just as beautiful. And maybe, just maybe, I'll come back to Rome again. I'll try to plan better, perhaps, or maybe I'll just try to remember to breathe.
I'm not positive about this, but I believe my fascination with Italy stems from, or at least was fed by, the movie "A Room with A View," which I watched dozens of times as an adolescent. I loved the story so much and the framing of Italy as this idyllic landscape full of beautiful sights and people, where love and imagination are born. I'm not sure if I've actually read the book or not- I know I've read other E.M. Forster novels- but at least in the movie the crux of the exploration isn't just about a destination or a country, but the idea of being a tourist and traveling to someplace that reveals to you your inner truths.
Much like the characters in that story, my family, which as far as I know have no Italian heritage, have long been enamored by all things Italian- whether that's food or art or music. Of course now I know that this desire, this obsession reeks of historical practices of the west projecting themselves onto "the other". While Italy itself is a part of Europe- I would say it still holds a kind of exoticism for the English and Americans.
On this trip, I've been acutely aware of my role as tourist, to which I fit the description to a T. Not only do I not speak the language, I didn't even attempt to learn a few phrases, even though this is my third trip to Italy. Thankfully, I'm here with my Dad, who knows very little Italian himself but feels more confident bumbling with his phrasebook.
Yesterday, we took a trip to Herculaneum, an archeological ruin site that was once a great Roman city destroyed by the Vesuvius Volcano. We took the train (Dad has sworn off using the rented car since he dinged it on the first day), which went smoothly enough.
When we arrived in the town, we got out of the train station to be greeted by numerous Italian men waving us toward the tour bus that would take us to the ruin site. Having read the guidebook, it didn't sound like it was a very far walk, so I was hesitant. But dad wanted to and we went to the storefront where the guy wanted to charge us 40 euro for two tickets. Luckily, Dad didn't have enough cash and the guy wouldn't take a credit card, so I persuaded Dad to try to find out where the Ruin site was without the bus. We began to walk to the other train station (due to my misreading of the guide book) but were stopped by an older gentleman who seemed to be a local NOT ready to make his living off unsuspecting tourists. He pointed the way toward the ruins- which was about three blocks straight away from the station.
Though it was a few short blocks, we were inundated by people whose job it was to encourage us to try the various ristorantes and pizzerias on the way. Special deals! Very romantic! Delicioso! No thanks, guys, we just want to see the ruins.
I was also shocked by how many people- mostly men, were just hanging around with seemingly nothing to do in the middle of the day. Was this because of Italy's poor economy? Possibly, as well as the lack of decent employment opportunities that a tourist area offers.
We got to the site and once again I persuaded my Dad away from paying for a guided tour, although we did get the audio tour, which was nice. We wondered around with our devices in our ears and snapped pictures in a pleasant afternoon. It was a relief to me not to have to take notes or really pay close attention. I wasn't that interested in the particular Roman rulers or the names of things. I liked just knowing enough to appreciate it, but not to have to sieve it through my brain into an article.
I managed to surreptitiously snap a decent selfie, something I'm always self-conscious about doing, especially because it usually takes numerous tries before you can actually take one that doesn't look terrible. Meanwhile, I was as I have been on this trip continually frustrated that I can't get online to immediately post pictures onto Instagram (or even more frustrating, use my map app). The level to which I have fallen into #firstworldproblems privilege is quite remarkable.
I'm certainly not the only one who engages in the selfie practice. In Sorrento, the town we are staying, you can find people taking selfies all day at the scenic spots by the bay. At least I don't have a selfie stick. Last night as I was watching the sunset in a spot near our villa, there were numerous people doing just that. It was the main activity at the lookout point.
As I was walking back to our room, I encountered a man on his scooter. "Are you an American?" he called out to me. Uh oh, I thought. I've dealt with this type of experience before. He asked me if this was my first time in Italy and who I was with and as I expected, wanted to know if I would be interested in going to have a coffee or a drink. No thanks, I smiled. This kind of thing fills me with anxiety. I hate talking to strangers, which is partly a being a woman thing and partly a Minnesota thing, I believe. My friends who are from other places constantly complain about this particular trait of my region. But I can't help it.
I guess it makes me a bad traveler. On the other hand, I've never travelled by myself. I'm always with people that I would rather talk to than meet strangers. Maybe one day I will do it the other way, but I think I might be getting too old for that kind of thing. I didn't ever, as my father did the summer after college, tour Europe and stay in hostels and do that young person thing of traveling the world where you can talk to anybody.
Today, our adventures took us on a hike to the "Bagni della Regina Giovanna", which was a little more complicated in terms of getting there by public transportation. We went to the train station, where we were told to go downstairs to the news stand where we could get our tickets.
At this point I should mention how infuriating my father is when it comes to traveling. Despite clear directions that we were to go to the news stand, he proceeded to go outside and randomly walk around and ask people in his broken Italian how to get to our destination, showing them his travel book. Finally, we went to the news stand, where the lady pointed to where we were supposed to go- "on the other side". So we went outside, still unclear where exactly we were going to pick up the bus.
Again we wandered around, and my Dad tried to get this reticent elder Italian man to help him. The man's friend, who was younger and from Pakistan as we learned later, told us to go up the hill to catch the bus. But it turns out he didn't know actually where we were supposed to go. We went up the hill to search for the bus stop to no avail and then down to the block at the bottom of the hill. Nothing! Finally, my Dad and I were split up in search of where we were supposed to go, and the Pakistani guy found me to tell me he figured out what bus we were supposed to be on. Hooray!
Our friend was amiable enough. He asked my dad if he played Cricket- it turns out there's a World Cup Cricket tournament, and he was very excited about the Pakistan vs. India game. He asked about us and Dad did most of the talking. It was nice to meet someone new, and I had the safety of my Dad being there in case he got "too" interested.
The bus ride was rather short, which was a relief because I think our driver might have been a bit drunk. He kept whistling and seemed to enjoy nearly running over pedestrians. That may be just the way people drive here, however. We began our walk, which started in this hallway of brick in what was once an old castle, opening up to a beautiful path that led to a pool of water and then an abandoned bridge with the sign "American Bar" at the front. Two young men decided to climb over the slabs of wood which were the remains of the bridge, but that was too much of an adventure for my Dad.
I did enjoy reading "Walking on the Amalfi Coast", by Gillian Price out loud as we ventured on our way, in part to help us with the directions but also because the language is so flowery in reminded me of Eleanor Lavish from "A Room with a View".
Sometimes, you just have to embrace what you are. So, American Tourist it is.
While my urban design friends would argue that old-school European streets, the ones where cars and pedestrians share the narrow roads in a windy, non-grid pattern are actually better for pedestrians (I think, in part because it's so awful to drive in those places and therefor more pedestrians in general), I gotta say I felt like I was taking my life into my hands on several occasions walking around Sorrento. More, I was scared to death that my father, who kept walking out into traffic without looking, would get killed by a car or a motorcycle.
So far, we're still alive and getting used to navigating. My old trick of just being assertive doesn't really work, because the motorists play chicken with you. Better to just wait until you are absolutely safe to cross the street, and stay on the sidewalk if at all possible. Of course, sometimes, all you have is this:
The above picture shows the tiny strip of "sidewalk" that I walked as I was trying to get back up the hills after visiting the port in Sorrento. I had climbed down a very steep staircase to get down to the bay, but wanted to avoid that particular staircase because there was a section that was covered, without any lights. As night was falling, I didn't feel totally safe climbing back up in the dark. Besides, the teenagers I saw making out needed their privacy and the blankets I saw would probably be used soon by whoever was using that covered part of the stairway for sleeping.
The port in Sorrento was pretty run-down. I was reminded of the Wes Anderson movie, the Grand Budapest Hotel and the idea of a tourist destination that was once grand and beautiful and now rife with decay. I think in the case of Sorrento, it's not so much that the tourism has dwindled, but the commerce has. There are actually tourists everywhere, but I don't know how much the bay actually gets used by industry. So there are less people in the town that aren't there working in tourism- related jobs.
I guess there's nothing wrong with tourism, per se. I mean, hey, in certain areas, things are thriving. Boatloads and bus-loads of people hopping into restaurants and walking the streets in search of limoncello and other lemon-related propoganda from the Limoncello capital of the world, inlaid wood art, commedia dell'arte knick knacks and Italian fashion, priced in the hundreds of Euros. And of course the food. And the gelato and the hotels and all that crap. Keeps the world spinning.
The view from the Bay of the cliffs and the old hotels that stand on top of them is pretty magnificent, actually in some ways more interesting than just looking out to the sea, although I may change my mind on that tomorrow if it's less foggy. I didn't get a very good view of Mount Vescuvius.
Like when I was in Detroit, I was attracted to the broken-into aspects of the city, the things that were falling apart, the graffiti, the blight. I don't know why, but I find something so tantalizing about the juxtaposition of beauty and decay.
One prime example of this is an old mill that hundreds of years ago was thriving, but now, is sunk down below the main part of the city, covered in vegetation. I'm not clear about the story of why it falls so far below- maybe it's volcano related or if it has to do with the water, but it looks magnificent.
I just love all the layers of history you can see in the architecture. Both along the cliffs as well as throughout the town (I've experienced this at other places in Italy), you have old Greek and Roman structures, medieval architecture, 19th century neo-classical buildings and lovely hotels, and 20th century buildings as well.
Well, it's sort of embarrassing how long it's been since I've posted here. I guess I just get so caught up writing for my living that I've neglected writing for pleasure. Let's see- a quick update about creative comings and goings since December of 2013:
Last spring I had a great part in my friend Jeff's play that we did at the People's Center. I was this mermaid sea creature thing and I got to wear a fantabulous outfit and a wig. Then last summer I did a Fringe show with my friend Jayne. It was based on her life and we used song lyrics as the main text. It was rather sparsely attended but it was fun to hang out with Jayne and do the whole Fringe thing.
I also did a piece last year around January/February that was about desire and pleasure, also with my friend Jeff, that we did at the Ritz. It was hard, honestly. Making new work is such a bitch.
This past fall, I was in a couple of films (oh, also I did one last spring too) and I really enjoy doing that. I think at some point Alex will finish his feature too. Oh! And The System finally got finished and it was fun to watch it on the big screen last year at the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival.
Sorry about using first names only- trying to make this blog not super google-able, but I'm not sure how well that's working. It's not that I'm trying to keep it secret, just slightly under the radar.
There are a couple of projects that I've been wanting to work on. One is a play about a high school production of A Handmaid's Tale. Unfortunately, once I got the idea, a couple people in my life told me it was a stupid idea, and that really discouraged me from pursuing it. I know that's probably just an excuse.
Also, my friend May encouraged me to revisit Goodlife Pharmacom this next summer when she's in town. Unfortunately I missed the deadline for the Fringe, but maybe we can make it happen anyway. Actually, I have this idea that it could be a film. Maybe I could use some of the plot details that I had originally come up with when I was first talking about it with Rakel. We'll see.
The main reason I'm checking in now is that I'm off to Italy, so I'm hoping to write about that experience. If I had been smart I would have found someplace that would pay me to write something, but I didn't have it together enough to do that. So maybe I'll try to do it afterwards or just have it exist here.
Speaking of my writing career, that's been going pretty well. I'm back to doing dance reviews for the Strib, I've done a couple pieces for the national publication Hyperallergic, I'm writing for The Good Age and have been writing a lot for Classical MPR. I also continue to write for City Pages, MN Artists, Vita.mn and TC Daily Planet, outside of my teaching work, which has also been full. Suffice to say I've been very busy but still always broke! I'm very excited to mostly not have anything to do for the next week.
I'm traveling with my Dad. We're flying into Rome and then driving to a little town outside of Naples. We'll stay there for a few days then meet my mom up in Rome. I'll fly back on Sunday. So excited! More soon.
