Robin Williams and Fred the Cat

Robin Williams died yesterday. He was a huge personality, well loved, respected by his peers and massively talented. I saw him perform before he went to Hollywood, when he was just a local San Francisco Bay Area comedian. After his ingenious, unique, hilarious show at the College of Marin, the school that Robin had attended and in which I was currently enrolled, I was exhilarated. A few months later he was on TV, Mork and Mindy, and I thought it was a typical sit-com made bearable by his presence. I didn’t know what had happened to the amazing iconoclast I’d seen few weeks before. It was obvious that he was now owned by the “Industry”.

Six months ago Philip Seymour Hoffman died and there were the same outcries and expressions of sorrow and anguish that I’m hearing now.

Sad guys; depressed, I guess. Dead from suicide and suicidal overdose.

“Can’t stop crying?”

That’s one I saw yesterday. I want to ask, “Why can’t you stop crying? Lots of people die every day in much worse circumstances, with fewer resources, and we don’t care. If someone you only know from TV or the movies or magazines dies, tragically or naturally, and you are plunged into such misery that you can’t stop crying then you are fucked up and will spend a lot of time feeling shitty and probably feeling sorry for yourself, too. Get help. Now.”

Jesus. Nice, huh? I wonder why I can’t seem to work up the sadness and empathy that I hear other people expressing? It’s not that I haven’t experienced some of the same despair as Williams and Hoffman. I survived, they didn’t. That’s the difference. I can't be that cold, can I?

I felt bad, really bad, when my cat Fred died. He belonged to my first wife and was four years old when I moved in. Fred was orange and white, like a 50-50 ice cream bar. He was gentle, funny and all the rest of the cat stuff that crazy people write about. As as soon as I settled in he adopted me. He’d sprawl on my lap and I’d stroke him while I read epic novels deep into the night, until 1 a.m., or later.

Every twenty minutes I would have to disturb him to get another drink. If I was tapping a razor blade on a pile of cocaine, chopping it into a consumable powder, cutting it into lines, Fred would often stand right over the blow and try to stick his paw into it. I’d brush him off the table and he bounce right back. I soon learned that I had to sneak my cocaine when the cat wasn’t looking. In fact, near the end of my drug days, that’s the way I always used dope. Alone and secretively. No one knew how much I used. Not even Fred.

There were times when I’d dump a pile of coke on the tile counter in the kitchen, snort it up quickly and head back to the TV. Once I turned around and saw Freddy licking up the residue. I wondered, for a second, if it was possible for a cat to become addicted to drugs. I certainly was, and I knew that scientists made addicts out of monkeys, so why not a housecat? How much coke was Fred consuming on a weekly basis? I felt fairly shitty about it and decided that I’d lock myself in the bathroom to hide my drug use from Fred. He still suspected though. Everyone did.

I took good care of Fred. Better than myself.

He drooled. Lots of cats drool. He would lie on my chest while I watched TV and I’d stroke his long back. His eyes would close and he’d gently knead my stomach and drip cat saliva onto my shirt. It was disgusting so I kept a paper towel next to me and I’d wipe his mouth occasionally to keep the spit from soaking me. Fred was ecstatic. He enjoyed being touched and he reflexively pawed me. I didn’t have a lot of people who let me touch them back then. If I was drinking and met someone in a bar, we’d do a few hours of touching, but innocent, non-judgmental, loving touch was rare. Fred touched me and I patted him and I mopped up his drool, too. I always had a paper towel when I sat with Fred.

Fred’s been gone for over twenty years and I still carry paper towels in my pockets. For cleanliness, wiping up spills. Sometimes I wonder if the towels are symbolic of a desire for intimate contact. To clean up afterwards. If I reach in my pants pocket I always have a paper towel. Be prepared.

I got older, so did Fred. He went from bouncing up the stairs with me when I got home from work to sitting at the bottom of the driveway and letting me carry him. When I allowed him to walk by himself I saw that he couldn’t jump from step to step any longer. He was 18 years old. My wife told me that healthy cats don’t have to be carried up stairs.

The vet, Dr. Barboni, said that Fred was old and in pain. That hurt me and I was sorry for Fred. There weren’t many choices. It was over.

I gave the veterinarian the nod. Do it.

Dr. Barboni was a kind and compassionate man with a steady gaze and a calming voice and he asked if I wanted to stay in the waiting room and I said that I’d rather be with Fred at the end.

I held my cat. He looked up at me as the doctor slipped the needle through the orange fur and under the loose skin near his flank.

Fred blinked a few times, his eyes closed and he was still.

Gone.

Dr. Barboni took care of the body and all the rest. I was sniffling and by the time I got to my car I was crying uncontrollably.

In the console of the car there was always a bottle of brandy and two or three grams of cocaine. I was always ready.

For the rest of the night I drove aimlessly, fast, and drank deeply of the brandy and used up the coke while listening to a late night jazz show on the radio. I’d never felt so bad in my entire life. I was in my forties and had lost plenty of friends, lovers, jobs, cars. I understood loss, but this was a whole new classification of agony. Fuck.

Why did I feel so wretched? Why do I still carry paper towels in my pocket? I no longer have pets. Too painful.

A year later I got sober, stopped using dope, began the rocky road away from depression and despair and back to sensibility and humanity. I didn’t sneak cocaine or drive around drunk any longer. I often wondered why I mourned Fred the cat more than I had mourned friends who had died, my dead dad, family members and lovers, and why, whenever another celebrity dies of suicide, overdose, accident, disease, old age, I have a hard time caring about it for more than a minute or two.

I finally determined, to my surprise, that I had loved Fred without restriction. Of course, I try to talk myself out of imagining that an animal can love or can feel anything remotely human but sometimes I pretend that Fred loved me, too, without limitation or expectations. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but Fred was the most functional relationship I’d had up to that point in my life. All I needed to do was sit in a chair and dab at his drooling mouth every few minutes.

A small price to pay.

The Dangers of Meditation

I do not seek enlightenment. I know others who are in a constant quest for the will of God, the path to spirituality; they thank Him every morning that they are able to remember where they left their car keys and they pray for a cancer cure, a job, the perfect relationship. The ones so engaged do not appear more at peace, healthy or serene; often, the opposite is true. Their belief and prayers and mediations and rituals indicate a dissatisfaction with life. They complain a lot.

“If only I prayed harder and more often, dedicated more of my time to the pursuit of the intangible, to faith and grace, then my life, the world, the universe would be a better place. If I bear down and tense up, focus, I may be able to influence the future and change reality.”

It would be better if they flossed more often.

In the dark hallway of my early adolescence I quit thinking about religion, faith and worship. With limited success, I spent my leisure time trying to stay out of trouble; I struggled to keep my drug dosages manageable, to hide my true nature and thoughts from lovers, to show up on time for work and to give the impression that I was laboring for the good of the organization.

Drugs and alcohol were part of my ritual; I was unhappy and distracted. It is a truth, embarrassing to admit, that I wished for someone or something to rescue me. Not God, but a woman, a book, an experience.  My life, of course, was of my own making; I stayed in bad relationships and difficult, underpaid jobs. As a result of daily drugs and alcohol, I felt paralyzed and lacked the energy to change my situation or to move on.

Then, when I was in my early thirties, I attempted to meditate. I hoped that an answer, a blueprint, a plan for extraction would come to me if only I was sincere and rigorous in my commitment.

Each afternoon I would drink from a pint of brandy, sniff a couple lines of cocaine and take a hit of low-grade marijuana. A yoga and meditation show came on TV around 2 p.m. and the man who hosted had a calming demeanor. I wanted to learn to be more like him; unshakeable, cool, and kind. He was short, soft and unthreatening, with a benign face of indeterminate ethnicity. He wore comfortable, loose clothing

I tried two of the recommended exercises.

“Place a flower in a bowl. Take long, slow breaths and exhale through your mouth. Look at the flower, the petals, the color, the leaves and the stem. See it in its totality. Do not waver in your concentration, stare at the perfect flower and feel the beauty of nature as it flows into you, entering through your eyes and with your breath, feel it as it streams through your body, your bloodstream, your organs. Inhale the beauty of the flower and breathe out any tension.”

It was a difficult proposal, this calm breathing and deep appreciation of one of nature’s marvels while grinding my teeth and trying to inhale through clogged nasal passages that burned with cocaine residue. I crushed the flower, tossed it into the garbage and finished the brandy.

A day or two later I tuned in once again. I’d give the master another chance to liberate me from my frustrating, dismal existence. That day, I suspected that the path to enlightenment would again require controlled breathing and a steady pulse rate so I eliminated the cocaine from my breakfast. I drank off the brandy and smoked a bit more of the joint than usual; I was committed to achieving serenity and guidance from within.

The Candle Meditation. Light a candle; sit in front of it in a comfortable posture. The practice is similar to The Flower Mediation, but the candle is a flickering brightness that represents the light of the universe.

Or something.

“Sit close and stare into the heart of the flame. See the aura, the vibrating purple and yellow bands of color as you become more and more relaxed. The fire from the wick may flicker from time to time; don’t let that disturb you. It is a natural action of flame in the air. A breeze, undetectable, may blow through the room. Consider this the breath of God as he shows you the light of all creation. You are calm, you are relaxed, you are whole.”

I entered a trance state, nodding towards enlightenment, tipping into illumination.

I smelled something burning.

I opened my eyes; I was an inch away from the flame and it was singeing my hair, which had fallen forward as I tilted into the candle. I barked an obscenity and brushed at the front of my head. A lock of hair was smoldering. I slapped at my forehead and sparks and ash fell onto the carpet; I lost two inches of hair and half an eyebrow that afternoon.

Mediation was not for me. It didn’t work and it was dangerous.

Christ, I almost set myself on fire.

A Day at The Flughafen

I’ve been home from Italy for a week and yesterday I began sleeping better, eating well and I wasn’t as sensitive to noise and bright lights. I don’t know if I was recovering from jet lag, six weeks in Florence, or 24 hours in Germany after a cancelled transatlantic flight. When it becomes clear that the Italians are more functional than the Germans I am convinced that the world is in some kind of downward shit spiral.

Lufthansa flight 440, June 15, 2014, 10 a.m., (from Flughafen am Main, the impossible airport in Frankfurt, to George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston), was cancelled due to:

1. A computer problem

2. A personnel shortage

3. A labor union contract dispute

Lufthansa gave us several wavering and unclear reasons for the failure of the giant Airbus to take flight. Nearly 400 confused travelers were stranded with no info and little assistance. Major screw-ups are now included in the high price of air travel. I even build getting screwed into my travel plans, but this fiasco was far beyond my  ability to predict disaster.

By 10 a.m. we had all boarded and settled in to our uncomfortable seats, elbowing strangers off of the armrests, sniffing at the still, stale air. I was imagining the first class passengers upstairs in the penthouse, naked, drunk, engrossed in sexual excess and deviations. We’d been on board for over an hour when the Captain said, in his humorous Hollywood German accent, “Ladies und Gentlemen. A slight problem. Vee will haff to reset our computers.” Obvious lie. Nothing sounds more insincere than a nervous, harsh Teutonic voice when reporting news of impending catastrophe to a restless crowd.

(And do you know how they reset the computers on an Airbus A380-300, the biggest holy Christ honking vessel to ever lift off the ground? They turn it off and then turn it on again. Same shit you do with your computer at home. Lying bastards.)

They tried to “reset” the computer three times before canceling the flight; lights went out, air conditioning shut down, no more movies. The dodgy Captain continued to ply us with insincere apologies. His story changed from “computer difficulties” to “(undecipherable) personnel problem that (undecipherable)”. Two hours later the 400 of us trundled back up the gangway, trapped in the Frankfurt Flughafen. Even the first class passengers, who had hastily dressed, filed off the plane with their heads hanging low. The crew thanked us for being patient.

Two of the blond, blue-eyed Aryan counter people were fairly efficient; they smiled and pretended to help, but most of the workers we encountered were incompetent and officious and dismissive.

Stand, sit, silence, no questions, no, I can’t help you, you must stay here, go over there, no answers.

An American woman was the first to pop her cork, then a guy from the Middle East.

The American woman was berating a small dude with shiny hair in a shiny suit as he slipped into the front of one of the endless lines that began forming as soon as we disembarked and served no purpose other than to keep us destabilized.

I’m sure she had been in first class. She shouted from the back of the line, “He doesn’t belong there! Hey, you can’t butt in line! That man shouldn’t be there! He doesn't belong, he doesn't belong.”

I admired her shrillness and outrage but I’ve traveled enough to know that line cutting is the cultural heritage of some populations. If you don’t try to push someone out of the way you are a sucker. Her protests failed and the shiny man slid through and disappeared down a narrow hallway.

The Middle Eastern guy was simply trying to get information and the woman he was addressing kept telling him, “No questions. No information. I can’t help. You must stand here until someone comes. Don’t ask me. I have no answers for you. No questions.”

The man, perspiring, asked, “What do you mean stand here until someone comes? Aren’t you someone? You have already come.”

Cool guy. I gave him a supportive thumbs up; he shrugged sadly and smiled at me. I think we could have become friends. We were both ready to issue a fatwa on Lufthansa and I was getting to the point where any solution to this bullshit, even a violent one, would have been acceptable.

The next morning we were all still together at a bland, business hotel in the dull Frankfurt suburbs; relationships and circles of defense were developing. At 5:30 a.m. a shuttle arrived to return us to the airport where we dutifully lined up.

If I see a line these days, I get in it. Stockholm Syndrome? Flughafen Syndrome?

Later that morning we finally flew out of Munich, headed optimistically to Houston, 400 tired men, women, and children, primarily Texans and Germans with a scattering of international travelers, most of whom had missed their connections. At the Houston airport, 11 hours later, we were the “extra” people. We were an obvious burden on the overweight staff and we were repeatedly shuffled around to several kiosks, counters, and holding areas and ordered to stand in line. A large woman was berating us for not properly lining up. She kept warning, “If y’all get out of line, you will have to go back to end of the line. Stay where you are.”

Not at all comforting or helpful.

Another man in a royal blue blazer drifted in our direction and eyed us as though we were the problem. Troublemakers.

I really didn’t like the way he barked, “You must remain quiet or you will not be processed”.

Fuck you, dude. I got in his personal space and told him, aggressively, maybe I poked my finger into  his flabby chest, "We have all been traveling for  a full day, had no sleep and little food, we are lost and pissed and you, Mr., should act like a goddamn human being, do your fucking job and help your clients." He bristled. I was about three seconds from red fog hysterical violence. One more word.

At that moment, our liberator appeared. He was benign, carried himself with dignity and in a thick Indian accent he asked, “What is wrong here.” He was focused on the prick I’d been facing off. Prick stepped back a foot or two. Obviously, the new guy was a supervisor; I used to work in a prison and I can read the body language of a submissive drone.

I turned to the new man, better suit and demeanor, and said; “We’ve been in strange airports, bad hotels, shuttle buses and crowded hallways for almost two days. We have all missed our connections and everyone is treating us like it’s our fault. We’ve been given no information and insulted, abused and threatened. In Germany, the people at Lufthansa had the balls to thank us for being patient as they were lying to us. I am not patient. I haven’t said much up until now because I don’t want to end up in Fucking Guantanamo. I don’t care anymore.”

He said, “Come with me.”

Oh shit, not again.

He then asked, “Do you have a boarding pass for today’s flight, for your connection.”

“Yes. I’ve had it since yesterday.”

“Come with me. You others with boarding passes, come with me.”

He quickly walked us through security, made sure our baggage was handled properly and sent us on our way down long narrow halls to Gate B76. Soon, I was waiting at the gate for the next flight to Albuquerque, my original destination, still five hours away but at least I was somewhat convinced that I was in the right place. It was the first time I’d felt secure in two days and it was a huge relief. I could breathe, my heart rate dropped below 100. A little kindness, a touch of efficiency and we were all much more at ease. What the fuck is wrong with the airline industry that they don’t know this? Can’t they provide some in-service training to teach their employees how to act like decent, compassionate, sentient creatures? Learn some frigging skills?

The Indian guy at Houston calmed us with his lilting accent, his cool blue eyes and his authoritative sense of duty and purpose. I never got his name and I love him. Seriously. He is my Man of the Year. I love him.

The Middle Eastern guy is runner up. We could have hung out and bonded, chanting in unison from our adjoining cells, “Almighty Allah, rain down your bitter wrath on Lufthansa Airlines and the Frankfurt Flughafen.”

Aversion Therapy for Apostates

Throw a wine bottle anywhere in Florence and it will hit a restaurant or a church.

I’ve been in more churches in the past month than the preceding fifty years. I have no religion, though I was raised in The Catholic Church; bad experiences and deep suspicion lingered long. I was about eight when I began having misgivings and I doubted that most of what they were spewing was true. The behavior of the hierarchy (hall monitors, class presidents, nuns, priests, bishops, the Pope) was generally despicable or stupid. Fifteen years ago, the last time we were in Florence, when Sally would go into a church I’d stay outside grumbling about believers and pederasts. The perfect traveling companion.

Some years have gone by and I’ve learned that I can spend short intervals in churches because they are empty, cool and quiet; it’s a chance for a break and after a few weeks in Florence, “empty, cool and quiet” is a welcome respite from the crowded, noisy confusion that is often punctuated by bad smells from an ancient sewage system. Old churches have the comforting aroma of wax and wet stone.

Many days and many churches: Santa Maria Novella, Santa Trinita, Santa Felicita, Ognissanti, Santo Spirito, Santa Croce, Santa Claus, Santa On Every Goddamn Corner and I am today able to walk into a cathedral and not be edgy; murmured prayers and flickering candles do not trigger memories of the wracking rattle of rapidly advancing rosary beads and an open handed slap to the back of the head. By voluntarily entering the sacred spaces I have created my own aversion therapy. I believe that religion is a dangerous, sexist, foul invention of some truly twisted men but if I got crazy-enraged every time I was exposed to a symbol of religious silliness or savagery I’d be on death row.

This morning I walked across town to see a fresco by Pontormo at Santa Felicita, one of the oldest churches in Florence. The painting is a depiction of one of the more common themes which I’ve referenced previously: The Annunciation, the Big Moment when Archangel Gabriel informs The Virgin Mary that she is With Child and it is on of the more important episodes in the mythology of Christianity. Every one of the great Renaissance artists has a personal manner of illustrating how the Annunciation should appear.

I noticed, today, that something has happened to me. I’ve been exposed to enough of these paintings that when I look up at them I no longer feel as though I have ants crawling under my skin and my heart rate remains steady; I am calm. The account of The Annunciation by Jacopo Pontormo is stark and exquisite; his use of colors and posture and expression is so good that I never thought about the content, the fable. I don’t care about the “story” any more. By the time Pontormo made this painting (1528) the Florentine artists had learned from each other, had perfected their styles and were often in competition to overwhelm their rivals with new devices and techniques. Substance was becoming subservient to Form. I’m able, thanks to ecclesiastical over-exposure, to see the reality of creative expression that goes beyond the fable. Thank God.

Annunciations, Last Suppers, Crucifixions, The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, Holy Families, Pietas, Virgins coming out your ears.

These days, if I enter a church and observe a painting of The Crucifixion I say to myself (or aloud), “That is so damn cool. Look how he shows the open wounds, the richness of the blood, how it coagulates at the nail holes, see how the dirt is encrusted on Christ’s feet, oh, and the split toenails, notice the delicate beads of sweat glistening on his flayed, pale skin; behold the misery, the pain, the despair. Just beautiful.”

I have been so overcome by Renaissance art that I have at last developed the unruffled detachment where I can view the drapery, the tones, the shadows and texture, the shape of the eyes and the rhythmic interaction of the figures. It took decades but I have learned to look at religious art without focusing on the religious absurdities on which it is based. I have moved from angry to aesthetic.

I’m glad I’ve wandered through so many churches. They have no mystical vibration or substance; they are galleries for paintings that are some of the highest achievements of western civilization.  I still hate religions and their idiotic manipulation of the ignorant, but I’m glad the Catholic Church and its wealthy, faithful, frightened donors had the immense wealth to commission, support and pay for all this great art here in Florence.  

 Otherwise there’d be nothing to do but eat.

Photos and Videos from Florence, Italy

 Our second day in Florence. Still not sure about the coffee protocol, but now I've figured it out. Florence is not a place where you are encouraged to hang, have conversations or study/work. The coffee is, of course, fantastic, but drink up and move on, OK? I don't mind because I'm in Italy. They can do whatever the hell they want.

 This is what people wear in Italy when they are on vacation. Or even if they are Italian. Slight variations in style, but most people dress as if they are tired and have run out of clothing.

 Or Not

The Arno. This is one of the few places in Florence where I can get a full view of the sky and landscape, be near water. It's a crowded city with narrow winding streets and there is no place that isn't picturesque.

 Shrines. Everywhere. On every corner and on many buildings. Neighborhood protection and an indication of the amount of art that is all over the place. if you like Religious art. Fortunately, I can handle it this time.

 I'm trying to make this street look like something from an Antonioni film. There are three Alimentari, or mini-markets, within sight. They all sell the same stuff. Crackers, Coke, Kleenex. I think something's fishy. I don't know the girls.

 Piazza Santa Croce at night. My apartment is to the left of the church on a noisy ally. Sound carries, but it seems to carry farther and louder in Italy. It quiets down at night and the apartment is soundproofed. Plus, I grew up listening to people yelling at each other on the street so I manage.

Another (manipulated) photo of apartments and hotels and businesses along the Arno. Hard to imagine that in 1966 the river came up to the second floor of these buildings and inundated the city. Big tragedy, lots of lost art. There are marks on the walls in the neighborhoods that show how high the water was, and it was really high. They are a little proud of it.

A page from my notebook, sketched in 15 minutes, that is a very bad interpretation of all the greatest paintings made during the Renaissance. Soon to be a film.

 Apparently there is a prohibition against chickens in churches. I may not be translating properly, however.

 Fiesole. A 20 minute bus ride into the hills around Florence. Lovely countryside and full of Palazzos. It has the feel of 500-year old money, corruption and good taste. I guess they are compatible.

 I think that they are warning us against break dancing, but, again, I may be translating incorrectly.

 Roman ruins in Fiesole. They have done a wonderful job of maintaining the site and at the same time allowing people to explore.

 My favorite place in Florence, so far. Michelangelo designed this library in the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It held all the greatest texts that the Medici collected. Illuminated manuscripts of Dante, Aristotle, Plutarch. I was blown away. Artists and writers and philosophers came here to study the documents. The floor is tiled and the ceiling is made of wood and they reflect each other. It is a perfect balance of form and content and most people are up the road looking at David. David is a cool statue, but this is a shrine to intellect and humanity and I want to live here.

Sally working at the Boboli Gardens. Nice place, bigger than it looks, Florence's back yard.

Italian Garbage Disposal public service film: Dangerous and Noisy. Step back, per favore.

A short film of San Marco Gallery. No guards around and I didn't steal anything. Progress.

Laundry. Sometimes stuff gets your attention and then you doubt your sanity.

I've seen a lot of religious paintings. They are pretty fine, but the subject matter makes me nervous. I interpreted all the themes, sketched them in my notebook within 15 minutes, and juxtaposed them with similar originals.  If I'd been alive during the Renaissance I would have been tortured and put to death and it would have been the right thing to do. I dodged that bullet.

After seeing innumerable paintings and statues in churches and museums, everything begins to look aesthetic and I feel creative while doing the most mundane tasks. I'm probably bored, or burned out. Maybe I'm going insane?

These tombs are in the floor of Santa Croce Cathedral. They've been polished smooth by 600 years of disrespectful pilgrims and worshipers.

I thought I'd let the tour group speak for themselves in the soundtrack. Can you guess their nationality?

The Renaissance, Torture and Catholic Guilt. Part 1

There wasn't even a guard in the Gallery San Marco when I made this video and it inspired me to sneak into more exhibits and film where I'm not allowed.

Giving the Art History thing a try. Early days, but there will be more to come. I was raised Catholic, was slapped around by nuns, began drinking at an early age and I like art. I'm as qualified as anyone to teach an extended course in the History of Italian Art in the Renaissance. Kenneth Clark, Michael Wood and Sister Wendy can bite me.

That’s Where All the Tourists Are

A friend made that statement when I told her we were going to Florence for six weeks in May/June and staying in the Santa Croce area. “That’s where all the tourists are.” She was kind of dismissive, as though I should have known better than to travel when other people travel and stay in a neighborhood where 100 percent of the residents may not have been born there. Or something. It was implied that I would not have an “authentic” experience and I was merely taking a (shudder) vacation, as though getting away from home, staying in a brilliant city that is still the repository of the greatest art in the western world, where people from all over the planet come to learn to cook and to study architecture and history and culture and fashion and design and language. I guess she’s a big expert on travel and tourism, but from what I observe she’s another fucked up person who has a crappy relationship with her cheating boyfriend and she traveled a bit when she was younger and the world was different and, in her opinion, it was better then and now she’s bitter and envious and hates being old and can’t find the right hair color and is considering plastic surgery and when she was in Florence, when she was young and relevant, it wasn’t as crowded. Actually, she was a fucking tourist. I pointed this out.

It’s what I do.

“How the hell did you get to Italy way back then? I mean, you weren’t born there, were you? You were born in Denver, Colorado. If you flew there on an airplane and came back to Denver where all your furniture and clothes and friends are, then you were a goddamn tourist. Tough shit. Tourist, tourist. Get used to it. We’re all tourists the minute we leave our houses. That can be a good thing.

People from Des Moines and Seattle and Canada all want to go to the places where, “The tourists don’t go.” They write about it online, in the travel forums and in their blogs.

“I don’t want to go to the places where all the tourists are.”

My suggestion? Stay the fuck home.

What kind of arrogance does it take for someone to think that they can slip into a popular European city via a major airline, take a cab from the airport to their hotel or apartment, and pass for “locals”? Go ahead, criticize the tourists, but if you weigh 260 pounds and are wearing green shorts and a stupid hat then you are going to be pinned as a tourist and it doesn’t matter what neighborhood you are in.

The “locals”, the residents and citizens, will still treat you well. A lot of them are from the former Soviet Union or the Mideast and they don’t care where you’re from; they’re not making money off of each other. They cash in on tourism and they’ve learned, at least here in Florence, Italy, that if they are civil and treat the vacationers with respect, everyone will have a better time, tips will be heavier and there will be less confusion and animosity. If we can’t all be friends at least we can be friendly.

Yep, there are tourists everywhere here. It’s goddamn May in Italy. There have been tourists here since the Etruscans. A lot of the people who live in Florence are not even from Florence. So are they tourists, visitors, travellers, immigrants, or just guys who sell Gelato to sightseers? It’s nothing to get uptight about.

All the signs and brochures are in Italian and English for a reason. From the airport, to the town and around the block, descriptions of paintings, directions to museums, menus, shops, and advertising are all in English. That makes it easier to see the stuff that is interesting and buy things you like.

At the very reasonable and delicious restaurant Il Pizzaiuolo, the Germans at the table next to us didn’t speak Italian, the waitress didn’t speak German, and so they all spoke English and had a nice dining experience. An American couple came in and the very friendly waitress, sweet, obliging, trying her hardest to understand and be understood, said to them, “English menu or Italian menu?”

The woman, tightly wound, said coldly, “No, no, an Italian menu.”

The waitress answered, “Ah meraviglioso, si parla Italiano e saremo en grado di parlare e non voglio spiegare niente.”

American woman huffed, “Oh no, we don’t speak Italian.”

The waitress smiled knowingly, handed them an English menu and continued to be pleasant and helpful. The couple didn’t fool her, though. They were tourists.

This afternoon a guy passed as we were walking along the Arno and he asked me, “Donde esta Santa Croce?”

I said, "Hey, are you speaking Spanish?"

He laughed. “Yeah, I thought I’d give it a try.”

No one knows for sure and it’s pretty hard to pretend. The man didn’t speak Italian but he spoke Spanish and I know some Spanish and a little Italian and a few words in French and I directed him to Santa Croce in English and we parted amicably. Communication, regardless of how it is accomplished, is what’s important when one is travelling.

I have a friend who speaks French fluently. He lives in Paris, does not consider himself a tourist, but if he asks a question in a restaurant and the waiter speaks to him in English he becomes insulted. His pronunciation of one single word may have indicated that he was from New Jersey. I told him not to be pissed; get used to it. None of us is as integrated as we think. Being a “citizen of the world” means being a tourist most of the time.

I am so tired of the arrogance and elitism and demands of certain types of travellers. Here’s the deal for Americans in Italy:

If you are here, you are a tourist. You can call yourself a “traveller” or a “trekker” or a “student” or a “part-time resident”, but you are just a tourist. If you wear a stupid hat, you are a tourist. If you complain because everything closes down between 4 PM and 7 PM, you are a tourist. If you don’t speak the language, you are a tourist. Enjoy the art, the food, spend money, buy presents, don’t get hurt and stop being so fucking entitled.

All of us are tourists wanting to see as much as we can in a short time and trying to figure out how to get a decent night’s sleep in an uncomfortable bed without worrying too much about tomorrow’s weather.