It's still me, Bartok!

So, after nearly 2 weeks of silence, I have finally gotten word from Miss Model Behavior!!! Since her departure, an unfamiliar silence with echoes of loneliness and an impending sense that I am destined to be an old cat lady, has descended over my life in the absence of our almost constant contact - as only good friends who live in different cities and therefore could never get sick of each other because we only see each other once a month - can tolerate. We do also switch up the mode of communication we exercise no discrimination or favoritism between our three main modes of communication: phone calls, text messages, and emails. On the upside, this technological vacation that has been imposed on my life as a result of her departure has opened up my schedule, and increased my level of productivity, letting loose all sorts of creatitity, ambition, and alternative occupations. In addition to having joined the BBC French Steps program in an effort to ajouter le français to my repetoire of romance languages, one of my favorite past times over the past two weeks has been trying to imagine, as my Italian cohorts would say, che fino ha fatto Miss Model Behavior. My three winning theories - assuming that she was not abducted or beaten to death with tropical fruits by fellow travellers because of her good fortune in chooseing the lone functional pay phone in the Miami airport, and did manage to leave the country - were that she had:

1. Died of too much fun. That perhaps on the yacht of some South American prince, maybe surrounded by the new line of Calvin Klein models, or, perhaps, if she was really lucky, in the company of the boys from my Dieux du Stade calendar (it's hanging next to my desk right now, I tell my boss it's for inspiration). Who knows, maybe she was finally overwhelmed by the amount of fun she was having and spontaneously combusted! I mean, it's feasible...




2. Gotten married and had ran away to some exotic and remote island like Fiji or the Quirimbas Archipelago. I, personally, happen to have an overwhelming and inexplicable interest in both places. Should this be the case, Miss MB would currently be surrounded by servants who are fanning her, attractive young men, and dressed like an empress. This is the saddest possibility for me, since, although still alive and happy, she would clearly have no intention of ever coming home.




3. That she never actually made it to Punta, but was lured away with the trick of some kind of linguistic misunderstanding due to the language barrier, and walked right into her own kidnapping. Who knows, she could be being held hostage somewhere in Buenos Aires as we speak. This theory does not have the sense of tragedy that the other two do, but the idea of her attempting to negotiate her way out of a situation like this using fragments of whatever language most resembled that of her captors and maybe some charades is entertaining. There is also the potential for some romantic rescue and happy ending in this theory too. No pain, no gain.

To my great relief none of my very rational and well developed theories are true! I received an email from Miss MB yesterday evening stating that she was back on the mainland of South America, bouncing around the country of Argentina for her remaining days in the Southern Hemisphere.

As I have been fantasizing about the fun that every other 20-something girl is having, while I, alone, suffer through monotonous days of responsibility and obligation and am forced to brave the misery of non-tropical January weather (BTW, thanks to all the hard work of previous generations and their efforts to pollute our planet, global warming has finally reached a point where the city of Washington, D.C. appears to be on the same thermostat as my apartment - it’s been in the mid 60’s all week). I have created a conception of Punta to be some sort of isla bonita de Sheer-Delight-and-Party. This fantasy of mine has, somewhat, taken over my mind, at least to the extent of replacing my games of virtual chess at work, and Punta has become some kind of mythical land that exists somewhere over the rainbow, requires a treasure map to reach, and is inhabited only by people whose company and compansionship I enjoy, or think I might enjoy based on similar interests (see photo at top of post).

Needless to say, my days are pretty dull.

So, to give you a feel for the island as it exists in reality, and prove that this isn't another one of my delusional attempts to entertain myself, I have included some quotes from Miss MB’s email:

“There has been some rain so we’re hoping weather will get better. When sunny is heaven.”

“The parties are out of this world, I actually have redefined the definition of party after this trip.”

And for sentimental reasons as well as for any of you who can relate to this sentiment,

“I miss writing soooooo much and would kill to be at a computer long enough to do an entry. Punta was incredible!!!!!”

So, there you have it, proof that Miss Model Behavior survived the first part of her escape from reality, seemingly unharmed. In fact, she may be returning, as anyone should from travels in foreign lands and cultures, optimistic (see quote 1); with a broadened or altered perspective on one's own culture or humanity as a whole (quote 2); and both re-enthused and energized about our own occupations and reality (quote 3). All signs point to her trip being a great success!

Just for a little variation and contrast, I’ll write more about my own life later.

Photo Journalism At Its Best

Allow me to paraphrase a previous post that I wrote while in the beaches of Puglia:

Southern Italy is the land of the man purse. In addition, some skewed fashion authority also approved Italian men wearing white (repeat, white) Speedos on the beach. Tiny Speedo bathing suits on men is already kind of a problem in my book. White swimwear of any kind is also a major no-no in my book unless you’re a Victoria’s Secret model or the guy from the Calvin Klein underwear ad. Combine these two factors of ‘tiny’ and ‘white’ and the result is me on the beach, my head swiveling every three seconds as I check out another guy’s package as revealed by his wet, white, see-through, skin tight swimming costume. Nothing is left to the imagination, and many of these guys look like Enrique Inglesias on steroids, so I guess I’m not complaining. I only marvel at their lack of shame.

Well, what I didn’t mention at the time of this post is that I actually unabashedly photographed such male specimens, essentially out of fear that my friends and fellow blog readers wouldn’t believe the white swimsuit phenomena. Yep, I'm that much of a pervert loser. So I give you my footage:

The scene:


The speedos:






I had to take two photos of this guy as he beautifully and proudly exemplified BOTH the practical yet bizarre phenomena of the man purse and the white speedo:


Doesn't he rock out?

SO, the white male speedo: hot or not? I leave you all to be the judge.

Heel of the Boot

In my August travels, I currently find myself in the miniscule town of Cutrofiano, about forty kilometers south of Lecce in Puglia – the heel of the boot of Italy. Why this area of Italy, commonly referred to as Salento, isn’t a global tourist magnet remains a mystery to me. The terrain is dry yet enchanting, similar to the Greek landscapes. The area’s dirt cheap and surrounded by acres and acres of beach on not one, but TWO coastlines. The sand is phenomenal, the water clearer than the Caribbean and warmer than the sea in the Greek isles. You can watch the most intense, heated orange sunset of your life fall behind the beach facing Sicily, drive a mere sixty kilometers (45 minutes) and watch the sun rise on the ocean front facing Greece.

My girlfriend Solare, a Cutrofiano native and my ex-flat mate in Milan, claims there are tourists here, but I’ve yet to see anyone on the beach that isn’t a ultra-brown Italian. She tells me Germans, Brits and Scandinavians have discovered the immense beauty that is Puglia, but I’m not buying it. I haven’t encountered one foreigner. The roads are magnificently empty and the beach void of any pale, lost, misfits from Germany. And Americans, forget it. Solare admits she’s never encountered one down here. American tourists are way too busy doing nothing in their overpriced villas in Tuscany to come to Salento. The really adventurous Americans might make it down to Positano around the area of Naples, but no one from the USA dares to venture this far south on vacation – literally as far south as you can get. I’m not sure if it’s a habitual mafia fear that keeps most Americans out of Puglia, Calabria, and Sicily, or just the fact that very few people speak English in these areas. Whatever the reason, it’s wonderful to be in an utterly tourist free environment – no traffic, no lines, no screaming children on the beach, no overpriced bottles of water. That isn’t to say the beaches are empty. By three pm when everyone’s rolled out of bed and killed their hangover with several espressos, the beaches are Rio-like – there’s not a open square inch as crowds of people sunbathe and play volleyball in the sand and in the water. And the open-air discotechs at night ON the beach make Hampton’s nightlife establishments look like a trashy, suburban Hooters.

Solare’s family owns a hotel and restaurant in Cutrofiano but reside in a classic, unpretentious Italian villa near the town. All meals are consumed outside where hanging laundry ripples in the wind and the farm’s cats swerve between your ankles. Miles of olive groves soak up the sun in the flat landscape ahead since Solare’s family makes their own olive oil (buckets of which I’m transporting home in empty water bottles). Yes, I’ve been eating from their garden non-stop, and yes the tomatoes are mouthwatering. After a leisurely breakfast and baking on the beach all day, we spend the evening in Solare’s restaurant where she works as a hostess / waitress and I hang out behind the bar attempting to be useful and getting drunk off patrons unfinished bottles of wine. The problem with friends who own restaurants is the absolutely absurd amounts of free food they generously force you to consume. For example, last night I ate meatballs, polenta with ham and cheese with a salad, followed by an entire fish, followed by seafood linguine with clams and shrimp, followed by steamed carrots and zucchini, followed by two chocolate cookies, peaches covered in cream and liquor, and finally pineapples and grapes. My body went into shock and I had to sleep ten hours to recover.

Other phenomenon of note is the man purse. It’s commonly used here by guidos and by Solare’s older brother. Some skewed fashion authority also approved Italian men wearing white (repeat, white) Speedos on the beach. Tiny Speedo bathing suits on men is already kind of a problem in my book. White swimwear of any kind is also a major no-no in my book unless you’re a Victoria’s Secret model or the guy from the Calvin Klein underwear ad. Combine these two factors of tiny and white and the result is me on the beach, my head swiveling every three seconds as I check out another guy’s package as revealed by his wet, white, see-through, skin tight swimming costume. Nothing is left to the imagination, and many of these guys look like Enrique Inglesias on steroids, so I guess I’m not complaining. I only marvel at their lack of shame.

I’ve also developed a deep passion for beach racquetta. Solare’s an expert volleyball player. Me… not so much. I’m not really into sports where large, soccer-like, hard balls FLY AT MY HEAD and force me to ruin my manicure. Call me a wimp, but I have really frail arms (and bones in general). Smacking a seriously hard ball with my wrists just isn’t my definition of a good time. My hands barely function anyway since I type faster than your average college student on Ritalin and in really weird positions (carpel tunnel here I come). Plus everyone here plays ball in the water, and I really don’t like things or people splashing in my face. Racquetball on the beach however, is a sport in which I excel. I mean, you can only get tan and read so much historical fiction sprawled on beach towels before you want to shoot yourself in the head. Racquetball is my perfect seaside activity. As a trained tennis player since age two, the hand-eye coordination skills cross over. It’s a great way to even out your tan and especially to meet people – like when your ball hits other beachgoers or conveniently ends up in the hot lifeguard’s lap thanks to your expert aim. Our extraneous shots have led to introductions of many good-looking fellow ball players, and several cups of free prosecco (yes, people here drink prosecco on the beach in the middle of the day.)

So I’m still in an utterly infantile state. Anyone witnessing Solare and I pack her car to go to the beach would think we were entertaining a group of preschoolers with ADD, when in reality all the toys are for us. We bring inflatable rafts, beach balls, floatation devices, snorkels, goggles, water wings, racquets, and cookie snacks. Today we were too lazy to even get to the beach. I played with a kitten outside for forty-five minutes and then actually watched dust particles float in the air, following their path from the sunlit screen door to the coach. I’d love to report that I’m contemplating the meaning of life and have answers to all your problems, but all I really think about is how good the six kilos of spaghetti with homemade sauce I consumed for lunch feels in my stomach.

I’m starting to think reentering New York will be especially traumatizing. Rumor is that Bartok’s coming at the end of August to help me re-acclimate to my city life with a bang. But there are many southern Italian discotech adventures to report before then. This is the land of the original Guido. Here I come!