James Joyce

In describing the diction of Finnegan's Wake, Wikipedia provides a slough of literary terms inconceivable to the average man. How discouraging and what a futile attempt to dive into the world of advanced literature.

Reflections on Italy: Part 2

Venice- the city I was most concerned about. Of course, the streets of water truly meander and rustic homes line like bricks between cross sections and quiet streams. It would be a scenic town except for the grossly overweight tourist-local ratio.

 

I hadn't really understood the local culture until the last night. Restaurants open late in Italy and the city comes to life after the kitschy tourist shops drawn down their iron curtains and the morning travelers fold their eyes. Even at 11 o'clock, pools of golden light illuminate from antiquated shrines dedicated to antediluvian gastronomy while outside, streets are blanketed by darkness, grey and quiet. Locals stand and sit in perfect company, reclining against bar counters with glasses of deep red wine or sinking in frothy booths, hugging egg-yolk yellow pastas.

And so is the culture of Italy. Conversation breathed in every dining experience and our dinners lasted an average of 2 1/2 hours. Waiters chatted comfortably with patrons and with neighborhood friends outside on cobblestone streets before welcoming them in, pet in tow and patiently palmed checks until the party requested for the bill. Cappuccinos, in their petite cups, tottered out, symbolizing the end of a meal.

The gastronomy is, without exception, delicious. And, as expected, homemade is always best. My favourite meal was at a Tuscan farmhouse we had rented for the night. The couple who owned the property were warm and wholesome and invited us to dine in their wine cellar, which had exposed pink bricks and dusty bottles of wine lining wooden shelves. The red wine was product of their private vineyard and the thick, glutenous spirals of pasta, sauteed artichokes and braised beef were rich, hearty chef d'oeuvres of her kitchen stove. There was a dimensionality to each of the dishes, whether from the gleaming olive oil or from the placement of fruit, that projected artisan modesty.

Reflections on Italy: Part 1

It's been more than a month since I departed for Italy. And I guess with the jet-lag and meandering in tow, this post has long since been delayed.

My parents love to say the word Italy with a particular zest, stretching out its syllables like the way a harmonica attempts to play slurs or the way gritty caramel feels against your tongue. Their interpretation of the country, in my opinion, is a bit of a paradox. Italy is rude and rushed, its city streets lack a clear dividing line and cars mingle haphazardly in a broth of congestion and diesel fumes. Yet Italy is smooth and slow in the tangents off of major intersections, and encrusted in the aged, gleaming cobblestones lie cafe nooks, gems offering coffee in its most archaic form.

My notion of Italy was abstract. Unlike my parents, who had invested months learning to decipher some unspoken code of the authentic Italian lifestyle, I was at school, with a head swimming with facts and figures and eyes targeting future exams rather than future travels. Did I have wanderlust? I guess so, and even more so after the mad rush of May. But even then the idea of Italy was an ambiguous geometric shape. I wasn't sure when my flight left or how many days I was going to stay. My only desire was to discover a most perfect setting, and immerse in the emotions of seeing absolute symmetry. I wanted to be in awe and I yearned to have my breathe drawn away by a serene encounter with God.

I thought I would find it in a majestic cathedral or a quiet chapel. I thought I would surely find it in the Vatican, which with the setting of the afternoon sun, welcomed magnificent prisms of golden light. The marble interior exhaled slivers and pockets of cool air while pilgrims shuffled quietly along the nave and rested in creaky wooden benches.

But there was a lack there. And unlike my predictions, I was to discover enlightenment in very unexpected places.

For once, I would like to find a blazer that does not make me look like I'm 50-years-old or Cher Horowitz.

I mean, really, can it be that difficult?
And from my experience and long string of flawed trying-on sessions, it surely seems this way.

The meaning of summer.

Consumed full fat Starbucks and picked at Five Guys french fries in the car today. What a rebel I am.

The cigarette never ends.

My three favorite profiles from Stylelikeu. I adore them to no end.

Scout Willis

Sarah Sophie Flicker

Maria Elba