To whom it may concern,
Wow, this is late (Blog 3, BOOM!) As I've tried to make abundantly clear over the last several weeks, Europe and more specifically Florence, is absolutely beyond amazing; so much so that given to monetary security, I would live here indefinitely. Although I am not so endowed, others have felt similar, and some have even seized the proverbial notion of Manifest Destiny and made their dreams a reality.
There's a fantastic Irish pub in Santa Maria Novella Square called The Fiddler's Elbow. I am have become a regular patron of the non-alcoholic O'Doul's and shots of straight orange juice and have spent some time getting to know some of the bartenders there.
Simone is beautiful.
To elaborate, Simone is a beautiful bartender, a girl from Munich, Germany who has spent the last four years studying in Florence, and now that her tenure is coming to an end, she has decided to stay. Beautiful.
When I asked her what she was studying, her response made my heart skip a beat.
"I'm here in Florence painting."
Beautiful, cultured, and an artist? Marry me. She continued by saying that since Florence is literally the center of the art world, where else would be better for an aspiring painter? And I'll bet she didn't even expect to meet a handsome American cowboy like myself.
Theis is from Denmark, and after his study program ended, he decided to stay. For the last six years.
Is there hope for me yet? Doing the math in my head, the money issue seems the only thing impeding upon my dream. This time next year, I'll have my degree in journalism and political science, but when I ask my magic 8 ball if I'll still be bartending, it invariably displays the words "all signs point to yes."
Maybe I could bartend here while I write the next great American novel that will never be published.
From Oxford, With Love
Erich
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Pulling of the Hat Trick (Vomiting)
To whom it may concern,
I should preface this story by saying that Croatia is the most beautiful place on our green earth and is populated by the most hospitable people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. The weekend spent there is easily the greatest trip of my entire European odyssey, but for the first twelve to thirteen hours of Friday's trip to Split, I found myself in nothing less than a hellish state, clinging to my last shred of life yet simultaneously wishing for sweet death as my only respite.
I hate train travel.
I'm going to say that again just to make sure it sinks in: I F&%#ING HATE TRAINS. The constant seizure-inducing shaking coupled with no sleep and even less air conditioning while being pressed into a small, disease-ridden tomb with half a dozen of the dirtiest people on the planet is not an ideal means of transportation. I have never in my life felt so physically depleted and ill.
The battery of prescription and over the counter medications probably didn't help. For the ibuprofen, I pretty much just took a swig from the bottle and however many pills stuck, that was the dosage. For the dramamine, I figured out how many it would take to actually kill me, and I backed off that number by one or two.
The next series of events might be better illustrated in a less formal writing style. Here was my day (bearing in mind there was an established equilibrium shared by pouring rain and an overall disgusting situation atmospherically).
6:15 am - Train arrives in Split, Croatia
6:16 am - After exiting the train, I tag the side of the car for about six feet with vomit
6:17 - 8:30 am - Unable to check into our hostel, we aimlessly wander the streets in search of food
8:45 am - Ate an omelet
8:58 am - Omelet made a second appearance down the side of a tree in a very public place
9:45 - 11:00 am - Sat outside hostel until we could check in
11:35 am - Went to a cafe for a cappuccino
11:55 am - Stomach wasn't having any of this cappuccino business and sent it back, all down the side of a door in a back alley
I want to reiterate that this is the best weekend of this trip and possibly my life; so despite the fact that I spent half of Friday in crippling pain, that should only further my point that
Eventually around
Well over 250 words, but what is a number when it comes to making a point?
From
Erich
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
If there is a god, his last name is Heineken...
To whom it may concern,
At least once a day for the majority of my adult life, I have faced the Heineken Brewery in Amsterdam and knelt in reverence, no matter my location globally. On this day, my friends, I reached my own Mecca; my Valhalla.
For full effect, watch while listening to music... I wanted to incorporate it, but it tripled the size of the file and I'm far too technologically illiterate (but mostly lazy) to figure out how to compress this piece. Best song to listen to you ask? That's easy.
"Amazing," by Seal.
Dear Heineken,
I Love you.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
At least once a day for the majority of my adult life, I have faced the Heineken Brewery in Amsterdam and knelt in reverence, no matter my location globally. On this day, my friends, I reached my own Mecca; my Valhalla.
For full effect, watch while listening to music... I wanted to incorporate it, but it tripled the size of the file and I'm far too technologically illiterate (but mostly lazy) to figure out how to compress this piece. Best song to listen to you ask? That's easy.
"Amazing," by Seal.
Dear Heineken,
I Love you.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Life Wasted, Reprisal (Thanks Eddie Vedder)
To whom it may concern,
I assure you that it was not my intention to invoke feelings of neglect on your part for lack of verbal attention over the last week and a half. So, a brief recap of what we've learned today. From the top, shall me?
-Barcelona is the most beautiful city I've seen to date. Dow Jones, you are innovative and imaginative; someday, you will be mine.
-As a sub note, Barcelona's aquarium makes everyone, including myself, feel like a first-rate nature photographer.
-These "academics" are really getting in the way of my travel... Weekend at Bernie's, this is for you.
-Amsterdam is a city where you can ________ and ________ (fill in the blank. It's just like Madlibs, you cannot fail.
For legal reasons, I feel like it would be foolish for me to post a hefty portion of the photos I've taken over the last few weeks, so just use your imaginations.
More to come... probably.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
I assure you that it was not my intention to invoke feelings of neglect on your part for lack of verbal attention over the last week and a half. So, a brief recap of what we've learned today. From the top, shall me?
-Barcelona is the most beautiful city I've seen to date. Dow Jones, you are innovative and imaginative; someday, you will be mine.
-As a sub note, Barcelona's aquarium makes everyone, including myself, feel like a first-rate nature photographer.
-These "academics" are really getting in the way of my travel... Weekend at Bernie's, this is for you.
-Amsterdam is a city where you can ________ and ________ (fill in the blank. It's just like Madlibs, you cannot fail.
For legal reasons, I feel like it would be foolish for me to post a hefty portion of the photos I've taken over the last few weeks, so just use your imaginations.
More to come... probably.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Do not play games with me, gypsy woman
To whom it may concern,
Back to the grind.
Yesterday afternoon, as I so often do (at least once a day), I walked out of Gustapanino, sandwich in hand, and found a quasi-comfortable cement seat near the central fountain of S. Spirito square to enjoy my recently acquired piece of Americana. Anybody who has done the same has surely encountered the perpetual tribe of European homeless that have made this public place their sanctum in which to reside.
While personally experiencing the operatic opus of flavor that is the tacchino, mozzarella, pomadoro, pesto wrap from the aforementioned eatery, I was fortunate enough to play witness to an event often only spoken of in awed whispers: multiple homeless people fighting over some small, indiscernible treasure that culminated in the intervention of the Italian five-0.
On this beautiful Florence day, with the birds singing and the street vendors spewing incoherent drivel as they pedal their cheap wares and trinkets, I watched in fascination as one homeless man hit another, and the two engaged in an epic struggle that seemed bound to determine the fate of all mankind. Like two immortal beings personified as mere men, the two fought for fifteen amazing minutes.
Then some jackass cop came and ruined it.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Back to the grind.
Yesterday afternoon, as I so often do (at least once a day), I walked out of Gustapanino, sandwich in hand, and found a quasi-comfortable cement seat near the central fountain of S. Spirito square to enjoy my recently acquired piece of Americana. Anybody who has done the same has surely encountered the perpetual tribe of European homeless that have made this public place their sanctum in which to reside.
While personally experiencing the operatic opus of flavor that is the tacchino, mozzarella, pomadoro, pesto wrap from the aforementioned eatery, I was fortunate enough to play witness to an event often only spoken of in awed whispers: multiple homeless people fighting over some small, indiscernible treasure that culminated in the intervention of the Italian five-0.
On this beautiful Florence day, with the birds singing and the street vendors spewing incoherent drivel as they pedal their cheap wares and trinkets, I watched in fascination as one homeless man hit another, and the two engaged in an epic struggle that seemed bound to determine the fate of all mankind. Like two immortal beings personified as mere men, the two fought for fifteen amazing minutes.
Then some jackass cop came and ruined it.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Pilgrimage to the Motherland (Munich, Germany)
To whom it may concern,
Freedom of speech/expression/choice is tragically restricted on this study program. So, as is the case with any oppressed writer, I have found an alternate outlet in which I can pour my creative soul without fear of retribution. Look here for the cookie cutout, prefigured answers to the questions placed before me; For the true account of a once in a lifetime experience that has throw my entire life into a beautifully chaotic whirlwind of cultural odysseys, you know where to find me.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Freedom of speech/expression/choice is tragically restricted on this study program. So, as is the case with any oppressed writer, I have found an alternate outlet in which I can pour my creative soul without fear of retribution. Look here for the cookie cutout, prefigured answers to the questions placed before me; For the true account of a once in a lifetime experience that has throw my entire life into a beautifully chaotic whirlwind of cultural odysseys, you know where to find me.
From Florence, With Love
Erich
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Venetian Odyssey, Part 3 (Hell on Earth)
To whom it may concern,
To the best of my knowledge, Burano is a small Venetian island specializing in lace production. In truth though, it's little more than a hellish pressure cooker constructed for the lone purpose of housing the souls of wicked men and the eternally damned. Dante could probably go into better detail, but here's an example:
That is an ass print of human sweat which took only a few short minutes to accumulate.
The houses and their opulent colors and designs are either reminiscent of Sea Side,
On the bright side, Justin found this cool hat.
This is him showing
From Florence, With Love
Erich
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