The Fix is In
I'm a quantifier. I like doing simple calculations that give me a solid idea of what fraction of my life I've spent doing this, that, or the other. I like plugging in the numbers to figure out how many hours of my life have been dedicated to listening to the song "Leave It" on my computer. I like jiggling the data around a bit to find very simple ways to quantify my life. Just for fun. So, for fun, here's a number for you: 13. Thirteen is the number of days that I have left in Europe. On that thirteenth day, I will be up in the most ungodly hours, catching a plane to Frankfurt, and then from Frankfurt to Charlotte. I will leave behind me a world of fine coffee and terrible cafeteria food. But the battle to T-day (which I will use to mean both Thirteen-day (which is only applicable today) and then Takeoff-day (which remains relevant up to and including that very day)) will not be as simple as I would like. Standing in my way are: one art project, due tomorrow; two 8-page essays (due Friday and Monday, one to each day); two exams (for the same. damn. professor. as. the. papers. It shouldn't be allowed. You either have a final paper, or a final exam. Not both. I don't care how purportedly easy the exams will be. You just shouldn't give them.), and one Italian oral presentation. I will be the first to admit that this battle schedule is light fare compared to almost any normal college load, and practically nonexistent in comparison to a typical finals schedule at Duke. But I still don't want to do any of it. Make note of that, for the record, and fine-tune your schedules accordingly: bitching about these subjects will occur in a timely fashion up until the due date of each item.
Because the cleaning ladies have kicked me out of my room, and I have no actual work with me that I can make a futile attempt at, I will instead move to more preliminary reflections on my time in Italy. The academics are a jokety-joke. Combined with the necessity of simpler thinking while learning another language, I am convinced that I will leave Italy stupider than I was when I entered. I prescribe for myself a daily dose of quality reading upon arrival back in America.
My time here has been unusually unproductive for my writing. I have written nothing complete to show for all my leisurely hours. What I thought would be a fertile, inspiring renaissance of writing has in truth been a miasmic maple syrup of stagnation. My muse has left me locked in a foggy haze, unable to put my pen five sentences in the direction of a plot.
In truth, friends, I have not known exile until I came to this most beautiful prison of Italy. Move all I like, go where I may within the walls of Europe (and a bit of Africa), make friends with my fellow inmates, with the natives, but through it all, I remain all but completely cut off from the motherland. There are some fragments of communication that I can employ, for those who chose to lend an ear to this lonely exile, but there are others who might as well be dead in a Russian circus for all I know of them. If I could forget about you all, dear audience, this would be no problem, but you know how I am. This factor, above all others, has been perhaps the worst. I could rest in my syrupy soporific sogno for years, perhaps, if I had ample communication across the Atlantic.
Next time, we will cover the positives of my time abroad, but for now I needed simply to get the negatives off my mind. Let's conclude with a summary of my excursions from Venice, in chronological order:
Padua--Cheap goods abound on Saturdays. Catholics are weird.
Florence--I like leather and ice cream.
Paris--Competitive hobo market, amazing architecture, hooray crepes.
Dublin--Jameson Irish Whiskey is my drink. I need a house in Howth.
Morocco--Amazing food, terrible people.
Frankfurt--Christmas Markets are the best thing ever. Ein gluwein, bitte.
Zermatt--Winter, skiing, snow, dinner-tray-sledding will never be as good as this.
Because the cleaning ladies have kicked me out of my room, and I have no actual work with me that I can make a futile attempt at, I will instead move to more preliminary reflections on my time in Italy. The academics are a jokety-joke. Combined with the necessity of simpler thinking while learning another language, I am convinced that I will leave Italy stupider than I was when I entered. I prescribe for myself a daily dose of quality reading upon arrival back in America.
My time here has been unusually unproductive for my writing. I have written nothing complete to show for all my leisurely hours. What I thought would be a fertile, inspiring renaissance of writing has in truth been a miasmic maple syrup of stagnation. My muse has left me locked in a foggy haze, unable to put my pen five sentences in the direction of a plot.
In truth, friends, I have not known exile until I came to this most beautiful prison of Italy. Move all I like, go where I may within the walls of Europe (and a bit of Africa), make friends with my fellow inmates, with the natives, but through it all, I remain all but completely cut off from the motherland. There are some fragments of communication that I can employ, for those who chose to lend an ear to this lonely exile, but there are others who might as well be dead in a Russian circus for all I know of them. If I could forget about you all, dear audience, this would be no problem, but you know how I am. This factor, above all others, has been perhaps the worst. I could rest in my syrupy soporific sogno for years, perhaps, if I had ample communication across the Atlantic.
Next time, we will cover the positives of my time abroad, but for now I needed simply to get the negatives off my mind. Let's conclude with a summary of my excursions from Venice, in chronological order:
Padua--Cheap goods abound on Saturdays. Catholics are weird.
Florence--I like leather and ice cream.
Paris--Competitive hobo market, amazing architecture, hooray crepes.
Dublin--Jameson Irish Whiskey is my drink. I need a house in Howth.
Morocco--Amazing food, terrible people.
Frankfurt--Christmas Markets are the best thing ever. Ein gluwein, bitte.
Zermatt--Winter, skiing, snow, dinner-tray-sledding will never be as good as this.