Reflections on a Quarter-life Crisis

Molto dire di stupire Firenze

One of the World's Most Magical Cities

The Ponte Vecchio is a Medieval bridge over the Arno River, in Florence, Italy, noted for still having shops built along it, as was once common. Butchers initially occupied the shops; the present tenants are jewelers, art dealers and souvenir sellers.

My friend Dana and I took-off to Florence to explore Tuscany, Italy over a long weekend. On Thursday, we hopped on our couchette and woke up the next morning in magical Firenze.

Before setting off on our adventures, we paused for Italian coffee. I invested in a caffé shakerato, not knowing what it was. I was pleasantly surprised by a deliciously sweet coffee served over ice in a wine glass - the ice coffee, which was simply cold as opposed to diluted, had been tossed in a shaker as if it were a martini and served with the same air of sophistication. Dana got a strong espresso - a distinct aftertaste of midnight dark chocolate.

We momentarily studied the map and set off to explore. The bus station was far from the main part of the city so we were a bit worried that Florence wasn't going to live up to its famous pictures. We did, however, get to first see some of the more residential areas that aren't so tourist-infested. The cars were compact and the bike-riders numerous. We manipulated our way through a group of Italian high school students putting out their cigarettes and bustling into the building as the bell screeched into the street, notifying everyone of their tardiness.  The park beside the school was pushing up a little bit of yellow grass and attempting a daisy or two.

The Leather Market

As we strolled into the city, fragrant bakeries and gelaterias beckoned us in. Once we found the leather market, our senses were overwhelmed by the fabric. Chatter everywhere in the beautiful Italian accent. We meandered wide-eyed through the market where I somehow ended-up buying four pashminas. Each vendor sent me along with a "Ciao Bella" as they counted my recently lost euros. Dana walked a couple steps in front of me down the narrow pathway of purses and shoes. I watched as the hanging leather gloves brushed up against the fabric of Dana's coat as she passed unknowingly of the connection.

Getting a bit peckish, we decided to scavenger the famous Vivoli gelateria. Is 10:30am to early for gelato? Not for us! I mean, we had to avoid the lines, right? I was roped in by the tiramisu flavor and some other delicious-looking nutty flavor. After the first bite, I was hooked-there was no turning back. After dessert, we decided to eat lunch. We spotted a hidden café with sandwiches and calzones. Dana and I both chose a flakey Spinach and Cheese calzone type thing. Yum! After gorging and relaxing to digest for a minute, lots of walking was in order.

We climbed 414 steps to the top of the bell tower

The Duomo

The Duomo was a sight that has left even me with few words. The gothic style cathedral peered above us, paneled with green and white marble.  Said to be "big enough to cover in its shadow all the Tuscan people," I fell into the Renaissance world where Michaelangelo transformed the art of sculpture, chiseling away at The David.

We worked off our gelato and calzones by climbing 414 steps to the top of the bell tower- worth the walk even carrying by oversized bags. With each level, the winding stair hall narrowed and it become more difficult to have two paths of traffic. Each bend and landing provided a faux-window that allowed us the peek into the lives of the Tuscans. The view of Florence was unforgettable: terra cotta paneled roof tops covering textured ivory walls all clustered together - set against a background of green rolling hills and a perfectly peaceful sky. Although there were many a tourist up on that narrow roof top path, I felt completely alone in the best of ways.

Through the strands of my hair pushed in front of my eyes by the breeze, I vested my eyes on a city of beauty, art, history, inspiration, and royalty. Turning inwards, my imagination wandered to the old tower-keeper constantly climbing 414 steps to ring the bell of the Duomo Tower and the construction workers tap tap tapping the stones into place - the Royal Medicis watching from a far window. At the same moment, a bell somewhere disturbed the severe silence to mark the time. Being jolted out of my pensive pause, we sojourned inside then made the long descent.

Piazza del Fiore

Outside the cathedral, Dana needed a break to call her sister so I decided to wander around the Piazza del Fiore. Although the passers-by enjoyed the polished gem that Florence is today, I walked among Dante and feuding members of the Gueleps and Ghibellines. I felt the prayers of the Black Death rise from the dry dirt lying under the concrete as the early Tuscans begged fruitlessly for salvation. In a moment of pure poetry, a woman standing beside the Baptistery of San Giovanni, lifted her chin to the sky and freed the opera that had so long been contained between the walls of the Piazza.

Being a Tuscan

Exhausted yet still wanting more, we headed toward the hostel Ospitale Rifiorenze where we were greeted by a wonderful, helpful, and benevolent atmosphere.
For dinner, we took a recommendation from Lorenzo, our host, for a truly Tuscan restaurant. We relaxed in a cafe for a while before indulging in dinner at Tattoria Santorina. Luckily our server spoke English because my Spanish and Dana's French got us nowhere in terms of the menu. I satiated my hunger with ravioli, a green salad, and white Italian table wine.

We went back to the hostel to change into clothes for evening activities. The weather was kind so, while Dana finished getting ready, I took off to grab a little gelato to satisfy my incessant sweet tooth. I pointed to the only flavor I didn't know and took my chances with it. I settled myself on the corner of a bridge as the water of the Arno flowed beneath. The sun was setting behind me as I dipped my pink plastic spoon into my mini-adventure: caramel and... fig! Delectable. To my right, the orange hue of the approaching evening turned the pastel colors of the Ponte Vecchio a more pensive spectrum of colors. The bridges had remained unchanged for hundreds of years while the water passing by had changed with each moment. Mixed groups of natives and visitors flowed past me as I took in the circumstances that had brought me to this moment. My feet grew into the bridge and my body remained still. I was in Florence.

The city at night was inundated with music and chatter at every corner emanating from clubs, bars, and pubs. Those of you from Boston will appreciate the fact that we stumbled upon a place called "Joshua Tree" where we enjoyed a couple of cheap drinks. We encountered an Italian man who, although he spoke absolutely no English, insisted on telling us about American politics - the only vehicle for his message being his hand motions and the names of our presidential candidates. After getting our fill of affordable drinks, polite conversation, and toying with boys' heads, we carried ourselves back to the hostel. 

A long and fulfilling day - I climbed the unsteady stairs to the top bunk and collapsed. The mattress may not have been up to par but, at this point, it didn't matter.

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Morals in an Immoral World?

Questioning given values

I'd like to say that I have a tendency to question given values but I sometimes realize that I just enjoy arguing the devil's point. Really, the world doesn't exist in the discrete categories of right and wrong and these definitions can have different meanings for different people.

Arivend Adiga won the prestegious Man Booker Prize for his first novel The White Tiger.

My most recent thoughts, a consequence of The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, regard the place of morals in our society. Now, I can't say I've done extensive research on this topic but, I like to make a couple opinions or hypotheses before I embark on such a cognitive adventure.

It is in our idealism that people in developed nations believe that everyone should be moral. In its purest form, I feel the desire is benevolent; it addresses the desire of wanting people to be, simply put, good. Having experienced developed and underdeveloped nations, lavish and decrepit situations, malevolent and benevolent people, I have come to the conclusion that morals are a luxury.

I base my decision loosely on the following: Our greatest instincts strive for survival at all costs. Only after we feel comfortable in our safety and have fulfilled our basic needs can we critically analyze our world and work to be moral beings - or even figure out what morals really are.

I don't believe that any psychologist has ever been able to fully explain human behavior (nor do I think they ever will as its complexity is beyond our minds) but I think Maslow's theories could prove useful in this situation. Maslow explained that we have certain basic needs to fulfill before we can reach self-actualization. On the bottom of Maslow's pyramid lie our needs such as food, sleep, and air. The next level includes shelter and safety. Only after we have fulfilled these and a couple more levels can we work on self growth and development.

I wonder if suffering happens because we are naturally ruthless and/or selfish animals or because we do not believe enough in the good to let it happen and trust it to happen.

Well, other than the thoughtful value of this idea, how is the applicable to us? I'm glad you asked. I often find myself presented with the decision of survival (in the sense of business, academics, jobs, etc) and morals. The American dream plays on a decision that encompasses both but I, admittedly a bit cynical, sometimes doubt that such path exists.

This thought may also be a reflection of my current read, Confessions of an Economic Hit Man by John Perkins which explores the convoluted way hired professionals tease money out of developing nations. This story is applicable because his job is socially accepted and even praised but, as I see it, clearly immoral. In his career line, however, it's eat or be eaten. I doubt that this mentality is completely devoid in any interactions with others. And so I wonder, must we fight for our survival in every walk or life or could impressing morals on everyone obviate this problem? Neither option seems all too appealing.

This brings me to another thought. In each day I see evil and I see suffering; heroes walk amongst us and within us while the temptingly fragrant vines of self-importance incessantly must be trimmed. So, I wonder if suffering happens because we are naturally ruthless and/or selfish animals or because we do not believe enough in the good to let it happen and trust it to happen.

Each day we face some form of moral dilemma or take an action that reflects our individual (hopefully individual) morals. You will never make a decision that everyone agrees with but it is important for your peaceful mind to remember that you are the most qualified to make the decision and decide the action within its context.

Hey, don't take my word for it. In the words of the Flobots, "If you are thinking, you are winning."

Thank You for Thinking.

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The Way in which We Exist

Let me preface this by saying that the following is simply a product of my quarter-life crisis.  Some people might call this ‘finding yourself' but not only do I tend to shy away from such hackneyed expressions, I like to think of it more as discovering new ways in which I view the world around me and the people in it.

I believe that we exist in this world in two very distinct ways. Of course the topic is much more complicated than I could ever explore in such a short space but I'd like to share my thoughts and get some feedback. Some people may propose that only one way exists or that I am completely wrong on all accounts. This is a distinct possibility.

I believe we exist on two different levels that can never be completely separate or completely integrated.

The first level is the core level within each one of us. We each have certain qualities that simply are or are not. There are only two people who can ever fully understand this level: yourself and, for those who so chose to believe, God. You know each and every experience that affects your daily decisions and actions. As well, you know your intentions in every situation and what you mean by what you do. To explain your entire life to someone else would take, well, a lifetime. I know that I mean I sincerely love everyone and forgive all who have wronged... but you don't know that. There are always facts or contributing factors that are left out.

The second level would be who we are in society. In this sense, we can only be what the people around perceive us to be. If you tell me that I am dull then I can be nothing else to you. Theoretically, we would act in this level by the intentions on the first level but this tends to misinterpreted. One action can be understood hundreds of different ways by each person that witnesses or experiences it. The decisions on the intentions behind the action are shaped by our cultural backgrounds and our individual pasts. So, I may choose one action in hopes to convey a certain thought or intention but you interpret it differently for one of a number of reasons. All I have, really, is to voice my thoughts and try to act in a manner that conveys to you these feelings. Herein lays one of the greatest barriers in human communication: each action is subject to interpretation. Furthermore, when we realize that someone else sees a certain characteristic in ourselves that we deem as truthful or favorable, we tend to emphasize those aspects around said people. Like the saying goes, I am whatever I think you think I am.

This second level may not matter to you. It is written in the Guru Granth Sahib, "All praise and glory to God; all condemnation to self only. Third person does not come in." I believe this is true to a certain point. There is this constant prevailing truth of ourself and our core, our inner level. This is the only level that matters for final judgment. For those of us who have an overwhelming, ever-present desire to change the world, the need to expose our cores to society is vital. Whether you believe the societal level is relevent to your life's purpose or not, it must be agreed that it is here that defines our dealings with people. The key to successful relationships and consistency of character is to let the inner core define the societal view and not the other way around.

So, there is the fact of intention and the perception of intention; the fact is unwavering but the perception is stronger. The key is getting the two levels/aspects to work together harmoniously. I theorize this is where the various interpretations of a lie are rooted. In the dictionary, a lie is defined as a falsehood or false representation. These two entities, however, are quite different. Most people can agree that a direct statement of untruth is a lie but few can agree to the morality, or lack thereof, of these statements. This would be the falsehood aspect of the definition. If said lie, however, actually better conveys your intentions, then is it really a lie? Perhaps it is a direct lie to convey a greater truth. Thus, it would be more truthful in its representation. Although it is much easier to understand the world around us when we compartmentalize, life and society are not as simple as lie or truth, and you'd be lying to yourself to think that.

For this reason, I think we most enjoy spending time with those people who have the best view into our intentions (or so we think they do). I aim to be this person. I want to best understand the people around me, features and flaws included, without judgment. I yearn to understand why they do what they do and to hopefully offer them comfort in their person. At these times, people's best characteristics begin to glow.

Of course, I may just be saying all of this because I think it's what you expect from me. Who knows? You'll just have to take my word for it...

Thank You for Thinking.

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Sketchy Moments Behind the Iron Curtain: Number 8

                Being broke college students, my travel companions and I always tend to take the cheaper options. Sometimes, we find ourselves in sketchy and ridiculous situations.

                  The mission: Get from Budapest, Hungary to Split, Croatia in as little time and money as possible.

                We hopped on a train in the South Station in Pest. I must note that Budapest has stations named North, South, East, and West but these names do not correspond to their locations. Luckily, we found the right station on our initial try but some of our travel buddies were not as fortunate.

               A couple minutes before departure, they ran onto the train breathless and frustrated. Our accomodations were not what we expected. The time of the ride from Budapest to Zagrheb was estimated at 18 hours but we saw no possible way to arrange ourselves comfortably. The seats were small and plastic-covered with thin metal hand rests that were cold to the touch. One of our travel companions plopped herself down onto a fold-down chair that hung from the wall. She clung to her suitcase to not only protect it from the incessent threat of falling but also to prevent its theft.  The windows held back little sound from the world outside as we rushed by and the wind created by movement beat against the thin glass-plastic mix.

                A Hungarian ticket-taker came by to check our passes. He addressed me first as I sat closest to the aisle. He said something to me which I didn't understand. I stared blankly at him, my mouth slightly ajar. He repeated it again in the same angry tone but my knowledge of the language hadn't changed since the first time he asked. Finally, he said "Ticket, ticket" in a Hungarian accent. After a few seconds lapse, I understand and withdrew my ticket. The others in our group understood and did the same. After approving and verifying our tickets, he started rambling again pointing to the car in front of us. His hands flew about making a splitting motion but we still didn't understand. The language barrier was too high; our ticket-taker shrugged and walked away.

               "I guess it wasn't all that important," I said out loud but to myself. 

               "What?!" My seat mate yelled over the noise of the trian.

                "I said, it must not have been all that important!" I yelled back.

                "What?!" She tried again. I gave up with a nixing hand motion. She yelled something else to me but I didn't hear any of it. She pointed to the nebulous net of clementines resting on my lap, bouncing with each ditch and bump we hit. Before we left Budapest, I had counted the money left in my satchel. "Four-hundred and eighty Forint." As I said it and looked up, a bright stand of colors caught my eye and immediately I saw the bag of clementines labeled four-hundred and eighty. I bought it for the ride to share. I tore apart the netting and handed her one. The citrusy sweetness cut the musty smell of the train and I decided to enjoy one myself. I made an offerring motion to the lady across the isle who wasn't traveling with us but seemed interested in our activities.

              "No Thank You," she said. I was surprised she spoke English. "I think you're on the wrong part of the train. This train is going to split into two once we hit a certain point." An image of little molly, with her curly blonde hair and oversized backpack, strandling the splitting train flashed into my head. Finally understanding what the ticket-taker was trying to tell us, we grabbed our bags and moved forward.

Sketchy Moment 8: Potential Threat of Spending the Rest of our Days in a Hungarian Jail Cell

               Rating: Way Sketch              

               The cabin door opened violently into a gap between cabins. The sides were exposed to the passing earth and I admired and feared the ground below. The dust brushed up onto our feet while we passed from cabin to cabin. Finally, the cabin types changed and we hoped that we were finally where we were supposed to be.

             We got tossed around a couple more times after that, including a move from first class to second class where the only difference between the sections was the color of the seats. Although we tried, we knew sleep would evade us this night. In the middle of the night, when I believe we crossed through Bosnia, the door of our private cabin flung open leaving the curtains in movement. "Passports," the man at the door demanded barely even looking at us. We all shuffled through our bags and handed him our passports. The man snickered to himself and motioned for others. We ended up with eight uniformed men at our cabin door laughing and tossing around our passports.

                One of the men leaned against our door with his arm, "What in bags?" We rambled off all our packing lists.

                "Clothes, notebooks, shampoo..."

                "And..." He demanded.

                "Uh, scarves, swimsuit..."

                "And..."

                 "Uh, boots, tampons, socks..."

                "Alisa! He doesn't need to know you have your period. Chill out!" One of the girls said to her in a nervous frenzy.

               "Why are they still here?" Alisa inquired under her breath to me, giggling apprehensively. I could only shrug.

               The ring leader put all our passports in his belt while another examined us closely. The latter pound his fist against the side of the cabin and stuck the other behind him, still looking at us. The passports were placed in his hand and he brought them forward without breaking eye contact. He tossed them in the middle table of the cabin and slammed the door shut. The girls and I looked at each other blankly as we heard the men heavily stomp away and laugh.

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Old Town Dubrovnik, Croatia: Paradise Found

Dubrovnik is so much more than I had imagined.
Pictures were fantastic but they just don't do it justice.

T

he bus ride form Split to Dubrovnik had the potential of being magnificent but one of my travel buddies and I were preoccupied my nausea and overall sickness. The bus swung incessently around the mountain side overlooking sweet water sides and tiny clusters of homes.

After all that, we are finally here and I am beyond amazed! We are staying in the Old City in an luxurious apartment for which we payed little money. The Old City is so separated and isolated in the best of ways. As soon as we entered, I felt like I had stepped back in time. White marble and granite everywhere! The buildings are preserved exactly as they were minus some damage caused during warring times and a strong earthquake in 1977. We walked along the city walls today, only about 2 km. The smell of the nearby Adriatic and the many seafood places reminded me of my home on Cape Cod. After experiencing the Hungarian pessimism, the people here seem so helpful and friendly. Around each corner there is another performer playing soft, relaxing music in which we can hear the Italian influences.
After a couple hours of sleep, we enjoyed homemade breakfast and mimosas on one of our two balconies. Our view consisted of numerous terra cotta roof tops, green hills, and a large white Franciscan Monastery. The weather has been absolutely perfect. We laid out on the docks for a while this afternoon and enjoyed the sun. I perched myself out on a far out slanted rock covered in white specks. The water at my feet was crystal blue to the point where I could see every detail of the floor beneath. It crashed up against the side of the rock sending droplets of foamy Adriatic water my way. I listened carefully at the sounds around me: rolling waves, far-off motor boats, a couple of children splashing around in the water.

Dubrovnik is crowded, unless you...

climb up and walk the walls for an hour or two.

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