Milan & Prague: Dueling Banjos

I'm gonna try to sum-up Milan before it completely vanishes from my memory:

Milan — an industrial city. Practically every street corner, building, and avenue resembles (almost to the letter) any mid-level city in the U.S. (i.e. Kansas City, Cincinnati, New Orleans, Atlanta, Sacramento).

Italians do not like Milan for much the same reason. They say it in no way depicts a "true Italy" or an Italian way of life.

Therefore, my pre-apologies for an experience in Milan that is in no way romanticized.

My week there was all work, business, and regimented. 'Though I had much more time and opportunity to see the sights of Milan than i had in Rome, Milan sadly boasts few attractions (The Duomo, and museums, museums, museums). Other than fine restaurants, it is a city of business; one of their main ones being fashion. And lo and behold, as The Cosmos would have it, I was there during Fashion Week!

Initially, I was extremely excited by this. But only for the most selfish of reasons (I hoped to be discovered). But that porcelain dream quickly dissolved when I spotted my first model on the subway: Tall, bony boys with lanky hair and elongated torsos in tow of angular women in shapeless tops; both with eyes either too large or too small for their heads. — I just didn't see the fascination with them nor the attraction and appeal.

You know how they say gymnastics at an early age can stunt a child's growth? Well, somehow I felt the same was at play with these creatures, yet differently. Since they never took gym class or played sports or did anything athletic, that the unbalance of this evidenced itself during the growth-spurts within their teenage years. And so while they matured vertically, they didn't mature horizontally as well; resulting in waifishness and child-like facial features — like a toddler on stilts.

And somehow this is beauty.

Then I saw the entirety of their careers flash by, many of their successes exhausted the very hour of it's celebration. And then all I could feel was an enormous pity for them.

This all happened within seconds, mind you.

And my blue feelings towards the "models" only seemed to strengthen as the week wore on because they were EVERYWHERE. Tons of 'em.

Now onto the Show...

Teatro Franco Parenti is the best theater I have ever been to. It has at least five theaters within the entire complex. And an Olympic-size pool in the back that they're renovating so they can turn it into — what? — A theater! A theater you can SWIM in! I love it!

The whole place is a labyrinth of play spaces, wooden stairs, white hallways, and grey offices. Our first day there, I snuck off to do some exploring and found the stage of my dreams: It's small, intimate, raised; equipped with chandeliers, red velvet chairs, scenic flies, projection screen, exposed rigging, and the simplest lighting plot.

I've decided that I'm manifesting working/creating at Teatro Franco Parenti for the rest of my life (It is done).

During the week, we played to packed houses (300+ a night). Our audiences loved me, thankfully. And after our last performance, one of the theater's producers came into my dressing room to congratulate me, saying (and I quote) "I love watching you. And I personally find your performance brilliant." I expressed my gratitude humbly, and asked his name...

"Frederico." He replied.
"Well, its very nice to meet you, Frederico."
"Frederico Parenti." He continued.
"Oh!" I gasped.
... Yup, you guessed it. I was just complimented by the son of the theater's founder.
  After quickly lifting my jaw off the floor, I easily snapped into networking mode, and told him that I'd gladly work at their theater again in a heartbeat. He seemed to understand what I was suggesting but instead suggested that I study at the Dance Academy of Milan, oddly enough, what with all my acrobatics in the show.

Also, I'm certain he was hitting on me.
Italian men, thankfully, leave you little reason to doubt such things.

Now onto Prague...

I'm not gonna miss Milan much (with the exception of Teatro Franco Parenti). But Prague made me miss all of Italy... hardcore.

Prague is... is... is... um... pretty.
There are castles. And the architecture for Every. Single. Building. is a work of art.

 

 


But honestly, I feel no love here.
I almost wish I had done this tour in reverse. 'Cause Italy is like a human heart: messy, bleeding, red, and the seat of all emotion. Prague is like the perfect human hair-do: pretty, well-done, artful, perfectly coiffed. But really just masking a bald landscape.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate this place. I just don't love it. And I promise you I won't miss it.

The women are gorgeous flawless ice queens. And the men are... not. At least not to me.
Yeah, I know they're supposed to be one of the top regions of the world for birthing the most beautiful boys, but honestly, I don't see it.

They're too pretty, scarless, and hairless for me (see "model" rant above).

International Staring Contest

Everyone here stares at me... Long and hard. And I'm talking about from blue-haired grannies to blue-eyed babies. And I know it has nothing to do with my race because there are other black, brown, and yellow people here. And the black people here are BLACK. — So really, I have no idea why I get the looks. But it doesn't phase me. I just stare right back at them as I'm crossing their immaculate streets until they turn away, having silently made up their minds about me.

I know I carry my own brand of magic wherever I go... But really?

At Present

I am ten minutes away from my last day in Prague. Then I have a 24hr layover in Milan (nothing exciting. I'll be far from the city, sequestered in a hotel airport) before I'm back in the United States. Beyond that is my future... A veritable sea of possibilities.

I have no shows scheduled to begin rehearsals... Yet.
No home to call my own... Yet.
No money flow... Yet.

Just words on the wind.
And visions in my head.

I'll in many ways be returning home to a blank canvas with a palette of new colors. What's next is news to me.

But of course, I'm no stranger to this (he says with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye).

Rome is Where the Heart Is

Preface: I have pictures for this blog, but they're all on my mobile; which is how I'm posting this blog. And blogspot won't allow me to upload them. — And, folks, I took some equisite pictures of this gorgeous city (See Facebook). So, imagine if you will...


Much of the week's events are jumbled together in my brain; mainly because all of us have had very little time to enjoy Rome. And we rehearsed or performed every single day of this week. And since the cast has been spending SO much time together because of this, there's also been TONS of drama. I've managed to slink by unnoticed (I think). And whenever there've been fights/arguments/heavy silences I've worn the ball of my heel down to a nub pivoting out of the room. Not because I believe in avoidance, no. Y'all know me. I'm a counselor at heart. — But I'm in Italy for the first time, so whatever's going on with everybody else can take a backseat. Hell, it can fall off the hood for all I care.

Most of the week consisted of waking up late, being shuttled away to the theater, and catching glimpses of Rome from the window of our BMW. Then performing the show at 9:45 every night (even though we were supposed to start at 9 — slow Italians), finishing the show around midnight. Shuttle to our apartments. Eat dinner at 1am. Sleep... Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

We had two days out of the week where we could see the city before our evening performance. One of those days I dedicated to keeping my promise to Mateo and Ashley (more on that later), while the rest of the cast went to the Coliseum. The second day I slept through 65% of it off and on, like a cat, while the rest of the cast went to The Vatican. — Oh, yeah. I did clean the apartment, wash all the dishes, sweep, and do the laundry. So I wasn't, completely listless. But my body needed the rest. This show is a workout. I'm in a crouch and standing on my toes for nearly all of it.

Anywho,
Saturday I went to the Coliseum on my own steam, and caught a bit of EuroPride which was being hosted in Rome this year. You can pay to go in and see The Forum as well, but I knew I wouldn't want to do either. 

I know it may seem crazy, but I just can't go into a museum of ANY kind while in a foreign country. I can understand why other people would want to, but I know that if I did, I'd be pissed when I was finished. Why?

Well, there's a whole WORLD of people and live experiences happening outside the walls of that museum or church. Why would I waste a single second staring at dead statues made by dead people. Because it's beautiful? Because it's historical? Yes, but real live beauty is happening right now, at this very moment, and I'd be missing it to crane my neck back at the past. And historical? I'm MAKING history dammit! — I'm in Italy!

Needless to say, I spent not even a full minute in front of The Coliseum and The Forum, before I was ducking into some alley, or walking down a cobbled street sucking Rome into my lungs...

Here's the truth of it, kids:
I. Love. Rome.
This IS my city. It's everything that NYC is, but older and with massive amounts of charm. I love that I can wake up in a city that rises at exactly the same time that I do: 11:30am. Then, an hour later they take lunch, create/work through the evening, and dine and dance till midnight.

The traffic is terrible. Executives ride Vespas to work. It's noisy. Romans talk with their hands. The tourists are everywhere. The teenagers are the most lascivious, lecherous, salacious, promiscuous creatures I've ever encountered (I saw a boy lift his fanny pack to push his boner into his girlfriend's back, and I swear the pair of them were no higher than my hip!) — And I love it! I love ALL of it!

Their subway system only has two lines for an incredibly crowded city, and yet I've never felt stressed about it 'cause you never — I repeat — never have to wait more than 3mins for the next train.

I swear to the high heavens that this is the city I want to Eat, Pray, Love in.
Not Rome with it's Coliseum, Parthenon, Vatican, and Basilica. But the Rome of today, with it's leaning bookstalls, wailing streetcars, towering angels, weary gladiators, flower shops dotting every sidewalk, stately doorways, smokin' hot polizia, fountained piazzas, ebullient gellaterias, and graffiti, graffiti, graffiti...

And I did have one of those moments where I felt like Julia Roberts — I mean, Liz Gilbert — where I was walking through an alley, turned the corner, and saw God's brilliance staring back at me...

I caught a glimpse of the EuroPride parade, and the stage where Lady Gage was set to perform a free concert in the park, but I had to leave to do a performance of my own.
Gaga and I will meet in our own time.

So you want to know if I bedded an Italian boy (*he says like Hedwig on a pile of tires)...

Yes... Two.
The first is Davide. An acrobat (yes, really). He had a thin, soft, tenor voice. Curly sandy locks; crystal blue eyes, ridiculous pecs, and a haughty smirk. 

The sex was fine. But he was thinking far too much.

After him was Pietro... A very, very, very Italian man. A little older, swarthy, thickly stubbled, slender, black hair everywhere, and carried with him a sweet silence hidden behind dark, dark eyes.

If the problem with Davide was that he wouldn't let go, then Pietro was ALL about letting go. The sex was a dance. And afterward, in his quiet, shy, way he kept asking when I would be leaving Rome, and when I would be coming back. 

It's sweet to be missed, but (and forgive me for this) I view both experiences as a "cleaning of the pipes". It had been so long since I had gotten any... And I was in Rome... And I promised my friends...

It was kinda like how everyone in the cast kept badgering me about seeing the Coliseum: "You're not gonna go to Italy and NOT see the Coliseum, Lamar!"

That's how I view Davide and Pietro. Something I just had to do. Not "had to" like "I had to go to work on a Saturday". But "had to" like "I had to go to my best friend's birthday party, no matter how tired I am."

I'm glad I did it. — It was not at all romantic; even in the way I met both of them (Grindr). But I'm glad I did it.

I feel like now I've paved the way, or cleared my head for something more real and true. Probably in Milan.

It was a lot like snacking before a meal: You shouldn't do it, but you don't regret it. — You're still hungry for dinner, though. It is, after all, a snack.

Some tips on Rome:

— Be aggressive... 'cause they are.
If you're a NYer you're set. Shove with pride. They'll smile at you for doing so.

— If you happen to be someone who is perpetually late to meetings, dates, and functions, worry no more. Everybody is. And since they run on a different clock, you'll ALWAYS be seen as punctual 'cause I guarantee you the Italian is running further behind.

— Never take the bus. Even if you're sure you're on the right one. If you ask the driver if it will stop at your stop, and even show him that stop on a printed schedule, he may dismiss it with a shrug, or deny it flatly. He's thinking "Maybe, I'll stop there today. Maybe I won't. Let's find out together."

— The city is overrun with cats. So no rats or roaches. ... Another reason I love this place.

That's it, my loves.
My train is pulling into Milan...

Italy: "A Week of Firsts"

Let's get the mundane details out of the way:

- Check-in was fine except for a few schisms that bristled me, as I was trying hard to shrug off the last vestiges of my New York quills.
  When I went to check my luggage it was full. So the attendant directed myself, Laura , and Steve (who were also checking luggage) to follow another attendant to a different baggage area. I was slightly off-put by this, but hoped they knew what they were doing. When the three of us gave our luggage over to a third attendant (who thoroughly looked as if he couldn't give a shit), I pushed forward and pointedly asked him if my luggage was going to Italy. But his reply only succeeded in stoking my suspicions: "Ah!" He grunted his affirmation with his head down.
  Security was probably the easiest part. I packed light (as I always do). And was only slightly worried about the ziplock bag of cherries my mother handed me before we got in the car for JFK. But to my surprise they weren't confiscated. I didn't even have to do the full-body scan, which seemed weird considering everybody in the terminal was booked for an international flight. — Oh well.

- Once I got to the gate and met up with the rest of the cast, I was fine, until I looked at my ticket. They had changed my seat; a seat which I had pre-booked online a full week prior to checking-in. In fact, the entire cast had been strongly advised to do this by Nannette, in a meeting we had before we left to insure that no one would be left behind due to overbooking by the airline. So I was beginning to get pissed. —More confused than pissed, though. Why would they change my seat at the last minute when i had already locked that in prior? It just didn't make any sense. I voiced this complaint to the rest of the cast and a few suggested the work of divine intervention. Laura suggested that maybe I'll be seated next to a hot Italian soccer player. To which Steve added "yeah. — I hope she's nice."
  And, it seemed no one else in the cast had the same problem. No one had their seat changed. The only one who came close was Nannette, who, ironically enough, didn't book her seat online like she had advised everyone else to do, so was assigned a seat at check-in. She shared in my angst and annoyance, hoping that whomever she inevitably sat next to wasn't a "first class dick". So we joked about our impending misery as we boarded the plane, Nannette sidling in front of me down the aisle, tickets aloft.
  In the middle of an aisle/carry-on traffic jam, she decided that perhaps we switch places in line so that i wouldn't be stuck behind her if her seat was in front of my own.
  "Well, what's your row?" I asked.
  "28." She replied.
  "I'm 28!" I gasped.
  "What seat?" She asked.
  "'E'" I said.
  "I'm 'F'!" She shrieked.
   And then we both laughed far too loud about the whole thing.
  "Do you mind taking the window seat?" She asked once we got there.
  "I PREFER the window seat!" I exclaimed.
  "Oh good," she chuckled. "Because I HAVE to sit in the aisle. I have a bladder the size of a peanut."
  Divine intervention indeed.

- My flight was magnificent. 8hrs that breezed by. The jet was stylish, complete with tv screens on the back of each seat, equipped with free movies and music in both English and Italian. We sat on the Tarmac for a long time, but once we got in the air, I quickly forgot it.

  I had intended to sleep through most of the flight, and took a sleep aid from Laura (pic). But when I took it immediately after our yummy dinner, it had absolutely no effect. Not even drowsiness. So I was up for the duration.
  Not a worry. I watched two movies, and listened to music for the rest of it.
And just like that, we were flying over the Swiss Alps. And then soon after, landing in Pisa.

- The thirteen of us passed through customs without a problem (you never know with actors). And collected our luggage. Our driver was ready with the van once we stepped out into the beating Italian heat. So we hopped on, and drove another 3hrs through Tuscany to the small coastal village of Forte dei Marmi; stopping twice along the way for snacks and use of the bathroom.

  Finally, we arrived at the house of Moratti, the home where Celeste grew up. And what a home! Acres of land, gardens boasting flowers, corn, beans, tomato, lettuce. Olive trees, lemon trees, apple trees, and rosemary bushes that bend taller than Michael Jordan (seriously). Everything these people eat, they grow.
  And oooooohhhhh!!! I haven't eaten this well even when I lived in Seattle. Every day there's freshly baked focaccia bread, and the sharpest cheeses I have ever tasted. Fresh pruscetta and fruits are constantly on display. And wine! Jesus! I can honestly say I have had more wine in this one week than I've ever consumed in my entire life. They drink it with EVERYTHING. So, to counter-balance that, I've definitely consumed more bottled water than ever as well.
Ok, back on track.
Celeste's house sits nestled in the valley of the "Marble Mountains" (translated from the Italian), which is the place where Michaelangelo got his marble for every statue he created.

The view of it is stunning when the sun hits it. Brilliant white and charcoal grey. ... And waaaaaayyyy in the distance, near the top, stuck in the side of the edifice, you can spot a collection of the whitest marble which — from our vantage point — looks like some kind of ancient mountain fortress (which it isn't). And half of my cast is convinced that it's the italian version of Hogwarts (which it is).

- An hour later, the cast checks-in to the Bed & Breakfast (Pensione Villa Elena) where we'll be resting our heads for the week. Mike gives us our room assignments. Steve & I are put together (I wonder if it's a gay thing). We're all given our very own bikes (la bicciclette) for the week to get around the town as we please. I name mine "Thunder", since that is what was embossed in gold on the seat.

Everyone freshens-up, takes a bath. But I head to the beach...
The cast was given access to a private beach hosted by a friend of the Moratti family. I waste no time. I get quick directions (literally two blocks from the B&B), and get my ass some sun.
  To say its "amazing" cant do a Tuscan beach justice. You have the milky blue and brown water of the Mediterranean followed by the golden sands of the beach. Immediately following that, you have verdant and lush green trees and fields, followed by the "Marble Mountains". All of which you can see from any point on the beach.
I bathe myself in cocoa butter like a chicken.
Bake. Brown. Turn...
Brown. Turn... And bake some more.
I cooked for three hours under the Tuscan sun and I look DARK. Like Brazilian/Cubano dark (Mateo, I swear I could be Arturo's brother). Then i head to the pool and bar for some cocktails with the cast, and everyone cant get over how dark I've gotten. Most of them couldnt even conceive that i could tan at all to begin with (duh!) But by the time we leave to go back to the B&B, it becomes apparent to everyone that this chicken is overcooked. I burned. My shoulders, forehead, and nose are a deep raspberry. Since then, my nickname from the cast has been either "chocolate strawberry" or "black cherry".
   A few hours later, it's back to the Moratti house for a dinner cooked by her maid, Funi (pronounced "funny", with the stress on the second syllable).
Everyone takes full advantage of the house and hospitality and wine and gets way too drunk. Even I knew I had to reel it in when I found myself sitting alone in a room brooding over my empty glass, feeling lonely. So I sobered up quickly (bottled water), and headed to the fields. I stared at the night sky and thanked God for my blessings: "I'm in Italy. Tuscany. I'm well-fed, and staring at the stars.... Thank You."

Back at the house, the actors were doing their best to conjure up drama that would boil over and scald themselves for the next three weeks. And yet I was standing outside the house, away from all that... (another thing to thank God for).

Later, I got back on Thunder, biked back to Villa Elena. And that ends the first night of my Week of Firsts in Italy.

Here are some highlights from the rest of the week:

Monday
— Beach.
Yes, again. I've fallen in love with my own color.

Tuesday
— Rehearsal at Casa Moratti.
— Beach.
— Biking with Andrew & Kevin through the town of Forte Dei Marmi.

    With the palm trees everywhere, and the tall green hills blocking the view of the mountains, and high-walled villas, Tuscany can be easily confused with Hawaii, Cuba, or The Bahamas. But add the stores in town as well (like Prada, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana), and the entire cast agreed that Forte Dei Marmi looks exactly like Hollywood Hills.

Wednesday

— Took the train with Andrew & Kevin to Pisa and the small, walled medieval village of Lucca.

— Walked across the train tracks to get to the next platform! (Italians do it without a second thought. Like crossing a street. No 3rd rail! Just look both ways, and go!) It felt so wrong and yet so good!

— Got hit-on big time by a train conductor on the way to Lucca. He was shy at first, but my straight cohorts, Andrew & Kevin, instigated and amped-up my game. Soon the conductor and I were stopping the world around us with our lingering glances that were folded within the pauses of our conversation. He was smokin' hot. Swarthy, young, olive skin, deep brown eyes, barrel-chested. ... But I never caught his name. Too soon our train reached Lucca, and we had to separate. Our goodbyes were the stuff of a teen miniseries: long, drawn-out, and full of giggles.

Thursday
— Dress Rehearsal at Casa Moratti.
— Four course dinner at authentic Italian restaurant.... I cried over my meal (Mom, you would have too if you had seen the size of the scrimps).

Friday
— Beach/Pool & cocktails.
— Performance at Casa Moratti in the fields, between the olive trees... Priceless.
— Skinny-dipped in the Mediterranean Sea at midnight with a drunk, "confused" nineteen year old Italian boy named Roberto I met that night after the show. (my idea... Totally sober... Frigid water and I didn't care one bit)... Oh, yeah... He friended me on Facebook.
(Nothing happened that night. I'm way too smart for that)

Saturday
— Packed-up the set for the show.
— Beach.
— BBQ dinner at the house of the owner of the private beach.
— First time on a trampoline.
— First time in a treehouse.
— First time sliding down a pole... No really.

Sunday
— Day trip to "Cinque Terre" ("the Five Lands"; a strip of five small villages along the Mediterranean coast). A seven-mile hike connects them. It's been raining off and on all week, so three of the five villages were closed due to mudslides along the trail. But we hiked through the first town and hopped a train to hike the last.
  The hike was hard, stony, and mostly uphill. But the views were spectacular. And the water was crystal clear blue.

  In the last village — a seaside resort — I sunbathed while Andrew, Kevin, Nina, and Derrick (our Stage Manager) went for another dip in the water. Not even fifteen minutes into our respite but the clouds gathered darkly over the beach, and a sudden gust of hurricane winds brought all bathers ashore, seeking shelter, while seamen scattered the sands to batten-down ropes and rigging.
It was wild! I think I was the only one who enjoyed it. (Matt, it was like watching Storm at work, I swear!)
— Dinner at a very posh Italian wine bar (six courses), that had the awesomest display of bathroom reading material in French. And the hottest waiters.

Monday (Today)
— Packed. Went to the market to get some cheap groceries before I head to Rome's tourist-priced ones.
— Bid farewell to my faithful bike, Thunder, as well as Casa Moratti and the "Marble Mountains".
— Barely caught the train to Rome with the cast.

A side-note on three things I've noticed about Italy and Italians:

Dinner
— Italians take their sweet-ass time to do anything (and I do mean "sweet"). They don't rush. And when you make an appointment, expect the Italian to show-up 30-45mins later. I mean it. Every night this week I had dinner at 10 or 11 in the evening (at restaurants, mind you), and left after one in the morning (no wonder they take siesta from 12:30pm — 2pm!).
This is why I barely caught my train to Rome, 'cause the cars that were hired to take us to the station crawled into the lot of the B&B twenty minutes late.

Language
— The one things that Italians DON'T do slowly is talk. I seriously understand one word for every five sentences they utter. .... Thanks, Rosetta Stone.

Men
I swear, Italian men are not shy about what they like or what they want.
My confidence in my own self-image and beauty has skyrocketed exponentially since I've been here. And all because the men STARE at me like I'm a piece of pruscetta. I've gotten hardcore peeps from a boy on a bridge, lifeguards on the beach, busboys, a pair of brothers on their way to the local bar. Today, a really hot young exec-type slowed-down in his car, held up traffic, and grinned broadly as I crossed in front of him on the way to the supermarket (attraversiamo, Ashley!).

No sex yet.
I've been far too busy enjoying my own relationship with Tuscany. The only thing I've found in my bed when I wake up has been sand.

But I must close this chapter now. My train is pulling into Rome... And that will be a different tale to tell.

Ciao! Loves!

Things to come?
I just found out that this Saturday is EuroPride in Rome...