12-14 August Locarno

The film festival ended for me with more of a whimper. The best two films were both tangential: Hard Eight by P.T. Anderson was screened as an honor to John Reilly and Conte d’Eté by Eric Rohmer was a nod to one of the festival judges, who acted in it. They managed to be better than competition films about alien jellyfish forcing the US to build huge walls to keep them out, a Canadian comedy about Jazz Chess, an offensive portrait of a derided Italian man with a mental disability who eventually had too much and killed his tormenters, and a wordless Kazakstani film about a rape avenged by a shaman. Other than the jellyfish thing, none of them were awful, but none were really good either.

One morning a student dropped her tray in the cafeteria and a glass shattered and shards stuck in her ankles. I pulled them out and disinfected the tiny wounds. It was my first taste of action in my role, and the dawning of my realization that I am actually a nurse. I have zero medical ability, but I can speak the language and am calm and reassuring.

On our last afternoon in Locarno, Jaimey and I went to visit Marianne and Wälle – his last time this year. But, like bad rappen, we keep coming back.

11 August Locarno and Longmore

I tried to get into the Rialto again without success so I drove home in exasperation. I checked my email and discovered Paul Longmore had died on 9 August in the night – maybe some 24 hours prior. I was in shock and spent the day as if sleepwalking. I stayed at La Perla and wrote about Paul the next morning.

Paul Longmore changed my life. He came to visit Stanford in the fall of 1989. The director of the Disability Resource Center had been telling us disabled students that this great disabled historian was coming to check the place out prior to being installed as a visiting professor the following winter.

I had never met a disability rights activist before, and the time couldn’t be more ripe for me. I was just beginning to articulate the marginalization that myself and my disabled peers had faced by using the language and ideas of other civil rights movements. Paul came at the right time to support me on my course and to challenge me to go further.

During one meeting of the disabled students group that I had helped to start, I had carelessly used the words “devaluation” and “oppression” as if we all understood those terms the same. The backlash from my peers was intense and immediate. I recall the meeting breaking in disarray. I felt awful and a failure as a leader. Paul consoled me afterwards. “They’re just not ready for those words yet. You’re 100% right, but just be careful how you handle that language.”

Paul and I quickly became friends. I’d like to think we would have been close even without our common disability experience – but that is such a big part of both of us, it’s impossible to say. My favorite thing about him was his sense of humor. It could be ridiculously corny, playing off the most asinine puns. He’d look at me expectantly, out of the corner of his mischievous eye. If I didn’t respond right away – I didn’t want to incent his bad humor - he might kick me gently. But Paul’s deeper humor was his sense of irony. He could laugh at the most painful, tragic, gross or macabre things. “We have to,” he would tell me. “An ironic sense of humor is the cornerstone of disability culture.” I tested this over the years and time and time again found him to be right.

He theorized that due to our oppression we clearly see the duality of how things seem and what they are really like. When you can simultaneously see how others deem your life not worth living and know that your life is magnificent, humor seems a good response. Laughing outright is defensive or fake, and becoming despondent isn’t productive. The bittersweet chuckle with a lump in your throat is the crippled response.

I can’t go back to that time and do it all again so I’ll never know what I would have sorted out on my own or what Paul taught me. I know for sure that he hasted the process immeasurably. When I was 20, seeing Paul was like looking in the future and having a huge part of my identity reflected back. I suppose we can all do this to some extent with out parents, but it was different with Paul. He was like me in a way no one else was. And our common ground was the area I most wanted to explore and the terrain society said was least valuable about me. Boy is society stupid.

In my senior year, I took Paul’s history class. I knew most of the stuff informally from hanging around with him. As an activist professor, Paul was nothing if not holistic in his mentorship of young people with disabilities. At State I’d often see his mentees around and I would nod to myself, knowing what a privileged ride they were on. Paul had already changed my life and yet I had never even set foot in his classroom.

Speaking of classrooms, I remember trying to organize Stanford to build an electric door opener for him at History Corner. This was before the ADA came into effect – not that Stanford shouldn’t have been adhering to 504 or state laws. We got the door opener but the department did it begrudgingly with great hemming and hawing. This infuriated me, but not Paul. I learned a lot about pragmatic activism. “Look Mark, I don’t give a shit if they like it, at least now I can get in the damn door.”

After Paul’s class, I had to write my senior thesis. Of course it was going to be largely about disability. I never thought twice about having Paul as my advisor. I feel old now, but this was in 1992 so there really wasn’t much in the way of “disability studies” per se. It was just me and Paul discussing disability identity formation and Shakespeare. A student of mine just asked me a few days ago about my thesis, and even 18 years later, I was stunned at how important those themes Paul and I explored still are to me now.

After college, I took jobs in and out of the disability rights movement. When I needed a wise word, Paul was always there. In fact, I chuckle as I recall most of our phone calls starting like this: “Hi Paul, it’s Mark.” “Oh hi Mark, how are you? What do you need?” It was never testy, just simply him opening up the door. He always seemed to have time, or would call me right back.

In 2005 I think it was that Paul received the Henry B. Betts award for his activism. He asked me to be one of his three presenters. I was so honored to go on videotape to talk about the man whom I admired. Looking back now, I realize this was the only time I really ever thanked him. I wish I had said and done more, but that’s probably just for me. Paul, I believe, was proud of me, and this was enough for him. He was proud of who I had become as a man, as a person with a disability, as a leader, as an intellectual, and as an activist. And I was honored to make him proud. In fact, that’s the only thanks I can give him.

Some times I only talked to Paul maybe once a year. Other times it might have been every couple weeks. Recently we had been working together again. I’ve been working on a film that’s partly derived from my experiences coming to understand my disability. Paul, of course, had been intellectually, emotionally, and politically supportive. And I don’t think it was just altruism on his part. I know he loved me and wanted to support me, but we were also largely political allies. We’re both in the same movement, believing the same things, reaching for the same goals. He believed in my film and thought it will make a difference in the world. His passion and enthusiasm meant a lot to me and kicked my project into the next gear. It is with deep regret that I imagine Paul not seeing the project come to fruition. But I know that if I succeed in helping people to understand disability differently in their lives, it will mostly be due to Paul helping me to see mine differently.

Thank you Paul.

Mark

9-10 August Locarno and Claudia

One highlight of the film festival is Claudia. She is, bar none, the best MC I have ever seen. Every year, she hosts the Locarno Film Festival. I have no idea who she is, but I know why she has the job. She might be a news anchorperson (although I have never seen her) or some sort of celebrity. But she may also be a professional MC.

She is poised, she always says the right things, and she is not hard to look at – which is critical during interminable award ceremonies – and someone gets some award each night at the Piazza Grande, along with their cast, crew, and everyone they ever met in their life. Unlike the Oscars, at Locarno they don’t just thank the people, they bring them up on stage. And Claudia marshals this whole clusterfuck with ease and grace, cutting off people politely and ensuring things move on as expeditiously as decorum (which is thick in Ticino) allows.

But Claudia’s main skill is her ridiculous facility with languages. We’re pretty sure Italian is her mother tongue, but she’s so good it’s hard to tell. Her French seems equally perfect. She definitely has an accent in German and English, but she speaks them both fluently. Essentially, she is the perfect hostess who manages to interpret flawlessly in front of a crowd of 8000.

The irony is that she doesn’t really need to translate. She speaks so clearly I swear I could understand her fine if she broke into Polish. My Italian and French comprehension skills aren’t that great, but I understand every word she says. By the time she gets to English or German, I’m glad she’s abridged the speech because I got it the first two times. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could speak with plants and animals.

My life began shifting a bit this week. Unfortunately, at the festival, the third time they show films, they project them in a small auditorium. Thus my strategy was backfiring. By the time I heard a film was worthy, so had many others and the small Rialto auditoria were crowded, often to the point that I couldn’t enter; Pardo pass or not. Also, as I spent more time working on La Perla, the more my questions led to more questions.

I had three main projects: property taxes, getting Luciano inspected, and figuring out how the property next door was deeded. I have learned in my Swiss adventure that understanding these processes involve the most frustrating elements of bureaucracy and cultural difference. Invariably, what starts as a simple question gets quite complicated before it makes sense again. But then again, sometimes people can just be turkeys.

Let’s take the woman at the comune for example. In the past two weeks, I had called her five times to learn more about the property next door. She claimed that I needed to speak to a “tecnico” and this guy was only around for about two hours each day. At first, she didn’t even tell me that. She’d simply say that the tecnico was out. I’d ask when I might try him and she’d give me two hours the next day. Those two hours may or may not coincide with when I could get home to place a phone call. Eventually I got this guy’s schedule for the whole week and arranged my days accordingly. However, I called him many times during these hours and he was still out. On the sixth call, the woman, and it was always the same woman, asked me what I needed again. I told her. She said she could mail me a copy of the local ordinance that specified how the property could be developed along with a map of the plot. So I had rearranged by schedule four days to make these phone calls to hunt down this information she had at her fingertips the whole time. Swiss efficiency.

Sunday 8 August – Locarno

Jaimey and I decided to spend most of the day at La Perla, because, frankly, it’s nicer than the youth hostel. And we both just wanted to get work done.

We had bought an internet stick to get work done at the hostel but it was a bit rough as there was only one and we had to pass it back and forth all day.

In the evening we had dinner with Marianne and Wälle. If you have been, you know what I am talking about. If you haven’t, then one would wonder why not. It certainly isn’t lack of invitation. You can look forward to excellent food, this time highlighted by Wälle’s grilling – the most tender, juicy and hearty meat you could ever hope for. He is my grilling hero. If they made a video game called Grill Hero, he’d be on the cover.

Then you’d also be missing some fine wine or peach wine (according to your taste and the sophistication level of your palate) – I’m a fine Pescafrizz person myself. Then you would miss our scintillating conversation – featuring our favorite topic: “how and why does the US suck and how and why is Europe stupidly following?” You’ll have to read my next journal entry to get the answers. I give you a clue: it has to do with people being stupid and setting up bad systems that favor ego and greed.

The conversation is better with Jaimey there because we can switch fully into German. That way Wälle can participate equally. He tends to zone out, understandably, if it’s in English.

Saturday 7 August – Locarno

This was a major work day as it was the first day for my new property manager, Lora. I oriented her and we cleaned the apartment together, taking inventory and thinking of improvements. It may not sound like much, but it takes all day.

In the evening, I saw what might have been my favorite new film of the festival: Fourth Portrait, about a young boy in Taiwan trying to find his place in the world.

John C. Reilly was an honoree of the festival this year. He was around to collect an award, usher in the European premiere of Cyrus (I had seen the West Coast premiere at the SF Film Festival in April), and generally to be celebrated. He held a press conference and our students starred in the video about it:

http://www.youtube.com/thepardochannel#p/u/12/77bVh4yovnQ

Almost all the young people featured, 6-8 women, are all part of our gang. Go team!

(I prefer to believe it was more the insight of the questions asked than any sexism on the part of the editor)

4 August Locarno

In the morning we had an official tour of Locarno with a guide named Marina. She was phenomenal, a former board member on the tourist bureau. She explained how the colors of the Ticinese flag represent the different ideologies of the two halves of Ticino: Sotto and Sopraceneri. Sottoceneri is more forward-looking in Lugano, and Sopraceneri (around Lago Maggiore) is much more interested in preserving tradition. Hence the high rise apartments and development in Lugano that doesn’t really exist in Locarno. I believe the blue part of the flag is Sopra.

Marina was full of fun facts, but I also found it fascinating that the arcades along the north edge of the Piazza Grande were originally for docking boats since the lake used to be that high. If you’ve been to Locarno, you are scratching your chin and nodding, marveling at this fact. If you’ve never been to Locarno, you are slapping your head asking why you’re such a loser.

My work at La Perla continued to call me across the lake and I spent much of the next two weeks at home. There was no free lunch at the hostel and far fewer films in the middle of the day, so it was easy to go home for some amazing bread, salami, pickles and mozzarella. Unfortunately, La Perla is one of those projects where the more time you spend there, the more work there is to do.

I returned to Locarno each evening for dinner and films. Opening night at the Piazza is a special event – and a first for these students. I had been to the Piazza each of the last two years with Jaimey and prior groups. The film, Au Fond du Bois, was decent but politically problematic. One of those where the aristocratic girl falls in love with her animalistic homeless rapist in the 19^th Century in France type flicks.

When we got back to the hostel, I overheard the students next door to me complaining about the heat. One of them claimed to be working on getting the air conditioning working. I burst into laughter seeing him fiddle with the radiator. I asked him where he was from. He stared at me: “LA, why?” I recovered quickly. “You know, a few years ago, I probably would have done the exact same things. We just don’t have radiators in California.”

5-6 August Locarno, LA Zombie

The next day was rainy – one of the rare ones. Jaimey and I used it to run some errands: making copies, buying tickets for the students, etc. Then I had to run more errands for La Perla, buying exciting things like sink plugs and a tree for drying laundry. The night concluded with a film in the Piazza about eclectic, dysfunctional people living in a trailer park in Iceland. I had seen one other Icelandic film before – also at the Piazza, two years ago. Unfortunately both films confirmed my suspicions: Iceland is cold and bleak and the people drink, smoke a lot of pot and listen to Bjørk. It turns out that Icelandic is related to Swedish as I seem strangely to follow it fairly well.

Friday was the day I lost my film festival innocence. Maybe I was raped by an alien zombie? The fact is that the film festival isn’t that great. For a variety of political reasons that Jaimey explained to me and the students at great length, a film festival isn’t necessarily about presenting good films. It’s about jockeying for prestige, national identity, and relationships between industry wonks.

My disillusionment came in the form of two films: Ellen At Her Age and L.A. Zombie. Ellen is about a German air hostess who grows disillusioned with her job and lack of connection with others – much like Up In the Air or whatever that Clooney film last winter was called. Anyway, Ellen flops around in existential angst for 80 minutes and then suddenly decides to move to Africa to work with people trying to limit poaching. That solves it right up. Unfortunately, the film guide and the artistic director, Olivier Pere, claimed it was the “film of the decade.” I never figured out which decade to which they were referring since maybe this will obviate my efforts to make any films for ten years. I agree only so far as to say it was certainly the film of the day.

L.A. Zombie is easy to summarize. It’s about an alien zombie who fucks dead people back to life. And it’s worse than it sounds.

As you might imagine, the inclusion of this film in the concorso internationale or competition caused great controversy. It had been banned from other festivals. But, as many students pledged, “No way am I going to miss that!!” So we all saw it.

Of course it sounded awful, but I believed that Olivier (as we called him even though I think only one student met him) must have seen something in the film. I figured symbolically maybe the alien zombie was a harbinger of the end of American decadence or that it had some deeper social or aesthetic points to make. Unfortunately, I was (un)dead wrong and Olivier is either an idiot or trying to stir up some controversy.

With all humility I submit that Hillcrest is better in every single phase: acting, writing, directing, lighting, cinematography, sound . . . . I knew from the first shot, a pan across the ocean where the camera clearly stuck on the cheap tripod (things you’d know if you’ve used crappy $80 tripods from the drug store), that this was going to be worse than god-awful. Forget the prosthetic penis thrusting inside a bloody chest wound, the acting was cringe-worthy, it was poorly lit and not color-corrected.

I suppose it was supposed to be campy, but it failed at that. I’m no connoisseur of gay porn, but it seemed to fail at that as well. The acting and production value was as bad as porn, but there were too many pretensions at art (all of which failed in every way) to keep the porn fan entertained.

The climax (narratively – otherwise the fifth zombie climax) involved a group of super good-looking guys in leather getting ready for some sort of orgy / film shoot. Suddenly these two gangsters showed up and spat out some nonsensical and unconvincing lines and began shooting all the leather bound guys. Blood splattered everywhere. I mean there was a guy behind the camera throwing buckets of red water all over the place. Maybe two guys. Before our hero, the alien zombie, could arrive, the camera lingered on the “corpses.” I guess in the actors’ defense, it must be hard to stop breathing and keeping your erection still while pretending to be dead.

I think the director, who was on hand, must have busted a gut when he learned he got accepted. That was clearly the best spent $200 and day of his life he spent shooting this utter rubbish.

From this day forward, I only saw films that were either convenient or recommended by many people. Luckily, I had 25 budding film critics upon whose opinions I could avail myself. Thus, I was always in the know.

Lest you not trust my assessment of LA Zombie, here’s a reputable internet article Jaimey sent me. I also heard a radio review in my car and the Ticinese critic said about the same: ridiculous waste of time.

Unless I’m missing something, the miraculous potential of a giant undead penis in Bruce LaBruce’s “L.A. Zombie” is a definite first for film history. Banned from the Melbourne Film Festival and bound to inspire heated debate wherever it plays next, the wordless, hour-long portrait of a walking corpse waking the dead with his regenerative sexual powers will grab more headlines than viewers. A purely experimental exercise in the cinema of the body, the movie overstates LaBruce’s gay-porn-as-art routine in an extreme fashion even by his own standards.

An introductory scene shows the zombie in question (porn star and model Francois Sagat) emerging from the waves, then dives right into the conceptual mayhem: The figure grabs a ride into town, but the car crashes and the driver lies dead on the side of the road. His passenger quickly gets to work, whipping out his zombified manhood and fucking the deceased body’s torn chest cavity until his heart starts beating again. In a bizarre update to contemporary zombie mythology, black semen apparently doubles as miracle juice, and Sagat turns back into a living human post-coitus. Even George Romero may scratch his head at that deviation, but then “L.A. Zombie” isn’t exactly pitched at his target audience.

The avant-garde counterpart to LaBruce’s 2008 gay zombie narrative “Otto, or Up with Dead People,” his latest project has been touted by the director as “a movie that reaffirms life,” although its thematic depth only intermittently meshes with the porn factor. The “no dialogue” tag is actually a misnomer, but the instances where dialogue does seep into the soundtrack—the usual cheesy situational chatter typical of story-driven porn—form the weakest link. As the zombie wanders around downtown Los Angeles, he preys on a diverse selection of its residents, including murdered criminals and homeless junkies. The set-up for each resurrection scene begins to grow redundant once LaBruce makes his intent clear, and then you’re either with him or no longer watching.

In 63 minutes, “L.A. Zombie” features five sexual encounters that inspire laughter at first, followed by fatigue. LaBruce has prepared a softcore version for the festival circuit, and promises a hardcore cut available on DVD for those interested in such a thing. Regardless of its explicit nature, the sex (in the softcore version I’ve seen, anyway) hardly approaches the mad provocations of his more ambitious projects. (A skinhead ejaculates on “Mein Kampf” in “Skin Gang,” which makes the chest cavity bit in “L.A. Zombie” look relatively tame.)

3 August - Locarno

(most of the photos from today until France are taken by others)

Once we got back to the hotel, I ditched the entourage to liberate Luciano. I had parked him in some weird building that apparently had some arrangement with the hotel. The fact that I simply walked past about 15 workmen with my luggage, got in my car, and drove off, led me to wonder how secure he really had been.

I swung by La Perla to get my stuff and buy some groceries. I wound up pulling up to the youth hostel in Locarno the same moment the students were spilling out of the bus. I don’t think they noticed I had gone and returned. Jaimey and I got the keys and helped them settle in.

Dinner was in the hostel. They had a nice cafeteria with lots of salad fixings, a hearty main dish, and some dessert. It was convenient and nutritious and free (well, included in the program price for the students.) Our group represented about one quarter of the hostel guests. Being high season and during the film festival, the hostel was full all the time.

Our rooms were quite Spartan with simple Ikea furniture and concrete floors. Some of the students, Jaimey and myself, had balconies. The others would get sea views in France. I liked the hostel because the food was good and free, the bed was better than the one in the La Perla studio, and the shower had pressure, again, unlike the one in the studio.

That night Jaimey and I had to pick up the festival passes so we made a tour of it and invited students to come if they want. 25 of 25 were waiting for us in the lobby. We pointed out the Rotunda and walked through old town to the Piazza Grande. The Rotunda is an open space below and in the middle of a huge traffic circle. Inside there are food booths, crafts, and bars. At night it got packed and this is where the students spent a good deal of time buying alcohol, which they couldn’t legally buy in the US. The Piazza Grande is filled with 8000 seats and a four-story screen – probably one of the largest in Europe, if not the world. Watching a film in the Piazza under the stars with 8000 people is an unforgettable experience – even if the film sucks. We showed the students the ferry landing and the train station – Jaimey’s ideas. I pointed out the chocolate store and best gelateria. You see now why I am critical to this program?

Our passes cost 300 CHF each, but allowed us access to every film and event. I was able to negotiate a group discount on Pardo neck pass holders. It’s hard to be tres chic in Locarno sans pardo neck pass holders. The pardo (leopard) is the prize and the festival mascot, the symbol of Locarno like the palm is the symbol of Cannes. Palme d’Or = Pardo d’Oro.

3 August Milano

We gathered, for the first time, as a 27some, the next morning in the breakfast room of the hotel. Jaimey went over some logistical information and I passed out and collected forms. I had been memorizing the names of the students as they came in and had them all down for the forms.

We led the motley crew to the Duomo, where we met our guide, Celeste – but don’t call her Sell-est, it’s Shell-estay. Despite her pointedness about her name pronunciation, she was quite nice and a good guide, leading us through the Galleria, to La Scala, the castle, and back to the Duomo. Like I said, there isn’t that much for the tourist in Milano. Even though we had confirmed in advance that there were no clothing restrictions for entering the Duomo, of course, when we got there, it was determined that about five women were underdressed for the Lord. Conveniently enough, according to the laws of Italian capitalism, which often profits on the Lord, there were vendors who sold pieces of cloth, which could be used as skirts or shawls. I wonder if the Italian word for scam is scam?

We ended up in a restaurant Jaimey had scouted in advance – he arrived a few days prior in Milano. Lunch was pretty good but Celeste pointed out that most of the students, particularly the women, didn’t finish most of what was on their plate. I tried to explain as best as I could but she just continued to shake her head in disbelief.

Looking back on that day now, I realize I was a bit more vigilant about the students than necessary. Isn’t that always the way? Jaimey walked ahead with Celeste, peppering her with questions. I know this because she had a closed circuit radio she used to communicate with us and she left it on. My job was to bring up the rear and I undertook my job with the utmost conviction. I let not one student behind me. Twice, over the five hours, a student got behind me. I felt bad at the time, but, looking back, that’s a pretty good record for 25 students over that length of time.

Little did I realize that my tedious and tiring efforts were meaningless. Psychologically, the students were clinging to each other – strangers but in a stranger land. Their fear of the unknown was a far more effective clumping mechanism than my feeble shepherding efforts.

3 August Milano

One minute I was bidding Analyn goodbye, and 45 minutes later, I was with Jaimey in a hotel lobby in Milano, welcoming college students. Sometimes the chapters in life stop and start suddenly.

Jaimey runs a program for students from various University of California schools. He asked me to be his assistant due to my experience in student affairs, my familiarity with a few destinations and languages, being a film-maker, and, perhaps mostly, being his friend. Anyway, other than 2 August, it’s a pretty good gig.

That day, however, Jaimey and I took turns greeting and orienting students who had just staggered off the plane, caught a train, and tumbled through the hotel doors. Many of the students arrived before the hotel had cleaned everyone’s room, so some of them sat on and amidst their baggage, sleepily passing time with us.

Swimming in Lago Maggiore, I had managed to clog my right ear. I bought some ear wax removal from a Farmacia around the corner from the hotel. I tried it out and consequently blocked my ear for the next six days. I recall this, because, now, as I write this, 18 days later, my ear is clogged again. I had been very careful swimming in the Mediterranean, keeping my ears above the water to preserve my hearing. It’s hard to do, even buoyed by the salt-water, when you are used to swimming 3 – 4 miles a week with your head underwater. My ears got clogged again here and unclogged on their own a few hours later. Stupidly, last night, when my ear itched, I scratched it and reclogged my ear.

Jaimey and I had greeted nearly all the students and I had done their room assignments, so we decided to take my clogged ear out to dinner. Did you know that Italian food was good? Damn, that was some fine gnocchi! In August the streets of Milano are fairly bare. Thus we were able to prowl about, unencumbered by crowds, and devour some of the best gelato I have ever had. Jaimey, of course, said another place in Milano is much better. I just let Vikas and Jaimey find all the best gelato places for me.

1 August - Cardada

Sunday August 1 was a big day for the Swiss. It’s the day Switzerland was founded. Every Swiss person was legally required to fly, hang, or wear at least 5 flags. It was like the 12^th of September 2001, only no one was rallying around George Bush. Despite the national theme, Analyn and I had only a local and a spiritual goal. Since I had failed to get Analyn real polenta last summer, I had to show her the real thing. Secondly, she had not yet been up to Cardada, the mountain across the lake from my house, above Locarno. She also wanted to go to church since it was Sunday. We had a plan to accomplish all our goals.

To get up to Cimetta, one needs to take the funiculare from Locarno up to Orselina, that’s only 10 minutes. From Orselina, you take the cable car up to Cardada at about 1000 meters. There we enjoyed the observation platform and I asked every employee in sight where the mass was. I got two “I have no idea” and two other answers that contradicted each other.

Then we rode the chairlift up to Cimetta. From there we walked down the hiking trail to an area called Alpe de Cardada, where I found us a mass. As my faithful readers know, I’m not big on masses, but this one was pretty cool. First, it was outside, in the shade of a huge cross. Secondly, it was on an Alpine peak over an amazing blue lake slithering off towards the Po plain. Finally, it was in Italian. I think all masses should have these three components. The paragliders were just gravy. When the proceedings got a little dull I simply watched them catch pockets of wind and float over, under, and around us like slow, silent, and very large bees that don’t sting.

Afterwards, we sat at the nearby restaurant where I had enjoyed polenta last summer with Radu et al – see prior blog. This stuff was autentico, rustico and damn good. I have and will continue to recommend it to anyone who will listen – or read. Analyn got a big platter of local Ticinese meats and I got polenta baked with fennel and mushrooms. Next time I’ll skip the fennel. We sat by the spring and cistern and watched kids and hikers stop by to play or drink. It was he purest, sweetest water I can remember in a long time.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day, literally and figuratively, was downhill as Analyn needed to pack for her flight the next day.

1 August - Cardada

Sunday August 1 was a big day for the Swiss. It’s the day Switzerland was founded. Every Swiss person was legally required to fly, hang, or wear at least 5 flags. It was like the 12^th of September 2001, only no one was rallying around George Bush. Despite the national theme, Analyn and I had only a local and a spiritual goal. Since I had failed to get Analyn real polenta last summer, I had to show her the real thing. Secondly, she had not yet been up to Cardada, the mountain across the lake from my house, above Locarno. She also wanted to go to church since it was Sunday. We had a plan to accomplish all our goals.

To get up to Cimetta, one needs to take the funiculare from Locarno up to Orselina, that’s only 10 minutes. From Orselina, you take the cable car up to Cardada at about 1000 meters. There we enjoyed the observation platform and I asked every employee in sight where the mass was. I got two “I have no idea” and two other answers that contradicted each other.

Then we rode the chairlift up to Cimetta. From there we walked down the hiking trail to an area called Alpe de Cardada, where I found us a mass. As my faithful readers know, I’m not big on masses, but this one was pretty cool. First, it was outside, in the shade of a huge cross. Secondly, it was on an Alpine peak over an amazing blue lake slithering off towards the Po plain. Finally, it was in Italian. I think all masses should have these three components. The paragliders were just gravy. When the proceedings got a little dull I simply watched them catch pockets of wind and float over, under, and around us like slow, silent, and very large bees that don’t sting.

Afterwards, we sat at the nearby restaurant where I had enjoyed polenta last summer with Radu et al – see prior blog. This stuff was autentico, rustico and damn good. I have and will continue to recommend it to anyone who will listen – or read. Analyn got a big platter of local Ticinese meats and I got polenta baked with fennel and mushrooms. Next time I’ll skip the fennel. We sat by the spring and cistern and watched kids and hikers stop by to play or drink. It was he purest, sweetest water I can remember in a long time.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day, literally and figuratively, was downhill as Analyn needed to pack for her flight the next day.

31 July Jungfrau

I had gone with Vikas and his parents to Grindelwald on 4 July, but we hadn’t made it all the way up to the Jungfraujoch. Jungfrau is, I think, the second tallest mountain in Europe. We had left the house at 6am and still did not have enough time to get up to the top since we had to be back for dinner with Marianne and Wälle. I figured that if Analyn and I did it over two days, we’d manage to get to the top.

We had chosen the perfect day – maybe one of the handful of days each year when there are no clouds in the high Alps. We took the train up to Kleine Scheidegg, which is as far as I got a month earlier with Vikas and his family. Then we transferred to another train that took us up, through the Eiger, to Jungfraujoch. Let me ‘splain for a second. Eiger is a huge mountain, recently featured in a film called “North Face” about the Japanese man and two Swiss guides who were the first to climb it about a hundred years ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is The North Face. The train, which was probably the offspring of at least one parent who was a funicular, went through the rock face of Eiger, occasionally stopping to let us climb out. Tunnels led us from the tracks to the actual face of Eiger where you could look out through windows at the towns clustered in the valleys below.

Jungfrau, of course, means virgin – probably a reference to the mountain’s snowy peak. But who knows what those old Swiss were really thinking. A joch is a yoke as the train lets out on a bridge, saddle, or yoke between Jungfrau and Mönsch (Monk). The three peaks are near each other in the same range, sibling mountains I guess you’d call them.

After disembarking, the crowds move along cold tunnels to elevators. It’s over 4100 meters, which, I think is well over 12,000 feet. I don’t recall ever having been so high, so I definitely felt a bit woozy. The elevators shot us up another 150m and then we were at the observation platform. If you’re not afraid of heights and are smart enough to have remembered your sunglasses, this is a great place. Unfortunately, I was blinded and clung to the railings.

For the people seeking adventure, there was zip lining, a glacier hike, and an ice cave filled with ice sculptures. They call Jungfraujoch “Top of Europe,” but they might as well call it top of the world. This artificial Alpine peak oasis may be the most international place in the world after Antartica. There were Chinese, Indians, Japanese, Americans, Middle Easterners, Americans and every type of European you could shake an icicle at. And they all wanted Swiss cowbells, plush St. Bernards, and postcards – or maybe a 8 franc half liter of Coke – it helps the world sing in perfect harmony. Anyway, it was a zoo.

Analyn wanted me to take a picture of her hugging Europe. It was a brilliant idea in concept, but a bit hard to execute.

We were due back in San Nazzaro for dinner, so we headed back to the train grudgingly. Little did we realize, however, that half the world also wanted to return down the mountain at the same time. We stood in a pushing crowd for 45 minutes waiting for a train. When we finally got one, it only had standing room. This train, for some reason, took twice as long getting down as the other one had taken going up. After walking around for a couple hours, then in the shoving line, and then trying to stand on a train going down inside a mountain, by the time we got to Kleine Scheidegg, we were pretty pooped. And then we still needed the other train to take us down to Grindelwald. Of course, that was all just a prelude to the three hour drive back home over the Sustenpass. We got back to San Nazzaro too late to properly enjoy Wälle’s amazing melted cheese dinner.

30 July Grindelwald

Last time we went to Interlaken, I took Analyn over the Furka and Grimselpasses, so, this time I took her over the Sustenpass. As you can see in the picture, the glacier on the top is dramatically smaller than it was six years ago when I first saw it. It used to almost reach the lake.

I also finally found the town where Marianne and Wälle used to live. They often referred to a town I thought they called “Wille.” I had never been able to find it so this time I got exact directions from Wälle. Sure enough, the town was right where he said it was, it was just called “Wyler.” Nice place, you should visit sometime.

Analyn was fascinated with Grindelwald. It is a cute town, if a bit touristy. She found us a very nice hotel, and, after sleeping on the too short bed in the studio for too long, it was great to be able to sleep. Plus it was kind of refreshing for it to get cold at night. For dinner we went whole hog on the Swiss experience. We followed up our fondue with cheese-covered potatoes and Cervelat and I got some hefeweizen. I slept like a stone.

29 July Torino

The first few days we were back inTicino, I had to focus on work. Stuff had piled up while I was away and it wasn’t clear how much I had before me. Most importantly, I had to find a new property manager. This required getting recommendations and then meeting new people. Also, I find that if I am around, guests have questions. These are usually the small questions they would never bother to call someone about. But, if I am there, they come up. Questions and requests lead to more work. First, I have to address the issue at hand. Then I have to design some system so the issue doesn’t arise when I am gone, or, if it does, that there is some response in place. I don’t mind the work, but the timing was unfortunate as it meant that Analyn and I were bound to the house for some time.

I had cooked up a scheme to go to Umbria. Analyn favorite wine comes from a small town there and they don’t export. Plus, Marianne had been talking about Orvietto, which is close by. I thought we could see both. However, I mistook my idea for Analyn’s and she informed me there were other things she preferred to see – Torino and Alps were among them. We consulted our handy dandy internet and found out the weather would be clear in the mountains over the weekend, and that we could get a steal on a hotel room in Torino Wednesday night. Guess what we did?

Torino is only a couple hours drive but I had never been there. I’m not so enamored of Milano, much to Analyn’s consternation, so Torino was a good choice. I knew two main facts about the city: it hosted the winter Olympics a few years ago, and it’s the fourth largest Italian city. Good enough for me!

Luciano’s navigation system led us right to our hotel with nary a misstep. Analyn was worried as we entered town because there was a lot of graffiti. I reminded her graffiti was an Italian word and that everything would be great soon. Mostly I was worried about the jerk on the right edging me out and the bastard on the left cutting me off. Big Italian city driving.

The hotel was perfectly nice and well worth the 100€. It was certainly not worth the 350€ they usually charge. Just don't fall in the shower.

We were right on the main artery separating old town from new town. We mostly walked around that day, getting a feel for the city. It was quite nice, prettier than Milano, but, let’s be honest, it was no Roma or Firenze. But, then again, how many places are? If you said two, then you are correct. If you said three and included Paris, you are also correct.

We grabbed some quick panini and reveled in the reasonable prices. Maybe they were about 3€ each and a .5L bottle of soda was like 2€. After Scandinavia and Switzerland, it was like the world was on sale. We saw the castle, the palace, the big fountains, the fancy shopping arcades (portici), and the less fancy arcades. We criss-crossed the entire citta vecchia and settled into a big empty square for dinner. I forgot what we had, but it was darn good, and seemingly cheap, especially spread out over antipasti, primi and secondi over nearly two hours.

Wednesday we tackled our specific goals. I wanted to see the Museum of Cinema and Analyn wanted to see this shroud thing. It’s supposedly the shroud in which Jesus was buried (I have my doubts) that is in the St. John the Baptist church in Torino. We had a hard time finding the church, and even a harder time finding the shroud. It seemed like there should be a line or something somewhere. We kept walking around the appropriate piazza, hoping to see a sign – more a man-made sign, but a divine sign would have helped too. Finally, frustrated, I asked a clerk at a museum. She told us the shroud was hidden and could only come out when the Pope said so – which was every ten years or so. Some kind of shroud I thought! It’s tough being Catholic. Analyn was really disappointed and we both wondered why it had never been mentioned that the shroud was not open to the public. Maybe they just keep it enshrouded in mystery.

The Museum did Cinema National was much more accessible. It’s located in the Mole something or other, the tallest brick building in the world. First we took a glass elevator to the top of the tower so we could have a good view of the city. The tower is more like a tall, skinny pyramid and the elevator went right up the middle – at a pretty good rate. It was actually kind of scary to be hurtling towards the pointed roof only to shoot through to the sunlight and observation platform above.

The view was outstanding. You can see the pictures. But the highlight of the adventure was a little boy who wore a shirt that said Standfor. I had to have a picture so Analyn tried to take one surreptitiously. But, by the fifth or sixth attempt, the boy and his friends were on to it and his friends continued to tease him by referring to Analyn as his Chinese girlfriend. Ironically, there was a woman also in line who I really think was Chinese. In fact, she probably still is.

The cinema museum was pretty good. The first floor was about the mechanical history and basis of cinema: moving images, projected lights, etc. The next floor walked the visitor through the various stages of making a film, using examples and exhibits from famous films as well as a dummy film they made on site. If you geek out about certain classic films, it was pretty interesting, but I can’t remember any of it now. The final floor had movie posters, which was amazing. They were mostly European films but a few classic and contemporary Hollywood films, and three Kurosawa films – mostly in Italian, but some in French, German and English. There was a walkway that went up the inside of the pyramid that hosted the primary exhibit: photos of Marlon Brando and Anthony Quinn. I skipped that part.

Those efforts took most of the day, so we piled back into Luciano and drove back home since we had another big travel day ahead of us on Friday. We managed to stop in Cannobio on Lago Maggiore, on the Italian side, before we got home. Much to Analyn's joy, there was a wine-tasting event at the Lungolago.

24 July Copenhagen Part III

On Saturday 24 July, we took my mother to the airport in Copenhagen to fly back to California. After tooling around Copenhagen aimlessly for a few hours, we flew to Malpensa. Ironically enough, the guide book that rules Analyn’s travel life insisted that Peder Oxe was the best place to eat in Copenhagen – exactly the same place I had chosen a few weeks earlier with Ingrid and Ina. So I ate there twice. Who needs a freaking guide book?

Although the weather had been cooling down to the low 20s, going to Italy shot it back into the low 30s again. I just realized this summer why, as a child, I learned both temperature scales, rather than learning the conversion formula. First off, 9/5 is a mess, and then you have to add 32. But, assuming 20 and 72 are about the same, they don’t feel the same. Europe is much more humid and the air is somehow more solid. A European 20 is much warmer and more comfortable than a Californian 72. A breeze could blow off the Pacific anytime and chill you right down. In Europe, that won’t happen. When I was telling Analyn, before she came, that it was really hot – over 30 – she just said “oh that’s only 84” or whatever it is. But, soon enough, she learned than over 30 is damn hot.

21 July Lergöksrundan

Ingrid and I convinced Analyn to participate in our Lergöksrundan ritual the next day. This involves renting bikes from the campground and then following signs for the Lergöksrundan. This is all in Ångelholm, the town where my grandparents retired, and where I spent half of my childhood summers. Ångelholm is known for their clay doves, called Lergöks. A rundan is a route or circuit. Thus, if one follows the Lergöksrundan, one gets a pretty good sense of the town from forests, residential areas, the hospital, the river, the beach, the city hall, etc. In short, its what anyone visiting Sweden would want to see. Plus, bike riding is cool!

Being intrepid travelers, we were unconcerned with the fact that I had no grip and essentially rode without being able to use my arms. Analyn’s bike seat was several centimeters too high so she had to jump every time we stopped. But we managed it all and had fun doing it. I stole some pictures from Analyn’s Facebook page.

It was good to get a chance to relax a bit in Sweden. We’d been on the go for awhile, despite being on a cruise, so it was pleasant to take things slow for a bit. I was able to go swimming a few times. Analyn and Ingrid were able to shop for clogs. We could watch the sun set at 10PM and catch up on all our favorite Swedish vices, like scraping Knäckebröd across a tub of butter.

Unfortunately the internet was a bit of a hassle. The manager of the hostel, Sven-Anders, has a wireless signal. Analyn and I were able to see the signal but not connect online. Sven-Anders is about 60 and has the tech skills of Portia so he didn’t really understand why I kept asking him to reboot the modem. I told him to unplug it and replug it in sixty seconds later. 15 seconds later he said he had. I was skeptical. He also seemed to confuse his computer and his modem, claiming the modem was only on while he was working. Funny thing was the signal was constant – even when he “turned it off.” Needless to say, we spent a fair amount of time hunting around for free wifi signals.