Check out the pictures too.
-Avram
"Never sacrifice a good story for the sake of the facts."
Mark F. Wood, 1998, 1st Lt, USAF
Interestingly, the one person who you would think would remember my birthday this and every year did not - me. I spent nearly 85% of this particular inaugural 24 hours fully conscious, and 100% of them oblivious to their significance. One thing is certain though: it didn't suck.
This one started getting interesting (tangentially of course) about a week and a half early. My six-month effort to plan & execute a "campaign" for the Laser 2 European Championship regatta had been cancelled because I couldn't find anyone to crew for me. A week before last Monday, it suddenly came back to life. A guy who I only met about 10 days before, and only briefly, did something that nobody else I had invited in the previous six months had done; realized that this idea of spending a week on a lake in the Alps of northern Italy, racing a 170 lb dinghy with a 19 ft rig, 234 sqft of sail area, a trapeze and a spinnaker against some of the best sailors in the world, was actually worth extending himself for.
Let me explain regatta starts. You have to "create a lane," so you'll have room to be on the line, and thus one of the first boats out, when the gun goes off. This means using your right-of-way (which changes every time you turn your boat, or another boat turns near you), to block of a section of water where other boats will fit (and desperately want to be), but aren't "allowed" to be, lest they contact you, and be penalized for causing a collision. It's a little strange when I stop and reflect that sailboat racing actually comes down to 50% sailing fast, and 50% making other boats nearly hit you when it would be (strictly as a matter of definition) "their fault," so that they will turn to avoid you, thus taking a (hopefully) longer course, and ending up behind you even if they were sailing faster. Playing the regatta right-of-way rules when every 10 seconds, another five boats come with in two feet of hitting you, in all directions, ducking away from those who have rights on you, and ordering those who don't to stay clear of you, is a fast and furious process - one that you can think about plenty after it's over, but not while it's happening. It's a lot like driving in Manhattan when it's not rush hour (when there is no wind, then it's like Manhattan in rush hour).
Normally I'd be stretched out grinning at the break-neck speed enjoying how cool this is, but this is different. Instead, Kevin's and my heads are spinning around like owls, with a dialog something like this (with Kevin still hanging from the wire, and yet another firehose off the starboard bow in my face: "KEVIN - GBR to the RIGHT! - we're gaining, careful of WIND SHADOW... AVRAM, watch Ireland below, they're heading us UP! KEVIN - can you see the mark? I think I'm too high! We gotta bear off, or we'll over-drive it! YEAH but we can't give up all the heat on this REACH! Look LOW - 10 O'Clock Nederlands' kite collapsed, they're in trouble! WHERE'S THE DAMEND MARK I CAN'T (SPHHHHGHGH - 2 gallons of water in my face - cough cough, spit, pththt) I can't see ANYTHING! OK, I've got the MARK it's just below 11 o'clock behind that Italy kite with white and pink! Ok, bearing off - WHY IS GBR gaining on us???!!! I don't know - $#!+ - the dagger board is still down - can you pull it up? At this speed - are you kidding me? Dude - look - there's still like 20 boats behind us!
We were probably going 20 miles an hour down that leg. Rounded that mark, and headed with the wind toward the third mark. This point of sail is a little slower, only about 15 mph, and with equal wind force on both sides of the boat, there's no need for the wire, so we're crouched into the center to keep the weight low and hopefully stable. Half way down the course leg we need to gybe - shift course, let the boom & main snap over to the other side, take the spinnaker pole off the starboard side of the kite, then off the mast, then put it on the port kite sheet, and finally back on the mast. We've only done this about 3 times before together, and never in this much wind. We talk it through and execute. Kevin throws the boom across - we get the expected snap and resulting acceleration, After that, it's anyone's guess what happened. All I know is he went this way, I went that way, the boat went the other way, and *smack* - we were probably still going 15 miles an hour when the tip of the mast hit the water.. Going from 15 to zero an a half a second while one of you is sideways, the other is upside down, and the whole boat is twisting out from under the 20-foot lever the masthead has created in the water is a rather unsettling experience.
Thursday and Friday were much less interesting, but still wonderful. Wind was very light (note - the pictures enclosed are from Thursday). We learned a lot from the other sailors about how to optimize the Laser 2's tune & rig. Everyone thought it was really cool that these two guys came all the way over from the states to race against them. The Irish were the most outgoing in welcoming us, and sort of took us in as their own when on land. Perhaps partly because one of their own talked me into this in the first place, perhaps partly because we all spoke English, but probably mostly because that's how the Irish are. We didn't have any impressive starts, partly because we were absorbing so much information on all this rig tuning that hour heads weren't fully in the game until after the start.
At the end of the day Friday, there is an awards ceremony. This starts with a video that had been compiled of some amazing footage everyone racing during the second and third days. It's mostly close-ups of different boats executing maneuvers, rounding marks, etc. There are lots of cheers when someone makes a good move, Ooohs when someone almost screws up, and jeers when someone does something that looks illegal. There was a great shot of a centerboard sticking straight up in the air, out of the bottom of a hull, and a couple guys floating next to it. Then later on, there's a shot of the same boat sideways, and a guy leaning back off of the board. Laser 2's all look about the same, but as the sails come out of the water, it hits me that we were definitely the only one of the 50 boats in this race whose spinnaker was white/teale/blue. I cringe, and desperately hope the video will fade to someone else before the inevitable happens, but no... it stays pinned to the boat as the rest of the sails come out of the water, and there it is, in black and white: USA 10166. I'm sure this one shot was twice as long as any other in the video...
Then they go on to the awards, and hand out trophies for 1st, 2nd, 3rd overall, and first in various categories. Kevin and I are well aware that while we did actually beat a couple other boats in two of the races, the only boat we finished ahead of overall was the one that was DSQ in the first three races, and then DNF for the rest of the series because they were expelled. So, much to our surprise, when there are two trophies left, our names are called. It is announced to everyone that we have received the Prix Speciale (special prize). We later learn that the decision had been made to give this prize to the team that came from the furthest away, but at the moment, we look at each other and silently wonder whether the Italians realize that "special" is the euphemism that Americans use to describe the class in school for children with learning disabilities. From then on, Kevin refers to our trophy as "the short bus award."
Since Verona is on the way to Venizio, we settled on the following plan: Go to Verona, and if traffic looks ok, keep going. We stopped at a cafe along the way for breakfast, and had cappuccino and prosciutto & cheese for breakfast. I was quite surprised to learn that so many Italians do not speak enough English for an American to get by. At least where we were, only one in ten were fluent, and only one in five could even get a couple of concepts across. At the club there was a lot of pointing. They know "sandwich," and birra (BEER-uh) sounds enough like beer, and we know cappuccino and brioche. But when it came time to say "Is it ok for me to leave my bags in this office here?", the result was 10 minutes wasted, and me dragging my bags elsewhere, wondering if they thought I was trying to sell them a vacuum cleaner.
I started studying Italian in April just so I could try out a bit of a foreign language. I didn't get to put as much time into it as I had hoped, but I did learn that it is a beautiful language to listen to and look at, and the words are very fun to say. Amongst my favorites are "la statzione ferroviara" and "andiamo." La STAT-see-oh-nay ferr-oh-vee-ARE-ia is train station, or railway station more literally (ferro means both "rail" and "iron"), and ahn-dee-AH-mo is "let's go". Breakfast at the cafe was interesting. Kevin doesn't drink coffee, and said he just wanted a glass of milk, and a croissant. I somehow knew that Europeans don't drink milk (it would be like us drinking cream). It's not that they'd take issue with him doing so, but I doubted we'd be able to get the concept across.
We had a little dictionary & phrase book, so I gave it a try. We said "latte" which contrary to the American interpretation, really just means milk. However, at a breakfast table in Italy, there's really only one thing anyone would ever do with milk, and that's put it in coffee. So, she brought him a cappuccino with a little pitcher of milk. We chuckled a little, and Kevin remembered me saying "cappuccino non sucre." (without sugar). So, he tried saying "No, latte non cafe." She made an unusual sound which indicated confusion, and tilted her head, so I said "Una bicchiere da latte" (beek-e-air-uh, like "beaker" is a glass, or so the phrasebook claimed). She said "Ah, si." She came back with a large piping hot pitcher of the steamed & foamed milk that you put in espresso to make it cappuccino. We decided to quit while we were ahead, lest we end up with a live cow at our table. It turned out that the steamed milk was quite delicious, especially considering that absolutely nobody involved ever dreamt someone would drink such a thing by itself.
We stopped to get bottled water in a town about 1/3 of the way there. On line in the supermarket, we met a woman from Chicago, who lived locally. We bounced the idea of driving to Venizio during the holiday off of her, and she said, oh, no, the drive will be miserable, and the parking will be impossible and expensive. Why don't you just take the train? We decided that was an awesome idea - no traffic jams, no getting lost, and we get to chill and watch the countryside. We were close to Brescia (BREH-shee-ah), a town with a stazione ferroviaria, so we set out for it. We were hoping there would be signs for it right from the highway, but no such luck. We took a few guesses, ended up here there and everywhere, and decided to pull into a gas station for directions.
We stopped in front of an Audi RS4, which is something I never thought I'd see - it's an $80,000 version of my car that has 380 horsepower, and does 0-60 mph in 4 seconds. Only 2,700 were made (all station wagons actually, and only sold in Europe). But, being late for Venizia, I was more concerned with figuring out how to get directions. I didn't expect anyone there to speak English (and I wasn't disappointed 8-). I said "Parle Inglessi? (Ah - No.) Dove e la stazione ferroviara?" Hand gestures helped, but amazingly, in short order, I was able to make out "make a U-turn, go over the hill, turn right at the third traffic light, and take your third left."
Faulty execution led us to need an update, and we were quite fortunate to run into three very friendly and beautiful Italian women, from whom to request it. I realized that I was actually pretty psyched when people didn't speak English because I really liked putting these sentences together and pronouncing them. But I also learned that asking the perfect question doesn't help much if you don't understand a word of the answer. Thanks to the gas station attendant's hand gestures, I now knew that "semaphore" is traffic signal, diendre is right, and sinestra is left (the latter two being words I had forgotten from 8th grade Latin class - Sorry Mr. Kohler...)
When I got to the window, I said "Due biglietti per Venizia e reterna, per favore." The man grumbled, took my credit card, and gave me the tickets. Then I said "Una oraria, per favore?" He gave me a funny look so I tried a little harder to roll all those r's (Italians must have strong tongues), and he barked "Speake Eengleesh!" So I said "Could I have a timetable please." (Sheesh!). He knew damned well what I was saying, he just wanted to make it clear he felt I was butchering his language (and Ferrante had even told me my accent was good 8-(.
We found the train, and an extremely friendly conductor explained a lot of things about the train we never would have figured out, including not charging us a penalty for failing to get our tickets "stamped" by some machine which we had no reason to know existed. He also confirmed for us that the last train back from Venizio was at 9pm, arriving in Brescia at about 11pm.
It is hopeless to try to describe Venizia any further. You see pictures, and they are pretty. But you don't realize that it's like that continuously, for miles and miles of sidewalks, roads, and alleys. All I can say is this: If you have never been there, stop reading right now, and go. Find a friend, pick a date when you can find a decent plane ticket into Milano, and don't look back. Stay elsewhere if cost is an issue. Don't get a rental car even if cost is no object, just take the train from Milano. Don't think of it as being a big and complicated ordeal; you don't have to plan anything; just get over that, get your passport updated, and get there. If you're still afraid then give me a call & I'll go with you. Planning is unnecessary because nothing you can do in Venizia will fail to be the most amazing time you ever had in your entire life.
We were starving, but didn't want to spoil dinner (it was about 4pm). So we found a little cafeteria, and I had a half pepperoni-salad sandwich (like chicken salad, but with pepperoni instead), and a half a crabmeat salad sandwich. Both were delicious, the pepperoni was quite spicy. Suddenly, it occurred to me what pepperoni actually means - pepper sausage. How on earth I got through seven years of college and grad school, and five years in the Air Force, without that ever crossing my mind, is beyond me. Kevin looked up on the wall, and pointed out that there was a photograph of Grand Central Station, and another of Chicago. The irony was unbearable.
I checked my voice mail to see if my mom returned my email where I asked her for suggestions for what type of wine she'd like me to find her. I specifically instructed her to respond via voice mail because, well, I was in Italy, and wouldn't easily be able to check email. She hadn't responded, and we came across an internet cafe. Although the idea of spending one second on the web while in Venizia disgusted me, I decided it was for a good cause. True to form, my mom only read the parts of the email that interested her, and had responded via email. We got our shopping done, and had a wonderful meal under the Rialto. You see that word here & there in the states, used as names for various things. I've always wondered what it meant. In Italian, it means either "hill" or "rise." It turns out it's also the name of a specific footbridge over the water in Venizia that is unusually high (for a footbridge), and has a "spectacular view" (which I quote because in Venizia, there are no views that are not spectacular). I propose to Kevin that perhaps every time you see that word, maybe this is exactly what it is referring to.
Eventually, we learn there is a train later for Nizzi (Nice, France) that stops in Brescia, and leaves at 10:42pm. It arrives in Brescia at 1:15 am (it's a local). Yes, that's right, this is after the garage will be closed, where all of our luggage, rental car, and passports are. And we have an 8am flight home from Milano, which is 90 minutes from Brescia, and you *really* do have to be two hours early for an international flight (we saw the lines at security and customs on our way in). And Kevin has already thrown Hasbro for a loop by taking a week off with only 4 days notice (Kevin is a mechanical engineer who designs toys, by the way), and I have nobody to cover me at Bloomberg on Monday, and it's going to cost us $150 each to change our return flights, and we'll have to find another hotel (during Italian holiday). But at least I'd get to go shopping in Milano...
So, I set off on one of my classic problem solving adventures. Options:
1) Rent a car to get to the rental car 2) Check bus schedules to see if they happen to be more optimal for us 3) Call the garage or polizia (police) in Brescia to see if they can leave a gate open for us 4) Take a taxi (Yikes!) 5) Hitchhike (Double-yikes!) 6) Accept it, and spend the night & another day in Venizia and Milano
Complicating factors: The ferrovia information desk is closed, and oh by the way - NOBODY SPEAKS ANY ENGLISH!!! Ok, not quite nobody, but you're getting the idea.
We run into a group of five English speakers who have a similar problem - they want to get all the way to Milano, and the train they were expecting wasn't there either (somehow they had made a different mistake than us, but with the same effect). Now splitting a rental car is starting to make sense, b/c they could just continue to Milano, and return it at the airport, and then Kevin and I wouldn't have to deal with returning it in a small city, and finding the agency.
Well, the Venizia rental car agencies closed at 9pm, and it's now about 9:15. Of course it takes more phrase-booking, hand gesturing, and bystanders to work this out. I work my way to the bus station, and there are no more buses to Brescia tonight. A taxi would be 300 Euro (dollars are about the same). We never really seriously consider hitchhiking, although the concept is brought up half in jest, more than once. So, I set about finding the phone number for the polizia or garage in Brescia. You would think this wouldn't be a show-stopper.
There is no indication on the payphones of a way to call for information in Italy. Furthermore, there does not even seem to be a way to get an operator. I try calling AT&T and asking for international information. After 20 minutes of different offices transferring me to one another, and telling me my calling card won't let them transfer me to information, I finally get customer service to cut through the red tape, and get transferred to information.
"AT&T Information, how may I help you?" "Hello, I need information in Italy." "Ok, I'd be happy to help you. What state is that in?"
Suffice it to say, as far as I can tell, there is no such thing as telephone information, or operators for that matter, in Italy. Now the train for Brescia is leaving, so we board, and I borrow a cell phone from some English speakers we met, and try to call Ferrante to learn how to, or get him to, find the number for la polizia de Brescia (or the garage). I dial, and receive an explosion of automated, female voiced, Italian, which I can only assume means that his phone is off at the moment. So, I call up my buddy Marcus (in Ireland - time zones work in my favor this time), the international Laser 2 class president, asking him to bail me out. He finds the number on the internet, and calls me back with it. I call the polizia (much later on, it becomes apparent that the burst of syllables actually said "You moron, you're dialing an area code for a number that's in the same area code as you," so for all I know, Ferrante was sitting there next to his phone, ready to solve the whole problem for me).
We arrive in Brescia, verify that our car is plainly visible, and yet completely inaccessible, and the garage is desolate. We go through a similar "Parle Inglesi" exchange at the polizia ferroviaria, this time in person. We begin to noitce that the second most common answer is "A little." We explain the situation. He suggests that you can get into the garage with the ticket that the machine gave us when we entered. Well, there was no mention of this anywhere (and the garage signs were all in both Italian and English). Genius - our ticket is in the car... which is in the garage, etc... He suggests we walk around the outside of the garage looking for "a man." I think he just meant "someone." Before commencing this fruitless search, we go back to the door of the garage to verify that there is in fact a slot near it (with no signs or other indications of what it is for). We start off around the building, and I say "Hmm... I wonder if a bank card would work..."
We go back to the door, and I deliberate for a second or two on whether it is a worse idea to stick an ATM card or a credit card into the slot next to a door to a garage in Italy. I decide on my ATM card. I swear I hear the "slurp" sound from that National Geographic special where that frog-like lizard snags a bug from a branch from about 2 feet away with just his tongue, and my card vanishes. A moment later, there is a buzz, the building spits out my card, and we're home free. I can't wait to seem my bank statement.
Being utterly exhausted, it still takes us 20 minutes to figure out how to get out of the garage without an attendant. Worse yet, it takes us another hour to figure out how to get to the correct autostrada from the ferrovia. Note that we were less than a mile from it, we just incorrectly ruled out the one entrance ramp that we needed (because it listed several towns that were east, and we needed to go west). We passed it about 15 times in favor of others that we weren't sure were wrong. Signage is inconsistent in Italy.
One thing that's interesting to point out is that a lot of things that went right could have gone wrong, but one or the other of us inadvertently noticed details or pieces of information at just the right time, and mistakes were narrowly avoided. It's interesting because at no one point was a single one of us even halfway close to having a complete clue as to how to accomplish most of the things we were doing. Getting through the airport is about the only thing we had advance knowledge of how to do. Outside of that, we missed more mistakes than we made, by factors of seconds or meters, and it was absolutely a team effort. Either of us would have been exactly twice as screwed if we had been there own our own.
Things go reasonably well in l'aereoporto, and once l'aereo is in flight, I sit down to write this account. I talk a girl into switching seats with me because hers has laptop power and mine doesn't. She goes off to sit with Kevin ("Uh... is she cute?" He asks, - "actually, yes."), and I fire up my iBook, plug it into the arm-rest power outlet, and see the date. 7/28/2002. The date rings a bell, and then it hits me - yesterday was my birthday.
"Hey Avram - What'd you do for your birthday?"
"I went to Venice."