Janina Speaks Out

This is Janina V., an architect from Bratislava, as I met her at the archaeological site of Palmyra,  in Syria, about nine years ago. Janina was super-excited - this was the high-point of her Middle-East trip. There is a reason she did not want to show her face ... read on and all will be revealed. In the morning she took a quick breakfast early, packed lunch and plenty of water, grabbed her notebook and camera and made for the main entrance. Janina's plan was to see everything, take lots of pictures and chat with people to exchange impressions, ideas and compare knowledge. She was climbing a small hill with interesting looking columns when she saw a large black car stopping and three local people climbing out: the one in the middle seemed important. When he approached, they started talking while the other two burly and serious looking men stood respectfully back. His name was Sheikh Rashid al Hussaini, he spoke good but heavily accented English, a businessman from Damascus, who stopped to see what the big deal was with these ruins (he had no idea of history). When he heard that she's from Bratislava, he told her that he'd been in her town, one of his companies imports furniture made there. He said: "Nice city, lots of pretty women." Janina, proud of her hometown, protested saying that there is much more to the city than "women" to which the Shiekh dismissively replied: "Not for me, and women are women, right?" Janina became upset and said that women deserved respect, after all, "You were born from a woman". The Sheikh, looking angry, raised his voice and said: "You are not to mention my mother!" The two bodyguards moved in closer and before Janina could continue, I grabbed her hand saying that we must catch our bus and pulled her down the hill and into my van. We drove downtown, Janina seething and red in the face shouting "male chauvinism" and "sexism" and I saying "different culture" and "take it easy" none of which seemed to have an effect on her. We found an Internet Caffee where we had sweet mint tea and Janina sent her mom a very long email.       

Nicoleta Nicolotti

This is Nicoleta Nicolotti (23) as I met her at the ancient church of San Trovaso in Dorsoduro, Venice sitting in front of the West facade. San Trovaso is strange (even by Venetian standards) having two almost identical facades to accommodate equal access to the church by the famously violent factions of the Nicoletti and the Castellani (feud documented all the way back to the first Dodge Ziani's time, in the twelfth century). Each of the groups was ready and willing to start a fight with at any, even so slight excuse, but there would be no fighting in the church, so two separate entrances were built. Nicoleta told me that there is really no saint called San Trovaso, Venetians made it up by squishing two or three saint's names (like they did with Zanipolo), but this is where she was baptised, had her first communion and this is where she planned to marry Ciccio Grassetti and, in time, have their kids baptised too. Nicoleta told me that Ciccio's family was from Cannaregio, parish of Madonna dell'Orto, and thus, theoretically, a Castellano, and she had not yet brought up the subject of which church they'll have the ceremony at, was actually afraid to do so. "What if he doesn't want San Trovaso?" she asked me. I said: "C'mon girl, this is 2016, are you kidding me? You love each other and will find a way".  She sighed a desperate, deep heartbreaking sigh and said: "How little you know of Venice". I took her for coffee and a pastry at Tonolo's, by San Pantalon.

Angela und Helmuth

These are Angela (48) and Helmuth Kleingräber (52) from Groß-Bremerhaven sharing an apparently quiet and dreamy moment at the Starbucks in the departure lounge at Heathrow. They flew in from Kuala-Lumpur and are waiting for their flight to Bremen. I said quiet and dreamy moment, but that's not so: they just dead tired and that is why they stopped fighting ... read on to see what this is all about. Helmuth is a teacher and volunteer to teach teachers to teach, he travels on his off-time for "Teachers Across Borders" since way back in 2000 when it was launched. As very publicly the awards and citations grew and his fame increased, so also surged hushed rumours and whispers of young women and girls who dealt with teacher-H. Management considered suspending him risking to send the rumour mill into overdrive and more questions to be asked. Eventually, after many a quiet word with embarrassed "victims", it was decided to keep teacher-H, but keep him on a short leash called Angela who was to accompany teacher-H on all his future assignments. A slap on the wrist, you think ... true, but the slap was on uncontrollably wandering, fidgeting, touchy hands! A whitewash, you believe ... true, but a scandal would have damaged the reputation of this venerable NGO cutting or limiting its funding and stopping it from doing so much good ... A true, oh so Catholic, compromise. Ask yourself: what would you have done? And don't say "castrate the bastard", share your opinion in the comment section if you wish ...

Selda, Yana, Saya and Lava

I met these four lovely ladies on the 19th of October 2009 at the Great Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, in Syria. They are, from left to right, Selda - soft and quiet, Yana, her daughter - happy and chatty, Saya, older sister to Selda and aunt to Yana - distant and dignified, and Lava, younger sister to Selda and equally aunt to Yana - friendly but sad. We had a great time although my very poor Arabic wasn't much better than Yana's rudimentary English and the conversation consisted mostly of pointing to things, rolling our eyes, smiling a lot and nodding enthusiastically. The most frequently used word was "Canada", we said it 18 times followed by "Jameel" (Arabic for beautiful) which was said twelve times linked to Damascus, Syria and the Mosque itself. Today, nine years later to the day, I wonder desolately what became of my lovely, soft, quiet, happy, chatty, distant, dignified and friendly but sad Syrian friends ... Sadly, we know what happened to Syria, Damascus and the Mosque, it is all over the news, as Dylan would say it is "Only a Pawn in their Game".

Daniela Mortoni

This is Daniela Mortoni (32) from Padova, as I met her on the marble steps of Santa Maria della Salute. We walked a minute to the Dogana da Mar at the tip of Dorsoduro, her favourite thinking spot, and sat looking out onto the Bacino. Daniela told me her story. She is five eleven (1,80 m) and weighs 120 pounds (54 kg) of which she proudly says zero grams fat. She works out six times a week: three days Yoga and three days Judo. The reason she only agreed to the picture you see here for her blog entry will become clear if you read on. Daniela graduated from the University of Bologna and did quite well a few years as a consultant until about four month ago when she applied for a job at RetSoca, a local Internet Start-up specializing in retail support and famous for being profitable from day one. Her interview with Paolo Taglianini, founder and CEO, went so well that he offered on the spot a generous package with signing bonus, car allowance and profit sharing. He said "Welcome to be part of a very select and unique group: people who do exactly as I want." She started the next day as Chief Statistical Analyst and proved of great value to the company. The evening before we met, Daniela was working late on a report for "Esselunga SpA", one of their major clients, when Paolo walked into her office with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and two glasses in his hands and a grin on his face "Congratulations for concluding your probation, let's drink to that". After a few sips, Paolo got up from his chair and walked around Daniela's desk coming up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and whispered in her ear "Remember the very select and unique group of people and what they do?" while sliding his hand down her blouse. Daniela froze for half a sec but then instinct and muscle memory took over: she threw up both her arms hands griping Paolo's back of the neck, lowered her right shoulder and pulled forward while pushing herself up: a perfect Morote Seoinage from sitting. Paolo crashed on her desk in front of her destroying the company's laptop and two perfectly chilled glasses of wine. Daniela walked to the door past the miserable bastard lying there whizzing blood on his breath and made two calls from the receptionist's phone: 113 for the police and 118 for an ambulance. She spent the night being interrogated by a bullying and very aggressive detective who, at dawn, told to go home but advised her that she will be charged with aggravated assault and cautioned not to leave the city. Daniela walked directly to the railway station and took the first train to Venice to go and sit on the Dogana da Mar steps looking out onto the Bacino. I took her hand and told her that everything will be alright.

Gisella Czitrom

This is Gsella (Gizi) Czitrom (23) from Sieghartskirchen, Austria, a village about 35 km West of Vienna as I met her on the Nr. 2 tram, getting off at Weihburggasse. We went for coffee at the Leibsteinsky on Schubertring and she told me her story (both shocking and stupefying as it was). Her grandfather, Karl Linzer, was found on the church steps by the cleaning lady who came to unlock on January 28th 1961, just before six AM. He was naked, severely hypothermic with no knowledge of who he was and how he got there.  Dr Kerbl examined him, he was perfectly healthy, no signs of external trauma but under total amnesia. All attempts to joggle his memory failed. Father Czonka decided to call the stranger Karl (St. Karl was on January 28th in the Catholic calendar) last-name Linzer (the address of the church is Linzerstrasse 2). Karl was fluent in German, Catalan, Celtic, Bulgarian and Italian, he was a hard worker with talents to fix anything mechanical, would never eat meat and had a beautiful tenor voice. After  Karl lived about six months in the church basement, he started dating Margit Czitrom, the young woman who found him, a refugee from Hungary's 1956 anti-communist revolt. They got married later the same year and took the family name of Czitrom living in the little cottage belonging to the church for a while until they obtained a small house with a garden from the community. That is where their son Alexander was born, he was to become Gizi's father. A couple of months before I met Gizi, in the morning of January 28th, Karl went to sit on the church steps where he was found all those years back; it was a yearly exercise originally recommended by Dr Kerbl, long since retired. Suddenly, his face lost all expression, his eyes glazed over and he said "rózsabimbó". He never uttered another word since that time; he just sits, he just stares, he just eats, he just sleeps.

Sasha and Shura

These are Alexandra (Sasha) and Alexandra (Shura) Zhukow, I met them at the dry-cleaner on Nevsky, close to the Mayakovskaya Metro Station they own and operate. They were also the most formidable and successful cellist mother-daughter team in recent Russian music history. Sasha started playing the cello at age six and developed into an exceptional musician ... so when her daughter Shura turned six she taught her too. Everybody knew what a great success Sasha was: that she was in the Menshnikov Quartet and played first-cello in the "Leningrad Philharmonic" and that she was given the use of the "1748 Count Berezin Domenico Montagnana" cello and that the great Shishkin composed a cello suite for her. What nobody knew is what price Sasha was demanded to pay ... the how/when and with whom remained her horrible secret for a long, long time. Shura, at eighteen, won the prestigious Shishkin Annual Best New Cellist (prize that Sasha won herself at her time) and enrolled in the Conservatory. The work was hard, the hours were long, but Shura was doing fabulously. One evening, about two years and a half ago, Shura came home very happy and excited and told her mom that Gherghidanov named her third-cello in the orchestra for the North-American tour and will record the Glinka CD for Sony Music, she will make serious money. The next evening she was to go and see Gherghidanov at his house to discuss details. 

It came as a huge surprise to everybody when the next day Sasha retired from all musical activities, sold "Count Berezin" for 850,000 Euros and bought the dry-cleaner. Shura was devastated but after a night-long and tear-filled discussion with her mom decided to join her in the new business so she never has to tell her own daughter how she too (me too) made her career.

Sasha and Shura now sometimes busk playing cello duos for fun on cheap Chinese cellos from Amazon.  

Tanya Berevina

This is Tatiana Ivanovna Bervina, a young, very talented but badly struggling writer whom I met in the St. Petersburg subway (they call it Metro). She got on at Vladimirskaya station, closest to the "Elite Supermarket" at 20 Lomosova Street where she works as a cashier, to go home (getting off at Pionerskaya) but had to change lines at Spasskaya. Tanya was tired of being a cashier, tired of sending her short stories to magazines and publishers, tired of never hearing back from them but she was never tired of writing; she told me that writing is like brushing your teeth: you must do it every day no matter how tired you are!

She shared a story, and as she spoke, the look on face gradually confirmed the identity of the main character:
An aspiring young poetess, after reading a few poems at the monthly literary forum housed by the Secondary School #311, on Belgradskaya Street, was approached by a tall handsome young guy who showered her with compliments and praise. He turned out to be Vasiliy Vsevolod, one of the assistant editors at Nasha Literatura who offered his enthusiastic help and unlimited support. She was so happy, practically beside herself, giggling uncontrollably. They left together at about nine-thirty when Vasiliy asked if she would tell him more of her body of work at a nearby pub. They talked about their heroes, she: Akhmatova, he Brodsky, both: Yesenin. It was getting late and he called a cab. When the taxi arrived Vasiliy, gave the driver his address, put his arm around her shoulders and tried to steer her into the car. She pulled back and kicked him viciously in the shin under the sudden realization that he was interested in her body, not body of work. Three things came to a sudden stop: a pleasant evening, the hope of quitting "Elite Supermarket" soon and any hope of ever publishing at Nasha Literatura.
When Tanya finished her story her eyes were even more tired. I looked at her and said in my best Vysotsky imitation: "Dasvidaniya Tanya"

Mr. Schiller

This is F. Schiller (28), whom I never met at "Milano Centrale" on Friday, August 10th, 2018 at 5:45 AM. F. was born and raised in Weimar where, from an early age, he showed a propensity for screwing up and getting into troubles of ever-increasing severity. He quit school at fifteen and hang out downtown mostly up to no good. That made him a frequent visitor of that nice, tall, white-washed Jugendstil building at 13 Markt, the central police station. Some of these interviews continued in front of a judge and were followed by stays in various Juvenile detention centres (where he was a waste of rehabilitation effort). By the age of 21, he'd already spent three years "inside" - mostly for theft and never for anything violent. F. was after-all very nice and gentle who abhorred brutality, who talked and joked with you, bought you a drink and then rob you. Weimar, Germany gradually became less than his favourite place on Earth and he drifted slowly Southward where Italy waited for him with open arms: better weather, many careless tourists with expensive cameras, fat wallets and heavy backpacks and most importantly a totally incompetent and inefficient police of lazy dudes, not always very bright. So, coming back to the fateful 45th minute of the fifth hour of the tenth day of the eighth month of the 2018th year when F. slipped away with my backpack, inside the laptop, the tablet, the camera and sundry items. And that is how I met Andrea Improta (did not give me his rank) at the police station the quintessential Italian policeman fitting the description advanced above. Andrea spent a vast portion of our quality time trying to convince me that I can file a police report when I get back to Toronto ... he even showed me how slow his computer was saying that it will take hours and I'll miss my train.  He was right, in fact, I missed the next TWO trains but boarded the third train with a copy of the "Attestazione Della Ricezione Di Denuncia"| that he produced in slow and careful, hit and miss, two finger-search-helicopter style typing interrupted occasionally by colleagues who would open the door grin and say something to Andrea (must've something been funny because the staff-room would immediately erupt in hollers and laughter) ...
Somewhere close by, F. was wondering if the laptop and tablet are password-protected (they were).

Claudio and Gloria

These are Claudio and Gloria as I met them in the Galleria d'Italia and the reason they do not look as happy as they used to look is that Claudio just told Gloria he'll leave her for someone else. Gloria keeps asking him when did he even meet or found "someone else" ... like it mattered. He is bored and flustered and ashamed and wants to leave she is clinging and the entire situation is, frankly, embarrassing. As any good Italian Catholics, when they "find themselves in times of trouble", they turned to prayers ... Gloria prayed to Santa Caspetina di Falliubro (patron saint of broken-and-then-mended hearts) asking to be bound to Claudio forever, who in turn asked San Sidonio delle Proscuttini to help him say that he's going to go and let him be away. Major clash of prayers-come-true due to the well-documented animosity between the two above-named Saints: the two lovers though, each got what they asked for (kind of, more like were punished for not making a better effort to get along) ... they are together in a corner of a picture imprisoned in a 38-second repeating Aornis time-loop: it starts with Claudio mumbling his "Adieu" and slowly turning to leave, Gloria gasping and bringing her hand first to her breast and then up to cover her mouth (for her, a habitual gesture, for Claudio, a peasant woman's action) and it ends abruptly by jumping to the beginning. Thing is ... they do not realize "they are just prisoners here, of their own device" until it rewinds and starts all over again. I cannot imagine anything more frustrating. Who would come up with such an idea ... maybe Saints who can afforde to make up mind viruses? 

Aarohi Marjawani

This is Aarohi Marjawani, as I met her a few weeks ago in Florence, she is from Bhubaneshwar and lives now in Berlin. I wish I could, but I cannot say something very nice about her, but neither can I say something very bad. As she told me her story, it turned out it was mostly "just right". She was married to a very talented sculptor who used to beat her badly when he was drunk and used to apologize and promise never to do it again when he was sober. The problem was, of course, he was more often drunk than sober.  Aarohi left him and separated from him legally a few months later. Three things happened another few months later: the artist, to the sorrow but not to the surprise of the art world died, the price of his art shot through the roof, a bunch of creditors, among which the taxman, claimed very large sums of money. The gallery called her saying that all the art in their custody is in her name not as an heir but as an owner (the gallery and the artist were running some tax fraud)  and Aarohi, being legally separated, can tell all creditors to go to hell. She kept a few pieces and sold everything for a surprisingly huge amount. She always wanted long flowing wavy blond hair so she went to had it done, what she got (due to her natural black hair color), was a head of tangled mess of bright orange, which she cut off (the hair, not the head). She had breast enlargement and then had it reversed, then she had breast reduction which she then had also reversed and when she went back to her surgeon he asked if she knew what she wanted, she said she wanted it "just right" ... he told her she just had "just right" and threw her out. Aarohi recently bought an apartment on Dreibärenstraße, in Pankow and is happy.

Chicago

This is Chi-Cago (Italian Domestic Longhair aged five) as we met it in the garden of the Palazzo Pitti, playful, delightful, a perverted predator strolling, laying in the sun during days and hunting small rodents, reptiles, and insects at night. Chi, of course, would just kill, not eat its prey, as caretakers fed all the park's cats twice a day. Chi was very quiet, almost never making a sound, but when it did, it was the sweetest and purest and most melodious a creature could produce. Evidently, there is a story behind the almost-mute Chi: many, many, many, years ago Chi's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, a skilled hunter as well, lived in the small town of Cremona in the household of one Antonio, a luthier by trade. That forefather cat also had the voice of an angel but he used it often to the delight of all. Antonio, a very skilled artisan with a scientific curiosity, obsessed about the origin of the cat sound, decided to examine it further; the investigation was highly invasive and fatal (for the unfortunate cat). He was convinced it must be the intestines, so he cleaned them and cleaned them again and dried them and spun them and used them on his latest creation: a very handsome dark-yellow violin. It was a hit, the sound was amazing, people fainted, violinists fought each other to buy it ... Antonio was beaming, when asked about his secret he would mumble about wood, lacquer, talent, etc. The same night, the female cat of the house ran to the river and jumped on a barge going away to anywhere. Unbeknownst to Chi (although cats know everything), technology evolved and these days, "no animal had to suffer ... " but Chi keeps mostly Stumm just the same.

Carmen and Pietro

These are Carmen and Pietro as I met them the other day at the Galleria d'Italia, in Milan. The story is actually Carmen, Pietro is just the "vittima innocente": when two and a half month ago Pietro was transferred from the Pavia office to Milan and Carmen saw him, she decided she wanted him (in a major way). Grapevine query came back negative (which is positive): straight and single. She had a long (Chardonnay fueled) strategy sessions with her friend Nicolosia and decided to treat Pietro with studied, cold and calculated ignorance and reel him in. It did NOT work at all, he ignored her right back for weeks. After more Chardonnay, they decided on an attacking approach (with escalation): every time she saw him she would smile broadly and cheerfully and say "Ciao Piero" (deliberately using the wrong name to provoke interaction). Promising results: they went from Ciao to short chat ... and then Carmen escalated to all-out offense: anything Pietro said she would giggle and play with her hair, also she would blatantly time her checkout/check-in to match his and catch the same elevator. Eventually, on a Wednesday, Pietro caved: on Friday, he said, he is going to this art opening and would she like to go? Carmen almost fell off the floor but played it cool and said "Yes ... (giggle-giggle) ... that sounds ... (twirl lock with right thumb around pointing finger) ... great!" Chardonnay and Nicolosia decided on the dress ... Carmen's original proposal bright orange very tight and very short was voted down as too slutty. From what I saw, it is wooooor-kiiiing! 

Edna Manghi

This is Edna as I met her many years ago, a totally delightful girl if there ever was one, with a sharp wit and a wonderful sense of humor, she would excel at anything she'd do. After highschool, she opted for a medical career and when she finished the arduous and lengthy training she became a top surgeon respected (and envied) for her knowledge and skills. She decided to leave her native Armenia and settle with her family in the wild, wild west: Texas where she soon found fortune and fame, as she found everywhere her fate took her next. After a great run at the professional life, a well deserved, maybe a little reluctant, retirement beckoned and Edna continued passions she started: painting, pottery, mosaics, travel and such. One early summer evening sitting with a glass of wine looking at those beautiful trees and the rising moon above, an idea that kept going through her mind for a while trying to coalesce, suddenly appeared with the clarity and sharpness of the crystal:  she knew then and there that any choice she'd had  made, any alternate way or road "not taken" would've got her exactly where she is now ... she took a long pull of her drink and sighed ... she happy!

Pia and Andrea

These are Olimpia (Pia) and Andrea as I met them the other day on the steps of the ancient church of Santo Spirito in Florence. They sat there for half an hour, at least, making out energetically, enthusiastically but with sweet tenderness (nevertheless). Little did they know what the day will bring ... but I will tell you what will happen: after a while, they will get up and stroll down via Sant'Agostino towards San Frediano, on the way Andrea will buy a  light-orange, low-cut (front and back) dress for Pia from one of those open stands (because it will cling to her slender hips) and then they will go to Trattoria I'raddi on via D'Ardiglione. They will have a great dinner: they will share the antipasti misti and then Pia, before the primi arrive, will go to the washroom with the plastic bag and will change into her new dress. When she will return to their table, the dining room will hush in awe ... it will look like the dress moves by itself with a naked Pia inside; but in a minute, diners will turn back to their plates, as food cures envy (for ladies) and lust (for men). Pia will have Penne all' arrabbiata and  Andrea will have the Pan-seared gnocchi with Sage. Her main course will be Branzino with Basil, Lime, and Ginger and his, Bistecca Fiorentina (quite rare). They will have three glasses of wine each (Pia - white, Andrea - red) and will share a zucotto and have caffè with Limoncello (she) and with Grappa (he). They will leave the restaurant for the bar down the street for a bottle of Prosecco and live music and then to the bar around the corner, near Ponte Alla Carraia, for scotch (con ghiaccio).  In a while, they will turn to the bridge, she will say something and he will say something and she will slap him and will throw the plastic bag at him and turn and run across the Lungoarno, directly into the path of a taxi traveling at a great rate of speed. There will be a horrible breaking noise and screech of tires but, luckily no BUMP! The taxi will slow down and seeing no harm done, will go on. Andrea will run to Pia sitting on the pavement and hug her (she will hug him back) and kiss her (she will kiss him back) and they will sit there for half an hour, at least, making out energetically, enthusiastically but with sweet tenderness (nevertheless).

Linda Gervais

This is Linda Gervais (19), from Hoheburg, Amberg-Sulzbach in Bavaria, as she was busking (without a license) in Piazza di Santo Stefano, just off Ponte Vecchio, in Florence, the other day. Some of her friends call her "Linda Gaprindashwilli", she is 5'8" (170 cm), weighs exactly 100 pounds (45 kg), makes everything she plays on her guitar sound like bosa nova, wants bigger breasts and until a year ago won every chess tournament she ever entered: school-district, county, Land, and the German Women's National title. We talked about music and art, she likes Mario Sironi and when I said he is an idiot who cannot make up his mind if he wants to be de Chirico or Morandi, Linda threw her beer at me. We started to laugh, kissed and made up and decided to tell each other three things we never told anybody else. Linda told me that (1) I don't have to be beautiful to turn her on, (2) I don't have to be rich to be her girl and (3) there ain't no particular sign I have to be more compatible with. I put this all through the smoke rings of my mind and said to her that (1) her breasts are just fine, (2) eat more carbs, girl and one more thing that I now forgot. We talked until two. And then she said, "It's time for bed".

Jimmie-Joe Johnson

This is Jimmie-Joe Johnson taking a break between takes in the fantastic acoustics of the ancient church of Ognissanti in Florence ... he plays (what else, with such a name?) the trombone. The piece the Indiana State University Brass is recording is "Fanfare pour précéder 'La Péri'" by Paul Dukas and the trombone part was added by a very talented arranger (aunt of J.J.'s especially for J.J.). Florence is the second stop on the European tour (Budapest was the first) and J.J. enjoys it immensely, the first question they always ask is "where you from" J.J. answers proudly "U.S.A.", the second question has to do with Herr Donald the Strumpf and J.J. is embarrassed. Lucky the subject changes quickly to music and musicians for both of which the locals have huge respect ... like the other night, after the session when they went out with local friends, Italian fashion from one bar to another and then another and then another and J.J. woke up in somebody's apartment, in the Santa Croce area, half undressed and with his horne hanging safe and sound from the chandelier. He had a gallon of water directly from the tap in the kitchen and then went into a fortissimo rendition of his favorite: 'Moonglow' trombone solo by his bro Andy Derrick ... 

It was a blast with the neighbors!

Olga Meunière

This is Olga Meunière from Ostende, Western Flanders, Belgium as I met her munching a sandwich on Corso del Orso in Florence, the other day. She is the sweetest kid you ever want to meet, great sense of humor and a bright sunny disposition. Olga has three passions: travel and food and food. She lived in many places in Europe and cooked and eat her way through lots of diverse cuisines,  a regular Anthony Bourdain female clone if you wish (of whom Olga is the greatest fan). She is a great eater ... and I mean great, persistent, continuous and passionate ... rarely you see her without food in her hand or close by. Once, she went to the Universita di Pavia, Medical Centre to take part in a study of who eats and does not get fat ... the doctors were puzzled and could not explain the quantity of food she would eat without gaining one gram. The best time of her life was when she lived in Paris and met Vincent, a tall, dark, handsome American who lived on a diet of milkshakes and cheeseburgers (which he insisted to call "Royale with Cheese"). He became her boyfriend and they were very happy until, one day, Vincent got a phone call from California, packed up and left the next day. Olga never heard from him again and never had another burger (cheese or not) ever.  

Xenia Yakovleva Zaharova

This is Xenia Yakovleva Zaharova as I met her recently in the GAM in Milan and there are two reasons this is the only picture she agreed to - first: she believes her nose is too big for her face (it is not); the second reason will reveal itself as you read on. Xenia is an anthropologist and one of the world's foremost researchers of all things cultural, she lives in Nürenberg with her two cats and her brother Serghey. She is highly intelligent, devastatingly quick and utterly thorough: she will find all facts and present them totally unbiased. Now: Milan and Viena have a rivalry going back many years which resulted (sometimes) in statues of Generals in public squares and cemeteries filled with dead young men and, at other times, just heated verbal claims and disputes. Many of these have been settled: best Operahouse (Milan), best Symphonic Orchestra (Viena), best coffee (Milan), best pastry shops (Viena) but one item is still debated: where was it first that they deep fried breaded slices of veal called Wienerschnitzel (Viena) and Cotoletta Alla Milanese (Milan)? This is what Xenia was determined to determine (she is a vegetarian, so her interest in the subject was purely academic), it took about a year and a half and trips to Viena, Milan, Paris, and Budapest (where she found the final clue in a letter, dated August 21st, 1832, from Grof Janos to his cousin about a dinner with his friend Karl-Heinz von Gumpelholtz). Xenia's monograph was recently published by "Flyehans et Fils" in Geneva, in a beautifully illustrated bilingual edition and now she, as they say, "can not have lunch" in Milan anymore. 

Ayako Watanabe

This is Ayako Watanabe (38) of Ōtsu, Shiga Prefecture, Japan as I met her at the "Velvet Lounge Bar" on Via Stelvio, in Monza (almost a suburb of Milan). She was very happy and so totally proud for she was celebrating her second cover on the Japan Yogini Journal, the only person under forty to have had two covers. Ayako ordered a "Tequila e Red Bull" with a twist of line and a twig of Rosemary and I got myself a dram of Gray Goose. We talked about Yoga and life ... by the time I had four (Gray Goose) she'd had six ("Tequila e Red Bull") and had to excuse herself as being "Oh, so tired, oh so suddenly". The next picture is at breakfast the next morning ... Ayako had a terrible headache but she also had the absolute cure for it: her own Asana of her own invention: sitting in full Lotus, right-hand massage top of head pressure point (Bai Hui), left-hand in Karana Mudra. Her, it helped ... me, not so much! 

Lila Ma Uvelian

This is Lila (Ma) Uvelian in her pop-up store on Isola Madre, on Lago Maggiore ... she called it Lavanda Del Lago (wouldn't put it past clever Lila, to have made a play on "Lady of the Lake").  It is a souvenir store with a theme ... Lavender-Violet ... color-wise. It smells violet, it looks violet and it tastes violet too. Lila is an exceptionally pleasant young girl with a sweet voice, sunny disposition and great people skills. She runs the store more to meet people and talk, to exchange ideas and impressions about life and the universe rather than for commercial profit ... she does alright though. For a while, I couldn't figure why she stayed so deep in her, relatively dark, store until she stepped out into the light and I saw (more ... felt) the color of her hair. My head started spinnig, my throat choked and I floated into the air upside down seeing things down-side-up snapping mouthfuls of air as if most deliciously high ... couldn't decide if this was pleasant or not but I knew two things: it was dizzily nauseating and I did not want it to stop. After a while, I came to and went to take the boat to Stresa, but kept craning my neck looking back.      

Aurică (Aureliu) Agavriloaiei

This is Aureliu (Aurică) Agavriloaiei also known as Rică or Ricu or Rico sitting on his favorite bench in the Giardino Publico in Milan the other day. He lives with his wife Ludmila, very frugally,  in a small apartment, they bought close by, on via Carlo Teneca. You wouldn't be able to tell from looking, but Rico has great wealth, an unbelievable memory for numbers and a very volatile and violent temper. He is the principal of the largest scalper network in Milan - they resell hundreds of thousands of tickets a year for, mainly, la Scala, AC Milan and Inter for hundreds of thousands of Euro in profits.  Ludmila runs a group of Russian hackers who write bots to buy up tickets at face-value and Rico runs the distribution: street vendors. The couple has two kids: Enrico (28) who owns two Auto Repair shops and Profira (30) who owns three Fitness Clubs. All family enterprises are very successful because they launder money for Rico, ship containers of hot Audis and BMWs to Uzbekistan and Azerbaijan and sell illegal steroids on the side. Both Enrico and Profira drive high-end Mercedes-Benz cars and live in luxury villas just outside Milan. All-in-all this is one European Union family success story. Rico plans to retire and return to his native Târgu-Neamț to spend his time hunting and fishing.

Yagella, Yagella, Pawòl and Pawòl

These are Yagella (29), Yagella jr. (6), Pawòl (28) and Pawòl jr. (5) from Wrocław, Poland but they live in Alicante, Spain. They drove to Milan for a week's vacation to their Airbnb, in a nice old building just off Piazza di Risorgimento. When you look closer at the Piazza del Duomo, you can see Yagella, she is the tall handsome girl next to Pawòl, the big, athletic guy in the blue t-shirt, in front of them, their two kids. The idea to come in such summer heat to a super-touristic city with two small kids was the worst they had: the kids are, in turn, bored or hyperactive, always want something and when they don't get it, they act up. The idea to come in such summer heat to a super-touristic city with two small kids was the best they had: the kids happy, they hug a lot, laugh a lot, take lots of selfies and pictures and have a great time. You couldn't help noticing a slight contradiction between the two previous sentences, and said WTF, right? The explanation is simpler than you think - it has to do with the sun and the moon and the stars and the way the Universe is put together, but also with the frequency and quantity of PIZZA that you are getting 😃. 

Giuseppe Costanza III

This is Giuseppe Costanza III, in Florence sitting and sketching the Duomo. His grandfather, Giuseppe I, came back in 1961 from Russia, where he was held as a war prisoner. He had great knowledge of Russian language and literature, a missing left leg, and an old icon, about 60 by 80 cm showing an old frowny Saint with a white beard. The missing leg made the Italian government give Giuseppe I a decoration, a pension and a license to sell tobacco, it also allowed Giuseppe I imaginative sexual positions. The icon went on the wall behind the counter of the new Tabacheria on via dei Fatebenefratelli, Milan. Giuseppe I, who prospered also due to the sale of smuggled cigarettes, had a son, Giuseppe II who, in time, took over the store. A guy who worked around the corner on via Brera and bought his Chesterfields at Giuseppe's several times a week, asked one day, about four and a half years ago, if he could take a picture of the icon on the wall, next to the Tabacco License and the first 100 Lire note that Giuseppe I earned. Next day the guy came back and asked Giuseppe II if he knew Andrei Rublev. Giuseppe II said that his dad may have known him in Russia all those years back. There was laughter, the guy said that the Rublev he is talking about died almost six hundred years ago. There was even more laughter when the old frowny Saint with the white beard went into Sotheby's fall catalog and, later, sold at double the estimate (four and a half Million Euro). Giuseppe III, who doesn't want anything to do with selling cigarettes, has now the money to travel around Italy and sketch churches. Giuseppe III makes horrible sketches.

Felix (Fra Bertoldi) Cantiriani

This is Fra Bertoldi as I met him at the ancient church of Santa Maria Delle Grazie. He lived for 28 years as Felix Cantiriani, a quiet, bookish slightly religious young man with obsessions and fears (mostly of fear itself) on via Melloni, in a small apartment on the fourth floor of a five-floor building. His door had two locks and two deadbolts that could only be worked from inside, the windows had solid iron bars. Felix always made sure he took the elevator alone or only with neighbours he knew and, once at home, he shut both locks leaving the keys in and pushed the deadbolts in place. One late night, about four and a half years ago, Felix woke up and only half opened his eyes, his bedroom was cold, there was a faint smell that he could not identify. In the corner he could see a tall dark shape, like a man with a hood. He quickly closed his eyes again and pretended to be asleep but still peeked. The shape moved closer, he felt the air move and heard a deep voice, more like a grunt, saying "I am dangerous". Felix shut his eyes tight and lay there for a long time prepared to die. The dawn broke and nothing further happened. He got up and checked the apartment, windows: locked, door: locked! He was even more terrified now than he was when it happened, in the night - he knew it had not been a dream. He got dressed and ran to see Padre Paolo. The father heard him out, was silent for a long time and then told Felix to go pray and come back the next day. Not many of his friends and relatives were surprised when Felix became a novice for the "White-Robed Monk of St. Benedict" and was ordained a year and a half later as Fra Bertoldi. Now he gets up at the 3:10 wake-up bell and has a small cup of coffee followed by prayers followed by more readings and prayers and cleaning and cooking and his general purpose in life is to let the world be a more compassionate place, inviting peace and joy. He sleeps well. 

Mina, Rina and Tina

These are Mina (9) and Rina (7), their mother Tina (38), was so upset that it was impossible to take her picture; her younger sister, Simona (Sysy, 36) was getting married today to Stefano (Fyfy, 37) at the ancient church of Santa Prassede, Rome where we all were waiting for the last 48 minutes. What is known is that Sysy and Fyfy decided against tradition and planned to come to church together. What is not known is that while dressing, Fyfy holding one cufflink, asked Sysy if she knew where his other cufflink is, Sysy said that it is called your cufflink because you should know where it is; Fyfy said he did not ask for attitude, Sysy gave him more attitude and Fyfy, angrily, threw the one cufflink against the wall, it fell on the floor (the cufflink, not the wall) and rolled under the sofa. Sysy ran into the bedroom and banged the door shut. Twenty minutes later, Sysy opened the door to give Fyfy some more attitude and found Fyfy on his knees crying, so Sysy went down on her knees too and they kissed after which, being on their knees anyway, they scuttled to the sofa to look for the one cufflink. They found two cufflinks next to each other cozy and happy, as cozy and happy as inanimate objects can be. They finished dressing quickly and got a cab to be only 64 minutes late ... all frowns and raised eyebrows and knowing nods vanished, Mina and Rina threw petals most expertly and Tina smiled again. The cufflinks also smiled (as inanimate objects can, sometimes, smile too). 

Gianni and Tomasso Barbaini

These are the Barbaini brothers as I met them in the Galeria Vittorio Emanuelle the other day. Their surname comes from their forefather, a Greek ship Captain called Barba Iani, who sailed to Genova, Italy in the mid-thirties and stayed because his ship was confiscated by the Mussolini fascists. Their fortune also comes from the Captain who had great skills in cooking fish and started an extremely successful restaurant in a suburb of Milan. The restaurant is still doing very well to this day and the brothers prosper mostly due to the special sauce they serve with their fried fish, nobody can make the sauce like them (the secret ingredient is nutmeg). After they studied the diner's traffic carefully, they noted that the lowest day occupancy is on Wednesdays, so that is when they keep the restaurant closed and everybody takes their day off. Gianni and Tomasso Barbaini relax by dressing in women's clothes, go shopping and hang around in bars. They have great success at it.

Vanja (Five-Strings) V

This is Vanessa (Vanja) Heinz from Boston, MA, a busker in Milan, at the Duomo, where we met. You look closer and see that she plays an Ibanez SR505 5-String Electric Bass, which is definitely, not her first choice instrument as she struggles to keep up with the stupid drum machine. Vanessa actually plays the harp (42 strings more) but she was left high and dry by her bass-playing boyfriend, who took her to Milan and then, one night, disappeared without a trace. She shrugged it off, picked up the abandoned guitar and figured: Kismet, "V" as in Vanja and the Roman numeral ... you gets the gig, you plays the gig. It is enough money to pay the rent and buy groceries until Jimmie finds his way home ... Vanja was always a great one to roll with the punches. Passers-by threw her  few Euro coins as she got her fingering straight and plunged into a soulful rendition of Gaėtano Bottesini's Andante sostenuto, she brought down the house! 

Yuri Herzberger

This is Yuri Herzberger (he prefers Uri) from Victoria B.C. in Canada, he was born on April 12th, 1961, and his parents, in a bout of naive and misguided leftist enthusiasm, called him Yuri (Yuri Gagarin of the Soviet Union flew in space that day). Uri's life (most of it, anyway) was a long string of humiliations; the first he clearly remembers was in the backyard of his first love: Florence Smith (they were both about five). Uri brought a drawing of a table he made for her in blue crayon but her older brother took it and rubbed it on his bottom laughing. That is how it all went, at school, University and later at work ... when he was invited to parties he felt humiliated, thinking it was for pity when he wasn't invited he felt humiliated for being left out. He had a string of meaningless affairs where he thought the girls went with him for mercy and he felt humiliated, but when girls rejected him he also felt humiliated. His Uriah Heep humiliations were more the pop-group type then the Dickensian sycophant version ... but still, hurt like crazy. Then, one day, about six and a half years ago, his then-girlfriend Aby-Gail took him on a free-friend-class-pass to her Yoga studio down Douglas street. What he experienced next, he could not describe, he tried to keep up with the class and thought he didn't but, when about an hour and a half later, he lay still in, what he was told is, the final Savasana, he realized that for the first time for as long as he could remember he was fine: no feelings of guilt or shame. There was no pressure, no expectation, no judgment ... just warm smiles and encouragement. Uri lives with his now-fiancee Aby-Gail and they go to daily Yoga sessions. Full of eternal gratitude, he bought her a tat of her choice and, when we met in Rome a few weeks ago, they were both seriously considering teacher training. Uri still listens to his Uriah Heep records, his favorite is "Easy Living" from "Demons and Wizards".

Kimmie Zhou 周

This is Zhou (周) Keung, a beer drinker from the Tianjin Province, Ninghe District, he lives with his mom in a small place just outside Lutai. One night, about two and a half years ago, while drinking beer on his porch, he heard sounds of breaking, screeching, impacting, and crashing. He jumped up and ran to the highway where he saw a huge white BMW rolled on its side with wheels still spinning. The driver was fine he had only some scratches, the passenger, a young woman hanging in the seat belt, was clearly dead. The young man asked him for his name and then ordered Keung to help him move the girl into the driver seat and the roll the car down into the gorge below. The BMW bumped faster and faster through the bushes and landed, almost invisible, two hundred feet below. Then the young man told Keung to take him to the train station which he did on his old scooter. Once there, the guy took out all the cash from his wallet and gave it to Keung with a business card, he said somebody will come by (it was almost 5,000 Yuan, about six hundred bucks). After a few days a lawyer came by, asked for a bank account number and Keung signed a consulting contract with the Province. The next day there were 150,000 Yuan more in the bank, so he bought a new stove for his mom and paid a guy to repair the roof. In a newspaper, Keung read about a female car thief who crashed a car and died (the car belonged, apparently, to the son of a high party boss). Keung changed his name to cooler Kimmie, quit his job and sat at home drinking beer all day. After a while, he started to travel and to drink beer all over the world. I met him in Florence on the steps of Santa Croce (we had beers).

Louis Charles

This is Louis Charles from Dijon, France, he comes from a long line of Moutardier, with his lineage made noble when a Hungarian count, Zsigmond Nagy von Zichy arrived in the city and charmed Marie Louise, only daughter of the prosperous Charles family, with his fine figure and elegant, Viennese manners. Little did she and les Charles know, that Zsigmond fled his creditors who held papers on an enormous gambling debt. The wedding was a most splendid affair and the couple settled down in the manor house on the estate that grew the mustard that grew the Charles wealth. A boy, named Joel Kálmán, was the fruit of their love, alas born after the Count's disappearance (one evening he went for cigarettes and was never seen or heard off again). There was a huge break in Marie Louise's heart 💔and a majestic hole in their bank account. Joel Kálmán is the grandfather of Louis and it was in his time that the lands had to be sold. The family held great know-how on the mustard industry and prospered again by becoming main agents in selling and buying it. Louis is famous for winning the prestigious "Grand Prix de Meilleure Dijon" nine times running: he makes really good mustard (his secret ingredient is nutmeg), but the first year he bribed the judges with thousand Euro each, subsequent years, he just played them the recording of that transaction on his phone. So the spirit of Count Zsigmond is still alive and well in Dijon, capital of Burgundy, France, where le Dijon (AOC) is now made with 80% mustard seed from Ontario in Canada.

Peter, Paula and Mitch

These are Paula and Peter from London, England as I met them the other day in the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuelle in Milan. Mitch is not in the picture because he is dead. The three met on their first day of University and became best friends quickly. Their friendship was so solid and profound that it withstood the traumatic event of Paula hooking up with Mitch leaving Peter in constant, deep and torturing pain. They rented a flat together and worked hard to graduate and find good jobs in the City after which, still together, shared a luxury highrise apartment. One late night, about a year and a half ago, during a silly argument, Paula pushed Mitch from the balcony, he fell down 24 floors and met the pavement (and his death). Peter, who, it so happens, got himself a new phone just the day before, filmed the entire incident. When the police and ambulance arrived, Paula and Peter stated that Mitch was a well-known somnambulist and it was all an accident. It was gone seven by the time police left and when Paula checked Peter's phone, she realized that the clip was saved in several hidden locations. Peter went to his room to find Paula naked in his bed. It is not known how happy the relationship is, what is known is that Peter invested all of his emotional capital to make it work, Paula's contribution is, occasionally, her vagina.

Isobel Kunst

This is Isobel Kunst as I met her on the train to Domodossola in Verbano, Piedmont. Sweet kid if there ever was one ... years ago her parents went through a bitter divorce and her mom, Sylvia Kunst, was granted sole custody. Her American father, Jim Sloe, kidnapped her and fled to Panama where they lived for seven years, her dad assuming, and Isobel letting him believe, that she forgot all about Sylvia and Itlay. When they took a trip to San Diego, Isobel, then 14, ran into a police station. She was returned to her mom, went to high school in Italy and captained her field hockey team to the Piedmont-Lombardia championship.  A few years ago she started her Yoga studio - great success - first Hatha, then Vinyasa and Bikram. Since then property crime rate went down 82%, violent crime is non-existent, the birth-rate is 18% higher than the national average, people walk or bike anywhere, they smile a lot and nobody has had dandruff in years. Isobel has a pet turtle called Joe Clyde.

Rosalba von Touche

This is Rosalba von Touche as I met her at "Enrico Rizzi" on via Correnti in Milan - she is the most delightful girl who you'd want to handle your gelato, her smile melts hearts and her hands are most beautifully shaped. Rosalba plays classical guitar, writes poetry and is a cracking tennis player (none of which translates, currently, to income) which made her mother advise her to marry somebody rich. Rosalba always listens to her mother's guiding pearls of wisdom and always ignores them. Her favorite composer is Manuel de Falla, her favorite dish is a vegetable curry, her favorite author is Jasper Fforde (she first read "Il Caso Jane Eyre" when it was translated in 2006 into Italian and then, quickly, everything else she found ... she was particularly happy that there was an Italian Translation Inspectorate that makes field trips). Rosalba does not know yet, but in a few months (Mid-November, to be precise) a life-changing event will occur, that will forever change her life forever.

Ariadne MacIvor-Fabrizzi

This is Ariadne MacIvor-Fabrizzi as I met her in front of the Palazzo dell'Arte Della Lana, in Florence, a while ago. She's just been with her advisor (seen there sitting, smoking), at the "Società Dantesca", to discuss her Korean translation of some Petrarca Sonnets. Ariadne's mother, Anne MacIvor, came to Florence, met, fell in love, moved in with and got pregnant by Fabio Fabrizzi in the early nineties. When they learned they'll have a baby, they decided to get married and had one of their (0nly) two catastrophic fights: Anne wanted her family name preserved, hyphenated to Fabio's, Fabio (macho Italian) didn't want to hear of it. Anne went and registered Ariadne hyphenated anyway (they had their second huge fight, of which,  subsequently, Anne got on a plane back to  Glasgow never to return). Fabio raised Ariadne who turned out very well, with an uncanny talent for languages: she learned to be fluent in Spanish, Korean and in Swahili in just two years during University. We had coffee and she talked about her plans and dreams. Short-term plans had to do mostly with food, short-term dreams had to do mostly with naked men with large penises. We never got to the long-term plans and dreams.

  

Gina Fanamedeo

This is Geena Fanamedeo of Florence, Benton County, Iowa. She studies Flute and Composition at the local conservatory. She was born and lived, until about nine years ago, in Kaesong, North Korea under the name Doy-Pham Kim. Her best friend and classmate, Than Euh-Kyung, lived next door and the fathers of the two girls, both widowed, were also best friends spending most of their free time smoking and talking in quiet voices in the back of the garden. On that fateful night of November 10th, 2009, at about three AM, her father woke her up and told her to dress, he did not switch on the light. A light backpack was ready for her with a change of clothes and a small wooden box that her father said to be opened only "when needed, you'll know when!". Outside, in the bitter cold, stood Euh-Kyung with her father and they started walking quickly and quietly towards the woods and the near border. Suddenly there was shouting, shooting, and blinding floodlights. Kim felt her hand yanked, running as fast as she could, falling, getting up and running again. Suddenly it was dark and quiet again until she heard voices, a mix of Korean and (what she thought was) English: somebody pulled them into a warm hut. Her friend's father still clutched her hand, tears in his eyes, kept repeating: "My daughter, my daughter". They made it to the U.S. as father and daughter and given new names. Her final exam piece, a concerto for flute, harp and chamber orchestra is called "The Border" and is dedicated to "Father and Euh-Kyung". Geena never opened the little wooden box.

Lidia Bellotini

This is Lidia Bellotini (née Piacentini), she is on her annual visit from Poggibonsi to pray to San'Agata di Caesarea in the church on via San Gallo. The prayer-subject for the last nine years is well-known: it is the anniversary of the disappearance of her husband Gian-Basilio on July 12th 2009. What is not known is that Lidia prays for her soul and continuing protection and Lidia's role in the mysterious vanishing of said husband: she stabbed him in the throat and buried his body in the garden that night when he came home drunk again and hit her again and said he cheated on her again. She told people he went out that night and never came home again. Everybody felt sorry for her, being abandoned, but many thought she is better off without that no-good drunk. Lidia prayed daily at St. Lucchese for the "safe return" of her husband (she felt that lying in her prayer to God is less sin than taking a life and He knows and He guided her to do it anyway). Later she learned that San'Agata is the patron saint of secret killers, that is when the yearly trips began. Lidia lives alone with her old dog Variany (only witness to the "bloody deed" who didn't like Sgr. Bellotini either because he kicked him and who wouldn't say anything to anybody anyway). 

Ilaria

This is ⭐Ilaria⭐(you notice, there is no last name because she is a star). A while ago painters (mostly Italian) had nick-names: Michelangelo Merisi was called Caravaggio, Pietro Vannucci was called Perugino, etc. Later, football players (mostly Brazilian) had nick-names Edson do Nascimento was called Pelé, Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite was called Kaká, etc. But now the "baristas" who make our daily coffee are the stars and we, while in Florence, by the river, at the Verazzano, had many a "caffè"  made by Ilaria ... and they were all exceptional!  She is as a delightful girl as you'll ever meet ... rarely fits a name a personality as hers does. Ilaria dreams to, one day, go see the Verazzano Bridge (N.Y., N.Y.) and open a school, teach kids how to brew a real cup of coffee. Once in New York, she will NOT change her name to Hillary (Ilaria in Inglese)