The Belmont Bloggetin

2003-11-23T17:20:00.000-08:00

Recipes for Italians away from home - Spaghetti alla Carbonara.

This is a fairly simple Italian dish that sports a funny story regarding its origin. Its name refers to the secret organization of the Carbonari (literally: coal miners), a group of subsersives aiming to overthrow the Austrian occupation of Italy in the XIX century. They communicated using secret codes who could have been mistaken for innocent peasants' talk - the simplicity of this recipe reflects their working class heritage.

Ingredients for 4 people:
-one package of long pasta (spaghetti, linguine, fettuccine) - please refrain from buying any of that cheap US made poop. Stick to imported Italian brands like Barilla and De Cecco
-1/4 pound of diced bacon
-3 egg yolks
-milk cream
-a fistful of grated pecorino romano (made in Italy) cheese
-black peepercorn
-chopped onion

As soon as the water gets to a boil, pour the pasta in and sautée the onion and the bacon in a large pan with extra virgin olive oil. You need to time this procedure so that as when the pasta is ready (firm, not mushy) the ingredients in the pan are not burned yet. Have the egg yolks battered with the milk cream and the cheese ready at hand.
Pour the pasta (as dry as you can to avoid the water and oil to sizzle around) into the pan with the bacon and onions, add the egg batter and toss it sharply so that the eggs do not cook completely.
Serve right away seasoning with ground black peppercorn.

2003-11-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

An apology to the reviewer
It looks like I haven't been posting much in this blog, and – to be honest - I really haven't. What happened is that I opened a new one on an Italian server - one that could allow me to post links, polls, pictures, and receive direct comments on my posts. It was also linked to my friends's own blogs on that server, and since the majority of my readers have always been Italia, I decided to write mostly italian entries on that one.

What I'm going to do to reache the dreaded 1200 words review goal is re-post some of those thoughts yonder right here, adapted to the language and the different setting. Afterwards, this place will be shut down and all activity will be confined on my splinder.it blog.

I hope you can an understand the situation and be merciful in your evaluation of my posts.

2003-11-12T15:51:00.000-08:00

November...and it pours
Here it is, another typical (for what I know) Tennessee-weather show-off. Lunchtime, and I'm walking around with my sleeves rolled up, almost uncomfortably warm in my polo shirt - 5 o'clock and rain it is, hailing down from the Heavens above like a merciless flood.
In a few seconds I had to put on my raincoat, trying frantically to cover my saddle bag and the laptop inside it.

But I guess this rain may come for a good end. A day like this one needs some serious diluting. After the news I heard from Nassiryah, with the first Italian casualties in the Iraqi war, I can definetely use some rinsing myself. I need the stains of blood to be washed away from my skin, I need the stench of burned flesh to subside to the pleasant ozone smell of the warm, damp, moisty rain.

And it may seem crude, but the war has never felt as real as now. It hurts to much I don't even want to question the legitimacy and the causes: what's done cannot be undone, and our whys won't bring the dead back. And even though I sincerely doubt it, I hope those fellow countrymen that lost their lives 2000 kilometres from home are in a better place now.

2003-11-07T23:52:00.000-08:00

Why?

Sometimes I'm perplexed at why some people had to leave us this early. Maybe I should even say pissed off. Or uspet. Or, perhaps, just simply sad.

I'm into a huge Queen period recently. I've always been a Queen fan, but in the past few weeks I would have been ready to bet both of my loved hands that there's never been a more artistically talented band to walk the rock scenes. Not even the Beatles. No sire.

While I'm ready to admit that Queen's early- to mid- 80's discography doesn't stand out as incredibly well-conceived, their first five albums can easily sweep away ANYTHING else both musically and lyrically from the same period. Same is true for their two 90's productions - Freddie Mercury's last bijoux.

And so, while I'm reading through these beautiful, heartfelt lyrics:

I am forever searching high and low
But why does ev'ryone tell me no
Neptune of the seas an answer for me please
The lily of the valley doesn't know

I lie in wait with open eyes
I carry on thru' stormy skies
I follow ev'ry course my kingdom for a horse
But each time I grow old
Serpent of the Nile relieve me for a while
And cast me from your spell and let me go

Messenger from seven seas has flown
To tell the king of Rhye he's lost his throne
Wars will never cease
Is there time enough for peace?
The lily of the valley doesn't know

I wonder why Freddie Mercury did have to leave us. I wonder why there's no such thing as an override program to undo disease and prevent such unquestionable artistic geniuses from departing.
Similar naive questions have no answer - but still they ring in in my brain in a tone of mockery.

Yet I know he wouldn't want us to sit on his grave and mourn. I'll let his voice lull me with the tales of the mythical kingdom of Rhye, I'll dance to his melancholic mitteleuropean love waltzes, I'll bang my head to his energetic rock grooves.

Moreso, I will try to add a bit of Mercury's influence into my own playing and composing. A tip of the hat, nothing more than that. But when the hearstrings vibrate, even simple things work wonders.

2003-11-07T23:37:00.000-08:00

Brisk!

Well, November surely hit now. It's cold, overcast, gloomy, and completely lovable. I'd say adorable. What feels better than putting on your favourite high-neck sweater, snug yourself in your raincoat and just stride through the ruthless fury of the elements with your eyes staring at the barren soil in front of your marching feet? Tropical isle anyone? Naaah!

I guess I must have some strayed drops of Nordic blood in my veins. Whenever somebody shivers, I roll up my sleeves. Well, ok, maybe I'm not the cool Berserk Warrior I'm picturing myself to be, but still it feels like I'm perfectly at ease in this less than colorful weather. Weird.

I said weird because on the other hand I completely and thoroughly enjoyed the glimpse of Indian summer that warmed up most of October and part of last week. I guess all in all I'm just weatherophrenic and I should just shut my face and go on to another of the few topics I wanted to discuss tonight.

2003-10-28T09:12:00.000-08:00

Today it's Mac's Birthday. Say Happy Birthday to Mac. :D

2003-10-26T13:55:00.000-08:00

It's incredible how a day can change from shitty to glorious, just as you turn the page on a book.

Little pieces of unexpected news, they can warm your heart more than the occasional sunray sneaking through these stern November clouds, arrived just a few days early (they must have missed my company, I deem).

And so, all the gray and the cold and the damp and the nostalgia and the freaking heartbreak, it just melts into an orgy of colors, and warmth, and coziness, and you feel like you're home, and you're happy again.

Anche se non ci possiamo abbracciare, e piangere dalla gioia, come fratelli.
Cazzo, sono contento. Mi manchi come l'aria, vorrei davvero essere li', a dividere questo momento come abbiamo diviso la pioggia battente quella lontana sera d'Agosto - ma la sai una cosa? forse, un pochino, ci sono.
Ascolta attentamente, e sentirai quelle note familiari nella memoria del tuo cuore. Oggi, piu' che mai, sono le tue.
Anche se non ti posso abbracciare.

2003-10-19T15:18:00.000-07:00

Autumn Leaves

Freely interpreted and changed by myself

The falling leaves drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold

bullpoop. This is no Maine.
Leaves in Tennessee just die

I see your faces, the summer days
The sunburned hands we used to hold

Three young men, one beautiful girl
jumping from the cliffs
in the sea of our fathers

Since I went away the days grew long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song

...dreaming of a White Christmas...
I already hear winter songs!

But I miss you most of all, unique friends
When autumn leaves start to fall

Wait. Maybe it is Maine.
There's a lovely maple tree losing its red leaves
out of my window.
And I know leaves are falling back home
too.

Da dee dee dum
Da dee dee dum dee
Da dee dee dum
Da dee dee da.

2003-10-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

Fall Break, come and gone...

...and a handful of ashes are all that remains.
Not really!

This has been a most peculiar break. I spent the first two days in complete relaxation, true to my intent of re-charging the batteries for the second half of the semester. What I failed to do was getting an headstart on a couple of massive assignments...but we all know how I love to work under pressure (do we, really?)

Then, on Saturday, the fireworks went off. I had an internet friend and his wife come and meet me from Huntsville, AL. The guy works at the NASA space center and is a wonderful guitar player in his free time (I love how he seems to write evry single song lyric of his @ meetings!). I did my best at the stove for my guests and pulled off a very nice specimen of fine Italian cuisine. After dinner, we just sat down and traded songs for a couple of hours - and it was the most enjoyable of times.

With the early Sunday devoted to following my soccer team's match, having lunch with my guests and biding them goodbye, the day has gone along smoothly and without much work getting done. I still think I should have spent some more time working, but, what the heck, you don't have a break every week...

2003-10-13T15:32:00.000-07:00

Ehy ehy ehy - power to the dashes

Fall break is so close, I can almost feel its alluring grazing - like a maiden's fingertips, or a leafless brach touching my skin..

I need these few free days for my self - I need to disconnect just for a short while, get some serious sleep, re-organize myself and my plans.

I need to think about MY project - the next installment in my discography, the main reason why I crossed the pond in the first place.

You're not a true musician if you're not making music - you're just a sterile, scrawny being wasting its time on its instrument of choice.

I have so many songs that need polishing - they all seem to reach, say, a 98% level of completion, and just linger there in a state of limbonic suspension.

I have to calm my nerves down in the recording room - those few hours of takes are going to be writ on an aluminum disc forever.

***

Take your time, J. Take your time. This has to be great - and you know it. You're going to invest and incredible amount of resources in this, and you don't want the final results to be anyhting but the possible best. You desreve that. She deserves that.
Do as to make her the proudest of Moms, were she here to witness the tentative first steps of his son's carreer.

2003-10-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

A few composer's thoughts

I have to admit that, to me, creativity comes in circles. I haven't written anything in the whole summer. Now I feel an idea or two slowly surfacing to the consciousness of my musical brain - not much, but still something.
I do wonder why it is so - why sometimes stuff would literally roll off my fingers as I play, when other times I would struggle for months to get something new and fresh going.

They say it all relates to what you listen to, and in these few months away from home I'm only listening to old, soothing songs I am attached to - could this be a cause?
Mayhap.

They say you need new stimuli, new feathers to tickle your creativity with. Is this true? Well, I must say it is, as I've had a sprout of creative frenzy when I first got together with Chris (the guitar playing guy I told you about a few entries ago). But even then, it was more improvisational matter than compositional: I simply laid down some melodies over a couple of ideas of Chris's.

And it's not like I wouldn't have anything to write about. Heck, I'm 4000 miles from my nice home (The Hillside Apt. Blues?), I haven't seen my family and friends for six weeks now, I am constantly exposed to all kinds of gorgeous Southern Baptist girls, smiling brightly to the Italian guy...so, then, what's wrong with my Muse?

The answer is, I really have no clue.

It’s comforting to feel that idea or two emerging from the murkiness of my subconscious – it’s almost like seeing the infamous light at the end of the tunnel. I won’t start running for dear life towards it, though. I have been waiting for so long now, I don’t want to force thing to happen. No way sir. I will wait for this apple to be ripe, and gently fall off the branch. Hoping it’s gonna be a good one.

2003-10-01T12:47:00.000-07:00

I was lying in my bed, peacefully asleep. A long, taxing day had gone by, and I was enjoying what felt like hard-earned rest. Then, in a sudden, it was over.

It took me a good full minute to realize what was happening and arise from the depths of my sleep, and as I did so a heavy feeling of guilt made my heart sink. A siren - shrill, so high-pitched, ear-piercingly annoying, was screaming for attention. A light was flashing outside of my room's door.

"What in the hell have I done this time," my still half-asleep brain vomited, "I don't smoke!" The inconsistency of the thought didn't seem to trouble it. The scenery looked as if taken straight from a very confused nightmare. I could hear the faint chorusing effect made by all the other sirens crying in the other buildings of the Hillside. Others lights were flashing, and amongst them were the unmistakable red and blue glow of the Campus Security. I stumbled out of my room, expecting to find the living room ablaze, and wondering if the feeling of my own skin melting would have been the last thing I'd have experienced.

The living room was indeed ablaze, but only with the flashes of the emergency light. I wandered to my roommate's door, found it closed, figured that if he was in there he'd be more than awaken by that terrible racket, then went back to the living room and out in the night.

A few sleepy people were standing on the road, arms embraced around their own bodies to fight the chilly air, a less than happy look on their face.

What followed was a carousel of the absurd, or so it seemed to my bed-longing mind.
A few Security officers strolled up the buildings stairs, not really hurrying anywhere. A truck full of firefighters from the nearby (heck, it's right on12th!) Fire Brigade station showed up, emergency lights whirling like the eyes of an epileptic dragon.
They checked if ANYTHING was really happening (a procedure that took the longest 30 seconds of my life), then bid us all goodnight. The sirens had mercifully gone silent a few minutes before.

One last glance to my fellow companions of this improvised late-night party, and the last thing I remember is the warm embrace of the bed welcoming me back.

2003-09-26T09:52:00.000-07:00

Culture Clash Revisited

Hello. Sorry for the long wait.
I have definetely settled in now, been meeting people I like, and getting a grip of what's cooking in this big pot.
It is with some dismay that I've found out not all ingredients to be fresh, or ripe, or even edible.

Some things are just funny: it brings a smile on my lips when people ask me things like "do you have pizza in Italy" (how about the dreaded "refrigerator" question?), when they seem to believe that it's a far off, exotic, completely different place only to be completely bedazzled by the fact that, say, our educational system has nothing in common with the American one. Yup, folks, no campuses, no colleges, and, believe it or not, public schools are actually GOOD and tuition runs at about 15 hundred bucks a year...cool, huh?
Another thing that I found out to be sadly true is that, well, how can I put this without offending anyone...let's say that a good amount of students probably took too many elective courses in their High Schools years.
Want a proof? While I have a firm grasp of US history (I may not remember the exact dates, but I can place events like the Declaration of Independence, the Civil War and the Great Depression in chronological order), about every other person I asked missed the French Revolution by a good fifty years. When it was not two centuries. Some were "European History Honors".
But who cares for Europe, anyway?

Luckily, what may be the general trend is not the case for everyone. And, to be true, while the actual percentages may be lower, there's folks in Italy who probably don't know much (and couldn't care less) on Italian history, let alone the European or US one. But this is not enough to shadow my feeling.

Coming from maybe the most culture-oriented country in the world, I must say I'm displeased. Next I will tell you about the chill that run down my spine when I found what the buzz about Darwinism was.

Be Good, and do your Homework, for cripe's sake!

J

2003-09-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Another paper from my english class. There's a funny passage I am fond of in there.

Hear ye, hear ye! Ladies and Gentlemen, let me invite you all on a Magical Mystery tour of my picture ID’s. But, please, take that perplexed look out of your faces – I promise you it’s going to be fun.

First on the list is my School ID. Subject: a visibly jet-lagged student. He is not smiling: more often than not, he ends up being less than satisfied by his pictured smiles. So, instead of spreading over his teeth, his mouth is shut, if slightly crooked. If asked about it, the subject would reveal liking this particular picture. It is an overall neutral, open to different readings one.
The face itself is portrayed while in a very asymmetrical expression. The right side, although slightly shaded, looks happier, more serene: by covering the other half, that hint of a crooked grin actually looks like a smile.
The left side, however, looks completely different. The eyebrow is slightly raised, the offspring of one of the subject’s most typical perplexed, or sarcastic facial expressions. By mirroring this half, we end up looking at a face that tells absolutely nothing about its bearer. It could be the picture on a criminal record, or on a hospital file. It’s a scary face, a face of no feelings.
Yet it is interesting to note how the two expressions blend together into an ordinary expression of quietness. While the two halves may not reflect different aspects of the subject’s personality, the result of their combination is actually very accurate.
Now, I have to tell you, dear “tourists”, I am tired of referring to myself in the third person. You will se more I’s, me’s, and my’s in the following paragraphs.

If we were to take a look at the pictures on my passport, we would be in for some serious giggling. The main one is now seven years old, and I was barely a teenager when it was taken. If I remember correctly, it was just a few minutes I had gotten out of bed, too. So, that one is basically a kid’s picture. I am smiling, but I have not the smartest of expressions. I was still very sleepy.
The picture on my F-1 visa is definitely more interesting, and it shares the same sleepy heritage. I took it only a month ago, one Italian August morning at six a.m., before boarding the train that would take me to Milan, where I was to start a last-minute visa procedure. I sat in the small automatic picture cabin, smiled, and waited for the flash. Flash. When the four pictures came out, I couldn’t refrain from groaning: I had closed my eyes in perfect sync with the shutter.
I had to take another one, and decided NOT to smile, but focus on keeping my eyes well-opened. The result is a picture that makes me wonder how I managed to get that visa.
In a single word, I look menacing. My brown eyes have the same kind of deep, fixed stare than the pictures of Islamic Fundamentalists on newspapers have. My mouth is shut tight, not even crooked, the muscles of my face rigid. I am glad I shaved before taking this picture - otherwise I could have well been mistaken for the long-lost bastard son of Osama Bin Laden, emerging from a past of tranquility in Italy.
The photo on my driver’s license is almost too tiny to be examined in its details. I look halfway between bored and annoyed – with the ever present hint of weariness.

I guess I’m not that photogenic when it’s time to be portrayed for identification documents – and I must admit I find sitting in front of the camera and having to smile quite a thorn in the side: I’d rather be able to use pictures taken in more spontaneous expressions, even though my narcissistic self would probably be “less than satisfied” all the same.

2003-09-13T17:32:00.000-07:00

Alhoa

The days go by at a steady pace. It's a good sign. It means that I'm keeping my mind occupied with constant applications. It means that I have less time to sit idle, and think how far I am from home. I mean, it's not that I don't like my *new* life here - actually, I must say I love it, with a few caveats - it's just that I have left behind so many good things. I said things - I should have said people. The only real thing I miss is my sea.
The people are so hard to replace.

Friends of my high school years, friends of those hard, bitter, let's say tragic times, friends that have been more than shoulders to lean upon. It's so hard to keep in touch. It's probably harder for them - I mean, I'm the one who thinks about home at least five times a day - my absence from their lives is probably bound to be far less noticeable. They will begin their classes soon - anytime from a week from next monday. Their life is going on, and hopefully, once the huge train of schedules, tests and exams gets rolling, we will find ourselves together again, in December.

I hope they're having a good time.

J

2003-09-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

Welcome back.

The few past days have been sort of hectic: several things have happened, most of them at the same time, and I have had very few free time to dedicate to this place.

I met a fellow guitarist, and so far it's been the absolute best encounter I have made.
It is funny how we got together because of the guitar, and the guitar alone. He was playing under the shade of a tree, as I walked by. "Man, he sounds good", I thought, and stopped. He looked a bit embarassed, and I can understand him as I was kind of staring at him. "Keep playing", I invited him, and he played some more. Superior stuff. very musical, very groovy, very well played. I loved it. He stopped once more, looked at me with almost an expression of fear and went "Are you the classical guitar player, the one who performed at the open Mic last wednesday?". of course I was. I am the very best ITALIAN classical guitarist on campus. :D

That same evening we got together at the party I've been telling you about, and played together. Things really clicked into place - almost frightengly so. Our styles complement each other perfectly, or at least so it seems to my ear.

On sunday night, we wrote our first song together. It still needs some polishing, but it's got a very nice attitude and a distinct flavour.

I can't wait - what for, you ask? Well, for writing and arranging more songs with this guy. For a chance to share a stage with him. This is gonna be good.

J

2003-09-07T20:36:00.000-07:00

This is a short piece I had to write for my english class. it's about home, so I thought I'd share it.

La Citta’ Vecchia

It was not the first time I was going to Genova’s old town, il centro Storico, a daedalus of narrow alleys and ancient buildings built on top of each other, the largest surviving medieval settlement in the whole world. Some of the houses are more than nine hundred years old, and when you’re a kid they seem to be looking at you through their blackened windows like a series of vecchie signore, smiling crooked smiles that really look more like grins – it was not my first time there, but it was a special time, nonetheless. My father, for some reason known only to him, had decided he would take me to the Aquarium and then through those winding tiny streets in which he had grown up four decades before, and all of this on a beautiful spring morning in which I was supposed to be at school.
I enjoyed my n-th visit to the Aquarium as only a kid could, and I wasn’t through until it was time for lunch. We went from the Old Port up to the historic borough of Sottoripa, heading to a place renowned for its freshly made custom sandwiches. I still go there from time to time, more than ten years later – and the sandwiches are still the best in town.
Dad would drink his usual beer, and let me taste it – “just a tiny little sip”, he’d say, just like every time Mom wasn’t around. I loved him for doing so, for letting me take a glimpse at manhood, for having yet another little secret between us. Things like having me have some of his beer, or going to the stadium together for each of Sampdoria’s home matches were probably the very bonds that helped us stick together and don’t fight each other all the time once there was only the two of us left.
I can’t remember what road we took, whether we went up via degli Orefici and into Piazza di Campetto, or if he showed me all the way to the breath-taking majesty of Santa Maria di Castello, gracefully suspended between the sea and the sky. I do remember him telling me tales from the days when Genova ruled the Mediterranean, from the time of the Dogi, and how those very streets witnessed scenes of great courage and of vile treachery. Most of the houses still have unlikely stooping watchtowers, from which the sentinels would cry the alarm at the sighting of the Moors’ ships.
The smell of the street is probably just the same as it was a thousand years ago: a unique, extraordinary blend of sea breeze, fish, frying oil, garbage, and cat piss. Not a pleasing smell, by any sort, but still the smell of the Citta’ Vecchia, the smell of my city. It is incredible how even something that dreadful can stir a moving sense of affection into the human soul: when I walk the alleys of my city, I don’t hold my breath, I don’t quicken my pace in search for fresh air, but get to the point of savoring that odor, letting it take me back to all the previous times I have ventured down and into that intricate maze.
And as the one path Dad and I took that day loses importance, it still pleases me to remember the way he would teach me all he knew about our beautiful, stern, smelly city, and how those “vecchie signore” wouldn’t scare the kid I was anymore, but rather look like a group of old, reassuring family members.
As we went back down towards the port and our car, we could hear the high pitched cries of the fish market’s sellers, and Dad would translate the name of the fishes from the Genovese dialect for me. It was time to go home.

2003-09-05T14:40:00.000-07:00

Rejoice, everyone! It's friday, and it's well past noon, and I don't know about yours but my classes are over for this week.
*peeks at schedule*
uh-oh...now what's this...saturday, 9 to 5, ORATORIO RETREAT?
*faints*
...
.....
...
As you can infer, I'm not really fond of oratorio, but, y'know, I'm the stoic type.

There's a party tonight, which can only mean GOOD as I will hopefully get to know the few peolple I've met so far better, and better, and better. I'll let all know about that later.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Surf there if you feel brave enough. Being able to read Italian could come in handy, though.

Be good,
J

2003-09-04T18:14:00.000-07:00

D'ä mæ riva
sulu u teu mandillu ciaèu
d'ä mæ riva
'nta mæ vitta
u teu fatturisu amàu
'nta mæ vitta

ti me perdunié u magún
ma te pensu cuntru su
e u so ben t'ammii u mä
'n pò ciû au largu du dulú

e sun chi affacciòu
a 'stu bàule da mainä
e sun chi a miä
tréi camixe de vellûu
dui cuverte u mandurlin
e 'n cämà de legnu dûu

e 'nte 'na beretta neigra
a teu fotu da fantinn-a
pe puèi baxâ ancún Zena
'nscià teu bucca in naftalin-a

From my shore
with only your white napkin
from my shore
into my life
your bitter smile
into my life

please forgive my broken voice
but as I think of you the sun glows in my eyes
and I know well you're looking at the sea,
just a bit further out than our sorrow

and I'm here in front
of this sailor's chest
and I'm here looking at
three flannel shirts
two covers and a mandolin
and a hardwood ink pot

and in a black cap
your picture as a girl
so that I can kiss Genova again
on your naphthalene lips

***
"Da a me Riva", by late Genovese Songwriter and Poet Fabrizio de Andre'.
The attempt of a translation to english is my own fault.
I guess I'm a bit homesick.

2003-09-04T18:02:00.000-07:00

Me be back.

Yesterday night was Open Mic night. I had been looking forward for that, as I knew that performing a piece of two could be probably the best way to break the ice and get to know a few people.

I wasn't really worried about the set duration, which kept shrinking as my turn onstage approached - I knew that I just had to get up there, crack my usual silly joke, and play at my best.

I picked a song of my own, one I knew I would be comfortable playing, one I was sure the people would like. Slow, moody, melodic, and sweet. it's probably the best thing I've written, or a close second. You can download it

here

along with some other songs of mine. The one I played yesterday is called "How Good it Would Be"

(note to self: write a guide, "how to turn your english class blog in a shameless self plug")

And the song surely hit the mark. I met people who kept complimenting on my playing all day - not bad! I'm kind of happy about it because it's not like I played to impress anyone (I could have chosen one of the faster paced, flashier pieces); I just played to convey all the emotions that I put into that little song.

2003-09-02T19:13:00.000-07:00

What I learnt today:

DO take an umbrella or a k-way or a portable gazebo of sorts WHENEVER you leave your room.

The weather changes fast here, moreso when you spend hours in the SOM's dungeons...*creepy*

London, be ashamed!
This has been the official first time I've felt COLD outside since I came here. Must be because of that drenched tee in the pouring rain...*rolls eyes*

Be Good,

J

2003-09-01T18:04:00.000-07:00

Welcome back, dear visitors. First of all, please excuse the utter meaninglessness (cool word, if existant) of my last post / I was severely jetlagged and not so hot about "writing about your most thrilling experience at Belmont as of yet"...

Now things are different. Very different.

The report of these first few days is as positive as it can be. Heck, I'm even learning how to play the piano! The campus is cool, the people are cool, the weather is freacking hot but for gosh's sake something has got to give. The caf food is alright - who would have said that?

I'm even starting to meet a few people - that's incredible if you let me say it... *rolls eyes*

We'll see if I get a chance of keeping this thing sort of regular

Take care, wandering souls

*******Italian Meassage to follow

Ciao Euge! (e gli altri)

Qui la vita va bene, benone, non ci si lamenta.
Ho appena finito di mangiare e devo dire che il cibo fa tutt'altro che schifo.
Uno dei pochi problemi e che le nuove conoscenze si contano sulle punte delle dita di una mano, sebbene due di queste siano due topoline molto carine. We'll see how I fare.

statemi bene, ed inquinatevi di fronte alla maestosita' del mio 100 nel quiz della pecorella coprofaga.

vs.
J

2003-08-28T10:55:00.000-07:00

The first thing that struck me when I got to belmont is how different it is compared to universities in italy. The campus has almost everything you can need, without hitting the town - or at least so it seems in my first days here.

I want to expand on this.

I've been here in Belmont for more than a week now - and I've yet to hit Downtown Nashville. That's strange. I mean, I am quite the globetrotter and I like to know the places I go to - even if only have a few days to spend there. But not here. The reasons may be various: first, I don't have a car, bus schedules are horrible, and I really don't want to get a cab to and from the city. Second, I am fairly busy with classes, practicing, studying and just getting along. Still, the very nature of the campus may well help the students "survive" in a sort of relative isolation, which could be actually kind of good for our studying balances.

You get to know the people you're gonna live with right here, so it's even more natural not to feel an urge to get away.

I expect this to change once I build some stable friendships, and hopefully get a mean of transport (I still believe that getting around N'ville on a mule would be the coolest thing on earth).

But well, who I am lying to? the only reason I don't feel like hitting the town is because the city's best music store, at least for an acoustic guitar freak like me, is just 5 minutes away! *winks*

God Bless Hillsboro Village

J