coffee and currency exchange

Cheerio mates,
As sad as it makes me, I can no longer salute you all with a “ciao ragazzi!” Well, I could, but it just wouldn’t feel right, stranded here in Gatwick as I am. I should warn you that this could potentially be an extremely long and rambling entry, given that I have almost three hours before my flight and am running on approximately 8 hours of sleep over the last two days. I am so tired, and English feels like glue in my mouth.

It takes about $12 to buy 10 Euro. I had 10 Euro left to my name when I arrived at the Gatwick airport this morning around midnight (this evening around midnight?). After setting up camp on a rather uncomfortable (but at least padded) bench that was directly under an air conditioning vent, I proceeded to shiver myself into sleep (translation: 5 or 6 30-minute naps). That game ended around 7 this morning when I dragged myself off the bench and headed towards the check-in area. Along the way I found a money-changing machine, and as I needed to buy coffee, I fed in my remaining 10 Euro bill. In exchange I received 5 pounds (which was clearly stated on the machine, so at least it wasn’t a surprise). With my 5 pounds I headed off to purchase an absolutely awful cappuccino for 2 pounds, which, if my math is right, comes to something close to $4.50 for the coffee (that was the smallest size available).

I go into great detail about this monetary muddle only to point out that less than 24 hours ago, I was drinking a fantastic cappuccino at a lovely, shaded park in Castiglion Fiorentino for which I paid a mere .90 euro. The only thing that redeemed this morning’s breakfast excursion was the apple pastry that I smuggled out of Italy yesterday. I bought two there for 1.50 euro. Sigh. I am going to miss the apple pastries and nearly-free cappuccinos a great deal.

Insomma. I scurried off to check-in and arrived at my gate to find it closed to passengers. Not until I had been standing there for the better part of 30 minutes did I realize I had forgotten to account for the hour difference between Italy and London…turns out I could have taken another 30 minute freezing nap session on my bench. Oh well. I have relocated to some sort of middle area, through which hundreds of sleepy-eyed passengers are passing, some of which are no doubt headed to find Gate 17 closed. People in airports are fascinating. I have no idea why some people are dressed to the nines to get on a plane and trap themselves in a 2x2 seat. I myself prefer to travel in my pajama pants, convention be damned. At least I am comfortable.

I am not sure why this still comes as a surprise to me, but I was so sad to get on the plane yesterday. I spent most of Sunday and Monday saying goodbye to people and promising that I would return soon. Everyone else spent most of Sunday and Monday surprising me with their kindness, calling me unexpectedly to send me off or dropping by the café in the morning to say goodbye and give me an early birthday present. My guitarist’s family has a cabin up on the side of the mountain that overlooks Castiglion Fiorentino, and the band and I went up there yesterday to have a last lunch together. It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny and warm (a nice warm), and the sky was a hazy blue, and patchy with impending rain clouds. Manuel and Juri fixed spaghetti and bruschetta, using tomatoes and basil picked out of the garden, and we ate outside on a long wooden table, surrounded by the cats and dogs and horses and all the happy, twinkling noises of the countryside. It was the perfect last meal. Just as we finished eating and finishing a bottle of Vino Rosso di Montepulciano (!), the skies opened up and we were treated to an afternoon thunderstorm, which made for an absolutely beautiful ride home after the rain had blown out. Everything had that fresh, clean look…all of the greens and blues glowed with unbelievable intensity, and the sun beat down with just enough heat to keep the away the chill of the wind. On the way home we passed by one of my favorite people in Italy, Giuliana, who is one of the cooks at Santa Chiara. I’m convinced she is an angel. At any rate, she was the one person I hadn’t been able to find to say goodbye to, and we passed her on a road in the middle of nowhere. We screeched to a halt so I could get out and say goodbye, and she smiled and gestured to the nearby church. She said she had been out for a walk and stopped here to rest…she said she had just been thinking of me and how sad she was to not be able to say goodbye. She smiled and kissed my cheeks and said in her sweet, laughing, Italian voice, “listen to me…see how God is here?”

We said our goodbyes and we all continued down off the mountain and to the studio, where I received my pre-mastering copy of the CD we just recorded…more on that to come…and then across the street to the pasticceria, where I picked up two apple pastries for the road (I’m saving the other for my first real crying session), and then we were off to Pisa to catch my plane. Or rather, I was off to catch my plane – I left the band in Italy (stupidly, but I couldn’t afford 3 other tickets).

My flight from Pisa to Gatwick was fairly uneventful (no one put their stinky feet in my face, so I had that going for me), but I was ambushed by a rather chatty bloke who wanted to know everything about me and wanted me to know everything about him. He was downing water from a glass bottle in between Bloody Marys and cans of beer…only as we were about to land did I realize the water from a glass bottle was in fact grappa, a clear and extremely strong Italian liquor that tastes a bit like gasoline and is quite alcoholic and is usually sipped out of a small glass as an after-dinner drink. I feel safe in saying that between him and his 2 friends, they easily put down a liter of grappa, swigged straight out of the bottle. Unbelievable.

After they found out that I was a musician, they wanted to know if I was famous. This is my new favorite question. My immediate response was that I wouldn’t likely be flying the economy red-eye from Pisa if I were. And when I arrived to Gatwick and went through customs, the customs officer saw my guitar and my declared occupation on my landing card (musician) and he also wanted to know if I was famous. I think from now on, I am going to start saying yes. Usually I reply with a bashful ‘no,’ or a slightly optimistic ‘no, not yet,’ but I see no reason that I can’t just go ahead and claim fame if others are foolish or curious enough to ask me that question. I’m interested to see the average response when I answer, “why yes, I’m actually quite well-known, and rather offended that you didn’t recognize me. Now bring me a pastry.” It will be fun. Maybe I’ll get an upgrade to first-class.

So now I’m killing time in Gatwick. I got here at midnight and my flight is at 10.30 am…from there I head on to Newark and arrive there at 1.00 pm (sounds impossible but thanks to those magic and annoying time zones, it works), and after a two-hour layover in Newark, I head on to Dallas, where I will be greeted by my mum and a plate of fajitas at the house (if all goes well). The news hasn’t yet reached my brain or heart that I have left Italy behind, though I am sure cognizance will set in midway across the Atlantic and I will have to start begging the pilot to turn around or supply me with a parachute. Actually, that may be a bit dramatic. I am in fact looking forward to being home and seeing everyone again and going on tour (and I am curious to see how different it will be from playing with a band). But like always, I am still searching for a way to cleave myself in two, or clone myself, or find some way to leave me there and bring me to America as well.

A little while ago, while I was twiddling my thumbs outside the-gate-that-wouldn’t-open, I decided (against my better judgment) to pop in the Ice Cream on Mondays CD to see how we fared. I thought for sure I would start crying and look like an idiot there in the middle of the deserted terminal. Instead, I think I looked almost as foolish as I perched on the edge of a railing, my feet swinging madly back and forth to Gumo’s drum beat, a huge, goofy grin plastered across my face. If I am allowed to say so, it sounds really great. Really. I can’t wait till we master it and get it ready for you guys to hear. Maybe I’ll post a demo on the site later this week.

Okay. So later this week…I have a show in Houston on Saturday, and I look forward to seeing some of you guys there. Please come up and say hi if you get a chance. Diedrich’s from 9-12.
More from the other side of the pond, as they say.
love
vanessa