London Calling

Its a tale of two empires. The United States and England have a fraternal link. Beyond our brotherly spats and disagreements, the similarities in our cultures provide an eerie reflection of what is and what could be the future of our country.

London is a vast city of neighborhoods grown from the repeated populations booms associated with every new territory the British Empire claimed and rescinded. At its core are triumphant works of Gothic architecture next to modern financial buildings. Its past as an empire and its current financial capitol all woven into its asphalt tapestry. Its a grand statement to all of its achievements.

This is the UK, rebound from its near collapse as an Empire stretched too thin to maintain its hold on the world. Its able to look back at its past and victoriously claim its part in history. Once you look past its gilded buildings, and museums celebrating its place in science, you find the sobering truth to it all.

London is marred with memorials disguised as beauty marks. They are the real reminders of Imperialism and its lust for empire building. Each grave stone is a list of tens of thousands of soldiers who sacrificed themselves, willingly or not, to protect country and a very big crown. Millions of lives robbed of its whole potential to make sure that land far away from the home soil is protected. The city, in all of its glory, is a extravagant, well dressed, jewel encrusted monument to the dead.

Under London's veneer of expensive brands and sports cars is the soul of the city. A huge population of hard working, worldly, well educated immigrants, and locals keeping the city together. Its communities are strong; held together by sporting rivalries and common bonds.

For me, I had never felt so welcomed in a country. Maybe its the common cultural DNA of shared political follies and successes, but there is a definite kinship. The bond, and common language, opened up opportunities I hadn't assumed possible. I shared beers with people I met hours ago. I enjoyed conversations over curry with a group of friends I had just met. I explored parts of east London with accommodating locals that were more than happy to show me their neighborhoods. Tips and suggestions were bountiful. Free rooms were offered by just about every person I met.

London is special, not for the vast power and wealth it managed to squander on more power and more wealth. Its not its vanity or ego, either. What makes London great is its people and community; its generous, embracing, diverse, committed and intelligent people. Something that we need to see and learn from ourselves.

Old York by way of Manchester

Opposites. It happened to be a central theme to my trip in the UK. A country rich in tales of castles and kingdoms, valiant green thieves, roman history, megalithic structures, churches, and cults. Then there is modern England. Queens, chemists, steam engines, wrought iron, and taxes and conquest.

There is a conflicting charm to the landscape that is the UK. Opposites of romanticism and the industrious near past. The first part of my visit brought me to effective centers of both. Manchester, the home of the industrial revolution, and York, a story book castle city, and one of the few places in England where Romans camped.

Manchester is much like other western industrial cities. Its recovering from the same overseas production fallout the US suffered. However, its still proud of its "firsts" and rightful claims to modern society. After all, this is where Rutherford's discoveries largely proved the current model of chemistry.

Beneath its triumphs of achievement is the cities big heart. A city of people, tightly knit by community, a pint, and football. Its here that I found the overwhelming genuine kindness in its people. A hospitality and kinship that I haven't even seen in any other country. Between that and its handful of museums and attractions (Curry Mile, Manchester University, parks and its river), Manchester provides a relaxing pace that made it an ideal break between rapid traveling.

York was the real vacation. A tiny city nestled in Yorkshire, providing enough sights for two days even when I had five. Even though the city walls can be walked in about an hour and a half, it provided a near folkloric backdrop to the city contained within. Every tiny block had some kind of unique story; some simple, some legendary, like the birth place of Guy Fawkes. Roads were contorted to fit the 100s of years of development. Crooked houses and secret alleyways led to small shops in old tradition. All of it under the impressive minster that stands as the city's omniscient observer.

The time I spent here gave me new friends and acquaintances that would form a central theme to my later trip to London.

A Man Walks Into a Barcelona...

Mediterranean paradise. A much needed vacation. An unexpected stop over before leaving the EU. One of the most memorable cities.

I realized I had 2 weeks left of the EU allotted 3 months. Barcelona was intended as a respite to plan out my travel further than 3 days. I had heard great things about the city. I knew its legacy of artists. I knew it had good food, but how much more could an urban metropolis offer any other urban metropolis?

I was sceptical, to say the least. New cities, as I've found, tend to be consistently the same. A Starbucks here, an Urban Outfitters there, giant class and steel buildings everywhere. Barcelona, regardless of its history dating back to Roman colonies, is a new city. It has various quarters from different time periods, but Barcelona became whole during the last century and a half. Civil planners were tasked to figure out how to attach all of the different sections together for a rapidly industrializing city.

Amidst turmoil of clashing politics, the government allowed futurists, artists and engineers keys to the playground, inspired by the massive civil restructuring of Paris under Napoleon. Antoni Gaudi is, perhaps, the person most associated with this. His modernist architecture is organic in shape, and has woven its way into the cities DNA, from the iconic Sagrada Familia, to Guell Park.

Maybe its just the stark contrast to Italian cities, but I found Barcelona to be a near model city. The roads were orderly, safe public transportation is bountiful, traffic followed signals, people were helpful and kind, large open walking parks crisscrossed the city, providing liberal walking areas that connecting the important Gothic quarter, to Eixample to the Gracia quarter to the beach.

Most important of all is Barcelona's ability to still hold onto its culture. Rampant consumerism hasn't entirely changed the face of the city. There are still craftsmen and entrepreneurs focusing on skill instead of profit. Every small square has a wealth of independent shops providing a unique concept, skill or meal. Artists create in old Gothic houses, and top quality cafes nestle between cathedrals. In the middle of it all is a very active market that attracts visitors from all over.

Barcelona is in some ways a very successful experiment. The city gambled with what it could do to define itself, and made itself an even stronger cultural hub.

I couldn't help walking away from the city, knowing that I would return.

It's Time to Leave I-taly

Southern Italy isn't exactly known for its tourism. Americans largely never travel south of Napoli. Northern Italians regard the area quite negatively. Its known for its corruption, con men and relative poverty, but this is the area that many Italian Americans have roots in. In the late 1800s, when Italians were leaving the homeland for hope of a better life, it was southern Italy they were escaping. Its the reason I traveled here, despite the warnings, to find the birth place of my great grandfather, Antonio.

I left from Napoli on a coastal express train for Lemezia. The view was stunning as we passed aging villas clinging to rock face, precariously suspended over turquoise water. As we escaped the midlands, dilapidated unit housing replaced the picturesque Mediterranean paradise. It became more and more clear why people left.

Unfortunately for Italians, the main industry is tourism, which the south largely lacks. The other production based businesses wade knee deep in corruption; preventing the trickle of profit to its employees. The result is an area hungry for income but stubbornly Italian.

People emphatically talk with their hands, if not their whole body. People are extremely passionate about even the most mundane things. What often sounds like yelling, is really engaged discourse about the weather. Most of all, people take great care in the people they meet.

Even when I was mumbling through the language, people were quick to help me. The waiter at the restaurant would patiently wait for me to find the vocabulary to tell him what I was doing in town while he slung shots of house made limoncello at me, free of charge. When I left he called me brother (we apparently have family in the same town). The owner of the hotel that I stayed in, while in Catanzaro, took a personal interest in helping me find my great grandfather's documentation. Going so far as to navigating the court house with me to supply the correct inquiry form. At the end, I left feeling like I could understand myself a little bit more.

I saw myself, and my family in these small towns. Genuinely passionate and kind people were everywhere. The strange customs and culture within my family, disparate from my friend's families, suddenly had context.

Cazzilli is what my mother would call the eye gunk that forms when you sleep. It happens to be the name of a potato based fried food that, in Sicilian tradition, is crassly named. It literally means "little prick." They food, not the name, shares a few similarities to the stuff in your eyes.

Schivosa is something my mom would exclaim when any of us were being gross. Particularly if we had a dripping nose or something. I found out that this actually means "gross."

Yelling. Any one who knows me knows that I speak intensely about anything. If you don't know me well, people frequently mistake this for angered yelling. My Dad does it. My brothers do it. Everyone in Italy does it.

Caca is a childish term my mom would use to refer to...uh...feces. So do Italians.

Bacala is well known through the Mediterranean and the Caribbean. Its the common name used for salted cod, which forms a lot regional dishes. In Calabria, cod is thought of as a really dumb fish, which is why my father would call us that when we did something not very bright. Apparently, the Stanizzi kids and tens of thousands of Calabrians can all share that memory.

Stronzo means "a shit." This might be why its one of the many swears I heard fly out of the mouth of southerners...and my dad.

Agita sounds just like it is. It means agitated. Its what Italians say when they get heart burn after a big meal, or what i say after a Christmas feast. Every. Time.

Eating pasta with just a fork is the way I always ate pasta. It wasn't until I went out to a restaurant and had pasta that I realized people used the spoon as well. Nope. Not in Italy. A fork is good enough.

Napkins on the table, placed squarely to the side of the plate. That's where it stayed. It was only placed on your lap if it was a special dinner, or the family was dining at a restaurant. Same in Italy. It holds that place at the table for quick face cleanup after making a mess while using only a fork for pasta.

Did I learn a lot? I certainly did. I made friends and found my family in a bunch of strangers. Its with a heavy heart that I finally leave Italy for other places unknown. In this case, Barcelona.