Welcome to On Sunday Morning. I’m the voice behind the blog and the person behind the camera. I’m an eager explorer, wannabe writer, capable chef, creative conversationalist, aging athlete, and proficient photographer. Queer in its original meaning is an apt adjective to describe me. I even have a day job working in healthcare. Social media is making us sad; let’s go for a walk somewhere together or trade tales around a campfire.
"I'm a big believer in winging it. I'm a big believer that you're never going to find perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss, I think, and I'm always trying to push people to allow those things to happen rather than stick to some rigid itinerary."
Since August 1, I saw the most popular concert in my lifetime. {It was amazing.} I made and traded friendship bracelets with strangers/ new friends. {So much fun and really cool to see international Swifties come up with some neat ideas–My favorite Je suis Calme.} It was a whirlwind of transportation {planes USA –> Canada –> Switzerland –> Germany –> Poland–> Germany–> USA] and everything aligned just perfectly to get me to Poland and back in time to take a final exam–wait what?!?. Yeah, right in the middle of all this chaos I had a final exam on Aug 5.
After seeing Taylor in Warsaw on August 3, I high-tailed it back to South Carolina in order to sit for my Psychopharmacology Final. (That I won a silver medal in. In honor of the Olympics, I’ve decided to rename grades Gold, Silver, and Bronze because anything less than 82.9 on any exam., final, or class is my one way ticket out of the program. 9 more months…9 months to go until graduation)
Sparkly. Swiftie. Ready to party
Holy crap. It’s Taylor!!!
you’re right, I do
After that emotional weekend, I hit a Trauma-Informed Care conference (required training), and then a different whirlwind in a different direction. Off to Alaska. To see the bears I’ve loved since 2014. Sadly no Otis, but still BEARS! Big giant brown bears. So close I could almost touch one. (I didn’t; I know better, even though I don’t act like it most of the time).
oh you are a sexy beast
Gully–I love how happy you are about catching a fish
It’s the BEADY BUNCH–a bunch of girl bears is a force of nature
Colbert–I love being your BBF (best bear friend) said her #164 Bucky Dent
I get this way too after too much food or too long of a hike
It’s all still so overwhelming–seeing two things in three weeks that I often wondered if I’d eve see. Personally, I feel like I’ve turned a corner. Breaking up with a long term partner is never easy. Even if it is the right thing to do. Even if the reasons make sense. When you have love a person, faults and all, and then that person is no longer in your life, it’s human nature to feel like a failure. I’ve experience a lot of loss and misdirection in the last two years, but I finally feel like I’m back on track. Thanks to the bears at Katmai and a singer called Taylor Swift.
“Is this seat open?” The handsome stranger asked in accented English. I made an exception to the ‘don’t talk to strangers rule’. I’m a lot better at being open when I’m 8000 miles from home as opposed to being in my own town.
“Yes”. I replied as he sat down.
“Do you know those people?” He was referring to the three people in my group of 7 who pitched a total fit about sleeping arrangements.
“No. I only joined the group this afternoon. I don’t even know their names.”
A scheduling snafu, or perhaps this is how it’s always done, had me sleeping in a tent with two guys. One–from Hong Kong, who barely spoke English, and the second–the handsome stranger with the accented English who was my current dining companion.
We started chatting, the way travelers do when they first meet someone. “Where are you from?” [Me: the United States; Him: Italy, Milan specifcally]. What do you do when you aren’t traveling? [Me: I’m a RN; Him: journalist] Why are you in Kenya [Me: to teach; him: to explore]. Verbal parrying continued, each trying to suss out whether the other person would make an interesting companion past tonight’s dinner.
Dining Companions
Dinner was a simple meal; white rice and a meat stew on top. I’ve learned not to ask what “kind” of meat is in meat stew. Most often, it’s goat, or chola in Kenya, and while I’ll not be eating any goat in the US, when in Kenya….
After dinner we leave the communal dining room together. Despite the long travel day and our early morning start tomorrow, I’m not quite ready to turn in. I notice you following me to the bonfire. I’m a sucker for a bonfire. Any bonfire. Any where.
After the sun sets, it’s surprisingly chilly. After nearly a month in this country, the nighttime chill shouldn’t surprise me. Yet, it does. Every time. “I’m going to run and get my jacket.” I say to no one in particular, but especially to you so that you won’t leave.
I run back to our shared tent, which seems a lot more intimate than it is, and grab my flannel shirt. That’s what’s been serving as a ‘jacket’ these last few chilly days., and run back out to the bonfire. You are writing in your journal as I quietly take a seat opposite from you. I stare into the fire, somewhat lost in thought, when you blurt out, “What do you think of the state of the world right now?”
Borrowing a line from Harry Potter, I reply, ‘The whole world’s gone topsy-turvy.’ I hope that satisfies you, because the truth of it is, I don’t enjoy discussing politics. Or religion. People generally have forgotten how to have intelligent discourse and disagree without resorting to personal attacks.
“Do you know who the prime minister of Italy is?” he asked.
“I do. Her name in Meloni. Georgia, or something like that.” I can tell you’re impressed. I didn’t volunteer that I’d only just learned that recently due to a listening to podcast. “Most Americans don’t know that” you replied.
“Most Americans don’t know who their own representatives are” I countered.
“You’re not like most Americans” you assess with certainty although we’ve only known each other about 3 hours.
“Well, I try”
Things suddenly got serious. “Well, I don’t know many Italians to compare you to. Italian-Americans, maybe, but actual Italians, not so much.”
You laugh. “What is it with Americans claiming to be “something”-American. No other country does that.”
Now, it’s my turn to laugh. ‘I have no idea. My European ancestors literally came over on the Mayflower 400 years ago. And they were from the UK. I don’t go around saying ‘I’m British-American'”
You laugh again.
The Conversation Turns Serious
“Do you have on-line dating in Italy? Like Tinder?” I don’t know why I ask this.
“Yes. Of course. Why? Are you on it?
“Me? No.”
“Why not?” you ask.
“Well, I was in a relationship for a really long time and now I’m not. But picking someone out and ‘adding to cart’ like an Amazon purchase seems like the wrong way to go about meeting a potential partner. Besides people are superficial. Especially online. No one takes the time to get to know anyone anymore.”
“You mean like this” you ask.
“Yes. Exactly like this. No one in America has time for hours long dinners that lead to chatting around a bonfire for two hours. It’s go-go-go. All the time. And, besides, I don’t like small talk.”
“So what do you like to talk about, then”
“oh you know, ones hopes and dreams and fears. Goals in life. And bears”
“Bears?” you ask questioningly.
“Specifically the coastal Alaskan brown bear. And even more specifically, a bear named Otis” I reply.
You laugh.
“Well tell me about Otis” you say.
And I do. At length. At times, I wonder if I’m following the unwritten dating rules. Or is this an exception since this isn’t really a date. I decided to go with exception and talk way too much about Otis. And Pete. I do not mention my ex. No matter the situation, that’s definitely not an exception. You talk about Italy. And Ukraine. And South Sudan, You avoid mentioning other humans.
Somehow it’s midnight and the fire has almost burned out.
“I suppose we should get some sleep. We’ve got an early start.” I say to myself. And you.. As we walk back to our tent, I feel your hand brush against mine.
A Truly Magical Day
Who the fuck puts on make-up for a safari I thought as I carefully applied eyeshadow. Wait scratch that–Who the fuck BRINGS make-up on a safari. Apparently I do. If this isn’t some irony. A person who rarely wears make in the everyday life is putting on make-up to go on a safari.
Safari ready, make-up and all.
Shortly after our breakfast of beans and toast, we loaded up into our (separate) safari jeeps and set off to chase animals around Amboseli National Park.
It was amazing.
So many elephants.
And flamingos.
And some hippos.
I saw hundreds of zebras.
And giraffes.
I even saw the one animal I really wanted to see
After the safari was over we met back at the campsite and compared stories and animal sightings over dinner. You said it was cute how excited I got over seeing a lion for the first time.
“Better than seeing Otis” you joked. “Only because I’ve never actually seen Otis in person I replied”
“Come with me. I want to show you something even better than Otis. And lions.”
We walk outside, and the full moon is rising over snow-capped Mt. Kilimanjaro. It was an awe inspiring sight.
“I know you said you don’t kiss strangers, but I’ll hope you’ll make an exception. Besides we’re not really strangers anymore, are we? We’ve known each other exactly 26 hours.”
And standing there, in the shadow of Kilimanjaro, with the full moon shining overhead, you kiss me. And then we walk hand in hand back to our shared tent.
2020 Michelle here: This museum I found in Zagreb, Croatia is perhaps one of the more interesting museums I’ve ever been in [The Sex Museum in Naples is another]. While Zagreb is no uber charming city, this museum had me enthralled. The end of a relationship is always a trying time for everyone involved even if it’s just a ‘whew, I dodged that bullet’ thought. But I’ve never thought of putting my relationship detritus in a museum for others to look at. Let this be a reminder that atypical museums can be some of the more educational, informative, pleasurable. museums out there.
A break-up is like a broken mirror: it’s better to leave it alone than to hurt yourself picking up the pieces.
His name was Michael. Today is his birthday. I shouldn’t remember that, but I do. When we met he was 32, and I was 24. We met at work. I loved his sense of humour and he loved my adventurous spirit. We were friends first. Nearly a year, before anything more than friendly happened. But as is often the case between men and women, something did happen. I practically dared him to kiss me, and when he did, it was as if time stood still. July 19, 2004 –after lunch. The kiss lasted exactly 42 seconds. I know because I had a digital atomic clock on the wall in my office. The kiss touched every neuron in my body, and for the first time in my life, I felt alive.
I named him “Nobody” and he called me “Girl. ” If people asked me who I was dating, and they did because people love to meddle in the affairs of others, I’d say “Nobody.” If people asked him who he was seeing, he’d say “Just some girl.” It was our secret, and it was exciting.
We carried on our secret affair for 18 months –until I moved away… co-workers weren’t supposed to date. And even after moving to a different state, the thought of him was like a drug. We were like addicts addicted to each other; couldn’t stay away, yet couldn’t get enough.
The first step in recovering from an addiction is admitting that there is a problem, and oh boy, there was. Michael was as strong as any drug I’d ever encountered, and willpower alone wasn’t enough to make me quit him. Over time I came to rely on a power greater than myself and contact with Michael became more and more sparse. Withdrawal is a painful master. There was physical pain. There was emotional pain. There were tears.
There were no stuffed worms. No legs were broken in this break-up.
The last conversation I had with him was right before I left for Moscow. He said “you always did want to go places.” and I said “I will always love you, but this will be the last time I tell you that.” And I haven’t had contact with him since. After returning from Moscow, I wanted to call him. I wanted to tell him all the amazing adventures I had. Instead, I got a cat. I named her Lily. She was a sweet cat.
Lily helped me heal.
I still have a post card he gave me. And ticket stubs for various events. And a necklace. And various little notes. What can I say, I’m a sentimental soul.
I knew before I went to Zagreb that I wanted to go to the museum of broken relationships. I find it fascinating to see what people keep as mementos from relationships. Not every relationship ends on a sour note. Some have other obstacles that time just could not overcome. Some just aren’t meant to be. Some exist solely to prepare you for the future. Michael was not my first boyfriend, but he was my first love, and without that relationship, I wouldn’t be where I am today.
I’ve held on to the mementos of the relationship with Michael for 10+ years, and karma, good energy, and such being what it is, it’s time to release that energy into the universe. Good bye Michael, and with that I turned my items over to the museum of broken relationships
PS...I have a slight confession to make. Once upon a time I was dating this guy, James. Now I knew the relationship with James was never going to be long-term, but he was ummm, fun, and I had recently broken up with a cheating bastard I caught with another woman. I made James brownies for his birthday. I left them on the kitchen table with a ‘Happy Birthday’ note. I came over the next day to find everything in the trash. I was pissed to say the least. Livid. Irate. Incensed. A seething cauldron of raging fumes; you get the idea. He was being such an ass. I went to the local World Market, bought a bottle of cheap $7 Il Bastardo wine, and switched it out for his fancy $200 bottle of French Bordeaux. My friend and I drank the rich, velvet wine while sitting in her hot tub cursing all the shallow men in the world. I still feel no shame in taking Il Bastardo’s prized bottle of red wine.
In retrospect, the Il Bastardo was still probably pretty tasty. After all it comes from Tuscany and is a Sangiovese so probably still good. I really would have like to have smashed Il Bastardo over the bastard’s head, but I got my revenge in other ways that even though the statute of limitations has passed, I’ll still keep my mouth shut because some things are just better left unsaid [or in this case… things are better left un-typed].
at least no axes were ever involved in any of my break-ups although a knife was involved in one very traumatic incident.
PPS…Names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent…Except Il Bastardo. His name really was James.
PPPS...If I dated women, I’d totally give every.single.one I ever broke up with this bar of chocolate. Because I am a petty mistress.
Did I really just go to good ole ‘Murica? Only a few days back in Rwanda, and the entire trip back to South Carolina feels like a dream. I left Rwanda on a Saturday night and was in my own bed by Monday. Lucy and Molly inspected me with above normal curiosity… Maybe they know I’ve been cheating on them with Sadie Mae. Thanks to the generous soul who came to fetch me, my first America meal was a home cooked feast complete with time spent with some of my favorite people. The combination of a full belly and a little more than 24 hours worth of travel had me collapsing into bed around 10p despite the party that was still going on downstairs.
Christmas lights at Biltmore in Asheville, NC
My nearly one month back in ‘Murica had me meeting my new niece [born November 14 ], seeing friends and family, visiting the DMV [in person!], checking out Christmas lights at America’s largest house, dealing with the state nursing board [on-line], making doctor’s appointments, doing some light decorating to my house, and eating pizza! and salads.
glorious cheesy pizza!
I weeded through piles of clothing for clothes that fit [I lost 35 pounds while in Rwanda], donated two large tubs of clothing to charity [maybe I can buy them again in Rwanda], ate out with friends, sat in hot tub, and just enjoyed America’s luxuries in general.
We have matching gold reflections in our eyes
Here’s some general observations I have about going back to America after living 7 months in the rural Rwandan countryside:
America is rich. Excessively so. Even though I stayed in my own house [modest by American standards], I was amazed at the luxury I have. 2 acres of land. 3 TVs. Running water that you can drink straight from the faucet. Toilet. Washing Machine and Dryer. A car.
American bureaucracy sucks just as much as Rwandan bureaucracy–I just understand the language better. #governmentshutdown
Americans eat so much. My Burrito Bowl? Easily 3 Rwandan meals; it lasted for two in America. Nearly every meal I had in America was easily 2-3 Rwandan meals.
Small towns are the same wherever you are. Even though my American neighbors don’t call me ‘muzungu’, they were definitely aware and curious about the fact that I was home.
I got off the plane and went through a fancy customs kiosk. But it literally stunned me, how professional the airport security was. They called me “ma’am” and said “please move this way”. Did you know there is no Rwandan word for please? Professionalism is something we DEFINITELY take for granted in America. It’s expected that you will be treated with respect and courtesy when you enter a service situation where money changes hands. Professionalism in Rwanda? Definitely not what Americans are accustomed to. People are late, answer their phones in meetings, sometimes even drink beer during training. Professionalism is not a value in this culture. As Rwanda tried to increase it’s service sector and therefore its economic position in the world, its people could learn a thing or two about professionalism, courtesy, and manners.
It was nice to be back in an area that is diverse–even if only somewhat. Rwanda, of course, has foreign visitors. And even refugees from Congo and Burundi, but Rwandas are just Rwandan. They have made a concentrated effort to stamp out any ethnic diversity in part due to their history. I love diversity. I love seeing different races and nationalities in the same place at the same time. I love hearing multiple foreign languages spoken at one time.
I haven’t been back in rural Rwanda long enough to assess my feelings. I had to go back to America; I didn’t have to come back to Rwanda. Appointments to manage, licenses to renew, certifications to maintain, and medical appointment to see about. These are things I could not do from Rwanda, and these licenses weren’t something I was willing to let lapse. I also took the GRE, and while I could have done that in Rwanda, it was just easier to do from America. I wanted to see my people, and despite all the rumors you hear about Reverse Culture Shock, being back home felt ‘right.’ Oh sure, some things felt foreign, but overall, it felt comfortable, and I ‘adjusted’ real quick.
‘Light’ decorating… in my office at home
and the living room
There are decisions to be made for sure, but none of that has to happen right now. And for now, I can enjoy my remaining time in Rwanda whether it be weeks, months, or two years, hang out with friends, and enjoy exploring this tiny, yet incredibly diverse country.
I even managed to get in the wood during my return to Murica
First up in my orgy of medical museums and such is the Semmelweis Museum in Budapest, Hungary. I feel bad for Semmelweis. He made a major medical discovery, yet couldn’t explain it, so all his colleagues mocked him mercilessly, and then he died… a broken man. Only to have his discovery proven right a few short years later. He is one of the reasons we do a 2-minute scrub prior to entering surgical delivery rooms.
Here it is: my ode to Semmelweis and his discovery of germs…
I wrote a poem
It’s a tiny little thing; it’s hardly ever seen.
But once inside, it can turn you green.
Germs are many; treatments are few
For many years no one knew
What they were or their effects
Sickness was caused by air or a hex
Then Semmelweis figured it out
“Wash your hands” he wanted to shout.
But no one listened; no one cared
And no one cared how patients fared
A crusade against the little beasts he undertook
He gave speeches; he wrote a book
When he died he was outcast
But twenty years later, a hero he was–at last
Today entire classes are taught how to wash their hands
To wash away beasts tinier than a grain of sand
Semmelweis is the hero; he’s the man
Except to the microbes; talk of him in banned
Semme;weis’ father’s apothacary shop
a little bit of history
Semmelweis was a Hungarian doctor teaching medicine in Vienna. He noticed that the [male medical] students moved between the dissection room and the delivery room without washing their hands and their patients had a death rate of over 30%. [Oh, the infection control police at the hospital would be horrified] while the midwives’ patients, who didn’t do dissections, had a death rate of only about 2%. On a hunch, he set up a policy. Effective immediately, doctors must wash their hands in a chlorine solution when they leave the cadavers. Mortality from puerperal fever [aka childbirth fever] promptly drops to three percent and further drops to 1% after physicians began cleaning instruments in the same solution they washed their hands.
The museum is also a medical history museum
Now here’s the part of the story where things grow strange. Instead of reporting his success at a meeting, Semmelweis tells his boss, but his boss orders him to ‘stand down’. Semmelweis says nothing. Finally, a friend publishes two papers on the method. By now, Semmelweis has started washing medical instruments as well as hands.
The hospital director feels his leadership has been criticized [by Semmelweis]. He’s furious. Livid. Beyond angry. He blocks Semmelweis’s promotion. The situation gets worse. Viennese doctors turn on this Hungarian immigrant. They run him out of town. Finally, he goes back home to Budapest. He is an outcast among the “civilized” Austrian medical community. He brings his hand washing methods to a far more primitive hospital, and cuts death by puerperal fever to less than one percent. And he systematically isolates causes of death. He autopsies victims. He sets up control groups, and studies statistics. His has it all figured out.
Requisite skull with a hole in it
Finally, in 1861, he writes a book on his methods. The establishment gives it poor reviews. Semmelweis grows angry and polemical. He hurts his own cause with rage and frustration. He calls his colleagues idiots and ignoramuses. Semmelweis bashes their stupidity. He turned every conversation to the topic of child-bed fever.
The beginning of the end
After a number of unfavorable foreign reviews of his 1861 book, Semmelweis lashed out against his critics in a series of Open Letters. They were addressed to various prominent European obstetricians, including Spath, Scanzonia, Siebold, and to “all obstetricians”. They were full of bitterness, desperation, and fury and were “highly polemical and superlatively offensive” at times denouncing his critics as irresponsible murderers. He also called upon Siebold to arrange a meeting of German obstetricians somewhere in Germany to provide a forum for discussions on puerperal fever where he would stay “until all have been converted to his theory.”
By mid-1865, his public behavior became irritating and embarrassing to his associates. He also began to drink heavily; he spent progressively more time away from his family, sometimes in the company of prostitutes. His wife noticed changes in his sexual behavior. On July 13, 1865 the Semmelweis family visited friends, and during the visit Semmelweis’s behavior seemed particularly inappropriate.
Later in 1865 he suffers a mental breakdown. Friends commit him to a mental institution. Semmelweis surmised what was happening and tried to leave. He was severely beaten by several guards. He was put in straitjacket and confined to a darkened cell. Apart from the straitjacket, treatments at the mental institution included dousing with cold water and administering castor oil. He died after two weeks, on August 13, 1865, aged 47, from a gangrenous wound caused by the beating. His autopsy revealed extensive internal injuries, the cause of death pyemia–the very thing he spent his life trying to eradicate.
The end
Semmelweis was buried in Vienna on August 15, 1865. Only a few people attended the service. Brief announcements of his death appeared in a few medical periodicals in Vienna and Budapest. Although the rules of the Hungarian Association of Physicians and Natural Scientists specified that a commemorative address be delivered in honor of a member who had died in the preceding year, there was no address for Semmelweis; his death was never even mentioned.
A memorial to Semmelweis, savior of women and children
That same year Joseph Lister [the person whom Listerine is named after] begins spraying a carbolic acid solution during surgery to kill germs. In the end, it’s Lister who gives our unhappy hero his due. He says, “Without Semmelweis, my achievements would be nothing.”
The anatomical Venus made of wax… see I do see art from time to time
PS: I don’t write poetry often; there is probably a reason for that.
I once read that it would take ten years to view every item in the Vatican Museums. Even if I had 10 years to spare, I would not choose to spend them exploring ever inch of an art museum. So one day at the Vatican Museum it is. It was plenty. I probably spent more time exploring the architecture of St. Peter’s than the treasure troves of the Vatican Art Museum.
Vatican’s sphere within a sphere….
Catholic rules and things
I visited in early March. High temperatures reached a balmy 55F. Showing too much skin wasn’t a huge concern for me. However, keep this in mind if you decide to visit in the summer, this IS a religious site. Even if you aren’t Catholic or Christian, show respect. Additionally, the Vatican has a pretty strict dress cod. They also have the staff to enforce said rules in nearly every language under the sun. So no hats, shorts, bare knees, bare shoulders, ect.
So here’s the thing; I am Catholic, [not a shining example] but I am the only member of my family that is. I had a decidedly non-traditional childhood. The one thing my dad insisted on was that I ‘go to church’. So I picked the most exotic church I could find– Holy Spirit Catholic Church. It was [and still is] a tiny parish. I did not know a single soul that was Catholic. My dad refused to go in with me. And the parish had no idea what to do with a school aged child with no parents. But I regularly attended mass. While I didn’t have ‘parental permission’ to take the sacraments, I soldiered on. And while at my decidedly non-Catholic Christian College, I gave a big, double fingered fuck-you to my dad, and went and got baptized, confirmed, and confessed all at once. And just like that, I was an official Catholic.
So yeah…Vatican City, home to about 800 people including— yes, you guessed it—ole’ Benedict himself. As luck would have it, I was staying right outside the Vatican. Some people say stay in Central Rome; it’s where all the action is. To those people, I say staying near the Vatican is a much better idea. Less people, better gelato, and inn keepers who will get you tickets to the Wednesday papal address.
See Benedict giving me the stink eye…it’s as if he knows I haven’t been to confession lately.I bet these guys 1. hate dressing up like a medieval court jester. 2. constantly having cameras stuck in their face. Not only are these Swiss guard single, Catholic, Swiss army men, they also carry swords and SIGs. Both of which I am supremely jealous of .
Anyway, back to Vatican art…
There’s a statue of some Greeks.
At first glance there is an angry energy to the statue. The father and his two sons writhe and twist in battle with two snakes. The agonized expression on the father’s face as he fights to save his children adds drama and pain to the scultpuree. And the quality of the work is breath-taking. The sculptor depicts the muscles and sinews of each of the three figures as they struggle with the serpents. I vaguely remember seeing a slide of this during art history. The Struggle. The Emotions. The Strength. And since I DO love history, I did a little digging on the history of this piece.
And what a history!
This statue linked to the founding of Rome, and to the renowned Latin writer Pliny the Elder. Who’s he? I’m glad you ask. Pliny was an amazing writer who died trying to escape the eruption of Mt Vesuvius that destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum. And that’s not all. The statue’s story also intertwines with Michealangelo, the birth of the Vatican Museum, Raphaeal, William Blake, and even Emperor Napoleon! Impressive, no? Next to naked David in Florence, it was one of my favorite scupltures.
Look at the expression on his face.
The Sistine Chapel
The amazing Sistine Chapel ceiling almost didn’t get painted. Michelangelo wanted to be seen as a sculptor [he did create David after all] and not a painter. He didn’t want to accept the commission for doing it, but Pope Julius II wasn’t an easy man to refuse. Julius was nothing, if not impatient. During one confrontation Michelangelo, Julius threatened to have him thrown off his scaffolding if he didn’t complete the work more quickly. On one occasion, the story goes, Julius asked when it would be finished. “When I can,” said Michelangelo, whereupon His Holiness began beating him with a stick. [Ahhhh, Catholicism…]
At *only* 498 years old, the ceiling is by far not the oldest attraction in Rome, but it may be the most famous. It took me two days to paint 144 sq ft of ceiling in one color. It took Michelangelo four years to paint 12,000 sq ft of ceiling in several scenes and colors. He wins.
Let’s face it, other than knowing that I was looking at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, I didn’t have a clue as to what I was looking at. An art snob, I am not. But that staircase. That thing was awesome.
Intentional or not, the staircase leading to [and from] the Vatican museums is an amazing work of art and engineering.
Ok, I’ll be the first to admit it. I was not enthusiastic when my flight to Maracaibo was canceled and Bogotá became my first South American stop. My original plan was to skipped the Colombian capital altogether and I was not at all excited to visit Bogotá. In hindsight, Bogotá most definitely was a better [and probably safer] introduction to South America than Maracaibo.
I read so many horror stories of mugging. I hadn’t found any articles in which people were raving about the city. It seemed like most people were rushing through Bogotá, hitting up the most important museums, using it as a transit stop and moving on quickly to the next place. Whatever that place may be.
Part of the reason I chose South America was that, in theory, I speak Spanish fluently. Or at least I did a few years ago. I was feeling a little isolated since I am trying to not speak English at all, but today that changed. Not that I magically became fluent overnight, but it is (slowly) coming back to me.
For example, today I took the Transmileno to the other side of Bogotá for no reason than to see another part of the city (It rained while I was riding the bus instead of walking the streets. I call that a win-win) .
Bogota’s buses going through the rain and again in the sun
What is this fruit deliciousness
On the return trip, I had conversation with an elderly gentleman who sat next to me. It was nothing serious, weather, I’m new in town, ect, but it was a chance to practice Spanish with someone who didn’t speak crazy fast. I’m feeling a little more confident. After successfully ordering lunch [3 courses $5500 COP ~$3.25], I stopped in the frutería. Fruiteria = a store only for fruit… these are some of the things I love about being away–I’d never get that in the USA.
I only wanted to get a few snacks for the road, but I was talked into a fruit salad. Nothing like I’ve ever had. It included mango, papaya, pear, banana, and a couple other fruits I have never seen before. Before leaving, I ask the fruit man Que es esto? esto y esto, and very patiently he shows me all the fruits in the store, both in the natural state and the cut up state. So while my fruit salad was only slightly less than lunch, the education about fruit was worth the $2.75 price tag.
Fruit salad covered in cheese
Bogotá is a city of more than 8 million people. And as much as I am not a big-city person, I still find big cities fascinating. Just don’t expect me to move to one. I arrived at El Dorado airport at 2a, a full one day + 18 hours after my intended arrival time. I just wanted to get into a bed as quickly as possible. So I took a taxi, which I hate, to my hostel in Candelaria, where I promptly crashed for a few hours.
The next morning, I started to explore the city, and I noticed two things right away: the altitude [O.M.G breathing is so hard] and the thick layer of gray clouds that hover over the city on most days. The altitude – Bogotá sits at 8,675 feet– caused me to huff and puff my way up and down Candelaria’s steep streets like a chain-smoking asthmatic. I never got used to it during my two weeks in the city. Bogotá is not exactly warm either. I can see why it’s off the radar with most travelers. Especially travelers coming from sea level, tropical temperatures, and perfect weather.
I joined a few of the free walking tours during my stay. They are excellent for getting one’s bearings straight in a new city, finding out a few more details about places to hit up, and addressing safety concerns. They are also good for traveling by yourself but having safety in numbers.
