I have more train and plane tickets in my travel folder than I can imagine. Got nice feedback on my line of work. Going to Munich and Lausanne to visit family and friends. Going to two small conferences and three rather big ones (these are in Turkey, Canada and Japan). Pairing holidays with two of these (Turkey and Japan). Mixed effect models seem to make sense again (and although I know it won’t last long, well I like to enjoy it while it lasts). The university remembered to reimburse me what it had to. Mike bought me tulips, and they are still looking great after a few days. The basil is still alive. Also, I got burritos for dinner yesterday. There’s new episodes of 30 Rock to watch.

And I was so happy and yet too afraid of jinxing it. All this good karma had to find an opposite and equally strong bad karma to give the universe the right balance. And there it is.

That bitch, in my bathroom. Some call it washing machine but recently I think it must be possessed by some evil force. It just wouldn’t work. The only way to make it work is to keep my hand on the power button, and never leave it. Great, I don’t have kids and I have to hold hands with a washing machine to get it to behave!

I’ve joined the gym for pure remorse, guilt and sense of duty. I am overweight and my metabolism would be ideal in a crisis or in wartime: with just a spoonful of sugar I can build fat deposits to feed an army. If I were born in the right century these features would be clear signs of wealth and health, but we live in a different society now, and speaking of crisis I sure can’t afford the big jump to size 10 or worse 12 (American size).

I know you just can’t wait to hear more about this story, after all me at the gym is like Berlusconi in a nun monastery. Stay tuned, cheer me, feel inspired and above all if you meet me just ask “by the way, how is it going at the gym?”. Makes a great conversation starter and above all keeps the peer pressure high. The internet says it works, and you know the internet never lies.

"If you want to achieve greatness stop asking for permission", Street Art by Eddie Colla

Soundtrack:

Ernesto óyeme bien, sí te estoy hablando a ti,
acabo de estar con el hombre al que quiero
y soy más feliz de lo que he sido en toda mi vida,
porque ese hombre también me quiere y mucho,
no te preocupes que te voy a dejar tranquilo muy pronto,
ya no hace falta que nos espíes, ya no hay nada que ocultar.

(-1 e li ho visti tutti)

Già studio le mappe, annoto il tragitto, preparo la bussola. Tu mi dici che è una città enorme, che sarà un casino, che forse è meglio andare al mare. Io sorrido e ti dico che lo so, Istanbul sarà come Marrakesh, sarà come Palermo, sarà come Atene, come Hania. Home away from home. Tanto ormai lo sai, vivere con me vuol dire avere la bussola puntata a sud.

Bisanzio è un sogno che non mi è consueto
Bisanzio è un mito che si fa incompleto
Bisanzio forse non è mai esistita

(A fine maggio su questi schermi. Ahem, sì ho anche un talk, ma sono dettagli.. Istanbul val bene una presentazione)

Pisa, I got to think about it recently again. What if I were to come back. I don’t really know. But every time I’m back in Pisa it’s a small challenge, it’s like facing an old acquaintance you feel you need to prove something to. Yes, Pisa, I left you, and now I’m stronger, older, happier. You are always a humid, whiny, pseudo-intellectual small town. A town I’ve loved, but still not much more than a village.

On the other hand, Germany. Which despite its -10 degrees today it’s a very cozy place to be. Probably not everything is gold under this shiny layer, but at least Germany’s shiny layer is thick enough to survive several scrapings. Leaving Germany, if I will ever do it, might be very traumatic. It’s the little things, feeling safe on the street, relying on the buses, seeing more than 50% of your trash recycled, ordering items online and having it two days later, going to conferences abroad and having a full reimbursement.

But enough with the usual Pisa-Stuttgart memory lane, and back to my notebook. I need to get used at being more productive, starting here. Above all in a time when my office is moving and too many submissions&conference might really affect continuity. But oh well work emails, opening mail, blogging. And it’s already lunch time…

This is the true story of Marinella
that slid into the river in springtime
but the wind, who saw her being just so pretty,
brought her up from the river to a star

Alone, without the memory of pain
you were living without the dream of love
but a king without a crown and without an escort
knocked one day three times upon your door

His hat was as white as the moon
his cape was as red as love
you followed him without a reason
just like a boy goes after his kite

The sun was up and your eyes were pretty
he kissed your lips and your hair
the moon was up and your eyes were tired
he rested his hands upon your hips

And then it was the kisses and it was the smiles
and after that it was only the cornflowers
which saw with the eyes of the stars
your skin shivering from the wind and the kisses

And then, they say, as you were going back
somehow you slid into the river
but him, he couldn’t believe you were dead
and for another hundred years he came to knock upon your door

And this song is to you, Marinella
you who flied to the sky on a star
and like all pretty things
you only lived one day just as the roses
you only lived one day just as the roses

It’s 4 am in Europe, it’s 9 pm here in the Midwest. I’m starting to feel myself again, after the usual 2 or 3 days which I need to adjust to the jet-lag, plus 2 or 3 days of sinusitis and a little fever, plus the usual dizziness coming from being in a place which looks so familiar but it’s not in some little sneaky tiny things. And now it’s the little Christmas differences. Like, they have colorful stockings, but not for the 6th of January – they’re up for Christmas. In Palermo there’s all this holiday gambling, which is tradition. I bet they’ll find it weird in plenty of countries.

But one thing dawned on me today. Some sudden realization of a psycho-analytic truth, if you will, and I’m not talking about the weird melatonin-induced dreams (like, last night I dreamt that I was lost in Frankfurt Hahn and the Pope was dead). I realized that my compensation act for the moments when I miss home is to make deep fried rice balls (a Sicilian specialty: see here ). I put an old shirt on, don’t mind stinking like fried oil, cook 1 Kg rice (or 2 pounds), deep fry those rice balls. It’s just kind of weird to be doing it with cheesy Christmas carols radio in the background, though it’s kind of relaxing somehow. And then people are happy because they think I did it for them, but actually, if I must be honest, I did it for me. It’s my compensation, my sublimation, my madeleine. And that’s what I did today. And they turned out damn good.

And then again maybe Christmas here where I am now it’s not that different. Like, there’s shopping, there’s a tree, there’s food, there’s presents, there’s some hanging out, hot beverages, I’ll Skype home tomorrow and nobody is forcing me to go to Church.