The Winter Olympics in Torino (2006)

Torino: a nice city.  I'd never been here before and had heard it was just a big industrial city (home of Fiat and birth place of Nutella -- so it can't be all bad), but the center is quite nice. Not as big or showy as Milan or Rome, but quite pretty and manageable.  The Winter Olympics were a good excuse to visit.

The morning after we got in, my brother and I took a walk down to Piazza San Carlo (being called "Piazza NBC," because that's where NBC was broadcasting the Today Show -- they were not doing a show when we walked by).  But just across from the Statue of Vittorio Emanuele II (The Egoist), a huge screen showed live broadcasts (in Italian) of all the events.  We were lucky enough to be walking past when the Italian team was competing in the Speed Skating Pursuit (a strange and obscure event); the Italian crowd was cheering and going nuts and when the Italians won there was a mini-celebration in the Piazza.  Very cool.

Later that night, after a dinner of pizza and bruscetta, we headed over to Torino Esposizioni to see the US play Kazakhstan in hockey.  Interesting crowd. Lots of Americans (of course), too many American flags, a surprising number of fans dressed in the awful colors of Kazakhstan (baby blue and yellow), lots of Italians with their faces painted in the Italian flag (not really sure why), three blonde Latvian women, looking like triplets, dressed in Latvian shirts and holding "USA" signs (not sure what that was about).

Have the fun of the hockey game was talking to some of the folks sitting around us. To my right was a family from Minnesota, two kids (12ish), parents and a brother-in-law from Florida (the kids knew all the US players by name and their stats). In front of us a father and son (50ish and 30ish) from Worcester, Mass. The son from Worcester kept on chucking whenever the announcer said "Kazakhstan" cause he couldn't get Borat out of his head ("I like to smell people!").  He said he always just assumed that Kazakhstan was a fake country that Ali G made up.  He also had seen The Daily Show commentary on the Opening Ceremonies; his only source of news.

During the game, the annoying chants of "USA!  USA!" were heard periodically, made me cringe every time, although I guess this is the appropriate venue.  Oddly enough, the 20-something Italians a few rows behind us joined in the chanting (even started some USA chants on their own).  I couldn't tell if they were mocking the American fans or just enjoying the scene.  They were cheering equally for the Kazakhstanis.  And I think I figured out something from those Italians behind us.  Those odd 70s disco songs that played during the opening ceremonies: Well they were playing during the hockey game too, same weird techno versions of old disco hits -- and the Italians sang along with every one -- I think they only knew these new weird versions of the songs and not the originals -- so those songs must be an Italian thing. 

This next morning we headed over to the main Olympic Souvenir shop in Piazza Vittorio Veneto, to perhaps watch some of the live Today show broadcast (my brother promised one of his biker friends (who has a pony tail, tattoos, the whole bit (and who now has a job delivering corpses around the state of California)) that he would wave.  We missed the broadcast.  At the Olympic Souvenir shop, I;d really wanted to buy a scarf with the Swiss flag on it. I thought it would be a good totem to wear as I travel around the world.  Whenever I am feeling that anti-American sentiments are getting a little too aggressive, I could slip that scarf around my neck --  Who would ever bother a Swiss?? They didn't have any.  But I did find that the scarf I was wearing looks remarkably like the Latvian flag (who would've guessed?), so I might be ok anyway.

That afternoon we drove out of the city to see the Skeleton: our whole reason for being at the Olympics in the first place: we know the coach -- a childhood friend, Go Orv!  The Skeleton took place at night, so it was a bit chilly, and the bleachers where our seats were located were at the top of the hill -- about a mile long icy walk along the track.  

Skeleton is pretty much an insane sport.  One lies face down on a little taboggan and shoots head-first down an icy track at 80 miles per hour, with one's nose about 6 inches off the ice (Not to be confused with "luge," that sport for pussies who go down the track feet first).  All in all, not a sport to watch live (or really at all come to think of it).  In our seats in the bleachers, huddled and cold, we could see the Skeletoneers trot along at the start and throw themselves onto the sled ... and then they are gone from sight.  That's all we could see.  Later we left our seats and tried watching at different spots along the course, in a futile attempt to see something, anything, of the action.  But all you could see was a blur as the sled sped by -- and most spots along the course did not even offer that, just a bank of ice where you could hear the sled pass.  The US team sucked anyway and we left early.

The next day, in the morning we drove out to see the Super G (skiing).  Again, not a particularly good spectator sport.  All you can really see is the finish, and watch the rest on the big screens. But in our case, it was a moot point anyway. The Super G got snowed out.  Of course the announcement did not come until after a delay of 4 hours, with us sitting under an ever increasing snow drift.  We didn't stay to see if it would ever begin again, as we wanted to get back to the city to see the hockey game.

The last event we saw was USA v. Slovokia in hockey. It was an excellent game and quite the scene in the stands.  More Slovaks (Slovakians?  Slovakanistas?) than Americans, and a boisterous bunch are they.  But everyone was good natured. In the lobby between periods, I saw an American woman come up to 6 big Slovaks, dressed in team hockey jersies, strange hats, painted faced, the whole bit ... she asked if she could get a picture with them, with lots of hand signals.  They said sure and promptly picked her up and held her lying across their arms.  It was cute and they were perfect gentlemen.

I think if I ever see another Olympics, I will stick with watching hockey. 

New Year's Eve at the Playboy Mansion (1998)

The Playboy Mansion on New Year's Eve; all that and more.

I was invited to the Playboy Mansion for the annual New Year’s Eve Party. My escort's father is good friends with Hugh Hefner.  It is a black tie affair, although the dress code for women was (I kid you not) "evening gowns or lingerie."

We arrived at a respectable 10 o'clock.  And I was struck immediately by the women.  One, quite honestly, cannot really imagine all the women; it was sort of breathtaking.  I worried about being rude to my date, but here really was no need to stare at any given one woman, because the next girl that walked by would be just a stunning, with just as much cleavage, with just as sexy a see-through dress, where ever your eyes landed was a scantily clad woman. My neck is still sore. My guess is that there was about 400 to 500 people there, and the ratio of beautiful young women to men was a conservative 3:2.

We found a good table right away, up front by the dance floor, the next table over from Hef. The whole party was set up out in the back yard under an immense tent (or perhaps two or three tents), with about 30-40 tables (each seating eight) lined up between the house and the dance floor. There were two big buffet tables, two bars (open), and four huge video screens at the four corners of the party that played a constant stream of video clips (from past Playboy parties, interspersed with Playmate videos -- naked girls lounging about on a sofa, or playfully showering, all bubbly and wet (very distracting)), chandeliers, balloons, clusters of white palm trees, waiters circulating with hors d’oeuvres (wonton and croquettes).

This being the Playboy Mansion, it was all about the women.  No excuses, no embarrassment. The women were dressed in tasteful evening gowns, to spaghetti-strapped nightgowns that barely held their ample assets in, bustiers with garters, brassieres and thongs, see-though dresses. Really just about anything you can imagine. Cleavage for days (nay weeks and months).

When we sat down for dinner, Hef was sitting with the twins (20 year old playmates from a couple years ago (they were dressed in long form-fitting gowns, off the shoulder, and not a little see through). Seated at our table was one of the first playmates from the 50’s (Annie something), Mr. and Mrs. Walter and Colleen Ralph (of the supermarket fame), Downtown Julie Brown (MTV VJ) and a couple of her weird friends. Also in attendance at other tables, that I could see were: Drew Carey, Kevin Spacey (who I almost knocked over by mistake (he was there with his boyfriend)), Bill Maher, of course Fabio, some actor guy from Beverly Hills 90210 (the blond one, I almost knocked him over too (it was a crowded party)), Vincent Bugliosi (ex Los Angeles DA, wrote Helter Skelter, etc), Jerry Vale, Ray Anthony, Denis Farina, Robert Preston (who I think thought I was someone else because he said hello to me as he wandered by), and of course Mame Van Doren (50’s B Movie bombshell, looking a little old and scary in her white teddy (but apparently at last year’s party her breasts kept popping out – her outfit apparently fit better this year, so thank god for small favors)). I honestly couldn’t tell which women were playmates and which weren’t (but did it really matter? Especially when they started to dance (!). Oh, the triplets were there too (the Misses November I think) all in matching white lace bustiers, panties and garters. I did meet a Miss January of a few years ago (Peggy), very attracting and classy in a white satin gown.

At one point I was out on the dance floor with my date, doing the two step (a little bit of the bump, the electric slide … the hustle), a few couples over was Hef and the twins, a TV camera filming them, behind me was Robert Blake (of Baretta fame) doing a pretty darned good swing dance with, I guess, his wife. Over my date’s head I could see an eight foot video woman, an eight foot macromastic video woman (if you know what I’m saying) playing with a hoola hoop (very, very distracting, hard to keep rhythm). At another point, sitting at the table having dessert, my date whispered for me to turn around. “Look,” she said. As I turned, I was treated to the view, not a foot from my face, of a woman’s behind, in a see through lace dress (and it was callipygian to say the least). But thank god I missed, during the fish course, the view up Mame Van Doren’s teddy (she apparently doesn’t wear underwear).

After dinner, I wandered about through the house leaving my date talking with her father, the movie room where an A&E biography of Hef was showing, Hef’s private study that had a pad of note paper with “From the Desk of Hugh Hefner” the bunny symbol stamped on the top (I should have taken one), old covers of Playboy framed on the wall. The house was actually very tasteful, kind of low key and comfortable. Waiting in line for the bathroom beside Hef’s study, three catty girls slink up in nightgowns, “Oh I’m back at UCLA full time now,” one says, “but I’ve gained so much weight!” (Hardly) Coming out of the Grotto (which really must be seen, a swim-in cave with a Jacuzzi, big soft cushioned beds in the alcoves, soft steamy light), I passed by Scott Baio (Chachi from Happy Days, Charles from Charles in Charge) looking happy with a drink in his hand. My date whispered that he’s quite the cocksman (who would’ve guessed?).

It was over all too soon. Too soon ended the pushing though the crowds of girls, packed so tightly together you literally had to squeeze through their satin wrapped bodies, ended those same girls smiling at you thinking you might be somebody, or at the very least were an invited guest so you were part of the club.  Sigh.

Jet Lag & Night Thoughts in Hong Kong (1993)

Honk Kong and I cannot sleep.

3:00 am and I can't help wonder what the fuck I'm doing in this strange city half way around the world from home. I can't help but think about what Pascal said about travel and staying home and what Elizabeth Bishop said about what Pascal said.

I got in Saturday night at 9:00 after a relatively painless flight. That first night I went to sleep around midnight and woke up at 8:00 am. I thought I had avoided the side effects of jet lag. But last night I didn't go to sleep until 4:30 am. I think my body got left behind somewhere, it seems to be on London or Paris time (maybe it'll catch up (if I go to sleep now, that'll mean my body's made it to Moscow)).

I don't know what's wrong with me. Jet lag and lack of sleep make me feel really ugly; maybe it has to do with the weather, which (in a word) sucks. It's the rainy season now, so everyday is 95° F and raining. I go outside and immediately start to sweat, like the proverbial pig (pigs don't sweat … but the tourists do).

This afternoon I walked down Queen's Road Central to a tailor recommended by the hotel concierge, to get a suit made (it’s what one does in Hong Kong), and the tailor kept on saying "Oh, big man! Big man!" as he took the measurements, chuckling and saying "Oh much fabric, much fabric." Yes, thank you, I'd almost forgotten I am a big fat tourist. This does not seem like a good tactic to use with a new customer. But I shut up and let him finish the measurements. Then I walked up to the Botanical Gardens, by the time I got there my shirt was soaked through, dripping wet. Nobody else was sweating, just me. So I went back to the hotel to cool off and change my shirt, turned on the TV to vege (not much on those seven channels: Channel 1 - Japanese cartoons dubbed into Cantonese and subtitled in Mandarin (with those scary Asian cartoon characters with huge saucer eyes); Channel 2 - MTV; Channel 3 - Chinese sitcoms in Cantonese with Mandarin subtitles; Channel 4 - "Sesame Street" in English with Mandarin subtitles; Channel 5 - BBC, a snooker match; Channel 6 - "Oprah" in English (no subtitles); and Channel 7 - a Hong Kong version of "Jeopardy." I opt of snooker, which isn't really a spectator sport. Later I schlepped up to the Peak, the highest point on the island, (took the tram up) to see the view but by the time I got up there it was raining and foggy and hot, and all I could see was clouds (and my shirt was all sweaty again).

3:40 am Why am I here? I just turned on the radio and there was Hawaiian music playing. I open the windows, hear that it's raining again, and all the mirrors in the room fog up from the humidity. Why did I come? The friend I am visiting has had to fly to Beijing on short notice. His wife works, so I'm here by myself, me and six million Asians (I definitely stick out (I'm the pale, blond, and decidedly pudgy one)). I don't feel connected to anything here (why should I?), but I don't feel particularly connected to where I live in Boston. Jet-lag induced insomnia triggers thoughts on what am I doing with my life? I'm thirty and have done nothing with myself. So I flee and travel, looking for something, some experience that will change me, inspire me, make me whole, but I travel weighed down (literally) with myself, with my loneliness of this far away city. So how can I find anything? Why do I rush to see the sun the other way around when I'll never be able to see myself?

I'm not feeling myself, or I am feeling too much myself, maybe I have a case of traveler's tummy, the water here is not good, the locals boil all theirs, all the sewage is pumped directly into the harbor where hepatitis and TB run rampant (last night for dinner I had sea slug (which is politely called “Sea Cucumber”) and water melon (yummy)). For my morning meal (I didn't have breakfast, just an early lunch) I had a lobster bisque and a Caesar's salad (which I didn't eat -- it was disgusting).

4:00 am The four o'clock news just came on the radio and the lead story is a report that women's voices have gotten lower over the past 50 years (and researchers are saying that it is caused in part by the feminist movement (it's a weird world)).

I think it's time to close the windows and turn the air conditioning back on, the walls are now sweating and all the wallpaper is drooping. I’ll probably be charged for the damage.

In my mind I plan out my next week alone in this city: I'm going to hit the Lit Shing Kung Temple and the Man Mo Temple (pray to Man, god of literature, and Mo, god of war fought injustice and oppression), and maybe Flagstaff House Museum of Tea (yeeha). And perhaps the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building (which I passed today on the way back from the tailor ("Big man, lots of fabric!")) which looks like it's made out of legos, has this weird lighting system with lasers to direct sunlight into the atrium, and rumor has it the whole building can be taken apart, so come 1997 it can be shipped back to the UK. And it is supposed to be the most expensive building in the world).

4:30 am I get bored and decided to explore the hotel. The swimming pool was deserted, nice lightening though out over the harbor (maybe we'll get a typhoon before I leave), checked out the health club (closed), the shops on the mezzanine (all closed), and the tennis courts (closed). Hell, I haven't even got to the mini bar in my room yet! If I was the drinking type I could've drunken myself into oblivion by now.

5:15 am I don't even feel like sleeping. That king size bed is too big to get into by myself. In the bedside table there is a Gideon's Bible (who would've guessed) and a book called The Teaching of Buddha. In the chapter entitled “Causation," it goes into the Fourfold Noble Truth, "The world is full of suffering. Birth is suffering, old age is suffering, sickness and death are sufferings." My kind of philosophy. It goes on to say, "The cause of human suffering is undoubtedly found in the thirst of the physical body and in the illusions of worldly passion." Well, my body is certainly thirsty (time to hit that mini bar (a Coke for me cause I'm scared of life and myself)). Now if only I could follow the discipline of the Nobel Eightfold Path (which apparently is like entering a dark room with a light in the hand). Maybe I should see if there's anything on TV.

Just before 6:00 am Yes indeed there was something on TV, who would've guessed? There was a special on Rudolf Hess and some conspiracy theory that he didn't die in Spandau (that someone switched places with him back in '41 (sure)). Also on, and watched simultaneously, was this great movie called "City Hunter," a Hong Kong action film starring Jackie Chan. Really great. It parodied: James Bond movies (Dr. No), Kung Fu movies (Bruce Lee), action movies, Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers, Rambo, Jerry Lewis, Charlie Chaplin, gymnastics, skate boarding, and video games (a great scene where the characters become video game characters (Street Fighters II)). And all of this in actual fight sequences. Truly marvelous (but perhaps I enjoyed it cause I am a bit punch drunk myself). The last line of the movie was: "Being unconscious is great!" A true statement (on many levels).

6:45 am Showered, shaved, and dressed and the first one in the coffee shop for breakfast (toast, cheese and tea). I've decided my body's not in any time zone particularly. I don't know, but I think today might be a long day.

I'll probably go to Beijing on Thursday, meet my friend there if possible; see the Forbidden City, blow a couple hundred more bucks (I figure I've, I might as well see the mainland (this of course assumes I can get a visa in time)). On the PA system here in the coffee shop, the song "YMCA" is playing (Muzak version), what is with this world?

Well the check just came ($HK 110.00 (which is about $13.50, my toast and cheese is a bargain)) and I am out of here.

The day has officially begun, I'll go back to the room to write delirious, sleep-deprived post cards, get wired on tea and feel like Hell all day. I already feel hot and I haven't gone near a door, a bad sign.

Amsterdam: A Walk Through the Red Light District (1991)

A few days in Amsterdam. I found a lovely hotel in the Red Light District (and I'm being sarcastic here) The room was cheap (30 Guilders a night) and the hotel was near the train station, the two criteria I had when I stumbled into town. To get to my room, I had to go up three different flights of stairs, separated by two dingy halls, and through four fire doors (a rather labyrinthine hotel I must say). My single room overlooked Warmoesstraat. The Cinema Adonis was right across the street and if I poked my head out the window, I could see the Club Argonaut and the Buddy-Buddy Bar down the block (I seemed to be in the gay section of the Red Light District, although, much to my disappointment there wasn't a red light to be seen from my hotel room).

The room itself was tiny. I could stand in the middle and touch both walls with my fingertips, without really trying. Graffiti littered the walls (not much of a surprise). Scratched into the wall right above my pillow was written:

just LOVE ME

please

DON'T!! HURT ME

!!just love me!!

What was happening in this sad, saggy single bed?! Over by the sink was written:

PEACE

FOR

EVERY

HUMANBIAN

END DON'T FERGET

please please please LOVE EVERYBODY

This was signed: "FROM A FRIEND, my name is no body." This depressed the hell out of me. Who were these people? What were they like, besides lonely, poor and illiterate?

At night into the heart of the Red Light District! But it wasn’t what I expected on this my first trip. Being of a Libertarian bent, I always liked the idea of a truly free place, a place where one could find and imbue all those necessary evils of our repressed society. A place where one could get drugs, whores, if one wanted. I've always been against the moral posturing of our government and its constant quest to legislate the morality of the American people. Hell, if I want to take drugs, I should be allowed to. If a woman wants to sell her body for sex and a man wants to pay for it, all the power to them (have at it, have fun). That's what I've always thought (and I still do). But I also always thought that a place which was free, like Amsterdam, would be a festive, happy place; a place where people are able to live out their fantasies, do what they want when they want, not live in guilt and fear. But as far as I can tell it's not, it's rather depressing.

Walking around it all seemed so sad.

Yes there are women who sit in their lingerie on black vinyl stools or chairs in red lit windows beckoning to passersby. It's true. They have a little bag of make-up by their feet, a curtain which can be pulled when it's time to get to business. And what I found surprising was that most of the women are not Dutch, most are Asian or black, South American, immigrants. And most of them are pathetically ugly (Imagine me stuffed in a tight pink teddy, lipstick, rouge, a long black wig, you'll get the idea). Oh, there are a few that are good looking (but not particularly sexy), dancing about their little windows to entice the tourists, but not many (the ugly ones don't even try to be sexy, just sit there looking dazed and bored). And the music they listen to, one had on cheesy Spanish disco; another listened to a Madonna rip off on; still a third had (I swear): Edith Piaf. And what was really surprising was that men were going in, stepping up to the door and asking "Hoeveel kost ...?" or "Combien de ...?" or "How much?" I must've seen fifteen or twenty bargains stuck in my hour and a half walk (Most along this near deserted stretch of the Geldersekade, no tourists, just intent, lonely men and the ugliest of whores). And I don't think this was all that sad (pathetic yes, but not sad ... well maybe sad too (to think that I thought I was sad and lonely! These men come here to get something they can't get at home or in their day to day life. They can't get love and sex in their life! And these women have no other option but to provide it! What is wrong with our society?)).

But the really weird shit was happening in the middle of the District, along the Achterburg Wal (a canal with streets lining either bank). Here the tourists swarmed along in huge packs, German octogenarians, American retirees from the Midwest, Japanese families (little kids too), British pensioners, American and German college students, just walking up and down the street gawking at all the decadence. It was so weird! Families with little kids?! And a doorman of a sex club would yell out "Bumsies, bumsies" in a Indian accent, or "Good family entertainment" in a clipped British. the tourists giggled, pointed at the lurid pictures below the marquee, and walked on. They'd stop at the window of a sex shop and point out the cock rings to each other, the huge rubber dildos (two feet long, a foot in circumference (I'm not making this up)), the two headed dildos, the life-sized rubber fists. They'd stand at the window like it was Macy’s on Thanksgiving Day and the new display had just gone up -- but they'd never go in (heaven forbid!). And every other door is a pub or a cafe, with folks sitting out at plastic tables taking in the night air like there were along the banks of the Seine, or on Newbury Street or something.

The Red Light District is a tourist attraction! But sin should not be for tourists!

At one point along the way, I passed this group of Scottish men (about seven of them, college age) waiting on the street for their friend who had gone into one of the red windows. Curtains drawn, they were chanting "Howie! Howie! Howie!" like it was a football game, or a wrestling match. In the day, this area is quiet, a few cafes, a few people, but at night it turns into a carnival.

Does this all seem slightly sick? It does to me, Foucault was right in saying that ours was a perverse culture, not because it is infatuated by the perverse, but because it is indeed perverse, through and through (no offense). And who is more degraded by all this? The women who have to dance in the sex shows, or stand behind the rouge glass trying to look alluring, or the idiots who stare at them from the street (and that includes me, I was there too, stalking my way through the crowds in my loose jacket and tattered baggy chinos, combat boots, hands deep in my pockets, head down. I couldn't look at anyone straight on, not the tourists, not the whores, just scowled at everyone from under by brow (I must've looked like a true pervert))?

On my way back to my hotel room, I passed through the the Dam (the main square of the city, well away from the Red Light District). There I stumbled upon this pack of pubescent girls in black leotards dancing about with strips of rubber (they used the rubber alternatively like boa, doing a Marilyn Monroe move, and a whip, slapping themselves and gyrated) to this smarmy song from "A Chorus Line" ("I Can Do That"). It's a scary world. It turned out that these girls were part of the "9th World Gymnaestrada," whatever that may be. But they did have a weird sort of resonance with those other women in the red glass aquariums ... I don't know which I found more terrifying.

Back in my hotel room, I got ready for bed: you know, cold cream the make-up off, hair net, brush and floss. Then tried to get to sleep. But below my window, just as I was nodding off, this fight broke out in the street. It quickly progressed through the yelling obscenities stage (I'm guessing that's what they were yelling, they were yelling in Dutch), to the throwing of fists and inanimate objects stage. It ended with someone throwing a big cinder block through someone else's window, and then everybody ran (some chasing others). Sleep well.