When you have nothing to say, post a lot of pictures

Here's a smattering of my favorite pictures of Torino and the parts of Tuscany I spent time in.

I hope you enjoy. (I want to work this in but I don't know how so here)

Torino

 ayyyyy

 The city is safe on my watch!

This is the picture you're supposed to take when you have a camera right?

Castello di Meleto, Chianti

I stayed here

The Cellar: Argiano, Montalcino

My backyard where I stayed in Montalcino

Hai dare

There was a big field of these. It was awesome

bords in Firenze

Per cheeeeeeeeeee

 I could've taken photos of the Duomo but this was better. American Bro taking a tour of Florence on a segway.

Vines in Montalcino

Which way to Oz?

1 in 10 people in Florence had a mullet

Accordion man in Torino

Smokin'

Tomorrow, I have one last producer to visit in Chianti. After that I have one more around Bologna and then it's back to London for a few days. If I'm uninspired to post something tomorrow I might just wind up writing about the transcendent qualities of the film Rush Hour 2. We'll see what inspiration decides to give me.

Ciao bambini.

I'll See You in My Dreams: reflections on the possibility of replicating immediate experience and drinking wine in tuscan

*signal lost sound* The following are a series of conjectures and reflections made by one man slightly buzzed on chianti and high off of the things and experiences he has just had. In no way are these meant to be definitive statements on the nature of human experience and/or perception *static*

Ask anybody who might know me and they’ll tell you what an awful driver I am. Furthermore, I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions to plenty of people that the biggest failure of humankind thus far has been that we STILL don’t have the ability to teleport from point A to point B. Main reason is that I’ve never enjoyed the experience. Perhaps driving in northern New Jersey had ruined me to it’s charms (rt 17 at rush hour will do that to a person). This all seemed to disappear into oblivion when I drove from Torino to Siena yesterday. It was a barrage of visuals that I had never seen before- the coast line; the architecture; the landscape. I probably pissed off many a driver by going right on or below the speed limit, but I didn’t care. I might have developed lockjaw from keeping my mouth open as long as it did. It was a five hour drive but I almost didn’t want to reach my destination. It’s at once surreal and natural. It is so many things and yet it is absolute serenity. Humans in the modern age (although I want to shy away from making sweeping statements like this, I’m gonna do it anyways) have a tendency to approach these immediate experiences with disbelief; ‘wow it looks just like it does in the movies’ ‘it’s like something out of a painting’. It’s as though the things that we’re perceiving and shocking us into amazement cannot be real. Surely, such things do not exist in actuality! Many times I felt the urge to pull my car over and take thousands of photos. That was until I came to the realization: could I ever hope to replicate this unique/subjective experience and feeling? Why would I want to? To whom would I want to? I find it interesting that many of our inclinations, post disbelief, are towards sharing. I HAVE TO SHOW THIS TO so and so! THEY WONT BELIEVE WHAT I’M SEEING. Fact of the matter is, the minute that landscape, that moment, is captured on a memory chip it ceases to be unique. It only conjures up vapors of that uniquely visceral moment that you or somebody else felt while they were there. It will never add up to the full effect; it’ll only get you so high until you need the next fix. It becomes a commodity. Rather than launch into an analysis/ discussion of Walter Benjamin’s essay, I’d rather reflect on what these types of experiences mean in today’s epoch and, further more, how we’ve reached the logical mutation of art as a reproducible phenomenon. More was lost than Benjamin could have ever imagined. 

To clarify on the outset: this is not a diatribe of a luddite. I mean, hell, I’m dependent on this technology to get from point A to point B in this country and how else am I to communicate with you fine folk? I’m just as dependent, more so than most, on varying forms of technology to mediate and shape my phenomenal world. But, as the bard Bob Dylan said, “you can always go back, but you can’t go back all the way.” There is no return to the absolute, unmediated, immediate experience. You cannot undo what technology has wrought. But you can take those glimmer’s of real experiences- such as the tuscan country side and, of course, honest, principled wine making- and use it to inform the ways in which we allow technology to shape our lived experience. I wanted to clarify this because, without digressing too much, there seem to be two camps: Technology as messiah and Technology as destroyer of worlds. To step in either of them fully is to miss the point. Our social existence is effected either which way. We should stop playing with our toys and begin to ask the types of questions that make us wonder whether or not these are the things we should use our toys for. I remember talking about this at an undergraduate philosophy conference and someone brought up calculators and whether or not they cause this same level of alienation (mind you technologies such as the abacus were used by ancient Incan's. But that’s neither here nor there). That person was a boob. What I’m referring to, making this absolutely pristine, are technologies that shape and give meaning to our social lives. Camera’s, social media (the two are tied together), the internet (also tied with the other two); things like these that filter the lived experience. They effect our ability to feel authentically. To be sure, that is a very ephemeral statement, but everything that these types of technologies strive to accomplish is strictly a replication. Replication of what I’m looking at through my eyes; replication of immediate and intimate social relations. They can never be authentic because it is intrinsic in their nature; all they can ever hope for is to capture a memory of a feeling. 

I am aware of the fact that I cannot express all that I want to in this blog post simply by the nature of the fact that (a) I doubt anybody would read it all (b) I haven’t thought it all entirely out and (c) these are simply my reflections and ramblings after experiencing the phenomenon of the Tuscan landscape for the first time. I am not trying to lay out my magnum opus here. That immediacy was fleeting; I had a better chance of catching a dandelion after the wind had kissed it. But it’s immediacy was transcended, not by technology, but by thought and reflection. Visceral, immediate experiences force thought beyond just that. It compels, demands thought to think beyond what was just witnessed. It forces questions of ourselves. Nature simply gives zero fucks; it’s there and it unconsciously follows the laws of reason. It will do so with or without our stupid existence. I guess I can close this reflection, before recounting today’s winery visits, by saying, as fortune cookie, new age-y, and stupid as it sounds…just soak the experience in. Don’t interrupt it. Don’t try to document it. Your brain is doing it anyways. People on the internet can manufacture experience and truth- be it through photoshop or constructing some form of a person you would like to be via Facebook- start trying to live life in other ways. I would rather use social media to spread fart jokes than some sort of consciousness. The former can be replicated effectively through a multitude of mediums (all of which I’m familiar with); the latter can never be fully replicated. If you’re content with eating epiphenomenal TV dinners the rest of your live then va fanculo. 

….

Allora,

I’ll skip the first night in Siena because, well, it was awesome but uneventful (aside from me getting lost for an hour inside the city walls. It’s a fortified city and a fucking maze. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about me getting lost.) I woke up at 7:30, drank an espresso, read the International NY Times and hit the road. My first stop, and where I was staying for the evening, was Castello di Meleto. When I say this place is loaded with history I mean it. I’m not just talking about the fact that this castle has existed since 1256; it was a central location during the fighting between the Sienese and the Florentines WAYYYY back when. Allora, story time children: If you go shopping and you’re looking for a Chianti, you’re bound to see that same rooster sticker on every bottle. The rooster has become a symbol of sorts for the region. This was because, during these battles to establish the borders between the two warring sides, they would ride their horses at dawn to mark the lines off. The Sienese took to starving their roosters so they would crow earlier and, thus, allow the Sienese to get to the borders before those stupid Florentines. Whether this story has any truth to it is almost irrelevant. This place, as it stands now, is an example of agroturismo in italy and what a fucking cash cow it is. I have no idea how much it costs to stay here; I didn’t pay for it (hi haters). I can only imagine what it’s like to have a wedding here. These guys charge for the tasting and the tour, but the estate is set up to host weddings; one of which was happening during my stay. The building, the grounds, the affair- it’s all picturesque (talk about your manufactured experience eh?). Not to take anything away from this place, it truly is beautiful. The wines were quite good as well. However, the second winery of the day- Castello dei Rampolla- couldn’t be more the opposite of the first. When I say this place was off the beaten path I MEAN IT. I wound up being 20 minutes late because, after driving down nauseating, winding roads, I finally found the tiny ass sign leading me down an unpaved road to the winery. I entered the gates and was met by Maurizia d’Napoli (part owner) and her dog. An elderly, but endearing woman, she took me around and showed me the small parcels that they owned in about 10 minutes. Castello di Meleto has a ton of vines and in more than one place. This winery had it all in one spot and surrounding her estate. However, it was in what they called the “golden shell”; the sun, the micro climate, everything was just right in order to make GREAT wine. And that they do. These guys have a history in Chianti and are MUCH more iconic and integral to making Italian wine what it is today. The thing that charmed me, and it was something that I got just by drinking it in New Jersey, was that this was a winery that stood by the courage of their convictions. They want to make the type of wine they want to make; no catering to an international market, no cutting corners, no nada. The wine, and in turn the grapes, do the talking and we’re just the preachers. You talk to brewers and winemakers alike and you ask them what is the most integral thing in the process, they’ll probably say cleanliness. The team at Castello dei Rampolla do, but within reason. There is mold growing on the cellar walls, they shun stainless steel fermenting and opt for concrete but (and here’s the cool thing) allow some open air fermenting. This allows the bacteria in the air to mingle with the fermenting wine. Something the winemaker Marco said to me drove it home, “You can have a sterile environment, you can use stainless steal, you can use modern technology and make really good, well balanced wine. However, if you lack the soil, the climate, and the overall growing environment (among other things) you will never make GREAT wine.” I’m very much inclined to agree with him because, to harp on the theme that seems to keep on in the various musings on wine I’ve done so far, what gives the wine an identity? What separates what I’m drinking here in tuscany now from what I was drinking in Piemonte a few days ago? I reduce it to all of these things- soil, climate, quality of grapes, acidity etc. etc. etc. but it isn’t reducible to a formula. Maurizia, talking about when they harvest, said it best “It’s different every year; we let the grapes let us know when.” That is not to say that there is no underlying, absolute truth to all of this. A good winemaker knows when to work with nature, when to bend it, and when he/she ought to bend to it’s will. Castello dei Rampolla is dedicated to what they call "the rational modern". You don't wholesale burn the house down; The past is negated and sublimated into the present and guides it to the future. I think that’s a philosophy that we can apply to multiple areas in our life and how we think about phenomena. This identity pierces through in the glass. It’s ephemeral and, yet, it could be nothing but that wine. Their wines speak with a tone of their own. I loved Castello di Meleto’s wines (and they were kind enough to put me up. Their hospitality went above and beyond.) but they clearly have a much larger, business oriented agenda. Castello dei Rampolla’s is different and translates accurately in the bottle. Their convictions, principles, and approaches to wine making are evident in their wines. They do not make fruity, international styled wine *cough*american market*cough* they make wines that stay true to themselves, express a sense of identity, and, what seems to be important to the majority of wineries in Italy, compliment the local foods. 

Castello di Meleto (I'm in that building in the center next to the tall tree)

Tuscan Countryside (yes I'm aware of the irony of posting this after my diatribe but HEY it looks pretty)

Luca and Maurizia di Napoli (brother and sister owner of Castello dei Rampolla), and who I assume to be the next generation. I dunno stock photo. 

Tomorrow, I will be journeying into the heart of Tuscan wine country and visiting Argiano- producer of some of the finest Brunello di Montalcino’s. In the meantime, leave me alone with my wine and my italian dubbed Little Nicky. Adios turd nuggets. 

G'night

Ecce Homo: Reflections on Nietzsche's Collapse, Solitude, and Turin

It is a story familiar to even people unfamiliar with philosophy: Friedrich Nietzsche, existing in a state of mental frailty likely brought on by syphilis or actual mental illness, breaks down emotionally in the Piazza Carlo Alberto at the sight of a horse being flogged by its driver. Sobbing, he rushed to the horse and threw his arms around it's neck. The police were called and his landlord, arriving late on the scene, brought Nietzsche back up to his apartment and locked the door. Nietzsche, as the story goes, proceeded to dance and scream naked in a bacchanal fury. It wasn't long after that he was escorted to a psychiatric hospital in Basel and placed in his anti-semitic sister's care. The year he spent in Turin (which might have been longer had he not taken the wrong train due to his horrendous eyesight at the time) was probably his most productive and is easily his most famous. In that year alone he produced, almost in a stream of consciousness, three of his major works: The Anti-Christ, Ecce Homo, and Twilight of the Idols. However, this output was accompanied by his sanity dancing on the precipice of destruction and despair (the two strands here-his output and his sanity- are barely, if at all related). The letters he wrote to those he kept in his life abroad in 1888 became more and more frayed. He began to sign his letters, in particular to his alleged secret love Cosima Wagner (wife of Richard Wagner), as Dionysus (an irony which, being on a wine trip, does not fall lightly on me).

It's a shame- prior to this final descent into vegetable status he seemed to have finally found a certain peace and quiet in Turin. He would often wax romantically about its streets, the river, the bridge, and the music. He delighted in walking up and down the streets during the day. The one thing he enjoyed the most in Turin was that, unlike the other cities that he had stayed in Italy, it was quiet. He said of the city:

"…What a dignified and serious city! Not at all a metropolis, not at all modern, as I had feared, but a princely residence of the seventeenth century, one that had only a single commanding taste in all things—the court and the noblesse.Everywhere the aristocratic calm has been kept: there are no petty suburbs; a unity of taste even in matters of color (the whole city is yellow or reddish-brown). And a classical place for the feet as for the eyes! What robustness, what sidewalks, not to mention the buses and trams, the organization of which verges on the marvelous here! One can live, it seems, more cheaply here than in the other large Italian cities I know; also, nobody has swindled me so far. I am regarded as an ufficiale tedesco (whereas I figured last winter in the official aliens’ register of Nice comme Polonais). Incredible—what serious and solemn palaces! And the style of the palaces, without any pretentiousness; the streets clean and serious—and everything far more dignified than I had expected! The most beautiful cafés I have ever seen. These arcades are somewhat necessary when the climate is so changeable, but they are spacious—they do not oppress one. The evening on the Po Bridge—glorious! Beyond good and evil!"

In the forward to Ecce Homo he writes one of my favorite passages:

"On this perfect day when everything is ripening and not only the grapes are becoming brown, a ray of sunshine has fallen on my life: I looked behind me, I looked before me, never have I seen so many and such good things together. Not in vain have I buried my forty-forth year today; I had the right to bury it- the life within it has been saved and is immortal...*yada,yada,yada my books are a gift I'm awesome yada, yada,yada* How could I not be grateful to the whole of my life?"

During this final year in Turin, Nietzsche was someone who is at once content with the solitude and unbearably alone. In a comment on Schopenhauer early in his career, Nietzsche stated that "the fate of solitude is the gift he receives from his fellow human beings; regardless of where he lives, the desert and the cave are with him." It rang true during his time in Turin

For a philosopher who sought to, as he put it, "philosophize with a hammer"and transvalue the values of care for the ordinary individual that had taken hold after the rise of Christianity, he seemed in desperate need of some form of ordinary human compassion in that last year of sanity. John Banville said in his book review of Chamberlain's biography of this period, "Nietzsche wanted to say yes to the ordinary realities of life, yet it was those very realities that were beyond him. Of his own emotional and spritiual infirmities he was well aware, yet he refused to forgive himself or to allow himself to relax in his struggle to formulate a philosophy that would strip away illusions. In this he is surely a wonderful example of what it is possible to achieve with even the poorest of materials." If any further interest

...

When I first drove into the city and parked my car in front of the hotel, admittedly I was not charmed by this city in the least. It was grey, people seemed very closed off and intimidating, the hotel had a funny smell. I set myself up in my room, which I'm pretty sure has not been technologically updated since before I was born (the tv has this brick of a remote and only 12 channels. In order to preempt any 'first world problems' meme I'm less complaining about this and more just painting the scene). The internet made my AOL 56k dialup in the 90s on my Dell seem like high speed fiber optics. What should've been a five minute job of looking at google maps to see where things were AT BEST turned into a half hour. I decided it best to save all of the sight seeing for the next day since I was (a) still exhausted from the hike the day before and (b) I wasn't in the mood for museums and churches today. So I began how I normally do in an Italian town I'm unfamiliar with (which is most of them)-- walking, taking pictures, and casually looking for a place to have espresso and read. It was through walking aimlessly that I began to see the charm of this calm, maze like city. Turin slowly warmed up to me and I to it. We had a bad introduction so lets try this again, Si? What Nietzsche wrote about the city was not entirely off. It was relaxing walking through the arcades (no, not the video games) and seeing how people went about their day to day. The cafe's, the bar's (this city is the birth place of vermouth fyi), each had a history and an identity about it. Not to mention that most things had these amazing marble structures inside them. I had a great fuckin' pizza (at a place that I'm sure I couldn't find again if I tried), half a liter of wine, and another shot of espresso. I grabbed some gelato and sat in the piazza, which name escapes me at the moment. They had seats and a stage set up in the square. Apparently, there is a giant Mozart Festival at the end of the week (I'll be in Tuscany by then =( I also missed out on Neil Young in Barolo at the end of the week =( x5). I sat there eating my gelato as the loudspeakers blasted Mozart and it was awesome (sorry haters). I wandered back to my hotel and, in a surreal moment of television, I watched some WWF from 1993 on the EuroSports channel with German overdubs. I sat in bed reading and laughing to myself.

Turin is an odd city. Aside from the Nietzsche thing and the obvious- the Shroud of Turin- it houses the largest collection of Egyptian artifacts outside of Cairo. Jean Francois Champollion, responsible for the first translation of the Rosetta Stone, said "The road to Memphis and Thebes passes through Turin." Going to that museum was a lot of fun for me because it brought back memories of playing the PC version of "Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego" and having to prepare a mummy for burial (this level was only second in annoyance to the Ancient Rome level where you had to rearrange the plumbing). 

I think, in just the two days spent here, I understood the charm and the solitude that Nietzsche found in the city. I don't think I've been to a city where I could occupy myself by just walking around. This city forced me into many situations where I had to go outside of my comfort zone and not be embarrassed by my horrendous grasp of the italian language. I enjoyed what it had to give. Ultimately, I am glad to be leaving the city; I feel as though it gave me all that it could give me for now. I don't have much purpose here other than reading, eating, drinking, and taking pictures of people. I leave tomorrow for Siena and Tuscany will be the new region of focus. Since tomorrow is bound to be relatively uneventful I'll post some of my favorite pictures that I took of Turin. In the meantime here's a few stock ones off google.

Ciao Bambino,

Tyler

Can't start a fire without a spark

These were the first words I heard when I turned the ignition on my Volkswagen Up! at 9 am this morning. I took it as a good omen- the High Priest of New Jersey was blessing me with a song on the radio. So, sprung from cages on highway 9 I burst out of my hotel parking lot and made my way from Alba towards La Morra (roughly 20 minute drive away). When I began researching things to do in Piemonte a few months ago I was immediately enticed by the notion of hiking through Barolo and Barbaresco.  I wasn't the only one to ever do it; there were plenty of trail maps online and at the tourist center. I settled on a roughly 14,5 km loop starting at La Morra, going down into the town of Barolo, going up through a bunch of little towns and coming back to La Morra. It was estimated to take about 3 and a half hours (thanks google maps). It began perfectly. La Morra, perched on top of a very large hill (more on this later), was an amazing little town. I'm a sucker for tightly packed, old buildings, in tiny alley ways impenetrable by vehicles. I parked my car at the base of the town and started walking up towards the bastioni at the top of the hill. These walls had been there since ancient medieval times and the looked the bit. *sidenote* all of the follow pictures are ones I took *sidenoteover*

Church at the top of La Morra

View from il Bastioni

Since I lacked internet connection and a printer, I had taken pictures of my laptop screen with my phone. I thought I was ingenious--who needs a gps when I got a picture of the directions! This would not be the first time my hubris would come to snip me in the ass. First thing that happened- I forgot to turn off my screen when I put my phone in my pocket. The gods saw fit to delete the first picture that had the first few steps of the hike (porco dio) so I winged it. The directions going into Barolo were very easily marked by sign posts telling you how many km away each area was and in what direction. Upon reaching Barolo I did a few things: First, I went and got some biscotti. This is absolutely crucial because (a) Alba, the town I stayed in, is the birthplace of nutella sooooo (b) many of the biscotti are made with some of the best hazelnuts in the world. I'll just leave that there. I made a pitstop at the corkscrew museum and tried their flight of Barolo wines-- perché no? Unfortunately, there were no cameras allowed in there so I couldn't take pictures of the wacky shit in there. This will have to do in its stead. 

I hanged a left towards a sign that pointed to a number of places that sounded nice. It also looked like I could begin the loop back towards La Morra albeit in a slightly roundabout way. I took the paths that lead through the vines which were amazing to just simply walk through and look at.

After cutting through I reached the small town of Novello. I thought my town was small but this little town has the population of roughly 968 people. 

This, my friends, is when my luck begins to sour. I asked the old lady at the church for some directions back to La Morra. The directions were right; I was stupid. I got adventurous and thought "hey, lets cut through the vines again! It looks a lot quicker than following this stupid, winding roadway! I can see La Morra perched on a hill in the distance!" Boy was I wrong. I proceeded to waste three further hours of my time in the blistering sun getting lost in the vines. I kept thinking I saw a path back up to the main road leading to La Morra but, without fail, it would be blocked by an impenetrable patch of trees and unknown bushes. It happened so many times that I started calling them Gob Moments. 

"Oh yeah! I can totally get over that ridge! I can taste the end now!"

"Oh COME ON! *kicks dirt*"

-____________-

The sun was unforgiving... It beat down on me and wouldn't quit... I was growing more and more thirsty...fuck why did I think this would be a good idea? Every time I looked up at La Morra I thought I was getting closer, but it was my eyes playing tricks on me. There were plenty of getting more lost, sitting down for a few minutes under a tree to catch a break from the sun, and plenty of cursing. Instead of writing out my continuing aggravation by means of literary flair, I'll just do an internet montage. Imagine me Benny Hill'ing my way through the vines, finally reaching a clearing out to the main road again. Reaching the top of the hill, I saw a chapel that I remembered seeing on the trail map before leaving. I mean, this thing was fucking unmistakable. The Capella della Brunate was a chapel redesigned by a couple of contemporary artists-- David Tremlett (American) and DeSoll Witt (English)-- that started as a refuge for vineyard workers in one of the most famous of Barolo's 3 Cru's. You can read more here. More importantly, I knew one thing: this fucking thing was 2 km away from La Morra. FUCK. YES.

I suddenly regained all of the energy that had left me meandering the endless maze of vines and began my upward clime to the top of the final hill. Cars passed me; bikes passed me; I gave zero fucks. I was determined. This determination lasted all of about 10 minutes and I began to give out again. What should've been a shorter ascent became an hour and a half ordeal. I took several breaks, one of which was in the center of a roundabout because there was a nice shady tree there. I got a lot of funny looks from Italians whipping past me- some sweaty, muddy, and tired american under a tree dreaming desperately of water and a glass of white whine (*fingers crossed* Arneis?). 

The only thing that got me back up was a signpost in the distance: "La Morra 1km". I looked in front of me and saw this ridiculous winding, up hill road. Whelp, here it goes. I just about made it there when I gave in to the granite bench on the side of the road. Sitting down and looking up at the final turn where the sign "La Morra" loomed over me, I began to have doubts. "There's no way in fuck this is near where my car is". I thought back to my drive up to this town and was too tired to remember even going this way. But...wait...what's this? A goddamn water fountain across the street. I ran up to it and dumped water all over my face and my mouth. I knew this had to be the place. I walked a little further up that last fucking hill and I saw it. My car. I opened the door, took my shoes off, and turned the ignition on. This time the radio sounded a song a bit more somber than the Boss, but still hopeful.  I drove off down the hill I had just willed myself up and was overcome with a feeling of relief. I whipped down the hills and landscape that took me hours to scale; the car took it in minutes. I came back to the hotel, cracked open a beer, and exhaled audibly. Every step I take, my chaffed thighs remind me of my hubris thinking I could outwit the landscape.

 I have to pack up my clothes since I leave the hotel tomorrow. After all- It's not my home, it's their home, and (at 10 am tomorrow) I am welcome no more. I'll be spending the day in Turin tomorrow. I'm an hour away from the Piazza where Nietzsche lost his shit and hugged a horse and the Fiat factory where Gramsci led a worker's strike. How can I not go?

Ciao suckers,

Tyler

P.S. HEYYYY BABY