very simple

So, after much wrangling this morning with the easyjet website, much of which involved the fact that they kept rejecting my American Express card (which makes no sense, as I was able to use it 20 minutes later to book a hotel on Expedia) and my having to break out the backup, never used, Mastercard, I can now safely say that I’ll be spending Christmas weekend in Paris. Because it takes a whole hour to fly there. How cool is that?!

We get a four day weekend for the christmas holiday here, because apparently the 26th is also of religious significance in Italy. I have no idea what significance, as I am not even christian, let alone catholic, but four days seemed like a good enough amount of time to jet off to another city for a few days, particularly when everything in this city will be closed anyway. I had been thinking I should go to London, just to sate my apparently monthly need to speak english, but I’ve been to London plenty for work, and I was just there in May.

I have been to Paris before, twice, but the last time I was there was in the year 1999, and that was only for a day stopover between legs of my post-bar exam three-week bicycle trip through the French countryside. So it seemed like a good idea. Plus, it will (hopefully) make me actually like the city for once.

The first time I went to Paris was when I backpacked/Eurailed through Europe between college and law school, which is now over ten years ago. The first part of my trip, I was travelling with a "friend" from college who had been living in London for six months (and had previously studied in Paris). Unfortunately, said "friend" spent all of the money she was supposedly saving for the trip on a TEFL course, so that she could go to Korea and teach english for two years. Which was great for her, but severely limited her ability to do just about anything on our trip. So I met up with her in London, where she was living, so that was free. Then we went to Paris. We travelled by ferry, which was a high-speed catamaran-type boat, and I spent the entire way over just absolutely seasick. Just thinking about it now, ten years later, I still get green. We finally get dropped off by the bus, in the middle of Paris (not at the train station like our ticket said), with no French money, at five in the morning. This was years before the Euro conversion, so we had to change money every time we went over a border. So we finally, laboriously, find an ATM, and make our way to the cheapest hotel in the guidebook (remember, friend with very little money).

This hotel…well. About the only good thing you could say about it was that it had a great location. It was right down the street from the Pantheon, so it was easy to go other places. But the hotel itself. Friend and I got a "double" room that still managed to involve us having to share a bed. I have never been so happy to have a sleeping bag in my life – not because I had a problem sharing a bed with a friend, I’ve done that plenty, but because the bed itself was so disgusting that the only way that I could even go near it was to essentially wear a giant body condom. Oh, and the room had a distinctly funny smell. The bathroom was literally in the middle of a stairwell, and the shower…

…sorry, I had to go be nauseous again. You had to pay to use the shower, which we did on the first day, and when we got the key for the shower "room", we realized that we just wouldn’t be showering for our entire stint in Paris. This building was about 100 years old, and the shower had likely never been cleaned. So. three nights in Paris, no bathing. This is after an overnight trip from London, and a plan to take another overnight train to Amsterdam at the end. Which means that by the time I got to Holland, I hadn’t showered for almost a full week. A week which started with repeated vomiting off the side of a boat.

I saw lots of really great things in Paris (as was the case with all famous buildings everywhere I went, Notre Dame was of course covered in scaffolding), and I fully agree that it’s a beautiful city. But the hotel just overwhelmed things. Oh, and the fact that I was counting on my french-speaking friend to show me around? Well, the fact that she had no money, and had seen everything before, meant that she sat around our hotel room for three days (pointedly mentioning that she wouldn’t have even come to paris but for my wanting to) while I went out and did stuff. We lived on bread and cheese. But the kicker? was the last day, when we were leaving. We had saved the Musee D’Orsay for the last day, figuring that we could check our backpacks at the coatcheck and wander around for a few hours until our train. So we traipsed, in the rain, to the MD’O, to discover that the museum workers’ union had called a city-wide strike. So it was closed.

The second time I was in Paris, when I only had a day? I figured that I could check out the MD’O because I had already seen the Louvre and other stuff. So, I traipsed over there again (in much better weather), to discover that the darn place is closed on Mondays. Monday being the only day I was in Paris. I did have an excellent dinner in chinatown that night with a bunch of the bike tour guides who were also in town, but that whole thing was more like a layover than a trip.

So, I feel like I have to go for a few days just to redeem Paris for myself in my head. I’ve already checked the website, and the MD’O is open on both Sunday and Tuesday, even though it’s christmas, so I’m getting in come hell or high water. Seriously. that place has become my white whale. Ten years I’ve been trying to see those friggin’ paintings!

Woohoo! working internet access. it only took 2 and a half months!

Flew back to Milan Sunday night. I was really sad to be leaving NY again, but when I got into the city yesterday morning, it felt pretty comfortable – like I recognized things and knew where we were going. So that was a nice feeling. The flight back was, of course, immensely annoying, most likely because I needed to go to work yesterday. The guy sitting next to me (he was in the window seat) spent most of the flight trying to elbow my arm off of the armrest in some pathetic attempt at dominance (given that he was really skinny, it’s not like he needed the room. Plus, given that all of the controls for my seat were contained on that armrest, I definitely considered it “mine”). The best part though, was in the middle of the night, after I had managed to fall asleep, he starts poking me so that he can get up to use the restroom. This is normally fine to me – it’s the price I pay for sitting in the aisle seat. But then, after I had finally managed to fall asleep again, his FRIEND, from somewhere else on the plane, comes over to have a conversation, and does this by LEANING ON THE BACK OF MY SEAT. It’s 3 o’clock in the friggin’ morning, I’m clearly attempting to sleep, and this asshole is basically rocking my seat back and forth while speaking in normal voice (read: not whispering) right over my head. I actually, after reorienting myself and realizing why I had been woken up, grabbed his arm and pushed him away from my seat. I think he got the hint.

Oh, I should also point out that the guy sitting next to me was the very last person on the plane before they closed the doors. I hate those people even when they’re not sitting near me. And then, he starts moving shit around in the overhead bins because his bag won’t fit. And instead of looking for an empty bin, or asking for help, he just starts literally crushing my bag. with my computer in it. It was so over-the-top that the guy sitting in front of me, who is watching this as well, pointedly said to me “I certainly hope you didn’t have anything breakable in there,” as a relatively polite attempt to point out to window guy that he was maybe not doing the right thing. Nevermind that he completely blocked my ability to actually reach my bag by doing this (the only reason why I didn’t get up as soon as the seatbelt light was off to make a big show out of needing something from my bag, like my computer, was that I was actually trying to SLEEP!).

The better part was that I actually made a friend – the guy sitting across the aisle from me and I had intermittent conversations through out the flight, where we discovered that (i) we were both americans from the NYC area, (ii) we were both lawyers working in Milan, and (iii) we were both named Sam. which was actually the funniest part. We had this whole conversation about our lives and had never introduced ourselves, but when I gave him my business card he did a double-take, and asked if I went by the name “sam”, when I said yes, he stuck out his hand and said, “hi, I’m Sam.” So that was funny.

Oh, but the best part was when I went to the grocery store last night after work (completely zonked out from the no-sleep flight), yet again, I’m buying, like, six things to tide me over until the weekend, and the person behind me (this time in Italian) asks to cut in line! This time I just played dumb, even though I knew what she was asking (it’s a lot easier to do when you don’t speak the language well). Is there something about me that makes me look like a pushover?

I think I’ve written about this before, but I think there’s something about my appearance that gives people a certain impression of me. I am constantly stopped on the street, both in NY and Milan, and asked for directions (I’m obviously a lot less useful in Milan). But I think it’s because I’m somehow non-threatening looking. So then, when I snap, or refuse to give in (in the case of supermarket checkout lines), people somehow become even more offended than they would from someone else. I’m apparently a bitch in sheep’s clothing.

So. I’m back in Milan, I’ll be here until March. I’ll (seriously now) try to get out this weekend and take some pictures, and I’m hoping to go somewhere interesting for the four-day Christmas weekend we get here. Ciao!

I keep trying to come up with something to blog about and then deciding that it’s stupid. random topics include…

• how lazy I’ve been so far on my vacation
• tv that I’ve tried to catch up on (seriously – heroes? is awesome)
• the fact that they’re powerwashing the outside of my building.

ugh. I’ve got bloggers block. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been away from it for some time, but I tried to keep up the stream of consciousness at least through the use of a written journal (I know, how archaic!). But that I tend to save for the stuff that I actually don’t want published on the internet. I can’t believe that it’s already Tuesday – that I’m going back in only a few days. Working in a foreign country is certainly a neat thing to do, but ultimately, I miss my home. What can I say. turns out that I’m a homebody. Granted, my home happens to be in one of the largest, most bustlingest, exciting cities in the world, but yeah…I’m a bit provincial at heart. Or maybe I just miss sushi. And convenient home goods stores. and same-day dry cleaners. and american TV. and internet access. (and my family and friends, of course).

My apartment in Italy is very nice. Size-wise, it’s actually about the same size as my apartment in NY. My only problem is aesthetic. Everything is white. If you’ve seen pictures of my apartment in NY, you’ll notice that nothing is white except for the kitchen and bathroom, and even those are because they’re subway tiled. In Italy, the walls are white, the couch is white, the chairs are white…it’s like living in a sanitarium. I can’t very well object to the arrangements, because objectively? it’s a perfectly nice one bedroom apartment in a very nice palazzo. Convenient to work, nice neighbors, helpful porter. But the whiteness is, to say the least, not my style. When I got home though, I all of a sudden felt like my apartment in NY was much smaller, and I realized that it’s because I’ve got, like, 10 foot ceilings in Italy, so when I walked in here, all of a sudden the ceilings felt very…low. So I guess I had adapted more than I thought.

And if I’ve got to pick one thing I’m missing about Italy? definitely the coffee. I have always hated American coffee and never go near the stuff except in overwhelming caffeine emergencies. But espresso? is like a little cup of heaven. I have to limit myself to 2 cups a day, otherwise I’ll end up never going to sleep. Sure, I have an espresso machine here in NY, but it’s not the same. I’ve heard that there’s a seriously high calcium content in the water in Italy, which is what makes their coffee and pasta taste so much better than it does here. Of course, I also end up with a mineral deposit at the bottom of the pot every time I cook dinner, so I’m guessing it’s true.

OK. it’s now after noon, and I’m still in my pajamas. It’s time to get motivated for the day. Especially since I have to go into the office this afternoon for my end-of-year evaluation. What fun. no wonder I’m procrastinating.

First, obviously, let me apologize for not updating for the past two months. Keeping up with a blog can be a bit difficult when the home internet access you insisted on as a condition of moving to another friggin’ country has yet to be installed.

Oh, they’ve been trying. Poor Alessandro, the IT guy in our Milan office, has quietly been losing his mind while trying to deal with the amount of red tape involved in getting internet into someone’s apartment. First, we had a contract with provider A, and we were told that it could take “up to a month” for the activation and the equipment. Now, a month seems a ridiculously long time to wait for me, but I was told by several people that this was pretty standard over there. So, a month goes by, and provider A never activates anything, and when Alessandro tries to find out where the modem is, it turns out that “they never ordered it.”

Needless to say, he cancelled the service contract. So then we decide to go with provider B. Now, provider B is actually a subsidiary of the incumbent telephone operator, so activation shouldn’t be a problem (cable TV infrastructure doesn’t exist in italy – everything is either run through satellite or the phone lines). Except, provider B screws up the contract, so they need to start over. Unfortunately, it takes at least a week to “cancel” the old contract and enter into a new one, even though the mistake was basically some data-entry lackey’s typo. So, we finally got the right “contract” about two weeks ago, meaning that activation should happen any day now. Alessandro was actually trying to get it done before I left, but that was probably wishful thinking on his part, so maybe (maybe!) when I get back it’ll be ready to hook up.

In the meantime I have some very funny e-mails from Alessandro, in broken english, that consist of him just not understanding why they don’t want to take our money.

Of course, I can’t actually deal with anything myself, because you need a codice fiscale to enter into any sort of agreement in Italy (it’s basically the Italian equivalent of a social security number, but it’s used for everything), and since I’m only technically a tourist, I can’t really qualify to get one.

So.

I actually wrote a bunch of posts on my computer, even knowing that I couldn’t post them, just to keep myself a bit current. But since they all basically consist of me bitching about the fact that I have no internet, and that I haven’t really done a whole lot other than work, I’ll try to summarize a bit.

I have no internet. I’ve been working too much. Milan is quite beautiful. The food is good. I’m really happy about the US election. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving.

So. The election. Needless to say I did a little dance in my chair at work on Wednesday morning. My dad (my dad!) sent me an e-mail that was practically giddy with excitement.

I actually wrote an entire post about this one right in the aftermath, so I’ll try to get that one up later, but I will say it’s been really interesting to see the reaction from an international perspective in particular. People in Italy normally don’t talk about politics. It’s considered rude. But I went to a meeting with a client on the Friday after the election, and when I mentioned that I was coming home for two weeks, he said, with a smile, “it’s like you’re going home to a different country now!” And I think that captures it pretty darn well. People here in the US can argue back and forth about the “meaning” of this election, but overseas, they all just think that we’ve finally come to our senses and given GWB the giant “fuck you” that he’s deserved for so long. More later.

But back to me…

I’m still jetlagged. I woke up yesterday to go to the airport at 5:30 in the morning, Italian time. then spent over 9 hours on a plane, with a crazy woman sitting behind me. No joke – she didn’t like her seat, so she threatened to get off the plane unless the stewardess forced someone else to move so that she could have the seat she wanted. Someone from ground crew and the pilot had to get involved. They were apparently about three seconds away from just letting her get off the plane when the girl behind me agreed to move. This woman tried to claim that they wouldn’t let her pick her seat when she booked the ticket, which is complete bullshit because everyone else pointed out, we all check the internet seat locater thing obsessively. Which means that she either booked her ticket at the last minute, or on something like priceline, where she thought she could have it both ways – book a super cheapskate restricted fare and then throw a fit until she got a premium economy seat.

(now, premium economy is exactly the same seat/same legroom as regular economy, except that it’s at the very front behind business class, meaning that you can get off the plane faster – you have to either pay a bit extra or be be a premium/elite flyer to get one).

So. that was self-absorbed bitch number one. The couple across the aisle from myself and I spent the entire flight pretty much making fun of her. really quietly. The flight attendants, needless to say, loved us (I’m not being sarcastic there – they actually gave us additional gossip about the whole situation when they got the chance).

Ordinarily, I would have been perfectly happy to see her get escorted off the flight, but these days, with the stepped up security, that would have meant also digging her bags out and getting them off the plane. Since we were about 10 minutes from our scheduled departure when this all started happening, it would have caused some pretty serious delays.

Self-absorbed bitch number two showed up when I arrived home and decided to go to the grocery store. At this point, I’ve been awake for at least 20 hours. I have a freshdirect delivery coming Sunday morning, but I still needed some real basics, like milk. So I dragged myself to the food emporium, bought the six things I needed, and got on the express line. where I waited patiently, and put my stuff on the conveyor belt when I got the chance. Then (and only then), the woman behind me on line, who is clutching a bag of goldfish crackers, pipes up in this super sweet voice to “request” that I let her go in front of me, seeing as she only has the one item. Now, on any other day, I probably would have let her without thinking about it, but I was pretty damn tired. and I thought for a second, and finally said back “you know, I don’t understand why you can’t just wait in line like everyone else.” It’s not like I had 100 items to ring up and she would have to wait very long, but she then starts responding, in this totally faux-sweet voice, about how she “really appreciates my kindness.” You know, trying to make me feel guilty because I wouldn’t let her cut the fucking line. I just ignored her at that point, but what I wanted to do was turn around and tell her to go fuck herself. Did I mention that I had been awake for, like, 20 hours at that point, and most of those had been spent in an airplane or Newark, New Jersey?

She didn’t know who I was, or whether I was actually in a hurry to get anywhere, or whether I was exhausted. She just assumed that her needs were somehow superior to mine and entitled her to special treatment, where she didn’t need to behave like everyone else at the damn supermarket. Now, if she had been holding, say, baby formula, or tampons, I might have assumed that she had some sort of emergency situation, but she could damn well wait 30 more seconds for her crackers (and don’t anyone tell me that maybe she was going into diabetic shock – if that were the case, no one would have objected to her eating some damn crackers in line and then paying for them after).

I know this pissed me off more than it should have, and I certainly have my own moments of selfishness, but yesterday I just seemed to encounter more than my usual share of people who seemed to think that the rules that apply to everyone else don’t apply to them. Maybe exhaustion and jet lag give me some sort of 6th sense for these things.

OK. A real entry later. I promise. Plus, I’ve read about 10 new books!

I didn’t even realize I was stressed out about this whole “moving to a foreign country” thing until I started waking up progressively earlier beginning on Saturday. This morning? I woke up at 2. And haven’t been able to fall asleep since.

So, in an attempt to be at least a bit productive, I decided to peruse the TSA’s prohibited items list in anticipation of my flight.

I’m going to be quite lovely after nine hours on a redeye flight with no toothpaste, lip balm, hand lotion, or deodorant.

Now look, I know the recent threats, and that’s all fine. But what really got me was the stuff I apparently still can bring on the plane, including:

• cigar cutters (so that apparently you can pre-snip that cigar you’re not allowed to bring or smoke on the plane)
• corkscrews (if you’ve ever seen me attempt to open a bottle of wine, you know just how dangerous these can actually be)
• knitting needles
• scissors with sharp/pointed edges as long as they’re less than 4-inches long
• screwdrivers

And yeah, I get that nowadays, people aren’t just going to sit still and let someone with a pair of scissors take over the plane, but how in the hell are these considered less dangerous than a pudding cup?

I know that I can sometimes be a touchy and/or demanding customer, so I (may) at times bring bad treatment upon myself, but today must have been just one of those days, where I felt like I walked into the store and I must have had an invisible sign saying “kick me”.

Scene: CVS pharmacy on the corner of 86th and Amsterdam. I usually like walking up to this store, rather than patronizing any of the closer Duane Reade’s, because I generally find the Duane Reades near my apartment to be both poorly staffed and poorly stocked. Plus, I figured it would be good to take a walk on such a nice day to pick up the multitude of things I want to ship to myself before I leave on Friday.

So, among other things, items on my shopping list include more hair conditioner and saline solution for my contact lenses (I wear disposables, but if I don’t get them in on the first try, I generally need to rinse them in saline before I try again), soap, cotton balls, etc…

Shampoo aisle. There is, seriously, no conditioner of the brand that I use remaining in the store. Not just the particular type I prefer, but just rows of shampoo with empty rows sitting in between where the conditioner should be. I actually thought there was some sort of recall because it was just so…odd. But, whatever, I can try to find some more during the week.

Manage to pick up lip gloss, cotton balls, mascara, soap all without a problem.

Then I go looking for the saline solution. Aisle 12 is marked “eye care”. OK, I’ll go there.

Spend 10 minutes wandering up and down aisle 12 (which is not particularly long), wondering why I can only find granola bars and foot baths.

Go to the pharmacist at the back of the store, and ask were the saline solution is. She says “aisle 11”. I then say (and this is important), “aisle 11, really? even though aisle 12 is labeled ‘eye care’?”

So, I go to aisle 11.

Spend 10 minutes wandering up and down aisle 11, wondering why I can only find advil and band-aids. Begin to think I’m losing my mind.

Go back to the pharmacist. Point out that she sent me to an aisle that was completely wrong. She says “what did you want again?” I say “saline solution, you know, for my contact lenses?”

Her response? Oh, that’s over here at the other end of the store. I thought you wanted nasal saline solution.

OK. why the f*ck would I point out that friggin “eye care” was mislabeled if I wanted something that goes up my nose?

I then point out that maybe people wouldn’t have this problem if they labeled the aisles correctly. She says (seriously), “I just work here”. Not realizing of course, that that’s precisely my point.

So. Drama done, I get my saline solution, and go stand on line.

Finally get to the front of the line. Guy behind the counter rings up my purchases. puts them in bag behind counter out of my reach. I pay with debit card. He walks away.

Without handing me my purchases.

I’m just standing there, and look at the guy standing behind me in line, and he’s got the same expression that I’m pretty sure I’ve got on my face, which is pretty much “what the f*ck?”

As the counter guy is walking away, I kind of shout out “hey, do you mind finishing ringing me up here?”

He keeps walking away. Apparently nothing stops this guy from going on break, even when he’s literally in the middle of a transaction.

So, someone else finally comes over. Looks at the register, looks at the bag full of stuff, and says “he didn’t ring any of this up”. And proceeds to start scanning my stuff again.

At which point I have to stop her and point out that I’ve already paid! My receipt is sitting in the friggin’ register.

Do you ever get the feeling like you’re living in some sort of hidden camera universe where people are trying to figure out just how far they can push you by surrounding you with incompetence (and incompetents) before you snap?

Yeah. It was one of those days.

This was of course after I discovered that my toilet and my bathtub were both refusing to drain water. After getting woken up by the construction workers literally outside my window repairing the building facade (the shed they’ve erected makes for a very nice balcony) Which was just a lovely way to start the day. By the way, they’re clearly attempting to comply with the new building regulations, which is ultimately a good thing. Everything’s fixed now (thanks assistant super!!), but what a way to start the day.

But, some friends are coming over tonight for a little farewell thing (I was attempting to have a real party, but almost everyone I know is out of town this weekend) and dinner, so I’ve got to go make myself look less like I got run over by a city bus and more like someone who is about to start living la dolce vita.

…because the next two weeks are (I think) going to be out of control.

Let’s start with last week though. I finally had jury duty on Wednesday (which was really convenient given the two deals I had closing on Friday). But it turned out to be quite easy. Apparently none of the judges want to start scheduling big trials and such the week before Labor Day, so there was no need for any juries all day, and they let us go completely after the first day (which is virtually unheard of in Manhattan). So, all in all, it was probably the best timing possible from a “I really don’t have time to actually serve on a criminal trial jury” perspective.

Of course, this still left the partner who was on vacation and the partner who was filling in because the other partner was on vacation dealing with some issues on Wednesday that I was obviously not available for. Oh well. I guess one of the good things about being a lawyer though, is that the bosses are always pretty understanding of the whole jury duty thing.

Now, as is usual, I’m in the Berkshires with my family…my dad’s birthday is the 5th, so I always try to make it up here for this holiday weekend even if I have other stuff going on…

Which, of course, leads me to the next two weeks…

I finally got my start date for Italy, and I booked plane tickets on Friday. I’m leaving on Friday the 15th, so that I can have the weekend to recuperate from jetlag before I start working in Milan on Monday the 18th. of September.

So. That’s, like, 11 days from now.

And I decided that it would be a really brilliant idea to have a going away party next Saturday night. Because apparently I’m a masochist. Maybe nobody will show up (actually, given the number of people I know will still be out of town on extended labor day holidays and such? It’s probably going to end up being more like 5 friends coming over to finally see my apartment).

I did decide to take off starting on Wednesday the 13th, so that, at the very least, I’d have two days of just packing and turning stuff off.

Guys, I’m moving to Italy in 11 days.

I’m totally freaking out!

Everyone that finds out has had the first reaction of “aren’t you totally excited?!” Well yeah, but the initial excitement (back in friggin’ June!) has given way to the overwhelmingly not-done-ness of all the stuff I need to do before I leave.

But I’ve already decided that when I get back? I’m totally getting a swissy.

While I have started Italian classes, there hasn’t been much movement on other aspects of my secondment to Italy. I do plan on becoming much more of a pain in the ass this week, as it’s almost August, and I’m thinking that someone should start figuring out my departure date, housing situation, visa situation and all the other fun stuff that is involved with the whole moving to another country thing.

Of course, not yet having a precise departure date is probably a good thing at this point, as…yep…I got my juror summons in the mail yesterday. And I have to report on August 30.

Now, for those of you who don’t know how the NY jury system works, you get your summons, and you have to report for three days, and then, during those three days, you may get picked for a jury. Once you’ve been through the process once, you can’t get called again for four years, and it’s been about six years since the last time I had to do this, so I was definitely due. The problem is, they got rid of all exemptions (lawyers used to be automatically exempt), so you have to either go or use your one postponement.

The problem there? The postponement has to be within two to six months of the original date (during which time I will absolutely not be in NY). So it certainly makes more sense for me to go and at least get it over with (and if I get as far as voire dire, I can always point out my imminent departure from the jurisdiction). oy.

Now, the last time I went, it was actually enjoyable (I think lawyers are the only
ones who really get a kick out of the process, being that we’re students of it and all). The first time my name got called was for a civil action – a car accident with your requisite yellow-pages lawyers. The lawyers went around the room and asked us what we did for a living, and when they got to me, I said I was a lawyer. They asked what kind of law I practiced, and I said corporate. At which point the defense lawyer made some snide remark about “oh, so you’re a
real lawyer for one of those big law firms.” heh. I just smiled and said, yeah, I guess that’s about right. They then pulled me out of the room to have a “conference” in the hallway with me about how clearly I couldn’t be “fair” in this case. Um, I’m pretty sure it was their bias that was showing, but whatever. I just went along with it because I wasn’t really itching to spend more time with these people. It was just kind of funny. Of course, the real reason that folks like me are rather infrequently selected for juries is that we know waaay too much about the law, and they don’t want people thinking above and beyond jury instructions.

So, I went back into the general pool, and then got called for a criminal case with about 50-100 other people. We sat around for a full day and a half, and I never even got voire dire’d, because they prosecutor and the defense attorney ended up settling
(which is pretty common). That took me to the end of my second day, after which they gave me my letter and said I could go home. This often happens. While legally required to show up for three days, they will only make you stay for day three if there’s something seriously wrong. So most people who aren’t picked get to go home after day two.

With my luck though, I’ll end up getting picked this time because it’s just such a damn hassle.

The silliest part though, is that I knew this was going to happen. About two weeks ago I had a dream that I was called for jury duty while I was away. I don’t think it was any sort of premonition, I just had gotten my jury questionnaire (which they send you after you move to a new place), and I realized that the last time I had been called was definitely more than four years ago, so I must have had jury duty on the brain.

I don’t want to sound like I’m coming off as a know-it-all or anything, but, in general, I’d say I’m not exactly an idiot. Sure, we all have our moments, but I very definitely fell into the “nerd” end of the high school ecosystem, and I’ve got that whole “ivy-league lawyer” thing going for me. But stick me in a language class, and I’m like a blithering 5 year old.

No, wait. A 5-year old would probably pick this stuff up better than me.

If you can’t tell, I had my first Italian lesson at Berlitz tonight. tongue-tied doesn’t begin to describe how I did. Try saying “aereo”, pronouncing all of the letters (there are no silent letters in Italian) (hint: it’s something along the lines of “ah-eh-rrrrrr-eh-yo”).

Yeah.

Not to mention the fact that I did take about 8 years of spanish, so when I wasn’t mangling the italian with english bastardizations, I was somehow translating it into spanish in my head instead.

OK, it wasn’t that bad. Or, it actually was that bad, but I’m basically supposed to be a blithering idiot at this stage of the game.

Hopefully by the end of this 5-week, 3 days a week, 2 and a quarter hours a day class, I’ll be able order dinner once I’m in Milan.

Ciao.

My week:

Flew to London Sunday night, landed 6:30 Monday morning. Was at my firm’s London Office by 10. Stayed until about 10:30 pm. Drank about 17 cups of espresso over the course of the day.

Worked from London Tuesday until about 9 pm.

Flew to Rome Wednesday morning. The plane takes off from Heathrow at the awesome hour of 6:40a.m. Get to wake up at the even more awesome hour of 3:45 a.m. to finish packing, dress in client-meeting appropriate attire, check out of my hotel and meet the car taking me to Heathrow at 4:45 a.m.

Work in Rome Wednesday. Go to very nice dinner with co-workers at restaurant I tried to eat at about 6 times the last time I was in Rome, but could never get a table. Our arriving at the somewhat late (even for Italy) hour of 10p.m. after checking into our hotel seems to do the trick.

Work in Rome Thursday. Go to even nicer dinner with clients and others. After, of course, spending an hour not figuring out how to send a fax from my client’s office and having to go back to the hotel to send it from there. Dinner is at the practically early-bird special hour of 9:30 p.m. I arrive late.

Get back to the hotel Friday a.m. at about 1:30 a.m.. Wake up at 6 to continue working. work right up until I check out at noon, taxi to Fiumcino airport, ask ticket agent to let me check in early so that I can go through security to get to the BA lounge for a 2pm conference call. Explain that if I waited until after the call to come to the airport, I wouldn’t make my flight. When said ticket agent says it’s “absolutely impossible and he will never ever help you”, after doing nothing to check for me, escalate fight with the ticket agent for another 20 minutes until he finally calls his manager (which is all I wanted in the first place) who manages to get me through security in time. Said fight includes ticket agent trying to hide his airport ID so I can’t see his name (classic move of someone who is totally (sarcasm) being straightforward and honest), and then telling me that if I had only smiled, maybe he would have tried to help me, because apparently, instead of actually being impossible (as disproved by the fact that, um, it was possible), his helping customers is contingent on said customer’s willingness to stroke the ego of someone who works in customer service. You can guess how much I just love people telling me to smile when they’re not bottlenecking my ability to do my job.

Work from the BA lounge until 4pm. Then go to catch plane.

Discover that plane has been delayed by 1:15. Remember that time to change planes in London, including going through customs and getting my Virgin Atlantic boarding pass at another terminal from the one I land in, is 1:30. Realize that I will not make the flight in London. It’s the last flight of the day. Spend two extra hours at Fiumicino rearranging my flights and getting a hotel room in London. And calling everyone who I had even tentative Memorial Day weekend plans with that I might be a bit…missing.

Finally fly to London. When the customs and immigration officer asks “how long are you staying in London?” try not to either (1) cry, (2) burst out laughing. Try to figure out whether “Heathrow Airport” is an appropriate destination address for my third stay in the UK in less than two weeks.

Get to Heathrow Marriott. Discover that 2 of the 4 elevators are broken. Also discover that the medical conference taking place at the hotel has just dropped off about 200 participants 3 seconds before I arrived. Finally push some old people out of the way when the 4th elevator I’ve been patiently waiting for gets rushed by said old people while I struggle with my luggage.

Get to room. do more work.

Get work done at about midnight. Decide that it’s time for a blog entry.