Geisha licks!!

Geisha is learning to be a real cat!! She's only recently learned to lick Vespa (as it is, they barely tolerate each other.)

I can't believe I got this on video!!

If shopping were a sport, I just did the ironman.

I decided to spend the day in Palermo, a part of town so big it's subdivided into three sections: Palermo SOHO, Viejo, and regular Palermo. OK, there's nothing to do there but shop and eat. Really. And so I did.

I woke up about 10:30... thankfully one of the guys in the dorm made a little too much noise. I realize that I desperately need a towel. And a pair of flip-flops for the shower, as by the time I got my sorry ass out of bed, everyone had showered. Ick. I used my shirt from two days ago to dry myself off. Double ick. I missed breakfast, which was fine, because my stomach was still yelling at me for having eaten meat and fried food for both meals.

Last night, about 9:00 (approaching the Argentine timing), I went to the very highly recommended (by Marcelo) Palacio de las Papas Fritas. It's a very simple place (Marcelo calls it 'Old School'), well known for the 'papas souffles,' disk-cut potatos fried in oil so hot, they puff up. I had the Bife de Chorizo (a huge hank of rump steak), accompanied by the famous papas. There was also a small 'salad,' but the Argentinian salad is nothing to speak of. The meat was good enough, tasty, but the cut didn't do much for me, the fries were great.

But the dessert. Oof. Called Budím, it was a very thick bread pudding, with flan flavoring, topped with a thick layer of dulce de leche. Holy shit. All that, a cup of coffee, a bottle of mineral water, was $27 pesos (about $9.)

So I go to Palermo. I shopped all day. It takes all day, as Palermo is HUGE. Walking around for SIX HOURS, I barely passed the same store twice. It's full of small cute boutiques that make you ring a bell to enter, but aren't full of snobby salespeople.

I didn't buy anything. The clothes are pretty much price-wise, on par with the US, but THE ENTIRE CITY IS STUCK IN THE 80s. ARGH. I guess things are similar in NYC, but I haven't been shopping in a while. You know, I suffered the 80s thing once, and that was PLENTY. Skinny flats meant to be worn with leggings, and there are plenty of those. Bat-wing tops made from brightly-hued jersey knit, adorned with gold. Jeans aplenty, but from the 700 pairs I've tried on, they either make my thighs look and feel like sausages (slim fit), or they're perfect in the thighs and calves and are big in the waist.

I got hungry about 2 in the afternoon (and desperately needed coffee) and meandered with that slight wobble I get when I've gone too long without eating. I happened upon a cafe that had tables outside and in the sun (only a stupid american would want that... but it was clear, about 75-80 degrees, beautiful, and I'm pasty white) and when I looked at the name, I realized that it was a place called Janio, recommended to me by Kephram and Ellie. Three course lunch for 16 pesos (divide by 3, people. About $6.) First course. a couple of sweet cheese kreplach sauteed in butter. Then a fried merluza (more fried, but at least it was fish) with mashed potatoes. I went easy on them both, but then they bring me a coconut cream torte, with some kind of graham cracker crust, creme anglaise on the side. Fuck. That, a double coffee, and a bottle of water... total 27 pesos.

I took the subway again to the big Abastos Mall. I can see why malls are so popular here. The city is so spread out, the traffic is pretty intense, the subway really doesn't go where you need it to go. I was done shopping by this time, really, but I wanted some ice cream that BA is evidently famous for. I knew there would be some, along with a bathroom and a place to rest my tired feet.

There were two across from one another... Freddo (long line) and Munchi's (no line). I know that no line is often a bad sign, but I wasn't thrilled with the flavor selection at Freddos. I had a double... 'coconut with dulce de leche' and 'flan with dulce de leche.' In case you were wondering, yes, that's dulce overkill. I was shaking fron the sugar high. Although, I decided, if I should die, I'd like to be embalmed with the stuff. If at all possible.

I have yet to book any tango time, as Marcelo's suggestion has not contacted me. Perhaps if I can stop eating and shopping for a minute, I'll get a chance to do it.

Frankie and Dawn, the swingin' foster kitties

Rik and I are joint-fostering a couple of tabbie kittens for a week or so. Rik's named them Frankie and Dawn, after legendary lindy-hoppers Frankie Manning and Dawn Hampton. They're about 8 weeks old, and practically fit in the palm of your hand.

They would be completely out of control, if it weren't for the fact that they are very bonded to each other (although they are gaining independence from each other more and more each day) and they keep each other busy with their constant chasing each other around the apartment wrestling.

They're very well-socialized, and as much as they love each other, they seem to really like people. Last night they fell asleep on my lap as I was watching CSI.

Dawn, at first the more aloof one, has become the mushy one. She likes to perch on my shoulder and go to sleep.

Animal Advice to Parents from the Childless

OK.

So, when I'm volunteering at CityCritters, we're basically all stuck in a 3' x 10' space. Sometimes it gets pretty crowded.

For some reason, there were 4 volunteers there, including myself, and a couple of people who were eyeing the kitties.

And then she arrives.

By biggest nightmare.

A mom, with a DOUBLE WIDE STROLLER, occupied by twin girls, about 1 1/2 years old, writing and screeching upon arrival.

There are lots of parents who bring their kids by to see, touch, and talk to the kitties. Some of them every week. This, in theory, isn't a problem. What IS a problem is that most of these parents don't understand/take time to/care to explain the nuances of introducing one's self to an animal that doesn't know you.

I remember this lesson well when my dad taught me. First I was to ASK THE OWNER IF IT WAS OK. If the animal was friendly. He told me to approach slowly, not with the fingertips but the back of the hand. Let the animal sniff you. See how it reacts.

But no.

Most of these parents let their kids jam their hands in the cages. Without asking. These animals are, well, ANIMALS, and almost all of them are rescued from the street, still traumatized, displeased to be in a cage.

So "double-wide" walks in, and instantly, my colleagues turn to me. This is my unofficial job. To deal with the children and their parents. Which, if you know me at all, is a huge testament to how much the women I work with HATE kids. I OF ALL PEOPLE am the most patient with them.

"Double-wide" crams her stroller in as far as it will go. It doesn't go far, but blocks all entrance and escape from our little workspace. The kids are screeching. I say "Are you interested in a cat?" because if she's not, she's gotta go.

"Oh yes," she says, "we already have one at home. But she runs away from the girls when they try to pet her, and it upsets them."

As I glance at the two banshees squirming in their carriage, I'm not really wondering why that might be.

I explain that NO CAT is going to allow toddlers to run after them, pick them up and squeeze them. But maybe she should consider an older, mellow cat.

Their cat is 19, she says.

"Double-wide" is now perusing the cats, judging solely on appearance, inquiring "This one's cute! what about this one? Can the girls pick them up?"

No.

I explain that I had just walked in myself, that I didn't know any of the cats, that I don't just reach in and pick up cats I don't know.

She keeps asking. I keep saying no. I tell her that if she really wants, I would open the cage so that the girls could pet them. At her own risk.

She lets one daughter out of her stroller. She reaches in vain to try to pet the cat. The other one is now screaming bloody murder out of what I figure to be manipulation, frustration, and jealousy.

She lets the other one out. She is totally in the way of the other 8 people in our cramped space. Yelling, stomping, screaming, totally ignored. I physically pick her up and move her so that she doesn't slam her head into one of the open cages.

Mom asks about the cat that was literally brought in from the city shelter 3 minutes prior. The cat has had no adjustment time. The cat was evicted from her home, separated from her owner and sister. Mom insists I let her screaming daughters pet her.

I suggest she leave her daughters at home and pick a suitable cat then. She ignores me, almost as much as she is ignoring the incessant wailing of the terrors I can only assume she created in her own image.

I open the bottom cage. Mom pets the cat. She allows one of the girls TO WALK IN THE CAT'S CAGE TO PET THE ANIMAL.

I pull the kid out and say "OK. That's enough. I can't allow you to put your children in danger. I can't do this anymore."

Parents, please follow the advice my dad gave me. Teach your child to ASK PERMISSION to touch ANY ANIMAL. Accept that sometimes it's not a good idea, even if your kid might not like it. Teach them that NO ONE, including small, scared animals, do not like to have even well-meaning fingers poked in their faces.

UNDERSTAND that people who work with animals are usually only responsible for those that are not human. They're not there to babysit or educate your kids.

Take them to the damn zoo instead.

Hot Kitty Lickin' Action

[of course, you KNOW what I really want to call this post, but I'd prefer the porno spammers leave me be.]

They still bicker, but they're getting along much better these days. One day, maybe Geisha will lick back.

Love your pets, just don't LOVE your pets.

Meet Leopold.

Leopold is not my cat. Nor will he ever be. As my two cats enjoy their summer home (i.e. Rik's place) I thought it would be nice to house a cat that had been at City Critters too long. Leopold is getting adopted in early September, when his person gets her apartment.

Leopold is a fat, affectionate, lazy cat rescued from New Orleans. He baas like a sheep. And he likes nothing more than to eat and cuddle.

So, although I will be fine giving Leopold up to his new owner (I am allergic to him, and really, there are enough cats in my life,) I totally love him. He is the lap cat I had been looking for all along. He sleeps in my bed.

Last night, I am sleeping, and Leopold starts baa-ing and crawls into bed. He head-butts me and crawls into my stomach, as he's done since I got him a couple of days ago. But then he does something new... he starts patting me with his paw.

"Um, excuse me," he pats.

I ignore it.

"Hello?" He does it again.

It isn't that thing cats do, kneading their paws into you like you're their mom. He usually just does that to my pillow. Evidently my down pillow feels like mom.

This was a distinct poking, in order to get my attention. He jams his pudgy, furry self harder into my gut.

I stroke his head. He purrs.

I stop. He pats.

I am tired. I put my arm around him. He purrs louder.

I am now spooning Leopold. My arm's full weight is draped around his now sleeping body.

That's all. There's no Dan Savage "How'd That Happen?" letters in the making. I have no interest in having an intimate encounter with any cat, much less one that is not my own. But it made me so happy knowing how comforted this poor cat felt, with everything he must have gone through, and it made me sad to know that somewhere, his real owner is missing him.

A day with the down-and-out of rome

Screw this damned lake.

I slept in and decided to take in some sun at a park, reading one of the guidebooks at the hostel on Germany and Austria. Hey, next summer's only 13 months away...

The Gypsy
I am fascinated with these people, as I think I've mentioned before. These women, carrying their young dirty children all day long.

Their biggest scam, I think, and a successful one at that, is at the ticket machines.

I can't believe I haven't read about this is a guide book. It's incredible.

There are these ticket machines at every metro. The machines are very easy to figure out... instructions are given in 5 languages. You choose from 3 types of tickets, insert money, out comes change and a ticket.

But at Termini, most of the people using the machines are tourists, often bedraggled from the flight they just got off.

The women stand at the machine, ask you how many tickets you want, punch the buttons for you, take your money (they don't steal it), insert it into the machine, and hand you the tickets. Then they hold out their hand for a tip when the transaction is finished.

BRILLIANT!

When I am on line, I watch as EVERY SINGLE TOURIST ponies up a tip.

Except for me.

"No besogno aiuta," I say angrily. I'm faking.

This one was pretty clean, and not too aggressive. The other day, I saw two, at two neighboring machines, being aggressive with this American man who was buying tickets for his family. He was confused and tired. so I say quite loudly to him "don't give her money. She doesn't work for the station. I will help you." She and her friend run away.

The Cat Ladies of Rome

So I get my bearings, and at about 1:00 I decided to get a sandwich for the park, because if I've learned anything here, you have to get food or drink BEFORE you're actually hungry or thirsty. Everything takes a longer time than you expect.

So, on the bus, I read that the Torre Argentina bus stop, location of a completely excavated site, is also home to a CAT SANCTUARY, and they are "always looking for volunteers," even for an hour or two.

So I get there, and sure enough, there are between 200 and 300 cats. They look very healthy, well taken care of, and basically live in this part of the ruins. I decide that instead of the park, this is a much more productive thing to do with my day.

So I go to the woman who runs the place, tell her I'd like to vounteer for a few hours (in my icky Italian) and that I do this at home.

She says, looking very unenthused, "I speak English."

She then says, in the same unimpressed manner, "How long are you here?"

I tell her it's my last day. She looks pissed. She basically starts saying that if I were here for a week, maybe, but now, eh...

Now I don't really care. But I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Maybe brush the cats, play with them...

She says, "I guess you could clean the litter?"

Of course. How silly of me. Poop duty. I say sure. She asks me if I know how. Now, I can't imagine that Italian cat poop is any different than the American variety, or its cleaning method. But maybe the litter is different, or of different quality that we use at City Critters.

She leads me into a room that must have 40 cages of cats, and another 10 cats mulling about, with one particularly vocal ocicat-looking one. She shows me how to clean the litter.

So I open the first cage, and pet the cat who very obviously wants attention.

She yells "Don't touch the cat! These cats are sick!"

How I'm supposed to get the litter box out of the cage without laying my hand on the cat it beyond me. Of course, all the cats that aren't in cages (are they in recovery?) are climbing the cages and harassing the ones that are locked up, so I don't know how the cats are being protected from spreading germs. Oh, and there's no soap in the room. So I can't wash my hands.

I start cleaning cages, doing my best not to touch the sickies. After about the 8th cage, she comes in and tells me I'm doing it wrong. I was wasting too much litter, scooping too much, and they didn't have any money to waste. Oh, and I didn't put the litter boxes in the correct place when I returned it to the cage.

"why are you puttng the box in the middle?"

I told her she wasn't so specific. Really, I just was afraid to touch the cats, and I just put it in so she wouldn't yell at me for accidentally touching the cats."

She shows me on 3 more litter boxes how to clean.

No one is talking to me. The other volunteers are not friendly. They are not nice. they do not smile. I can't wait to get the hell out of there.

I'm sweating like mad, but can't mop my brow because I'm probably covered in sick kitty excrement.

I finish.

Now she tells me to sweep the front of the sancutary.

I really can't wait to get out of there. I ask if there is a bathroom, and there is none. This will be my out (although, true to form, I really did have to go.)

I sweep, and I'm about 50 feet from one of the other volunteers, who comes over, coughs, and says "Please, can you sweep in the other direction?"

Hmph.

I am certainly more trouble than I am worth.

I finish sweeping, I grab my bag, and luckily, the 1st lady isn't there to give me another job. I say "I need to leave... I am assuming you accept donations?"

I give her 5 euro.

She smiles.

Money talks, everywhere. And crazy cat people are everywhere, too.


Men on Crowded Busses
I get some incredible pizza at some random place. The Roman pizza has a very crispy, very thin crust, with lots of topping. Sort of a cross between foccaccia and pizza.

I wait for the number 40 bus, the best bus in Rome because it hits all the major sights, goes to Termini, and is Express. So it's pretty fast.

Which means it's usually pretty full.

So, I'm crammed into this bus, sweating like a pig. I'm next to a bunch of Koreans, and they're mext to a pretty clean-looking older man, but there's evidently something worng. He's wearing a sweater, topped with an overcoat. It's 90 degrees outside, and about 200 degrees inside the damned bus.

I am remembering now what the guidebook said about pickpockets and gropers on the 40 bus. Because it's so crowded. I hold my things closer and keep a watchful eye on the man. And the koreans, who looked like total targets.

Sure enough, I see one of the korean boys pull his things closer, and the old man makes a big commotion and gets off. I on't know if he was successful.

Thankful that I purposefully moved away from this old man, I notice that a rather tall, youngish man is now stading next to me. Perhaps he wanted to get away fro the geezer, too.

We're packed ike sardines, so much so that I think to myself that this young man must have very thin pants on, because I totally feel his package pressed up against my hip. Ick. I turn a bit.

And so does he. I must be imagining this. It's just crowded.

The bus comes to a complete stop, and so do I. I hold my breath so as not to move, because I am now imagining that he is carefully, methodically, rubbing himself against me, up and down.

No, I am imagining nothing.

I make no eye contact, but I say "scusa" to the person in front of me so that I can squeeze myself to a different part of the bus. As I walk away, I can feel the springboard-like action of his now erect penis.

It's not my stop, but I get off.

Just before he could.

I felt that thing on my hip for at least the next 10 minutes I had to wait for the next bus.

Oh, Rik, why did you have to go?