Tag Archives: Humor
Photo of the Day: The Airport Bivvy
SP Parker, Susie Sutphin, Janine Patitucci and Todd Bibler find the perfect airport bivouac
This week’s Photo of the Day is purely for fun.
When you travel a lot, are an outdoor type and don’t mind what people think of you – it is entirely normal to do odd things. Like setting up camp in the San Francisco airport after a missed connection while returning home from Canada’s Fairy Meadows. Note, we tried to establish a boundary/privacy screen with our ski bags.
The quote of the night, at 2 a.m., was Todd Bibler’s. As we lay trying to pass out, with speakers blasting, “The red zone is for emergency vehicles, the blue zone for dropping off, blah blah blah”, Todd uttered, “Think we need to set an alarm?” I giggled myself to sleep.
Posted in Photo of the Week, Travel
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Under the Watchful Eye
I was a Catholic school boy, trained to feel guilty for nearly everything I did while growing up. At some point I began to wander away from the church, my drifting turned to speeding and soon Confession and Guilt were items I had left in my wake with the discovery of life and all its many wonders. One memory that still resides in my head are the eyes of the Christ figure. No matter where I sat in class, no matter what I did, those eyes were upon me. Christ on the cross is found most everywhere in Italy, trail sides, the random homes yard, in town, and even on summits. I still look at them, still wonder if I am doing right, but now with a lifetime of experiences, I smile and consider giving him a wink.
And so today as I rode my bike by a little scene outside a small chapel, not only were the eyes of Christ peering onto the vision before us.
My ride started just before noon, Saturday. As I so often do, I wander from town on a lazy road that winds it’s way through some farmland. Where the road crests there is a tiny chapel sitting entirely alone and receiving sun all day. Outside is a bench optimally facing south, it is a perfect place to sit, soak up warmth, and think of nothing. Today an older couple was just making themselves comfortable as I pedaled by.
A loaf of bread, some cheese, a tomato, an apple, and the obligatory, and influential, bottle of wine. Our eyes met, smiles were exchanged, and a pop of the cork sent me off down the small descent. This is a scene run across countless times each day in Italy.
Two hours later, returning to town, I was making my way back up the hill when I noticed that the couple was still in place, but in a decidedly different condition. He was laying on the bench, with his wife’s lap serving as a pillow, she was sprawled out, topless, and enjoying the rotational massage her husband was offering. The wine bottle, having served its purpose, was cast aside and ready for the recycle bin.
As I approached, I felt little shame in having a look. That is until I peered above them and regretfully made eye contact with Christ, hanging there outside the chapel. I held his eyes for a brief moment before his own gaze was redirected, comically, back down to the spectacle beneath him. The things he must see.
Garmin's Virtual Training Partner
So I got my new Garmin Forerunner 405 the other day. A watch, a GPS, a training tool, a little coach in a watch.
I used it for the first time today training ski rando. All worked perfectly until this little window kept rotating through telling me I was behind my virtual partner. It even had a little guy running along, in font of my little guy.
Huh? I was livid, I went faster but no matter what I did, the little icon man stayed off the front. Soon I had sweat dripping off my hair, as I went higher an icicle formed and dangled in front of my eyes, irritating me that much more. I was afraid to slow to deal with my icicle for fear of little icon man disappearing off the screen. Thankfully I was reaping the rewards of an all new playlist, Forza, and rather than bluegrass twanging in my earbuds I had Tool taking root in my pscyhe. I was ready to fight.
And fight I did, by the time I got to the top I had closed in on my little virtual buddy. I thought I would take him on the descent so as if in a race, I stopped, ripped off my skins, threw the downhill lever on my boots, stashed the skins inside my chest pockets and was off. Down I flew on the hard pack ice, no longer able to look at the screen, I hoped for the best in my efforts and stubbornness.
10 minutes later I was finished and like a downhiller made my last turn to stop outside the Kronplatz bar, ever thumping with techno. With my quads screaming in protest of my ridiculous descent, I pulled back my shirtsleeve and with gloved finger hit the pause button. But wait, where is he? No, I had not just paused the little battle, I had stopped it altogether, he was gone, off to the showers. Unless I really read the manual, will I ever know the outcome? Does it really matter? And just what does this say about my personality?
Precious Timing…
Sharing life via a Blog… We all have these precious moments, but how many really share with so little shame?
As I was standing in the living room of our home this morning trying to decide which thickness of Smartwool socks to wear in my race tomorrow, Janine burst our laughing from behind her computer monitor.
This is what she was reading:
Horoscope for Friday, February 20:
Dress for success.
The Moon squares Venus at 7:21AM and you can’t find two socks that match.
It’s a good night to find people who can help you scratch an itch, or solve a problem.
……………..Meanwhile, this was my attire:
Posted in Humor, Personal Story, Random Thoughts
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Cow Adventures part II
To stand witness to one’s demise and be able to offer absolutely no assistance is a strange feeling. One is left with the decision to either turn away, or to spectate the misfortune of others.
In my case, today, I was entertained at the highest level by three dairy cows. I opted for spectating.
While riding up one of my favorite passes, which traverses an impossibly steep hillside of forest and cow pastures, I happened to look through a gap in the trees at precisely the right moment to catch one of life’s little comedic scenes.
There, just 2 meters from the guard rail were three dairy cows, two laying down and one, staring into space, standing by. Something didn’t seem right, the look on one of the cows laying down was something other than peaceful. It was terror.
I stopped, casually propped my right foot on the guard rail, and took it all in. In less than 40 seconds, much would occur.
The problem became immediately apparent, what the two cows were laying on was not terra firma, it was a stack of small, cut branches between large pine trees, the branches provided zero support for the bulk that is a cow. I understood what was about to occur, I think even the first victim did as well. The cow’s choice of bedding for the chewing of the cud was caving in. A 60 degree, 400 meter, dirt slope through larches was all that awaited these cows. They struggled in vain.
And so for a moment we locked eyes. The look in hers was something I can only imagine would be similar to the Titanic, had it had eyes, as it rolled into the ocean and began it’s descent toward the depths and darkness. The look in my own was probably closer to those of a viewer of Reality TV, and the irony of the song playing at high volume from my iPod did not escape me, Rihanna’s “Good Girl Gone Bad”.
Grace is not a word often associated with cows and in this case it was no different, she began to roll. Her large, gangly legs paddled for all they were worth, but when 450kg of latte and bistecca get rolling, get out of the way. I only had to rise a bit out of my saddle to follow her as she cartwheeled down the hillside, I was able to track her for quite some time, but soon the distance grew too much and even the thundering, explosive sounds of her descent faded.
It was perfect timing as cow #2 now had a clear path to follow for her own trajectory down the hillside. Off she went.
All that remained was the third cow and myself. She had a bizarre, human like curiosity about what had just occured and much like myself, she was inching closer and closer to the drop to see what sort of devastation was below. It was almost as if she wanted to go get help for her friends, but sick curiosity had her sticking around at the scene.
I decided it was time to go tell the farmer, and so I clicked back into my pedals and rolled on, practicing in my head how to say in Italian that two of his cows just rolled down the mountain.
"Adventure" Photography
It may not appear adventurous, but read on…
Being mountain sports photographers, we are often placed in somewhat dangerous situations; avalanche
conditions, bad weather climbing, etc… But never did we think real injury would come in the manner it did a few nights ago.
What so often begins as good fun can quickly turn ugly, at this point luck can play a role, followed by either a helicopter flight/foreign country emergency room visit, or in this case, a funny story. We prefer the “Funny Later” variety of close calls, of which we have many.
There is a small lake in the Austrian Alps we had been wanting to visit for some photos. Perfect weather arrived and we were in the area, so off we went up the 1000 meter, 2 hour approach. Arriving early, we laid out in the sun before the good evening light. Soon we were surrounded by dairy cows curious as to the taste of our salty backpacks. They hung around a bit then wandered off to complete the utopia-like Austrian Alp scene. It was both a perfect evening for our shoot and to just be in the mountains.
Cute…? okay, yes – but, sinister plans were being formulated
As the light began to improve we began shooting, Janine walked the shoreline of the lake and I shot what would surely be beautiful photos in this perfect landscape.
This is when things changed, our friendly cows moved into the scene, surrounded Janine, and jockeyed for position to be included in our photos. “Fine, they make a lovely addition”, I thought. Snapping a few more images with the cows accesorizing the stock seemed a great idea. Soon, we tired of having them about and Janine tried to lead them away. Where she went, they went and this is where things went terribly wrong.
Suddenly, the energy was turning from playful fun to bovine aggression. But these are cows! Furry eared, innocent eyes, gentle expression cows no less. Not this group. Like a feeding frenzy they moved in, I could hear Janine telling them to go away. As she was engulfed in their mass, she disappeared, then I saw she was on the ground, beneath them, getting drug about. Just as quickly her body flung up into the air above them all, and like a rag doll she dropped back into the herd.
Dropping everything, I ran towards the mob scene like a Samurai warrior, swinging my ultralight carbon fiber trekking poles for all I was worth. I entered the group at full speed, they rotated their giant heads a few centimeters in anticipation of battle, their fuzzy ears twitching to keep the flies away seemed anything but fearful of my wrath. I vaguely remember one’s tongue darting into her nostrils. Janine was screaming, again on the ground. I beat the cow atop her with my poles but it was like trying to stop a freight train with a baseball bat. Mooing, cow bells, and our screams could probably be heard for many kilometers. Had a shepherd been watching the whole scene it would have made a five star YouTube video.
The lead cow turned, left Janine behind, and charged me. It is amazing how fast such a gangly animal can move. All 132 lbs of me took her massive skull and 900 lb bulk square in the chest. To say I was knocked down is an understatement, I was driven into the earth like meteor, but like Janine was thankfully not stepped on. She continued to ram me, I was able to get away, rise and then back she came. Suddenly I was gaining elevation, floating in the air, and the thought, “When will I come down?” actually had time to enter my mind. OOomph, into the grass I fell.
I had had it. Janine was safely out of the scene now and yelling for me to just run. But this kid doesn’t run from a dairy cow, maybe a grizzly, or a wolf, but a cow? I decided the only option left was to go insane. And so I tapped into some deep rooted lunacy and became a madman, swinging my arms and swatting their asses – this seemed to do the trick, the cows began to think better of the situation. I may be small, but I am very, very loud. Their raisin sized brains responded to the mayhem by running, fortunately in the opposite direction.
Soon we were sitting in the grass in perfect evening light, shaking from the fight, but also laughing at the absurdity. An eery silence, splintered carbon fiber, lots of hoof marks, and more than a few cowpies were all that remained in the battlefied.
Now you know the real behind the scenes stories of our work…
Posted in Humor, Personal Story, Photography, Random Thoughts
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Use your words Dan
The barking would not stop, it only grew in intensity, ranging from urgent to frantic. I decided to go investigate.
Toni and Marianna, our wonderful neighbors, have this little dog Bulma. We occasionally take Bulma for a run during the day, so we have a key to their house.
I went over, unlocked the door and before I could even get the door ajar her snout was in the crack pushing so hard that my opening the door made her slide backwards. I didn’t know what she needed, but she needed something.
As I walked into the house to get the leash, she rushed past me into the not yet great outdoors. We live in a European apartment, so outside your door is not quite outside.
As she spun in circles yipping I realzed I needed to find that leash, and fast.
But no luck, a quick phone call to Marianna to ask, “Dov’e il guinzaglio?” yielded no answer.
A minute later we were descending the stairs, Bulma looking her best with a prussik cord wound around her neck.
Once on the street, Bulma charged for all she was worth towards the nearest dirt. But wait, an enormous black dog blocked the way and did not hesitate to tear into her. Fighting her like a swordfish I managed to break the two of them loose and we continued on, when, not 10 feet further, and directly in front of our small neighborhood market, Bulma began to resemble a soft serve ice cream cone machine that would not turn off.
Mortified, I could only stare at the sheer quantity that was coming out of this small mammal.
The thought of running for it crossed my mind, but everyone knows me, I stand out in the neighborhood like a beacon as I am the only American for 50 miles.
Bulma’s choice of location caught the attention of the owner of the cafe across the street and she yelled across in the local dialect, “Excuse me, you better clean that mess up!”
Or maybe it was, “You idiot, what the hell is that dog doing on the cobblestones!!!”
This is where not being fluent in any of the local languages puts me in a very awkward position. I can order food, go to the store, get directions, have a basic conversation, but I cannot explain to the store owner that I need some paper towels, a trash bag and a sink to wash up in as this dog that doesn’t belong to me and is choking on a prussik cord just shit in front of your store.
But I gave it my best.
I don’t know the word for paper towel, so opted for a salvietta (basically a tissue) when what I really needed was a high pressure hose. Translated, what came out was something like, “But yes, good day, my dog who comes from the house next to mine has cacca’d, quite a lot, outside on the new street. Do you have something I can clean? I hope perhaps a tissue.”
She looked at me trying to figure out just where I came from, then out to Bulma with her neon yellow noose on, then at the massive, and spreading puddle blocking the entrance to her store.
The situation made more sense than whatever it was I had just said so she disappeared into the back and returned with an enormous wad of useful items. She handed them to me and made it clear that this is where her part in my story was finished.
Back outside I knew the inevitable would occur, and it did, people arrived and paused just long enough to make it clear that what I was doing was something they were extremely pleased to have nothing to do with of. Cleaning up this sort of thing on cobblestones is not easy.
Finally finished, the now weighty garbage bag in one hand and Bulma’s leash in the other, we strolled off to find a bidone to dump our spazzatura.
The cafe owner, having been enertained for the last few minutes yelled across the street, “Puzza?” Of course it stinks, “Ma, si, puzza, pero è pulito”.
Proudly, I walked back to the apartment feeling one step closer to learning my new language. Another incident handled without a dictionary.
Posted in Humor, Life in Italy, Personal Story, Random Thoughts
Also tagged Life in Italy
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Europe's Missing Points
I feel at home, reasonably understand the system and feel like I can get just about anything done.
Yet each time we see Hollywood movies here, especially with Italian friends, I am reminded that I am quite different.
Marianna and I were watching Juno the other night and suddenly she gasped, “Oh my God, what is that?” I’d noticed nothing out of the ordinary but Marianna had zeroed in on something new to her, old to me. The massive Super Tanker filled with slurpy that little Juno was carrying in the film.
1. It was a 2 liter container of something to drink
2. It was a blue beverage
3. Slurpy?
“But why do you need something so large?” – I had no answers. In my head I was imagining all of the many people I see driving around in the US with super sized cokes between their legs, eating Big Macs while steering with their knees.
These daily reminders keep me honest, I never tire of studying the culture and comparing it to my own – it is one of the true joys of living in a foreign land. And to hear from Italians their impression of the US after they visit, is something precious. There is no shortage of laughter comparing cultures, and there is plenty to work with given the state of the US at the moment, and of course Italy is a never ending supply of comedy.
But for a year now something has been absent, something from my own roots that until today, I have not understood. This feeling, this visual component of American life that has been missing but I didn’t fully understand was missing, finally came clear as we watched another Hollywood movie.
The Big Lebowski is missing in Europe.
I don’t just mean the Big Lebowski himself, I mean the potential to have a Big Lebowski, to see them each day you go to town to buy milk. They don’t exist here. Ditto for Clint Eastwood, you just don’t see the Dirty Harry types. Lots of George Michaels, but sadly, no Eastwood.
These figures are products of the American culture. Anything goes, do what you want, do what it takes to get it done and screw you if you don’t like my style.
Janine and I’s own business, PatitucciPhoto, is a direct result of this lifestyle, this attitude and this freedom we have, not any freedom provided to us from the US government, but the freedom we Americans have in our thinking. If we want to go to the grocery store in our bathrobe, we can. In Europe, one can incorporate magenta and teal lycra into their wardrobe just fine, but wearing flip flops with jeans is something best left to savages. Finally, if we need to live in our VW Westfalia to make our business work, then so be it.
There have been a few instances where we have explained to our friends here that we did indeed live in a vehicle. From their reaction it was obvious they considered us barbarians, perhaps rightfully so. But to an American, “Hey, whatever, you did what it took to make it work.”
And just for the record, I would never go to the grocery store in my bathrobe.