Thursday, November 4, 2010
Don't know much geography
Helped E. with his English homework again tonight. It was bad enough last week when he had to identify the flags of other countries but now he had to identify the shapes of them. On everything else I can be of great help to him, but in this area, he knows more than me. The flags of Albania, Australia, and China? What Spain looks like compared to England? I was too busy learning about group process and creativity and underprivileged populations and how to write protest letters in my progressive grade school. We never learned geography. I keep thinking I should get one of those vinyl placements with all the states filled in.....
Towering Over Bologna
I climbed the tower here today. I'd been wanting to do it and it was sunny for part of the day, so it seemed a perfect activity for my last full weekday here.
There is only one tower available for climbing of the two famous ones that mark the town center, and it is the taller one. When you enter, it feels like you are going into a dungeon. It is dark and narrow and the walls are cold stone and everything is winding around and feels a little creaky (even though in reality, nothing creaked). Then you have to climb for a bit before you have to pay. So I guess fearful types can always change their minds and save the 3 Euros.
The tower is almost 500 steps to the top. I had a flashback to when my Mom and brother and I climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty when we were kids. I remember the narrow winding stairs and I think they were metal and a light green patina color. These were wood, and not always well-placed. Like they were deep but they were stacked in a way where there wasn't always enough room for your whole foot because too much of one step was under (or over) the next one. Hard to explain, but the result was that your foot could get a little caught as you moved it to the next step. My first thought was that in the States, there would have been a liability waiver to sign when you paid.
I saw some children and some older people and a woman carrying a big shopping bag from a store - all categories that should be extra careful.
Also, as you neared the top, the stairs narrowed and became even more overlapping. Going up was okay, but having this kind of construction on the way down was a lot harder. You basically had to walk semi-sideways at least with one foot or you would slide a little. It actually felt more logical to do it going backward, like you would on a ladder, but for some reason I thought this and did not do it. All I can say is thank goodness the banisters were very sturdy.
At one point there was a large thin iron piece coming across one of the landings, and if you were tall and spacing out as you walked across to the next staircase, you would have been in trouble. Ditto for a similar one lying across part of another stairwell.
A man was coming down from the top as I neared it, and he said something to me in Italian. I did not understand so he repeated it but I still had no idea what he said. So I said, "Si?" and he said, "Si!" I just had to hope he had said something about the view, and not something like, "Don't go up there because there is a big hole you may fall into."
The towers were built between the 12th and 13th centuries, when there were many many of them in Bologna, probably about 180. Apparently, the more money and status your family had, the bigger you built your tower. But it is unclear why people built so many here. Over time, almost all were taken down or collapsed. There are about 20 standing now. The one I climbed is 97 meters tall (never learned the metric system, so let's just say it's very tall).
This is what Wikipedia says about how they were constructed:
The construction of the towers was quite onerous, the usage of serfs notwithstanding. To build a typical tower with a height of 60 meters would have required between three and 10 years of work.
Each tower had a square cross-section with foundations between five and ten meters deep, reinforced by poles hammered into the ground and covered with pebble and lime. The tower's base was made of big blocks of selenite stone. The remaining walls became successively thinner and lighter the higher the structure was raised, and were realised in so-called "a sacco" masonry: with a thick inner wall and a thinner outer wall, where the gap was filled with stones and mortar.
Usually, some holes were left in the outer wall as well as bigger hollows in the selenite to support scaffoldings and to allow for later coverings and constructions, generally on the basis of wood.
The view is great. Bologna is a very pretty city, and all the terracotta rooftops and very narrow streets make for pleasing patterns, a sense of the lifestyle here, and very nice images. (Again, you will see them when I upload pics back to the States in the next couple of weeks.)
I met a couple of women from CA while at the top. One of them was traveling around the world. She was doing the whole trip using Couchsurfing.com. For those of you unaware, this is a website where you can find people's couches to sleep on, for free, all over the world. There are reviews and ratings of each host, so you can choose wisely. So far she has had great experiences. And this means she is basically just paying for meals and transportation and saving a fortune. She said she was going home for the holidays and then going back. She had found a laptop on eBay that weighed under two pounds and was doing all her traveling with a knapsack that weighed about 12 or 13 pounds. She had saved up for almost 4 years to do this, and knew no other languages, which would be hard in South America, where she would be going in January.
When I exited the tower onto the street, I felt myself making the same face everyone had had whom I had seen exiting when I arrived. You sort of feel a rush, like you have been released from something and are out in the fresh air again. Even though on top it is all fresh air and the view is gorgeous. But something about being in the narrow, winding, dark, wooden, rickety, tube-like innards of the tower, and its Medieval vibe, make you feel like you survived something a tiny bit treacherous.
There is only one tower available for climbing of the two famous ones that mark the town center, and it is the taller one. When you enter, it feels like you are going into a dungeon. It is dark and narrow and the walls are cold stone and everything is winding around and feels a little creaky (even though in reality, nothing creaked). Then you have to climb for a bit before you have to pay. So I guess fearful types can always change their minds and save the 3 Euros.
The tower is almost 500 steps to the top. I had a flashback to when my Mom and brother and I climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty when we were kids. I remember the narrow winding stairs and I think they were metal and a light green patina color. These were wood, and not always well-placed. Like they were deep but they were stacked in a way where there wasn't always enough room for your whole foot because too much of one step was under (or over) the next one. Hard to explain, but the result was that your foot could get a little caught as you moved it to the next step. My first thought was that in the States, there would have been a liability waiver to sign when you paid.
I saw some children and some older people and a woman carrying a big shopping bag from a store - all categories that should be extra careful.
Also, as you neared the top, the stairs narrowed and became even more overlapping. Going up was okay, but having this kind of construction on the way down was a lot harder. You basically had to walk semi-sideways at least with one foot or you would slide a little. It actually felt more logical to do it going backward, like you would on a ladder, but for some reason I thought this and did not do it. All I can say is thank goodness the banisters were very sturdy.
At one point there was a large thin iron piece coming across one of the landings, and if you were tall and spacing out as you walked across to the next staircase, you would have been in trouble. Ditto for a similar one lying across part of another stairwell.
A man was coming down from the top as I neared it, and he said something to me in Italian. I did not understand so he repeated it but I still had no idea what he said. So I said, "Si?" and he said, "Si!" I just had to hope he had said something about the view, and not something like, "Don't go up there because there is a big hole you may fall into."
The towers were built between the 12th and 13th centuries, when there were many many of them in Bologna, probably about 180. Apparently, the more money and status your family had, the bigger you built your tower. But it is unclear why people built so many here. Over time, almost all were taken down or collapsed. There are about 20 standing now. The one I climbed is 97 meters tall (never learned the metric system, so let's just say it's very tall).
This is what Wikipedia says about how they were constructed:
The construction of the towers was quite onerous, the usage of serfs notwithstanding. To build a typical tower with a height of 60 meters would have required between three and 10 years of work.
Each tower had a square cross-section with foundations between five and ten meters deep, reinforced by poles hammered into the ground and covered with pebble and lime. The tower's base was made of big blocks of selenite stone. The remaining walls became successively thinner and lighter the higher the structure was raised, and were realised in so-called "a sacco" masonry: with a thick inner wall and a thinner outer wall, where the gap was filled with stones and mortar.
Usually, some holes were left in the outer wall as well as bigger hollows in the selenite to support scaffoldings and to allow for later coverings and constructions, generally on the basis of wood.
The view is great. Bologna is a very pretty city, and all the terracotta rooftops and very narrow streets make for pleasing patterns, a sense of the lifestyle here, and very nice images. (Again, you will see them when I upload pics back to the States in the next couple of weeks.)
I met a couple of women from CA while at the top. One of them was traveling around the world. She was doing the whole trip using Couchsurfing.com. For those of you unaware, this is a website where you can find people's couches to sleep on, for free, all over the world. There are reviews and ratings of each host, so you can choose wisely. So far she has had great experiences. And this means she is basically just paying for meals and transportation and saving a fortune. She said she was going home for the holidays and then going back. She had found a laptop on eBay that weighed under two pounds and was doing all her traveling with a knapsack that weighed about 12 or 13 pounds. She had saved up for almost 4 years to do this, and knew no other languages, which would be hard in South America, where she would be going in January.
When I exited the tower onto the street, I felt myself making the same face everyone had had whom I had seen exiting when I arrived. You sort of feel a rush, like you have been released from something and are out in the fresh air again. Even though on top it is all fresh air and the view is gorgeous. But something about being in the narrow, winding, dark, wooden, rickety, tube-like innards of the tower, and its Medieval vibe, make you feel like you survived something a tiny bit treacherous.
Cookies for breakfast
They eat cookies for breakfast here. My first day, I came downstairs and they had left three different kinds of chocolate chip cookies out for me, plus a chocolate cake D had baked the night before. It seemed very strange and way too rich for that early. But now I know it is standard here. Then they usually have fruit for dessert at dinner. In a way, it makes more sense....
I have been buying my own yogurt and cereal, and their coffee yogurt competes well with Dannon's - actually, the coffee flavor is very strong. No wonder I have been feeling more energy since I discovered it.
They found it amusing that Americans eat a real meal at breakfast. I was listing examples like toast and jam, and waffles and pancakes, and when I got to making different kinds of eggs and omelettes, they all broke out laughing. "You won't find that in Italy," they said.
I have been buying my own yogurt and cereal, and their coffee yogurt competes well with Dannon's - actually, the coffee flavor is very strong. No wonder I have been feeling more energy since I discovered it.
They found it amusing that Americans eat a real meal at breakfast. I was listing examples like toast and jam, and waffles and pancakes, and when I got to making different kinds of eggs and omelettes, they all broke out laughing. "You won't find that in Italy," they said.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Characters and Hams
I'm learning more about Berlusconi. People here feel about him the way a lot of us felt about Bush. And there are definite similarities. But he is a real character too. D said you never know what is going to come out of his mouth next, and no one says things like he does. Today he justified all his sexual encounters with teenage hookers by saying it was better to sleep with a lot of young girls than to be gay.
The mere fact that he is in his 70s and chooses 17-year-olds.....
He also controls a lot of the media here as well as other industries. Someone I met said he is like the bionic man and keeps having parts replaced. The news called him "age-defying".
D said in his youth he was an entertainer on cruises and that seems to be consistant with his personality. It reminded me of Reagan. One time in college I went to see "Bedtime for Bonzo", in which Reagan spends most of his time interacting with a chimp. My friend next to me kept saying, "This is the president of the United States. The president of the United States!"
I taught a few people here the term "ham", meaning someone who is a real character. They always think it is funny because here it would be calling someone a prosciutto.
The mere fact that he is in his 70s and chooses 17-year-olds.....
He also controls a lot of the media here as well as other industries. Someone I met said he is like the bionic man and keeps having parts replaced. The news called him "age-defying".
D said in his youth he was an entertainer on cruises and that seems to be consistant with his personality. It reminded me of Reagan. One time in college I went to see "Bedtime for Bonzo", in which Reagan spends most of his time interacting with a chimp. My friend next to me kept saying, "This is the president of the United States. The president of the United States!"
I taught a few people here the term "ham", meaning someone who is a real character. They always think it is funny because here it would be calling someone a prosciutto.
Sunday night in Venice
I was entering the apartment in Venice on Sunday when I sensed something. I looked up and there was the cutest cat peering at me from the next flight of stairs. It had a round face with gorgeous perfectly-round amber eyes that flashed like copper, and a very shiny black coat. "Hiiiii! Where did you come from?" I said, forgetting again that animals here don't understand English. It cocked its head at me and came down a few steps, then hurried back upstairs where I think it lived.
I went inside, ate something, took a power nap, and changed clothes. When I left to go out again, there it was, but this time it had ventured down to the steps by my door.
It came by to visit one more time before I left Venice. And I realized that a black cat had visited on none other than Halloween night. Perfect.
No other Halloween creatures were around that night, except for the ghosts of ghetto-dwellers past, whose presence I was already feeling......
I went inside, ate something, took a power nap, and changed clothes. When I left to go out again, there it was, but this time it had ventured down to the steps by my door.
It came by to visit one more time before I left Venice. And I realized that a black cat had visited on none other than Halloween night. Perfect.
No other Halloween creatures were around that night, except for the ghosts of ghetto-dwellers past, whose presence I was already feeling......
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Part Three: The Weight of History
I stayed in the apartment three days and three nights. I saw some of the people who lived in the building; they were Italians and probably not Jewish either. But there was a dense vibe in the space; both in the building and in the whole ghetto. Some people don't believe in such things, but the place had a strong and compressed pull, like it hadn't been aired out from that time. Hard to explain, but it was tangible, like they were still somehow around.
Mostly I felt I was there as an insider, both from staying there and sharing the faith. I also felt like an observer to what had happened there, and as a visitor. Often I felt like I was watching it all through glass.
I went on a tour of the synagogues. I don't usually have a tolerance for those kinds of things but I wanted to this time. We learned that the word "ghetto" derived from the iron foundries located there ("ghetta") in the 14th and 15th centuries. It was a convenient area to use because it could be closed off easily from the rest of the city. There were synagogues hidden in the buildings, although everyone knew they were there. They were "signaled" to those looking from the street by having five long windows in a row on the top level, representing the five books of Moses.
Even though people were free to leave the city during the day, they had to wear special yellow (and occasional red) circles or scarves on their clothes to identify them. In the mid-1600s, there were about 4000 Jews living in a space roughly equivalent to two to three city blocks. Apartments were added either by making another story (although 6 or 7 was the city limit), or more often by lowering all the ceilings.
The ghetto existed for more than two and a half centuries, until Napoleon conquered Venice and removed all the gates. Many Jews chose to stay there and live though. I think I understand this. While I was 'living' there, I started to realize that the isolation and persecution also created a community and a sense of strength in each other. They had only other members of the community every night, and they had a common identity and rituals and ways of life. There must have also been a security in that. There probably was also a bond that came from all being equally vulnerable to the persecution, and their uncertainty about the future. Even when they were allowed to live elsewhere, they knew how they had been regarded, and I can't imagine it would be appealing to risk hostility or wariness with new neighbors, moving into their turf.
Before the War, there were about 1300 Jews living there. Two to three hundred were deported by the Nazis to the camps. Only 8 survived.
On the tour, we went to a synagogue that shared a wall with my building. We started to walk past my door, and I nudged the women next to me on the street. "This is where I am staying," I said, emphasizing the last word. "Are you KIDDING me?" they said, and the strength of their reaction was validating. "We were just talking about what it must be like to live here now and are sort of freaked out about it."
After the tour I invited them back. They kept expressing disbelief and awe and overwhelm at how it felt to be inside the place. One of them wondered how many people had lived in the apartment space, guessing the numbers had been very high. The other said it was strange and a little bothersome to her that now there were a few restaurants and stores and so many people did not realize what the area really had been in the past.
It was meaningful for both them and myself to share our feelings about being there. The whole time I stayed there, it was hard to not constantly picture what it was like to be there hundreds of years ago....who had slept in the same room I was sleeping in, who had sat around the table in the main area, why the closet there had a strange shape and what it had been used for originally. When I opened my windows, I watched tourists two floors below, pointing upward, taking pictures, looking at maps and guidebooks for what they were seeing. The tours going into the synagogue next door were walking on the same cobblestones that groups of men had walked on to go to services in the 16th century. I looked at the large well and imagined the women using it for washing, children running around. Everyone knowing everyone, their lives revolving around the small space again and again every night. The feeling every day of having to be back there at a specific time, and being closed off from the rest of the world then.
One time I walked out of the entrance and there was a woman taking a picture of it. She smiled at me and took a photo of her husband standing there next to it, both of them acting like it was super-fun. "It's kind of intense, don't you think?" I said. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, this is the entrance to the ghetto." "I know," she said, excitedly. "Well, ghettos are where all the Jewish people had to live. This was locked at 7:00 every night; they were locked inside it." "Oh!" she said. She had not known this. She had thought it was just a cute area of the city. She seemed a little disappointed that it had a sobering history and now she had to think differently.
I kept thinking of D's mother, who had lived in hiding in Venice during the war for one and a half long years. I had asked the tour guide about that and she said people who lived in hiding often stayed on the rooftops during the day, where they could not be seen easily. She said some lived in hiding in the countryside too. The ones in the ghetto were crammed into very small spaces. His mother had been the same age as Anne Frank. She had survived, but he said that the experience dramatically shaped her life to this day.
I told D. I had stayed in the ghetto. I told him I had thought of his mother a lot while I was there, and what it must have been like for her. He said, "Every time I am there, I feel the weight of history."
Mostly I felt I was there as an insider, both from staying there and sharing the faith. I also felt like an observer to what had happened there, and as a visitor. Often I felt like I was watching it all through glass.
I went on a tour of the synagogues. I don't usually have a tolerance for those kinds of things but I wanted to this time. We learned that the word "ghetto" derived from the iron foundries located there ("ghetta") in the 14th and 15th centuries. It was a convenient area to use because it could be closed off easily from the rest of the city. There were synagogues hidden in the buildings, although everyone knew they were there. They were "signaled" to those looking from the street by having five long windows in a row on the top level, representing the five books of Moses.
Even though people were free to leave the city during the day, they had to wear special yellow (and occasional red) circles or scarves on their clothes to identify them. In the mid-1600s, there were about 4000 Jews living in a space roughly equivalent to two to three city blocks. Apartments were added either by making another story (although 6 or 7 was the city limit), or more often by lowering all the ceilings.
The ghetto existed for more than two and a half centuries, until Napoleon conquered Venice and removed all the gates. Many Jews chose to stay there and live though. I think I understand this. While I was 'living' there, I started to realize that the isolation and persecution also created a community and a sense of strength in each other. They had only other members of the community every night, and they had a common identity and rituals and ways of life. There must have also been a security in that. There probably was also a bond that came from all being equally vulnerable to the persecution, and their uncertainty about the future. Even when they were allowed to live elsewhere, they knew how they had been regarded, and I can't imagine it would be appealing to risk hostility or wariness with new neighbors, moving into their turf.
Before the War, there were about 1300 Jews living there. Two to three hundred were deported by the Nazis to the camps. Only 8 survived.
On the tour, we went to a synagogue that shared a wall with my building. We started to walk past my door, and I nudged the women next to me on the street. "This is where I am staying," I said, emphasizing the last word. "Are you KIDDING me?" they said, and the strength of their reaction was validating. "We were just talking about what it must be like to live here now and are sort of freaked out about it."
After the tour I invited them back. They kept expressing disbelief and awe and overwhelm at how it felt to be inside the place. One of them wondered how many people had lived in the apartment space, guessing the numbers had been very high. The other said it was strange and a little bothersome to her that now there were a few restaurants and stores and so many people did not realize what the area really had been in the past.
It was meaningful for both them and myself to share our feelings about being there. The whole time I stayed there, it was hard to not constantly picture what it was like to be there hundreds of years ago....who had slept in the same room I was sleeping in, who had sat around the table in the main area, why the closet there had a strange shape and what it had been used for originally. When I opened my windows, I watched tourists two floors below, pointing upward, taking pictures, looking at maps and guidebooks for what they were seeing. The tours going into the synagogue next door were walking on the same cobblestones that groups of men had walked on to go to services in the 16th century. I looked at the large well and imagined the women using it for washing, children running around. Everyone knowing everyone, their lives revolving around the small space again and again every night. The feeling every day of having to be back there at a specific time, and being closed off from the rest of the world then.
One time I walked out of the entrance and there was a woman taking a picture of it. She smiled at me and took a photo of her husband standing there next to it, both of them acting like it was super-fun. "It's kind of intense, don't you think?" I said. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, this is the entrance to the ghetto." "I know," she said, excitedly. "Well, ghettos are where all the Jewish people had to live. This was locked at 7:00 every night; they were locked inside it." "Oh!" she said. She had not known this. She had thought it was just a cute area of the city. She seemed a little disappointed that it had a sobering history and now she had to think differently.
I kept thinking of D's mother, who had lived in hiding in Venice during the war for one and a half long years. I had asked the tour guide about that and she said people who lived in hiding often stayed on the rooftops during the day, where they could not be seen easily. She said some lived in hiding in the countryside too. The ones in the ghetto were crammed into very small spaces. His mother had been the same age as Anne Frank. She had survived, but he said that the experience dramatically shaped her life to this day.
I told D. I had stayed in the ghetto. I told him I had thought of his mother a lot while I was there, and what it must have been like for her. He said, "Every time I am there, I feel the weight of history."
Part Two: The Street with No Name
Part Two
The boat pulled up to another much-higher-than-water-level, dock-less, step-less part of the street. The boatman walked me down it, and turned into a doorway. If you could call it that. When I am back in the States and have resolved my computer/memory card/camera issue, I will post pictures, but for now, you can imagine it. It was the entrance to the ghetto. The "old" ghetto; there is a newer part but I was in the original area. It was a low square-shaped opening, with planks of wood around the borders, and no lights as you went through a tunnel-like area to the other side. This is what was locked every night at 7. I was walking through it a couple of hours later, the same entrance that people had probably rushed through, to be back in time, hundreds of years ago. Or if they were not rushing, they entered it knowing they were forced to live there, and had to be there every day from dusk to dawn, no matter what.
On the other side was a narrow street. There was a kosher restaurant and another doorway open and Chasidic people were crowded in both areas, talking to each other. That was unexpected. It was Friday night, which had not occurred to me, but also I did not know religious Jews lived in the ghetto now. Between being in the ghetto and seeing Chasids in their timeless garb, all I could think was, "What year is it?"
Down the street, it opened into a small piazza (square), with a large round well in the middle of it. These are all over Venice and were used in the old days by women to wash clothes. I could see Hebrew words on two of the buildings. The boatman went to a small door that looked like the door version of the ghetto entrance - antiquated and not very inviting. Inside, there was a narrow stairwell that we climbed. The ceiling was very low everywhere. "Does the hotel have all of these apartments?" I said, for some reason hopefully. "No," he said, "You are living with Venetians."
It was very quiet. He opened the door to a two-bedroom apartment, obviously newly-renovated. But you could tell the actual structure of it was very old, with low ceilings, no light fixtures, and a somewhat closed-in feeling, despite the multiple rooms. He rushed through it showing me things, saying he had to get back to the boat. He handed me my keys. He kept calling me "Madam".
"Wait!" I said, "What is the name of this street? So I know where I am, and how to find it." I had looked on the corners of the buildings, where street names are posted in Italy, but hadn't seen it. He paused. "I don't think it has a name," he said. "Some streets in Venice don't have names." "But how will I know how to get here, or to even know where I am staying?" "It is not very hard," he said. "Everything is close." "Okay, but..." I wasn't sure what to say further.
So there I was, in the old ghetto, on a street with no name.
The boat pulled up to another much-higher-than-water-level, dock-less, step-less part of the street. The boatman walked me down it, and turned into a doorway. If you could call it that. When I am back in the States and have resolved my computer/memory card/camera issue, I will post pictures, but for now, you can imagine it. It was the entrance to the ghetto. The "old" ghetto; there is a newer part but I was in the original area. It was a low square-shaped opening, with planks of wood around the borders, and no lights as you went through a tunnel-like area to the other side. This is what was locked every night at 7. I was walking through it a couple of hours later, the same entrance that people had probably rushed through, to be back in time, hundreds of years ago. Or if they were not rushing, they entered it knowing they were forced to live there, and had to be there every day from dusk to dawn, no matter what.
On the other side was a narrow street. There was a kosher restaurant and another doorway open and Chasidic people were crowded in both areas, talking to each other. That was unexpected. It was Friday night, which had not occurred to me, but also I did not know religious Jews lived in the ghetto now. Between being in the ghetto and seeing Chasids in their timeless garb, all I could think was, "What year is it?"
Down the street, it opened into a small piazza (square), with a large round well in the middle of it. These are all over Venice and were used in the old days by women to wash clothes. I could see Hebrew words on two of the buildings. The boatman went to a small door that looked like the door version of the ghetto entrance - antiquated and not very inviting. Inside, there was a narrow stairwell that we climbed. The ceiling was very low everywhere. "Does the hotel have all of these apartments?" I said, for some reason hopefully. "No," he said, "You are living with Venetians."
It was very quiet. He opened the door to a two-bedroom apartment, obviously newly-renovated. But you could tell the actual structure of it was very old, with low ceilings, no light fixtures, and a somewhat closed-in feeling, despite the multiple rooms. He rushed through it showing me things, saying he had to get back to the boat. He handed me my keys. He kept calling me "Madam".
"Wait!" I said, "What is the name of this street? So I know where I am, and how to find it." I had looked on the corners of the buildings, where street names are posted in Italy, but hadn't seen it. He paused. "I don't think it has a name," he said. "Some streets in Venice don't have names." "But how will I know how to get here, or to even know where I am staying?" "It is not very hard," he said. "Everything is close." "Okay, but..." I wasn't sure what to say further.
So there I was, in the old ghetto, on a street with no name.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)