Cultural Highlight: Dog Races

Tonight was the last Tuesday there would be dog races here as next week the stadium is being torn down and there will be no more races. It's sad because Walthamstow is the largest stadium of its kind in all of Europe. The turnout of betters and spectators really reflected this momentous occasion. The entrance fee was £6, and because we were a group of six, we got a group special that included two free drinks and two free bets. Not much of a gambler, I played only the two free bets I was given and nothing more. There were 14 races and I saw one of my bets the second I opened to the last page. The second bet was found later - both were nostalgic bets based on the names of the dogs; I cared little for their track record and winning streaks.

The dog races were so quick. Each race only lasted about two minutes as the dog ran about one lap (475m) around the track. I fed off the energy of the crowd when the lights dimmed and the bell sounded for the signal of the race. Six trap doors opened and six dogs sped out of their pen to follow a mechanical bunny around the perimeter of the track. The crowd shouted fervently, "Come on #2!" "Go FOUR!!" "Come on #6!!!" It was so thrilling to see them run and our standing position in the crowd was right at the finish line, which made seeing the winners that much more exciting.

The dogs race by so fast!  The blur on the right is the dog.

My first bet was placed at Race 12. The dog was "Droopys Giamatti" (#6). He was chosen because I once described an expression that I gave my best friend as the cartoon character Droopy. Since then, it has been my occasional nickname for him. Droopys Giamatti did not win. Race 14, and the last race of the night, was 640m instead of the standard distance. At 22:30, the bell sounded and the crowd roared in excitement over their dogs. The majority of my friends bet on the same dog as I and it was fun to hear us all root for him. "Wishyouwerehere" (#2) took up the rear by the finish of the first lap, but as he rounded the third bend that would bring in the final leg of the race, Wishyouwerehere gained momentum and sped past his opponents and took the lead. My friends and I chanted "Go TWO! Go TWO! GO!! GO!!" Wishyouwerehere maintained his lead and crossed the finish line in FIRST PLACE! We pumped our fists in the air and cheered as we realized we bet on the winning dog. I had won my first bet at a dog race. On a free (£1) bet, I had won a grand total of £1.80. Wicked.

Wishyouwerehere finishes FIRST!

My winning bet!

Cultural Hightlight: The Rude French

Here’s the thing: I do not believe that the French are rude at all.  They greet each other everywhere they go, not just to me, but also to each other.  They always start by saying, “Bonjour” or “Bon soir” (depending on the time of day) and they make sure to always say “Au revoir” and/or “Bonjournai” in closing. 

On my first visit to Paris, my friend and I were hunting down our lodging in the Latin Quarters.  I had a map in my hand, but I wasn't looking at it and I was pretty sure I knew where we were going.  Suddenly, an older lady stopped and spoke to me in French.  I couldn't understand her, but seeing as she was pointing at my map, I guessed she was asking if I needed directions.  I pointed at the map and said, "Rue St-Germain?"  She reeled off a few more French words, pointing in the direction I was walking towards.  I smiled and said, "Merci!"  

On my second visit, I was picnicking at Jardin de la Fontaine in Nimes, quietly minding my own business and enjoying the sunshine when an elderly man, dressed in the stereotypical old French way with the tweed driving cap and strolling with his dog, tipped his head at me and with a sweet smile he said, "Bon appetit."  

Does any of this sound rude to you?

Cultural Highlight: Italian men

The men are hard to escape when in Italy.  They LOVE women.  They love women of all shapes, sizes, age, and colors.  If you ever need an ego boost, come to Italy.  The Italian men will make you feel cherished and beautiful like none of them men back home will do. 

However, with the admiration comes passion.  They are a sensitive lot and will act spiteful when their advances are shunned.  I've had a few romantic affairs or encounters with Italian men in my lifetime and they were all similar to this story here of Hivo.

My girlfriend and I ordered two cocktails from the bar.  The bartender was a healthy looking Italian with a shaved head and olive skin.  Even with his hair closely shaven, you could see his receding hairline.  My friend was extremely tired from today’s travel and didn’t bother to hide it when she tried to order her drink.  The bartender told her, in English with the tiniest hint of an Italian accent, to smile.  Initially, he sounded pretty rough around the edges as he criticized her for being so tired when she’s on holiday and he works seven days a week without any time off and he doesn’t complain.  I asked him not to be so mean to her.  Well… maybe I TOLD him not to be mean to her.  He turned his attentions on me and I tried to soften him up by flirting with him so he wouldn’t be so rude to my friend anymore.  I ordered a pina colada and he said he would make it special for me.  He poured the blended cocktail into a tall glass and sliced a small strawberry to decorate the rim.  I told him that the drink was, “Very nice.”  He responded, with a straight face, meaning the corners of his lips turned downward, “I think YOU (pointing at me to emphasize the word) are very nice.”  I thanked him, with a smile, and my friend and I turned around to walk out of the bar.  The bartender’s name was Hivo.

In the middle of my conversation with my friend, Hivo came around to serve and clean the tables.  He called me from the next table.  Okay, he appeared to have softened up.  He asked to take me out after work.  I asked (yes, flirtatiously), “Aren’t you married, Hivo?”  He replied, “Yes.  And I have two mistresses.  I’m saving money to buy a house big enough for all of them.  Are you bisexual?”  I told him no.  He said, “That’s too bad.  They would loooove you.”  I laughed so hard as he moved onward. 

The next night we returned to the bar after another long day of sightseeing.  Hivo came around our table immediately and he knelt down to my level, kissed my right shoulder, and said, “Hello, Risa.  Can I take you out tonight?”  I smiled, feeling a little uncomfortable.  It’s been awhile since I had to turn down a date.  It’s also been awhile since I’ve been asked out.  Hivo looked at the guy who sat across from me, “Is she your girlfriend?”  At the same time, he shook his head No and I answered Yes.  I laughed.  Hivo stood up and gave me a dirty look.  I laughed again.  He took our drink orders (I ordered a pina colada again) and before he left us he said to me, “It would have been easier if you had told me no.” 

Hivo served our drinks; my pina colada was dressed with a slice of pineapple and cherry tonight.  As he handed me my glass he said, with that straight face and corners of his lips turned downward again, “This was made with my heart.  Broken.”  And walked away. 

I thought Hivo’s attitude was pretty comical and I was having a good time with it until I realized that he was really not talking to me every time he walked by.  He deliberately ignored me.  At one point my girlfriend and I were having trouble remembering the Italian word for dog so I asked Hivo when he walked by.  He didn’t respond.  So I asked her to ask him when he came around the next time.  She stopped him and he stopped and flashed a giant grin at her, his features softened up immensely.  “Yes,” he cooed.  She asked him the question that was weighing in our heads and he said, “Cane.”  Oh yes, of course.  Cane = canine.  I should have known that.  Before he left, he looked at my friend with the same Cheshire grin and told her, “Ask me anything, bella.”  Oh gosh!  Why is he being so immature?  I thought of the last Italian bartender who fancied me, in Rome, when I was 20, and how immature he acted when I turned him down. 

Cultural Highlight: Nonne and Ciao!

My favorite part of the trip is seeing the nonne (grandmothers) gathered together, dressed in their shapeless dresses, orthopedic shoes, and socks pulled up to their mid-calves, seated on a bench all in a row.  I couldn’t understand anything they were saying, but I guessed they were catching up on the village gossip.

I also loved how the motherly-aged women stroll the roads, running errands, and call out to their friends as they passed by, “Cecilia, CIAO!”  They say ciao like it’s two syllables: CHA-OW!  The second syllable lingers.  It’s always called out loudly and joyfully.  But then, I think the entire Italian language sounds like it’s spoken joyously.  The language never sounds better than when little Italian boys are speaking.  The way my heart melts at the sounds of their voices is indescribable.

Cultural Highlight: Siesta

About ninety percent of the shops are closed.  Siesta.  This is a common practice all throughout Italy, closing down work between the hours of one and four in the afternoon, when the sun is hottest, to lunch at home and to nap before returning to work again.  I am a regular participant of siesta, although I have seldom taken it in the comforts of my bed in the hostel.  Usually, I find a grassy park with some shade and lay down on the grass or a bench, prop my head on my backpack, stretch out my legs, close my eyes, and give in to slumber allowing myself to relax in the shade protecting me from the sun that’s emitting 35 degrees Celsius (about 95 degrees Fahrenheit).  Today, I found a bench.  I napped for nearly an hour before I woke up and found my way to the gelateria.