Wanting to jump-start my flailing yoga practice in the name of all things spinal, sinewy and mental, I did find the time between loafing and resting to purchase a monthly pass to the yoga joint where my fave teacher works these days, and it was good to have a laugh again while touching my toes and minding my breath.
Daniel as you know is also my friend and wouldn't you know it, he utilizes this service called couchsurfing.org where you post a picture of your sofa (or guest room) and advertise it as a crash pad for travelers. And of course you get to crash on others' couches too. A pay-it-forward type dealio. In my current incarnation as a suburban mom, I had no idea these things even existed. So up until today I think, a young Italian gent was staying on Daniel's sofa. Cool.
When Daniel invited me to join him and Roberto at the art museum, along with another friend of Daniel's who happens to be a curator in the Asian Arts wing, I couldn't refuse. Just two days into my week off I found myself free-falling into a surreal wonderland whose doors are shut tight when it's my turn to take care of the kiddies.
Daniel gave us a tour of the Indian art collection. He knows his Hindu mythology. For sure. Gives good tour, if you will. That's our old friend Ganesha above, removing obstacles for all who care to get devotional. Ommmmm....
Below, Daniel showing off some hard-won yogic shoulder flexibility in front of a Rothko. He's like that. Performy.
Apparently so am I. But Daniel's not a fan of the huge abstracts like I am. Cy Twombly and me, bonding below.
Here's a Brancusi that caught my eye.
And here is Roberto (not above but below) bonding with our nation's own Italian, Rocky. This kind of moment reminds me to squint and try to see the world I take for granted through new eyes.
Roberto again below, not knowing quite what to do beside the Duchamp urinal but smile.
The interesting thing is that Roberto is a writer. Like me, only recently published. In Italian. That's why he's here in America, promoting his new film book, Sergio Leone: l’America, la nostalgia, il mito. I'd be very proud of him if he were my son. He's only twenty-nine to boot. So accomplished. Poo poo as my mother would say. Meanwhile I was a film major once. I should know all about Sergio Leone and his famous Spaghetti Westerns but I have the memory of someone who smoked way too much weed as a kid and all I remember is the term and it having something to do with making American westerns in Italy. Which I guess didn't interest me as much as say, Fellini, who I remember and still love.
The irony is that Roberto calls himself a fan of American culture while I sometimes feel ashamed of speaking only English and yearn to be worldly and sophisticated like a European. But as my new friend says, "The neighbour grass always seems greener, you know..."
Oh and he writes a blog too, Fontina Boy. My Italian is non-existent obviously but Roberto assures me that Fontina Boy "is lovely and acculturate such as me, just a little bit more horny. If you ever will catch up some of his Italian words, you will understand better." And what's not to love about the adorable Simpsons avatar he scored? It's just all so Italian, in that way your friends tell you, the ones who studied abroad and got fondled on a bus.
And as much as I kvetch and bitch and under-appreciate certain aspects of my life, I am wholly grateful for the experience of meeting an atypical interesting inspiring someone I'd never get a chance to meet if it weren't for my friend's couch.