More on the Lump of Coal

6-30
We took a tour of the underground caves of Orvieto, and I was very surprised to find that they were dug out by people for private use below their homes; a far cry from your typical waterway cavern.  Orvieto is a plateau of volcanic ash (for those confused by the title of the post) formed from the collection of refuse from neighboring eruptions.  The Etruscans got here first, digging a water well that was discovered and excavated by Orvietans years later. I scraped the wall with my nail and it crumbled easily; I then began to question the security of my being underground. One cave contained a donkey-powered grinding wheel for the production of olive oil, a source of fuel for lamps.  Private cellars were for storage or to raise pigeons.

6-2
Yesterday was a long train ride from Milan to Paris, and I can't help but feel slightly guilty for not doing any journaling en route, but then again there was not much to write about.
    We did make it into the cathedral in Milan the night before, at a time when a Catholic mass was taking place. Being present in the building when it is being used as originally intended does not detract from the "tourist" experience if one is content with observing your surroundings with the eye of a museum curator, or perhaps a social scientist taking note of People Practicing Religion; there is another place being surrounded by beauty in a worship service can take you, but you have to allow yourself to be taken there. I'll admit, the priest's tone sounded pedantic, and the organ's harmonies were becoming an amorphous globule oozing between the giant pillars, although the lack of sonic clarity, I will suggest, parallels the ambiguity of faith and gives the room a very other-worldly quality which, I need not suggest, fits appropriately with the ceremony taking place.  The evening sun had ignited the lofty stained glass, and the incendiary neon beacon aimed at the floor was too vivid to try to capture with my camera.  It almost felt sinful to use the camera, and technically it was, for you were required to purchase a wristband to do so, but it was not being enforced.  I had no desire to ascend to the roof of the church as I had considered before; I was in a contemplative frame of mind, content with soaking in the experience.  The forest of rooftops will have to wait for another day.
     My first encounter with France, or rather, the French, took the form of a young woman sitting next to me on the train. There is no hiding the fact that she was very pretty. For logistical purposes I attempted to speak to her in Italian (I did not succeed, I assure you), and while I could not decipher her response (surprise) the issues pertaining to luggage and outlet usage were sorted out.  As I settled back into my past-times I breathed a sigh of twofold emotions: despair at the forfeiting of a romantic miracle taking place, and relief of the same, given the return to a simpler course of action. Later in the day I discovered that the language barrier was twice as thick as I had perceived it to be: two rivers, two canyons, two plateaus representing not only my inability to comprehend her quite basic utilitarian verbiage, but also at my inability to recognize even the language I was failing to understand.  By observing her book I gleaned that she was a native of the country we were traveling to, and not the one we came from.  This was my opportunity, thought I, to revive the long-dormant and rapidly deteriorating French vocabulary from early college, but I was without necessity to talk, lest I fabricate another logistical maneuver regarding the luggage or the outlet, but she had already removed her phone charger from the shared outlet, so my options were few.  My former professors have often said to always carry a book, and I am now starting to see why.

7. Cities
   Paris is my new favorite thing.  And I should probably specify by "thing" I am referring to an aggregate of many things that cumulate into a very pleasant living experience.  It is a lovely city.  The subway system was my first love (or at least the first to reciprocate), quite indistinct from NYC or Boston save for a board that lists all of the stations served and lights up ones that the approaching train will reach.  It would almost be appropriate to call this feature a light at the end of the tunnel; in fact it was a dozen lights within a tunnel but producing a similar elatedness, a joyous rapture at not only finding one's way but doing so without visiting every information booth you happen upon.  I have never stepped into a vehicle of public transportation with so much confidence.
   The city is clean, at least where I am now, bouncing between the Cite Universitaire and the Schola Cantorum at the stop called Port Royal (there's a port here?).  Heading towards Notre Dame, you find the beautiful church proudly overlooking the river and dozens of streets packed with restaurants and cheap eateries, colorfully displayed and appeasingly self-advertised; some details that make the scene unique elude me now, hopefully I will pay attention next time.
  I haven't been publicly ridiculed for my nationality as of yet, but I have gotten the impression here that those of the middle-aged-to-older generation have absolutely no patience for the English language, and have a variety of expressions of annoyance readily at disposal for anyone who might presume that they have acquired command of it.  Despite my well-intentioned efforts to use the vernacular I have received the glare, the scold, the roll of the eyes, the seethe, and often combinations of the above.  One restaurant server did give me a small chocolate for my efforts, I believe, although it is possible that she simply forgot to provide my friend with one.  Armed with the translator on my phone I have been making small improvements to my communicating ability and have noticed that people seem to appreciate the effort and are growing in grace towards my ineptitude.