Our train trip from Vernazza to Venice took way too long on paper but the experience was just right. From one side of the boot to the other, with castles and housing blocks dotting the way across. We transferred at La Spezia with two hours to wait. We ate cheap cannelloni at a cafe across from a broken carousel. Teenagers hunched near the shuttered ticket booth like living metaphors for hopelessness. Everyone else sauntered through La Spezia, like the light. It was midday, and shadows puddled at our feet, but the light was thick, sleepy, chewable as dead skin. The city trees were laden with ripe oranges that I couldn’t reach.

Back on the train, we watched laundry lines give way to cypress windbreaks and olive trees. Lucca, Pisa, Florence. Then we took another train that traveled as fast as 220 km/hour while a man beside me watched video of clouds. He said– and it was the only thing he said– don’t eat on the canals in Venice.

When we arrived to the sinking city, it was almost seven and the crowds attempting to board the waterbuses looked like Disney queue dropouts. There was some pushing and some indecision. There was misinformation and confusion. Ultimately, everyone followed everyone else and pictures were snapped without bothering to disguise the fact that we were all tourists trying to navigate our way to shelter but primarily interested in staying outside. People ogled the tree trunk men in stripes who kicked their gondolas around blind corners. I pointed to a driver of a laquered speedboat taxi– cigarette dangling on his lip, collar flipped, hair long and windswept. ‘He’s waiting for another Moonraker.’ But they were all like that. They were all breathing Gucci adverts, as glossy as their boats. I don’t know whether locals took the boat with us. I don’t believe they would.

My greatest regret about Venice is that I didn’t leave in a gondolier shirt, behind a pasty Bauta mask, whipping my velvet cape around my ankles as I dipped my three-corner hat coyly at the sodden departing horizon. I should have stocked up on Venetian glass baubles and burgundy banners and maybe a complete set of Louis Vuitton luggage. I should have found ways to take part in the magical mystery of the modern Venetian ransack of foreign loot. Then, I could have been a greater part of its incredible, parasitic past. Rest assured, I did buy a pair of shoes and some sunglasses when I was drunk. I did not, however, have the store closed for me as I shopped, as folks more celestial than I did. Apparently, when important people want to consume, they only require the assistance of a single, very important store clerk. The others, despite their good looks and svelte bodily contours, have to stand outside, leaning their lithe frames against equally ornamental facades.

Venice is, possibly, Vegas with more historical relevance. The money that built it is tainted by all the blood and guts of modern corruption and the behavior it inspires– drunk wandering through dark sotoportegos to dance the running man (no I won’t post video)– is best kept on its shores.

But remember this! Venice is astounding for its achievement. And not less so for its frequent inundation (100 days a year is the figure I heard). The big ideas that built it will try to save it. The system of floodgates that will block the high tide from filtering into St. Mark’s Square and the rest of Venice is a questionable endeavor that, whether they work well or not, are poetic in their conception. Barriers, when inactive, will lie dormant on the ocean floor. When the tide rises, they will be purged of water to rise and stop the flood. It’s called MOSES, because it will part the sea. Also just as Moses does, I guess, the idea makes a lot of people skeptical about the silly ways humans try to fight god-like forces.

Not necessarily my favorite part of Venice, but worthy of mention: I got locked into our apartment for a few hours and had a chance to ponder. I decided that I am the type of person who would jump from the window instead of wait for someone to appear. This has made me moderately confident that I’ll eventually find a path out of any kind of post-vacation slump. I may have to break an ankle, but I’ll make it out. So please withhold your concern.

In October 2011, this thousand year-old town was largely buried by four meters of mud and debris that slipped down the mountain after torrential rains. Only eighteen months later, the town has reclaimed its luster. It truly sparkles. Colorful old homes are clean again and the town piazzas have been rebuilt at both ends of the car-free town. Still, all you need to do is look up to see the grey scars and pockmarks in the old stucco, sometimes even higher than the shutters poised like butterflies on the buildings. Locals told us that the mud held tree trunks and boulders and furniture like soup. It skidded around the corners of the town, gouging walls and grabbing the contents of homes to be flushed into the harbor. Tragically, it also took a few lives.

To these outside eyes, even as a retrospective witness, the successful recovery effort looked almost impossible. The population doesn’t reach 1000. The town itself slides into a funnel of ancient building that surround a natural harbor. There is only one road in, and it doesn’t actually make it in.  It winds down the mountain through terraced chaparral and dust and abruptly stops where the town starts. But as soon as the sky cleared, the town people started digging their houses, their neighbors, their businesses out. By the time we visited, I might not have realized the devastation if I hadn’t read about it before arriving. Cafe owners waited for trainloads of tourists to occupy tidy, new tables. Families with empty rooms available for the night posted signs in their windows, just beside lacerations left behind by a river of dirt, metal and wood.

All my other pics are gone so this will have to do.

I may have had the best pesto pizza ever at the Pizzeria Fratelli Basso. And I may never forget the sudden tingle of joy when the fisherman returned for the evening and draped their small boats with blue and white covers. At night the sulphur lights bounced on the water only so far and then the Mediterranean went black. One day, we walked north to Monterosso, sat on the beach and drank blueberry juice. Another day, we walked south to the cliff top village of Corniglia and watched old men and old women watching us. Rocks tumbled into our path on both trips and the air smelled like the start of California summer– rich with licorice and the memories that rosemary stokes. Other tourists held tight to walking sticks and ski poles but we walked like we would walk anywhere, especially home. We walked and sniffed and watched the sea breathing below us. On our last day, when the church bells woke me up at 9, I promised myself that we’d go back. I don’t know if that meant San Diego or the Cinque Terre but it was a promise I’ll keep.

I like the newer stuff too.

I have to think a little more before I come to terms with Paris. I have to let something settle in me– like a particularly good meal or a haircut.  The first thing I thought when I climbed up from the Metro was that the Seine looked like wet obsidian as it wrapped around the Notre Dame and then I wondered who all those people thrumming along the cobblestones could be.  It was just beyond dawn and they looked so eager. Turns out they were tourists like me and they probably mirrored me and the Seine only lightened slightly when the sun came out.

Still. I thought it was the best place I’d ever been. By the fourth day, I thought that I might have wanted kids if I’d known I could give them a place like Paris. To let them know that parts of the world keep eyes open to the past, to its lessons, its excesses. Maybe I would have wanted to bring someone up if I knew that there were decent sidewalk galleries, that he would pick at lunch and decide which way the buildings are leaning and interpret whether that would mean something or not. Across the street, his eye would catch a butcher shop, the meat embellished with flowers. A threesome might sit nearby, light up cigarettes and start knitting even as they watch the people pass. My Parisian offspring would nod and lend them a light.

Are you a lover who would cut the lock when things went sour or would you have the key?

While riding a cruiser down Main Street, I stopped for a red light. I noticed a car behind me wanting to turn right on the red. I inched up into the crosswalk to give room. The driver rolled down his window to thank me. Then he wished me a great evening and waved. I think I blushed.

Get pumped. It’s awesome here.

When I rented a bike, the dude with tats and a hefty burden of piercings asked if I would mind waiting while he adjusted the seat for my height. I told him I needed a basket for my mom’s dog who really doesn’t like to be left out of a ride along the beach. He said, “oh, that’s so cute.” Then he explained how to properly ride a bike and also how to put a piercing into the thin skin between my metacarpals. I may have blushed again though it was likely nausea that brought it on.

As I sat on some grass along the boardwalk, which LA people call the Strand, a kid approached me for some reason or other. I don’t know why he approached me because when he saw that I was reading, he excused himself and went away.

Viva Venice Beach. Long may it reign. Also, how long before I can go again?

I understand that you may not know any better but I refuse to blame your mother.  You know why?  You’re over 35. But in case no one has ever bothered to instruct you on some etiquette, here you go.

When you came to us as a guest, you seemed to forget that houses provide homes. Our house, in particular, is the place we call home. Sure, you paid to stay. But you didn’t pay much and you knew at the outset, didn’t you, that the room upstairs was just that– a room at the top of the stairs with a bathroom. It is surrounded by other rooms occupied by other people who actually exist in this world and will outlast you in the home. Who knew I should also write house rules? Even if I had, I would never have thought to include things like don’t light matches and burn them out on the dresser and windowsill; clean up your toenail clippings from the carpet; please say your name when I introduce myself to you.

Also this. Just because you wear a hat and sport facial hair that looks like a doodle, you are not cooler than anyone.

For future stays, perhaps you may try the following:

1. Because most humans prefer to greet each other with a word, a smile, maybe a touch but maybe not, try to keep your face turned in the direction of your host. If we were dogs, it would make sense that you turned your ass to me to stare at the wall. If we were dogs, I promise you would not have had such a restful sleep.
2. You are not invisible just because you run away from my headlights in the driveway. I know you’re staying in my house. I don’t care to talk to you because you don’t care to talk to me but I can’t help but mock you for ducking behind the counter and sneaking up the stairs to avoid me. Consider how this makes your hat look. Think Elmer Fudd.
3. If you are going to finally make the leap to converse, go for pleasantries before asking for salary information.

Guess what? I’m so pleased we live on opposite sides of the world. But you know what else? I come from where you come from and you are a poor, poor representative of your place. Thanks to assholes like you, I will always think twice about allowing ‘artists from LA’ into my home. I hope the girlfriend who seemed so unhappy with you finds someone with a less self-indulgent moustache.

Blech.

Since then, I’ve lived in lots of places where the sun shines only infrequently and weakly, from low positions in the sky. Heating up blood requires recipes and heating elements. Last year, I mulled wine mid-summer because January screamed for it. Tantrums like that require attention. And hot water bottles. That’s why I’m shocked to find myself running out of March and slightly, uncomfortably hot. I’m not complaining. I’m toasting my feet in sun rays. My feet are golden; water stores are low.  New Zealand: you need to get your shit together with this global warming business.  (Though why I think you could prepare for warmth any better than you can build for cold is as confusing to me as when that Mexican dude brought me french fries when I ordered chips and salsa.)

Three years in and I make this mistake at the Mexican place?

In a couple days, my golden feet will walk me off this little island, or to the airport anyway.  From there, another, smaller island.  And then some big, fat continents and all the tectonic grounding they offer.  What do I hope to find?  Burritos, of course.  Though they don’t really require land mass as much as meat mass. No, I intend to stumble on cobblestones and catacombs and pastries, all of which, in my opinion, require civilization to have nested in place for a long, long time.  None of this 100-year entrenchment. I want millenia worth of leftovers– all the rubble, rubbish and high-minded superiority of settlement. For a few weeks, I’m going old world.

In the meantime, I’m also writing two letters. Desperate, lonely, emotional calls which will never have the satisfaction of response. Unrequited, you might say. I’ll put them up here.  Stay tuned.  One letter will never find its way to that nameless guy who stayed in our house and left his toe nail clippings all over the carpet. The other will shake its fist at the New Zealand government, who seems pretty damn committed to shitting where it eats.

Maybe this is why the sad treatment of the VFX artists at Rhythm & Hues, and the VFX industry in general, is plucking my heartstrings. It could also be that my favorite person in the world is a part of that industry and I watch him daily working his ass off, and nightly, mumbling in his sleep about things he didn’t get quite right during the day. For example, this dream chatter, in particular, is probably funnier to me than to him: ‘I have to park it there so the shadow falls right. The fur is clumpy. I need more sun. More sun!’

What movies look like without thousands of artists.

My favorite person in the world has been working in visual effects since I met him, like, a million years ago. Seriously, it was the Jurassic era. Or Lost World. Whatever. At the end of our first conversation, I thought he was a magician. His business card had a rabbit in a hat on it. It was weird enough that he had cards in his wallet– that he even had a wallet– but the company was called Industrial Light & Magic and that, to me, meant birthday parties for brats and maybe weird 90s hipsters. He explained it all soon enough and my eyes crossed whenever he mentioned a z-axis. You see, I’m mostly an idiot; I only pretend to have a brain. Eventually I understood; it’s movie magic he makes. And for the most part, it’s really, really complicated.

Fast forward fifteen fucking years. Sheesh.

At Sunday’s Oscars, Life of Pi won the award  for best visual effects. Anyone who’s seen the film or read the book will know that this is a story that doesn’t cry out for traditional movie treatment. It’s one boy, shipwrecked in a small boat with a tiger, a hyaena, some cockroaches and a zebra. The food chain leaves only the boy and the tiger to face off as they drift over the Pacific. Turning the story to film required a boy, a boat and a whole lot of animals and elements that would never never never cooperate with a director. In other words, special effects. So that’s where Ang Lee turned. The practical elements of the film were pretty much limited to Suraj Sharma, a young newcomer, and a dinghy in a pool. The sunsets? The animal flotsam? The tiger riding the surf? The roiling water crashing against the boat? That’s all movie magic, z-axis, crazy shit that requires the talents of highly skilled artists and computer programmers.

So what am I on about then? Rhythm & Hues is now in bankruptcy, and most of the artists who worked on Life of Pi worked for five unpaid weeks to finish the movie. Due to a failing business model, due to overseas subsidies, due to blah blah the money just wasn’t enough, the VFX studio couldn’t afford to pay the wages of its employees. This, despite a history of success; Rhythm & Hues has won two Oscars in the past. Regardless, the contract they accepted to pretty up Life of Pi wasn’t enough to actually do the work Life of Pi required. That strategy, among VFX houses, isn’t uncommon. It’s a highly competitive bidding process and one that seems to sell itself far short of the true costs of the labor required to pull off the magic. And still, upon hearing of the Rhythm & Hues bankruptcy, Ang Lee said he wants the effects to be cheaper. Nevermind the increasing costs of innovation.

For years, VFX workers have found themselves chasing jobs around the globe. No matter where they land, the weekly hours they’ll work will exceed 50, seven-day weeks are a given, and contract renewal is never assured. And yet, the movie magic they create is becoming the star– the box office draw. Who cares which actor is in a CG suit so long as that suit flies. Do we even need Gwyneth Paltrow anymore now that we’ve all come to understand that fake people can be made to appear just as fake as real people?

Maybe the problem is that the artists are too self-aware. And they like what they do. And they have the sensibility of observers who know how the world is created. Meaning, they’re artists doomed to get their lashings from more tunnel-visioned visionaries who care only about funding their next helicopter ride. What artist ever came up ahead of business? Maybe the artists should pretend they’re something else: something like magicians.

Folks will argue that there is a glut of talent out there ready to jump in and do the work for cheaper and cheaper and cheaper. But no one wants to work for cheaper and cheaper and cheaper. Not when they have knowledge skills that aren’t universal. I’d argue that the VFX artists need to claim their talents and hold them hostage for a bit. Start their own creative departments and convince the venture capitalists that they hold the reigns to the horses hauling Hollywood’s ass. Use the Hollywood studios for the stuff they’re good at. They can do the marketing, the publicity, the distribution– the tasks that makes them feel important but don’t actually require anything more than fluff and bullshit slewing.

But remember this: Hollywood doesn’t know how to make the magic that everyone pays to see. Not really. So don’t let them pretend like they do.