March 26, 2009
9:10am, Train to Rome
The next day in Florence was cloudy and cold and despite our refusal to buy an umbrella, it rained. Thankfully, Florentine rain is soft like flowers. Among other things, we saw the David. I snapped a photo of him. The museum forbids it but everyone does it. If they were really serious about it, they'd hire large men in imposing uniforms. Instead they've got middle aged women sternly proclaiming "No photo!" So when people get caught, they either feign ignorance or guilt. When I was caught, however, I just smiled at the woman. She swallowed deeply and sorrowfully. I think my neglect to even pretend to be sorry disturbed her in a way that made her feel small and helpless and afraid.
By the way, the David is something you should spend a few hours viewing some time in your life. It's true mastery is not something you can see in photographs or in the many replicas they have around the city. First of all, it's huge. You first see him from the end of a long hallway, in his own special chamber with his own special lighting. The quality of it is chilling. Despite what Brent will tell you about his strong, masculine neck, the head and hands are too big, which Michelangelo intended, of course. But the face and features and posture and pose are all so human. It's unbelievable.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
An Evening Well-Spent in Florence
March 26, 2009
9am, Train to Rome
Our supper the first night in Florence was divine. After collecting 2 maps--by which I mean Brent purchased a 12euro guidebook, while I pocket the map inside the guidebook on display (my first experience with outright stealing)--we wandered down a street beside the massive Santa Maria Novella church and found a nice touristy place to have a nice long touristy dinner.
With Americans on one side and Germans on another, we felt quite at home in this place and ordered ourselves bruschetta, pastas amatriciana e bolognese, an a liter of the house wine (a chianti) for 11euros, which Brent promised to drink with me despite his brutish aversion to wine, even of the red variety.
The bruschetta was a little disappointing at first, given that in Italy, where the food is pure, bruschetta is just chopped tomatoes on toasted bread. But with Brent's salad came olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena which immensely enhanced our experience of the bruschetta. Meanwhile, the liter of house wine had come in a ceramic jug, which Brent poured for us in what I considered meager portions, given both my eagerness to drink it and the volume that remained. The pasta I ate there was without a doubt the best I have ever eaten: perfectly cooked penne with a creamy tomato sauce, parmiggiana, and bacon.
Toward the end of our dining experience (at which point I had finished four or five glasses to Brent's 3/4) an LA Woman arrived alone and proceeded to ask the entire restaurant staff if they remembered her. As the story goes, she had visited the same restaurant a year ago and taken a picture with or maybe just of an attractive younger waiter with blue eyes. As no such waiter existed, her current waiter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the waiter to which she had been referring, who had brown eyes, not blue.
As her loud conversation continued, we learned that among her friends in LA, a collection of approximately 35 year old bachelorettes, the falsely blue-eyed waiter was something of a popular heart throb. We also learned that she had gone out this night with the full intention of dining at this restaurant, which she had missed by walking on the wrong side of the street. But she promised to return for lunch the next day.
After she had gone, our waiter bemusedly admitted that they see 500+ patrons per day, so of course they didn't remember her--how could she possibly expect it? He also told me my accent was very good and gave me some tips. At the time I was flattered but now I am fairly certain that he was just complimenting my wallet.
Brent and I considered returning to lunch again, this time strolling in gallantly and in a valley girl affectation proclaiming, "I have returned a day later to my favorite restaurant! Don't you remember me!?"
After dinner we headed straight back to our hostel, eager to rest up for the long days of tourism ahead of us. Brent will tell you that I flipped through the channels on TV, searching for Italian porno, and despite his warning and pleading, fell asleep within two minutes without turning off the television. But I cannot vouch for him. Though I will admit that--so far--Italian porn eludes us.
9am, Train to Rome
Our supper the first night in Florence was divine. After collecting 2 maps--by which I mean Brent purchased a 12euro guidebook, while I pocket the map inside the guidebook on display (my first experience with outright stealing)--we wandered down a street beside the massive Santa Maria Novella church and found a nice touristy place to have a nice long touristy dinner.
With Americans on one side and Germans on another, we felt quite at home in this place and ordered ourselves bruschetta, pastas amatriciana e bolognese, an a liter of the house wine (a chianti) for 11euros, which Brent promised to drink with me despite his brutish aversion to wine, even of the red variety.
The bruschetta was a little disappointing at first, given that in Italy, where the food is pure, bruschetta is just chopped tomatoes on toasted bread. But with Brent's salad came olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena which immensely enhanced our experience of the bruschetta. Meanwhile, the liter of house wine had come in a ceramic jug, which Brent poured for us in what I considered meager portions, given both my eagerness to drink it and the volume that remained. The pasta I ate there was without a doubt the best I have ever eaten: perfectly cooked penne with a creamy tomato sauce, parmiggiana, and bacon.
Toward the end of our dining experience (at which point I had finished four or five glasses to Brent's 3/4) an LA Woman arrived alone and proceeded to ask the entire restaurant staff if they remembered her. As the story goes, she had visited the same restaurant a year ago and taken a picture with or maybe just of an attractive younger waiter with blue eyes. As no such waiter existed, her current waiter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the waiter to which she had been referring, who had brown eyes, not blue.
As her loud conversation continued, we learned that among her friends in LA, a collection of approximately 35 year old bachelorettes, the falsely blue-eyed waiter was something of a popular heart throb. We also learned that she had gone out this night with the full intention of dining at this restaurant, which she had missed by walking on the wrong side of the street. But she promised to return for lunch the next day.
After she had gone, our waiter bemusedly admitted that they see 500+ patrons per day, so of course they didn't remember her--how could she possibly expect it? He also told me my accent was very good and gave me some tips. At the time I was flattered but now I am fairly certain that he was just complimenting my wallet.
Brent and I considered returning to lunch again, this time strolling in gallantly and in a valley girl affectation proclaiming, "I have returned a day later to my favorite restaurant! Don't you remember me!?"
After dinner we headed straight back to our hostel, eager to rest up for the long days of tourism ahead of us. Brent will tell you that I flipped through the channels on TV, searching for Italian porno, and despite his warning and pleading, fell asleep within two minutes without turning off the television. But I cannot vouch for him. Though I will admit that--so far--Italian porn eludes us.
All Roads Lead to Rome
March 26, 2009
7:51am, Firenze FMN Stazion dello Traino
Beside me Brent's DNA is undergoing vast changes as he guzzles the soy-based fats of a McDonald's breakfast in Italy. He complains, "dude, they made these hashbrowns in a different way, and they're not good."
Weighed down by the fats emulsifying slowly in his belly, Brent rests his head against his jacekt, while one of all the roads that lead to Rome (this one currently inside a tunnel) whiz by outside the window on our left.
The road to Rome is picturesque: rolling hills, trees still recovering from winter, verdant fields, patches of farmed land, occasional columns of smoke, small and innocent like what comes from a pipe, red-tiled roofs, and, most distance, mountains rising into the clouds, covered over by the golden fog of early morning.
I'd like to say it looks like California but the lie is beyond me. It's far more beautiful. Perhaps because it is new to me but more likely because it is sparse and historic, old enough that the houses have become infused with the countryside, a natural part of its natural glory. God may vacation in many places, but if He has a home on earth, surely it must be here in Tuscany.
7:51am, Firenze FMN Stazion dello Traino
Beside me Brent's DNA is undergoing vast changes as he guzzles the soy-based fats of a McDonald's breakfast in Italy. He complains, "dude, they made these hashbrowns in a different way, and they're not good."
Weighed down by the fats emulsifying slowly in his belly, Brent rests his head against his jacekt, while one of all the roads that lead to Rome (this one currently inside a tunnel) whiz by outside the window on our left.
The road to Rome is picturesque: rolling hills, trees still recovering from winter, verdant fields, patches of farmed land, occasional columns of smoke, small and innocent like what comes from a pipe, red-tiled roofs, and, most distance, mountains rising into the clouds, covered over by the golden fog of early morning.
I'd like to say it looks like California but the lie is beyond me. It's far more beautiful. Perhaps because it is new to me but more likely because it is sparse and historic, old enough that the houses have become infused with the countryside, a natural part of its natural glory. God may vacation in many places, but if He has a home on earth, surely it must be here in Tuscany.
Where are the beautiful people?
March 24, 2009
7:30pm, Flat in Florence
Observations about Firenze: the hotties come out to play. The pizza is softer. The city feels bigger. The exhibits are very expensive. The rain is too soft to feel. A lot of construction, even inside a church. A lot more tourists.
Last night we arrived in Florence at the wrong train station and got lost immediately. After wandering through some slums,w e went back to the station and took the correct exit, which brought us to the main terminal, fromw hich we were able to take a train to the main station. Of the two trains leaving for the station precisely when we got up to the tracks, we caught exactly zero of them and ahd to wait about ten minutes for a third train (to arrive late).
On the train, we made jokes in German about how Brent was a butt pirate and how I had missed my chance to nab Tadzio, who now lay dead in Venice because I had not been there to make the same sacrifice.
At the station, we promptly made our way to Offizia Turistica (the tourist office), where we declined to buy a map for one euro in favor of the free one we'd surely receive at our hostel. We did however receive directions to Jacapo street, which seemed easy enough to follow but were quickly complicated by the desolate street under construction that greeted us as we exited the train station. Using a "let's go this way" directive we somehow found the right street just as I was about to suggest going back for the map. Our "hostel," the Locanda David, turned out to be a converted apartment run by a man who was clearly interested only in the getting paid side of hosting travellers. He gave us a key ring, showed us our beds and bathroom, replied, as if it were obvious and our question was ludicrous, that there was no internet, and disappeared around the corner never to be seen of or heard from again.
From our windows we get a view into other peoples' windows. I suggest peeping across into the windows now. Brent calls me a pervert.
7:30pm, Flat in Florence
Observations about Firenze: the hotties come out to play. The pizza is softer. The city feels bigger. The exhibits are very expensive. The rain is too soft to feel. A lot of construction, even inside a church. A lot more tourists.
Last night we arrived in Florence at the wrong train station and got lost immediately. After wandering through some slums,w e went back to the station and took the correct exit, which brought us to the main terminal, fromw hich we were able to take a train to the main station. Of the two trains leaving for the station precisely when we got up to the tracks, we caught exactly zero of them and ahd to wait about ten minutes for a third train (to arrive late).
On the train, we made jokes in German about how Brent was a butt pirate and how I had missed my chance to nab Tadzio, who now lay dead in Venice because I had not been there to make the same sacrifice.
At the station, we promptly made our way to Offizia Turistica (the tourist office), where we declined to buy a map for one euro in favor of the free one we'd surely receive at our hostel. We did however receive directions to Jacapo street, which seemed easy enough to follow but were quickly complicated by the desolate street under construction that greeted us as we exited the train station. Using a "let's go this way" directive we somehow found the right street just as I was about to suggest going back for the map. Our "hostel," the Locanda David, turned out to be a converted apartment run by a man who was clearly interested only in the getting paid side of hosting travellers. He gave us a key ring, showed us our beds and bathroom, replied, as if it were obvious and our question was ludicrous, that there was no internet, and disappeared around the corner never to be seen of or heard from again.
From our windows we get a view into other peoples' windows. I suggest peeping across into the windows now. Brent calls me a pervert.
2D Photography in a 3D World
March 23, 2009
5:40pm, Train to Florence
One of the many frustrations we have discovered in attempt to photograph the sites is our inability to capture evidence of leaning buildings, of which there are plenty. For example, the second of the Two Towers of Bolog Na is far shorter than the first and leans toward it. Neither form our perch above, nor from the ground below could we convey this characteristic in a snapshot. We have found this to be true of all the leaning towers in Italy and are worried--should we make it to Pisa--that the most famous leaning tower won't be leaning in our photographs.
...
Minutes later we infiltrated a university and beheld the sweet honey of Bologna. Streams of young, beautiful, well-dressed women flocked by us, pausing momentarily to eye my mohawk, perhaps, which together with my scraggly beard, blew the cover provided by my stark silence and European nose.
5:40pm, Train to Florence
One of the many frustrations we have discovered in attempt to photograph the sites is our inability to capture evidence of leaning buildings, of which there are plenty. For example, the second of the Two Towers of Bolog Na is far shorter than the first and leans toward it. Neither form our perch above, nor from the ground below could we convey this characteristic in a snapshot. We have found this to be true of all the leaning towers in Italy and are worried--should we make it to Pisa--that the most famous leaning tower won't be leaning in our photographs.
...
Minutes later we infiltrated a university and beheld the sweet honey of Bologna. Streams of young, beautiful, well-dressed women flocked by us, pausing momentarily to eye my mohawk, perhaps, which together with my scraggly beard, blew the cover provided by my stark silence and European nose.
The Tower of Bolog Na
...
At last we reached the top, where we found a group of French schoolgirls lounging about and sketching one another, as well as the most spectacular view I have seen in my life. I'm ashamed to say it was like something straight out of Assassin's Creed: red rooftops spanning endlessly to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by church towers jutting toward the heavens and large streets trafficing in buses and mopeds. On the southwest side, the city gave way to rising green hills, upon which stood ancient temples, bordered from above by a heavenly golden sky. This was the Italy I had always imagined.
I perched in the windows and soaked in the view for a good hour, my face invariably warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind, bothered only by Brent's childish nagging. Apparently, his capacity for the experience of beauty is limited to the checking off of items on an itemized list. What a penis pump!
Speaking of penis pumps, Italian trains have considerable trouble running on time.
At last we reached the top, where we found a group of French schoolgirls lounging about and sketching one another, as well as the most spectacular view I have seen in my life. I'm ashamed to say it was like something straight out of Assassin's Creed: red rooftops spanning endlessly to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by church towers jutting toward the heavens and large streets trafficing in buses and mopeds. On the southwest side, the city gave way to rising green hills, upon which stood ancient temples, bordered from above by a heavenly golden sky. This was the Italy I had always imagined.
I perched in the windows and soaked in the view for a good hour, my face invariably warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind, bothered only by Brent's childish nagging. Apparently, his capacity for the experience of beauty is limited to the checking off of items on an itemized list. What a penis pump!
Speaking of penis pumps, Italian trains have considerable trouble running on time.
Impressions of Bologna
March 23, 2009
4:15pm, Outside Shop Across Bologna Central Station
The city seemed slummy at first. We stopped to take a picture by a fountain in Parco della Montagnola, which is a popular hangout for hobos.
We pushed onward toward the heart of the city, past a McDonald's, and emerged beside a statue of Neptune facing an enormous church, Basilica di San Petronio. Even though Brent's plan was to pass through the square so that we could see a church outside the main cluster of tourist traps, he still insisted on stopping to take photographs and continued to berate me for not capturing every buidling form al four sides, with and without flash.
As for me, I learned a long time ago that not even a fractionof the beauty of a scene can be capture by my novice hand and more importantly that pictures without people are boring. Just like the earth before people...boring. Maybe we'd like to imagine that the animals are all dynamically predating on each other and before that, when dinsaurs roamed the earth, that flocks of them covered the countryside, but the reality of it is animals usually keep to themselves and the beatific scene of deer chasing butterflies and squirrels cahttering at badgers is limited to Disney magic moments in Snow White.
4:15pm, Outside Shop Across Bologna Central Station
The city seemed slummy at first. We stopped to take a picture by a fountain in Parco della Montagnola, which is a popular hangout for hobos.
We pushed onward toward the heart of the city, past a McDonald's, and emerged beside a statue of Neptune facing an enormous church, Basilica di San Petronio. Even though Brent's plan was to pass through the square so that we could see a church outside the main cluster of tourist traps, he still insisted on stopping to take photographs and continued to berate me for not capturing every buidling form al four sides, with and without flash.
As for me, I learned a long time ago that not even a fractionof the beauty of a scene can be capture by my novice hand and more importantly that pictures without people are boring. Just like the earth before people...boring. Maybe we'd like to imagine that the animals are all dynamically predating on each other and before that, when dinsaurs roamed the earth, that flocks of them covered the countryside, but the reality of it is animals usually keep to themselves and the beatific scene of deer chasing butterflies and squirrels cahttering at badgers is limited to Disney magic moments in Snow White.
Goodbye Venice
March 23, 2009
Time: 9:10am
Location: Train to Bologna
All Venice weeps of our departure, anonymous save for a lonely blue and white striped towel left behind. Truly, not a single person learned our names, but we will be remembered in the photographs of Japanese tourists, in the lone electric candle I installed at San Nicolo da Tolentino chapel without leaving a donation, and by the no. 6 and 6/ buses, which bore our weight to and from the island six times for the price of three.
The hostel where we stayed was under construction, so when we arrived Saturday evening to find the front edifice closed, the sign in disrepair and hidden behind a dusty scaffold, I feared for a moment that the hostel had simply shut down without letting anyone know. I had been ready to damn the hostelsclub website to hell, but now I sport a free t-shirt with its insignia, clearly a traveler with faith in his booking agency.
I have to award Brent the credit for his perseverence in seeking a side entrance. Lo and behold a small door caged in iron bars lay just around the corner. We rang the bell and were soon let in by a bespectacled Italian man, who was most likely thirty but possible older and just well-aged given the mildness of his present occupation.
Our room was decent with two regular beds and two bunked, a private bathroom, a television, and a remote controlled AC unit, which despite its positive outlook turne dout far too complicated to use. As for the television, Brent unplugged it promptly in favor of charging his laptop. Later we learned it had only five channels, none of which broadcasted porn unfortunately.
We began the evening by using the internet to book hostels and a cheap gondola tour, as well as offend Chelsea, who signed off Skype in anger while we struggled to remain online. After getting everything squared away (including Chelsea's feelings), we walked to the wrong bus stop, then the correct one, where we bought tickets from the bus driver, who could not have looked angrier about performing one of his more peripheral and seldom called for duties. Let's just say we never tried to buy tickets from a bus driver again.
Time: 9:10am
Location: Train to Bologna
All Venice weeps of our departure, anonymous save for a lonely blue and white striped towel left behind. Truly, not a single person learned our names, but we will be remembered in the photographs of Japanese tourists, in the lone electric candle I installed at San Nicolo da Tolentino chapel without leaving a donation, and by the no. 6 and 6/ buses, which bore our weight to and from the island six times for the price of three.
The hostel where we stayed was under construction, so when we arrived Saturday evening to find the front edifice closed, the sign in disrepair and hidden behind a dusty scaffold, I feared for a moment that the hostel had simply shut down without letting anyone know. I had been ready to damn the hostelsclub website to hell, but now I sport a free t-shirt with its insignia, clearly a traveler with faith in his booking agency.
I have to award Brent the credit for his perseverence in seeking a side entrance. Lo and behold a small door caged in iron bars lay just around the corner. We rang the bell and were soon let in by a bespectacled Italian man, who was most likely thirty but possible older and just well-aged given the mildness of his present occupation.
Our room was decent with two regular beds and two bunked, a private bathroom, a television, and a remote controlled AC unit, which despite its positive outlook turne dout far too complicated to use. As for the television, Brent unplugged it promptly in favor of charging his laptop. Later we learned it had only five channels, none of which broadcasted porn unfortunately.
We began the evening by using the internet to book hostels and a cheap gondola tour, as well as offend Chelsea, who signed off Skype in anger while we struggled to remain online. After getting everything squared away (including Chelsea's feelings), we walked to the wrong bus stop, then the correct one, where we bought tickets from the bus driver, who could not have looked angrier about performing one of his more peripheral and seldom called for duties. Let's just say we never tried to buy tickets from a bus driver again.
Select Ramblings of an Eager Traveler
Time: 5:20pm
Location: Train to Venezia
As the train scoots by rows of sapling trees and the conductor's announcement intrudes on the construction projects defacing the countryside, Brent sleeps with his hand between his legs, just a hop, skip, and a jump from his testicles. We have arrived in Padua, where--if I am not mistaken--Romeo fled after killing Tybalt. "Con M&M's viaggi sempre in compagnia." I cough midtranslation. Brent ousts his hand from between his thighs and begins rubbing his buttocks. Just kidding.
The adventure is only beginning, but already much has come to pass. In summary, I have peed on the subway, been called perverse by the young, angry German who watched me do it, taken a free tour of Munich lead by an Australian, tried to convince a pyschotic Scottish roommate that eating trans-fats doesn't alter your DNA, peed on a railroad (accidentally this time), tried twice and failed twice to chug a liter of beer, and rescued a flock of tourists from their own physical weakness.
The train ride is setting with the sun. I see yellow houses, graffitied fences, bare branches reaching for the sky like inverted Chinese scalp massagers. A green bridge, greener than the grass beneath it, is following our train subtly, but I am oh so aware of its presence. In the distance someone has clipped his hedges to look like giant poodles. Finally, someone on a bicycle. I can tell we are in Italy instead of Germany because the trains are all different colors, instead of matching.
Location: Train to Venezia
As the train scoots by rows of sapling trees and the conductor's announcement intrudes on the construction projects defacing the countryside, Brent sleeps with his hand between his legs, just a hop, skip, and a jump from his testicles. We have arrived in Padua, where--if I am not mistaken--Romeo fled after killing Tybalt. "Con M&M's viaggi sempre in compagnia." I cough midtranslation. Brent ousts his hand from between his thighs and begins rubbing his buttocks. Just kidding.
The adventure is only beginning, but already much has come to pass. In summary, I have peed on the subway, been called perverse by the young, angry German who watched me do it, taken a free tour of Munich lead by an Australian, tried to convince a pyschotic Scottish roommate that eating trans-fats doesn't alter your DNA, peed on a railroad (accidentally this time), tried twice and failed twice to chug a liter of beer, and rescued a flock of tourists from their own physical weakness.
The train ride is setting with the sun. I see yellow houses, graffitied fences, bare branches reaching for the sky like inverted Chinese scalp massagers. A green bridge, greener than the grass beneath it, is following our train subtly, but I am oh so aware of its presence. In the distance someone has clipped his hedges to look like giant poodles. Finally, someone on a bicycle. I can tell we are in Italy instead of Germany because the trains are all different colors, instead of matching.
Foughts of a Frazzled Mind
Time: Last hour before departure
Location: Chair in airport terminal, beside chuckling German
We are currently at Homeland Security Threat Level Orange. My assistance is required to help keep the airport safe. Things I would not remember ere I wrote them.
Brent has given me instructions on how to orient myself. I say instructions rather than directions because all the landmarks are lamp posts, traffic lights, and medium-sized trees.
Relief of finishing finals overshadowed by stress of flying accompanied by announcers who can't speak English. Same announcement (I believe) in Chinese. Note I am flying to Frankfurt. Something is off.
Germanness of man next to me exacerbated by purple socks peeking out of his Birkenstocks.
Had dream I was driving Santa's sleigh. Very fast, reindeer (singular) gave me a funny look. Had to dodge telephone wires in the sky. A lot easier than it looked. Also dreamt Homer had a uterus, explained his indolent behavior.
Location: Chair in airport terminal, beside chuckling German
We are currently at Homeland Security Threat Level Orange. My assistance is required to help keep the airport safe. Things I would not remember ere I wrote them.
Brent has given me instructions on how to orient myself. I say instructions rather than directions because all the landmarks are lamp posts, traffic lights, and medium-sized trees.
Relief of finishing finals overshadowed by stress of flying accompanied by announcers who can't speak English. Same announcement (I believe) in Chinese. Note I am flying to Frankfurt. Something is off.
Germanness of man next to me exacerbated by purple socks peeking out of his Birkenstocks.
Had dream I was driving Santa's sleigh. Very fast, reindeer (singular) gave me a funny look. Had to dodge telephone wires in the sky. A lot easier than it looked. Also dreamt Homer had a uterus, explained his indolent behavior.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Have I Got A Riddle For You (Revised)
I have three pennies. Without showing you the outcome, I flip them in succession. I tell you that the first two landed tails up. (Q1) What is the probability that the third one also landed tails up?
(A) 1/2
(B) 1/4
(C) 1/6
(D) 1/8
I flip them in succession again. Now I tell you that two of them landed tails up. (Note: I am only giving you information about two of the coins.) (Q2) What is the probability that the third penny I flipped also landed tails up?
When I said, "two of them landed tails up," I referred to two pennies. (Q3) What is the probability that the penny to which I haven't referred also landed tails up?
And finally, (Q4) what is the probability of at least one more tail if I tell you that one of pennies is tails up?
(A) 1/2
(B) 1/4
(C) 1/6
(D) 1/8
I flip them in succession again. Now I tell you that two of them landed tails up. (Note: I am only giving you information about two of the coins.) (Q2) What is the probability that the third penny I flipped also landed tails up?
When I said, "two of them landed tails up," I referred to two pennies. (Q3) What is the probability that the penny to which I haven't referred also landed tails up?
And finally, (Q4) what is the probability of at least one more tail if I tell you that one of pennies is tails up?
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