Tag Archives: Italy

Race-Tour Recap

Race-Tour 2016 is winding down. I have a lot of material to process, which will likely serve as fodder for future articles and podcasts. My laptop has a Stasi-level archive, including pages of pseudo-intellectual musings, and hours of grainy recordings of me trolling Arabs and Lesbians. So goyim, buckle up.

But the fun isn’t over yet. I have a few more objectives to hit: Munich (spiritual reasons), Berlin again, a certain hamlet in Denmark, Stockholm and Iceland. Before I launch on this final, exclusively Germanic leg of Race-Rour 2016 (RT16), I decided to do a little AAR. How did my original assumptions compare to the reality on the ground? What is to be done about our race’s predicament?

At the very onset, Vince and I concluded that the Nords were not the key to White salvation (Link to Vince’s two-part series). All the memes were basically right. While Nords are most exposed to the problem, they are sadly the most inured to it. That brought about the question of southern, “frontier” whites. Could they be the source of a racial awakening?

The Plan

I conceived RT16 back in February. At the time, the Hadji hoards were swelling up for another summer storm, with monthly numbers of immivaders, despite the cold, exceeding even the stats for last summer. There was a good chance of tens or hundreds of thousands by summer. “Born too late to explore the earth, born too early to explore the galaxy”… born just in time for the Great European Race War. I was positively giddy.

There was no way anyone was going to get a handle on the situation. The European governments drank their own Kool-Aid. They were petrified by their own myopic, neo-Puritan ideology. Supranational powers like the EU and NATO (“The Empire”) would let the immivasion continue, whether by incompetence or malice. Shit was going down. So great an influx of zombie-Hadjis would certainly lead to a total collapse of the social order. Two outcomes seemed possible: Hungarian obstinacy would trigger a chain-reaction in the Balkans, with one government after another refusing to accept migrants, or a major political crisis would erupt in some core-European country.

I based my travel plan on this analysis. I would fly to Sweden, epicenter of POZ, then head south to Germany and Austria, where I figured most of the action would be. If, like 2015, the Balkans were crawling with sub-human streams, I would venture out into the old Hapsburg-Ottoman borderlands. I even went so far as to retool my Russian as Serbo-Croatian.

It did not quite work out that way. In March, the EU struck a deal with the Turks that cut the inflow to a trickle, thereby making all-out race-war unlikely this year. To use the now classic metaphor–the frog is being boiled slowly again. So instead, we have stalemate. If last year was 1914, this year is 1915. Positions have shifted, the losses have mounted–Cologne, Paris, Brussels, now Nice–but no decisive action has occurred. And worse, none seems possible.

I changed plans accordingly. After hitting Sweden with Vince, I figured the best place to see some action would be Italy and Greece, entrepôts of the Muzziepocalypse. It was not quite what I had hoped for, but Southern Europe provided a welcome contrast with the North. The race-problem was still stark, but in a different way. The aliens were there, and in big groups, but they (were) kept to themselves. I was relieved to see no cases of miscegenation.

The Southern Problem

But the locals let me down. I figured that Southerners would have a more realistic view of the Problem. They did. Indeed, southern dislike of the barbarian is instinctful. While many exhibit a veneer of liberal attitudes, few are impractical enough to really believe in them. Unfortunately, that visceral dislike rarely manifested itself in any sort of resolve. They know something is off, but they generally do not care enough to do anything about it. It probably will not affect them anyway. All they have to do is ship the next batch of dindus North and its la dolce vita again.

Two particular instances are illustrative. I had conversations with two middle-aged men on my last day in Thessalonica. Their opinions were far more realistic than the average Nord’s, but their realism often crossed into outright cynicism. They had taken “the Black Pill,” as we are calling it now.

I struck up a conversation with the first of them while sitting at a sidewalk cafe. He held an odd mix of totally based and utterly liberal opinions. He argued that the Greek economic crisis is fake, it is nothing more than a bankers’ scam. Fair enough. On the other hand, he called the Syrian civil war “real.” He argued that it was caused intentionally by the European powers, and therefore, “We have to let them in.” But he conceded that Muslims cause problems, citing 9-11 as evidence that even a few could be very dangerous.

He also argued that Greece needed a totally crazy leader to clean up its economic problems. He cited Hitler as an example. When I pressed him about the refugee crisis, he recast his proposal. “The whole world needs a leader like that.”

He was vaguely Jew-aware. Not knowing my nationality, he stated that he liked the US, because there is a strong Greek lobby. I pointed out that, while true, the Greek-Americans have nothing on our main ethnic lobby. He nodded, and bragged that his people had gotten on with (((them))) well for centuries. I smirked. Supposedly the Arabs used to say that it takes two Jews to cheat a Greek.

He wondered about life in Washington, DC. I told him that the people in power are soulless, “They look like this,” doing my best to emulate the shitlib 1000-cock stare. He recognized my meaning immediately and blurted out “cyber-metrics!” (I think he meant “cyborgs”). So, the Jews run the world through Washington cyborgs. At that point I excused myself. His world concept was ridiculously simplistic. Had this guy even read Culture of Critique?

The second man started talking to me in the nearly empty central train station (railroad strike). He spoke English very well, and claimed to have been around since the Korean War. Refusing to reveal his nationality, he mentioned Greek, Turkish and Israeli friends. He started talking to me to offer a warning: in this deserted station, a Bangladeshi was pimping a tall Serbian girl in a scheme to steal valuables from men. I was skeptical but went along. He complained that he told the security guard, but that they did nothing. He went on to bemoan our general situation, predicting that the Bangladeshis and Chinese would take over the world. “But they did not build any of this (gesturing to the marble floors and walls), our fathers paid for it,” he said, pointing at himself and me.

I agreed, citing my experiences this summer, and asked “What can we do?.”

He shot back, “No, you can’t get worked up! There’s no point in getting worked up!”

Conclusion

So to sum up, Europeans come in two basic types: frontier whites and interior whites. Interior whites (Germanics and the French) suffer all the worst delusions that the alt-right has so exhaustively critiqued. Frontier whites (eg. Italians, Greeks, Serbs) on the other hand are instinctively realistic. They make no pretense of liking the invader. Their shortcoming is not seeing the big picture. So long as their lives are not directly affected, they are content to let the Afro-Muzzies pass through. Several times I had the occasion, often standing next to a concentration of refugees, to ask a local if the migrants were a problem. Sometimes the problem was acknowledged. But too often they would shrug. “Not a problem. Everything is fine.”

Of course this distinction ignores a number of others. It is not just interior vs frontier. It is city vs countryside, female vs male, young vs old. Youth, femininity and urbanity make people more likely to back their own people’s dispossession. It’s the old yin and yang.

As I am finishing up this essay, my impeccably quiet train-car is gliding through the Austrian Alps. over a mountain town that looks exactly like the one from The Sound of Music. And, what do you know, a whole family of hadjis just entered my train car. They Syrio-Iraqis always come in big packs– an old man, two old women, two boys, two girls and two young bucks, one of whom is of course wearing a pink polo. In light of recent happenings, I am way too triggered to write anymore. I wish it would just start already.

Austrian Town
Insert Kebab here

Becoming The Eternal Anglo

The Urheimat

Every tribe of American whites has its Urheimat. The Urheimat or “proto-homeland” was, for decades, a key concept in Indo-European linguistics. It was always assumed that any group of related peoples had a common ancestral language, and a common, ancient homeland. Pinpointing these homelands absorbed a lot of time, effort and careers. Where was the Aryan Urheimat? Once the Aryans broke up, where did each of the linguistic sub-families evolve?

In recent decades, the Urheimat concept has taken a lot of flak. Scholars pointed out that the idea assumed that languages and peoples must have moved into their current lands–that they did not develop in situ. Spengler was one such sceptic. But here I must break with my Master. The Urheimat is a reasonable assumption. Plenty of examples exist on record. American Blacks have an Urheimat, so do Whites. Even the Amerindians, despite the SWPL bleating, are not autochthonous.

American Whites are the most interesting case, as usual. Because of our rich, intraracial diversity, white subgroups can be traced back to specific regions of Europe. This phenomenon is well documented for Anglos–apparently scholars can discern folkways that mark The Eternal Wessexer distinct from The Eternal Northumbrian, even 400 years after their migration to North America. But the phenomenon goes beyond them.

American Origins

Europe is a patchwork of white Urheimats. Scandinavia is the proto-homeland of Upper Midwesterners. Germany is the Urheimat of Ohioans and Chicagoans. It is intuitive, then, that one would find proto-New Jersites in Sicily. The folkways are all there–the anger, the pugnacity, the sun-burned sweatiness. Riding a bus to Mt. Etna, I kept bursting out laughing. The driver was a typical guido–he kept shouting at passengers–at first I could not figure out why, because his dialect was as preposterous as that of his American cousins–but once I attuned my ear to it, I realized he stayed in this excitable mode no matter the circumstances. The British girl sitting next to me didn’t get it. I gave up trying to explain. I’m here to save the White Race from being inundated by refugees, not to rescue the British character from its aboriginal defect.

The Angless was in an even more humorless mood than her kind are known for–it was Brexit Day. “I’m not European anymore,” “All educated people voted ‘remain,’” “Nigel Farage is a coont.” I don’t really care about Brexit, it is a symbolic victory for us at best. But that did not stop me from gloating. I noted the classless nature of her accent. I showed her Nigel Farage memes. I wondered how I spoke more Italian than her–I’d been in country a week, she since November. I was scandalized that she did not know what ancient Mesopotamia was. I said all this aloud. Good thing I’m not “educated.”

I admit, I have always had an inferiority complex toward them. I admire their hauteur. I always felt the allure of their educational routine–the philology, the bloodsport, the hazing-by-persnicketry. Over the years I managed to acquire a grounding in each, but without ever developing anglophilia like the common cuck. The Germans are still way cooler.

English

The British wouldn’t be so much of a problem if they just stayed in their Urheimat. Their Spirit is an especially dangerous one, as it combines the Faustian will-to-infinity and their own brand of cosmopolitan rootlessness. But the British have an even more effective means of spreading their spiritual corruption–The English language. Learning English is the single worst thing that can happen to a people. It strips a people’s meme-complexes, leaving their minds utterly exposed to internationalist corruption. The commoner the knowledge of English, the more susceptible a people is to the POZ. The Nords have it the worst. The English and Germans are close behind. The Italians are, in large part, unaffected. The Anglo is not so much Eternal as he is expansive.

English is about as different as a language can be from Proto-Indo-European. The latter was “synthetic,” mutating the endings of words to express grammatical relationships. English claims, in what is obviously a move to seize the terminological high-ground, to be “analytic.” Where else have I seen that term used as the exclusive purview of the Eternal Anglo? But whatever. Synthetic languages are superior, and the British admit it. That is why they subjected generations of school boys to beatings for, say, using an ancient Greek verb in the perfect rather than the aorist.

Speaking English really gets me down. Every thought I have in this earthless medium drills into me, reminding me that I am torn from my Urheimat. And worse, like most Americans, I have more than one proto-homeland. My blood feels at home in Germany and Calabria (that backwater since the death of Pythagoras). I should speak Indo-European, or, failing that, Greek and Old High German. I have tried to remedy this by learning foreign languages. The problem is, due to my Faustian will-to-infinity, I want to learn all of them; and, due to my lack of a true Urheimat, I cannot prioritize one over the others. Maybe I am an Anglo after all.

RED DAWN 20: St. Greg Slays Huff the Magic Po

RED DAWN 20: St. Greg Slays Huff the Magic Po

Greg goes to see the Palermo Wirtschaftwunder: a magical market, where hadjis, dindus and Sicilians frollic together in harmony. Or do they? The progtard media seem to think so. Can St. Greg endure HuffPo’s firestorm of lies? (Check out the photos, and the stats, and where your tax dollars are going.)

And, Europe is teaming with leftists: homos, Bohemians, even the occasional Morrocan crack dealer.

Finally, Vince breaks down his latest aesthetic fetish: Synth-Wave retro-80s music. It’s fashy. This episode’s featured track: Miami Nights 1984 “Ocean Drive.”

Europe is Not Enough

Europe is crawling with leftist agents. Amnesty International, UNISEF, the Huffington Post, shadows of antifa stalk me in every airport, city square and hostel.

Vince and I had some fun chatting them up a couple times on Scandinavian street-corners. We certainly would make no converts, but we could, for a few minutes at least, spare the public from these charity-mongerers and their pitiful causes. We found one in Copenhagen who, thanks to our valiant attempts to conceal our disinterest, bleated on about some supposed rape victim in an island chain I can neither locate nor spell. “Are there not rape victims here,” Vince asked. The question was as meaningless to him as his selected cause was to us. Unrestrained by rational prioritizing, universalist morality scatters the soul to the ends of space, rendering its supposed possessor a vortex of non-being. If you know what I mean.

On the way out of Catania I encountered another clot of them. God, how I hate UNISEF–they had stationed their footsoldiers around the airport in an effort to cuck us of more resources. My stomach glowing with nihilism, I snickered, snapped a photo, and went to relieve myself of a couple cups of coffee. On the way out, one chubby harpie stuck her tits out and cornered me. She went on a tirade about helping this billboard picture of an impossibly neotonous brownling. As she blabbed on about her meta-child, it occurred to me that the object of her emotions was bi-dimensional. Perhaps we aren’t so different after all.

Having not followed any of her spiel, I announced in vulgarized Latin that I had seen plenty of the people she was talking about, and most of them had been men– “forte, como io” “Strong, like me.” I stuck a finger in my chest, glaring at her and half-smirking at her semi-attractive companion. I walked off.

Twice more in the days after, I was put upon by similarly repulsive vessels. When it’s a gay dude, at least it’s a little flattering–he could be getting it with any other homo. But when it’s an ugly woman, it is outright demoralizing. “Does this skank really think she has a chance with me?” But I have learned to stifle my ego in the name of the Cause. Girls will talk no matter their girth. So I am not above dangling the prospect, assuming the fattie has something to offer. And, this crusade being a war for information, they sometimes prove themselves useful.

On the flight out, I found out two things. The fattie told me about the US Navy housing refugees in Sicily. Too late to act on that. I also made a caustic remark to a very Italian-looking girl with a Paraguayan passport and an American accent. She played along, and volunteered that she had just been in Greece, traveling with a friend who happened to be a reporter. I kept a straight face and asked if her friend worked for the New York Times. “No the Huffington Post.” I did not keep a straight face. But even with my cover blown, I still got some good info out of her.

She had, supposedly, gone with this reporter to Lesbos (pffff…of course) to see two refugee camps (oh wait). They had stayed for a night, and gone out on a boat to get an idea of how the rescue operations are conducted (with meathooks? Amirite?). There were two camps on the island, and one at Athens’ old airport. Man this was too easy. She must have noticed that I was a bit too interested, and only sorta in her, because the conversation did not go much further.

It’s a miracle I have not been called out for Fash–the haircut, the way I wear my backpack (straps tucked), my laptop background. Rightwingers make the worst spies. Is it any wonder the Third Reich lost the espionage war, matched as they was against the craftiness of the Slav and the Eternal Anglo? We are miserable liars.

But one does not have to be a sneaky Rosenberg to make a good spy. One can be out in the open, totally frank, and still pull it off. James Bond is implicitly right wing. I have found that I have far more to gain by making my intentions and opinions known. Some will help, some will huff, but no one will hamper you (at least so far). The organs of liberal power are too preoccupied generating their own propaganda to fully realize the danger of mine.

But thanks to HuffPo, AI will be going to Lesbos.

HuffPo Lies, Palermo Dies

The aspiring sophists over at Huffington Post regurgitated a Quartz article about how much refugees are doing to revitalize the economy in here in Sicily, specifically in the western city of Palermo.

Since I am at Catania on the island’s East coast, I decided to hop on a train and see this miracle myself. I am sorry to say, that Palermo’s Wirtschaftswunder isn’t quite what the reporter, Annalisa Merelli, says it is.

But before I get into dissecting the whole page-worth of talmudic libtard namastes, I’d like to point out one BIG thing.

The migrants/refugees/afro-zombies are PREDOMINANTLY  SWOLL DUDES. How this escapes everyone’s notice is beyond me. Even the statisticians at the UN admit so much. Check out these photos from my two hours of walking around Palermo:

palermodindu10
Part of Greg Ritter’s series “Black Beefcakes in Europe, Escaping War and Oppression, brah”
palermodindu8
The migrants are starting some businesses–albeit, predominantly hair-themed.
palermodindu2
Rockin Bundeswehr pants. Wonder where he wants to go.
palermodindu6
Gold watch with Dindu. How did he get past all the greedy human-traffickers with that bad boy?

I don’t want to give you the wrong impression though. I don’t know that any of these people were migrant-refugees. Perhaps they were tourists. And to be fair, I saw a few women here and there. I even saw a kid.

But the majority of the presumed refugees were healthy, fit men. If the West had any compassion, we would put them in camps, train them into an army, and send them back to their homelands to stop all the “war and oppression” and set up democracies. heh. I’m sure that would work out.

With that caveat, let’s get to the heart of the matter.

Continue reading HuffPo Lies, Palermo Dies

RED DAWN 19: Epicenter of Fash

RED DAWN 19: Epicenter of Fash

Greg takes us on a tour of the Eternal City and Calabria–the Alabama of Italy. The bros compare Italian and Nordic character and habits, and discuss the Afro-Muzziepocalypse. The signs are everywhere. But is there enough awareness of the problem for anything to get done? AI brings you this report from the Front.

Featured Future Fash song: Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon (Soundtrack) 02

Fortune Magazine article on the Mayor of Riace, Calabria’s biggest Muzzie-Dindu collaborationist.

Some fascist agitprop in rich neighborhood just NE of the Vatican:

fashyagitprop

fashyagitprop2

Some other fashy ads in Rome:

fashyagitprop3

 

Embracing the Apollonian

Leaving Rome was another clusterfuck. I knew it would be, so I went to “Termini” central station three days ahead of time to put everything in order. Despite my efforts, the genius of Italy saw to it that there would be a last-minute fiasco.

At first, everything seemed to be working. I arrived 50 minutes early, found my train on the big board, and saw the platform number. Ah, time for a coffee. Fortunately the line was too long or did not exist, so I decided to skip the espresso and board. I went to the gate to enter the platform and showed my EURail pass to the guy, along with my reservation; of course I had my passport handy too. He scanned my papers and said calmly, “No, no no no, you need a stampa, to validate.” Are you serious? I had already traveled 5 times on this document in anal-retentive Scandinavia without anyone saying anything about a validation stamp.

The officer-guy directed me “al centro, i alla sinestra.” He meant I had to go to the biglietteria–the ticket gallery, which I had tried to use the other day. The biglietteria is a mini-DMV, except the employees aren’t black, just inefficient and insouciant. I took a number. There were at least 10 Americans in front of me and probably some Germans, and my train was leaving in 35 minutes. The women at the counter were taking their sweet time answering every moronic inquiry in Italianglish and typing. And there might be a cigarette break any moment now. I knew it was hopeless.

As I learned my first day in Rome, act like it’s a crisis and people will help you. But I could not simply push to the counter and demand a stamp before my number was called. That would cause an incident–operating in Italy takes more subtlety. So I stopped thinking like a Nord and embraced my inner I-tie. Processes here are not linear, but fluid. I dropped my pack and sprawl-prawled onto the station floor, amidst a crowd of panicked and frustrated non-Italians, pulled out my papers, and wrote my own goddamn validation. I antedated it 26.05.16 and signed my father’s initials. If some guy asked “eeeyy! La stampa! Dove e?” I would just say I got it validated in a shit-tier country like Greece. They would understand.

This time I decided to play it right. I strode up to the usher and passed him my papers hurriedly. He didn’t even ask about the stamp this time. Okayed, I gave everyone around me an earful of my unmelodic, manly American accent, “Haha, so goddamn American!”

A Lost World

Rome was just the beginning. As my train went south, I descended into the husk of the Classical world. Oswald Spengler–my God and prophet–theorized that European cultures were of two types: Apollonian and Faustian. The ancient Greeks and Romans were Apollonians–their imaginations were obsessed with static form, rootedness to the earth, the present moment and the noonday sun. Thus they were the complete antithesis of our, post-Roman, Faustian Culture, with its emphasis on thrusting motion, boundless space, and and a strong sense of time–all symbolized by the dawn. All very mystical and unprovable, but astute.

Rome is the frontier of the Faustian world. built atop the ruins of an Apollonian metropolis. On the other hand, Naples, Salerno, Sapri. with their white, yellow, pinkish-beige houses inset into hillsides might as well be Ancient Greece. My train-ride was, spiritually speaking, time-travel, now that I knew what to look for. The train (a Faustian imposition) raced by derelict houses and crumbling public buildings, often with exposed brown and grey blocks, including the well-preserved ruins of a medieval town-wall. Everywhere, the locals had built under, around and atop these as if they were part of the landscape. Even the highway bridges, despite their great height, were more notable for their connection to the earth at their bases than the air under their tresses.

Classical civilization grew and bloomed, then shriveled. Many of its former lands were subsumed by the new Faustian, Germanic Culture. But not all. According to Spengler, the Apollonian spirit clung on in some of its country backwaters, places like Southern Italy, Greece and Sicily. Fittingly, the fossils of Greece and Rome are now Europe’s bulwark against the black and brown menace. Since the last surge of hostilities during the early centuries of Islam, the front has remained virtually unchanged. It runs from Lesbos through Greece, across to Calabria, Sicily and on to Gibraltar.

As the train descended, the seats were thinned of Faustian, cosmopolitan Romans and filled with people who resembled my Calabrian grandfather. Not a one of them was speaking English. This was, after all, a people who had only recently (in the last 4 centuries) made the change-over from Greek to Romance dialects. In a few towns, in fact, there are still people who speak Greek, remnants of ancient and Byzantine colonization.

At Paola, I rendezvoused with two relatives who had been sent to retrieve me. They did not speak English either, which made conversation awkward grammatically. As we drove up into the hills, I felt a mixture of ease and a sensation like terror. Despite the language barrier, we managed to communicate–socially this was all very normal. But spiritually I knew myself to be intensely out of place. The permanence of it all shocked me–the stone farm-houses, the olive trees with their gnarled trunks, the all-absorbing landscape.

CalabrianLandscape2

The Eternal Clusterfuck

As soon as I got to Rome, everything went to shit. I deplaned, latrined and went to find the baggage claim (had to check my knife). I strode through a maze of the usual outlets–Dolche and Gabanna, Gucci, some French-sounding ones–tracking the signs for baggage claim. They led me to the wrong section. How is there a wrong section? This is Italy–go to the wrong baggage claim and you’re fucked. Only numbers 11-16, the display-boards flashed too quickly between 6 languages and were loaded with irrelevant information–trains and buses that had either departed or would not depart for hours… and there didn’t seem to be anyone to ask. I got really pissed for a second. Typical, exactly what I had expected from my ancestral people. But then my inner I-tie started to get it.

I went to the “lost baggage” desk and asked a guy in a uniform where my stuff was supposed to be. He spoke English but told me to ask the woman behind the counter. So I demanded of her where could I find it (“domandare” it. “to ask”). She said I was in the wrong terminal, that I had to exit, go around to terminal 3, pass back through security (staff security, not regular). There I’d find my flight’s carrousel. I started to get it. Just say everything clearly and frantically, and these people will make it happen.

I successfully negotiating security, ran the wrong way past a cluster of heavily armed Carabinieri without comment, and found my bag. Then I went to find a bus. Another fiasco ensued. I went to the correct bus-lane and asked the nearest guy. He did not speak English–finally, I thought, this is how I remember Europe from childhood. I broke out the Italanish and got my answer: hurry over to that counter and buy a ticket. Another guy–this one had no idea that the bus for which she was ostensibly selling tickets was late, and that I could, in fact, still buy one. She insisted I buy from another company (all the money is going to the same place anyway, right?).

And then, the operatic climax. Everyone at the airport was trying to get on the same bus. They had formed what passes in this country for a line. It was obvious that not everyone could get on. Some would have to wait another half hour. A pretty blonde girl started smoking–she had the right idea.

She had the right idea
Eh? Whadayagonnado?

The bus rolled up late, and discipline broke down. A lot of people broke ranks to stuff their suitcases in the luggage compartment, but I knew better. I kept my backpack on and clutched my hobo-bag and bumrushed the main door with everyone else. In the melee, an impeccably polite Iberian lady insisted that I had been in front of her. I looked at her and shrugged. It did not fucking matter. Most of us got on the bus, and some Russian girls laughed at those who didn’t. The whole scene was nauseatingly Italian. And the grace-note–the conductor packed the bus to perfection. Everyone, and my backpack, had a seat.