Chooo Chooo Amtrak Silver Meteor Jacksonville, Florida to The Big Apple, but no Mike



It's 9:06am, Friday, and I should be on that train just two hours out of Union Station and New York City jammin with all my friends in The Big Apple (Photo Wikipedia)


Chooo Chooo Amtrak Silver Meteor Jacksonville, Florida to The Big Apple, but no Mike

by Mike Marcellino



I was thrilled again, just as a child riding in coach, and even once in a compartment on the Sanfa Fe El Captian from Chicago to Los Angeles. Happy as a 7-year old can be, while getting creamed in games of gin rummy with my Dad, Tony.

I had set out to the Amtrak station on the outskirts of Jacksonville, amazed that I had packed in time. I always over pack, so this time I just downsized, making Governor Romney quite proud of me.

Outside the station on a not too warm Thursday, September 28, I took a smoke break, Army style, feeling it's great to be alive, after Vietnam, that is. Then I noticed that everyone was already in line inside. They check you in at the car door in my experience in most places, even Washington, DC.

When I made my reservations on the Silver Meteor, I requested a window seat, explaining I was a combat veteran of the Vietnam War and being in the isle seat is very discomforting for someone with "'a classic case" of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) the docs told me at the Center for Stress Recover at the VA Medial Center in Cleveland. The Amtrak reservation folks were quite considerate and said they would make a note and see what they could do, but it would be up to the Amtrak border person.

Walking inside, I say the long line of folks of all sorts, with lots of kids waiting in line.


"Oh, do I need to get at the end of the line?" I asked the Amtrak man, sheepishly.


"Yes, end of the line for you," the Amtrak man said to me.


"Well," I said, "End of the line for me," I added, borrowing Captain Willard's line when he got his "mission" to go out and kill one of his brothers-in-arms' cause he'd used the same tactics as the enemy.


By the way, I'm typing this story in the Business center of the Charleston, South Carolina, not New York City, and red on and you'll see why.


I happily step up to the boarding lady and her Amtrak man. Gosh, they were nice. I told her I was a disabled combat U.S. Army veteran and had asked for a window seat. She didn't reply, looking at her seating chart.


Wahoo! I go t my window seat, No 39 and the car wasn't very crowded. Since I'm a notorious slow and bad packer (in the Army I was strack but I think "too many missions, too many helicopter rides, jet strikes, in a man-made sandy new firebase in or near Cambodia. (Whoops, sorry, we weren't supposed to be in Cambodian then but that was where the enemy got away to every day.


I was famished. Walked to the dining car after a Bud and asked if I could have dinner. I waited for a while and finally someone noticed me. I was told I had to have a reservation so I made one for 8:15pm, which I later learned was "last call."

Well, after a quick smoke break in, I think Jessup. Yes, I remember now, as a young woman had said something to me and explained she had never been out of Georgia and was afraid to travel on the train. "You'll be fine," I said, smiling. "Riding Amtrak is wonderful. You've be fine." I think I calmed her down, she smiled and walked away.

I got back aboard eager for dinner as a musician headed for New York told me he had some great Maryland crab cakes (I'm a Baltimore boy). But, I was told there were only two items left on the menu - a steak somewhere over thirty bucks, and pasta that didn't sound very appealing.

Well, I guess it's a hot dog for me, but it was Kosher.

Now is where the real drama begins. I had spent my time in the lounge car, relaxing and fixin' to play some solitaire and hearing this most unique shrilling loud but cheerful laugh from a young graphic designer from Savannah.

I turned, thinking about the hot dog and crab cakes I missed. I bet the first class folks had crab cake, but for me at the tail end they called "last call" but I didn't know that.

"How come there's very little food left in the dining car," I asked an Amtrak man who, unfortunately turned out to be the conductor. Every Amtraker had been so friendly and nice so far but that was to end in a nightmare for me.

The "conductor" who I guess runs the train, though I always thought it was the engineer who really ran the train. The conductor looked up and said something about the matter of little food for regular folk like me. "It's Amtrak policy out of ..." I think he said Miami.

"Well, I replied, smiling, I think Amtrak should change it's policy.

And then I got the look form him I will never forget, and not many minutes later I found out the whole story.

I returned to my seat to find a huge man taking up both my seat and the one next to him.

I walked back down the isle and told an Amtrak man that a big man was in my seat taking up a seat and a half. I said I can't do this, I have PTSD.

The Amtrak man was nice and he moved me to number fifty somethin' at the front of the car facing a blank wall. I could put my boots up. Trouble is my frostbite on my toes from that winter in Germany guarding the Czech border from the Russians. (I knew they weren't going to do anything because the Five K Zone was peaceful with nobody around and I know that 'cause me and the colonel's driver drove right into the "no man's land" without a scratch.)

Then the conductor lowered the boom on me. Suddenly he was in front of me with another Amtrak man looking quite threatening.

"What happened?" he asked abruptly and unkindly.

"Nothing happened," I said, now scared of the Amtrak man more than the enemy in Vietnam.

Well, they left, but a few minutes later in the darkened car, a bunch of Amtrak men suddenly stood in front of me as we pulled into the station.

The conductor said he had two complaints from passengers about me.

He gave me no chance to say a word, in my defense or otherwise.

"Your are off the train," the conductor said.

"These guys mean business," I thought, now resolved to my fate.

After I made my way from the Silver Meteor I was greeted by a bunch of local police. Fortunately they were nice and respectful.

"Am I charged with something. Under arrest?"

"No, we have nothing to charge you for," the officer said.

So there I was alone as alone can be in the dark at the Amtrak station in North Charleston, South Carolina.

I took a cab, but to the airport as I was told by the cab driver that the bus station was closed for the night.

"Well, it's the airport for me," to myself.

And, here I am typing way on the PC in the Business Center of the Charleston airport.


Funny thing, now I recall that everyone I talked with from the cab driver to the really nice folks at the airport seemed to understand what happened to me, like it was par for the course for the Silver Meteor.

Then I realized by mistake.

I had chatted with a woman and her baby boy on and off. She told me she was the wife of the train engineer. "Wow I thought, wouldn't it be cool to get into the engineer and add that to my series of stories about reliving my Santa Fe days.

You see my mistake was being honest. I told her I was a journalist doing a story on riding Amtrak on my coast to coaster Wetland to Badlands tour zig zaggng American on the choo choo. "I was hoping to do a good story about Amtrak, now it's looking bad."

And that's when Mike, host of "Notebook Writer," "the best of" Blog Talk Radio, got booted into Charleston and a $22 cab fare and no way to get out of Charleston.

Now the screech of the iron wheels on The Silver Meteor smells more than a bit stinky.

And now I recall watching a man pulled off the train in just about the same fashion. I wonder what he did to deserve being trapped on the out shirts of Charleston, in North Charleston or something. Now, I too know what "Chooo, Chooo, Amtrak Silver Meteor, but no Mike feels like.

It's 8:10am Think I'll go out and take a smoke break and see the sun rise. I had called Amtrak in the middle of the night and they said no one there could help me and to call customer service after they open at 8pm. The Amtrak man on the phone didn't miss a beat, like this stuff happens all the time.

Now I wonder just how many passengers get kicked off the government trains in the middle of the night in no where's ville.

At some point I will call Amtrak media relations and asked them some questions, but right now I'm light by $16 dollars to the airport Business Center.

The people at the airport are so nice and sympathetic. They look at me nod there heads and smile in a supportive, caring way. They know what it's all about.

To me it smacks of dictatorship. I never go ta chance to say a word or hear a charge.....


Choo Choo Amtrak Silver Meteor Jacksonville to the Big Apple, but no Mike.


copyright Mike Marcellino, 2012 Choo Choo Amtrak Silver Meteor Jacksonvile, Florida to the Big Apple, but no Mike

Muhammad Ali: A Kiss for 'the Greatest'

Muhammad Ali pop painting
by John Stango

A kiss for 'the greatest'

by Mike Marcellino

When I returned to Singapore in 1979, I was stunned by my Indian-Chinese sister-in-law's story of the kiss she gave Muhammad Ali.  

Dindi Devi, then with the Singapore government, was working at the United Nations in New York City that day. 

As she walked in a hallway, Ali walked toward her.  She quick stepped up to him and planted her kiss on the check of her hero - "The Greatest, and a hero of the world. Listening, I felt like I was there.  To me Ali is more than an icon.  While he is the greatest boxer of all time, he is also a wonderful and courageous human being.  

Ali reminds me of my Sicilian, Italian-American Dad, Tony Marcellino, who my boyfriends called, with great respect,"Big Tone"  Both have fists of iron and hearts of gold.  

Tony's was my "father" since I was a 3-year-old when my mother, Katherine, me and my freckled-faced older brother lived in the Fleetwood hotel on Miami Beach.  It was at The Fleetwood where Katherine and Tony fell in love.

Our mother, Katherine Ricker, and father, Emory Ensor, split up.  I wrote a poem about those days, "Flying Over the Fleetwood" but haven't yet recorded it as a lyrical poetry song.  I have performed it a couple of times on stage in Cleveland and Baltimore. 

Beautiful Katherine, with long flowing light brown hair, was Presbyterian Protestant from Alsace Lorraine on the French-German border.  There was some English and Scotch in there too, but I'm all mixed up.  All I do know is something my dear Aunt Dot wrote in pencil on a  piece of white paper.  I still have it.  

Emory Ensor, with dashing black hair, a sometimes assistant starter at Pimlico and horse racing tracks up and down the East Coast, was a wild Englishman, and Scotch-Irish Catholic. Katherine was a strong-willed woman, and stern, but she had a giving heart.  She was raised like Cinderella by a cruel aunt and uncle.  They made her scrub the floors on her hands and knees all the time while everyone else her age was out having fun in Baltimore City in the Roaring Twenties. 

Katherine was the kind of mother, I never called her "mom," that cooks and cooks great stuff like English meatloaf with mashed potatoes and string beans; the kind that never sits down until everyone else is up from the table.  One thing I know - my father's side is a family of horse people, thoroughbreds.  The proof is my great uncle, Buddy Ensor, the greatest hand rider ever, is a hall of fame jockey. She had never been further than The Maryland Shore in her working class life, but she somehow took us down to south Florida.   Perhaps she'd been down to Hialeah race track and had connections.  That I'll never know, but it would make a good story.

Tony, I always called him with the greatest respect, fought in the ring as a teenager all over the Midwest and East Coast during the years of The Depression.  

Tony Marcellino - he fought light and middleweight for thirty-five dollars if he was lucky.  He told me he often fought under made up names, like an actor.  He had a lot of fights, hundreds, but not too many and turned professional.  Said he was never knocked out.  Not even knocked down.  Once he said  a referee called a knockdown.  He said it was a slip.  I believe him. Tony was as honest as an arrow.  I believed and listened to every word he said.  He was quit a philosopher too.

In Los Angeles I almost seriously took up boxing.  After school I would spar with a friend named Mike Palooka, I swear that was his name, but the comic book character was "Joe."  One day I realized he was a bit quicker with his hands than me.  I kept getting hit in the head. I quit boxing.

My boyfriends in Cleveland always asked me if he was in the Mafia.  We never used the word.  I never asked Tony about it.  I did know where he kept his stubbed-nose thirty-eight revolver - in the top drawer of the dresser.  

I always felt safe with Tony; I never called him Dad. There wasn't a need for that; he was a great father.    He got me a BB gun before I turned four and a few years later a .22 rifle and a .410 shot gun.  He didn't have to teach me how to use them.  The longshoremen from the docks in San Pedro Harbor showed me. I was a natural.   

I'll never forget one New Year's Eve outside our one-room apartment (it was new).  Tony got his .38, loaded it with blanks and he let me shoot it off. Quite a celebration for a eight-year-old.   We made quite a racket that night in Wilmington, California.  But, I must stop here, I'm getting into a whole 'nother story. 

Today, at 70, suffering with Parkinson's disease he was diagnosed with in 1984, Ali is a living legend.  He'll always be remembered for carrying the Olympic Flame at the 1996 in Atlanta, shaking but determined, he climbed those stairs. He won the Gold Medal as a light heavyweight in the Rome Olympics.  He's a recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2005. At the London Olympics he was the titular bearer of the Olympic flag.

He'll be also be remembered for his refusal to be drafted into the U. S. Armed Forces in 1967 because he was against the Vietnam War.  He considered himself a conscious objector.  He said it was against his faith, by then Muslim.  

"War is against the teachings of the Holy Qur'an. I'm not trying to dodge the draft. We are not supposed to take part in no wars unless declared by Allah or The Messenger," he told the world.  

At his trial on felony charges of draft evasion, on June 20, 1967, after only 21 minutes of deliberation, the jury found Ali guilty.  The New York State Athletic Commission stripped him of his World Heavyweight title and suspended him from boxing.  I was about to go to Vietnam as a U. S. Army correspondent. 

Ali had the courage of his convictions.

On June 28, 1971, the Supreme Court reversed his conviction for refusing induction by unanimous decision in Clay v. United States. That's justice for you, better late then never.  

I had returned from the war in September of 1968, got out of the Army, turned around after two weeks at home and went back to Singapore to marry Lohmani Dev, daughter of Ram Paul Singh, a devote Hindu and engineer for the British, a gentle and pure Indian and became a newspaper reporter at the Painesville Telegraph in Ohio, east of Cleveland.  I often wrote about of the wounds and sufferings of that war and the courage of my brothers in arms - soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors.  I wrote many stories about war protests and covered the largest march on Washington in our nation's history in October of 1969.  I sometimes struggled myself, fighting my my own demons, nightmares and flashbacks. Along the way, after the war had finally ended, I managed to capture two national awards for my stories, but not for the ones I did on the struggles of our nation and its people trying to find their conscience.   

Now I find I'm still learning about myself and the heroes of our nation on both sides of the war.  

Ali will always be remembered for how he could "dance like a butterfly" in the ring, "sting like a bee and" rope-a-dope."  But, even more, the whole world knows and admires him for his work in human rights and philanthropy for the betterment of all people. 

In doing this story, I had a hard time nailing down the day of the now historic "kiss" of Devi and Ali at the United Nations.  Internet archives only go back to 1980.  So we're some writing history here.  

For the record - Ali was born Cassius Marcellus Clay, Jr. on January 17, 1942.  His father, a billboard and sign painter, Cassius Marcellus Clay, Sr. was named after the 19th century abolitionist and politician of the same name. 

Now, I know what happened when Muhammad Ali, a different champion of the nation, visited the United Nations.  I have proof of "the kiss."  

On that day Ali was still heavyweight champion of the world - three time champion, he reminded a room full of reporters at the UN.  He told them he'll retire soon and go out on top, which black prize fighters never had managed before.   

"It would be a sin. The worst thing I could do is go back into the ring," Ali told reporters.

It was 1972 on Ali's visit to the United Nations.  The whole story of the day Dindi kissed  Ali  in the halls of the United Nations.  Without hesitation she planted a kiss on the cheek of Muhammad.  I only wish I had been there.

"I'm painting for peace," he told reporters.  

Ali told reporters in the taped interview that he was having a show at The Roseland Ballroomon on West 52nd Street in New York.  It's known as "the greatest ballroom."

"It will be the greatest," he said.

The Roseland Ballroom, New York City

Hey, if I make this story into a poetry song with music, maybe I can perfom at The Roseland some day.

You can listen to the tape now.  This is how the United Nation's website describes the 34 minute interview - 

Boxing legend Muhammad Ali speaks about God, boxing and using his fame for a good cause in this press conference at UN Headquarters.  It's 34 minutes and here's the link to the website.  

Press interview with Muhammad at the United Nations, 1979

Here also is a link to the official Muhammad Ali website.  On the cover he's dodging and weaving against the punching bag.  It's the greatest!

As stories often go, there's a postscript.  Ali was also a pretty good singer.  I was aware of his albums vaguely.  Here's Muhammad Ali doing a cover of Ben E. King's classic, "Stand By Me" he recorded in 1963.

"Stand By Me" by Muhammad Ali

Then "Cassius Clay" wins the World Heavyweight Championship after Sonny Liston fails to come out in the 7th Round.  The fight, February 25, 1964 in Miami, Florida was almost cancelled because Clay was seen with Malcom X in Miami and other cities.

Spring in the city

Photos of spring in Prospect Park, Brooklyn NY by Mike Marcellino

"Flatbush," a song of Brooklyn

Stones of Dutch soldiers, Flatbush

photo by mike marcellino copyright 2009

 

Flatbush

by mike marcellino

Flew into New York

on the wings of Peter Pan.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Babylon.

A perfect trip, eleven minutes late.

Coastal Jersey the same,

belching chemicals and oil,

industrial desolation

in the boot deep down.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Peter Pan.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Babylon.

On the heels of Jupiter,

not a bad act to follow

on the right a Santa Anna’s

banner,

lighter green an' red, white

tricolor,

blazoned to the fire escape

of a third floor, dirty red brick

tenement,

a place of West Indians,

Flatbush,

a perfect spot for Jimmy Cliff.

Mariachi band fills the air

Saturdays.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Peter Pan.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Babylon.

Soft good mornings in English,

more likely Patois

from darkened skins

standin' outside temples

ol' ladies an' gentlemen

takin’ numbers outside

for dinner

in a church

a redemption,

after

a revolution

into

a resurrection.

  

Flew into New York

on the wings of Peter Pan.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Babylon.

Walkin' on grave stones

a 17th Century soldiers'

worn blank

in this once 

'Vlacke bos'

Dutch land plain.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Peter Pan.

Flew into New York

on the wings of Babylon.

Jupiter on the right now,

not as bright

on this clear

and quiet night.

Flatbush,copyright by mike marcellino 2009

You may listen to the recording of "Flatbush" by folk band Mike Marcellino on our ReverbNation music site or on the music box at the top of this blog.

ReverbNation 

The making of music

A band of brothers
by Mike Marcellino

Eight weeks ago, a writing and musical journey began when I again hooked up with an old Army buddy, Tomas Texino.  We served in the Vietnam War together.  Tomas makes a mandolin sing, plays guitar, writes fascinating and funny stories about bluegrass music and whatever else he feels like, like stuff about Rozz Savage rowing around the world and playin' a one-on-one game of basketball against his buddy Bill Monroe shootin' at a hoop that comes outa the trunk of Bill's Cadillac.

My friend played in a cool bluegrass band, "Salt Run," for many years out of St. Augustine, Florida. Never forget our time together as far up in he mountains in Virginia as you can get, for the Carter Family Memorial Concert years ago.

This September, I found Tomas once again after a 10 year absence and we began to see what we could do with some of the poetry songs I'd written.

Well, out came "Amelia Earhart, soft silver wings" about the fearless aviator, just in time for the release of "Amelia," starring Hilary Swank.  I didn't know about the film, but got a MySpace message from her cousin, saying she liked the piece and that she isn't biased and thinks Hilary will win another Academy Award.

Haven't seen "Amelia" yet.  Was waiting for my special invite to a private screening.  The film kinda got ripped up by most critics, but then that's why they call them critics.

Tomas played mandolin on the song, composed it, threw in a bass. Singer songwriter David Dowling was on his guitar for the recording at a house in St. Augustine.  We had dinner together; it was a beautiful night overlooking America's oldest city the Spanish settled in the 1600s.  That recording night was priceless.

Along the way I got back to my first love - surfing.  Body surfed nearly every day for five weeks.  Caught one four foot wave and shot right out the curl.

Then Tomas and I did another piece, "Las Cruces," about living on a tiny horse ranch in the desert hills in southeast New Mexico, near the border.  It brought me back to wandering the streets of Juarez, Mexico, just a few months after getting out of Vietnam and the Army.  I had served as a combat correspondent and photojournalist and met Tomas as he worked helping refugees build a new life and a new village.  They called it "civic action" back then.  I think we need a lot more "civic action" and a lot less killing in places like Afghanistan, Iraq and the streets and Army bases in America.

To record "Flatbush" with musician Randall Leddy I left the surf and  hopped a train to New York City.  Randall's father served in the Special Forces in the U.S. Army.   "Flatbush" is about a writer's view of life in the West Indian neighborhood in Brooklyn.  Special thanks goes to Randall's wife, Stacy Rock, a very talented, emerging singer songwriter.  Yes, that's her read name and she comes from a small  town in the middle of Montana.  Now she's making passionate, music in New York, mixing her classical background with pop,, rock  and folk.

On the way to Brooklyn, I had sort of a homecoming in Baltimore were I was "born and early raised" (a phrase from a song I wrote, "Full moon Baltimore" recorded by my first band, Split Pea/ce in Cleveland).  I performed a solo gig without music at the Baltimore Hostel for a poetry series, "Last Sunday, Last Rights," put on by Pat King, the go to guy for Outsider Writers, a writers' cooperative I've been a part of the past couple of years.  After all these years, I discovered the original "Washington Monument" isn't in DC but in Baltimore.

When I got back down to Florida, limping as my left calf kept freezing up, Tomas and I finished work on our band's fourth song, the hardest one to do - "The Walls of Fire."

In "The Walls of Fire" I traced the sacrifice and courage of American soldiers from the Civil War through World War II, Korea, Vietnam  Iraq and Afghanistan.  We started on it before my trip to New York City but it sounded just too sad.

Tomas figured that Irish tin whistles were just the sound to turn horror into a band of brothers tackling anything and everything thrown at them.  Mandolin and a drum are also in the piece.

Now, I'm wonderin' just what's going on.  In eight weeks, the Mike Marcellino Band has reached 64 among the Top Folk Artist in New York City on the ReverbNation charts.  Not sure what that means, except there are 400,000 bands on that music site and we also rose to 654 in the United States and 965 in the world.

We reached a milestone today, recording the 9000th play on our MySpace music site.

We appreciate people listening and reading the lyrics.

We released "The Walls of Fire" on Veterans Day.  It's an important piece to us, taking us back to 1968 when we served together in Vietnam.  Not sure how we survived; just lucky.  Many of our brothers in arms didn't.

Looking down the road, we hope to put out our first CD, play some paid gigs. No matter what happens with the band, I'll be getting a surf board by spring.

A national award winning newspaper reporter and congressional and mayor aide, I now have my sights set on being a rock star.  Trouble is my eyesight is fading.

We do appreciate people listening to our music and especially their comments.  We hope you'll continue, some day buy a CD or pay a few bucks to hear us play.

After the release of "The Walls of Fire" on Veterans Day I was surprised to get a comment on ReverbNation from a musician, Destination Dawn from Ocala, Florida.

Later I found that "DD" is the Top Alternative Artists in the world on ReverbNation with tens of thousands of fans.  She wrote this about our band -


("Flatbush") Cool spoken word!!!Great music and interesting revelations!!! 


("The Walls of Fire") has great background music and effects that befit the deep revealing words. You have an intriguing style. 


Wishing you all the best and much continued success with all your endeavors!!!
Much Love, 
DD


Hope DD doesn't mind that I included her last sentence.  Her comments are both very sweet and quite encouraging.  


Didn't ask her if she makes any money from her music though.


By the way, thanks to the modern techie miracles I finally figured out, you may listen to Mike Marcellino  right on the ReverbNation Widget on my Networked Blog, "The Point of the Whole Thing."  


Here I thought a "widget" had something to do with croquet.

Band of brothers, by Mike Marcellino, copyright 2009

Flatbush, a new poem

Flatbush

by mike marcellino



Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
Perfect trip, eleven minutes late.
Coastal Jersey the same,
belchin’ chemicals and oil -
industrial desolation
in the boot of this deep down.


Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
On the heels of Jupiter,
not a bad act to follow
on the right a
Santa Anna’s banner,
lighter green an' red, white
tricolor
blazoned to the fire escape
of a third floor dirty red brick
tenement, a place the West Indians
call Flat Bush,
perfect spot for Jimmy Cliff.
Mariachi music filled the air
all Saturday.

Flew into New York
on wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on wings of Babylon.
Soft good mornings in English,
more likely Patois
darkened skins
standin' outside temples
ol' ladies an' gentlemen
takin’ numbers for dinner
in a church
outside
a
redemption,
after
a
revolution
into
a
resurrection.


Flew into New York
on the wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on the wings of Babylon.
Walkin on graves a stone
17th Century soldiers'
worn blank
in this once 'Vlacke bos'
Dutchland flat plain.


Flew into New York
on the wings of Peter Pan.
Flew into New York
on the wings of Babylon.
Jupiter on the right now
not as bright,
on this clear
an’ quiet night.




Wings of Babylon copyright by mike marcellino 2009