Last night

Tonight is my last night abroad--my flight leaves from Madrid at 11:00 local time tomorrow morning and arrives at Dulles at 2:00 PM Eastern time, for a total of 9 hours in the air. It will be exactly 8 weeks since I left JFK in New York.

Anyway, for what COULD be my last entry, although I'm not entirely sure about that, I just wanted to share some of my better and more interesting memories. I'll keep it short and sweet, so I have plenty of time for dinner and a night on the town in Madrid. These kinds of recaps are always flawed and incomplete, so this is by no means definitive, but here are some of my favorite things I saw and did on my trip in Italy, Spain, and Morocco.

Favorite things I saw:
5. The Duomo di Milano/the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona: I've seen sooooo many churches in the past two months, I had to include my favorite(s) on here. It's a tie.
4. Mar Bella--that is, the gay beach in Barcelona: This short stretch of beach was just too funny. It was distinctly different from the beaches stretching away on either side of it, and I can't help but appreciate that things like this can even exist at all.
3. Chelo making paella: Watching Chelo Vazquez make paella was very cool. I intend to learn to make paella, and she intends to teach me. And if watching it was one of my favorite things, don't even get me STARTED about eating it.
2. The Palio di Siena: Watching this event for the second year in a row, again on my first day in Italy, was as much as I could have hoped for. Last year´s palio may have been more intense, but this year I saw more of the preparation, and it was great.
1. Opera on the Spanish Steps: Perfect way to spend my last night in Italy. Perfect.

Favorite things I did:
5. My night tour of Rome with Riccardo, Barrett, Megan, and Ashley. Beautiful city, beautiful people--overall a great experience that I won't forget. It made me ever more intent on living in Italy ASAP.
4. Eating with the Moroccans: The owner of our hotel in Fez, Mohammed, invited us to eat, and it was amazing Moroccan food, three nights in a row. It was so great to avoid tourism and get an authentic taste of the country.
3. Swimming in Taormina: I believe I wrote about this... Anyhow, the water was incredible and diving off of the rocks was such a rush. Best place I've ever swam, ever.
2. Tapas and clubbing in Barcelona: Good beer, good food, and dancing are all things that I love, so that night was pretty much amazing.
1. Eating with the Vazquez family: Yes, this includes the paella, but so much more. Dinner is when they really showed their hospitality and made us feel welcome, and the food was all amazing.

And I can't leave out some of the STRANGEST things I saw or did:
5. Barcelona: What a weird place.
4. Drinking in front of the Vatican: Ok, I did it on purpose, because I don't quite love the church, but it DID feel pretty weird.
3. Finding an episode of Friends on TV in Marrakech (stranger because five minutes earlier I commented that that was all I wanted). They really do play it EVERYWHERE.
2. The bartering attempt that resulted in an impromptu lesson on the Fay-Bans (Fake Ray-Bans) industry permeating Italy. Very enlightening. I really should have bought them. I got the guy down to €8, but I didn't want to spend more than 5. Either way, the guy selling them was cool.
1. The McDonald's in Tangier playing an American Major League Soccer game (Colorado Rapids vs San Jose Earthquakes) with Arabic commentary. Seriously, what the hell.

So yeah, travel has been great, and fun, and sometimes very weird. But I don't want to get too down about going home, so here are a few things I'm looking forward to there as well:
5. Not living out of a bag. I can't wait to pull clothes out of drawers instead of a backpack.
4. Exercising again. I miss running, and I'm pretty sure I've lost weight (in a bad way).
3. Catching up on American TV shows. I'm behind on new episodes of Futurama and Friday Night Lights, and I think I'm going to start watching True Blood again. We'll see. Friends might warrant another run through the series from start to finish.
2. Teaching myself to cook. I'm going to try to replicate some of the things I ate here and become a master chef. Oh yeah.
1. Getting ready for the great American tradition of Halloween. Yes, America has culture, too.

Thank you for reading, everyone. It's been an honor to travel blog for you!

Marrakech

Marrakech is the last city on my tour of Morocco. We arrived and found our hostel with less trouble than in Fez or Tangier (although what is with hostels in this country being practically empty? They're like relatively nice, pretty clean ghost towns. But they offer less amenities than their European counterparts, and they don't serve breakfast during Ramadan). Anyhow, so Marrakech is my last city to blog about.

Marrakech is much more developed and therefore more touristy than Fez. Normally, groups of tourists bother me, but here, it's kind of a breath of fresh air. I don't stand out so much in Marrakech.

So here are some pros and cons of sticking out like a sore thumb in Morocco:

Pro: adorable little kids say "bonjour!" when you walk past; some people stop to ask where you're from and welcome you to their country (and everyone here says "you're welcome" instead of "welcome" without perceiving a difference, which is kind of charming);

Cons: every taxi stops to ask where you want to go; every tout in the medina asks you where you want to go (and they literally do not believe that you might JUST want to walk with no specific destination, which is USUALLY what I'm doing); cars beep at you when they drive past; everyone assumes you're rich; etc.

But you have to understand, it's harder to come up with pros because my good experiences here have nothing to do with how much I stick out; they have to do with meeting nice people and eating good food, regardless of whether I'm walking around with a neon sign flashing "WHITE GUY." So the point of this tangent is, it's nice not to be a target.

So Marrakech has a lot of nice streets and parks--I'm sending this blog entry from the "Cyber Park," which has outdoor touchscreen computer terminals along its paths and wi-fi for portables. The market is less authentic than in Fez, because Fez is really one of the artisan capitals of this part of the world, but it's colorful and fun regardless. However, people in Marrakech are completely willing to exploit Western ideas of the Arab world. The main square in the medina is almost impossible to walk through without being accosted by monkey-handlers, snake-charmers, henna-tattoo-"artists," and the like--yesterday, a man tried to entice me into his shop with the advertisement "Berber carpet? Flying carpet?" Tonight, on our last night, we're going back to the square, where there are supposedly tons of street shows and a lot to see... Belly dancing, perhaps?

So it's probably not difficult to tell that I enjoyed Spain and Italy more than Morocco, but I wouldn't mind coming back--I would like to see the mountains and deserts, especially. I hope I didn't give too negative an impression, but it has been a bit of a culture shock, and it's taken some adjustment. I'm from the country, where you always say hi to strangers, and this place is different, which is kind of hard for me. A lot of people want to take advantage of foreigners, but I survived it, and I was cussed at a bit and hopefully not taken advantage of too much. Morocco is a pretty crazy place.

Tomorrow I fly back to Spain, where I can see the Vazquez family again! And then the day after, I fly home. It feels bizarre to be able to say that.
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Fezzz

Walking home from the tea shop from where I posted my last blog, I felt a stronger pull from Tangier than I had so far. It was around 11:45 PM, and the streets were full of people sitting at tables outside rows of tea and coffee shops, sitting around parks and squares, or just strolling along the markets, still open. I was reminded of the Italian "passeggiata," when everyone walks along the main course of the city just to enjoy the evening. The Moroccan version was unexpected, but August is the month of Ramadan, and so I suppose life (and tea and dinner) really begin in earnest after sundown. The streets were brightly lit, crowded but tranquil, and the evening was finally a bit cooler.

However, the train to Fez was stifling. I felt disgusting. I was fanning myself with a map of Tangier and a man walking down the aisle stopped beside me and said, "it's hot!" I said, "yeah, it is." He asked where I was from, and I told him Canada, and he said, "welcome!" before he continued down the carriage. When people are that nice I kind of feel guilty about the Canada thing...

But then this morning on the way to the train station some guy stopped me in the street to ask where I was going--he did the same yesterday, we recognized each other--and then asked, trying to look into my bag, for a souvenir, despite the fact that he did NOT guide me anywhere or help me in any way. I know where I'm going. Leave me alone. And so the point is, I never know if people who start innocent conversations are hawking me or welcoming me to their country. What's a blonde white foreigner to do? I just can't blend in.

Fez was more of the same, but in a less ominous/threatening kind of way. It's a lot bigger--the medina (that is, the old traditional city) is the biggest in Morocco, and maybe north Africa, and it may be an illusion, but it SEEMED like there were less tourists in the medina. The medina is somewhat labyrinthine, good maps of its thousands of streets and alleys just don't exist, and therefore being a foreigner attracts a LOT of attention from locals who want to give you unofficial tours and expect to be tipped. They're persistent in varying degrees; some polite and friendly, some REALLY not wanting to take no for an answer. If I had a dirham for every person who shouted the word "tannery?!" at us, trying to guide us to the tanning district... I'd have like 50 dirhams, which is actually only like 5 euro. But I could buy 25 liters of water to fend off my dehydration. My favorite hawkers, depending on a liberal definition of favorite, are the ones who want to lure you into their restaurants. If you're not interested in eating, they don't mind--just take a look at their menu anyway. Why? I don't know, and I don't want to. But looking past hawkers, there were a lot of cool markets and things to see (and the tannery WAS very cool, when an actual guide took us there). All-in-all, much cooler than the medina in Tangier. I understand why everyone says you shouldn't miss Fez.

We stayed three nights in a hotel in the new medina (a different district--I can't really explain it well), but hotels in the medina are not what you're thinking of. It's more just a rented room in a building where a lot of Moroccans actually live. The guy we rented from, Mohammed, was awesome. He invited us to eat with him and his family/friends (unclear, really, as most of them didn't speak English) our first night, which was a surprise. And then the second night, too, which was a surprise. And the third night we went out because we didn't want him to feel obligated to invite us again, but when we came back he insisted we come eat again, and he had looked for us to invite us before, but we had been out. So we ate. Moroccans want you to eat. They really do, and they don't accept no. Even the ones who don't speak English keep putting food in front of you--they just do it without asking if you want more. I don't know how to spell it, but I know how to say "eat!" in Arabic. All of our food there was in-freaking-credible. And they had real toilets.

Today, our train to Marrakech is going to take 7 hours. Morocco is SO much bigger than it looks on a map. Africa is a deceptive freaking continent. God, I hope it's cooler than our train to Fez.

Tangier

I am in Africa. How weird is that? It seems weird to me, at least. We arrived by ferry, where I got a passport stamp (I love passport stamps) with Arabic writing on it. And I had no idea they were this close, but we could see Morocco from the southern coast of Spain. However, proximity does NOT alleviate culture shock.

In most regards, culture shock here has not been bad so far (further inland we'll see about soon). Many signs have French in addition to Arabic, which is helpful if words are similar to Spanish or Italian and comforting if only because it's a recognizable alphabet. I don't have high standards for accommodation, so I don't mind the minimalist pension we found here, although I did have to use a squat toilet for the first time in my life, and I didn't love it. But the one kind of shocking thing is the hawkers.

I knew they would be around, especially in Tangier, but people here often call things to you, try to sell you things, try to give you advice on where you're going, try to get you to their restaurant or tea shop, and they do NOT stop at "no thank you." They're persistent and often, when rejected, are not friendly. First we tried ignoring them, thinking they might not follow us or they'd give up quicker, and we got SERIOUSLY cussed at. Cussing so much it made even ME blush, and I'm a 22 year old recent college grad, so I've heard some cussing. Then we tried pretending not to understand English, thinking Italian is less universally spoken, but turns out a lot of them speak Italian, too, so that trick didn't get us off the hook even once, and then I had to have the same wearisome "no thanks" conversations in Italian. No, I don't want to buy shirts, and I frankly just don't believe you really want me to come to your shop, look around, not buy anything, and have a free tea. I don't believe you'd let me off that easily, and I don't need the trouble. So basically, hawkers make me uncomfortable. One guy followed us to the beach yesterday, and to be fair, he was very friendly, but he would NOT leave us alone, and he actually sat next to us on the beach for probably 2 hours before we just decided to go back to the hotel. We got rid of him by lying that we would come meet him at this restaurant at 8:30, which we did not do. Speaking of lying, we're also telling people we're Canadian, when it comes up. I'm probably being paranoid, but enough people told us to be careful in Morocco that I trust no one, and I'm not sure how they feel about Americans--the Vazquez's recommended the Canadian trick, and they've been to Morocco many times. I carry as little as possible with me. I just feel, overall, a little edgier here than anywhere else I've ever been.

Which is NOT to say that I'm having a bad time. Good comes with the bad, and while I don't love the section of the city we're in and spent our time yesterday, today we discovered cleaner, nicer areas, without hawkers everywhere. There are beautiful buildings, fountains, and plazas here, and many streets look very European. The architecture is very different--mosques are not so grandiose and picturesque as the catholic cathedrals that I'm used to--and people are very different, but the few non-hawkers I've come into contact with have been very friendly. And, I didn't know this before, but Moroccans are very attractive. So that's always a plus too.

It's a day earlier than we'd planned, but I think we're done in Tangier. Tomorrow, we move on to Fez.
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the Vazquez family

We arrived in Madrid around 7:30 in the morning with the foolproof plan of "find Chelo Vazquez," a woman who neither of us had ever met in real life and who doesn't speak English. We looked around the bus station, wondering if she would be inside or outside; we stared at a lot of strangers wondering if they were Chelo; but then she arrived, and she was entirely unmistakeable. Chelo, her husband (Felix), and her son (Pablo) are completely amazing.

Therefore, we've been staying in a suburb outside of Madrid called Majadahonda. They are great hosts and guides; our first morning, Chelo and Pablo took us for churros and chocolate, an incredible Spanish breakfast, and gave us a quick drive around the city to orient us (only moderately successful), and then took us walking around several of the sights, palacios (palaces), catedrales (cathedrals), and plazas of Madrid. Pablo took us into Madrid one evening and another day, Toledo another day, and he and Chelo together took us to El Escorial and Segovia yet another day. Chelo takes more pictures of these places than I do. I'll write about Madrid a bit later, but this post is dedicated to the Vazquez family, so tourism can wait!

The language barrier is an interesting situation. Pablo speaks English, and Felix speaks some Italian, but at dinner, for example, there's a whole lot of Spanish flying around. I can understand a lot of it--when they speak to me, because when they're speaking to each other it's another language entirely--but I don't know how to say very much. However, they're the nicest and friendliest people, and my stupidity doesn't seem to bother them. On the third or fourth night, actually, they told me that my Spanish was already better than when I arrived. Of course, it's always easier to talk after a few glasses of wine (more confidence, less thinking too much), and Felix always keeps our glasses full. Their Spanish accent sounds very different than all the Latin-American Spanish I'm used to hearing, though. Their pronunciation is different, and I'm actually trying to modify my Spanish a bit, because when I move to Italy, it seems more prudent to speak the local pronunciation. So, as an example, they don't pronounce the "c" and the "v" in cerveza like "s"; rather, they pronounce it more like the "th" sound in "thin," so it sounds like "thervetha" instead. It's very difficult to explain in writing, but in speech it's a very clear distinction. They also pronounce their j's, ge's, and gi's with a lot more throat. So basically, ejercicio is absolutely impossible to pronounce. But I'm getting better. A little bit.

Chelo is like the sweetest woman on earth. It doesn't even matter that we don't speak the same language. She gave Carrie and I gifts on our second day here (a shirt for me!), she makes us serious lunches (two or three dishes, plus dessert) every day, she sends us platters with horchata and snacks in the afternoon, and she laughs all the time--she likes explaining things in Spanish. We danced in her car on the way to Segovia after we all agreed that we liked a particular song that we always hear on the radio, and I asked her in Spanish what the song was called. She didn't know, but the next day she handed me a post-it note with the name and artist written on it. She searched online at work through popular summer songs to find out for me.

Felix is awesome, as well. He's really friendly. He summons me to show me things like his grill and a robot that cleans their pool. He taught me a trick with wine corks, and, as I already mentioned, he never leaves my glass empty. He gave us España souvenir bracelets and some currency for our arrival in Morocco. At dinner last night, he ordered all kinds of food, kept my glass full of tinto de verano (a bubbly red-wine drink), and then ordered a platter with five different liqueurs for Carrie and I to taste. Then he asked which was our favorite (pacharán--sloe gin), and then he ordered three glasses of it. And then two more rounds of shots for the three of us. In fact, emptying my glass in front of him is a bit dangerous, because he always tells waiters to bring me more of whatever I'm drinking, or does it himself if we're eating at home. I feel accepted into his Spanish drinking culture. Really, I don't think I had much of a choice to begin with, but I'm very happy about it--the acceptance, that is, not the drinking!

They have been amazing and generous hosts, and I wish I knew how to pay them back. If any of them read this blog... ¡No hay suficientes gracias en todo el mundo! ¡Hacéis demasiado! ¡Muchas muchas muchas gracias!

Barcelona

When I decided it would be easy to tack Spain onto the end of my Italy trip, I did not think about what I was doing. Spain and Italy are, in fact, very different, and I just don´t speak Spanish. Furthermore, I landed in Barcelona, and I speak even less Catalan. In fact, I didn't even know Spanish was not the primary language in Barcelona, and I arrived thinking, "what the hell are these signs in the airport, and why doesn't that look like Spanish?" So that's how mentally unprepared I was for Spain. While I always qualify my Italian ability as "solo un po´" or "un pochino" ("just a little" or "very little"), my Spanish ability is so much less that I feel like this is the first time I've ever been to a country where I didn't speak the language, and it took me a day or two to adjust. However, I couldn't have asked for a better city to adjust in than Barcelona. My love for Italy notwithstanding, I have to include Barcelona as one of my favorite two or three cities that I've been to in all of my time in Europe. Like Milan, it has a vibrant quality of life beyond the tourism that makes me comfortable; deep down, I found myself thinking, "what if I lived here..."

Carrie and I did the tourism thing for the first evening and the next day. The city is beautiful and strangely esoteric. Aesthetically, I doubt there's another city like it in the world. The architectural influence of Antoni Gaudí shapes the city into something entirely unique--it is nothing like I expected.

We continued tourism sporadically after that, but we got more caught up in the life of the city. We left the beaten path for a tapas bar which was packed and ordered beers and not-even-slightly-understood tapas platters from a waiter who spoke no English using a lot of bien´s and si´s while exchanging confused and helpless looks. But they were good freaking tapas. And we felt much cooler than all the dumb tourists getting tapas off English menus at restaurants on la Rambla, because we have tourism superiority complexes. We fell in love with horchata--don't ask me what it is, I don't have any idea--and we bought sangria at a supermarket--tacky Americans. And then we discovered the night life. We wandered around the Eixample neighborhood until we started passing bars, and we found a small discoteca; I bought a beer and we danced; we met a local and hopped to a much bigger disco; we got free beers with our admission and danced until 4 AM. The disappointing thing is that 4 AM is early to go home here--discos are generally open from midnight until 6 or 8 AM--and I didn't get any useful contact information from any of the people we were talking to, so that night will just stand disconnected in memory as a great introduction and welcome to Barcelona night life. And then, the next day, we discovered the beach, which we alternated with urban exploration four our last three days in Barcelona. While swimming in Italy was incredible, Barcelona's wide, free, sandy beaches trump Italy's craggy, crowded coasts for sheer lazy relaxation, and I hear there are incredibly nice beaches in other towns nearby, too. We talked to a few locals on the beach, and I felt right at home.

Then we took an overnight bus to Madrid, and I couldn't help but think, "I just got here... do I have to leave already?" I wonder how soon I can go back...

Italy in pictures

I won't write much here, but I finally have access to a computer with a connection fast enough to upload some pictures, so I chose a dozen of my favorites from all around Italy. I've taken over a thousand, so expect to see a lot more on Facebook once I arrive home and sort through them properly, but here's a small sample.

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan--the 150th Anniversary sign on the left celebrating the unification of Italy in 1861. The crest below the big 150 represents A.C. Milan, the football club founded in 1899 with 18 official UEFA and FIFA championships.


Most of what struck me in Milan was the life of the place, so many of my pictures reflect everyday objects instead of monuments or landmarks. This was a newsstand advertising the Italian men's edition of Vogue, with Beyonce on one of the covers.


Milan--just a sign outside of a bar. Marilyn says, "with coffee this good, I only drink it here!"


Trieste--not the best picture I took here, but this was a particularly charming cafe setup.


Palermo--while I did take a picture of the garbage mountains in this city, it wasn't all so dirty. This is a fountain in front of the Cathedral of Palermo.


Piazza del Duomo in Catania--one of my favorite piazze (plazas/squares) in Italy. Statue of the elephant "u liotro" visible on the pedestal on the right.


The Duomo di Catania at night. One of my favorite cathedrals in Italy.


Taormina--I swam around this island, Isola Bella.


Taormina--I don't know exactly what this church was, but the skull and crossbones seemed strange. The church was beautiful.


Rome--the changing of the guard at the Quirinale, the house of the Italian president.


Rome--the Vittoriano at night. Mad self-picture skills.


Rome--opera in front of the Spanish steps on my last night in Italy. Perfect.

When in Rome, Part 2

My last night and day in Rome were monumental.

Kathleen and I returned from our walkabout thoroughly exhausted, with an hour or so to kill before our last dinner in Italy, and for the first time I appreciated having a room of my own. We each took showers, threw on shorts/a nightgown, lied down on our beds, ate from a bag of peperoncini-(peppers)- flavored potato chips, watched Will & Grace and Desperate Housewives dubbed in Italian, and felt thoroughly American. After a month without, even I needed a little slice of Americana in my life. Then we dressed up in our finest clothes (I hadn't worn my khakis all month and didn't want to have brought them for nothing) and went to Piazza di Spagna for dinner... at McDonald's.

In defense of choosing McDonald's for our last dinner in Italy, it was highly recommended to me by none other than Cinzia. And indeed, McDonald's (especially the one in Piazza di Spagna) is so strange here. There were two floors; the first featured a cafe/bar with all kinds of pastries and the standard Italian coffee drinks, as well as some McCafe specialties with decidedly "Italian" twists, such as pistachio- or hazelnut-flavors. The second floor was the restaurant, and by McDonald's standards, it was nice. The menu wasn't as different as Cinzia led me to believe, but I got a Peroni on tap, which was excellent and un-American. I also got a Crispy McBacon or something like that. Which was pretty American. And so good. It was a lot of fun, and it was definitely an experience, so I don't regret eating at a McDonald's abroad. All dressed up, we felt McClassy.

Next we went to have wine on the Spanish Steps. Kathleen had a bottle in her purse, along with my corkscrew and plastic cups we took from the maid's cart at the hotel, but we had no idea how amazing a last night it was going to be. I never found out why, but a pianist and four opera singers were unexpectedly performing in front of the fountain at the bottom of the steps. Despite the crowd, we found a step to sit on, uncorked our wine, and listened to opera for nearly an hour. I know little about opera, but we thought it was a pretty awesome way to spend our last night in Rome, and I really loved it.

I spent my last day in Rome on very diverse pursuits. First I ran some errands, bought my last jar of Nutella, (resulting in me leaving Rome with one empty, two unopened, and one in progress) and coffee to bring home, mailed my postcards from Catania (about a week late), and found an internet cafe to check my flight information. Then I decided I wanted one last Italian cappuccino, and my day got a little more interesting.

I decided to go to a bar near the Colosseum that I'd seen the day before. There were a few people at tables outside, but no one else was at the bar, so the barista smiled at me, asked me for just a moment while he ran a check to someone's table, and then, returning, asked me what I wanted. The remarkable thing about the interaction that followed is that I had the entire conversation in Italian. I've long been able to order food and drinks, pay for things, ask for help, and things like that, but social interaction requires more flexibility, a wider array of knowledge, vocabulary, and some colloquialisms. In short, it's a lot more difficult.

I ordered my cappuccino, which he brought to me a few minutes later. He said "you're American?", I said "the accent?", he laughed and said "yeah, I can hear it. A lot," and I laughed and said "damn." We talked a good bit. He asked where I learned Italian, where I studied, what I studied. I told him Political Science, and he gave me a look. I said, "you don't like Political Science?" And he said, "no, I just don't understand it." I said, "me neither." I asked him how the American accent sounded in Italian. He said, "very nice. I like it." I felt pretty successful. Eventually I finished my cappuccino, paid, and left. He said goodbye and good luck. I walked down the block and then kicked myself for like twenty minutes for not even getting his name. After another ten minutes or so, I decided to go back.

I wandered to Piazza di Spagna and took the metro back to the Colosseum, and then I walked back to the bar. He looked up and saw me, so I said, "I'm back." He said, "you're back." I ordered a coffee. It was busier than before, so he spent a lot of time walking back and forth, and he didn't say much, but he DID keep smiling at me, so I figured I hadn't weirded him out. My thinking was this: one, it'll be a long time before I have Italian coffee again; two, how could I write about my conversation on my blog without his name? (which I notice I've done up to this point anyway); and three, I really need people willing to practice Italian with, and I'd walked away from a perfectly good option. After a few minutes, I said, "you're not going to ask me why I'm back?" He said, "no," smiled, and told me to wait a minute while he took something outside. He came back and said, "I'm not going to ask why you came back, I'm just glad you did." So that shut me up, and I drank my coffee. Then I ordered another.

I talked to some American guys for a few minutes when they asked me what something on their wine bottle said. I hadn't talked to the barista much since I'd returned, but he was busy and I didn't want to be in his way. But I finally felt like I couldn't sit around much longer, so I took my empty cup up to pay. While he was looking for my change, I said, "I came back because I wanted a coffee." He laughed, so I asked him his name. He said Cristian (which isn't even Italian, although I'd assumed he was). I gave him my name, and I said I had to ask so that I could write about him on my blog without calling him "the barista." He asked if I was ever coming back to Rome, and I said sure, but I didn't know when. He told me to hold on a second, rummaged through a drawer, came up blank, and asked me for a pen. And then he gave me his name and e-mail address on the bar's business card. I said, "maybe you can hear my American accent sometime," and he said, "bravo." So now I have another person to practice Italian with.
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When in Rome, Part 1

I spent five nights in Rome this summer--two more than last year, three couchsurfing, one on the floor of a hotel, and the last in a hotel room and bed of my very own, making this year's adventure in Rome a much more diverse experience than the last.

Kathleen called me my first morning in Rome to let me know that my camera, which I formerly thought lost, had been in the apartment of two of the girls studying on the Perugia program all month, and the man checking the apartment after their departure brought it to Kathleen. Now I have my 8 gig memory card back, and I don't have to be so selective about taking pictures.

I called Riccardo and met up with the Perugia group during their tour. I hung out with them a bit, but then I split, found a supermarket next to the Pantheon, and bought myself Nutella and cookies to serve as my brunch. One thing about Nutella in Italy: it comes in these small glasses that everyone in Italy uses as beverage glasses after they're empty, and I decided, while dipping cookies into Nutella in front of the Pantheon, that a full set of Nutella glasses would be just the Italian souvenir that I could really use to spruce up my future apartment, and I committed myself to eating four jars of Nutella in Rome.

I found my way back to my couchsurfing hosts's apartment from the metro, which by all rights should have been closed down, around 12:30 AM, having walked between his apartment and the metro only once before, with him. It was a miracle and I was very proud of myself, although I did take a wrong turn and only via some trick of Italian streets stumbled back on the right way.

I did a bit more touring--a lot of things I've seen before--but enjoyed the company of the Perugia kids, and went on a late-night tour with Riccardo, Barrett, Megan, and Ashley, where we drank beers in front of the Vatican and took obscene pictures, and then we listened to an Italian band cover Aerosmith's "Eat the Rich" on the River Tiber. I doubt the singer actually spoke English, because he seemed to be singing a bit of gibberish here and there. We strolled through Piazza Navona, had drinks at the Campo dei Fiori, and had a chat in front of the Pantheon (much more impressive by night), in which Riccardo made me ponder more seriously than before moving to Italy. When they learned I was probably going to sleep in the train station that night (perfectly safe, parents, don't worry), Megan and Barrett snuck me into their hotel room. I got free breakfast the next morning, too.

I saw the Capuchin Crypt with a few of the Perugia guys the day after their official tour ended. Unlike the catacombs in Palermo, where the bodies were intact, the crypt was literally decorated with various assortments of bones. In one room, there were arched recesses constructed of skulls. In other rooms, chandeliers of human bones hung above the walkways. Those crazy Capuchins.

That night, my couchsurfing host picked me up on a scooter and gave me a small tour of Rome by scooter by night. It was moderately terrifying, but also very fun. I was KIND of disappointed not to ride around the Colosseum, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth, and we rode around plenty. The next morning, we separated relatively early, and I met Kathleen with some relief outside of our hotel for that night. We walked all over that damn city that day--down past the Vittoriano, across the river, through the Trastevere neighborhood, through a big park with some stunning views of the city sprawled below, down to the Vatican, and then we came back to the hotel to get ready for our last dinner in Italy.
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Catania

My last days in Palermo went by without a hitch, given that I didn't do much at all. Two days in a row I left the hostel in the morning with the intent to go to the beach at Mondello, and both days I changed my mind before I bought the bus ticket. The first day, I bought two pairs of underwear half-off at Intimissimi, because I love the underwear I bought there last year, but then I felt guilty about the €11, so I decided not to spend money on the beach. I sunbathed a bit down by the harbor of Palermo instead. By the second day, I'd come to the realization that Mondello was one of those resorty beaches that I disliked so much in Vernazza, Monterosso, and Capri, where there would be no space or peace, and I stayed again in Palermo. I went for a run for the first time here in Italy--it's just not practical or feasible to run in most places here--and read a bit. I bought two books, also half-off, at a used bookstore, and I'm officially buying NOTHING else to bring home from Italy except coffee. Packing my bag at the hostel, I finally realized that the evil underwear bastards from the first day took my yellow sweatshirt, and I hate them for it, but I left the negativity in Palermo and barely caught my bus to Catania.

Catania is beautiful. If I did Sicily again, I would have done two days in Palermo and six here. Everything (including the incredible duomo) is built of black lava stone, from Mt. Etna, and it's a very striking departure from the usual marbled palaces and cathedrals. It's less dirty than Palermo, prettier, and closer to more things I wanted to see.

I went with an American and two Brits from my hostel to Siracusa my first day here. We swam in the sea a bit, toured a bit, got gelato twice, and missed our bus home, so we waited an extra hour and a half at the bus stop with beer, pretzels, and cookies from a supermarket nearby. Exhausted and contented on the bus home, we passed the time mimicking each other's accents and laughing at the different words we use across the big old Atlantic. Hostel friends are cool. We all decided to go to Taormina yesterday, and we didn't have much time there, but we swam at the most beautiful beach I've ever been to. Both the Brits got stung by jellyfish, but we also jumped (and I dove) off of a rock some 25 feet above the sea into the clearest water I've ever seen, and it was such a rush that I don't mind that my time in the town was limited. I saw the Greek theatre, which was pretty, and I really liked a small church I passed with inexplicable skull-and-crossbones sculptures above the arch of the door. The other American left from Taormina for the next stop of his trip, so the Brits and I returned, got a drink, and I taught them how to play "Cheers to the Governor" until like 3:30 AM, and I got up at 9. There's evidently only one bus each day that goes to Mt. Etna, unless you do a 40-60 Euro guided tour, and I missed that bus (at 8:15), so I don't get to hike Etna. I was really looking forward to doing it, but I hung around Catania today and got my stuff in order instead. I ate a cannolo, a Sicilian pastry that is AMAZING, and a baba', a type of rum-pastry-thing. I'm going to learn to make cannoli at home. I decided in general that I'm going to become a more accomplished cook. I'm going to restart and relearn the basics, because I suspect my self-taught college culinary abilities are lacking in many aspects. I'm going to feed people all kinds of amazing pestos and pastries. I'm going to be amazing.

I failed to get into On the Road, and while I haven't given it up, I've turned my attention toward Harry Potter e l'ordine della fenice (the 5th book's Italian translation). I follow it pretty well in the overarching sense, and it's magically captivating even if it's slow and unsure comprehension of the details. I'm anxious to get to Rome. I want to go out, something I've done very little of so far, and dance to weird European house music. I leave Catania tomorrow, and I only have six nights left in Italy at all. I can hardly believe I've already been essentially homeless here for 26 days, and yet the remaining twenty-some days seem a lot like an eternity.
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Palermo

Palermo is NOT what I expected. It's chaotic, dirty, and it seems to lack focus.
I arrived at my hostel around 9 last night, and after taking my stuff up to my room, where some dude was sleeping in his underpants, I went out to take a look around.

Navigation in a new place is always fun. For example, I arrived at the airport with the intent to take a train to the city. I saw no such train, so I hopped a bus instead, assuming it would go to the station, which was the only place in Palermo I could locate my hostel from. ULtimately it did take me there, but first it started making stops all over the goddamned city, and I started to worry about the fact that I didn't know where the hell I was. I was too stubborn to ask for help, so I waited for the last stop, which turned out to be the station. Thank god.

But I got a map at my hostel, and I went out for a walk, a bit concerned that I might get mugged. Mostly that was paranoia due to the fact that I was carrying all of my money, my cards, my passport--basically everything that matters--because I forgot to bring a lock to Italy and I didn't trust the guy in his underpants in my room. But the walk was fine, and then I came back and crashed with all my valuables in my small backpack in my bed with me. Paranoid much?

Except good thing I WAS paranoid, because I carried all my valuables again all day today, and I discovered this evening that someone went through my bag. I'm like 98% sure. I don't think they took it out of the locker, but the two pockets that were accessible without moving the bag were definitely both rifled through. I know because my dress pants ended up on top of the rest of my clothing, all of which was rumpled, and I haven't worn my dress pants all month. Oh, and I don't fold my dress pants in half the way I fold my jeans. And they weren't even folded well, on top of all that. But I don't think anything is missing. I had all my documentation and electronics with me, so I guess the guy in underpants didn't like my clothes enough to steal any. He was checked out by the time I got back to the hostel this evening. Dirty bastard. Tomorrow I guess I have to figure out where the hell one buys a lock in Italy.

That said, not all hostel experiences are bad. A girl who checked in this evening came in while I was reading, about to take a power-nap. She's from Brazil, her name is... shit, what IS her name? Luziente? Anyway, she spoke in Italian when she came in and asked which beds were available, so I responded in Italian, and a few minutes later she said (in Italian), "So, you're Italian?" I said, "No, I'm American. Where are YOU from?" And she said Brazil. She never reverted to English, but Italian has worked well enough so far. We chatted a bit. Her Italian is better than mine, but she understood me, at least. I must have answered her first question REALLY well, or else she just has no idea what Italian is supposed to sound like.

So today I walked all over Creation. I started with the Cathedral of Palermo, which is very pretty but is the reason I call Palermo "unfocused." There is no clear FRONT of that church. It's just a big blob of architecture surrounded by palm trees. I walked past the Norman Palace without going in because there was a line and I didn't want to pay €8. I saw another church which was interesting from the outside but creepy inside. There were statues of priests and Jesus that looked like ventriloquist dummies, so I hauled ass out of that place and found Ballarò, an outdoor market district. It was... interesting... The whole street smells of dead fish (because they sell alllll kinds of fresh dead fish and seafood), and there are stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables, a lot of tacky junk stalls, and I didn't know what to do with it all. So I kept walking, got lost, couldn't find the church I was looking for, gave up, and went to the Vuccuria, another outdoor market, and at this one I bought a loaf of bread for 70 cents, since I hadn't eaten, and a chilo of bananas. It was a boring but cheap lunch. Then I regrouped at the hostel, walked way the hell back past the cathedral and the Norman Palace, and found the Catacombs of the Capuchin monks. I arrived around 2:15 and had to wait until 3 for the catacombs to reopen, so in the meantime I made friends with two girls, one from Austria and the other from Australia, who both used to live in England and both moved, and then we went into the catacombs together.

The catacombs are surreal. There are literally semi-mummified, skeletal corpses hanging off of the walls. Thousands of them. Pictures were forbidden, so I was only able to sneak two or three (oops...), but seriously Google the capuchin catacombs of Palermo. I've never walked through underground tunnels while being leered at by the corpses of Palermo's 16th-19th century noblemen and monks before, so that was a very new experience. It was eerie. Kinda gives you the heebie-jeebies. Then I went with Antonia and Sophie (the Austrian and Australian) to the Norman Palace, where we got in for only €5 with student IDs, which I didn't know would get me a discount there, and even though I don't love paying for tourist stuff, their guidebook said the Palatine Chapel (inside the Palace) was THE "premier tourist attraction of Palermo," and the Australian kept calling it THE premier tourist attraction of Palermo, and it was so hot, and we'd all walked so much, that the heat was definitely getting to our heads, and we laughed so much and built up so much expectation that I was surprised by how cool the Palatine Chapel actually was. I snapped some pics, and then we trekked back into the center of town, where we said our goodbyes and went to our separate hostels, but then I decided to go down to the seafront instead, so I walked around even more way down along the harbor, and then I finally turned around, came back, ate the entire rest of the loaf of bread and two bananas, and tried to take a nap. I was only moderately successful, but I read a bit and listened to music a bit and chatted with the Brazilian for a bit, and then I finally fell asleep for like 30 minutes and then I woke up and showered and thought about going out, but I am freaking tired and I might just go pass out. Yep, I think I will just go pass out.

casa Cinzia

Tonight is my last night with Cinzia and her family. As I mentioned
before, they live in Pordenone, a small city about an hour from
Venice, and Cinzia is here until August 20th, when she's returning to
Richmond. Anyhow, they've been incredibly hospitable. (Side note: the
Italians are some seriously hospitable people; looking back, Marco
didn't know me outside of like two e-mails before his family agreed to
host me, and yet they did SO much to make me comfortable--way more
than I needed, honestly! His parents invited me to Sardegna in August,
and Marco and Francesco won't even be going there with them. I
wouldn't impose again so soon regardless, but anyhow I already have
plans in Spain and Morocco. By the way, Carrie, when I said I would be
with a friend in Spain, they invited you too. Haha the Italians really
are some of the best people in the world.)

Anyhow, Pordenone is small, not particularly exceptional, but
comfortable and a bit quaint nonetheless. Cinzia doesn't think it's
anything exceptional either, so I'm not being ungrateful. And Cinzia's
family lives in a more rural area, outside the town itself. They have
a vegetable garden, some cows, and I believe they make the wine we've
been drinking with dinner every night from their own small vineyard.
During the weekdays, Cinzia's nephew, Pietro, has been here, as well.
Her parents watch him while her brother and sister-in-law work. He's
three years old, and while he isn't in the least bit quiet or timid,
he refuses to talk to me. He talks ABOUT me, though. I suppose I am
something of a big, strange foreigner. But I don't think he dislikes
me, because he told Cinzia where he wanted everyone to sit at lunch,
and he sat me across from him. He just doesn't want to TALK to me.

Cinzia took me to Venice Saturday (see my first post), and Sunday we
relaxed and took a bike ride around the Italian countryside. It was
beautiful, even though it made me miss my bike. Monday we went to
Trieste, and Trieste I REALLY liked. It's a beautiful city, but it's
not so touristy. It feels lived in. It's a port city, like Genova,
which I loved last year, and it has a pretty unique vibe, because it
hasn't always been under Italian dominion. It was part of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire until the end of World War I, if my history is
correct, and so it's more accurately "mitteleuropea"--central
European--than Italian. To those who visit Trieste, I recommend that
you dress fairly well. Trieste and its people are both well-taken care
of, and while I didn't look BAD, you might feel a bit more in sync
with the slow, comfortable, elegant pace of the city. Today Cinzia
showed me around a few small, local towns. I'm not going to go into
detail on them all, but suffice it to say that there are a lot of
beautiful things to be overlooked from the big city tours, and there
are also some places even in Italy that are somewhat anonymous.

Staying in Pordenone has been a bit strange for me, however, because
right on the route to and from town is Aviano--the first American
military base I've seen in Italy. The base is like a gated community.
They have housing complexes, a supermarket, and even (according to
Cinzia, but it isn't visible from the road), a Taco Bell. It seems to
me that most of the Americans here keep themselves pretty isolated,
and so the base makes me kind of uncomfortable. Cinzia told me that a
lot of the Americans used to live outside the base or leave the base
to interact a bit more with the community, but it doesn't seem like
they do all that much anymore. To me, it furthers the stereotype that
Americans have no interest in or respect for other cultures or
countries, which is a stereotype that negatively affects a lot of
American travelers. I haven't had any real problems myself--although I
once received a backhanded remark simultaneously complimenting my
Italian and insulting my nationality--but I know a lot of Americans
who claim to be Canadian when they go abroad to avoid scorn or an
unpleasant reception. However, there are exceptions. Some families
whose assignments are more permanent live off-base, and apparently
some of Pietro's classmates at preschool are American. He has an
American friend who speaks English, but he wouldn't tell me his
friend's name.

I'm almost done with Catch 22, which I positively love, and I'm
simultaneously reading a translation of one of my FAVORITE books, The
Great Gatsby (Il grande Gatsby), that I bought after much
deliberation--that is, I read the first page of three different
translations to decide which best preserved the tone and beauty of the
English original, and I'm happy with my selection. I'm halfway done,
and I'm becoming more comfortable with some of the
less-frequently-used Italian tenses, and I'm picking up some new
vocabulary to boot, and I have a pretty cool and unique souvenir to
bring home from Italy. That, and I'm going to buy some Italian coffee
for my moka pot.

Tomorrow I fly from Venice to Sicily, where I'm intending to see (in
eight days) Palermo, Catania, Taormina, Messina, the beach, Mt. Etna,
Siracusa, and maybe more. One step at a time: find my way from Palermo
airport to my hostel.

concerning beauty

I enjoyed my remaining days in Milan very much, and I found my visit
to be very interesting in one particularly interesting way. Gabriella
adores Milan, and I think with more time and familiarity I would, too.
But Marco, Francesco, and some of their friends didn't seem to have
quite such a high opinion. Marco, for example, emphasized the city's
aesthetic inferiority to Rome, Venice, or Florence. Withholding
nothing from Rome or Venice (I haven't been to Florence), I still
think Milan is an incredibly beautiful city. The Duomo di Milano, in
particular, easily ranks with the Cathedral of San Lorenzo in Genoa as
one of my favorite cathedrals in Italy--it's so extravagant that it
flirts with tackiness, passes completely beyond absurdity, and comes
full circle to achieve a stunning beauty. I've never been to Paris,
but the hundreds of statues, figures, and gargoyles decorating the
Duomo di Milano brought to mind my idea of Notre Dame (based as it is
on the Disney adaptation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame... have I ever
written something so disgustingly American on this blog before? That
said, it's one of absolute favorite Disney movies, so I mean no
disservice in its evocation! I'll have to go to confession and
repent--next time I'm at the Duomo di Milano, of course!).

But even Marco declared the Stazione Centrale in Milan the most
beautiful train station in Italy, and I have to agree. My word of
advice to visitors arriving in or leaving Milan by train: even if you
take the metro connection into or out of the station, take five
minutes to leave the station gaze up at it. And then, as you're
looking, realize that Mussolini had it built, and you'll have an
entirely new perspective on its beauty. In Marco's roughly translated
words, "Stazione Centrale is one of the only good things Mussolini
ever did."

Anyhow, while I clearly appreciate aesthetics, beauty alone is not
enough to enchant me. And what better way is there to segue (did you
know the English word segue comes from the Italian verb "seguire,"
which means "to follow"? "Segue" would mean "it follows") into my trip
to Venice?

I'm currently staying with a former professor, Cinzia, and her
family, outside of Venice (more to come on that in my next post). We
went to visit Venice yesterday, just for the day, and Cinzia showed me
some quieter, less touristy neighborhoods that we didn't have time to
see last year. In the morning, before the tourists come in, Venice is
less crowded. It really is a beautiful city, architecturally and
aesthetically. But unfortunately, that's not all it is. Venice is a
fucking zoo. Excuse the profanity, parents, if you're reading this,
but there's really no polite way to describe the throngs of tourists,
in groups of 20 or 30, following guides speaking into microphones in
Japanese, German, French, English; the men selling fake handbags, fake
sunglasses, and junk toys in blankets on the streets and bridges,
ready to snatch the blanket and their merchandise up at the first
sight of cops; the total chaos and confusion in the Piazza San Marco,
where I doubt you could find an actual Venetian if your life depended
on it, excepting those who are giving tours, and even most of the tour
guides are not, in fact, Venetian; and speaking of things that are not
Venetian, the ornate souvenir masks in every shop in the city that
don't actually resemble the tamer, classical Venetian masks in the
slightest. I could go on, but I won't. I know, I know, I'm a tourist,
too. But the least I can do is never, EVER again make the mistake of
being a tourist in Venice.

In sum: Milan, 1; Venice, 0-for-2.

Milan

If you haven't already read as much on Facebook, Twitter, or via personal text message, I love Milan. I'm so glad I came here this year. If only I'd known what I've been missing!

My hosts are great. Marco, the friend of Gabriella's daughters, is studying for exams, but he's been so helpful and hospitable. He speaks English, but not to me, because he knows I want to improve my Italian. His patience seems infinite. His brother, Francesco, took me out for a few beers at Milanese hot spots last night, and I met a few of his friends. He's trying to improve his English, although it's already quite good, so we've exchanged a lot of vocab and expressions. I taught him "jackass," but I forget the Italian equivalent. And their parents are awesome. Il signor Penza made a fantastic dinner last night--first a pasta with gamberetti (shrimp), vongole (clams), and cozze (mussels), then mozzarella di bufala (buffalo mozzarella) with tomatoes and basil. And he and la signora Penza talked a lot. She insisted on doing my laundry. And again, they seem to have infinite patience.

I walked around Milan for hours yesterday. I got a free map at tourist information, I looked around some bookstores, I got an incredible gelato with actual pieces of mango and coconut in it, and an old Italian man stopped me and asked me if I were Milanese. Magari. No, but I'd like to be. I ordered a marocchino (literally: little Moroccan), which is a drink with espresso, steamed milk, and powdered chocolate, at a bar called Princi that Gabriella recommended me. I explored a neighborhood called la Brera which was very charming, and I gazed at the gargoyles on the Duomo. I read a bit of Catch 22 in the piazza, because sometimes I really just need some English. And later Francesco took me to le colonne (the columns) of San Lorenzo and Corso Como, where the bar we went to was playing "Papa Don't Preach."

Today I explored some new areas. I successfully navigated the metro, which always makes me feel good. I bought the July/August issue of the Italian L'Uomo Vogue (Men's Vogue) because Beyonce is on the cover and I figure I can read a magazine on a train to practice some Italian more easily than buying a book. And I bought a camera. It was more expensive than I would have liked, but I wasn't happy not being able to take good pictures of some stuff. Anyone can Google the Duomo di Milan, but as strange as it may sound, I love taking pictures of interesting billboards, signs, cafes... Tomorrow I have to revisit a lot of places now that I can take some nice pictures.

Tonight I went to a barbecue with Marco and about a dozen of his friends. They were all very nice. I had trouble understanding them at times (12 Milanesi shouting at each other after a few glasses of wine? Please.) But after MY few glasses of wine, I felt more comfortable and think I spoke a lot better. Or maybe not. Who knows. But then they all got crazy and sprayed each other with the hose and threw buckets of water and, once, a glass of wine that I had the misfortune to be partially in the way of. But, all things considered, it was fun. Only in Italy.

Now I'm going to bed. Tomorrow is my last full day in Milan, and I want to wake up a bit earlier and get to the city. And then Thursday it's onwards, to Venezia. I feel like I'm living a crazy life right now.
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Cinque Terre Word Vomit

i wrote this in my notebook all day Sunday... Free flowing though. Not usually my style, but I liked it for this post. My trip to Cinque Terre was rushed, and therefore so were my trains of thought. Here we go.

I'm in Vernazza. Last night I slept on a rocky beach in Riomaggiore. I dove into the Mediterranean at 7 AM. The Cinque Terre are BEAUTIFUL. I lost my sunglasses; I'll be surprised if any of my shit makes it home, EVER. I'm so sweaty I actually feel GUILTY for how gross I'll be when I meet my host in Milan tonight. I don't know if he speaks English... Probably he does... Working out must begin anew when I return home. Talking to people here is weird because noone knows where anyone is from, so I get Italian greetings from Chinese, Italian from British, I give English to Germans, I give Italian to Chinese and Italians. This morning I said ciao to a guy and girl because I wasn't sure if they were American, British, or German, and he started asking me questions a few minutes later in Spanish. My responses sucked. I still don't know if he was Spanish. Didn't look it. I rigged up my pack to hang my towel and bathing suit to dry while I'm hiking. I cut the shit out of my feet swimming in rocky coves, so my socks are bloody. The noon church bells in Vernazza are going CRAZY, but Vernazza is tacky, so I'm heading to Monterosso to relax on the beach all afternoon. A waitress at a bar last night taught me the etiquette for caffe' corretto--espresso with liquor. Sometimes they use grappa, an Italian liquor, but she recommended sambuca, and it was good. It's socially acceptable to order after lunch or after dinner. I changed clothes many times under my towel today, including once in a train station. Italian public bathrooms suck. I should start carrying t.p., but I hate my bag already. I hated Monterosso. I walked around in nothing but a speedo and my backpack. How European am I? Loved Riomaggiore, Manarola, and Corniglia. See Vernazza and Monterosso only for the hikes. Now leaving the Cinque Terre.

Saturday

I'm typing this on my Blackberry right now, but I wrote it Saturday. Enjoy!

10:05
I'm writing this blog on the train. I left Perugia at 10:01. I will arrive at Riomaggiore, the first town of the Cinque Terre, at 3:30. I have to change trains twice, but my ticket cost much less than I expected!

I didn't sleep enough last night. Umbria Jazz Festival started, so I listened to live music and drank wine in the piazza until around two AM, and I woke up very early to pack up my stuff. I'm going to miss the students in Perugia a lot. For a week, they were my friends, who I saw and hung out with every day, and even if it was only a week, they were closer geographically than anyone else! But now I'm leaving with more great memories of Perugia.

In the spirit of Umbria Jazz, I'm listening to Aretha Franklin. I'm almost done with Love in the Time of Cholera. And I used the Italian post office this morning!

2:45

Looking at the departure schedule in Florence, my first exchange, I discovered that I had about 2 minutes to get to the next train passing Sarzana, my second exchange. I panicked, rushed to the train, and got on, belatedly wondering why this train was scheduled to arrive in Sarzana sooner than I had expected. Even though I knew I wqould make it to Sarzana, I spent about an hour praying that I got to Sarzana before the conductor checked my ticket and fined the crap out of me for some foreign ignorance. But my first instinct was fine, my ticket was valid, and I got to Sarzana an hour early. I now have to wait an hour and six minutes in Sarzana, which, from what I can tell, is a pit. I have to pee, and the bathrooms are closed for work. I suspect this issue is not receiving prompt attention. And everything in sight is closed. As Barrett learned to say last night, "fanculo la pausa."

Next Steps

Tomorrow morning I depart Perugia. I love this city; it feels like a second home in so many ways, but now, finally, I'm going to be exploring new lands. Five lands, to be exact, because tomorrow I'm going to le Cinque Terre, which literally translates to "the Five Lands." The Cinque Terre are five villages set on a cliffside overlooking the Mediterranean. I'm very excited. The Cinque Terre are inaccessible by car, which means they have a reputation of peace and tranquility, despite their growing popularity with German and American tourists. Hiking trails connect all five. Some are as close as 15 or 20 minute walks, while others are more like 90 minute trails. Four of them, if I remember correctly, have beaches. Basically, to someone with a little outdoorsiness and adventurousness, they're a paradise.

However, they're a good ways from Perugia, so my train trip is likely to take 5 or 6 hours. I don't know what my internet situation will be there, so I may not be able to blog about them until I make it to Milan, my next destination. But I'll be in Milan by Monday or Tuesday, and I already have a few connections with locals. I'm staying with a friend of Gabriella Valsecchi's daughters. Gabriella is an Italian teacher at VCU, who is just the sweetest and most helpful woman in the entire world. Both my host, Marco, and another friend, Jessica, have offered to show me around the city. I kind of feel like I have Italian friends, even if they are friends-of-friends. And after Milan, I'm going to Venice, where I'm staying with a former teacher, Cinzia, and her family. I called yesterday to confirm. The call was kind of nerve-wracking, because I only had her home phone number, and I was afraid I would sound stupid if her parents answered, but she answered and I sounded kind of stupid anyway with my stunted Italian before she said "this is Cinzia, who is this?" But Cinzia is incredible and said just call her when I'm leaving Milan and she'll pick me up at the train station in Venice, it doesn't matter what day. She didn't even ask how long I was staying (3 or 4 nights, which we discussed a few months ago). Italians are the best. So hospitable.

The above comment about my stunted Italian notwithstanding, I feel very confident in my language abilities on this trip. I do NOT understand everyone around me--far from it--but I haven't had any issues so far understanding people who actually talk to me. Ordering coffee and food, paying for things, and even a few more random conversations have given me a lot of faith that I will not die here. The one time when I actually thought it would just be a better idea to use English (to buy my phone), that didn't end up being an option, so I scraped by in Italian and my phone works just fine!

By the way, I suppose all of you readers will have different phone plans there at home, so feel free to contact me at my Italian phone number (which I have proudly memorized) but don't blame me for costs incurred! Look up how your phone works with international calls or texts before you use the following number!

Il mio cellulare (my cell): 0039 331 391 7018. I don't remember how to dial out from the US. You may have to dial an additional prefix before the country code (0039). I don't really expect anyone to use this, so if you take the initiative, you can look up more info. I'm not spending my internet time on it.

And for those who don't already have this number but want to contact me via text, you can use my Google Voice number: (540) 315-4360. It works just like a regular US number, but don't expect instantaneous responses. I can only access my messages when I have internet. Have patience.

I think that's all I want to say for now. People don't want to read long posts about nothing. But until I can blog again, wish me buona fortuna (good luck)!

Perugia

I'm on Evan's iPod and don't feel like typing a lot, so I'll keep this short.

I'm in Perugia, and I got my luggage today, so I'm finally clean-shaven and in a new outfit. Perugia has been fun, but I lost my camera and I'm pretty upset. The luggage situation was not my fault, but this is, and it is awful. I think I left it at a bar two nights ago. I've looked for it and asked around, but no luck so far. So I've lost the pictures I took in Siena, in Perugia, and in transit, I lost my brand new memory card, I can't afford a new camera, which I don't trust myself with anyway, and I wont have any pictures for the rest of the trip. So I wastoo bummed out and I just sat in the piazza and read for the 4th of July.

Sorry I dont have a happier post. Maybe later.

Ciao ciao.

Jinx

So immediately after posting about how painless my travel was, everything that could possibly go wrong did.

My flight from JFK to Madrid was delayed 3 times, for a total of about 3 hours and 45 minutes. I therefore missed my connection in Madrid, because my layover was only 2 hours, and the airline rebooked me. That flight was ok, until I actually got off of the plane. They lost my baggage. I am traveling with the clothes I've been wearing since Edinburg, my documents, one book, my Blackberry (utterly useless here), Evan's iPod (pretty useless, due to some law that says there's no such thing as free public wi-fi--what the hell?), my camera, and the BAREST bathroom essentials: glasses, contacts in their case but with no extra solution, a toothbrush and mini-toothpaste, and deodorant. And a mini-pillow I took from my airplane. Screw them.

Getting my stuff is going to be difficult, as I have no permanent address here. I headed to Siena despite ALL the complications, stumbled across Carrie after about an hour of walking in circles around the Piazza hopelessly, and I'm going to have to call the airline in just a bit, after I find out Kathleen's address, and then hopefully I can alter my itinerary to be in Perugia for the next few days instead of Florence. Oh weeeeell. And this is all assuming they've located my bag. But I'm choosing to believe that's probable, because there were 7 or 8 of us with lost luggage on the same flight. I'm guessing a cart got overlooked or misdirected, not that my bag is individually lost. But again... I have NOTHING here. And I smell.

I napped a bit on planes and trains, but my sense of time is completely screwed up, and I have NO idea how long my transit experience was (did I mention my train to Siena from Rome was delayed inexplicably for 2 and a half hours?). I arrived in Siena around 11, walked like 30 minutes and found the Piazza del Campo, found Carrie around midnight, roughly, and walked, talked, sat, had two beers and a gelato, and haven't yet slept. The local time is 11:30 AM, but I feel ok. I had a nice breakfast--a peach, an undefined pastry (I never know their names, so I always just order the favorite of whatever barista is serving me), and a cappuccino, which was glorious. I'm hoping to meet up with Kathleen today, but I don't have her number. I bought an Italian phone this morning, so I'm no longer COMPLETELY unreachable, but it's pre-paid, so I intend to use it conservatively.

I'm on paid internet, so I can't post any pictures yet, but I have a few nice ones. The Palio is this afternoon, (a horserace, it's amazing), and so I'm going to explore the city a bit until then, and I'll probably make it back online sometime after I arrive in Perugia. Wish me luck, if anyone is actually reading this!

Ciao ciao.

Hey blogosphere,

I made it to my gate. Two posts in one day is NOT something you should come to expect, but there are only so many things to do with an hour to kill at the gate. I already called my parents, my grandma, and Ashley. I called my bank and the VISA people and notified them of upcoming travel. I decided to save my baby bourbon for my train in Italy tomorrow. I survived a TSA full-cavity search. That last part was a joke, they let me through pretty easily.

I'm really not sure I've ever been less stressed while traveling. Everything today went exactly according to plan. I hope this is a sign of things to come.

I did realize that I do not have a map of Siena. I can probably pick one up at the station there... but nothing comes free. Or I could just pray my Italian is still good enough to ask an old lady on the street. I remember Piazza del Campo is roughly south from the station. I'm meeting Carrie in the piazza, God willing, around 7 tomorrow evening. I am very, very excited to be abroad.

First items on my agenda:
1) Get a coffee.
2) Gelatoooo.
3) Pizzaaaa.
4) Absinthe shot. It's a longstanding plan of Carrie and mine.

Until you hear from me again,
Ciao ciao.
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®

Testing the e-mail posting feature.

I'm on my bus to New York, and everything is smooth sailing so far. I slept about 3 hours, and I'm about to try to take a nap. Traveling with a backpack is much nicer than traveling with suitcases.

The one thing I wish I'd brought so far that I didn't: rubber bands. I have power cords nearly strangling me every time I reach into my "carry-on" bag. Zune cord, Evan's iPod cord, my Blackberry cord, headphones. It's like a pit of cobras.

Now, I'm going to doze off to Beyonce, whose new album is, by the way, pretty damn smooth.

This afternoon I'll arrive in New York (7th and 33rd), catch the E at 34th/Penn Station, and head out to JFK. The Italy end is a little less... organized...
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®

The Last Night

Tonight is my last night in the United States. It's been really hectic, because I put off ALL of my packing and preparation until today, and I barely got everything done.

I have to wake up at 4 in the morning, which is going to be difficult, to make it to my dad's by 5. Leaving dad's by 5:15 to head into DC, and then catching a bus up to New York. Flying out of JFK at 5:15 PM, 12 hours after I really begin traveling.

This is my bag. It weighs exactly 25 pounds. That's a tiny bottle of bourbon next to it. I'm saving it for the subway ride to JFK. This is a bad picture, but it's late and I'm tired.

Guess what, followers?

I'm going ba-aaaack!

Coming soon: updated Italy travel blog. I figure I'll rename it... any ideas?