Leaving Pompeii, it turns out, is much easier than getting there. This is mainly because this time, I am using the closer station rather than the farthest. When I came into Pompeii, I came into a station about 2km away from my hotel. Since I wasn't going to walk with my pack that far, I took a taxi. How much did that 2km cost me? 15 euro. That's the most expensive cab ride I've ever had. Nonetheless, this time the station is closer than the ruins, so no problems with walking there.
From Pompeii, I need to go to Sorrento and then take the bus to Amalfi. I also have the option of a ferry, but that port isn't close to the train station, so I'm stuck with the bus.
The only thing to note about the train ride was that much of the route south is a single track. Meaning, if there's another train coming against traffic from you, you'd better yield. This led my train to stop for 10 minutes, with no air conditining, and apparently, in some cases, no deodorant, in a station waiting for a train to get through a long, one lane track tunnel. From there, it was easy sailing Sorrento.
Now, the bus ride from Sorrento, yet another tourist hub, to Amalfi is known to be a frightening one because of the sheer heights and drop offs. Add that to general Italian driving, the narrow roads and complete lack of stop or yield signs, and you've got yourself a party.
The first bus to Amalfi is already full so there is along line of tourists with lots of luggage waiting on the curb for the next one. I meet a retired Australian couple who have been traveling since June and they still have two more months to go. The husband remarks in general about their trip, "too short" . I also meet a lovely British girl who is on holiday from her job, seeing Sorrento and the coast, and treating herself on her last day before heading home - a lovely pair of italian leather boots. She's a sucker for Italian leather, she says. After about 20 minutes of idling with lovely fumes spewing out of it, the first bus leaves and ours pulls up. Your basic tour bus, we grab seats and wait to depart.
Despite all the seats being taken, people are still boarding. They intend to stand the whole way. Knowing what I know of the ride, I can't imagine this being a good idea, but maybe they are more ok with flopping about than I. The other snippets about the commute to amalfi is that the traffic is horrendous. In high tourist season, only even numbered ending license plates can go on certain days, the odd numbered on other days. Kinda like the gas shortage in the 80s except with asphalt being the hot commodity. And they aren't kidding. The traffic is bad. No regard for yields, traffic laws or speed limits, the guy driving is like a majestro of the road, manuevering this bohemeth of a vehicle around hairpin turns while a scooter or a car is doing the same thing except from the opposite direction. The only caution you have about on coming danger is honking. At every turn, te driver honks two or three times. And I would like to report it was some sort of macho, Italian honking sound, but honestly it sounds more like a clown car. Nonetheless, it does it's job and we are clear to kepp going. Once past all of the traffic, the scenary is beautiful. A pair of British women tipped me off as to which side was the best to sit on for the view, so I've found myself looking down a 20, 40 or 60 story drop off, depending on where you are in the turns, with nothing but a wall that doesn't even come up to your waist seperating the bus -and you - from air. But like I said, the majestro is driving, so there is no fear.
Finally in Amalfi, getting off the bus feels somewhat like stepping into an adult Disney World. Everything is in English and everything seems to be cheesey and touristy. To get to my hotel though, I have one more bus to take. I find the appropriate one and up the cliffs we go. And I do mean cliffs. When I get off at my stop (after an additonal seven hairpin turns winding us up) which is not labeled in a any way, shape or form, you just have to 'know' when to tell the driver this is your stop, I have to go down 300 steps to the hotel entrance. I would later learn that it is another 700 from the hotel down to the city center. With my pack and that many steps, my calves feel like they may melt off the bone and form a puddle. And while by no means am I a rock star athlete, I like to think of myself as somewhat in shape. This hike down would have put most onto oxygen; I know I was breathing hard.
But the view. What a view. And the terraces. In genius European form, they have taken the cliffs and cultivated them. They basically cut into the cliff to form a level ledge, then added a significant amount of fertile soil and planted all sorts of things. Apples, pomegranetes, but most if all, lemons. This is why at every corner of every street on the Amalfi coast you will find limencello. By the liter. I walked through three groves on the plataeus down to my hotel. Lemons the size of mangos (yes Emily, mangos). But back to the view.
Amalfi is gorgeous by day and absolutely sparkling at night. I settle into my room for the next three nights and find out the best place to eat. Gerrys Pub, the hotel owner tells me. Pub? Yes, pub. Alrighty then. It's off to Pogerno. Back up the 300 stairs and up the hill to a town perched even higher on the cliffs.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Pompeii and Eminem
From Rome, I headed off to Pompeii by train. The change in Naples wasn't as daunting as I expected and there I boarded a regional train to Pompeii. The difference between the two trains, long distance and regional, is like comparing Amtrak to the L or the Metro. No matter, it's getting me where I need to go and is providing beautiful scenery along the way.
Pompeii, the part I saw, was not what I expected, athough I never made it into the city center. My hotel was not even .25 miles from the ruins and as soon as I checked in, I set off in search of the preserved (in relative terms) city. The remains are quite astonishing in that there are fairly well intact, especially the Villa Dei Misteri, and in the sense that it is a City. And just like any city, getting around the whole thing takes time. More time than I expected. I grabbed the audio tour and spent four hours wandering the site without seeing it all. In hindsight I should have done a guided tour, but money was on my mind and the audio tour seemed as if it would suffice.
Back at the hotel, my feet covered in dust (I wore sandels having no idea how vast the area was), I inquired about places for dinner and was basically left with the sole choice of dining at the hotel. I was skeptical about it because for the longest time no one was showing up to dine on the terrace near my room.
And then I heard it. The shrilling laugh of teenage girls.
I poked my head out the door and noticed three tables filled with them. Well, at least there are people dining there now, might as well join them. I settled in and my waiter, who spoke broken English at best, and I attempted to converse about my order. Vino rosso. L'aqua, naturale. La speciale. Done. The only other single diner there was seated next to me, a German, I found out, in Pompeii as an archeologist for four months. The group of squeeking girls, he informed me, is actually a school group from New Zealand. Funny how I must not have been much older than they when I first visited Europe. Just as excited to get away from home, just as excited to be - gasp - drinking!! and legally! I couldn't help but be jealous of their excitement - not that I would ever go through puberty again if you paid me. But the innocence about their visit was something to desire. While my trip here to most is one big vacation, to me, it's not quite so simple. Something is missing and I don't know what it is. These teenage girls don't think much past what their next homework assignment is or who to take to prom. Life, although they don't know it, is simple. Life seems to get more complicated as time goes on. But, as we say in the computer business, maybe that's just an operator error. Maybe sometimes we - I - make a mountain out of a molehill. All I know is my brain is constantly filled. Filed with things to do, things to say, things not to say, people to see. There is no free space. I've known this for quite some time and have flat out ignored it. And I guess, in a nushell, that's what this trip is about. Finding free space. And all the various ways that can be interpretted.
But I have completely digressssed. While all of this was going on in my head, siting there on the terrace with Mount Vesurius in the background, the ruins of a two thousand year old city within sight and with a lovely bottle of local red wine that fizzes when you open it, it's so young, the radio is playing over the speakers. From the Italian chatter I can tell it is similar to a top 40 station. And there, in an ancient town, Eminem and Rihanna come through air with Love the Way You Lie. I couldn't help but grin ear to ear. A collision of two worlds and two cultures. As homesickness has already started to sink in, it is a nice reminder that while 'free space' is on the docit, home will always be home. And that, despite all my rambling, is comforting. Even if the reminder comes in the form of Eminem, I'll take it.
Pompeii, the part I saw, was not what I expected, athough I never made it into the city center. My hotel was not even .25 miles from the ruins and as soon as I checked in, I set off in search of the preserved (in relative terms) city. The remains are quite astonishing in that there are fairly well intact, especially the Villa Dei Misteri, and in the sense that it is a City. And just like any city, getting around the whole thing takes time. More time than I expected. I grabbed the audio tour and spent four hours wandering the site without seeing it all. In hindsight I should have done a guided tour, but money was on my mind and the audio tour seemed as if it would suffice.
Back at the hotel, my feet covered in dust (I wore sandels having no idea how vast the area was), I inquired about places for dinner and was basically left with the sole choice of dining at the hotel. I was skeptical about it because for the longest time no one was showing up to dine on the terrace near my room.
And then I heard it. The shrilling laugh of teenage girls.
I poked my head out the door and noticed three tables filled with them. Well, at least there are people dining there now, might as well join them. I settled in and my waiter, who spoke broken English at best, and I attempted to converse about my order. Vino rosso. L'aqua, naturale. La speciale. Done. The only other single diner there was seated next to me, a German, I found out, in Pompeii as an archeologist for four months. The group of squeeking girls, he informed me, is actually a school group from New Zealand. Funny how I must not have been much older than they when I first visited Europe. Just as excited to get away from home, just as excited to be - gasp - drinking!! and legally! I couldn't help but be jealous of their excitement - not that I would ever go through puberty again if you paid me. But the innocence about their visit was something to desire. While my trip here to most is one big vacation, to me, it's not quite so simple. Something is missing and I don't know what it is. These teenage girls don't think much past what their next homework assignment is or who to take to prom. Life, although they don't know it, is simple. Life seems to get more complicated as time goes on. But, as we say in the computer business, maybe that's just an operator error. Maybe sometimes we - I - make a mountain out of a molehill. All I know is my brain is constantly filled. Filed with things to do, things to say, things not to say, people to see. There is no free space. I've known this for quite some time and have flat out ignored it. And I guess, in a nushell, that's what this trip is about. Finding free space. And all the various ways that can be interpretted.
But I have completely digressssed. While all of this was going on in my head, siting there on the terrace with Mount Vesurius in the background, the ruins of a two thousand year old city within sight and with a lovely bottle of local red wine that fizzes when you open it, it's so young, the radio is playing over the speakers. From the Italian chatter I can tell it is similar to a top 40 station. And there, in an ancient town, Eminem and Rihanna come through air with Love the Way You Lie. I couldn't help but grin ear to ear. A collision of two worlds and two cultures. As homesickness has already started to sink in, it is a nice reminder that while 'free space' is on the docit, home will always be home. And that, despite all my rambling, is comforting. Even if the reminder comes in the form of Eminem, I'll take it.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Roma
Yesterday, or at least what seems like yesterday, was my flight out of Philly to Rome. I am not a good flier at all, I'll say that up front. The last time I flew this long of a flight i went sepcial to see my doctor about a pill to knock me out. I made sure to bring the same pill this time. Something about 40,000 ft with nothing between you and the ground but air freaks me out. Go figure. This flight was actually not bad at all once you got past the fact that I couldn't sleep to save my life. I think, at most, I managed two hours max of sleep. But, when you see the sun come up over the horizon and realize you're going to be spending the next two and a half months in this country, there's something in your adrenaline that kicks in and says "pay attention". I am so thankful I went through all of the Italian processes last year when I visited. It made all of the customs, luggage, etc far less daunting. The difference this time was taking the train to Rome. After three futile attempts at buying a ticket, I finally figured it out and boarded the correct train. On board I noticed a couple that had been on my flight and asked if they too were heading off to the Rome stop. They were and this started a conversation that lasted the rest of the trip to the station about Italy and various experiences there. This was the first hint I got that traveling alone, while scary at times, forces you to say things and talk to people you never really would otherwise.
The Rome train station is exactly like DC in my mind. The signs, the way the metro runs and how they indicate which train is going where is very similar to when I lived there. I got this. No problem. However, the problem does arrive when you actually have to look at a map of Italy. That makes things far more difficult because more than half of the roads in Rome aren't
listed on any normal map because they are too small. This is what led me to walk around rome with my pack and rest of my luggage for a good 45 minutes before giving up and taking a taxi. From where I let out the metro station, I was only two blocks away from my hotel. By the time I took a taxi, I was well over a mile. Go figure.
My hotel is very simple and small, but it was 'free' because I used my miles to pay for it, so I have no complaints. At this point its about 11:00am and while in the US, lunch would be underway, it doesn't start in Italy for the most part until at least 12. I wandered around and found a cute little place where the counter guy spoke no English but was incredibly nice and accomedating for me. My first meal in Rome? Ham and cheese panni, the largest bottle of water they make (1.5L) and the freshest squeezed orange juice I have ever had.
At this point it's about 12:30 and there is only one thought going through my mind, "Don't fall asleep." The measly one or so hours of sleep on the plane are catching up to me fast, but I have to wait it out so I can get my body clock right for the new time zone. So, I continue to walk around, getting a better lay of the land, and purchase grapes from a market around the corner. Upon returning to the hotel, I run into the same man that checked me in. He has good restaurant suggestions and notices that I have uneaten grapes, which, he grestures, should be eaten up on the fourth floor terrace. It's open to all. Sounds great to me so I make my way up the spiral marble stairs and sit out on the balcony with a nice view of some part of the city. The cleaning crew is making the rounds nearby and at one point one of them sticks her head out to say hello. Or should I say, buongiorno - she speaks hardly any English. Over a period of broken enligish and italian we start to talk to each other about our lives. She is Angela. 25 from Romania and wears bright blue eye shadow. She met her boyfriend 3 years ago in italy and has been here ever since. And me? On, no, I'm not married. She is the first of what I expect to be many to inquire about this. Perche? Good question. I'll have to make sure I keep a running tally of how many times I get asked this. Day one? Check. We talk for awhile, she shows me two of the hotel rooms she is cleaning on the top floor, with another terrace. One of the room has an amazing view of part of Rome and I take the opportunity to snag a few pictures of the view my room certainly does not have. We talk some more, me grabbing my dictionary every 5 seconds or so and her gesturing emphatically to express her thought. She eventually gets back to work and I eventually go down to my room. I will see her tomorrow at breakfast she says. Arrivederci.
At this point my body is giving out beyond belief and its time for a cold shower to wake up. To no avail. I give in and sleep off and on for three hours. Every time I wake up is like waking up in a dream. I have to remind myself that yes, I am still in Italy, that yes, I will be here for the next two and a half months. It takes awhile for that to sink in.
I eventually pry myself out of bed and make myself look presentable. Amazingly enough, I'm starving. It's 5 pm which its a bit early for dinner, but closer enough. I walk around a bit before settling into the restaurant the hotel had recommend "just up and to the right". Observation: in Italy directions aren't very useful. Up and to the right means hike up a hill and you'll see it in about 10 minutes. Anyways, with what I was about to eat, I needed the walk. I settled in to the place once they had opened and got my drink ordered in italian, but that was about as far as I got. In english I asked about the specials and based on my feedback he recommend the "pasta with" something something "squid. Very nice", he said. Ok, I'll take that. Now, when I hear squid, I think calamari. That's not what they mean in Italy.
I still remember the first time I had baby octopus. It was somewhere in Italy when I was in the 9th grade and on our school summer trip, our chaperone - my Latin teacher - had me taste this soup she was having. "What's the chewy stuff", I asked. Chicken? "Baby octopus", she replied. Well, that was the end of that. Until now. To be fair, this was baby squid. But really it's the same basic thing. Tiny head, tenticles, rubbery texture, you get the idea.
Clams, mussels, baby squid and whole prawns on a bed of pasta. Before this though, my first course was buffalo mozzarella and prucuitto. My god, what a taste. I'm pretty sure the plate was for two people but I ate it all but 1/5 of the large mozzarella ball and all of the ham. And the wine. The wine, the wine. A large pour of house red, better than any american glass any day. Why? Because it's Rome. In Italy. The waiter was very nice and spoke to me in italian when I could understand it but then switched to english when I got stuck and explained what he was saying. When I was done with my meal but still had some wine left, he brought out some complimentry biscotti to accompany it. And when thet was gone, the digestive, limencello came out. Now, I've tried to make limencello at home before and the stuff wasn't even edible. This drink? This was devine. I talked the him and the other waiters a bit more and have thoroughly concluded that dining lonely, which it may be just that, lonely, can be pretty fun if you talk to the people around you and have good people watching. Speaking of, an American couple sat next to me at the restaurant. Very in love. Very American. As the waiter took their order and started to walk away, she thanked him with "Merci". This to me was a quintessential American thing to do. We don't pay much attention to the fact that most of the rest of world knows 5 or so languages. I likened her reply to going to New York city and saying "gracias", thinking that Spanish would be of good use. Again, our, and my, ignorance, assuming everyone will understand us rather than understanding the culture you are visiting. So I kept on with my broken Italian, learned some new words and set off in search of gelato.
The Rome train station is exactly like DC in my mind. The signs, the way the metro runs and how they indicate which train is going where is very similar to when I lived there. I got this. No problem. However, the problem does arrive when you actually have to look at a map of Italy. That makes things far more difficult because more than half of the roads in Rome aren't
listed on any normal map because they are too small. This is what led me to walk around rome with my pack and rest of my luggage for a good 45 minutes before giving up and taking a taxi. From where I let out the metro station, I was only two blocks away from my hotel. By the time I took a taxi, I was well over a mile. Go figure.
My hotel is very simple and small, but it was 'free' because I used my miles to pay for it, so I have no complaints. At this point its about 11:00am and while in the US, lunch would be underway, it doesn't start in Italy for the most part until at least 12. I wandered around and found a cute little place where the counter guy spoke no English but was incredibly nice and accomedating for me. My first meal in Rome? Ham and cheese panni, the largest bottle of water they make (1.5L) and the freshest squeezed orange juice I have ever had.
At this point it's about 12:30 and there is only one thought going through my mind, "Don't fall asleep." The measly one or so hours of sleep on the plane are catching up to me fast, but I have to wait it out so I can get my body clock right for the new time zone. So, I continue to walk around, getting a better lay of the land, and purchase grapes from a market around the corner. Upon returning to the hotel, I run into the same man that checked me in. He has good restaurant suggestions and notices that I have uneaten grapes, which, he grestures, should be eaten up on the fourth floor terrace. It's open to all. Sounds great to me so I make my way up the spiral marble stairs and sit out on the balcony with a nice view of some part of the city. The cleaning crew is making the rounds nearby and at one point one of them sticks her head out to say hello. Or should I say, buongiorno - she speaks hardly any English. Over a period of broken enligish and italian we start to talk to each other about our lives. She is Angela. 25 from Romania and wears bright blue eye shadow. She met her boyfriend 3 years ago in italy and has been here ever since. And me? On, no, I'm not married. She is the first of what I expect to be many to inquire about this. Perche? Good question. I'll have to make sure I keep a running tally of how many times I get asked this. Day one? Check. We talk for awhile, she shows me two of the hotel rooms she is cleaning on the top floor, with another terrace. One of the room has an amazing view of part of Rome and I take the opportunity to snag a few pictures of the view my room certainly does not have. We talk some more, me grabbing my dictionary every 5 seconds or so and her gesturing emphatically to express her thought. She eventually gets back to work and I eventually go down to my room. I will see her tomorrow at breakfast she says. Arrivederci.
At this point my body is giving out beyond belief and its time for a cold shower to wake up. To no avail. I give in and sleep off and on for three hours. Every time I wake up is like waking up in a dream. I have to remind myself that yes, I am still in Italy, that yes, I will be here for the next two and a half months. It takes awhile for that to sink in.
I eventually pry myself out of bed and make myself look presentable. Amazingly enough, I'm starving. It's 5 pm which its a bit early for dinner, but closer enough. I walk around a bit before settling into the restaurant the hotel had recommend "just up and to the right". Observation: in Italy directions aren't very useful. Up and to the right means hike up a hill and you'll see it in about 10 minutes. Anyways, with what I was about to eat, I needed the walk. I settled in to the place once they had opened and got my drink ordered in italian, but that was about as far as I got. In english I asked about the specials and based on my feedback he recommend the "pasta with" something something "squid. Very nice", he said. Ok, I'll take that. Now, when I hear squid, I think calamari. That's not what they mean in Italy.
I still remember the first time I had baby octopus. It was somewhere in Italy when I was in the 9th grade and on our school summer trip, our chaperone - my Latin teacher - had me taste this soup she was having. "What's the chewy stuff", I asked. Chicken? "Baby octopus", she replied. Well, that was the end of that. Until now. To be fair, this was baby squid. But really it's the same basic thing. Tiny head, tenticles, rubbery texture, you get the idea.
Clams, mussels, baby squid and whole prawns on a bed of pasta. Before this though, my first course was buffalo mozzarella and prucuitto. My god, what a taste. I'm pretty sure the plate was for two people but I ate it all but 1/5 of the large mozzarella ball and all of the ham. And the wine. The wine, the wine. A large pour of house red, better than any american glass any day. Why? Because it's Rome. In Italy. The waiter was very nice and spoke to me in italian when I could understand it but then switched to english when I got stuck and explained what he was saying. When I was done with my meal but still had some wine left, he brought out some complimentry biscotti to accompany it. And when thet was gone, the digestive, limencello came out. Now, I've tried to make limencello at home before and the stuff wasn't even edible. This drink? This was devine. I talked the him and the other waiters a bit more and have thoroughly concluded that dining lonely, which it may be just that, lonely, can be pretty fun if you talk to the people around you and have good people watching. Speaking of, an American couple sat next to me at the restaurant. Very in love. Very American. As the waiter took their order and started to walk away, she thanked him with "Merci". This to me was a quintessential American thing to do. We don't pay much attention to the fact that most of the rest of world knows 5 or so languages. I likened her reply to going to New York city and saying "gracias", thinking that Spanish would be of good use. Again, our, and my, ignorance, assuming everyone will understand us rather than understanding the culture you are visiting. So I kept on with my broken Italian, learned some new words and set off in search of gelato.
In Italia
I arrived safely to Rome yesterday morning and have apost typed out on my iPad that I will upload once I have wifi access. After my one night in Rome, I am now on the train to Pompeii by way of Naples. Things have been going quite well so far, I'll feel better once I've found my hotel in Pompeii.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Two Buttons
Every time I am home, my mother and I have a very specific ritual. We go to Perkins for breakfast/brunch, split a blueberry muffin and catch up on life. This time was no different. After we ordered our standard omelets and eggs benedict - with hash browns extra crispy, thank you - she handed over a present wrapped in a gray Kohl's bag. As soon as she had it half way across the table to hand it to me, I knew exactly what it was. I had seen the book cover more times than I could count when I had read it over and over. Good old, Eat Pray Love (anyone noticing a theme here or is it just me?). I pulled it out of the bag and thanked her many times, but started to explain to her how I already had a copy I had lent to a friend and if I really needed to read it again, I could download it to my iPad. I didn't get two words into my excuses before she told me to look at the first page. I assumed she had written a really nice note to me regarding my trip; some motherly words to make any nerves about going abroad a bit more soothed and would sign it, "Love Mom". There was a note. But not from my mom. And there was a signature. But not from my mom. Instead, there was a short inscription printed in black, "To Kari Holloway - may every step of your journey be blessed." Signed "Liz". As in Elizabeth Gilbert. Pretty cool, huh? I was really touched my mom had made an effort to go to a book signing of some sort and stand in line for me. I thanked her again, but before I got too many thank you's in, she started to tell the story.
Yes, she confirmed, two weeks ago I drove out to Frenchtown, New Jersey, a little over an hour away, with a few of my friends to visit Elizabeth's store, Two Buttons. It was her last day in the States before a two month tour of Europe and she was supposed to be autographing books that day. But she wasn't there. She wasn't able to make it because of a change in schedule, she left for Europe early. Now, if any one knows my mom, they know that she does not give up easily - which she readily admits to and is just one of her many great charms. So, she finds the manager and explains the situation of wanting to get the autograph and asks if there is any other way to get the book signed. Well, she says, "Jose," and points to another corner of the store, "is in the shop, you could ask him to sign it in Liz's place." Side note: for those of you that don't know, Jose is the real name of Felipe in the book, like, The Guy. My mom walks up to the man (on her second try, she got the wrong guy the first time) and asks if he is Jose. He confirms. An incredibly cheerful and energetic man, she explains how she has driven up from suburban Philly, tells of my trip to Italy and then politely asks if he could sign her book. Before responding, he asks my mom about my trip, where am I going, for what reason, etc. She explains that I live in Austin - he nods, knowing the place well because of Liz's friend in the book, Richard - where I have a good job and a good life, but there was something different I wanted to do, even for just a short time, which, through a series of events, has lead to Italy. She explains about my desire to avoid tourism as much as possible, to instead visit farms, live with normal people, and see what Italian culture is like. He lights up a bit on these details and lowers his voice a bit. "Liz hasn't quite left yet, I'm actually having lunch with her today before she goes. Give the book to me and I'll make sure she signs it. Will you be around until about 2:30? I should have it back here by then." My mom agrees, hands over the book and goes to have lunch with her girlfriends to pass the time. Back at Two Buttons, at 2:37pm, my mom returns to the book signed as shown below.
Now that's a good story. Thanks Mom.
Yes, she confirmed, two weeks ago I drove out to Frenchtown, New Jersey, a little over an hour away, with a few of my friends to visit Elizabeth's store, Two Buttons. It was her last day in the States before a two month tour of Europe and she was supposed to be autographing books that day. But she wasn't there. She wasn't able to make it because of a change in schedule, she left for Europe early. Now, if any one knows my mom, they know that she does not give up easily - which she readily admits to and is just one of her many great charms. So, she finds the manager and explains the situation of wanting to get the autograph and asks if there is any other way to get the book signed. Well, she says, "Jose," and points to another corner of the store, "is in the shop, you could ask him to sign it in Liz's place." Side note: for those of you that don't know, Jose is the real name of Felipe in the book, like, The Guy. My mom walks up to the man (on her second try, she got the wrong guy the first time) and asks if he is Jose. He confirms. An incredibly cheerful and energetic man, she explains how she has driven up from suburban Philly, tells of my trip to Italy and then politely asks if he could sign her book. Before responding, he asks my mom about my trip, where am I going, for what reason, etc. She explains that I live in Austin - he nods, knowing the place well because of Liz's friend in the book, Richard - where I have a good job and a good life, but there was something different I wanted to do, even for just a short time, which, through a series of events, has lead to Italy. She explains about my desire to avoid tourism as much as possible, to instead visit farms, live with normal people, and see what Italian culture is like. He lights up a bit on these details and lowers his voice a bit. "Liz hasn't quite left yet, I'm actually having lunch with her today before she goes. Give the book to me and I'll make sure she signs it. Will you be around until about 2:30? I should have it back here by then." My mom agrees, hands over the book and goes to have lunch with her girlfriends to pass the time. Back at Two Buttons, at 2:37pm, my mom returns to the book signed as shown below.
Now that's a good story. Thanks Mom.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Out of Office
The last of my brain dump to the project manager replacing me is done and by Monday, all of my logins for my company (other than email) will be disabled until December. It didn't feel any different walking out of the client site today compared to any other day. We were working pretty much up until the moment I left, so there was no time to think about it. When I come back, there will be a good, solid job waiting for me.... How can anyone complain about that these days? Oh, and did I mention I'm going to Italy with their permission?
Last Italian lesson today too. Learned some very important curse words just in case I come across them in my travels. No one wants to be cursed at and have no idea what's happening. My teacher tells me that when I come back, I will have a much better grasp on the language. I certainly hope that is true. And if it is, I have every intention of keeping it up when I return.
Lastly, my friends and I had a little pow wow tonight with an Italian theme. And you may have guessed, that means a lot of Italian wine. So many good bottles. One, in particular, I should mention. About two years ago, two of my girlfriends and I went to California for a wedding and for wine country. While I was there, I tasted the most delightful Pinot Noir. It retailed at around $60 for the bottle, and that was quite an investment at my wine infantile stage. I decided to grab it but save it for an important trip. I was going to India. To an ashram. As cliche as this is now, I was quite intrigued by the whole Eat Pray Love thing. The thought of going to an ashram sounded amazing, and it still does. I still look forward to the day when I can go over there with my cousin and her family and experience India and the religion. But now, today, this trip is Italy. I opened the bottle well in advance of when I knew we would be drinking it to give it a few hours of breathing time. It had been sitting in a wine fridge at 55 degrees for quite some time and being an '06, it should be ready to drink. I put on my "cooking" iPod playlist and decanted a glass for myself of this wine I had been saving for my "big adventure".
Let me say, I love Pinot Noir. I still remember the first time I tasted it when my cousin I was staying with in Boston took me to a restaurant in Back Bay. I was going into my senior year at college at the time and she asked me "Do you like wine?" Wine?!?! Are you kidding me? I'm in college, Bud Light is a delicacy for my kind. I explained how the only "wine" I had was something called Boones Farm. I didn't think it was a real wine, but it was the closest I had come. Unless you count Andre champagne. I had had that too. No, no, she explained. Let's have you try a Pinot. The first sip was all I needed. And yes, I can admit, I strayed from my trusty Pinot over the years. The sparkling syrah, the malbec, the temprenillo. I was tempted, but I have always come back to my true love of Pinot. Tonight I air-rated my first glass of my "you did it!" bottle of wine. None of my friends had arrived yet, so it was just me, my wine, and my crazy French music. I took the first sniff. Inhale. Ahhhh.... Wait. That can't be right... Clear head. Take two. Inhale again. .... Uh oh. Anyone that drinks wine knows that as soon as you smell a wine, you have a good indication of whether you're going to like it or not. In this case, my "Bon voyage" bottle was not wishing me a happy trip. The first sip confirmed my suspicions and that was that. The rest of the glass went down the drain, my only hope was that it would open up in the next day and become "good".
While that bottle did signify something special to me and I was disappointed in the showing, there's no way I could ever remember that over the amazingness of my friends. My core family is back in Philly and over the past 5 years I have come to rely on a close few in Austin. They are my family here and I will miss them dearly in Italy. They keep my laughing, keep me honest and are ready to share a margarita anytime you're having A Day. You can age an amazing bottle for years and anticipate it's grand appearance, but without people to share it with, it doesn't really matter. So I spent $60 on a lousy Pinot. I got to spend several hours with some of the best people I know and that's a trade I'll take any day.
Last Italian lesson today too. Learned some very important curse words just in case I come across them in my travels. No one wants to be cursed at and have no idea what's happening. My teacher tells me that when I come back, I will have a much better grasp on the language. I certainly hope that is true. And if it is, I have every intention of keeping it up when I return.
Lastly, my friends and I had a little pow wow tonight with an Italian theme. And you may have guessed, that means a lot of Italian wine. So many good bottles. One, in particular, I should mention. About two years ago, two of my girlfriends and I went to California for a wedding and for wine country. While I was there, I tasted the most delightful Pinot Noir. It retailed at around $60 for the bottle, and that was quite an investment at my wine infantile stage. I decided to grab it but save it for an important trip. I was going to India. To an ashram. As cliche as this is now, I was quite intrigued by the whole Eat Pray Love thing. The thought of going to an ashram sounded amazing, and it still does. I still look forward to the day when I can go over there with my cousin and her family and experience India and the religion. But now, today, this trip is Italy. I opened the bottle well in advance of when I knew we would be drinking it to give it a few hours of breathing time. It had been sitting in a wine fridge at 55 degrees for quite some time and being an '06, it should be ready to drink. I put on my "cooking" iPod playlist and decanted a glass for myself of this wine I had been saving for my "big adventure".
Let me say, I love Pinot Noir. I still remember the first time I tasted it when my cousin I was staying with in Boston took me to a restaurant in Back Bay. I was going into my senior year at college at the time and she asked me "Do you like wine?" Wine?!?! Are you kidding me? I'm in college, Bud Light is a delicacy for my kind. I explained how the only "wine" I had was something called Boones Farm. I didn't think it was a real wine, but it was the closest I had come. Unless you count Andre champagne. I had had that too. No, no, she explained. Let's have you try a Pinot. The first sip was all I needed. And yes, I can admit, I strayed from my trusty Pinot over the years. The sparkling syrah, the malbec, the temprenillo. I was tempted, but I have always come back to my true love of Pinot. Tonight I air-rated my first glass of my "you did it!" bottle of wine. None of my friends had arrived yet, so it was just me, my wine, and my crazy French music. I took the first sniff. Inhale. Ahhhh.... Wait. That can't be right... Clear head. Take two. Inhale again. .... Uh oh. Anyone that drinks wine knows that as soon as you smell a wine, you have a good indication of whether you're going to like it or not. In this case, my "Bon voyage" bottle was not wishing me a happy trip. The first sip confirmed my suspicions and that was that. The rest of the glass went down the drain, my only hope was that it would open up in the next day and become "good".
While that bottle did signify something special to me and I was disappointed in the showing, there's no way I could ever remember that over the amazingness of my friends. My core family is back in Philly and over the past 5 years I have come to rely on a close few in Austin. They are my family here and I will miss them dearly in Italy. They keep my laughing, keep me honest and are ready to share a margarita anytime you're having A Day. You can age an amazing bottle for years and anticipate it's grand appearance, but without people to share it with, it doesn't really matter. So I spent $60 on a lousy Pinot. I got to spend several hours with some of the best people I know and that's a trade I'll take any day.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Deep (Italian) Thoughts by BlueDukeRaul
Fun Italian facts supplied by a friend:
Since the end of WWII, Italy has seen almost 60 governments come and go.
The colors of the Italian flag represent three virtues: hope (green), faith (white), and charity (red).
The Italian flag is inspired by the French flag introduced during Napoleon's 1797 invasion of the peninsula.
The life expectancy for Italian women is 83 years.
The ice cream cone is an Italian invention.
The average Italian consumes 26 gallons of wine a year.
The city of Venice is sinking 4 inches per year.
95% of Italians are Roman Catholic but only about 30 percent of all Italians attend church regularly.
Since the end of WWII, Italy has seen almost 60 governments come and go.
The colors of the Italian flag represent three virtues: hope (green), faith (white), and charity (red).
The Italian flag is inspired by the French flag introduced during Napoleon's 1797 invasion of the peninsula.
The life expectancy for Italian women is 83 years.
The ice cream cone is an Italian invention.
The average Italian consumes 26 gallons of wine a year.
The city of Venice is sinking 4 inches per year.
95% of Italians are Roman Catholic but only about 30 percent of all Italians attend church regularly.
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