Our hotel faced this quaint canal. Dad and I had lunch sitting on this dock.
Venice 2012: Photo Essay
Reply
Backstreets of Venice
Dad and I passed the gelato shop I visited in 2002 for my first real gelato, an addiction that kept me coming back sometimes 3 times a day. I told him about the mini-tornado that swooped into Venice during my stay, turning the canals into giant wave pools, covering the stones with water along with a torrent of rain. I slipped down the steps of the Rialto Bridge, running for cover with my hostelmate Katie, and we ducked into a bar shortly before they pulled the metal gate closed. We were locked inside to brave the storm. We had a few drinks and met a group of locals that showed us around afterwards. We surveyed the damage, wind battered trees, and flower pots and window boxes broken everywhere. A unique Venetian memory.
“Hey, Dad, my b&B was actually in this neighborhood. It’s been 10 years, but I wonder if I could find it.”
With pure 10 year old memories, I navigated down the winding backstreets and said, “Ahh yes, up ahead, there will be a turn, a tiny bridge over a quaint canal, and then the street is shortly after that.” Sure enough, we made it to the street and think we found the place. Later, I checked facebook pictures on my iphone and found that I actually took a picture of the door back then, but we didn’t go back to check we were right. Ahh technology!
While we were in the neighborhood, we went searching because I remembered many quaint restaurants for aperitivos, but I couldn’t find them. Was I on the wrong streets? Did they close? Nothing is constant except change, even in this well-preserved museum of a city. Eventually we ended up in a charming square, the trees turning brown in mid autumn, folks quietly clinking their silverware against the plates under a starry night sky. We picked one place in the far corner, and sat down for a beer and a meal. I had the lemon chicken and Dad had veal marsala.
It was a long yet fun day. We were exhausted, and wound our way to the bus station, the university section of the city before boarding a vaporetto back to our dock, Ca’D’oro. I passed out on the bed in my clothes before 9:30.
The next day we woke up for another breakfast and checked out the rooftop terrace, which was a special surprise. Beautiful and peaceful view of Venice from up there.
Boat day. We boarded a vaporetto for the lido. The Adriatic was bright blue, and I kept repeating, “It’s so pretty.” I knew what it looked like, yet I was still happy and surprised to see it again.
At the lido, we walked along the main street, past holiday-style tourist shops selling flip flops and sand toys. “It’s a totally different feel here,” said Dad.
“Yup, it’s connected to the mainland. More of a resort.” Cars can drive over a bridge to get here, unlike in Venice. There are plenty of hotels to stay here, and certainly more space, yet it lacks the charm of the tight, winding paths and canals of Venice.
We made it to the big, Sandy beach, and gazed out over the blue water, churning and turning gray under a stormy sky. By the time we left the beach, the rain had started, and then it became like a shower by the time we arrived on the island of Murano, world-famous for its gorgeous, colorful glass.
We wandered up and down the streets, gazed at the shop windows (all selling glass except for a few that sold food). We snacked on giant meringue, I nibbled–er, devoured Harbo gummy bears, then back on the boat, soggy and tired, to head for town. We had decided to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe tonight. I was getting very sick of the lack of variety in Italian food. I wanted a BURGER, and bacon and cheddar! Dad is used to Italian food as well, growing up in NYC and with my family’s great cooking over the years (I’ve yet to find a restaurant that rivals many of the family dishes, including mama’s sauce). Sidenote: Every time I tell people my family is from Piacenza, they always say, “Oh, the food there is the best!”
The Hard Rock Cafe was nearly impossible to find. The map on the website was . . . wrong. . . misleading. Google maps kept running us around in circles. I even called the restaurant and the directions were confusing at best. Eventually, my Dad stopped into a shop and got directions that were more clear, and we saw it, glass windows, facing a quiet canal filled with gondolas. Normally a travel sin, but now an oasis.
We went inside, while some of my favorite songs blasted in my ears, and we orderd Nastro beer, noshed on cheddar nachos, and by the time our bacon burgers came, we were stuffed but continued. Bruce played. I smiled. Our waitress was one of the top 3 I’ve ever had. Ever. She was so lively, so fun, so funny, dancing in the aisles, joking with us – animated like a cartoon.
Then back to bed, where I passed out even earlier, I think. Oh wait, there was a gelato first. 🙂
The next morning, we awoke for our last breakfast. I went outside to try to get a pair of shoes really quick, and saw the ground had buckled. Acqua Alta – the high waters. They seep up through the clay in the rising tide and cause all kinds of damage. Even part of the wall of our hotel had broken through, spilling clay. A neverending battle.
They say one day Venice will be just like a museum, with no actual residents because it’s so hard to live here, to raise children when you have to navigate the streets, bridges, canals, vaporettos with a stroller. They claim it would be like a Disneyland for grownups. It would still be amazing, though, even if that happens. Hey, as long as it’s here. The Acqua Alta, though, has other plans. See Venice while you can.
Ah Venezia!
This weekend I returned to Venice for the first time since 2002. 10 years gone. There is always a risk returning to a place you once loved and adored, a fear that you could ruin the magic and distort the original memory — like Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” – the memory may compete with the current image in your mind’s eye.
Check out images from my first trip to Venice, featuring the 21-year-old me who inspired my current life. This is for you, kiddo! Stay fun!
A little over 10 years ago, I strapped on an overloaded backpack after college graduation, and popped all around Europe, booking hostels on the Internet and changing plans as I went. I originally booked two days in Venice, but fell so in love that I had to completely rearrange the rest of the trip, just for one more night. I heard false rumors of the stench, dirty water, and decaying buildings — but instead found clean(ish) blue water, no noticeable scent, and buildings that were in charming states of renovation – preserving the beautiful architecture — architecture unlike any I’ve encountered in my travels since.
That first night, after wandering through back alleys following detailed and slightly confusing directions, I found my B&B, met my hostel-mate, and went out for a delightful aperitif along a small canal, enjoying the beautiful life. As I wandered, explored, tasted gelato, gazed at the scenery, and soaked in the unbelievable feeling of being in a place I dreamed about my whole life, I was elated. I kept thinking of the report I did in 4th grade, researching the city of Venice, and drawing detailed pictures with markers and crayons, painstakingly copying the boats and canalsI found in my library books. How amazing! What would it be like to go there? I need to see. Then I did! [As a bonus, the next post will be cut and pasted from the blog of my youth, when it was so important to just get the ideas down — type, type, type — GO! edit later. You’ll see]
The trip was magical, and the city was hard to leave after just three short nights. On to the Tuscan countryside and a new group of friends, sights and experiences. But I always savored the images, still not believing I was there. All my trips to Europe since then, I have not returned. Now that it’s about 4 hours from my new home in Genoa, it’s a weekend trip for me. It was Dad’s first time to Italy, and as beautiful as Genoa is, it’s not the highlight of an Italian tour. He had to see one of the big three (Venice, Florence and Rome). He also got some time to see the Milan train station, but more like in my previous journeys– unimpressed, worried about missing a train, and a bit rushed. I’m happy to say that Venice was just as magical and impressive, swarms of tourists and all.
When Dad arrived last week, we spent an evening in Nervi (a typical Ligurian resort neighborhood minutes from my apartment). We then went to Acqui Terme for the weekend to indulge in mountain views, thermal waters, and quaint Medieval Architecture. The following day, Dad went off to Constance, Germany for more spas and lakeside views while I tackled the workweek. Thursday, I darted off after teaching four 80 minute long classes and met him in Milan as he was on his way back from Germany. I plopped into my train seat and gazed, dozed, and attempted to unwind while Dad caught up with all his stories from the past three days.
A couple of hours later, we rolled onto the causeway, glimpses of boats and lights glittering in the water on our way into the station. Once outside, you are right there on the Grand Canal, in the heart of Venice, with gondolas, impressive domes and terraces of charming buildings, half-lit for the evening with a humble “Hello” rather than an all out “HEY! HI! Look at me!” Dad and I navigated the intricacies of the Vaporetto sysem (the waterbusses, the main hub of public transport in the city) and noticed that the machine wouldn’t take American cards. How do we pay the 7 euros. 7 euros for a bus ride? Yikes. As we figured out details and stressed about the “work” of travel, the buildings were there, a beautiful background as we were having our “Amazing Race” moments. I had to remind myself “Calm down, you are on holiday. Enjoy!”
We met up with young American girls, maybe backpacking for a weekend during Study Abroad, and they said the guidebook said you can buy them on the boat. We boarded, nobody asked, and we rode for free. Whoops. Gliding past buildings, peeking in windows, watching people stroll about, the city was magic at this time of night, empty, ours. We arrived at Ca’Doro, our neighborhood — and we were so delighted with our choice. We chose a basic yet nice 3 Star hotel near the action, but not in it, nestled on a quiet canal. When we got to the hotel, after a magical walk through the streets, a neighborhood I’d never seen, I was shocked. It was literally on the canal. Up into the room, I peeked out the window and saw that we faced the canal with a stunning view — I couldn’t wait to see it in the morning. After 11pm, we were exhausted but we were here, ready for a nice long weekend of exploration and beauty. And as much as I love Genoa, I was happy to get away.
The next morning, we awoke to a basic but good continental breakfast in the dining area, then went out strolling and exploring Strada Nuova and all the shops. Shopping is surely good in Venice, perhaps better than Genoa, which is interesting because everything has to be carted in on boats then hand trucked to the stores. I had my eye on a few purses and clothes, but I was really here for the getaway and the beauty as well as spend time with my father — even though both of us were exhausted. Take it easy, enjoy.
Friday, we did a lot of strolling about, to the Rialto Bridge and St. Mark’s Square, which was gratefully not yet flooded. By Sunday, Acqua Alta had started to flood St. Mark’s Square as usual, and tourists had to walk on raised platforms. These platforms are set up all over the city, especially this time of year as the high tide season begins in October. Add this to the fact that Venice has sunken about 9 inches in 60 years, and we have quite a problem on our hands. I’m hoping they use the 7 euro bus fee to help subsidize the massive projects in place to protect the city. It’s quite fascinating, actually . . .they are building giant doors on the sea floor where the Adriatic spills into the canals of Venice, a city built on hundreds of little islands at the mouth of the Po River. When the tides get high, the doors will go up and prevent the water from rising. Sounds cool, like it could work in theory — but also quite dangerous if the city relies on this technology and it fails suddenly . . . If not done properly, could a rush of water flood the city to the dome of St. Mark’s Basilica?
It is quite amazing how well preserved this city is, given the age and the odds against it. “See Venice while you can!” they tell us tourists. And the tourists are coming, usually dumped in by the cruise ship load, in clusters of 3-4,000. When these day trippers head back to their boats at night, only having glimpsed the most crushed, touristy parts of Venice, Rialto, St. Mark’s, the island of Murano for the glass . . . the city breathes again. The streets become magical, and you can wander freely and get lost in time. 80% of the city is actually off the beaten tourist path, and if you take the time to wander just a little bit, you can enjoy the “real” Venice, when the ships are in port.
More about the real Venice and the magic of our visit. And I’ll show the new pictures soon, this time embedded in the story instead of the slideshow. Ciao for now. Off to dinner with Dad, his last night in Italy.
Oktoberfest!
Two weekends ago, I went to Oktoberfest. I drank, I had fun with my friend Laura and the people we met, but mostly I was enjoying the scene, watching something I have heard about since I was a child with wonder and curiosity. Even before I liked beer . . .before I could even drink alcohol or even want it, I wanted to see Oktoberfest in Munich. And I did. This first time was a whirlwind of new experiences and a lot of rain (boo!). But I’m prepared and ready to go again next year. 🙂
Let’s let pictures tell the story.
And a formal writeup later. Off to Venezia domani!! 🙂 Haven’t been since 2002, and I loved it. Can’t wait.
Aspetta
Italy’s favorite word seems to be “aspetta.” Wait. And I have been. At first, patiently, and then not so patiently, and now it’s almost laughable. My internet was fixed on Friday, hurrah! And it lasted a whole 2.5 days. Then the ADSL was down. Never in my life did I have to deal with ADSL because I had dial up in 1998, then went to college where there was the Ethernet, then my parents got cable modem, which is what I switched to when I got my first apartment in 2003, getting speeds up to 15mb per second. Here in Italy, on the two days I had ADSL, it was 3 mb, about the same as the Internet key. . . which sometimes goes as low as .03 rendering loading email impossible. Modern websites and applications can’t run on such a primitive system. As I ran my speed tests, I saw that the GLOBAL average for Internet was 11 mb/second. Italy falls around 3 or 4, giving them a D+ in the global Internet range. The world, not the western world or high tech society . . . the world. Italy is stuck in the 90s technologically, tho gratefully in the Medieval ages architecturally. Ok, that’s not exactly right, we have some renaissance and some other random buildings, but the architecture here is quite beautiful. Italy is gorgeous, and Genoa is right at the top of the most beautiful places I’ve seen in Italy . . . but there seems to be quite a price to pay for all this beauty.
Imagine my pure joy and elation at putting aside all this constant phone call, text message, phone company appointment nonsense and to move on with my life here in Italy with slow tho functioning Internet. Nope, back to square one again, but this time way more pushy. You literally have to fight for your right to anything in this country which has a very . . . lax . . . service industry. I had to call 3 times (well, get colleagues who spoke Italian) just to get them to open a work order to fix the line. But I have my bank card, and that’s progress. I also visited the doctor and renewed my allergy prescription easily. whew! I wasn’t up for another hoop to jump through . . . my legs are tired enough from hiking up and down my mountain each day. Again, the price for all the beauty.
In the meantime, sometimes my Internet key grabs a signal (as it is now) so I’m taking advantage and trying to update. Coming next, photos of Oktoberfest. I am also taking an online course for the International Baccalaureate (IB). I wanted to be as prepared as possible as it’s my first time teaching it, so I asked my boss and he registered me. There is work to do each day, though, and I need good high speed Internet, otherwise the modules won’t load. Sigh . . . Italy, seriously, get with at least 2002 if you can’t get to 2012 with Internet.
“And I can’t even get cheddar!”
Italy is just as frustrating as it is beautiful. This is not a surprise, but that does not make it any easier to navigate the nonsense and to bolster my reserves of patience.
During the first day of orientation for new teachers, our director talked about the importance of recognizing culture shock, even when it doesn’t seem like the country is that different. He said it is especially hard coming from the US, which is “Top in the service industry, number 10. They do everything for you. Pack your bags, carry you to the car . . . “
We laughed knowingly as he continued, “I lived in Tanzania where we often didn’t have running water. I’d call the water company, but that worker there often had no running water for months. Why would he care if I was out for days or weeks? Tanzania is about a 1 or 2 in service.” He drew the numbers on a timeline on the whiteboard. “Here in Italy, we are at a 5 or 6. It’s not that bad, but it’s different. You won’t get the service you get in the states.”
When I first arrived on August 22, my top priority was getting Internet. 3 days later, I finally found a shop that spoke just enough English to help me choose sim cards, get an iphone, and sign up for ADSL Internet. ADSL? No cable or fiber optic? Nope. But ok, I’m good just to get connected. After an hour of discussions (yes, seriously) I had my vodafone base station which would work with ADSL and an Internet key to get online right away. “Someone will call you in 15 days,” said the sales rep Simona.
“15 days?” I was shocked. I thought a few days with a long window of waiting like in NYC.
“Yes, the technician.”
But will he speak English? Oh geeze . . .
And I still couldn’t leave the story because of a Vodafone system flaw that did not allow them to connect my brand new just purchased Sim card with the brand new iphone, both bought together in the store. Customer service kept the sales rep on hold and gave them the runaround. Hours later, they figured out a fix and sent me on my way, connected and happy tho drained. I had jumped through my first hoop.
Running the internet off the key was slow but at least it granted me instant access. Over the next two weeks, I learned, with massive difficulty that the station can run the wifi off the key, which would save me from overheating my laptop with the key plugged right in. Before that could work, though, I had to wait for an automatic system download that unfroze my brand new box and allowed me to use it. I had tried calling customer service, a toll line, and asked “Parle Inglese?”
“No.”
And then I didn’t know what to say next other than goodbye. Nobody they can even transfer me to? Ahh, Italy. I was going to have to get used to my complete lack of ability to communicate as I rapidly try to acquire a working rudimentary grasp of the language to communicate.
So with the wifi working, I had jumped through another hoop. Yet, 18 days had passed and STILL no call from the technician. Then, at last, I was in the middle of my 5 hour mandatory Italian culture class at the prefettura, when I received a phone call and deciphered “Vodafone” in the Italian and soon learned the technician was coming on Tuesday between 10 and 11. yes! I didn’t get to choose the date, but it’s ok. I got coverages for work, stayed home and at 10:15, they were at my door.
Wooh! I’m getting ADSL. Gonna jump through another hoop. Movies, Skype, faster downloading, and back to my normal surfing techno geek lifestyle. Yay yay yay!
“There is a problem,” said my technician in a mixture of Italian and English. “I must get my colleague.”
An hour and lots of drilling and fumbling later, the technician said, “It still won’t work but we will switch it on tonight,” and they were gone after helping me sweep the debris.
I eagerly checked my box every time I walked by the Vodafone station, but no ADSL. Days passed, nothing. I went to work and explained the situation to the admin who sent the realtor over. The realtor did not speak much English, but the next day, I learned that the landlord’s son lived there, and they tried to get ADSL, but it didn’t work so he just always used the Internet key. They turned the phone lines off to the building because it is so old. “What???” You can’t rent out an apartment with no phone lines. And it was just beautifully renovated . . .I have marble flooring and even some US outlets. But no phone line? WTF? I don’t get it.
“Isn’t that something the realtor should have told us?” I asked dumfounded.
“Yes!” said the admin all knowingly. “But this is Italy, a country that has 5 different types of plugs.”
“Oh yeah, I have an iron and can’t figure out where to plug it in.”
The admin sent over the school’s electrician to try to activate the phone line in the house (on the landlord’s dime). The electrician poked around for 2 hours, wires dangling everywhere, and he only spoke about 3 words of English. With the help of google translate and a few calls to the admin, we were able to call vodafone. Even though Telecom Italia, the phone company, did the installation, you can’t call them directly because they were subcontracted by Vodafone. So Vodafone created a ticket and said a rep would come to fix the line in 3 days. “Aspetta.” Wait. They always want you to wait. Nonsense, wait too long and nothing will get done. And I paid 35 euros for ADSL I was not getting, meanwhile an Internet key is 14 euros a month. And this service is slooooow and doesn’t work when it’s cloudy. NO.
So I waited, and of course that was Monday and now it is Friday and I still don’t have ADSL. The admin said, “It’s a fine line between patience and yelling and getting aggressive. After we’ve waited enough, then it’s ok to say ‘How could you do this to me? Fix it now.'”
“Will I get a refund for the month I couldn’t access it?”
“No . .. but we can try.”
While all this was happening, my bank card was misdirected to the wrong address because the school wrote 38, when my address is 38C and there are about 10 other 38s on the block including one solid 38 apartment building. And the Italian post, being notoriously slow and unreliable . . . sent the card to who knows where. The bank sent another one 2 weeks ago, and it still hasn’t arrived, so they walk me over to the bank to withdraw money with me . . . And I JUST got the code to access my online account. When I returned home after another stressful frustrating day dealing with bank and ADSL, I check for my bank card, but alas, just a BILL from Vodafone for the installation fees.
OMG . . .
And of course, the next day my shipment from the US was about to arrive. Hurray! But I tried contacting the UK company to let them know about the notoriously tiny streets of Genoa, which an International Shipping company should really take into consideration. I take a day off from work at the suggestion of my school’s director who said, “It is important for you to relax and get settled.”
So I waited. Waited for the phone call from the driver the day before, which I did not get. I continually contacted the company to make sure they had my Italian phone number and an address where they could deliver the goods easily. They could not come on my tiny ancient Roman road . . . they’d have to park nearby, so I sent very detailed directions.
Shipment day arrived. I woke up early as I knew I’d be the first delivery. I waited by the phone, kept checking the phone, and even turned on my old phone just in case they didn’t give my new number. At 12 noon, I was informed that my truck broke down 2 hours North of me and they were stuck waiting repair. I’d hear from my driver shortly.
5:30pm, no word from the driver. I wrote to the UK office, who said they’d probably come tomorrow. Frustrated and exhausted, I contacted work to arrange coverages on standby so I could run over to my apartment for the delivery. (They also offered I could take another day, but that is too many days away from the kids).
Freed from the apartment, I hiked to the supermarket. I say hike, because I have to literally hike up a steep hill to get there and lug the goods back. As soon as I sat down to have some chicken and cheese, my old international phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, we have some boxes and a sofa for you,” said a friendly Irish voice.
Soon I learned that they did not have my new number or get the directions. They said they were 300 yards from me and wanted to carry the goods down that crazy hill. No way dude, too far and steep. They were stuck by the school and after 40 minutes on the phone, I got them to the street I needed them to be to get closer. BUT . . . the truck was so high that it wouldn’t fit under the highway overpass. They had to park on the highway and walk down with all my boxes, electronics and SOFA from the highway, down the stairs, and down a little winding steep street that led to my door — maybe 150 meters.
It started raining as they were finishing, and I offered them food and whatever they wanted. I also had no money to tip them for their extraordinary efforts so I asked if I could go to a bankomat to pay them. “It’s not your fault. Dont’ worry about it.”
And they were on their way to Monaco. Such nice guys, and everything arrived intact. I had my things. Whew!
Earlier in the night, as they were unloading the truck, I called my dad at my breaking point, in absolute frustration and just needed to VENT. I said something very similar to the following in a rambling monologue:
“I’ve had enough. This is ridiculous. This country is so broken. Nothing works. I can’t even receive packages. I can’t get money. My ADSL doesn’t work. I can’t even buy cheddar!” I was so serious, but even as I said the last line, I realized how ridiculous it sounded, but it’s a valid complaint. No variety, so shut in their ways, fearing global influence, fearing anything non-Italian, that we can’t even have cheddar cheese. All Italian, all the time. And that philosophy seems to have permeated the lifestyles, where they do things the Italian way, even if it doesn’t make the most sense. Whatever . . .
In my rant, I added, “If I could get back on a plane, I would. I’m done. It’s a frustrating place to live. Teachers left last year because they were so frustrated with the nonsense. The school is trying to help, but it’s ridiculous. Someone already left this year after 2 weeks. 2 weeks!” I was so loud that I think neighbors heard me, so there goes my reputation in the neighborhood — there I was being a spoiled New Yorker Ugly American, unable to adjust to “normale,” the way things are done here.
“It’s good for visiting,” said my Dad.
“No it’s not. It’s frustrating for that, too. T hat’s why I avoided it for so many years. I’m done with this country.”
As I said the words, I knew I didn’t mean them. I instantly felt bad, like I had just talked badly about a boyfriend. I didn’t want to betray my Italy, my host country that offered so much to me: beauty, happiness, peace . . . Italy had changed my life. I just had to navigate this nonsense. One hoop at a time, I’ll get settled, I’ll learn more about the culture and the language. And at the end of the day, it all still makes much more sense and is way friendlier than working for the DOE in NYC.
Images of Milan
Image
Some of my photos from my SLR over the past two visits to Milan.
More on Milan
At the end of my last post, I was in a spa enjoying the bliss in Milan yet feeling the tug of home. I guess my life will always be like this. I feel a bit at home everywhere and not completely at home anywhere. Perhaps all true travelers feel like this? And now I have to realize that I’m not just a traveler; I’m an expat. I have planted roots, however shallow, in this new culture. I am living a dream I have had for at least 11 years. Now, I am at home waiting for my goods to arrive from NYC, further proof that I’m here to stay a while. So I will continue with my Milan story.
In the middle of my spa experience, I went to the locker to check my iPhone for train schedules. (I can’t even begin to say how much this internet access has lightened my load, saved me money on guidebooks, and simplified my travel experience — just like it made my last few months in NY extra special. I can’t go back to life pre-smart phone . . .) I saw I had two options. One option would mean I’d have to leave the spa now, rushing to the station with wet hair, and ride home for two hours. The last option, a 10:25 train, would take 3 hours instead of 1.5, dropping me off in central Genoa around 1:30 am, after all the busses stopped and I’d have a difficult time getting home. Slightly dismayed, I thought “Hey, a hostel! I can look one up right now.” I didn’t have to run around looking for an internet cafe, or consult a guidebook I didn’t get. I could book now, load the directions and head on over. There were several options in a shared dorm for around 16 euros. Perfect. Yay me!
I decided to sort out all the details later, and headed back to the spa waters where I melted into water myself. Cozy and red cheeked, I went for one more round of food, sipping mint tea, and took a brief nap in the “Earth” relaxation room, where I literally sunk into a mattress squishier and cozier than any I had ever tried. After this brief nap, I was ready to sleep. I rinsed off in the shower, enjoying the thermal spring infused spa products, then unlocked my locker by tapping a special bracelet on the number, and reached for my iPhone. I’d better book now. I found a bed in a mixed dorm at a hostel near Buenos Aires, apparently a famous shopping street. When I went to book, the phone died. What? No!!!
I fell asleep last night without charging my phone, so it only got some juice just before I left. Also, the locker was draining the signal, I’m sure. Why was I not smart enough to turn it off? Because I was trying to have a “no worries” day. “Ok, it will all work out, I thought.” I might be able to make the 10:25. I dashed onto the Metro, but got on in the WRONG direction. I flipped around, and it was clear that I would be a few minutes too late. No! Also, I had left my ATM card at home by accident, had no cash, and the ticket machines didn’t take my credit card. I wouldn’t have had time for the long lines in the train station anyway . . . and while it IS an option to book online . . . my phone wasn’t working.
Ok, ok . . . Big city, plenty of options. I got out at the station to search for an Internet point or posters or brochures for hostels. It used to be that you could roll into town without booking ahead, and 24 hour hostel options would be everywhere, no matter what city. Not here. There were no info booths open, no Internet around. The modern world assumes that travelers have their guidebooks and smart phones, that we pre-plan and are connected. I walked around the hood, trying to suss out a cheap yet not skeevy hotel or a hostel. Nothing seemed affordable. I jumped back in the Metro and found my way to Buenos Aires, remembering that was near the hostel. Why didn’t I at least write down the address? All I needed was the address. Even if they filled their beds, they’d still be able direct me to another hostel.
12am, wandering on Buenos Aires, I was glad to be there. It was a wide shopping boulevard filled with tourists and locals, strolling on a Saturday evening, bright lights illuminating familiar international and European brands. But no hostel in sight. at 12:30, the subway line was closed, so I kept wandering around, trying to blindly choose which hotel I’d plop into, sacrificing money I didn’t plan to spend. I wasn’t upset or panicked, because the spa made me so relaxed and elated. I felt like I was floating around the city, curiously searching. Maybe I could stay up until the next train at 5am? I’d just have to keep killing time. But then I was incredibly exhausted, dragging my feet.
And there it was, I had made my way back to Central Station. I saw “Mini Hotel Aosta” and thought, I’m either sleeping here or on the floor of the train station. Even though they did clean it up, that wasn’t how I planned to spend my night. I walked in, weary and exhausted and said “Buona Sera” to the man who greeted me. “Do you have any rooms?” He nodded. “How much?”
“90 euros.”
Some hotels could be up to 200 bucks, especially by the train station. Fine, good enough. Sleep! “Ok” I nodded. As he checked me in, he said, “If you have time in the morning, there is breakfast on the 8th floor until 10am.”
“Oh, definitely!” I said. Hey, that knocks 10 euros or so off the price. Now, sleep.
I went to the room and noticed light was streaming in from the bottom of the shutters, so I pressed the button that drew the metal closed tightly. I didn’t see an alarm anywhere, couldn’t get the tv to work, and was so exhausted, I stripped and went to bed. I grabbed a book that only made it into the bed with me. Never opened. Then it fell to the floor with a loud THUD sometime in the middle of the night.
I woke up to a loud KNOCK. It was pitch black, and I figured it was a hotel guest knocking on the wrong door. I said, “Yes?” and they walked away.
I stayed in my slumber a bit longer, then had a suspicious feeling. Eventually, I turned the lights on and glanced at my watch. 10:15. No!
I opened the blinds, and realized there was a bright, sunshine-filled day outside. My room faced the train station. But I was too late for breakfast. I threw clothes on, splashed my face, and dashed into the elevator, pressing 8. But it would not illuminate. Apparently, they don’t let you up if it’s not breakfast time. So I missed out on all the food, the view of the train station from the 8th floor, and a relaxing treat before my departure.
View of the train station from my room.
Oh well. I checked out in a hurry, and dashed to the ticket line where I grabbed a seat to Genova. Why is it not departing until 12:45? Oh well, I’ll kill time. I wandered around the area, searching for an open restaurant. On a sleepy Sunday, even Milan was not awake yet at 11am. Hungry, I grabbed McDonald’s– I know, I know!
Then I sauntered back to the station and saw my train wasn’t on the schedule. Wait, what? Oh crap, in my groggy haze, I had misread my ticket. My train ARRIVED in Genoa at 12:45. It departed at 11:10 . . . oh so long ago. Back to the ticket line, where I explained my sitatuation. They said it was too late for a refund, but because they felt bad, they gave me the money back and booked me on the next train, which ended up being 8 euros cheaper.
Finally, onto the train. And as it pulled out of the station, I realized I left my book on the floor in the hotel! As we picked up speed, I figured I’d return the next week with a nice excuse for another spa weekend.
I did return. I made sure my phone was fully charged, and I got to the city early enough that I was ready to take the train home at 8:10pm. At the spa, I explored new areas, including a tram car outside that had been turned into a sauna! The food was just as delicious as before, yet more crowded as I was there when they started happy hour. I also tried out the “Fire” relaxation room, where I napped on a giant squishy beanbag before a nice fire. After, I tried the “Water” relaxation room, where I floated on a water bed. After another blissful experience, I didn’t want to ruin it. I made it to my train on time and had the cabin all to myself, reading a book for school as the train glided me home. Home to Genoa. I live here.
Farewell to Milan on my way back home to Genoa.
Milan, my New New York
One of the best things about living abroad is the freedom for weekend adventure. Having been to Italy several times already, it’s usually one of two things: chilling in one spot, or bouncing around tourist sites at a frenzied pace. Living here allows me to soak in the culture as well as the sea, let the beautiful language wash over me as I try to grasp it, and stare at a map and train schedule each weekend, imagining the possibilities. I don’t have to just worry about the greatest hits. I can pick random locations and explore.
This Saturday, I slept in and chilled for half the day after a busy yet good workweek. I thought about staying in town, but I got that travel itch, where I knew I would not be content to stay in one place. I also feel most homesick on Saturday mornings, when I have time to think and chill. Saturday mornings, I usually spend with family, or if I’m in the city, I just had a great night and am probably just relaxing before going out again or to NJ for dinner. I knew it was time to explore. Originally, I was planning on hitting Florence to buy some leather products. Though Liguria is not that far away, there is just not the selection or value in leather goods as I’d see in Florence. I’d like a purse and a couple of other items. Also, Florence has a magical beauty, especially when it is not peak tourist season. Yet, by the time I got myself up and going, there was not enough time for the 3.5 hour train ride each way.
I thought about Torino, but in my laziness, even that option waned. Ahh, Vernazza called me, the quintessential town in the Cinque Terre. I saw touristy Monterosso last week, gorgeous with its beach, but I wanted to see something a bit more laid back and charming. But for some reason, Milan kept calling to me. Only 1.5 hours from the city center, I could arrive in Milan at 5:30 and still enjoy the evening before heading back. See, all I wanted to do was gaze at scenery from a train window, to feel like I’m going somewhere, to nap in motion and wake up somewhere else with Exploration as the only item on the agenda. I planned to stroll, window shop, take some photos, and head back.
When I lived in Oxfordshire, England — the beautiful countryside of the Cottswolds, I frequently went to London for weekend trips, and sometimes an evening event. It was about the same distance away, door to door, and it quenched my homesickness a bit, with its cosmopolitan flair. Milan is my new London, my new New York.
I’m surprised I was gravitating to Milan already. I popped into Milan many times before, usually in transit on a plane or train. But the city seemed soulless, frenzied, and boring. Waiting for hours, stuck at the train station because a train was “ritardo” didn’t help my feelings. But . . . things change. They gave the once sooty and seedy train station a face lift. Where bums used to nap, there is now a Sephora, Geox, and a chain of shops. Grimy platform signs are replaced by panels. The ticket area, bright and welcoming, even though the lines are still long. The marble, polished, the ceiling restored, and the station once again seems like a glamorous welcome to a fashionable city.
Milan is glamorous. I finally went underground to the metro, my key to the rest of the city and noticed how clean it was compared to the NYC subway, how the design of the cars was open, so you could easily walk from one end to the other. I looked at the hair, makeup, clothing and shoes people wore, and I was clearly not in Genoa anymore. The vague familiarity, the hint of New York soothed me. I was alone, yet unlike my travels in Tokyo, it was not an isolated Lost in Translation feeling. It was a content to be here, observing like a camera. “I am a Camera,” just like the Christopher Isherwood book of the same title.
I was finally going to a new part of the city. As I googled what to do in Milan on my iphone, I saw a very interesting article from . . . TIME OUT NEW YORK, of all places. They recommended the spa TERMEMILANO, explaining the location and services. Woah, for just over 30 euros, I could go to a spa for hours and soak in therepeutic and relaxing thermal waters. Just what I needed. On my way to the spa, I was on a line that stopped at the Duomo. The Duomo is perhaps the one iconic image of Milan, other than a catwalk, of course. I had seen it in travel brochures and in the National Geographic Traveler magazine, which did a spread on Milan last summer, almost changing my mind about my decision never to visit. Since I had a day pass (for only 5 euros, what a bargain), I could use the metro as much as I wished. I popped out at the Duomo for a quick photo and to check out the scene.
As I walked up the steps, there it was, bathed in the golden sublime late afternoon light, the kind of light photographers seek for swimsuit photo shoots, the kind of light that puts a natural filter of oooh on everything with a splash of ahh. After all my years of travels, after all the churches and castles, mountains and oceans . . . I was so surprised by this sight that I felt giddy. I saw the spires peaking out from atop the subway and I bounded up the rest of the steps like a child thinking in my head, “Yes, yes, yes!” A surprise moment of sublime. This is why I’m here, why I travel.
Peaking above the Metro
Tourists in awe
Yes, Yes, Yes!
I snapped photos, but I made sure to just watch. To absorb this moment and to just be here. To carpe diem. So many times in life, I experience special events through a camera lens or distracted by tweeting or instragramming. I was zen for a bit.
Then I hit up instagram . . . because, I’m not really alone as I bound around Europe. Social Networking sights have allowed me to stretch the heartstrings of close friendships and acquaintances across the globe. In a way, I was able to bring folks with me, sharing in that sublime moment of joy, unaffected by distance and time differences.
I wandered around the area, amazed by the chic architecture and design of the shops, the magical allure. Part of me wished I was living in this city, but I reminded myself why I came to Genoa, why I chose somewhere so beautiful and so different from NYC – – for the exact reason that it wasn’t NYC, for the same reason why I chose the Cottswolds instead of a uni in London. At the same time, it’s nice to know I have this, too.
Eventually, back to the metro after a brioche marmelatta (croissant with marmalade — I don’t know why it’s called another French word here). I got out at Porta Romana, checked my iPhone for the map location and wondered how I traveled all those years without this handy device, and found the spa in minutes.
I LOVE European spa culture. I crave it at home, try to recreate it, but it’s never the same. And also, except for Saratoga’s iron rich baths, there aren’t really springs around. Here, they have hot springs filled with all kinds of fizzy good stuff. I went in, tried to navigate the language barrier and eventually had to ask for help. It was a chic oasis of calm and glamour. In minutes, I was in the locker room, changing into my swimsuit (Oh, no nudity issues as in Germany, which I kind of liked but it takes a while to get that free). Then into a soft robe where I went searching for spas and services. I paid about 40 euros for everything included including light fare.
I walked into that light fare on my way to the pools. Tables and tables of snacks: celery, yogurt, cereal, nutella, jams, fruits and veggies, juices, herbal tea infusions, and . . . even wine and champagne! WOAH! I snacked and sipped a bit, and felt so absolutely elated that I worried I might have seriously died. Nobody is allowed to experience this much bliss, right? Then I went outside. The late summer evening air was turning cool, yet I dipped my toes into the warm bubbly spa water and sank into peaceful ahh. The stars winked at me in the inky night sky. Here I was in central Milan, in this bubbly oasis, surrounded by friends and couples having their weekend aperitivo. Again, not jealous, not lost, just enjoying.
I went back in and saw they had added even more snacks, skewers with mozzarella and roasted red peppers, hummus dips, bruschetta, foccaccia, and all kinds of little snacks to delight. I nibbled a bit more before heading downstairs to the “Wellness Course,” so similar to what I had seen in German spas. Hot tubs, cold plunge pools, hot saunas, steamy hammams, fizzy water benches, footbaths and bicarbonate scrubs, and even a table where you lie down under a gentle shower that changes temperatures gradually from warm to cold to very warm.
Here in the spa on a Saturday night, I couldn’t ignore the slight pang of loneliness where I saw the fit, happy couples smooching in the pools. Would I meet a guy here in Italy? Do I even want to? And I started to feel the distance, watching the girls all model fit in their bikinis and super happy, many of them in groups for a girls’ night out, laughing and joking. I wished my girls were with me. Later, I saw groups of friends on the metro for a night out in the city, the Milan versions of me and my girls . . . and I felt another pang. I felt like Carrie when she was in Paris with Alexandr Petrovsky, watching a group of friends chat in a cafe, lonely outside the window. Carrie painfully missed her girls in New York and knew she couldn’t stay in Paris (Sex and the City of course). Such a unique pendulum swing from pure elation to heartache at what I have left behind. I knew at that moment that I couldn’t be dead because pure heavenly bliss would be having it all, not missing a thing.
More on Milan later . . . this post is getting quite long. 🙂
More Kefi, Please.
It’s amazing how the mind, body, and spirit will kind of shut down in an attempt to tell you what you are doing with your life is all wrong. I remember moments in the last few years where I didn’t want to leave the couch, where I woke up in the morning, one after the other, feeling like it was Groundhog Day. Where I looked around me and thought, “This is it? This can’t be it . . .”
I thought back to the old me, the 21 year old adventurer, slightly scatterbrained, super creative, very philosophical, and a dreamer open to the world. Ok, I overstuffed my backpack and on a train, hostlers said, “Do you have a kayak in there?” And I made many other mistakes along the way during my travels: missed trains, missed flights, hitchhiking with bus drivers, medicines left at home, and lots of lost rambling. But somewhere within all of that, there was adventure. My mind was ripped open and challenged — like lifting weights for the brain and spirit. I dunno, something about the soul too.
I did it for this girl, the 52 year old me, and of course, my current self.
I missed that girl. When many people lose that side of themselves, they blame age. I knew better. I am gonna quote two travel chick flicks because, well, as cheesy as they may be, they are also right on about a few things. And since I’m a woman who up and left her life, shook it to the core for a chance at something new — they resonate with me.
In Under the Tuscan Sun, Frances is offered an opportunity to go to Italy. Under the cloak of depression after a divorce, she says “Thanks but no thanks.” Her friend says:
“You know when you come across those empty shell people? And you think, what the hell happened to you? Well, there came a time in each one of those lives, where they are standing at a cross-roads, someplace where they had to decide to turn left or right. This is no time to be a chicken-shit Francis.”
Frances, a writer, laughs at the Oprah cliche of the statement, yet at the same time, she ends up taking the advice and quoting it back to her friend after she buys a villa in Tuscany. She was comfortable in her misery at home. It would be so easy, so comfortable for me to stay in New York. When I got the job offer, I almost said “No.” Yeah, no to Italy, to my dream. Then I realized all the excuses in my head were purely fear talking. And I had to logically rise above the fear, reach for a dream, even when I didn’t think I had any, and take the LEAP. If I stayed, I envisioned withering. The negativity in my work environment was killing me, kind of literally. Parts of myself had already disappeared. I used to laugh easily. I used to seek fun. I didn’t feel witty or creative anymore. When I looked up at the clouds, all I saw were . . .well, clouds. But in the past, I used to see shapes and figures, dancing in their imaginary yet oh so real to me sky world. Puff the Magic Dragon, a dolphin jumping up into the air, two teddy bears hugging, the Michelin Man. But nope, I just saw clouds. I’d go to write, and . . .BLOCKED. My whole life was in survival mode. Get through the day, calm down, don’t let the chaos get to you.
The positivity here is amazing. I am so appreciated, even revered at times — I feel. And in addition to always asking “Are you happy?” coworkers are always thanking us for our work, praising our efforts, and providing support for our goals as well as invitations for drinks. It’s amazing. Plus, the beauty of Genoa and the proximity to so many fabulous destinations is — just perfecto.
I miss friends and family at home. I miss the variety of NYC food and entertainment. But overall, I am absolutely elated to be here. From the minute I said “Yes,” my spirit started to return. I started seeing shapes in the clouds, laughed through life, started writing again, started dreaming and living in the moment. “I saved my soul,” I said to one of my best friends before departure. There is nothing to regret.
In My Life in Ruins, a woman moves to Greece for a teaching job at the university, yet with budget cuts she lost it and became a travel guide. She is about to go back to the US when she realizes, she can get her kefi back — her mojo. It comes out in full force, of course, and she stays in Athens, elated and glowing.
I’m not saying I’m going to stay forever, but it is thrilling to know I have two years here — two years to continue growing, trying new things, and cultivating my mind, body and spirit. A friend said, “seeds as well as tilling” — planting the future me.
I just got back from a sunset swim in the sea, one of my favorite rituals here in Genoa as I’ve begun to seek new comforts. I don’t have cable tv. I open my terrace door and breathe the mountain air. The salty water drips from my hair down my neck. I am filled with gratitude and peace on this late summer Sunday.
Under the Ligurian Sun 
