Lost in Venice

I knew when I woke up 3 days ago, my throat tickling in a give-away style. I braced myself for the cotton clouds in my head, the spigots in my nose, but still muttered angrily when the cold hit. I can't fault my body for betraying me on vacation like this, after a month of trains and busses, unfamiliar beds, and hours devoted to crossing cities by foot, but I've still been wishing myself better, swearing I'll appreciate it more next time. I hate being sick. Silver lining, though - a cold gives you a very valid excuse for needing to buy multiple granitas a day.

When planning this trip, my hands would start fluttering in excitement over region- and city- specific details spread out in my calendar. Planning for Venice, I kept a simple itinerary: look at all of the glass and get lost. I was successful in both accounts. Venice is a strange place, all of these tiny islands connected by bridges and filled with alleys shadowed by tall, precarious buildings. Rick Steves tells me that they left much of the land around Venice stripped, forests wiped out for logs to be laid out as a foundation. If you're going to cut down the trees, I don't know why you wouldn't just build on the mainland. Not that I'm complaining.

The sinking cobblestone maze of Venice will lead you into a deadend as readily as a gem of a shop, an enticing pasticceria, or a beautiful courtyard. It was easy to lose myself in the process of trying to stay on one street, looking up to find there was no bridge where I'd just assumed I would be able to keep going. I wandered contentedly, enjoying both the stone and the people I passed. When I tired or felt too off the beaten path, I looked up for yellow signs directing me to main sights, let the tide of tourists sweep me up and deposit me in a new location, eager to walk through more glass shops, pausing often to sigh over sculptures I could never afford.

The first time I went to Paris, I remember sitting in an airport, finishing a sudoku and eavesdropping on other travelers (as you do). A girl, probably the same age as I was, and her mother were headed the same direction as me. The girl said something about how she couldn't wait for the fashion. I smirked (secretly) at her in her cute flats, pastel shirt, and carefully chosen jewelry. I was unaware, apparently, of how terrible it tastes to stick your foot in your mouth.

5 years and 2 months later, I'm shrugging on the same hiking backpack (looking a little more... loved), but along with a nalgene and chacos, it is stuffed with dresses, linen pants, thought out jewelry. Planning my days in Paris and weeks throughout Italy, I was looking forward to days I could explore, hike, and get dirty, of course. But I was also excited for the fashion, the aesthetic beauty, and for the days spent clean in that one maxi skirt, sipping espresso and wine as the sun traveled the sky.

In Cinque Terre, I parceled my body into sections: forearm, upper arm, shoulders, double back on the tattoo, and slathered each with white goop (it's taken me nearly 26 years to learn, but I'm finally getting serious about not frying my skin), then tossing on a basic outfit. My backpack loaded with a camera, snacks, and a swimsuit, I was ready as quick as I could get the sunscreen on; I enjoyed the simplicity of it. In my blog-reading preparations for this month, I came across lists of do's and don't's in Italy, including what to wear. Italians, these lists informed me, do not wear shorts and flip-flops. They put themselves together before going out into the day, and judge the many tourists who don't do the same. I am not often taken in by lists on the internet, but I let this one get to me. In Cinque Terre, I wondered at whether I would get a different reception in my backpacker wear, my lack of makeup. It isn't like the change in clothing immediately tagged me as a tourist; I have stood out as a foreigner the entire month.

 I strive to not to let myself get bogged down in the judgments of others and to choose my clothing based on what I will enjoy (as well as absurd things like the weather. Sometimes I'm pragmatic.). I've been wearing my dresses, picking out jewelry, and putting on makeup because I find these activities enjoyable, thinking little about how it will be received. This is easier to do, however, when your appearance is conventional, melds with the unspoken expectations of strangers. Confidence comes readily when you anticipate approval.

To be honest with you, it seems the rest of my thoughts got lost somewhere in Venice, or just tangled up in the muddle of this head cold. At some point, I was slowly getting around to telling myself to recognize people are not what they wear and to stop making assumptions as such. Scrolling through these paragraphs, however, it is apparent I'm leading myself towards questions in my own appearance - how I let my outfits dictate my confidence, how I let expectations dictate my outfits. So that's going to require more thought. Funny thing about travel and getting lost - you never actually know where you're going to land in the end.

Peace & love

Elyse

Firenze

Florence is easy to romanticize, as is the whole of Italy. Surrounded by beautiful vistas (and people), good food, and cheap wine, you slip readily into the idyllic world that has been painted for tourists since long before I set my eyes on this country. Part of me wants to argue that I'm blameless, that it isn't my fault, but that voice lacks any argument as to why I wouldn't be responsible for my own education. Sitting here drinking my wine, I wonder vaguely at societal and economic problems that I know nothing about. I am disappointed in my own gaping ignorance, promise myself to do more research when Internet is readily available. A fine excuse.

Yesterday was my third day in this city, and the first I allowed myself to wander around with my Nikon out. This wasn't a ploy at appearances, trying to blend in with the local crowd; my backpack gives me away immediately, despite my clothes and choice in shoes. Rather, I'm trying to focus in absorbing everything around me, all of the details - the quaint streets and pretty alcoves, yes, but also the roughness, the graffiti, the smell of urine and dust that often permeates smaller roads. I fell for this city in the hills in a sudden way, not yet knowing it. Infatuation is funny like that, we decide on a whim that something or someone suits us well long before we have any proof, and then we act all surprised and disappointed when we come to find out it's not perfect. Not that that would happen with Florence.

It was staring up at the David on my first day in town, actually, that reminded me to pay attention to the bits skipped over when me and my doe-eyes are busy with grander details. The subtleties of the David were what drew me in. The veins in his inner elbow, the ripples at his knees, the lines under his eyes and the sworl of his ears; it's always the little things that distinguish. The days I spent in Rome were lovely, but spent with a craned neck, staring up at grandois buildings and art. They were left wanting for personal connections. This town, if you'll allow me to call it that, is smaller and kinder, leaves more room to explore past the marble and gold leaf, if you're willing to pay attention.

This morning I woke up to find there comes a point where even the idea of appreciating the world around you sounds exhausting, when - despite telling yourself that it's your last day in town - you no longer care for cobblestone streets and adorable stationary shops, nor for magnificent basilicas and rooms full of master artists' great works. Italy moves slowly, but it is easy to spend a vacation here busy and exhausted, trying desperately and hecticly to check off all of the places and things on your list. I'm grateful for taking a whole month for this trip for many reasons - the current one being the time and ability to spend the morning drinking cappuccino and the afternoon eating thoughtful, well-made food, all with my nose buried in a book. Maybe tonight I will be refreshed enough to look around again, certainly tomorrow. But for the time being, this is enough.

Peace & love

Elyse

The Road to Amalfi

I woke up a little off this morning, like there was a sour taste in my mouth. Late start, trying to play catch-up and sort through my weird mood. The 8:00 bus I'd intended on turned into 11:00, with useless hours in between. The bus was packed tight, people cramming into the aisle and next to the driver to fit as many as we could in. As we curved into the mountains, my mood was left at the bus stop, ready to jump on someone else' back. Good day to spend on the coast.

I love the way the bougainvillea cascades off the terraces, painting swaths of bright colors among the homes. I love the gnarly limbs of the olive trees, clinging to the rocks, and the groves of lemon trees surrounding the towns. The towns themselves slope down towards the sea, toppling over each other, all silently watched over by the mountains looming above. Every moment is ready to be snapped up, stamped onto a postcard, but my pictures never do it justice. The road snakes along the edge and the bus kisses the cliffs precariously; the meager guardrail, not even 2 feet tall, disappears as we round a curve and I involuntarily gasp at the plummet.

I get off early, my stomach and head straining against the winding road, and find myself in Praicano, one of the smaller towns. By chance (or a well-thought business plan), I stumble into a trattoria overlooking the duomo on the sea. My body relaxes as I indulge in linguini and espresso, and I allow my earlier plan of all day hiking to fall away.

I've been thinking about solo travel a lot the past 2 days - yesterday meandering through the hectic streets of Napoli, and today on this breathtaking coast. Upon hearing of my month-long trip and the 1/2 I'd be spending 'alone', those who've  embarked on solo travel would get a look of excitement, understanding the beauty of it. Those who have not would often have traces of fear in their smiles. They would tell me I'm brave, ask extra questions about my safety, and assure me that I would meet others and make friends. I would smile and nod - oh not so much; yes, very safe; yes, lots of friends.

The thing about traveling alone is that you get to experience a freedom that isn't available otherwise. There are downsides, of course - this afternoon, I would have loved to have someone to turn to and say "this is so fucking cool." - but even a small dose of this kind of trip allows for more intense self-exploration, a different appreciation for the places you go, and a rather fantastic sense of self-confidence. Everything is where, when, and how you want (local conditions permitting) and you lose all of those small concessions we make when traveling with others. The anxieties, the expectations, both real and imagined, created when existing with travel partners are abandoned when it's just you. Going places where you'd normally venture with others, eating out alone, and exploring the bar scene are not as terrifying as you think. The whole experience is something to treasure.

I eventually find myself in Amalfi and walk swiftly past the shops and restaurants to put in a short hike. Just past the houses, surrounded by lemon groves, the rain sets in, and I realize that I've forgotten my umbrella. I end up in a grassy nook thing under a kind of bridge (apparently I should have brought an English dictionary along with my Italian one) and sit down to wait out the rain and finish my thoughts. The smell of lemons lingers stronger in the drizzle, and I smile because this day has turned out perfectly. I pack my electronics in plastic bags as the clouds move on and - against my better judgement - head up into the hills.

Peace & love

Elyse

P.s. I'm writing this on my phone on one of those newfangled app things, so I have no idea if this will load correctly on a computer. If not, I'll fix it in 3 1/2 weeks.