on the road

In the category of Super Fucking Amazing, Italy won the World Cup last night and the entire city went insane. I was with some friends I had met in Ischia, we watched the game in a giant classroom at their university. Talk about passion. Imagine a room with two hundred 20-something Italians .. shouts, tears, cries, joy, everything. Afterwards we joined in on the madness in the streets and ended up in two of the city fountains, the one in the middle of piazza della Repubblica, and of course the grandest of them all, the Trevi. I put Anita Ekberg to shame by clambering up the fountain, with one hand (had to carry my beer with me, right?), up up up, up all the way until I was sitting on top of Neptune’s head. I think unforgettable experience is defined by you sitting on top of a Roman god’s head in the most famous fountain in the world, while hundreds of people are below you packing out the fountain and the piazza going insane. Talk about a view and a feeling. We had waterfights, girls in various forms of undress (and unfortunately way too many dudes in their undies), chanting, singing, hugging .. it was beautiful.

The game itself was pretty good, with of course the Zidane shocker. Italy clearly tired at the end and was fortunate to go into penalty kicks, where unheralded guys like De Rossi, Materazzi, and Grosso sealed the victory. Buffon and Cannavaro were incredible again and Italy absolutely deserved the victory.

My poor father missed out on all the action. He flew out of Fiumicino roughly 6 hours before the game began, talk about bad timing. Sorry Dad. Love ya.

And here I’ll finish some backstory and recount my week in Umbria with Dad. Brigolante, our agriturismo, was really serene and peaceful. Rebecca was great, even if not much of a singer. In one week we managed to see Assisi, Perugia, Spello, Montefalco, Bevagna, Todi, the piano grande and Castellucio, the Valnerina (including Arrone and Scheggino and Papigno), Civita di Bagnoregio, and Orvieto. Dad almost got convinced into buying a house in Civita, but apparently there aren’t any single young females in the town’s population of 15 so he decided to pass on the idea. I really enjoyed each place, with the exception of Montefalco. Sounds like a very busy week, and it was, but really I didn’t feel like we were rushing and our energy levels stayed good and we stayed happy. But luckily I have nothing to do now except relax (and figure out where I am going today, damn hotel in Pitigliano isn’t answering their phone.. maybe hungover from last night still?).

Dad proved to be an able driver, with one exception of a very tight corner in Orvieto that left a nice rash on the side of our Lancia. Ironic that it would happen in our last town and not at the beginning. Either way, he did well for not having driven a stickshift in 15 years. He proved to be somewhat less able at pronouncing Italian words, although by the end he was making progress. I lost track how many times I said, ”the letter C [insert Brian Regan here] never, ever ever ever, ever ever ever makes an S sound in Italian” but I was patient with him and he did pretty well. It was hilarious though how he would mutter Italian words under his breath, over and over, trying to get the pronounciation right … sometimes it sounded like he had Tourette’s. We’d be driving down the road and all of a sudden I would hear him muttering something, usually a word he saw on a sign or something, and he’d go at the word for like two straight minutes. I didn’t let myself get annoyed by it, since I remember when I first went to Munich and spent an entire day trying to pronounce München properly .. I’m sure that annoyed the hell out of my friend, and so as to avoid hypocrisy I didn’t ask him to quit.

On a food note for Mom, we had some really incredible meals. Highlights were brie on top of potatoes and pancetta; roasted pork with a Sagrantino wine sauce; umbrechelli (a type of pasta) with black truffle sauce; steak with black truffle sauce; a carpaccio of bresaola with strawberries, rucola, parmesan, and a balsamic vinegar-carmelized red wine sauce; gnocchi with asparagus and burrata; tagiatelli with a wild boar ragù; and one particularly delicious dessert, passion fruit ice cream with actual passion fruit on top. It was like I died and was back in Peru.

It’s been awhile, mostly due to the fact that I have been with my father for the last week, who came over to travel around with me for 12 days. We’ve had a very busy week so far, consisting of three days in Rome, two in Siena, and two in Assisi at Brigolante. There’s a lot to write about, hopefully I’ll remember all of it.

First I must backtrack back to Ischia, and the amazing entrance of two girls from New York. If you ever wanted to witness the pinnacle of Fast Travel, you would do well by meeting these girls and hearing their story. They had only been in Europe for 5 days and their travels went like this: day one, fly into Paris and night train to Milan. Day two, Cinque Terre. Day three - Florence; day four - Rome, day five - Ischia. I met them on their fifth day, wherein they told me of their future itinerary: day 6 - ferry from Ischia to Naples, train from Naples to Bari, overnight ferry from Bari to Corfu, Greece. One night there and then a ferry and train to Athens. Athens for a day and then a flight to Copenhagen. The rest of their trip they didn’t get into, but essentially the plan they were executing was Paris to Athens to Copenhagen in 8 days. I have to hand it to them, they were ambitious, but good god I’d rather stay home then do that kind of trip.

I didn’t really want to leave Ischia, although I knew it was time. If it weren’t for my father’s arrival into Rome I would perhaps have succumbed to the temptation, but surely would have ended up in a traveller’s rut (where you get too comfortable in one place, ending up staying there but also riding a very fine balance between relaxation and boredom, tending to boredom). Besides, I had to eventually leave because I left my passport in Naples and was pushing 10 days on Ischia and running the risk that the (very nice) hostel workers in Naples would get tired of seeing my passport in their drawer and would hawk it to someone on the street. So I left, picked up my father in the Rome airport, and began another new phase of my trip: travelling with Dad.

Travelling with someone is an entirely different experience than travelling by oneself, both good and bad. At least when you travel with someone you know as well as a parent you know your limitations with the other person, and that generally leads to less arguing and general bad times. Him and I had travelled for three weeks together in 2003 when I was studying in Bologna, so I knew that it would be (and it is) a good time and not really that stressful. I use the word stress because as anyone who has travelled both solo and with a partner/group, the latter has a lot more opportunity for stress than the former. At least, if you are the type who is ”independent-alpha” and enjoys one’s own company. I suppose some would find travelling solo to be more stressful than having someone with them, those who don’t share this A-type personality trait. Anyway, last time we had travelled together we only saw Milan, Bologna, and Venice in Italy, so this time I wanted to show him the central region of Italy. It helped that I won a free week at Brigolante, an agriturismo outside of Assisi (and in reality, this free week is probably what convinced him to come in the first place, he can’t resist a bargain).

One interesting thing that travelling with a partner does is that it makes you more active. By myself I tend to be sedentiary and lazy about sightseeing, but when you are with another person (especially one new to the area of travel) you are always going to be more active. And so it went in Rome. We had a busy three days of seeing the sights, with me finally going into the Colusseum and Sistene Chapel. It’s not that I didn’t want to go to these places on my prior adventures in Rome. To borrow a brilliant phrase from the British, I simply couldn’t be bothered. The Colusseum was actually a lot more cool than I thought it would be (I had imagined it would be flooded with tourists when in fact it wasn’t so bad). The Sistene Chapel was the exact opposite … pretty and interesting, but not worth the torturous walk through narrow Vatican Museum corridors smashed with a million other tourists and a suffocating lack of air. In fact, the wait to get into the museum was peanuts compared to the horribly slow going from the entrance to the Chapel. We did have some good times otherwise in Rome, enjoying a night out at the Trevi Fountain, good eats at Da Baffetto and Da Francesco, sightseeing the very fashionable Rome women, and a fun guided tour of ”off beaten track” Rome with Tony of 3 Millenia Tours (another freeby thanks to Slowtrav.com). Tony and the two of us shared very similar interests, so we had some good banter. Our only request to Tony was that he put us at a good place to watch the Italy-Ukraine match, which he did to perfection. Italy won 3-0 and a crazy party erupted in piazza Venezia and the roads branching off it. Italy at its finest.

(sidenote: I’m in Rebecca’s office here at Brigolante, listening to her sing to her kids about cappucino and vino. Apparently one of them enjoys vino, based off his shouted reply of VINOOO.)

We escaped sweltering Rome to Siena, where we stayed with a brilliant lady named Beatrice and enjoyed the festivities and craze of the Palio.

[another sidenote, to those not familiar with the Palio: it's a centuries old tradition of Siena, happening twice a year. At its most simple, it's a horse race around their main town square. There are 18 neighborhoods of Siena, called 'contradas' and ten of them get to race each time. There's a lot of intrigue and history here, with some contradas being arch-enemies and some being friends. The jockeys backstab each other and try to make sure certain enemies lose and get paid a whole lot of money for doing so. The whole event is one big party and full of festivities and processions and whatnot, but it can also involve violence if one contrada doesn't like the outcome and goes looking for trouble. I'd guesstimate that around 100,000 people come to Siena for the event.]

We met up with Cristina and watched the race at the society house of her contrada, Selva. It was an excellent time, up until the horse from the Pantera contrada passed up its enemy L’Aquila on the very last corner and won the Palio. It was an incredible finish, a last second pass for victory. Everyone then skipped out of the party and neighborhood to avoid any potential brawl between the two warring contradas, who happened to be located just next door to where we were watching the race. The Palio is taken extremely seriously by the people of Siena, to the point that they will get in big fights over the outcome. Cristina told me a story of two years ago, the same two contradas got into a brawl that sent four policemen into the hospital. She too was freaked out by the result and was the first one out the door. We took a more relaxed approach and left maybe an hour later, after enjoying some beers on their beautiful terrace. We didn’t see any fights, but instead had a great time afterwards with beer and slow meandering and hanging out in the plaza people watching and shooting the shit.

Yesterday we arrived here at Brigolante, Rebecca and Stefano’s family farm and guesthouse. It’s absolutely serene and beautiful here, of which I’ll write more later. Ci vediamo!

[one last sidenote, starring Rebecca and her son:

Son: Mom you gave me too many peas! Rebecca: How about thanking your mother for giving you peas, I think that's what you wanted to say. Son: Thank you Mom for giving me too many peas.

Priceless.]

Since I’m at the month mark I figured I’d check in and do a bit of a rundown. So far I’ve spent 6 nights in Rome, 5 in Certaldo, 1 in Modena, 5 in London, 1 in Bristol, 3 in Aberystwyth, 4 in Naples, and soon to be 9 nights in Ischia, from where I am writing now. I originally planned this block of ten days to be split between Ischia and Amalfi, but the rythyms of Ischia are too mellow and I decided not to leave. The island isn’t paradise but I have found the daily cycle of a late morning, fresh fruit for lunch, hours on the beach, an evening nap, a late dinner, and wine on the terrace to be a spell too good to break. And while I say it isn’t a paradise it really is beautiful, some spots reminding me of Hawaii with its lush forested mountain slopes. Forio, the town I am staying in, is full of windy narrow alleways and white houses that rise up on the hillside.

The hostel I am staying at also runs a restaurant. Basically the two sons (Guiseppe and Lorenzo) man the hostel, do some waiting work at the restaurant, and the mother does all the cooking. The food she turns out is utterly delicious, to the point that I have almost ate at their restaurant every night. So far I’ve tried her saltimbocca (veal cutlets fried in olive oil and topped with sage and prosciutto), paccheri cozze e pecorino (wide noodles with mussels and pecorino cheese), pesce al forno (baked sea bass with tomatoes and olives), along with other staples like zuppa di cozze (steamed mussels with sauce), calamari, bruschetta, prosciutto with cantaloupe, and pizza. The sea food in Ischia is incredible, the sea bass was maybe the tastiest fish dish I’ve ever had. And tonight’s dish will be coniglio alla cacciatora, or roasted rabbit with sweet peppers and tomatoes.

As you can tell I have enjoyed the food. Other than that, there have been some very sleepy days where not much has happened, and other days that have been very fun filled. Highlights have been climbing the island’s mountain, and our midnight hot springs outing where we lounged in springs that bubbled out of the ground right on the beach. In addition, the guys that work at the hostel know literally everyone in this town, which has led to some good times. One night the mayor of the town was eating in their restaurant, along with the owner of one of the clubs here. The mayor decided he wanted a night out, so the club owner decided to open is club up for him (it was about midnight on a Tuesday), and he invited Guiseppe and our little group from the hostel to come with and enjoy drinks on the house. On another occasion Lorenzo and five of us from the hostel were driving down to the beach when Lorenzo spotted a friend of his in the marina, stopped the car, talked with the guy, and before we knew it we were on the guy’s boat cruising around the island. On the way back we hopped off that boat and got on another friend’s boat where we had bruschetta and wine in the harbor, again on the house. Or the boat in that instance. I imagine that the Guiseppe and Lorenzo’s family must be pretty high in the social pecking order here. They can’t drive down the street without having to say hi to three or four people. Small town Italy certainly has its charms, at least when you have an in.

When I last wrote it was on the eve of the USA vs. Italy match, which ended up being a very tense game and a lot of fun to watch. The hostel put its TV projector outside and projected it onto a neighboring building, thus we got to watch the game on what was essentially a 30 foot TV. Brilliant. About 30 Italians came to the hostel to watch, and we had maybe 6-10 Americans, and each group shouting at the screen anytime something good or bad happened. We all were very into the game so maybe it was best that it turned out to be a 1-1 tie, thus we could all leave as friends (although truth be told Italy expected to beat us handily so they weren’t too pleased with the outcome). This was obvious on the faces of the Italians at the hostel, they were OK about the outcome if you went by their words, but you could tell they weren’t very happy inside. A bit of strain on their faces.

This strain logically would be amplified in those Italians in Naples who wouldn’t be willing to go to a hostel full of Americans to watch the game, which they might view was something akin to sleeping with the enemy. And of course add in the alcohol factor. Maybe we weren’t marked men exactly, but we knew we shouldn’t go prancing around Naples at midnight shouting God Bless America. We had hoped to enjoy a night out without incident, but it wasn’t to be. On our walk down to the reggae bar we passed a group of about 10 guys standing on a corner, talking outside a cafe. Upon hearing our English they immediately started saying things about America, in Italian. One of our group, Andy, decided it would be a good idea to reply back and said ”America!” and raised his fist. This didn’t go over to well, they got more agitated, and given there were 6 of us (and only 3 guys) versus 10 of them, we wisely kept walking. As we were about to disappear around a corner, one of the Italians threw a beer bottle and it shattered all over the ground just behind us. Luckily we were a good 30 feet away and he didn’t have much of an arm, but it scared the crap out of us. Naples is a bit dodgy anyway at night, we didn’t need to upset the locals. So that was a bit exciting, and we learned a bit of a lesson and stayed a bit lowkey for the rest of the night. I’ve never seen Italians actually engage in a fistfight, in fact they are reknowned for being barkers and not biters, but on an occasion such as the World Cup that might all change.

Other than that incident I really didn’t experience any of the ”bad side” of Naples, although I certainly recognize its capability for such. And the whole beer bottle throwing incident could really happen anywhere in Italy. So I very much enjoyed my stay in Naples. But there’s one more Naples story to tell, involving me, my hostel, and the Mafia. One night we were coming back home from a night out, a night where we had a bit to drink. And in Naples they have these yellow painted metal posts that line the sidewalks, perhaps to guard pedestrians from errant Naples drivers (which are plentiful). So as we go up the steps to our hostel we notice that one of these yellow posts was not in fact bolted down and was just asking to be carried away with us. The post got hoisted off its base and brought into the hostel, at which point we kinda looked at each other and wondered aloud what to do with the thing. Inspiration was dry so we just propped it against the tree in the courtyard and went off to bed. The next day I get asked by one of the hostel workers if it was me who brought in the post. I cringed, remembering, and said ”yes” and waited to get a bit of a tongue lashing. Instead the guy smiled as if relieved and said ”ok, I just wanted to make sure it was you and not somebody else, it’s really no problem.” I thought this reaction was kinda strange, but shrugged it off and didn’t think much else about it.

Then the night of the USA-Italy soccer match came and all the employees of the hostel were in attendance to watch. After the game somehow the topic of the yellow post got brought up between me and two of the employees. This time I got the rest of the story. One of them, Alessandro, had found the post in the courtyard and immediately freaked out and called his boss. The boss flipped out too and they spent the next few hours worrying and fretting about who brought in the mystery post and how it got in without anyone seeing it. At first as they were retelling the story I figured they were simply worried about hostel security, maybe figuring they should be keeping a better watch on the door late at night. No, instead they were worried that the mystery post was a sign left by the Mafia. Since the hostel opened up only three weeks ago the hostel workers have been waiting for the Mafia to show up at their hostel and make demands. Apparently the Mafia likes to play on people’s fears and leave mystery signs to freak out the local business owners. And maybe a post wasn’t a dead horse in their bed, but it was something very out of place and they were already anxious about when the Mafia would show up. They said it was better for an actual person to show up to the hostel than to have them leave a sign, since they knew what to do and how to react to a Mafioso who came in person. But a random gift like a street post is something you don’t know how to respond to, it simply means they are watching and waiting. So at the end of their story I apologized profusely of course, and was also dazzled inside by the fact that Naples still very much operates based on the old code of the Mafia. The fact that in a round about way it involved me made the story something I doubt I’ll forget.

Have had a bit of a whirlwind last couple weeks, hence not having the time (nor energy really) to write. On the 7th I flew to London to meet up with some friends I made last summer in Argentina. We promptly headed out to Aberystwyth, a small city on the west coast of Wales, to have a 30th birthday party for one of the girls. One of the group’s family owns a small cottage there, with the requisite sheep grazing all around it and nice rolling green hills. It was a wonderful time, the weather was so good that I actually got sunburnt. Which, for Wales I am told, is something that doesn’t happen so often. Then after we returned to London, spent a few days there, had many bellyfulls of curry, and on the 14th I flew back to Italy, to Naples.

So chronology aside, again I realized that I am simply not the biggest fan of London. It’s a bit weird, considering many of the reasons that I like Naples are things that I dislike about London. London is packed full of people, mostly impatient people. The streets of Naples are swarming with people too, though mostly walking about in a typical Italian mosey. Both are really noisy, both sometimes make it hard to find someplace lacking the sound of cars or bikes. It just seems like Naples has so much character, something that London really lacks. London feels very sterile sometimes, especially on the day I went around Notting Hill or in the center. I don’t know London like a local, but nevertheless the city just doesn’t excite me. There is so much to see or do there but nothing really ignites my imagination, except that is for the Indian food. I miss it already.

Naples I really enjoy. This is one of the most polarizing, love or hate places on Earth I think and I am firmly in the love category. The place is a giant maze, streets rarely go straight for more than a couple blocks without curving or coming to a T or an end. The food tastes delicious, the women look delicious (and probably taste it, haven’t been so fortunate yet), and this is one Italian city that lives for itself and not for tourists. Florence it is not. The people here have almost universally been very friendly, which is good since the place is such a warren that you often have to stop and ask for directions. So it’s been a good time so far, a couple nights ago me and a guy from the hostel met a group of people out at a bar and we ended up spending that night, and last night, hanging out with them. That’s something that wouldn’t happen in Rome or in Florence, simply because so many tourists show up there. Less of us foreigners show up here so I imagine the locals are more receptive to hanging out with us. So they took us along to some of the big hangouts and we got to talk about Napoli and enjoy the city at night. I really love walking about a city after dark and experiencing it in the quiet, and considering how noisy Naples is during the day this is especially true here.

Tomorrow is the big big night, the US plays Italy in the World Cup. I’ll be rooting for the US, but won’t be too upset if they lose. I root also for the Italian team and they have a much better chance of progressing deep into the tournament. I definitely want them to do well because the country will go nuts and it’ll be a hell of a time. I really never followed soccer much even while I was studying here, but I have made a point to get to know the teams and the players this time around because everyone is really into it and it’s a blast to go to bars packed full of shouting, swearing fans and join in on the fun. My appreciation for the game has really escalated, I like most Americans used to think of soccer as being rather dull. It certainly can be at times, just like any other sport, but the World Cup is exciting as all hell.

I basically already wrote this all up yesterday, hit the wrong thing on my wonderful Italian keyboard, and zap there went my entire post. So a day later, frustration having subsided, I’ll begin on day 11 what got ate on day 10. Basically I have spent the last five days in Certaldo (although not really in Certaldo, I’ve only been into town a couple times and just to buy groceries). The hostel is set about 25 minutes away by foot, an old Benedictine monastery that was purchsed by a duchess and set up as a hostel-slash-villa. In the last five days I have met the duchess, gone to a ‘monster’ get together of expats, done a cooking course, bicycled to San Gimignano, and done a lot of relaxing. It’s been an excellent transition from the hustle of Rome, weather aside.

Meeting a duchess isn’t something that happens everyday. She came up into the dining room of the kitchen one night and basically held court (we knew, and she knew, that she was the center of attention. That sort of thing). She was funny and gracious, a nice experience. When she found out we had some Americans there she immediately went into her love of peanut butter. Most Italians don’t eat it or maybe even know what it is, but she has family in the States and loves the stuff. When another girl here also mentioned her love of peanut butter, the duchess perked up and said ”Oh I have some! Want me to go get it?” Apparently she had just gone to the US naval base in Livorno (on the Italian coast an hour or so from here) and went grocery shopping. She left and minutes later came back with a Costco sized jar of Skippy. Brilliant. We had some chocolate and I asked her if she’d ever had chocolate with peanut butter. She looked confused so I took a piece, scooped it into the peanut butter, and gave it to her. She protested, mentioning her diet and her scale, but my persistence paid off and she tried a bite. She made the classic Italian face when trying a foreing food idea, not wanting to betray that she didn’t find it very good but also not hiding the fact it wasn’t her favorite thing ever. Her typical Italian response: ”Well I like peanut butter, and I like chocolate, but not together I suppose.” Further reinforcing the idea that Italians must have all their foods separate from each other.

The get together near Greve in Chianti was pretty fun, meeting people I have never met face to face but have wrote countless messages to on the Italian message boards (slowtrav.com and expatsinitaly.com). Some interesting personalities there, mostly people older than me who are living the dream of owning their own place in rural Italy. I felt a bit out of place considering my age and the fact I didn’t have a typical story to share (eg. how’s the restoration on the kitchen going? how are your kids adapting to Italian school?). The drive to the place the event was held at was beautiful, I had never before been to Chianti and can see now why it’s so popular with the Brits and Americans.

The bike ride yesterday to San Gimignano was great, albeit tiring and difficult. About 5 miles of the trip there was straight uphill, no breaks in the slope. Luckily it wasn’t very hot although my bike was shit and made the experience harder than it had to be. San Gim was worth it however and riding rather than taking a car or a bus there was great. Got to stop as many times as I like and soak in the beautiful vistas of rolling vineyards and villas on hills. San Gim was interesting in that there seemed to be a mob mentality of tourism. There was a mob of tourists, and they all seemed to congregate on the one main road through town, never deviating. The roads that run parallel to it were absolutely stunning, medieval and full of nooks and crannies, and I was the only one walking down them. Magical. Saw a thunderstorm cell pass in the distance, it missed San Gim but made for an interesting spectacle seeing the rain sheets and occasional bolt of lightning. It’s been an odd June weather-wise. Today I took a break and did a cooking course. It was a bit basic, we learned bruschetta, a fusion style pasta dish with pesto, tomatoes, walnuts, garlic and parmesan, and tiramisu. Eating what we had prepared was the best part, and the host was very fun.

So now I’m going to press ”Post message” and hope this time the internet gods don’t eat my post again. Ci vediamo!

One of the joys of being in Italy is that you escape most of the lame regulations of the US. USA, the land of the free, has probably the most amount of rules and ‘protections’ of any country I have ever visited. Italy is far different, most noticeably the fact that you can drink in public, along with the complete lack of ’safety’ contraptions that line anything in the US that could possibly be dangerous so as to prevent lawsuits, for example bike lanes, sidewalks, fences on towers, fences on bridges. If an Italian falls off the top of a leaning tower, the family doesn’t sue the city for providing unsafe conditions for tourism. There’s no waiver form to sign before you can get a cup of coffee.

Anyhoo, I had a night of La Dolce Vita at the Trevi fountain in Rome, sans jumping in the fountain. Me and a group of amigos bought a few bottles of wine and walked over to the famed, gigantic monstrosity of a fountain, sat down, opened up our bottles, and proceeded to have a grand ole evening of drinking in public. I know it seems a bit debaucherous to do, but damn if it does not also feel liberating! I’m sure for Italians that it’s another thing entirely, for them it’s a natural thing to do. Every night in Bologna, should you walk through a piazza, you’d find kids sitting around in circles and drinking wine and chatting or maybe playing a guitar or whatnot. It’s a normal experience for them. For us tourists, it’s a bit different. Walking past a carabiniero (Italian police officer) with an open alcohol container? Yes that was a slight flutter I felt in my heart, wondering if he was going to give us any trouble for taking swigs in front of everybody. Nope. He couldn’t care less.

I also expected the other people visiting the fountain to look down on us, as if we were typical kid riffraff doing immature kid stuff. On the other hand, it seemed as if our wine had a magnetic attraction. We must have had 10 different people approach us to just yakk it up and hang out. We had a little family group come up, uncles and aunts and a 20 year old niece, and ask us where we’re from and if we were having a good evening. An old Italian man heard us mention San Francisco, and he told us he had just travelled there and thought it was beautiful. It was a memorable evening.

Food news for Mom: I have had a few delicious pizzas, and some excellent pasta dishes. Cacio e pepe (a simple dish of spaghetti with pecorino cheese and black pepper), and amatriciana (spaghetti with a tomato base sauce and onions and sweet pancetta). Both are typical dishes in Rome and its region. I took a group to a famed Roman pizzeria, da Baffetto, and had a great pizza. I’ve cooked a couple times. Here is great because you can get the real ingredients, and don’t have to drive all the way to Italian Importing Co. and overpay for imported imitations.

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. I slept in, and as I woke up at around 10:30 all I could think of was getting fried artichokes. Everytime I read about Roman food the big emphasis was on artichokes, maybe this entered my subconcious and created my craving. Anyway, I walked out my door around noon for the thirty minute walk to a certain restaurant near the river, Osteria da Giggetto, that everyone says makes them very well. I got about a block away, and I realized: Matt, you just left your hostel without a map, guidebook, or any idea where you want to go after you eat lunch. It literally completely slipped my mind. It was such a sweet feeling. That really is the beauty of a longterm trip. Not caring to organize, not caring if you get lost.

In that way I really, really do not fit in at my hostel. Most people here are on short trips and trying to do way, way too much with the short time they have. I also think a lot of that has to do with their age. The average age bracket I would say is 18-21, and even if you say “c’mon Matt you’re only 24,” let me tell you there is a world of difference between me and these fresh-outta-highschool kids. I have spent the last two years working as a substitute teacher at various high schools and some of these kids here really remind me of the seniors I would have. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, most of the people here have a lot of energy. But I definitely am on a different wavelength. It’s an odd feeling, realizing that you’ve left a particular age of your life behind by noticing that the people around you are no longer your people. This is not to say I’m not having fun, I have hung with a lot of cool people. And Certaldo, my next town, will have a totally different and more relaxed feel. One thing I know from staying in so many hostels is that the further off the beaten path you go, especially in Europe, the more the crowd shifts from 18-21 to 24-30. And Certaldo is definitely off that path - no one here has even heard of it.

So back to the food. I had the carciofi alla giudecca, a Roman Jewish specialty where the artichoke is deep fried and the leaves turn crispy almost to a potato-chip like texture. I also had fiori di zucchine ripiene, which are stuffed zucchini flowers, this time with mozzarella and anchovy. Again in the Roman Jewish style, the whole arrangement is deep fried. The artichokes were interesting (unlike anything I had ever seen before) but I quickly tired of it. Too dry, although the heart was delicious. The zucchini flowers, on the other hand, were incredible. The mixture of flavors was perfect. These are two dishes you apparently only find in Rome.

Yesterday I had a beautiful walk from my place near Termini to Trastevere. I would guess it to have been 75 degrees, nice breeze, the kind of day where you can walk the entire time in the sun and barely break a sweat. Rome at its best. And as I was crossing the bridge onto Isola Tiberina a question went through my head: why is it that a place full of antiquity like Rome fascinates us whereas modern cities do not? Maybe it seems like a simple question, given that Rome has a long, long history that a place like say Stockton, California doesn’t have. But what makes us value history so much? Why do we treasure the old and discard the new as being in some way less interesting?  Why are the grimy and worn down buildings of Venice seen as having ‘character’ while grimy, worn down inner cities in America are considered ‘blight’?  Aesthetics play a big part of it, but I think there’s more.

I don’t know what it was, maybe the weather, maybe the giant gelato I was eating, but my mind went philosophical and psychoanalytic. Out went a set of logical leaps, first the premise that we don’t much like the unknown. The past, unlike the present or future, is known to us to a certain degree. This gives the past value. But the further into the past you go, the less we really know it. This puts the past more and more into the category of the ‘unknown’ to the point that it creates a bit of mystery. Mystery creates intrigue and intrigue creates interest. Thus we’re more apt to find interest in the old architecture and stories of ancient Rome than we are going to find in modern Stockton. I believe the only time in recent history that we as a society valued the future more so than the past was with the Futurist movement in 1900-1920. For them the past represented imperfection whereas the future represented untapped possibilities. I would imagine this mindset to be quite foreign to the average tourist in Rome. Try telling us that the Colusseum is a tired piece of junk after we have travelled 6000 miles to see it.

Now I don’t know if these are garbage ideas, it’s barely 7am and I can’t sleep and my mind is a bit foggy. Likely in a week I’ll read this and decide it’s crap.  Anyway I’ll tell a story.  Yesterday as I was heading back home to my hostel I got on the bus.  The bus was rather full, I was in the back and couldn’t see much out front.  The bus sat there for about 5 minutes, not moving.  People started getting off the bus, I was wondering what the heck was going on, and then I finally noticed the bicycles.  I got off the bus to see a giant parade of people on bikes jamming the intersection and completely stopping all traffic.  They were all cheering and chanting and shouting things like “Roma è più bella in bici!” (“Rome is more beautiful on a bike”; basically making the statement that cars are polluters and noisy, and that bikes are the way to go).  It was pretty awesome to see.  I don’t know exactly how many people there were but I would guesstimate around 1000.  The Italians in their cars and Vespas weren’t so pleased with these statement-making environmentalists, and I witnessed a rather heated argument in the middle of piazza Venezia.  It all was quintisentially Italian, and something that you don’t see back in the States, except maybe in San Francisco.  As a lefty liberal I loved the whole thing, even if it did make me walk home.

PS, Mom I ate very healty yesterday. For lunch I had a 4 scoops of gelato and for dinner a pizza.

Hello hello. Back in Italy and good lord is it more expensive now than it was 3 years ago. But who wants to spend their first day bitching? So onto more fun topics, like the type of kids that fill the hostels in top destination cities, eg. Rome. It is pretty logical if you think about it, but the type of backpacker you run into in Rome generally differs from that of a backpacker in Todi or Gaeta. I already feel a bit old and it’s only my first day at the hostel - most of the people around me look to be 19-21 and have that youthful exuberance I have lost in my long years. And almost universally they are in Rome for a few days, off next to destinations like Florence or Venice or Paris. The Grand Europe Tour. Already I overheard one girl who has been in Europe for 1 months now and has been to something like 12 or so cities over 6 countries.

It’s not that I have anything against such travellers, but I find I don’t have as much in common with them. You can tell the difference between “old hand” backpackers who have gone around the block a few times and the backpackers who are living their first experience abroad. Maybe it’s an elitist “I survived South America” attitude, comparing myself to these whippersnappers who think going to Venice is an adventure. Yes, I’m a backpacker snob. There is no sense of danger or adventure in Europe, but damn there are good eats.

Things haven’t really changed in the last three years here. The women are still mighty fine, prosciutto and rucola still taste good together, and the passing train still jolts your sleeping head off the window pane. And so, the adventure begins. Even if I said there is no adventure here. It’s a classic travelling line and I’m going to say it anyway. I’m here in Italy till mid-August and who knows, maybe something more adventurous than swimming into la Grotta Azzurra will happen to me. And if not, I’ll write every few days about my love for cured meat.